For my father’s birthday I bought him a copy of “Cringe,” edited by Sarah Brown. The book is a fantastic compilation of actual items from the soul-baring cream of the teenage crop. Poems, journal entries, love letters, and more greet the reader with painful wince-inducing honesty and naïve nobility of purpose.

Upon reading out several passages, my father immediately rummaged through his cabinets to produce some of the choicest pieces of artwork from my childhood, all of which depicted a suitably muscle-bound avatar of myself, replete with bullet belts, Rambo-bandana, and rocket-launching-flame-throwing-fully-automatic-nuclear-laser-guided weaponry, taking out my elementary-school angst on a likeness of him as a feeble beast leaning on a cane, bereft of teeth, hair, dignity, and defense from my inevitable brutal bloodshed.

Young justice!

Back to the point: pick up a copy of “Cringe,” relive other peoples’ most embarrassing pen-and-paper fiascos, and go dig up some of your own.

In the meantime, we can watch and see how my latest piece of doggerel stands up to the cruelty of slow maturity. Check this blog on your virtual reality console when its’ archived on Galax-itunes in fifty years and laugh at what a bad poet I am.

Or just start laughing now:

Ideally

The girl that I’d ideally want
would get dressed up and let me flaunt
her curves on every avenue
from top of hat to tip of shoe.

At night she’d lie asleep and placid,
as I doze, fulfilled and flaccid
deflating with each smug exhale
from top of crown to tip of nail.

Housing no jealousy
as she zealously
tends to me
lustily, lovingly, so.

Omitting,
forgetting,
each cruel indiscretion;
forgivingly letting it go.

Mend amative deficiency,
give tender mirror litany,
in contrast to my inborn chill.
From crust of heart to pit of will.