Anti-Wind

Wind blows.
I don't mean in the gusting
sense of the word.
I mean it blows in the way
that things that suck blow.
You know, the slang
use of the word.
Like how having a broken toe
blows, or not being tall enough
to ride the ride
blows, or pizza
outside of New York
blows. That is how the wind
blows.

Always pushing you around.
Knocking your hat off your head,
making you chase it down the street.
Turning your umbrellas inside out.
The wind blows.
Howling through reeds,
scaring small children at night,
and then, during the day,
slamming their kites down
into the ground, smashing them to pieces.
It blows.
Knocking down that house of cards,
you spent most of the day building,
with one gust from a carelessly opened door.
It blows.
Wafting all sorts of foul smells
straight up into your nostrils.
It blows.
Whirling up women's skirts and dresses,
and puffing out their hair,
causing all manor of embarrassing clamor.
It blows.

Snuffing out the flame
on that last match
before you can get the fire lit.
Blasting your piss back at you
when you try to pee into it.
Oh, how the wind blows.
Swirling your father's ashes,
whisking them off into far away places
that your father never wanted to go,
like Guam or Iowa.
The wind blows.
It blows, big time.

Adversary Rhymes: Peter Piper

Peter Piper porked a pair of puckered pussies.
A pair of puckered pussies Peter Piper porked.
If Peter Piper porked a pair of puckered pussies,
where's the pair of puckered pussies Peter Piper porked?

Peter puffed a pipe of pungent pot smoke.
A pipe of pungent pot smoke Peter puffed.
Then, Peter passed the pungent pot pipe to his pal Paul.
Paul, too, puffed the pipe of pungent pot smoke.
The pipe of pungent pot smoke Paul puffed too.
Then, Paul passed back the pipe of pungent pot to Peter.
Peter puffed the pipe of pungent pot smoke again.
Again, the pipe of pungent pot smoke Peter puffed.
Then, Peter and Paul stared at the wall because the pot was pungent in the pipe they had puffed, and they began to postulate that the predicament of the populace was propagated by the privileged, and that progress could only be procured by perseverance, which was proceeded by the proclamation, "This pot is particularly piquant."

Adversary Rhymes: Little Mary

Mary was a little lamb with snow as white as skin. And every time she went on the lam, she'd flee the place she'd been. She followed a school of fish one day, but realized she couldn't swim. She began to drown and sunk straight down, and was never seen again.

Mary had a little scam: to fleece a dealer out of blow. And everywhere the dealer dealt, Mary was close in tow. She followed him to a school one day, and watched him sell to teens. She studied him for many weeks and learned all his routines. Then, it came time to do the deed, and Mary began her con. It seemed as though she would succeed, but the dealer soon caught on. He let her think that all the pieces were falling into place; so when she finally dropped her guard, he shot her in the face.

Mary liked a little lamb minced in her Shepherd's Pie. She was Irish, and that's how they make it.

I am being followed...

and not in the digital sense. Someone is following me. Physically. A person, male, with dark glasses and darker clothes, a hood encompassing his face, casting it in shadow, hiding any distinguishable features. Nondescript. Unidentifiable. Except for being a man of considerable height and build. He is not far from me right at this moment. I can see him in my periphery, hear a rustling, smell a conglomeration of strong cologne and sweat. He is holding a paper cup of coffee from one of those vending machines, which dispense those cups with the playing cards on them. He is holding almost a straight, seven through Jack, with the eight missing, and he hasn't taken a sip. And though I cannot see his eyes through his glasses, I know they are fixed on me, and he is making note of everything I do. I must lose him. What does he want? Who is he? Maybe if i turn my head, pretend he isn't there. Maybe if I look directly at him...