A Chilly Little Poem

I'm no poet.

I don't know why I bother with a disclaimer like that. You're going to find out for yourself soon enough.

I'm Skiing Today

This might be the last day I'm alive,
but I sure hope that is not the case.
With luck I am sure I'll survive,
It won't be skill that saves me with grace.

'Cause I'll fall on my ass and snowplow my face,
Even though I have kick-ass, brand-new ski boots,
I ain't no red-faced, beer-swilling ski-bum called "Ace,"
I'm just another brittle-boned Jew with snow on his toots.

If you see me come down the slope at a high rate of speed,
Get out of my way, or your day will get truly fucked up,
For ski school and training and remediation I need,
I'm the equivalent of lobotomized, newborn, dumb pup.

I'm skiing today.
And you're praying today.
'Cause your boy Apron's in one hell of a lurch.
Like I said yesterday-- if you know what's good, get your ass back in that church.

I am Jealous

I am jealous of your toenails,
Yes, that is what I think.
Mine look like bleu-cheese crumbles,
They are not smooth and pink.

I got Athlete’s Foot in third grade,
When they made us all take swimming.
That locker-room was nasty,
You can trust me, I’m not kidding.

They tried ointments, sprays and creams,
And some other nasty stuff.
But nothing seemed to work on me,
My soles are itchy and rough.

My coworkers wear sandals,
As if to flaunt their goods,
Their pearly, pretty toenails,
Mine look like Volkswagen hoods.

And so I hide them under shoes,
Which makes the problem worse.
Because my feet sweat like bastards,
It’s my non-Athletic curse.

Poang Poetry Slam

My wife and I are still dating,
Of that you may make no mistaking,

On Friday’s long nights, far away from work lights, we say to ourselves,
“Now what shall we do so we don’t sit at home and stare all night long at the shelves?”

And, last night after work I turned to my wife and when I said this I had her in stitches,
“Let’s go to IKEA and count pregnant bitches.”

---

It’s a game that we play, because we’re deranged,
With the Ektorps and Karlandas all expertly arranged,

We troll round the halls and our eyes scan the tummies of plumpy young Mummies-to-be,
We try to outfox one another and last night my wife spotted three!

But I kicked her ass ‘cause I got me five,
And that, my sweet loves, ain’t no jive.

---

I don’t know what it is about getting inseminated,
But inside of IKEA all manner of pregnant women are always congregated,

Some are shaped like pears, and some like bears,
Some are all over the Poangs, some deep into housewares,

But, no matter what, there’s nary a slut when it comes to the yellow and blue,
If you’re in IKEA, you’re bound to spot a Preggie McMilkbags or two.

---

And, last night, we were in for a shock,
We spotted three lesbian couples, mullets and all, and they, we well know, don’t like cock.

And so I'll just say, when the pressures of date-night roll 'round your merry way,
Don't fret or obsess over nightclubs, raves, craves, crazes or sultry barroom gazes,

Just get in the car, and I'm sure it's not far to an IKEA just off a quaint highway ramp,
And check out the Mommies, the frumps and the Swamis, and the chick with the lovely tramp stamp.

I Wear Ties

I Wear Ties
A My Masonic Apron Poetic Interlude. Hail, Poetry.

More often than not, even when it is hot, I'll not tell lies, I wear ties.
My look's not complete unless I'm replete with silken strip down to my hip.

I really like to wear ties.

I do not sell cars or insurance, you have my assurance, nor am I a senator dour,
I'm a regular guy who likes him his tie, whether plaid, striped, print, solid or flower.

Hanukkah's coming: would you please buy me a tie?

My wife makes me ties, of varying size, in fabric that's lovely and quaint,
She'll sit there sewing, everso knowing, with a countenance close to a saint.

She also made me a snake-shaped tie-rack, too.

It's expensive, this fetish, though not quite Corvette-ish, and it seems to forever go on,
But I've learned to shop discount, not behave like a viscount, and love TJMaxx and so on.

Ties with little animals on them are my favorites.

Some people scoff and think I'm a bit off when they see that I'm always dressed to the nines,
They watch me arrive all bedecked at the neck in cloth bearing polka dots, paisleys and lines.

Yes, people make fun of my ties.

There are folks who crack jokes at my style of clothes, though I do care about those
Who say I am strange and out-of-the-range when I dress nicely from hair down to toes.

Ties are expressions of personality.

And so, in conclusion and without exclusion, I'll succinctly conclude (sans ado or forsooth),
By saying 'tis always preferred, to be formal, not normal, and that you may take as the truth.

Hail Poetry

Yesterday, Mrs. Apron and I were chatting briefly about my phantom history of poetry.

I used to write it. Now, I don't.

I thought it would be an interesting challenge, though, to dust off the old synapses and try a form of writing I haven't explored since 1998.

Caveat: I have no doubt that the poetry of that era was teeming with awkwardness on many levels. I have every reason to believe that this will be worse.

To Crack

Sugar and wheat
You're far too sweet
To drown alive in milk.

The pirate king
Of whom we sing
Would pillage you at sea.

And then where would we be?
On the evening news, I suppose.

Stay fresh in your bagging
Don't ever go sagging
Stand proud upon your shelf.

And although it is sexist
You're bitch here at breakfast
Even Puffins just cannot compare.


Thank you. Now, to get that taste out of your mouth: go here.