the billionaire in my basement

illustrated poem: the billionaire in my basement

Blame Me Only for Again

Don’t blame the plunger
​for the error of the flapper.
​​Don’t blame the bad news
on the rubber band (or any other wrapper).
​Don’t blame the little piglets
​for your slip inside the pen.
Don’t blame me for once,
​blame me only for again.

Cheap Source of Protein

cheap source of protein

The Bit In The Mouth Of The Jockey

The bit in the mouth of the jockey
made a laugher of the horse,
made the stable hay turn red –
his hide whipped raw of course.

But should a horse be whipped for laughing
if his rider chews the bit,
or should the whipping boy be who should know
where the bit was meant to fit?

Ballad (Ballast) of the Hummer Driver

I got a Hummer H1
parked in my driveway.
I keep it very shiny.

It hasn’t helped me get chicks.
It’s like they all know
my dick’s so thin and tiny.

paint it raw

raw is a color
that could be red
that could be blue
a yellow-dead
hue for you
though never saw
it’s your room now
so paint it raw

Do the Children of the Shoemaker Really Have No Shoes?

The children of the shoemaker have no shoes?
Does that mean the children of the blues guitarist don’t have any blues?

The children of the fruit peddler don’t have any fruit?
The children of the boot maker don’t have a single boot?

The children of the banker, their pockets have no money?
The children of the beekeeper, they’ve never tasted honey?

The children of the tailor have never worn a suit?
The children of the beauty queen have never heard of cute?

The children of the school teacher, they really have no class?
The children of the mule breeder, they really have no ass?

The children of the barber they all have the longest hair?
The children of the carney never once been to the fair?

The stonemason’s children, they can’t find two stones?
The archaeologist’s children – do they really have no bones?

The children of the botanist, always asking “what’s a leaf?”
The children of the butcher, always asking “what is beef?”

The children of the tanner, they don’t know where’s to hide?
The children of Colonel Sanders never tasted chicken fried?

The children of the astronomer think that the moon’s a star?
The used car salesman’s children have never ridden in a car?

The saxophonist’s children can’t tell a woodwind from a horn?
The children of the midwife are still waiting to be born?

The tug captain’s children can’t tell a train from a boat?
The children of the Navy Seal were never taught to float?

The children of the silk trader never touched a piece of silk?
The children of the wet nurse have never tasted milk?

The housecleaner’s children all live covered in soot?
The children of the podiatrist are each missing a foot?

The travel agent’s children, they have nowhere to go?
The disc jockeys children, they have no radio?

The children of the carpenter live in a home without a door?
The linoleum layer’s children walk in kitchens with no floor?

The children of the cheese maker are most in need of cheese?
The children of the etiquette columnist never once say “please?”

The electrician’s children are forced to read by fire?
The plumber’s children like to clog the drain with fishing wire?

The children of the rug maker have never walked on rugs?
The children of the pharmacist have never taken drugs?

The children of the odor tester have never smelled a scent?
The children of the penny-maker have never held a cent?

When Is a Button a Bead?

Don’t know if blood’s required
for it to count as a nosebleed.
Don’t know what makes a small round thing
into what you call a bead,
if it’s the hole straight through or
the addition of the string –
but then wouldn’t any button
be pretty much the same thing?

If you had the wherewithal, if you had the need to do the deed,
you could string a row of buttons the way you’d string a bead

imagine giving it to your love
on a rainy Saturday
and listening very closely
for what you’d think she’d say

“Oh how nice and thoughtful – you made me a bead thing!”
or
“What the fuck’s the deal with all these buttons on a string?”

I Don’t Wheel Well

I don’t wheel well,
I’m not alright –
when you turn left,
my wheel goes R
I
G
H
T.

It SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

and

S-S-S-S-S-S-S-S-S-S
K-K-K-K-K-K-K-K-K-K
I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I
D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D
S-S-S-S-S-S-S-S-S-S

a          c          r          o          s          s          t          h          e          f          l          o          o          r

ablackmark
j
o
i
n
i
m a n y
o      g
r
pastlinesmade

by stubborn sickness,
as if marks are needed
to bear witness –

I don’t wheel well,
I’m not alright –
when you turn left,
ym leehw soeg T
H
G
I
R.

Redacted from “The Children’s Book of Virtues” by William J. Bennett (no. 2)

Morality is good,
Morality’s divine,
But it does not apply to stacks of chips
Placed on the no pass line.

Betting teaches virtue,
Betting teaches control,
Always double-up your bets
When you are on a roll!

Gambling is a hobby,
Gambling is no vice,
When you see your chip stack grow
You feel so very nice!

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