Ernie is my cousin see, and I got him this job.
I invited him aboard because I thought
his cheery disposition might have some use here –
in the real world they took it for crazy.
Everyone thought we were the perfect odd couple,
so they put us in a house together:
a living example of dysfunction
for the kids.
I didn’t always live on Sesame Street.
I used to have an immaculate apartment
West Street, Tribeca,
where I lived with the love of my life.
No, not Ernie, though I know what some people say.
My love was a breathtaking Rastafarian princess.
She had eyes that blinked with feathery raven lashes,
and thick twists of fabric hair.
Never made it to T.V., but she taught me how to sing.
And then she left.
Now Ernie does most of the singing –
shallow bath songs about his rubber ducky,
and I wait for that rare chance to announce the letter of the day.
Well today I say: this show is brought to you by the letter F.
F is for F*** you Ernie for singing your songs,
F is for Finding my own identity
F is for Freedom…
Can you tell me how to get
Off Sesame Street?
I got work-stressed this week, so instead of writing something new today, I'm sharing this bit of silliness from my sophomore (I thiiink?) year of college.
I grew up with Sesame Street. Oscar the Grouch was my favorite. I wanted to pet his tousled head and make everything better for him. I also loved Ernie's rubber ducky song, and the way he was able to catch fish by just saying "Heeeere fishy fishy fishy!" (I tried this several times myself with very little luck). Ernie was so bright and sunny! Bert kind of confused me though. He and Ernie seemed to have such a good time, but he always looked a little upset. Those eyebrows...I just always wondered what was going on with him. Did he really wanna be there?
It was fun for me to get inside his head, but I remember never being totally satisfied with this poem. Looking at it now there are so many phrases, line breaks, and choices that I wish were better, but I think Bert would tell me to just F*** it.