Q: What would Roy Rogers have been called if he had been a singing farmer?
A: King of the Plowboys.
Q: In the Beowulf saga, who was a male child of the hag Grendel?
A: A real sonofawitch.
Q: What's the slogan for an ad campaign for a certain fabric in Copenhagen?
A: "Something is cotton in the state of Denmark".
Q: What is fear of joining a fitness club?
A: Gymtimidation.
Q: When she worked onstage in a comedy, what could actress Elaine do for an audience?
A: Keep it in Stritches.
Q: What might you call the LGBT version of the glass slipper story?
A: "Transgenderella".
Q: Also for theatre and film buffs--What would you call public transportation in a ghost town?
A: A streetcar named Bizarre.
Q: Why did the man tell the 911 operator to please send help quickly when his spouse appeared to be choking?
A: It was a matter of wife or death.
Q: What is someone who hitchhikes across the country studying different dialects?
A: A roads scholar.
Q: How did the Glasgow "Evening Times" reporter headline the story of the party boat that sank after hitting an iceberg?
A: Scots on the rocks!
Categories:
hitchhikes, humor,
Form: I do not know?
Moonlight hitchhikes on green pines
Slipping away like maroon mind
Melancholy music rides breeze I find
Comfort and peace in warm red wine
Escape in a bottle isn’t the worst crime
Running full throttle from dilemma time
No longer on top not in my peach prime
Want it to stop this inner indigo whine
I failed and wail wildly in pantomime
Tell the tale smiling fallen star still shines
Hear them talking judgement like sour lime
Despite squawking new day new grace will chime
Turning the page on the drama of wintertime
Looking forward to redemption in green vines
Not dead yet despite my fret I will be fine
Know how to grow be bold and draw new lines
Categories:
hitchhikes, angst, anti bullying, courage,
Form: Monorhyme
Spiderwebbed folds hang from each arm
as moss will from an aged cypress.
He sometimes raises haggard hands
as if he dreams of rising again,
or to cover bleary eyes.
The world is his mind.
Daylight a brief fluttering against closed lids.
Night floats above him,
he feels a light-headed immunity
from the gravity of death.
Outside in the hard-wired clamor
buses and trucks growl up droning hills.
Order and chaos are ushered in and out
of pallid pools of sunshine
and the wheezing colostrum’s
of a cloudy effusion.
Most who travel are asylum workers,
the old brick systems of sanity
must be maintained,
the matrix clipped, then the disused
swept under crumbling foundations.
The infrastructure, the fabric
the kapok and pith,
the nuts and bolts of an older age -
it all needs workers.
The dying man hitchhikes under a hand,
feels the warmth of flesh in full-bloom.
He sighs,
the nurse hears only a gurgle,
she is monitoring,
the winking machines are monitoring
while camara’s monitor everything.
He remains in his world,
always sinking upwards
toward what he knows not,
but it’s not here so he does not care.
Categories:
hitchhikes, poetry,
Form: Free verse
The long and winding roads
Are the roads less taken
The roads of dread and trepidation
Of emasculation that forge creation
Of character paths of self
That can not navigate the crossroads
Because the signs
Don't illuminate the bends
Of wrath and danger
Show me the road
Open ended
With a roadside bar
And Motel as friend
A Hitchhikes guide
Along with god beside
And will gladly ride off into the sunset
Of a darkened tunnel
And pay the toll at the end
Whatever that may be
Rather this
Than the road to hell
From dusk till dawn
Categories:
hitchhikes, angel,
Form: Free verse