I Never Wrote a Villanelle about Fictitious Situations Involving Myself and Kurt Vonnegut

I never roller skated with Vonnegut.
We mostly sat around and drank,
although we prank called James Joyce a lot.

We talked in only stream of consciousness.
He said, “Can’t you do something else today?”
I never roller skated with Vonnegut.

Once we called as Stephen Dedalus;
he responded with a fit of rage.
Although we prank called James Joyce a lot,

I always laughed until I pissed
my pants right before old Kurt fainted.
I never roller skated with Vonnegut;

his knees were always sore from arthritis.
We sure shared a lot of lazy days,
although we did prank call James Joyce a lot.

Camus and I once caught two large rats.
He got sick. Then he wrote The Plague.
I never roller skated with Vonnegut
But we did prank call James Joyce a lot.

One Man's Trash is another Man's Heaping Pile of Trash

I walked down the sidewalk, stopping momentarily to admire the fine craftsmanship behind the obnoxiously uneven pavement. I wished I had a pack mule to aide my journey. More pressing annoyances lay just fifty yards ahead of me, however. I thought for a moment about diving into the bushes and pulling out a pair of binoculars to survey the dangerous garage sale type scene before me. Had I enlisted the help of some of those Invisible Children I’d been given so many pamphlets about, perhaps my trek could go undetected. I was going commando, in that sense, however so I had no choice but to venture on alone. I was bombarded with books of psalms, notices to be saved from the horrifying sin I didn’t even know I was committing, advertisements for student work that was probably run by a cult, books on meditation offered to me by a Buddhist monk named “Vishnu” (he looked more like a Steve in those khaki pants and fishing hat) and, naturally, coupons for Papa John’s. I thought all the imaginary boxes marked “kitchen” and “fragile” and “get rid of this shit” had finally been emptied. How could I turn the tables? Perhaps my act of refuse laden retribution would come soon. Maybe the next time a knife wielding, puppy toting terrorist was caught in the middle of an explosive episode of this bizarre soap opera I found myself acting in each day. Then it would be me standing on the sidewalk, handing everyone a reminder to pick up their commemorative DVDs, t-shirts, and hats. In the meantime, I went home with my new collection of shit and gave it that bit of sentiment it was lacking in the hands of those mindless assholes that interrupted my morning walk. I put them into a shoebox and buried them the next day beneath the home of the Keepers of Cooper, whose soft purrs and meowing motherly instincts kept them protected, and where they belonged—surrounded by a pile of dirt.