This is a little something I call “Superbowl Sunday Haiku.”  Um, okay, I mean it’s a little something that E. calls “Superbowl Sunday Haiku” (contributed by E.) 

Here goes.

Oh wait, that last title was the Subject line.  The real haiku title is:

Super Duper Kamikaze

Pigskin in the sky
Chicks launched high into the blue
Superbowl haiku

(90 seconds.  Submit four-minute or sooner poems here.)

I’d like to post the email I just sent to E. because I think it was poignant and addressed universal themes, while also invoking Back to the Future, one of A.’s favorite films.  Yes, I’d like to just post that.  But then if I did post it, E. would think I was so lame.  Like I can’t think of an email and a post.  Like I can only do one.  Oh yeah, well … so?  So what?  So what if I can’t?

Maybe I’ll trick E. and wait to post it while he’s asleep.  Or tomorrow when he’s forgotten all about it, or I could wait until he goes on vacation.  When are you going on vacation, E.?  Just wondering …

This is an important article for the sole reason that it has the word “boinking” in the headline.  Boinking is my word.  I took it from Lori Porter and now it’s mine and I’ve never heard it used before, by anyone else, in a newspaper headline. 

If you haven’t bought me anything today, it’s not too late.

(A., let’s make sure we check the soap tonight, kid’s got enough to deal with.) 

That will be all.  There will be much more later.  Come back, early and often.

… He gets it exactly right, somehow, every single time.  A. nod, perhaps, to the more senior A. — the one presiding in Rockland County.

Maureen Cannon was doing the two-minute poem way before we were, turns out.  And E’s been spitting them out by the fistful all this time.  The kids are all doing 30-second poems now, E. – chop-chop!

Knowing what you know now, and also that the piece below from E. took an unfathomable four minutes to be born, well viewers … read at your own discretion. 

Not for Psychosis but Rather Mood Stabilization
(In Iambic Pentameter)

I want to be more active and alert,
Without the mud and suck that’s in my head
And heart and blood.  Of all the pills on Earth
to help along your hot daydreams of death,
Geodon, unfairly named, does work the best …

Top that one, kids!

[Send your 30-second or longer poems here.]

If Eric Slater emailed you five times a day, you’d never be unhappy. Ever. Just saying. Send me an email and I’ll ask him to put you on his list, you’ll see. He should charge money.

I’m changing stuff a little, so bear with me it might look funny for a couple days. Stop laughing, it’s not that funny. Really.

School’s back on this morning. Good, because, well … obviously. Bad because I have to get up. Dressed. Presentable.

Oh, this part only concerns Eric Slater. I had a dream last night that you wrote a piece about food or eating and sent it to Greg someone. I can’t remember his name, he taught Earth Science — remember? Anyway, you sent it to him and I happened to be in his classroom when he got it and he told me and I was really mad. There. I had that dream. I have it now and again. Send me the damn piece!

Goodnight everyone. Peace be with you, and your favorite socks.

Did you miss me? I’ve been off. On holiday. Putting in cables and wires and lines and images. We have phone now and television and the world wide web if you can imagine. Call me, write me, be on TV.

However, we do not have an ice cube maker. We have ice cube trays. I feel this is a disheartening step backward, if not for mankind then for me. I remember the exact day (Wednesday of another year) that Eric Slater my longtime friend from the very beginning before we were kings, declared, “Bozarth, you’ve arrived!” because I had an ice machine and water thingie in my refrigerator. No more.

I also have annoying black flying bugs everwhere. They seem to die quick, though, I guess that’s good. And a blinking street light and cold drafty places. The hot heat blasts bat the drafts away but then my skin dries out. We’ll all adapt. (Plus, A. — I changed the bed to face the other wall because they couldn’t string the cable where you wanted. I think it’s all right.)

And that’s where I’ll leave it, that should carry you on into nice weekends. Oh, and please do not buy the Gore Vidal for me for Christmas; fluffy towels, now, will do. I acted impulsively and bought it myself and it’s a thin bunch of short dull yarns. Mr. Vidal reveals to his breath-baited readers, for example, that young Kennedy’s good looks and Nixon’s televised sweat was a huge factor in that one election. Razor-sharp memory, Mr. Vidal. We’d never have guessed!

More later.