Category: humor noir

Your Car Sir


 

Of course you have a choice sir
of course
we all have choices sir

one always has a choice
the very same choice
you
and the rest of us
have enjoyed
since birth

we can choose to live
we can choose to die
we can choose to smile
we can choose to cry
about it all

we can choose
to get the facts
to understand
or just wonder why

but we all must choose
you must choose

this car sir
will take you
to tomorrow

so if you’d like
to see tomorrow
get in!
now!

the next car back?

sir
that car
will never see tomorrow

but it will be up
in just a moment — sir
if you prefer

*
rob kistner © 2021

Poetry at: The Sunday Muse

Poetry Pantry at: Poets & Storytellers

 

WARNING: adult lyrics

Tanka Tragedy



UH OH!

 
I am a lion
I want to maul you to death

not me — I’m a lamb

but I’m just a reflection

so I’m sorry — you are …screwed!


rob kistner © 2021

 

Can you please sing, while you — RUN?!

 

Poetry at: Sunday Muse

Poetry at: Poets & Storytellers

Day 4 poetry at: NaPoWriMo 2021

Falling To Pieces

57C44ECB-418A-4FC1-9072-CEC397A993C6
”I can’t see the end of me” by: Oladios

 
Falling To Pieces

~

oh dear
I fear
I have lost my heart

and along with it
a larger part

if I do not panic
but stay calm
instead
being careful
not to lose my head

if I can
look to the future
avoid the dread

it’s not hard to conceive
kitty I truly believe

though parts of me
have certainly
lost a bit
of fleshy tether

eventually
with what’s left
of me
I can finally

pull myself together

~ ~ ~

rob kistner © 2019

 

  • To check out more poems at Sunday Muse: CLICK HERE

    • Aeropachydermicide

    Aeropachydermicide: recklessly causing the death of someone or something by actions that result from the foolish belief that one is so smart and powerful that one can make an elephant fly.

     

    Aeropachydermicide

  • Debunking the ridiculous theory of human dominion.

    • ~

    somewhere between our petrochemical insanity
    and our reckless dance with fractured atoms
    we believed we were the miracle
    and it all went seriously awry

    we fantasized we had dominion
    that we understood the vast unknown
    could control the raw chaotic
    that we had figured out the why

    so we delved into dark science
    with no regard for frail nature
    flailed our way across the planet
    belched our leavings into our sky

    we so bought into our egos
    that we perceived ourselves as gods
    that we were capable of anything
    perhaps make the elephant to fly

    but we humans lost sight of balance
    did not comprehend our place
    as only one of precious many
    we let the tipping point slip by

    now we wonder what will happen
    to our misbegotten dream
    stare through disbelieving tears
    as we watch it slowly die

    ~ ~ ~

    rob kistner © 10/3/11
    revised © 2019


     

  • Click below to check out more poetry at dVerse:

    Poetic: Theories of Everything and Anything


     

  • Check out more poems on Toads

     

    35C6DAEF-40AA-452C-885C-C373E1DE84F6
    Hi! I’m Edgrrr, rob’s shih tzu.

    • Daredevil’s Dread

     

    Daredevil’s Dread

    ~

    to be shot from a cannon
    into the cool night air
    is really no big deal

    to face a barrage
    of flying knives
    isn’t really that unreal

    to leap through the fire
    of a flaming hoop
    the warmth is kind’a nice

    jumping giant chasms
    on two-wheeled fury
    sure – let’s do it twice

    to be blown up
    in a speeding car
    sort’a turns me on

    falling 20-story
    from a skyscraper
    I’m up over and gone

    riding upside down
    on an airplane wing
    it’s the only way to fly

    the high trapeze
    without a net
    I wouldn’t bat an eye

    buried alive
    in a padlocked tomb
    count 10 and I’ll cheat death

    chained in steel
    tossed in the sea
    no need to hold my breath



    the sphere of fear
    the dome of doom
    the bungee-cord freefall

    to walk blazing coals
    swallow deadly swords
    no sweat — I’ve done them all

    almost nothing scares
    this bold daredevil
    I am very proud to say

    save the single thing
    of which I’m terrified

    to give my heart away



    ~ ~ ~

    rob kistner © 2010
    (revised © 2018)

    ____________________________________

  • top 2 photos: Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus
  • bottom photo: source unknown

    • Sneakin’ Up On Breakfast

    “One of my former band members, who was with me in the band in the 1960’s, that inspired this poem from 2011, came to visit me a couple months ago. I had written a haibun at the time in his honor, which I shared here on dVerse. That haibun was inspired by this original poem. I just learned that he died Monday in Geneva, Switzerland. In his memory I am sharing this original poem today, August 22, 2019.”

    …originally written for Day #19, NaPoWriMo 2011…



     
    Sneakin’ Up On Breakfast

    ~

    our final set was 3:00 am
    the gear’s broke down and stowed
    now here we sit
    with smuggled single malt
    and the crusty sunrise special

    me and my bles-sed band
    bliss’d out from giggin’
    bleary-eyed and blasted
    mixin’ with fellow players
    who’ve now
    laid down their last licks
    for this night

    among willing groupies
    the loud hangers on
    and my sad friend Joey
    just back from Viet Nam

    we’re sittin’ and chattin’
    with the steel-heart working girls
    and sweet soul-bruised painted strippers
    they love us ‘cause we’re brothers
    in this family of the night

    all in the flesh parade
    of burnt drink slingers
    and tired cocktail mules

    hipsters grifters drifters
    and slick gamblers
    from behind the sealed doors
    of those private upstairs rooms

    swell perfumed boys
    and sisters of the leather
    queens and trannies
    pimps pushers and the cops

    huddled stark as morgue mates
    hidin’ from those cruel first rays
    like a pack of squandered vampires

    ready to scurry off
    to well-curtained rooms
    or other dark holes of despair

    it’s time to make that final score
    whatever gets you through
    ‘till sundown strikes up the band again

    I’ll tell ya
    ain’t this show biz grand
    it’s cirque du morning madness
    all sneakin’ up on breakfast

    ~ ~ ~

    rob kistner © 4/19/11

    ____________________________

    This photo below put me in mind of the 60’s when my band played the all-night R&B clubs in Newport Ky — the ‘wild’ night-world just across the Ohio River from Cincinnati. It sparked this poem.

    …originally linked at Magpie Tales…

     

  • Click below to read other poems at dVerse:

    Open Link Night #249

    • Pierced

    …a rant about my diabetes
    written for Day #17, NaPoMo 2011…


    Pierced

    •

    needles
    hypodermic needles
    needles needles needles

    BD 30g
    sterilized syringes

    needles in my arms
    needles in my legs
    needles in my gut
    needles six seven times a day

    needles 3 am because
    I forget the 11 pm needle

    even tiny lances in my fingertips
    to verify the needles needles work

    needles so that I can see
    needles so that I can pee
    needles so my heart will beat
    needles so I don’t lose my feet
    needles so my blood will pump
    clean as it can be

    needles in my bathroom cupboard
    needles in my car’s console
    needles in my carry on
    needles in the kitchen counter
    needles in my sock drawer

    needles often two at a time
    needles by the box loads
    coming in the mail

    needles safe inside my sharps
    then to the biohazard lane

    needles on my night table
    needles on my brain

    needles in my waking dreams
    needles in my nightmares
    needles all day every day

    needles torn from plastic bags
    needles plastic caps pulled free
    needles piercing chill glass vials
    needles units measured carefully

    needles so that I can live
    for one more day of needles

    yes

    needles
    cleans
    hypos
    spikes

    needles needles needles

    • • •

    rob kistner © 4.17.11

    No First Ink

    Offered in response to prompt #136 at One Single Impression,
    and in response to prompt #73 on Carry On Tuesday,
    also in response to prompt #189 at Three Word Wednesday.




    No First Ink

    •

    I lean upon my folded fist
    cool against my temple
    elbow solid on my cluttered desk

    eyes droop and flicker
    aflame with spoiled sleep

    face slacked
    head now dropped
    held in my hands
    heavy with confusion

    skull upon the finger bones
    in weighted indecision
    procrastination presses down

    where art thou muse
    I seek weightless inspiration
    to be lifted up by you

    instead
    the hum of cooling bytes
    drones relentless in my ears
    impossible to ignore
    no matter how I try

    thoughts like digits on a dollar slot
    spin unsettled in my mind
    they neither click nor lock in place
    they tumble in a jumble
    to roll and blur just out of focus
    lost in mental fog

    sunken in my writer’s chair
    I remain immobile
    paralyzed by perplexity
    imprisoned by the chaos
    awhirl in my mind

    the freedom of decision
    impossible to manage

    I fear nothing will be writ
    no first ink will be shed this day

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010


    Over The Edge

    This piece is offered in response to visual prompt Mag 33 at Magpie Tales seen at bottom of post,
    also prompt 22 at Writer’s Island,
    and prompt #135 at One Single Impression.

    Over The Edge

    •

    From down there, down there,
    it’s coming from down there.
    From where — down there?
    Yes Sis, I swear!

    That horrible smell
    that’s filling the air,
    the one that’s most certainly
    impossible to bear,
    is coming from that women
    with the massive blue hair
    sitting alone on the patio chair,
    on the deck of the house,
    that’s below us — right there!

    What a putrid aroma,
    you’d think that she’d care.
    There are simply some things
    that one never should share,
    like the stink that is rising
    from that patio chair,
    on the deck of the house
    that’s below us down there.

    And the hideous color
    of that mountain of hair —
    I can’t help it, can’t help it,
    I can’t help but stare.

    It’s a tangled and horrible monument to
    a disgusting and eye-blinding
    shade of bright blue —
    and it’s causing a feeling of nausea too!

    I must look away my heads starting to whirl,
    and I feel that my toes are beginning to curl,
    I fear over the edge here I’m going to hurl —
    and I don’t want to do that in front of a girl.

    Maybe I’m wrong
    but I would assume,
    if one’s going to bathe
    in a noxious perfume,
    they’d at least have the manners
    to exhibit some pride,
    and not foul the ozone,
    instead — stay inside.

    Not to be the forecaster
    of gloom and of doom,
    but keep the eco-disaster
    contained to one room.

    And if you’re chromatically challenged my friend,
    consider the others that you might offend.
    A monumentally grotesque rat’s nest of blue,
    is not something I care to look at on you!

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010


    Mag 33

    Machine Mind

    This post is offered in response to prompt #14 at We Write Poems,
    the August 9th prompt at Big Tent Poetry,
    the August 11th prompt at Three Word Wednesday,
    and prompt #65 at Carry On Tuesday.




    “…scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could,
    they didn’t stop to think if they should…”
    Dr. Ian Malcolm


    Machine Mind

    •

    you wink awake at morning’s light
    beckoning me to focused task
    prompting me of promise

    you collaborate
    in my keeping touch
    in work dispatched
    in thoughts transcribed
    in matters pure creative

    you are my portal into virtual space
    to probe mysteries
    the vast unknown

    the tool I wield
    to unearth facts
    dig the dirt
    to search for truth

    tightly spun
    within the web
    you tend my life
    make all cogs turn

    my instrument of whim
    device of my distraction
    are you my submissive
    or master of my will

    when you’ve surpassed my vision
    will you serve me still

    have I the power to shut you down
    turn my back
    walk away

    to truly let you keep

    in the deep subconscious
    does your machine mind
    really sleep

    • • •

    TechReGret

    (a lighthearted tanka)

    •

    my laptop’s frozen

    and my cell phone’s out of range

    it’s at these times when

    I think how life used to be

    hand-written letters have soul

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010

    _________________________

    • photorendered collage entitled: “Machine Mind” – by: rob kistner © 2010

    IN CLOSING: We live a in a world immersed, if not drowning, in technology. The idealistic and naive early vision was to create technology to serve us, make life easier, less complicated – but the joke is on us. We now serve the technology, and life is more complicated — traveling at a pace we struggle to keep up with. We’ve leveraged our peace of mind in the misguided pursuit of leisure. Is there a remedy? If we do not open a global dialog focused at finding ‘balance’, the situation will, I believe, resolve itself – and the world will not like, and may not survive, the ultimate solution.

    As James Martin, one of our great modern thinkers and author of the “The Meaning of the 21st Century” points out in his most optimistic and uplifting book, man stands on the threshold of either the greatest era in human history, or the end of life as we know it – the outcome rests in our hands.

    I wrote an essay back in 2007 which deals with humankind’s strange relationship with the technology we’ve created. You can click here if you would like to read it. …rob

    That Hollywood Sparkle

    …I wrote this in response to the June 14th prompt at Big Tent Poetry…


     

    That Hollywood Sparkle

    •

    it’s not so much we resent the hungry
    no more than do we despise the poor
    rather we avoid and dismiss them
    with the dull cough of apathy
    we find them disturbing and dangerous
    they disquiet our comfort

    we do not flow with the milk of kindness
    our part is more the dark brandy of denial
    we do however praise our stars
    for their sensitivity toward the downtrodden
    it makes the less fortunate more glamorous
    and we like the hollywood sparkle it imparts to tragedy

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010


    Maneater

    • In response to prompt #6 of the newly opened We Write Poems, I find arrogant, manipulative divas to be difficult to tolerate, or to understand…



    Maneater

    •

    auburn mane with sable streaks
    frosted ermine — lush with pride
    a bounce and whip, and tiply snap
    with each stiletto’d wanton stride

    taught hips roll on slender stems
    that part in ripples then enmesh
    a brushing sigh of stirring heat
    toned thighs gliding flesh on flesh

    a stare of comely crystal blue
    floats above a ruby pout
    that takes you in devouring
    has its way, then casts you out

    tongue tip teases top lip’s edge
    like supple paintbrush flowing
    a smile to burn and hypnotize
    that wraps around you knowing

    luscious wench — worldly wise
    sleek as steel — tall and strong
    swift and cunning, motor running
    she might acquiesce, but not for long

    poor fool who tastes this lusciousness
    is hopelessly addicted
    there’s only one word for this life-force
    that word, my friend, is — wicked!

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010

    Oh Brother!

    Presented in response to the May 10th prompt from Big Tent Poetry, which suggested “be playful! Let the sound of the words carry the weight (of the poem)” — so here is my playful poem of sounds…

    ____________________________________

     

    Oh Brother!

    •

    ACHOO!
    exploded in the quiet room
    followed by a couple loud sniffs

    cover your mouth
    I blurted in a whisper
    before I bonk you on the noggin

    he crackled with disdain
    clicked the snap on his backpack open
    and with a clunk and a clatter
    surprisingly retrieved a tissue pack
    from the cluttered contents
    looking at me like I was cuckoo

    he flicked one out
    as a second fluttered to the floor

    I growled my disapproval

    he just giggled
    honked his hooter
    and hissed defiantly
    jangling the keys
    he had also pulled out

    I knocked them from his hand
    back into his backpack
    and mumbled at him to hush up
    and settle down

    he murmured something unintelligible
    rattling his pack shut
    and plopping it back on the floor

    I shushed him again
    and started to slowly sizzle

    suddenly I hear slurping
    as he is sucking a soda
    through a straw
    splashing the liquid
    over the ice
    as he swirls and shakes his paper cup

    I snap
    and shout
    shut up
    thumping my fists on my knees

    suddenly
    everyone is eyeing me

    I hear the lady next to me
    going tsk tsk
    like I’m the problem

    it was all I could do
    not to whip around in my seat
    and whack her

    yikes I thought
    enough is enough

    so I hopped to my feet
    zipped my coat
    grabbed him by the hand
    and zoomed us out of there
    into the car
    slamming the driver’s door
    and vrooooom

    sped us home

    never again I snorted
    never again will I take you
    little brother
    to the movies

    he just whipped on his iPod
    began humming to his tunes
    and ZAP…

    flipped me off

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010

    ____________________________________

    photo from: Getty Images

    Why I Write

    In response to prompt #87 at Poetic Asides




    Why I Write

    •

    I write as proof that I exist
    so as not to lose my mind

    to prevent my sorrow
    from choking the life
    from my soul

    to know what I really think
    to ride the currents of my joy
    and laughter

    to track my growth
    share what I have experienced
    shed light on my ignorance
    to leave my trace

    expose my vulnerability
    in hopes others won’t rebuke
    banish
    or hurt me
    but rather see me worthy of mercy
    of love
    to see me not so unlike themselves
    and have pity

    because there is an urge
    to break the mental silence
    to make a din
    create a literate clatter
    to be certain I am not ignored
    forgotten
    or misunderstood

    because I am sad
    I am crazy
    I am odd
    I am insecure
    I am lonely
    frightened
    cursed
    clever

    because I am thrilled
    full of life
    nearing death
    desperate to know
    confident in my knowledge

    because I am entangled
    and strangled
    by the why of it all

    because I can
    and so that I might

    for all of this
    I write

    and to survive
    I have no choice

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010


    Sad Little Clown

    …presented as a second gracious salute to the first prompt from Big Tent Poetry…

    ____________________________________

     

    Sad Little Clown

    •

    I am the sad little clown
    with the frowning face
    the round red nose
    and the great big tear

    this meek facade
    and silly sham
    belie the horror
    that I engineer

    life’s dealt me cold
    my hand is slack
    not a queen
    no king nor ace

    the violence
    that dwells within
    is masked behind
    my woeful face

    no one suspects
    the evil soul
    that festers deep
    in this funny fool

    they know not
    the monster in me
    the gentle sheen
    conceals the cruel

    they don’t realize
    a broken heart
    a ruined life
    makes one quite mad

    they simply see
    the pitiful
    and painted face
    that looks so sad

    the shaggy coat
    the baggy pants
    the red suspenders
    the big white glove

    they do not know
    it hides the hand
    that choked the life
    and killed their love

    town after town
    state after state
    bodies mount
    in the circus’ wake

    in the dead of night
    at the dark of moon
    in frenzied fever
    each life I take

    each beautiful
    each innocent
    each unaware
    that they would die

    there will be more
    on the road ahead
    one for every tear
    you made me cry

    when the circus comes
    and the tents go up
    the people cheer
    in each sleepy town

    ‘cause in their ignorance
    what they don’t know
    who’s really come
    is the killer clown

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010

    ____________________________________

    photo from: Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus