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By Bob Hicok

Truth About Love

I apologize for not being Gandhi or Tom
the mailman who is always kind.

He makes his way every day no matter
the mood of the sky with our words

in a sack and Gandhi made the English
give India back without

taking a gun for a wife. My contribution
to the common good is playing

with the alphabet in a little room
while the world goes foraging

for food. I'm a better poet than man
and it's well known how little

my verbs are worth. I am my only subject,
being the god of my horizons.

What saves me is that just beyond my skin
the world of yours is where

I'd rather live. The AMA says you've added
seven point six years to my life.

In a phrase, love is a transfer of wealth.
This is why Adam Smith gave up

romantic verse. In trying to say what can't
be said I'll take the Dragnet

approach. Just the facts. I'd be dead
sooner without you, you'll die faster

for being a Mrs., raw deal can't be more
clearly defined. To make amends

I offer ten percent more kisses each year.
Or do I do more harm the closer

we become? If yes, leaving would be love
and a better man might. But my thrills

are selfishly domestic. I like sweeping words
into piles and whispering good night.

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This is sorta neat-o because:

a) Magic kinda relates to ghosts, a recently consequential phenomenon chez moi
b) I'll watch anything to do with YouTube at work
c) David Hasselhoff almost singlehandedly reunited Germany
d) If a frog had wings it wouldn't bump his ass when it hopped

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Hey there, sports fans. The time stamp doesn't account for time zones so please believe the title in all its empathetic glory. What's the worst thing that could happen at a wedding? Or, rather, pre-wedding? Well, I've just witnessed our dear Joe Millionaire's bride-to-be storm out of the house after having thrown a full glass of red wine at the window and her engagement ring in the trash can. Apparently, she had gone to buy beer we didn't need from a bouncer dude from town who flirts with her on a routine basis. I guess he had offered her 50K quid per year to leave Millionaire for him. Our buddy, the recently outed Mr. Trapp (another American who lived in Yermany when we lived in Holland), had gotten caught twice in a lie for where he and the bride had been and finally came out with it. She saw the scenario as no big deal, I pulled her aside to explain why Millionaire was so upset, and this resulted in the previously stated blowout. Knowing the bride's previous dramatical work, I had already hidden her car keys so she couldn't run off but I guess spare sets are things people keep handy. She grabbed her sack of weed, spouted off about the Americans, and was off to Darby with her Uni (that's college, you Yanks) friends and "people who understand." Now Millionaire is sat outside the conservatory (back porch) smoking fags and bawling his eyes out that his fiancee has just stormed off two days before the wedding without plans to return. Oh, and she also found his wedding speech in a notebook and ripped it to shreds. I tried to stop her before leaving but the shrieking and hysterics won out in the end. I guess having lived back in the US for almost a year now I'd forgotten what it was like with these two. Hopefully we'll have a wedding in two days-- the shoes she got the bridesmaids are fabulous. Love. Love is strange.

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What does Level Orange Security mean on a flight from O'Hare to Heathrow?

Two folding tables and three security guards. Just yesterday, they found a 12 year old boy on a flight from London without a passport, ticket, or accompanying parents. Safety first!

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