The signs say no standing on poles down the street. But standing means sitting in the driver's seat. The rule's against cars occupying the road, not humans on legs in a statuesque mode. It tells of the car's, not the driver's position. And stopping your wheels needs D.O.T.'s permission.
45
44
In the museum surrounded by glass, eight solid pillars for plugging your ass. (hah) Set upon boxes, their polished grain surfaces softly betray vaguely inhumane purposes. Gentle sloped curves with their bases cut flush, spiked tips observed to be shaped like a brush. Grind them down, maybe, then wear them with pride, but as they are, baby, they'll stab you inside.
43
In the museum for mostly wood art where the work's fragile and may fall apart there is a wheeled little grey metal cart known as the petting zoo of extra parts. Well, they are mostly wood, obviously. There are some golden bits, as you can see. Even the least creative attendee knows that brass fasteners come from a tree.
42
Between wire, brick, and stone exercise yards, overgrown, cell nearby for Al Capone, population not well known, praying Jews could feel at home in a place to call their own, lit by lights that say "shalom", thus describes the guide headphone.
41
City workers went on strike, told the mayor "take a hike". All the neighborhoods were like, "Hey, we're kinda mad now." No waste pickup for a week, dumpsters placed that all may seek. Populace chimes in critique, "We don't want to scab now." Garbage bringers come at night, stacking trash bags to great height, shyly slinging by moonlight, noting, "Smells real bad now." After time the union kneels. City hall curbed their appeals. Said about the whole ordeal, "Budget's ironclad now."
Subscribe via Atom
These poems are Avi's diary. You can email him at avi@invariablyhappy.com