Eight-Ball

            I was outside making repairs to my cabin when I looked down and noticed a magic eight-ball lying in the Jade plants. I picked it up and shook it. It read, “So it shall be.”

            It occurred to me that my neighbor Carol asked me if I had seen her magic eight-ball. She said she tossed it down the hill from her balcony in a fit of rage. I guess she wasn’t satisfied with the eight-ball’s answers.

            That was months ago and the conversation was far from my mind when I stumbled upon it.

            I sat down with the eight-ball. It seemed to work okay. The blue magic water was still in place and the pyramid responses were showing themselves, albeit the answers were delayed and the pyramid was sticking a bit.

            I couldn’t help myself. I asked it a question. It was the most obvious of all questions.

            “Will I ever be wealthy?” I asked.

            I shook it and looked to the eight-ball for the answer. The answer hung up a bit. I jiggled the pyramid into place. It read, “Chances aren’t good.”

            The stupid thing was broken. Let’s try it again. I shook it up again. The answer stumbled into place. This time the answer read, “Don’t bet on it.”

            Ugh. Out of frustration I heaved the eight-ball back into the jade plants. It hit the plants and rolled down the hill. What does that broken down eight-ball know? I assured myself it was silly to give the eight-ball any kind of credibility. It’s broken! It’s no good! I’ll prove it wrong someday! For a fleeting moment my goal in life was to dispel the eight-ball, but when my anger subsided, and I calmed down, I began to think about it more rationally. As a poet, the eight-ball might be right.

My Morning Paper

            I woke up and sat down to read the paper, or the modern version online. I scrolled through the headlines. Debt Ceiling Chaos! Man Smashes Car into House! Drunkard Gets Life! Woman Lops Off Husbands Penis! I clicked on that one.  I guess it was morbid fascination. I can’t think of anything worse than having your penis lopped off, death is bad, but life without a penis is worse.

            “He deserved it,” she said.

            She must have really hated that penis.

            I had to run an errand and cash a check. I was driving to the bank listening to NPR, when a story came on about women and famine circumcision. My god has the world gone made? What is this the dark ages? Is pleasure that bad that you have to physically remove it from the face of the earth? I turned off the radio. I couldn’t listen anymore. Poor ladies. Sick men. Religious freaks more than likely destroying gods good work.

            I started to think, what’ s worse? Having your Johnson lopped off (Johnson a sixties term for package), or famine circumcision? Either way you’re screwed.

            

Baby Hawk

There’s a baby hawk sitting in a nearby tree. He’s squawking day and night. The sound is echoing through the hills. I can tell you one thing, he’s making the squirrels and gophers nervous. The bird is stressing everybody out, his parents, especially. It’s not like hawks have a corner market to go to, where they can buy squirrel jerky and sugar drinks. I like the sound of junior’s crying, but I’m not, nor will I ever be his dinner.

His poor parents have their work cut out for them. I suppose they can nab a pigeon whenever they want. Pigeons can’t be that difficult to catch. You don’t have to tell the kid it’s a pigeon, you can tell him, that it’s squab.