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Copyright: Fred Robel, and Fritz365 2010-2016. 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, February 7, 2016

A Mixed Blessing

Oil dripped steadily from the jet engine tailpipe
Forming a green-blue puddle upon the pale concrete
Tattooing yet another stain upon its brittle honor

The Boeing 747 sat heavily in the hot sun
Looking for all the world like it knew
Knew that one of its engines was shit
Knew that it had used four gallons of oil on a three hour flight
Knew that it wasn't going much of anywhere for now

Somewhere else in the world
A small team of mechanics was busy
Packing their tools
Gathering up supplies
Forking an engine change kit to the main ramp
Unwrapping a spare engine

Getting ready to leave for a few days in the sun
A welcome respite from the winter blues

Sometimes the gods of aviation give good with the bad
And this was one of those times

Sunday, January 31, 2016

Magic < Money

Levitation simply for the sake of it
Supporting three tonne by nary a string
Hoops passing all along it
To show the magic of the thing

At first it was a mystery
Something to be marveled by the masses
Fences were erected
Tickets were sold

Along came the VIP boxes.
As the money followed the spectacle
As sure as Shirley loves Laverne

Soon it became less of a miracle
And more of a money maker
Until the wonder leaked away
Leaving the leviathan to settle back to the sand

Today few remember what all the fuss was about
As the moss and the debris pile up all around
The shape of the wonder that tore reality asunder
The Miracle Rock of Puget Sound

Saturday, January 30, 2016


Once upon an un-moonlit evening
A rosy red apple of undetermined origin
Regarded themselves with distortion
Courtesy of the polished spoon before it

But I wish I were rounder
And much redder
With a bit more stem up top

No green shading over there
And no half dimple right here
To be shed of this shelf life wax coating
A perfect little apple would I be"

But the apple sat just the same
Not changing for the wishing
Nor for the better
For anything else

Instead turning a bit more brown
With every passing day
Inside becoming a strange sort of mush
The rosy red outer skin all that held the general shape

Sunday, January 10, 2016

A Road Trip Medley

Six to four
Four to two
Two to one
One to none

A bus full of people travels the highway
Colored white with a blue stripe
And a heavy duty wheelchair lift on the side
Wheels spinning
Tires humming with the rain grooves
Extra all-terrain grip tread tracking smooth

Mile marker 87.5 sped by the right hand windows
In the fourth seat back a six year old boy began singing
A sing-song simple tune
Not catchy
Not annoying
Very forgettable

"I bent to your progress mommy
I went around the way for you
Past those hips that bore me to term
Out of reach of the hands that scold"

The six lane highway outside the windows slid by silently
Three lanes going West
Three lanes going East
Sun rising
Sun setting
Shadows chasing after all
A mountain grew in the distance
When Six lanes shrank to four

The old woman in the second row got up to pee
Stepping on the toes of her seatmate
Who wept silently for the completeness of his corns
Though nobody took any notice
As the bathroom agenda grew from number one to two
And a skunky clinging stink slunk through the cabin
While the fourth seat child adjusted free-formedly

"When the box it closed me on in
For one half a fortnight and more
The stench I called mortality
When you too added your perfume"

Four lanes of divided highway with no other car in sight
Bore that special transport van into colored twilight
Flat plains covered in seas of grass
Roughening to foothills of broken glass
Till four lanes became a more flexible two
That joined at a double yellow line
That snaked across the landscape it danced through

Nobody ever came back out of the bathroom
Which would have seemed disturbing anywhere else
But the quickly fading stench of life's process was such a relief
That the others on the bus didn't care overmuch
Though all the ones who considered themselves to be smart
Held their bodily functions
Tightly in their clenched buttocks and thighs
A few even wet the seats

"A door to heaven and hell as well
Is installed to the rear I fear
Don't nobody get up to investigate
The driver is in control of your soul"

Old school two lane blacktop narrowed to the horizon
Disappearing in the shadow of the mountains
Which glowed blackly at their base
Sucking in all the available light
When the roadway started climbing quite suddenly
With the shoulders dropping away frighteningly
To impossible drops of fathoms deep
Two lanes vanishing into one
That was unmarked
And steep

All remaining passengers tilted backwards with gravity now
Strapped in with five point harness and dreams
Both wrinkled old and smooth young
Knowing that the end can not be far from come
Lungs strained at bone cages
To inhale the last bits of life
Greedy to the end

"Ave' contradicting theology dios
Both right angles and flat lines
Riding rails covered in tar and feathers
Hand in hand we give out our names

Hoping to be let into the gates"

Nothing left now but a dead end sign
Made up of Bugs Bunny wood and nails
Randomly hammered into the narrow track
Though with a roar our driver revs up his Cummins diesel
In a last burst of turbo assisted acceleration
Shattering the stop sign to dust
For there never really is such a thing as a Dead End

Six to four
Four to two
Two to one
One to none

Friday, January 1, 2016

Happy First Day

First Day
Same as Last Day
Just an arbitrary latitude
To separate them

New day
Old day
Promises made
Promises lost
Resolutions like words on the wind
Cold with January's bite

Saturday, December 19, 2015

Small Family Christmas

Baby rides the tree fore and aft
Baby rocks that tree port then starboard
Baby turns on the marker lights
To make us seasick all these winter nights

The cat watches all
From her perch upon a chair
Head bobbing slightly with the motion
Pupils wide in surprise at the notion

Daddy makes the fudge in the kitchen
Daddy dares the glowing hot copper pot
Daddy stirs with a wooden paddle of devotion
That thickening witches brew chocolate potion

Mommy wraps the presents in the craft room
Mommy puts curls in the ribbon with scissors
Mommy hides what's inside beneath fanciful flights
Adding to the endless sea of Christmas delights

Sunday, December 13, 2015

High Impact Santa

The ten inverted fir trees
Jammed halfway into the ground
Should have indicated several issues
Even before I looked around

Beyond where I walked in the snow
Between two ragged parallel tracks
Amidst scattered reindeer roadkill
Legs straight up from on their backs

Trudging deeper into the festive macabrety
Past bits of broken red painted wood
One marked with initials that tested my sobriety
Until I stopped mouth agape and stood

Before me the horrible remains of a fat man
Half naked amidst stones
In a half frozen stream
Sprinkled with confetti'd presents

Awash with cold wet debris

I solemnly took a three-sixty photograph
So as to preserve what I'd seen
For long after the cops will have cleaned it all up
This strange refugee from the downtown SantaCon scene