The Fake Wasteland

I. Tongue-in-Cheek

May is the wettest month
Bringing frustratingly abundant thunderstorms
Making us stay inside
Breeding a fondness for Mario Kart.

He wore pants in January.
He wore pants in February.
He wore pants throughout the fall. And in the spring.
But during summer, he did not wear pants.
Instead exposed were finely toned, muscular legs. Golden hairs stood up from firm but, alas, womanly calves.
Unseemly short shorts.
Pert thighs.
Taper to delicate ankles Julie Newmar could not aspire to.

Muppets.
Siblings.
Whispering confidentially in the recesses of their secret LOVE DEN.
Old age may be oblivious
Love necessarily is.

The Masters punish us and order Chinese.
Bitterness matters little.
The Masters do not share crab rangoon.

II. Bad Teen Love Poetry

I never thought graham crackers decadent until I met saltines.
Each is dependent on the other--but which came first? The crumb or the cracker?
And still, which came first? The cheesecake or the crumb?
I am a crumbly crust without you. Complete me with your delicious, cheesy filling.

III. Meta

Poetry is pretentious.
Pop feminism is ridiculous.
So are pro-lifers.
People who diet should experience the delights of heart failure.
Hitler was really hot.
Lesbians should just get dicked.
Pleading the fifth is a cliche,
As are people who exploit the first amendment solely for shock value.
Is this poem a satirical commentary of itself?
How dare you offer an opinion, for you are not white, male, or over forty.

IV. One-sided dialogue

No.
Hm-mm.
Ah.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Uh-hum.
Vegas would be fun.
Well, what would you do?
No, there's other stuff to do.
Well, that wasn't the first thing that came to my mind!
One?
One of?
Yeah, that's nice.
Okay, I was gonna say.
Sort of an odd little trio.
I'll be right back, okay?
Check-in.
CHECK-IN.

V. The End: A Haiku

Buffy dies. But the
best part is Spike sobbing. It
made us all weepy.