for jwbaz, who's having such a rotten day
i wrote this poem a long while back in heart_on on a dare to use clichés in less than cliché ways. your bio reminds me of it. i hope your day's getting a little bit easier.
The Shaving Fairy
You shave like an epileptic N-Sync dancer,
but understand, it’s not your fault.
There was once a man with a beard
that would make yours tremble like a shattered headstone
on your face.
The fourteen-blade razor’s inventor was birthed
in the greased glass cover of an Arby’s
in Billings, Montana, 1958.
His parents, in the spirit of things, named him Cabaret.
At two days, his beard rained down his chest
into a gentle pool at his waist.
At ten Cabby wore a turban over his head like a swelling beehive
and his second grade classmates in at New Fort elementary
pretended to die of wasp stings around him
at recess.
Ironically, wasps did gather in his hair,
and the following year a boy was stung in the throat.
He spent two weeks in the county hospital, numb to the elbows,
and was discharged with little fanfare.
In college, it was the 70s
and men’s souls teared up
at the sight of such powerful chops.
Chance scrapes in the hallways of academia
led the less than reverent
to claim broken legs and burn marks where the beard
crossed their forearms.
But it was a dedicated minority who
first brought Cabby’s hand to a razor.
Imagine the little blade’s terror.
But at last the night came when,
after hours of tiny cuts and
three rolls of extra-strength packing tape,
Cabaret emerged clean-shaven,
sporting a jaw line that could pump your gas for you.
Of course,
it grew back within the hour.
Women flocked like gossamer flamingos
all around him, always brushed off as the beard grew,
allowing him at last to comfortably study calculus
and bowl, in 20 minute increments,
on the weekends.
The blade was hailed in one progressive local paper as
perhaps worth considering for small-scale production;
the Washington Times sloughed it off as a small-scale
blasphemy, and went on to discuss the far-reaching implications
of Arby’s new Double Meat with Extra Meat hamburger.
Cabby knew it was a pregnant revolution,
but he would never blame them for that.
So, friend, take these fourteen blades.
Cut until your eyes resemble your skin again.
But remember the immortal chops
of a man who chopped
far deeper than you ever will.
The Shaving Fairy
You shave like an epileptic N-Sync dancer,
but understand, it’s not your fault.
There was once a man with a beard
that would make yours tremble like a shattered headstone
on your face.
The fourteen-blade razor’s inventor was birthed
in the greased glass cover of an Arby’s
in Billings, Montana, 1958.
His parents, in the spirit of things, named him Cabaret.
At two days, his beard rained down his chest
into a gentle pool at his waist.
At ten Cabby wore a turban over his head like a swelling beehive
and his second grade classmates in at New Fort elementary
pretended to die of wasp stings around him
at recess.
Ironically, wasps did gather in his hair,
and the following year a boy was stung in the throat.
He spent two weeks in the county hospital, numb to the elbows,
and was discharged with little fanfare.
In college, it was the 70s
and men’s souls teared up
at the sight of such powerful chops.
Chance scrapes in the hallways of academia
led the less than reverent
to claim broken legs and burn marks where the beard
crossed their forearms.
But it was a dedicated minority who
first brought Cabby’s hand to a razor.
Imagine the little blade’s terror.
But at last the night came when,
after hours of tiny cuts and
three rolls of extra-strength packing tape,
Cabaret emerged clean-shaven,
sporting a jaw line that could pump your gas for you.
Of course,
it grew back within the hour.
Women flocked like gossamer flamingos
all around him, always brushed off as the beard grew,
allowing him at last to comfortably study calculus
and bowl, in 20 minute increments,
on the weekends.
The blade was hailed in one progressive local paper as
perhaps worth considering for small-scale production;
the Washington Times sloughed it off as a small-scale
blasphemy, and went on to discuss the far-reaching implications
of Arby’s new Double Meat with Extra Meat hamburger.
Cabby knew it was a pregnant revolution,
but he would never blame them for that.
So, friend, take these fourteen blades.
Cut until your eyes resemble your skin again.
But remember the immortal chops
of a man who chopped
far deeper than you ever will.