Roadtrip to the Sun — circa 1991

Wooden coaster in the sun,
on the table time to run.

Let the rainbow come to me,
then pot of gold I will be.

Homemade cake in the fridge,
no need to purge when you binge.

Cut the grass all this week,
rake the leaves, eat the seeds.

Took a roadtrip to the sun,
no tan lotion, not much fun.

Instruments I can not play,
but I could start any day.

Turn the knob, spin the dial,
get a lawyer, jury trial.

Plastic toy in my meal,
social wound will never heal.

Curiosity killed the cat,
satisfaction brought him back.

Bought some Vans for my feet,
don't reflect what I'll eat.

Flower petal on my plate,
dollar short, day late.

This is what I've been told,
but his brain had some mold.

Brass knob on her head,
open it see what I said.

Fallen leaf on the floor,
plant inside lives no more.

Used to like corn on the cob,
super model nose job.

Cadillac, box in the jack,
brussels sprout, gunny sack.

Bought my pocket for a buck,
lime green, half-ton truck.

Saw a movie in your ear,
could smell your face, the look of fear.

You're afraid of what I am,
must be chunky Peter Pan.

I can take a lot of pain,
but anger hurts me, drink the rain.

Used to be a little kid,
super-ego fought my id.

Sad photos make me cry,
never failed, never tried.

Paper bag on my foot,
used to suck chimney soot.

Sugar comes in little cubes,
burning scissors makes fumes.

Pup tent, high rent,
came time to circumvent.

Bought a candle for my milk,
vitamins made of silk.

Big curls in my hair,
peer pressure burned them there.

Emotion magnet in my head,
don't know why true love is dead.

Got a zipper, YKK,
14th act, long-ass play.

Smoke my ashes when I'm dead,
but don't light up while in bed.

Plaid shirt, painter's cap,
exit sign, last lap.

Box spring mattress set,
ice fishing safety net.

Buy a shirt, tumble dry,
low setting, don't know why.

Coffee stain on my toe,
snapping turtle won't let go.

Distortion pedal blew a fuse,
racial jokes don't amuse.

Rubber frog eraser tip,
to the sun, I took a roadtrip.

~ topher

16 years later...

I wrote this poem when I was about 16 years old. It was one of those free-association attempts at poetry, and it came out just like this with no editing.

Reading it now, I can hardly believe that I've never done drugs. I'm sure you're finding it hard to believe too, but it's true. I also wrote this before I ever started reading Douglas Adams.

But looking back on the poem now, I am still moved by parts of it. I certainly had moments as a young man where I was torn between what I wanted and what everyone else wanted of me—my superego fighting my id. I escaped that, of course, and have never regretted it.

I still can't play any instruments other than the kazoo, and I do regret that.

I'd still rather fail in the attempt than simply not try. And sometimes that hurts. But you'll never know if you don't give it a go, and you can always go feet first the first time.

Despite my sometimes rough, linear, and unsympathetic exterior, I am still a chivalrous, hopeless romantic, and I think that's conveyed in this poem.

I still like chunky peanut butter, and you should too.

I still hate cutting grass, and you should too.

But ultimately, I think this poem is more about the funny things you find when you just get out there and have a go at it. I think it's about allowing yourself to be moved by things—moved to tears once in a while.

And though the poem is ambivalent about brussels sprouts, it's important for you to know that I do hate them—and you should too.

~ topher