I think this is my best poem.

The prompt was about being stuck in an elevator by yourself.


Sorry I was late

All I wanted was a bag of Funyuns
and the fourth floor vending machine

to have some. Onion flavored rings
will solve everything.

I’ve been staring at “L” for 23 minutes
now contemplating what I have done

paralyzed with how dumb
this excuse sounds.

Shouting for help does nothing,
but make me feel like I’ve tried

everything. Nothing. No help.
“In case of fire or Funyuns, use the stairs.”

I once saw a Youtube clip of a man
trapped in an elevator for 41 hours.

Man,
fuck.

Cell phone at the desk
I am unvoiced.

I check my watch as if it could
shoot a laser to carve myself an escape.

The reflection forces me to stare at the face
of my reckless decision.

I am a fish whose owner went on vacation
and may possibly never come back.

I could be here for a while.
All I wanted was a bag of Funyuns.

Another Poem.

This poem had to be about a relative.


The Worst Thanksgiving Ever

No matter how hard I try, I will never forget
those bulky glasses that magnified that vacant stare,
or the way he filled a room
horizontally and vertically.
Whenever he breaches his lips,
Hammond, Indiana, can be heard.

He constantly reminded everyone of
his post office adventures
by dressing the part
every
single
day.
Short short short blue shorts,
his ill-fitting hat that hid
his bald head,
and the shirt that held his fat
like a dam moments
before it bursts.

I never understood his fascinations with Iguanas
nor the need for him to let them crawl
beneath his shirt
inside McDonalds.
My burger was nicely
complimented with stares.

Still a child, I was relieved
when he justified himself
with the simple excuse
“I’m homosexual, Brian.”

“That’s great, Uncle Jim,
I thought you were fucking crazy.”

Late Poem Updates.

This was prompt number 2. The poem had to be about a specific item.


“Bro-Truck”

Bros pack the cab
slamming Monsters
over-hyping keggers.
Brah, that sloot was slammin’.
High fives dispensed
like breath mints
over the weekend’s box score.
Jack Johnson battles Dave Matthews
for bro-supremacy
supplying the voice
for all their emotions.

The bed, a cattle cart
chauffeuring bros to their
bro-destinations
while soliciting promises to shorties
of, like, a good time, you know?
Hormones inflate faster than
their raging biceps
as they lounge, lifted
above everyone.

Sick rims, dudebrah. Metal Mulisha and shit.

A truck infested with such
athleticism, charm, promise
screeches
into Dream Palace.