Under-100 Poetry: Gone Out to Fish Some Dinner

Gone Out to Fish Some Dinner

A long breath in, a long breath out.
Ocean waves flow in, ocean waves flow out.
A fishing boat tossing left, tossing right.

But the red bobber never drops.

Hundreds of eyes peer upwards through the water.
Eyes opening, eyes opening.
Shadowy tendrils prodding, a fishing boat squirming.

But the red bobber never drops.

A stomach gurgling, a larger stomach growling.
A decision made, an alternative dinner decided.
The sun drops below the ocean waves,

but the red bobber never, ever drops.



This is the first in a series I’ve created called “Under-100 Poetry”. As the name suggests, it is comprised of poems containing less than 100 words. Very simple, but a surprisingly effective limiter that encourages me to actually publish works instead of letting them rot in my notes.


On the Topic of Birthdays

An Annoying Phrase

Three times I’ve heard the phrase “Happy Birthday” after waking up and I might hear it at least once more before I finish writing this. There was definitely a time when I would reply with thanks and go about feeling pretty giddy about myself. I was a cute kid, in my own completely unbiased opinion. Now I find myself forgetting my own birthday (and even my own age sometimes) and my only reply to birthday wishes is a murmur of confirmation and a polite smile.

At a certain point in this life my mentality about birthdays shifted towards a more neutral alignment. While I do find it annoying to be pestered with the same two words multiple times in a day, I don’t find the celebrations themselves useless. At its core, a birthday party is a celebration of life and existence. Parties themselves are rituals to gather up excitement and joy, so they definitely have their merit.

If someone else wants to celebrate their birthday, by no means would I object. If they invited me, I might even attend. However when it comes to my own, I just simply cannot be bothered. My ideal birthday celebration would be in the comfort of my own presence indulging in books about false histories or videogames about false histories. So I’m going to hit that publish button, close this tab, and go do exactly that.

The Comfort of a Bed

Gravity really is one of the most cruel concepts to encounter. I ponder this thought as I lay in bed, sensing the noon sun trying to invade my room through the one window. I’ve realized that the only place the human body can fully be at ease is… the bed. One would immediately think “Its because of the pillows, the covers, the softness of it all”, but they would only be half right. The other half of the right would be that when you’re in bed, you don’t have to constantly wrestle with the ever vigilant prison warden known as Gravity. Or maybe an overbearing parent, bent on keeping humanity from leaving Earth and exploring the cold, dark, and incredibly beautiful Universe.

And so I lay in bed. Every single one of my muscles relaxed (even my restless legs finally got the memo and went on break). I pondered all kinds of things: what I should have for lunch, why did I even go to college in the first place, what was Edgar Allan Poe thinking about as he died, how would it feel to walk with no big toes. In the blink of an eye, years had passed me by. Then a few more years. For decades I lay in bed, lazily contemplating all manner of thoughts. Eventually, one thought pierced through the rest and arrived at the forefront of my mind. A dire thought, indeed.

I have to pee.

Immediately vacating the fabric oasis and dressing myself in attire fit for a person wandering their own home, I leave my bedroom and enter the first of two bathrooms in the house. Instead of finding a much needed toilet, I discover a room filled with smashed porcelain and a bleeding soldier in a blue uniform. They saw me and started shouting about killing a soldier in a red uniform. This was none of my business and I wanted it to never be any of my business so I left them to their bleeding and went to the other of the two bathrooms. Again, a toilet smashed to pieces. Again, a bleeding soldier on the floor of the bathroom shouting about killing another soldier. I sighed and, brushing the bloody soldier’s problems away from me, walked out to the backyard.

As I went about my business, aiming for a particularly dead spot of grass, I looked to the sky and sighed again. Red planes were dropping soldiers in red uniforms and red parachutes blocked out the sky. Soldiers in blue uniforms scrambled throughout the neighborhood setting up big blue guns that shot loud blue flak. I desperately tried to catch a glimpse of the nighttime sky, but eventually gave up and went back into the house. Disrobing, I mumbled something bitter about having more important things to think about.

I tucked myself into bed, fluffed my pillow, and began pondering the evolution of the human skeleton over the past 400 years. Skulls, especially, are quite amazing.

A Door is Opened

No, no, no, its not “goodbye”. Its “until we meet again”.    – A certain someone

A lot of people tell me that the journey is more important than the destination. I personally think that this sentiment is a load of bupkis. More specifically, bupkis roasted over a charcoal fire and coated in a sweet nadda sauce before being served at a cookout only to then be abandoned because the only things people eat at cookouts are hot dogs and hamburgers.

Maybe the writing posted here will give you an insight into how I reached this conclusion regarding journeys and destinations. Maybe it won’t and you’ll think I’m the one full of bupkis and nadda sauce. Maybe you’ll forget about me before you tuck yourself into your lazily made bed hoping to dream about a world where people don’t kill each other over colored pieces of paper.

My name is Charlie. My name is Kilroy. Either one is fine. The door to my small, doubt-ridden office is now open. Maybe you’ll come by and visit sometime. Until we meet again.