On Work

I work too much, I think. My nine-to-five
Seems sometimes like nine-to-infinity,
And time off-clock is eat-some-sleep-some-drive,
Then walk-in, clock-in, productivity.

I even dream of being on the job:
An endless stream of “hey do that, do this,”
Subconscious tasks impossible to solve,
Self-employment impossible to quit.

But sometimes friends invite me Friday nights
To live a bit, sit barstool for a few,
And I just might, though always to my right
I hear “what’s up”–“not much”–repeat ’til two.

Dull? Sure, but I’ve had dreams of work before
While unemployed, and woke to wish for more.

~Michael Danger Caskey


The Actress Complains

You’ve said he’s undeserving and obtuse,
A social stick you never want to see,
He’s unreliable (save for abuse),
And always drains the room of energy;

Like how, as you explained to me before,
He shows up late for warm-up every time,
And when he does, he always looks so bored
Indifference which is a personal crime–

And how you caught him staring at your chest
(Not even through the corner of his eye)
And then you heard him mumbling “nice breasts,”
Oh what a wretched man–you could just die!

“I want nothing to do with him,” you shout,
But lately he’s been all you’ve talked about.

~Michael Danger Caskey

Published in: on April 12, 2012 at 12:00 pm  Leave a Comment  
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A Visit to the Cemetery

A Visit to the Cemetery

Oh sweetest Lady Sorrow, how I long for your embrace!
Oh how I crave your calloused fingers running down my face!
You may have been rejected by all the human race,
But sweetest Lady Sorrow, how I long for your embrace!

Your eyes weren’t meant for gazing: they make mortals from the brave.
Your hands weren’t meant for holding, for those hands of yours enslave.
Your dowry is a coffin and your marriage bed’s a grave,
But even still, sweet Lady Sorrow, you’re the one I crave!

Although some people scorn you so, and curse you as they cry,
And others drive you out with pills, or wash you down with wine,
This holy host of happiness cannot quite satisfy:
The saddest thing a man can feel is happy all the time.

The candle’s only praised because of darkness past the flame,
And sunshine’s only warm because we know the cold of rain.
The masses pray for opium–for happiness–in vain,
For they would rather have a world, not free, but free of pain.

But oh, my sweetest Lady Sorrow, I’d have you instead
As mistress to my happiness–a cradle for my head.
I would not have you all the time, since our time lies ahead:
My sweetest Lady Sorrow dear, we’ll marry when I’m dead.

~Michael Danger Caskey

Published in: on December 28, 2010 at 4:38 pm  Leave a Comment  
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