Robots We Could Live Without

My Beloved Sandra recently suggested that, now that we have no carpets, now that we’re never home to find them underfoot, now that we have far less dust than we ever dreamed of when we lived on Duck Pond Road, we might think about getting one of those robotic vacuums one sets and forgets as it goes about its business while you’re away, aimlessly wandering your living room until it encounters a wall here, a chair leg there, then randomly turns itself away at some otherwise haphazard angle in search of another speck of dust under the easy chair, the last lost grain of rice fallen from the dining room table, the shed beard hair, the wayward chest hair, the tail of the tab from a spiral notebook the poet has torn out in disgust, unable to net the sonnet’s final couplet, which would, had he been able to do so, have catapulted him into the pantheon of the masters.

No,” I said. “Nice try, but no. I’ll vacuum on Sunday.” Ick.

All The Careless Cavefish


Big thanks to In Between Hangovers for publishing Current Events, a poem that feels particularly germane at present, despite the fact that I wrote it some time ago, when –every day– the nightly news was just as grisly and depressing as it is today.

 Read CURRENT EVENTS at In Between Hangovers

Thursday Thirteen

Never say never to an idiot because you’ll never hear the end of it. Trust me, you’ll never convince them that it’s just an expression. Even if they try to bait you into debate, don’t do it.  Never argue with an idiot; you’ll never make it out alive. Theirs is a never-ending bombast of supposition and speculation. Really. I would never lie to you about this; never in a million years. Arguing with idiots will make you wish you’d never been born. Listen, it’s never too late to learn: Never say never to an idiot.


There’s always cool stuff at the NEW THURSDAY 13


Money Well Spent

It takes the ancient mechanic
a whopping forty-five seconds
to reset the warning light
that shouldn’t be flashing.
It takes almost three hours
to make his way home:
about an hour down the road
he stops at Positive Pie
for a slice or two of smokehouse
and more than a couple of beers
to thoroughly ensure that the
faulty, flashing warning light
isn’t the only thing that’s lit.