half-baked.

oh boychef you’re cooking up trouble
and i, am writing clichés
let’s call it a draw on the double --
i’ll stick to un-witticisms
-- you stick to soufflé.

bowled over.

it might seem a bit rustic
and make yuppies shudder
but I can’t get my mind
out of the gutter

it’s right up my alley,
it’s fun, win or lose
and let’s not forget those glorious shoes.

peelings

the stripper’s eyes were completely dead
like marbles in a glass,
rolling - cold and soulless -
round in that pretty head.

i wonder what was there before
she pulled the shutters down
closed up the business of her life
and leased it out to half the town.

ode to a pothead - a sonnet.

dearest stoner, you were my addiction,
for a moment, 'twas heavy & hot
but i can say now, with clearest conviction,
your greatest love will always be pot.
you were charming! attractive! you told a good joke!
I could've gazed in those blue eyes all summer long
but alas, the date went up in smoke,
- literally – when you pulled out that bong.
and yet still I thought maybe you were mr. right,
i mean, i really felt something: I could laugh! I could cry!
my heart was pounding madly! my chest felt tight!
i was high on love!!!.... no wait….maybe just high.

it was fun though, to sit around your scuzzy place,
giggling at the filmic antics of chevy chase.