Archives For Ben Simon

King of Prussia

Once in King of Prussia, I was falsely accused

Of mutilating my Paw with hammerhead cartilage

So I hitched a ride across the teal Philly harbor


I spent all my nickels at Stuckey’s but out of

The dew rolled a pseudo-Dodson handmade of wood

Driven by prepubescent twins with personal sniggers


Accompanied by vermilion atop the horizon

A family of three siblings they once had been

Until their half-brother suffered a fatal blow


Turns out they had heard of my father on FOX

So they assumed I was responsible for their brother’s death too

Soon, I was chained to the trunk, speeding toward Appalachia


The half-brother’s corpse resembled a childhood chum

So I confessed, and the twins were unmoved

They refastened the chains to acquaint me with epileptic fire.

The Cyborg Life

You spend nineteen hours daily in awe of my mechanical majesty
My radiant robot face beaming light upon your spectacles
I fulfill your every desire, all information that you seek
Give a command and I’m there, though I admit an occasional glitch
Still I beg for some reciprocation—could you cleanse my robot face?
And the parts of me I use to talk can still feel that coffee stain
You’ve got me feeling bluer than my screen of death
It’s Saturday night, go out, human, and leave me to myself!

Egad, you cleansed my robot face, and my circuits feel brand new
You even turned the lights on so I have more things to view
You went out on no benders, you’ve no bigger fish to fry
Let me be your Hermes, your messenger god tonight
And as you fill my Cyclops eye, we will both sigh in delight
Like Farnsworth’s box to Americans, we will harmonize
Together we’re a cyborg, as much man as machine
Let’s enjoy our cyborg life as long as you can watch my screen.

Tiger Trap

Bungalow Bill and them barbershop buzzards

Great soot! the Tigers roam free

Do not forget me, Mag up on the wall

The Tigers will deframe your effigy


Psycho jungle cats need thirty lashes

Holden Coffin to the Nylon King

Tea to effin’, four new tatas

Tea I double don’t curr for deeez caaats

Do not forget me, Marg up on the wall

The Tigers will deframe your effigy.

The Continuing Story of Truman Peyote

Part One
Truman was feeding Lunchables to Laguna Lake geese when a towering Neanderthal
Slapped him with his country club cane and asked him if he’d read his daily Isaiah
Truman said, “No sir,” and was blasted like Ringo’s drum with just a dash of criticism
The Neanderthal threw Truman a haphazard Rolex before ascending into God-knows-where
But before Truman could pawn it, three beatniks nabbed Truman’s soul
Truman awoke in Bakersfield, taking hits off a lit jerky.


Part Two

Truman was eradicating the zydeco from his iPod one afternoon in Paris

When some fat-fingered book ‘legger called his unhealthy cell

And asked him if he wanted a copy of either Ecclesiastes or Fritz the Cat

Truman accepted the former

After all, he once ganked Brautigan’s razor so counterculture made him queasy

“How much will that all be?” asked Truman as Bitches Brew went to the gods

“Search your heart. There is no try,” said the book ‘legger

A genuine non-sequitur.  And during the dusk of Truman’s lunch hour, too!

Part Three

Truman used to come over to my place after M*A*S*H
In order to poke his mythologies in my neck
This was after I achieved Tommy Lee Gatz’s goals
And became the first Jew on academic probation
My folks walked out on me in order to adopt a studious refugee
Who managed to send me daily death threats on YouTube
Truman would sit at his Commodore all day, trying to persuade the moderators
That as I had written some good screenplays in ‘06
I was worth saving.

Part Four


Truman wanted to register liberal so that he could defeat the draft

But he couldn’t shit on Zionists, teetotalers, and the freedom to choose virginity

So one night in Baghdad, he decided he’d start his own battle

When the soldiers awoke, Truman declared War on Juggalos

And sat in the hot Iraqi sun as Our Troops put each other in body bags.
Part Five
Back when I was in university, a girl on Floor 9 wanted me dead
A made-up clown, she made every day look like Halloween
Every Saturday, Truman would show up at my apartment
And, having left his electroconvulsive equipment at home,
He’d tell me that life is just a cup of root beer
It’s always shorter than you wanted it to be
Might as well reap what you sow before God starts looking grim.

Girl in the Bleachers


She used to adore me in the days of short recess
The lean, made-up face, wonderful, beautiful, godlike
But last night after I entered that packed, old football stadium
I saw her flirting behind bleachers of familiar faces
And when she came into my range I took careful note
And when I prepared a conversation

Well-thought up and full of her destinies
She simply turned away as if she had never met me before.


Our group came, saw our friendship in its prime

We passed July in shambles, through the state

All that geography conflicts with time

The slumber of my revolt cannot wait

You left before I found the chance to ask

Mere chunks of land are acres, miles, long

I’d hate to turn a chance into a task

I’ve got the blues, you knew it all along

I celebrated Sorrow while I dined

These tablemates are not among her friends

Hmmm, nine weeks trickle down my fast-paced mind

She laughs; a mental trinket’s what she lends

A temporary loss should make me pout

Just ask me how happiness came about.

The Valedictorian

By twelfth grade, the town was a thriving spot for evangelical Christians

And not enough of us took offense to my high school’s valedictorian

Who refused to inspire us, or even affectionately namedrop any of us like the salutatorian did

Instead he simply told us how much he wished we would someday be as pious as he was

Leaving no room for growth or for passage

And while he could easily hand his beliefs to the heathens

He couldn’t make them pray in the way that he did

We turned away from his mythologies

And while his valedictions from sin failed

His valedictions from school were a gift from God.

Singles Awareness Day

I’m sprinting about Cal Poly’s campus

Hymning Mr. Tambourine Man

To the tune of another song of Bob Dylan


I’m making the funniest first impressions

Disturbing the Poly dollies but not the peace

They’re too freaked out to kiss their boyfriends


It’s not a sin to be happy & single today

It’s just what the Man wants

But now’s not the time for paranoia


“Won’t you be my Valentine?”

What does that phrase mean anymore?

Something materialistic, I reckon


I decide my ears need a toke

So I let them puff on my iPod earphones

Both of them get high on “Penny Lane”


You can tell your friend in the Bay Area

That Ben Simon is loving life

On the day when merry men suddenly slouch.



Rabbit on the Run

Each of Jennifer’s orifices is a dimension to another galaxy

But when I’m not in the mood for surrealist space travel

I gaze into retinas which leap out to greet me in a juicy embrace

Two pug puppies of tissue, tearing me together

But during her departure, Ray and Nate simultaneously sought a slice of life

And they perverted her eyes into fleeting rabbits in the fetal position

Rabbit brains being penetrated with two horns of rabid bulldogs

Prey to their demands, I see Jennifer transformed into a reluctant jackalope

Firmly two-legged in the direction of New York City

I am on the other outskirt of the empire, but dog voodoo does not elude me

Someday I will arrive on Coney Island with nothing but a frankfurter in my hand

And two James Polk gold dollars in each one of my khaki pants’ pockets

These three necessities will become a ring which will lead Jennifer from harm

And lure her into a dimension that brings harmony to her poodle song.

Space Cake Cookies

The space cake cookies that Jennifer baked me were so potent

That when we made love, it was as if I were asleep

And the best night of my life seems to be an elaborate dream

Some of the moments have escaped me, but they occasionally appear

In the middle of my working day as instant but wonderful flashes

And how Jennifer regretted telling me of her Roger

Whose hours as a barista were lightened by the secret ingredients she’d sneak into the pastries

And who took all the credit for the better qualities of the baked goods

I wonder if she bakes the same space cake cookies for Roger

And if when they make love, it is as if he is asleep

And if the best nights of his life seem to be elaborate dreams.