Originally posted 8/8/2013.
A Bad Idea hugs my neck with icy meat paws,
smears me with an evil kiss
from a greasepaint devil’s face;
takes me out, gets me drunk
and lets me slip, in disguise and unnoticed,
to the floor of a convenient dive.
If this wasn’t all mostly metaphor
I’d have handled it badly years ago
and wound up
without an eye, thumb, or testicle
but I’m intact enough that when he’s around
I forget all my years of sense.
Mr. Bad Idea, you think we’d be past this.
You’d think we would be so intimately acquainted by now
that we’d be on more normal terms —
I’d merely entertain you now and then
and hold you at bay the rest of the time —
old wolverine, badger full of flammable cotton!
How you do tear your way in
where you’re least wanted
when you’re most needed,
nestling into the dark crook
of my throat, giving me something
to talk about.
Everyone else, you’re on notice:
if you see me acting out, bloated with a Bad Idea,
be a friend: step aside and take notes
from a safe distance. No telling
what might be coming;
might be lots to tell after it’s gone.