If you want to make a blues song

The first thing you must do

is get up this mornin'.

And if you get up this mornin',

it will probably be like

You can't hardly get out of your bed.

That could just be because

sleepin' ain't been easy,

but it is best if, perhaps,

you feel as if you were dead.

Now once you drag your self

out of your bed,

you have to pack your things and go.

This is the most important thing,

to pack your things and go,

because without doing this,

You won't be able to walk on out the door.

Once you pack and go and walk out the door,

you have a number of options.

You can leave your home

and never come back no more

or you can go back home

to where the people all love you so

Or you can go down to the crossroads

and make the devil give back your soul

Or you can go out and find that

low-down, dirty-rotten, no-good,

not-worth-a-damn son-of-a-bitch man,

and you can finally tell him no.

An Ode to a Computer

Hail to the computer!

Your screen, it shines night and day

A beacon of yellow and bluish light

That strains the eyes

And draws the mind

And tells us,

“I will never leave you,

And you should never leave me.”

O computer, of thee we sing!

We sing praises to your processor,

Dual-core and contained inside.

We raise toasts to your memory,

Only read and randomly accessed,

Without which we would be lost

And confused

And unable to play Starcraft

Or make spreadsheets.

We dance the foxtrot to your modem.

Computer, thy star shines bright!

Oh how we gaze upon your browser

That helps us explore the internet,

That chrome-colored opera of fire and foxes on safari

That leads us to greener pastures of

Electronic mail and electronic commerce

To tumble and stumble upon

Forums and Facebooks

Where the virtues of nettiquette are extolled

And then ignored.

Tell, O Muse, of the wonders of computer!

Without thee we could never do our work.

Without thee our work could finally get done.

Without thee how else would we watch Avengers

Without paying fourteen bucks in a smelly theater

I mean I'm not made of money and it made

Like a zillion dollars I mean come on

Who's gonna care if I just open up Pirate Bay

Or U Torrent for just a moment

Seriously dude how bad could it be.

Brazen Silver Memories

Did I ever tell you I used to play the trumpet?

I did, it's true.

Now you might not think the trumpet is

a very cool instrument,

but I assure you, back in the day,

I was quite good.

I played for years, you know.

I played all sorts of music

for all sorts of people.

I screamed on high B's

when the music would burn.

I tore through the scales

and I shouted for more.

I pondered the blues

when my heart was in tune.

I brooded and crafted

and sang through the brass

like a lovelorn vagrant.

I wrote in the air

with invisible ink

that could be seen for miles

if you cared to listen for it.

I played galas and galleries,

dances and dinners,

basements and theaters,

ballparks and bars.

Life was my music

and music was life

and one could not exist on its own.

To me,

those times are the fondest of memories,

though I frequently wish they were not.

For who can give up their life and soul

and not feel a little wistful at its passing?

Written by David Briggs, 2011.  First published in The Catalyst Online Vol. 5 (The Catalyst Literary Magazine Vol. 35 Issue 1)

Eleven O'Clock Penalty Flags

It is eleven o'clock

And I sit in my room

In front of a computer

And wait for a video to load

It is eleven o'clock

And in the football field

Across from my room

(and five stories down)

Groups of people

Throw penalty flags

At no one at all

Three large groups of people

At eleven o'clock

Decided this evening

That they should go down

To the football field

Across from my room

Turn on the lights

And throw penalty flags

There are no footballs

There are no frisbees

No soccer

No lacrosse

No baseball bat swinging

Just three groups of people

At eleven o'clock

Throwing an oddly large number

Of penalty flags

Sometimes to each other

Sometimes in the air

Sometimes they even run as they throw them

But none of this changes

That all they are doing

Is throwing penalty flags

At eleven o'clock

Without any players

To make penalties

And I sit in my room

And look at the field

That is five stories down

And I laugh at them

While my video loads

And I call them weird.

I think maybe my priorities are out of order.

Written by David Briggs, 2012.  Edited from an earlier draft published in The Catalyst Online Vol. 5 (The Catalyst Literary Magazine Vol. 35 Issue 1)