POEM | CHALLENGE | HUMOUR

You Talkin’ to Me

Are you talking to me?

In desperate need of a landscaper, I stare at this beast of weeds, the overgrown blackberries weaving through the fence posts, contemplating the best method — kill ‘em with chemicals or pull the old-fashioned way?

I need some motivational music to tackle this invasive thicket, open Pandora, search for Wilson Pickett, can’t perform this chore In the Midnight Hour. I need sunlight like these dandelion seeds and Mustang Sally. They’ve been running all over the town.

It’s such a cinematic task.

CUT. 🎬

I need better clippers, mine left to rust in the rain, blades for fingers, like Edward Scissorhands sculpting junipers, rather than speaking through clenched teeth like Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino.

Get off my lawn.

Channeling DeNiro in Raging Bull, I’ve got overgrowth against the ropes, like Tyson in his prime, swinging left uppercuts, black satin skimming thighs.

Taking the rake, I make a path to the cardboard container of trash, running over brown grass and tumbleweeds like Morgan Freeman in the final scene of Seven, California wondering what’s in the box?

Thorns and vines snagging my daisy dukes, I decide I’m gonna open it —

and find Paul Newman’s fifty hard-boiled eggs from Cool Hand Luke.

Thanks, Easter Bunny.

I’d dread this less if it wasn’t like The NeverEnding Story, but my efforts never last.

That’s why I’m so sick of shaving my snatch, feeding this thatch of yard work vitriol.

I’ve had so much practice, finding balance between sleek and freak,

this Kafka-esque metamorphosis in a matter of days,

cueball to cactus, kindergarten weird to Grandpa’s beard, Suge Knight to high and tight, bougie to bushy, fresh mown grass to Johnny Cash, Heisenberg to Howard Stern, pole dancer at the Bada-Bing to boxing promoter Don King.

Standing before the mirror, I change the station for this transformation.

If only I had some salt-n-pepper action, streaks of platinum, I’d rock this pelt like Cruella de Vil.

Like a Rockette kicking, I swing my leg to the sink slippin’ and nickin’, breaking skin.

REDRUM REDRUM.

Guess I should’ve put my flat feet on the ground.

She’s taunting me with her sideways smile, all cockeyed, singing

isn’t she Pretty in Pink?

She’s a mouthy one, sneering, winking, muttering, wanting the scum off the streets, my strapped vigilante.

I’m about to pop off on this coiffe.

You talkin’ to me? Are you talking to me?

No need to be fickle, just need more friction than the tail of a nickel, so I take the switchblade and mimic the Taxi Driver Travis Bickle.

American writer

This is my response to Logophobic’s challenge from “Dishes,” to write about a mundane task in a hyperbolic way. You asked for it.😂

I borrowed some lyrics from “Mustang Sally.” I love Robert DeNiro, so he appears in my poetry at times.

And if you drink enough over the holidays, you might forget you ever read this. I’m tagging John Hansen and John Haslam, who also participated in this challenge.