New StuffThe Room (short story)The room is loud. There are many people; all ages, all colors, all of them talking.The loud room hums like a spaceship. That's a simile. The roomship hums as its large engines churn out massive power. That's a metaphor. But I am here now. I am in the room. This room is lucky; for I am here to save the room. All I need is a pen, and a microphone. And look, I have both. What a wonderful and lucky room this is. I take the pen and I write a poem. It's my poem to save the room. I like it. It's good. I offer it to the room. Nobody wants to read my poem. So I take the pen and I write a song. It's my song to save the room. I like it. It's good. I offer it to the room. Nobody wants to hear my song. So I grab the microphone and scream "Wake up! Don't you dum-dums know that I'm trying to save you?" Then somebody unplugs my microphone. Somehow, somewhere, this has to be funny. Really. Check it out: this guy comes all this way -- to save this room -- and the room doesn't want to be saved. I'm sure glad that this is all in my head and that real life isn't like this at all. ©1999 WetSpot Poetry Energy (short story)Regardless of the presence of air, aqua-energy is an obvious source of constant motion. This "perpetual" motion has existed for the entire 20th century. It's extremely simple.And while we're being obvious, shouldn't the Einsteins who invented bombs years ago, by now, have come up with chemical compounds that constantly either attract or repel? Continuous motion can exist in a test tube; that's what the high school science teacher said. If she was right, then why are we still driving cars twenty years later? I wonder if the engineers who study magnetics also quickly discover a similar (relatively easy), perpetual motion. Even better than a controlled test tube force; imagine a constant, free-flowing, physical, polar force; harnessed in some kind of regulated platform. But for now, I'm supposed to get a job in a pollution factory or slaughterhouse to make enough money for a residence and transportation. Am I the only person who has a problem with this? ©1999 WetSpot Poetry Now There's A DumpsterSeems like there's more flies around it ev'ryday The spray-painted swastika doesn't bother me But now there's a dumpster where third base should be. The kids now hit rocks with their bats; not balls For noise, kids throw stones at the brown metal walls I understand the can is necessary But now there's a dumpster where third base should be. I used to play third, so many years ago I could count on this field like a friend, you know? But these kids today can't; that's what bothers me Because there's a dumpster where third base should be. I grew up on this nearly over-run dirt Sliding and diving; laughing and getting hurt But now rats and glass dominate; by design For that brown trunk of death down the third base line. ©1999 WetSpot Poetry Meta-floorplayI'm lyin' downIn college town A power nap should do the trick It's not so bad This is my pad It used to be a full inch thick. The floor is cold And hard, I'm told I wouldn't want to have to sleep there Dreams of a bed But now, instead This pad is my mattress of air. Just off the floor My back hurts more Than if coil-rested; this is true But beds aren't cheap For now I keep Sleeping on this "barely make-do". 1999 WetSpot Poetry Back to Homepage |