Ok, a friend of mine informed me that my attempts at humor are nothing more than a shield, and that hardly anything is revealed by them. So let me take this thing seriously and see if I can let you know some things I'd like you to know about me:
I believe in family. I love my daughters and would never have ended a marriage on my own.
I hope I never miss out on an opportunity to dance, to dress like a hippo for a Disney parade or enjoy something I like because it is not proper.
Having said that, I don't like embarrassing people I'm with. I care what you think. I hope your mom likes me.
I sometimes hide behind humor (I do that a lot, actually)
I can be mean in my humor.
Music matters to me.
When I travel, I want to see what is off the beaten path.
I am loyal and have been blessed with loyal friends.
I'm a realist who is a romantic; I wear my heart on my sleeve.
I believe a man needs to have a job, keep a tidy house and be able to provide.
My health is not good, and I will need help at some point, but I am optimistic.
If you think a poem expresses something of its author, then analyze this one at will:
I Bought A Winter House Today
The winter comes in waves this year. Bouts of bitter cold wind, shaking the bones,
brittle from their inner wind. The deluge hits the shores
battered by ignorant armies clashing at night. Life retreats
into the margins waiting for the frost to do its worst.
So I too bought a winter house today
A suitably strong retreat, located off a less beaten path
High walls surrounding it to keep the wind at bay
And strong walls within preserving all that is inside
Today my house began a metamorphosis
The trees are now all dead, bare ruined choirs where
I heard sweet birds once sang.
The doors are shut, portals to another time.
The walls are now yellow to keep the memory of the sun, though
I do not remember the sun ever looking so wan. Still.
The guest facilities are nil. It will not do to invite in this cold. It is not proper.
The bedroom has a bed to remind me that it should be shared.
A portrait of a duchess melts into the weak sunlight.
I feel I should know her
but do not.
The fireplace filled with ashes, consumed by that which it was nourished by.
The bathroom has an accusatory mirror
and a big toilet.
The kitchen is the gut of my home. Shiny, new,
stocked with victuals I cannot eat fast enough.
The appliances are all shiny and industrial,
burning hot but providing no heat,
simply dumb satiation.
I want this winter over, but can see no light
Summer is too far away
Or you can consider this poem:
Open the gate!
Let me in.
I smell the cooking within
The zest of lemon, vanilla, gin
Let me in!
I want to taste the honey sweet
Bourbon, pumpkin, cherry syrup
Please let me in.
Let me touch the soft peaches
Run my fingers past the bleachers
Onto the field hidden within
Please, please, let me in
Soft cries as I peel the peaches
Touch the moist meat within.
Let me in.
If you want to know anything else, let me know! And now, back to my comedic genius.