Copyright Notice

Copyright: Fred Robel, and Fritz365 2010-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog's author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Fred Robel and Fritz365 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Sunday, October 11, 2015

Cheapskate Mekanik

You've done it again
With your Flea Market brand tools
Bought on the spur of the moment
Along the side of a rural route
Amidst fluttering Confederate battle flags
With judgmental white skulls looking down upon you
From the center of each printed St Andrew's Cross

That new three piece set
Of Vice Grips that just won't grip
Made of coated metal too soft for the job
With teeth that flatten upon the first use
And the chrome just flakes away
Cutting your fingertips as it goes

Your glossy looking pliers
Massive Chunnel Locks that won't lock at all
Interlocking adjustable crescent shaped grooves
That jump out of place
With the slightest of pressure applied
Their motto of "Tightest lock on earth!"
A stamped steel testament
To the time their marketing department lied

An assortment of combination wrenches
With both open and box ends
No attempt at a brand name upon their flanks
Just a simple mark saying "CHINA" in the center
Arranged in sizes that are simple suggestions
Judging from how they slip off of bolts and nuts
In both standard and metric size

The only thing worth a damn that you bought
Is that hickory handled ball peen hammer
Which is fortunate for you indeed
Because you'll need something dependable  available
To bash your skull with
Each and every time all the other new tools you got
Fails you in the worst possible way

Saturday, October 3, 2015

Self v Self

In the beginning there was darkness
Until I stubbed my toe
Swore out loud
Stepped in a dog turd
And finally found the light switch
Right where it always had been
On the light pink tiled bathroom wall

At least since 1968

Then there was me
Staring back at me
Reflected from the tin silver
Through the thin substrate
All at the speed of light

So I blinked

And there was a younger me
Clean shaven with lots of hair
A hundred and fifty pounds lighter
Zits on his chin from a football helmet strap
Without a clue in the world

So I had to look away from that asshole

My fingers found the septic system suitable toilet paper
Installed as it usually was
The wrong way on the roll
Tearing some away to wipe off my foot
The thin tissue predictably tore
Smearing dog shit on my thumb

I looked back up at the mirror
As I tossed the waste into the toilet
The image looking back at me
Just another bald-headed fat man with a beard
Washing his hands disgustedly in his middle age

Friday, October 2, 2015

Inspection Imagery

There's a small circular reflection
That mirrors things back to me
From hard to reach and dark places
Comes a little reversed reality

A crack revealed from under the grime
A corrosion bubble about to burst
A loose fastener rattling away
An unlubricated slide grinding time

It all looks fine as the plane lines up on final
But from the moment the tires squawk
Flaws start to appear
Growing larger as it taxis near

Brakes set and chocks blocked in
The time clock starts to steadily spin
Only four thousand man-hours until we are done
Start opening and cleaning so inspection can begin!

Sunday, September 27, 2015

Fritz the Improbable Prognosticator

I  dreamt I was a time traveler to the past
With nothing but modern money in my pockets
Thousands of dollars in worthless cotton based paper
Coins stamped with the wrong world leaders
Dates impossible for others to comprehend

So from an oriental carpeted room
On the fifth floor of an impossible brothel
I set up shop
As Fritz the Improbable Prognosticator!

With all my memory of history
Fed from grade school and high school
Community college
And Wikipedia since

I offered stock tips and sports bets
World events warnings
Natural disaster forecasts
Local election conjecture
And an editorial column in The Times

With a bowler hat and moleskin coat
I tried to grow penicillin in my bathroom
While dodging the bubonic plague
Skirting the mass graves
Being mocked for wearing a cotton mask near death
And washing my hands several times a day

Twice I was accused of being a witch
Once I hid from an inquisitor
Tripped up in a tavern with a modern turn of phrase
Forgetting myself
Trying to act out the local ways

Retreating at last to an isolated spot
Somewhere near a desert
In my mind a brown robed noble Ben Kenobi
But to the locals just another insane hermit
Writing upon scrolls and tablets in a language unknown to them
My story for my future self to find
For I was a time traveler with a major handicap
As only further into the past could I ever go

Saturday, September 26, 2015

Disease Vector

A common carrier
Of most uncommon disease
Measles mumps and whooping cough
Cancer and the ragweed sneeze
Flying in upon spidery spores
Supported by a breath of breeze
Darting into your open moist suckhole
Infiltrating weak defenses with ease

Anthropologists from the next great species
Will deduct that an asteroid was to blame again
Though this time it wasn't one that hit the ground
But just one that passes nearby now and then
Taunting us until we sent a robotic probe
Bringing back samples dropping on silver chutes
Which fluttered and flailed as they failed to extend
Spilling contents across the desert floor
Spelling humanity's end

Friday, September 11, 2015

The Biggest Lie I've Ever Told

There is a blank spot in my life
A little gap
That my historic timeline always skips
A lie by omission
That never passes my lips
Or flows through a pen to the waiting page

Thirty years of building up walls
Strong and true
Though their footing is shaky
Spanning that gap the way that they do

Aerospace Professional
School Board Trustee

All those words I use sometimes to describe me
Just age old theatrics meant to distract
Obfuscating one important fact:

It was all the biggest lie

That I was me
And the past didn't matter
And that being me
Was fine

Sunday, September 6, 2015

Budding Love:

Falling again
Heart in throat
Pain receptors dulled
Logic circuits suppressed
Flaws overlooked
Tasting a taste so foreign to the tongue

This must be love
Until the cute opens
Applying gravity once again

Hating the way he chews
The annoying way he snores
Never listens
Always apologizes
Blood rushing
Vomit rising to wash the love away

This must be hate
Until a new scent wafts our way
Clouding the mind again

At least long enough