Face Book Love

It was Face Book love

No need for new clothes to wear

Doe’s the toilet paper roll over or under

No need to  share

Kissed the wrong girl

Gave me a Cold sore to remember

But I don’t mind

Because you say you’re not coming to December

Snow will be the only cold on my mind

It was face Book love

I got thirteen cats you’ll never know

Got hit by a baseball bat

In a bar room fight

But that crooked nose not on my page

And that broken lip

Will never kiss your lips

And I never chew tobacco

When I chat with you

It was Face Book Love

You come dance on my lap

My teeth so bad

Barely can chew on an apple

What this blind man can’t do

This blind man won’t say

And I don’t go to church

And my mother says it’s time

But I just won’t go away          Craig Champlin October 17 2011

Inspiration

                                   INSPIRATION                                                                                             Ernie felt like the Jack Nicholson character in the movie The Shining. The empty pages of his composition book mocked him. He needed inspiration. He had a deadline to meet.                                                                                                                                                            He re-read Notes of a Dirty Old Man by Charles Bukowski. This left him thirsty and lusting for pasty blonde bar floozies. He re-read Catcher in the Rye, which inspired him to search furiously through his closet for his old hunting hat. He re-read Hamlet. This merely couched him in deep melancholy and provoked bad thoughts about his deceased mother.                                                                                                                                     He re-read Gone with the Wind, which frankly left him not giving a damn about even writing the great American novel. He re-read Helter Skelter and ended up humming endless Beatle songs and carving crucifixes on the foreheads of his daughters Barbie dolls.                                                                                                                                                     He re-read Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea which inspired him to gorge himself on fish and chips and go to the video store and rent Jaws 1 and Jaws 11. He re-read Moby Dick. This convinced him, “Why look for the whale, when the whale is his own reflection in the mirror?” He re-read Crime and Punishment. This led Ernie to walk aimlessly around the apartment with a broomstick draped across his shoulders, wearing only a loincloth.                                                                                                                                   He re-read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and spent the entire day trying to screw in a light bulb. He re-read Vincent Van Gogh’s biography, Lust for Life , which prompted him to cut off the ears of his daughter’s Beanie Babies and play outside with an Etch-a-Sketch in a driving snow storm.                                                                              He re-read Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine and got violently ill after drinking an entire bottle of cooking sherry. He read Shirley MacLaine’s biography, which left him convinced he’d authored Beowulf in a past life. Exhausted, he pretended to read James Joyce’s Ulysses, and passed out on the couch in a stream of unconciousness.                                              

PS, I didn’t underline the book titles because my typing skills suck and my wife doesn’t like me a whole lot today. English majors please forgive me.

PPS – The wife has now fixed the problem.  Still not sure I like him much today. - LC

Inspiration

                                   INSPIRATION                                                                                             Ernie felt like the Jack Nicholson character in the movie The Shining. The empty pages of his composition book mocked him. He needed inspiration. He had a deadline to meet.                                                                                                                                                            He re-read Notes of a Dirty Old Man by Charles Bukowski. This left him thirsty and lusting for pasty blonde bar floozies. He re-read Catcher in the Rye, which inspired him to search furiously through his closet for his old hunting hat. He re-read Hamlet. This merely couched him in deep melancholy and provoked bad thoughts about his deceased mother.                                                                                                                                     He re-read Gone with the Wind, which frankly left him not giving a damn about even writing the great American novel. He re-read Helter Skelter and ended up humming endless Beatle songs and carving crucifixes on the foreheads of his daughters Barbie dolls.                                                                                                                                                     He re-read Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea which inspired him to gorge himself on fish and chips and go to the video store and rent Jaws 1 and Jaws 11. He re-read Moby Dick. This convinced him, “Why look for the whale, when the whale is his own reflection in the mirror?” He re-read Crime and Punishment. This led Ernie to walk aimlessly around the apartment with a broomstick draped across his shoulders, wearing only a loincloth.                                                                                                                                   He re-read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and spent the entire day trying to screw in a light bulb. He re-read Vincent Van Gogh’s biography, Lust for Life , which prompted him to cut off the ears of his daughter’s Beanie Babies and play outside with an Etch-a-Sketch in a driving snow storm.                                                                              He re-read Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine and got violently ill after drinking an entire bottle of cooking sherry. He read Shirley MacLaine’s biography, which left him convinced he’d authored Beowulf in a past life. Exhausted, he pretended to read James Joyce’s Ulysses, and passed out on the couch in a stream of unconciousness.                                              

PS, I didn’t underline the book titles because my typing skills suck and my wife doesn’t like me a whole lot today. English majors please forgive me.

PPS – The wife has now fixed the problem.  Still not sure I like him much today. - LC