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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.

Monday, January 26, 2015

Little Cough

When the baby's temperature hits one hundred and three
And the tiny breaths come in shallow death rattle gasps
Hand sized blocks wrapped in sandpaper course rasps
Rubbing down the walls in the pediatric ward
Till all the bright colors are gone

Seizures come and seizures go
The why even the MRI machine doesn't know
Where the cathode ray gun parallel lines show
Nothing but a blob of brain damage towards the rear
Explaining maybe why the child's eyes are pointing crazily
"She's most likely blind"said the doctor confirming your fear

What to do?
All the tubes and hoses prevent the cuddling you need to give
And the being six months old is a conversation stopper too
So in a manic moment you grab the sunglasses out of your pocket
Put them on her tiny cherub face
Making a feeble Ray Charles joke
That makes the wife break down in tears instead of the laughter you'd misguidedly hoped

Holding her now you pinch yourself secretly
Thinking that this must be a dreamy kind of nightmare
And how thankful you'd be if you awoke


Sunday, January 25, 2015

'Murica Shot the Sheriff

T'was the Mozart of spies
With gadgets galore inside his shoe
And glowing green laser eyes
Shooting through Chuck E Cheeses across America
Dancing in jerky animatronic nightmare 2am last call
Kicking down the crumbling Berlin Wall
And declaring rampant Perestroika

Sent to outer space to make some peace
Instead powering up the solar sail array
And tacking across the solar system and off away
Picking up speed
No sir not slowing down
Until hitting Ursa Minor Town
Blistering down through their atmosphere
Anachronistic six-guns a blazing
Until their Sheriff (as it were) surrendered

He is the double O-Seven of 'Murica
Bleeding red white and blue
If you can cut him at all
Skin made of diamond blistered Sawz-Alls
With custom gold grill upon upper teeth
Looking cool lounging around the backyard copper tube still
Sipping Tennessee whiskey from a stainless cup
Getting just tipsy enough
To climb a way up high that hill
To the jacked up
Harvester tired Ford Model Bigfoot
A wet dream of Henry's fifty years ago
Giving him a heart attack at last
Leaving Edsel in charge
Which meant you can now get cars in other colors
Where they used to just be all in black
Dignified in their stride
Pulled down the assembly line by wooden teethed George Washington clones
Rejects from Edison's lab down the road
Where all the good experiments go on
With little or no oversight
From government's nanny blight
It gets results
It lines our pockets
Or at least one percent of us

'Murica, 'Murica
Land of the Dave
Home of the see
When that cloudy cleared
That flag was still chock full of snakes
Screaming "Don't Tread on Thee!"
Fangs out and screaming
Skinned to the bone and dreaming
Of a brighter 'Murica for our sons and daughters

Because if it's bright enough to blind them
They'll fail to notice that they aren't any longer free

Call in the Hipster agents
Who've seen it all before
With guns on their backs in Open Carry Orgasm
Hard up against Obamacare and the arsenal of Obamaphones
Free for the taking
Piles of ten year old Motorola Vodaphones
Reception fit for a turd
With the slowest tunes you've ever heard
A slow motion ditty
To remind us that we are shitty
When the daily affirmations get to be too much
And our shit smells like roses again
In the piles next to our beds in the Mental Ward Wing
Brought to us on Valentine's Day
The best Hallmark sponsored holiday in all of pre-spring

Fat signal lit
'Murica responds
Wearing cape and mumu
Riding a red Amigo down the center line at the speed of sound
'Murica dripping like KFC grease from the lips
Eyes open and vacant
Perhaps belonging to a stroke victim
Half a face sagging
Pooping in a bagging
Gay agenda from the rear bumper dragging
Cops beating the shit out of us all for bragging
About how fucking great
This 'Murica kind of place really is

(Don't tase me bro!)


Saturday, January 24, 2015

On This Day In History.....Squirrel!!

I'd be lying if I told you I didn't stop to read them
Because there they were
All stuffed about the floor of the attic
Newspapers from the last seventy years
Some with the back piles all tied up with twine
And labeled as to what year they were from
Others strewn about and crumpled up
Stopping up gaps in the boards on the walls
Clearly an insulation substitute in action

My main job was to come up here and try to herd some flying squirrels

Yes
Flying squirrels

They'd been rumbling around the attic for a couple months
And I hadn't thought much of it
As occasionally they could be seen popping out near the chimney
And zooming away across the yard through the air
To land on a tree an impossible seeming distance away

At least I wasn't worried until I read that they never lived alone
And were often in colonies as large as twenty
Which was the part that bothered me
Because that number started to approach what I equated to an infestation

Very patiently I'd checked all around the house for possible exits for them
And watched them for a few days to see their habits
So that when most of them out of the house
And with all but one of the holes that they used plugged up
I could come up here and try to flush out the last of them

None of them were going to come back now that they had left
As I had installed a one way door on the last exit
For the few remaining squirrels to use a final time
After I had rousted them from wherever they were hanging out up here'

I hadn't counted on these marvelous papers though

I set myself down with crossed legs and propped up my flashlight
Sending strange shadows across the attic walls
Making the stacks of papers appear almost as skyscrapers lit by a setting sun
Ripe for my searching fingertips to disturb
Like a giant research Godzilla

Before I knew it I had read about the moon rocket launches
Victory in Europe Day
JFK's assassination
The bombing of Pearl Harbor
Which was right when a squirrel flew by my face
Clearly taunting me with his little bat-like stretched skin wings and cute beady eyes

I set down the paper and grabbed for my broom

These papers could wait until I cleared out these aerial jokesters

Friday, January 23, 2015

Hat Suck

It was a cloudy day
So I don't know why Sal even wore his hat
But that certainly didn't make this an exceptional day
As he wore his hat all the time

Hell, I wouldn't have known he actually had hair
If I hadn't taken to hanging out with him after work sometimes
Which was the first time I saw him really take it off

That same scenario has gone the opposite direction with other coworkers
Who reach to remove their caps for whatever reason
And reveal a reflecting mirror of a skull looking right back at you
Blinding you with their flesh
No matter the color of their skin
It was always shiny as if polished by a wax buffing wheel

And always
Without exception
You'd fervently wish that they'd put the damn thing back on
Because this wasn't what you'd counted on dealing with today
The image of this person that was like cement in your head
Needed to be maintained gosh darn it

So the hats need to stay on
Usually, anyways

On this cloudy Northern Michigan day
Where there was no need for ball caps
Yet there he went
Walking around the flight line
His dark blue cap jauntily tilted just slightly off center
So much so that you always wanted to reach out and straighten it for him
Except that he wasn't the kind of person you did that to
Not that he was dangerous really
No more than anyone else around there probably
So I suppose that none of us were the type of person you'd reach out and correct a wardrobe issue upon without asking first

There was a Douglas DC-8 doing ground runs in the center of the taxiway
Just kind of idling there
A couple RCH* off of the idle stops
And we were wandering around looking for leaks on the engines
Ducking here and there with flashlights and rags
Wiping at this and that
Then watching the spot for a few seconds to see if the offending substance reappeared
Which it usually did not

DC-8's have a habit of leaking
Pretty much everywhere
But doing it so slowly
That it is hard to catch them at it

They're sneaky leakers

So that was going on
And there was Sal
Walking around like all the rest of us
With his hat loosely cocked in the preferred manner

When he happened to stroll right in front of the running #2 engine inlet

I was looking right at him as he did it
And I wasn't worried in the least
As we all did that without much of a care

Suddenly he went from Sal with a ball cap on his head
To Sal with his full head of fuzzy black hair

He took another half step past the engine and stopped
His hand zipping up to the top of his head in reach for his hat

Then he looked around quickly
In that way that you do when something falls off of you
And you don't know exactly which way it went

Then

And keep in mind that I can't see into the front of the engine
Only he could, from where he was standing
I could only see his face as he saw what he saw

Sal did a total Hollywood double take
With the looking at the front of the jet engine quickly
Then almost looking away
Before locking onto that view with big  surprised eyes
His eyebrow cocked
And he made a quick simultaneous "Oh shit!" movement with his head

Which looked however you think it did
And that you learn to read after working with someone for years

Then he turned quickly and jogged up to the front of the plane
So that the guy in the pilot's seat could see him
And after getting his attention
Sal held up two fingers
Then drew his hand across his throat
Clearly telling them to shut that #2 engine down

Now several of us were curious as to what was going on
And I had my suspicions
So we casually sauntered up to the front of that still running engine and peered inside
Seeing the memorable sight of Sal's blue ball cap
Folded like a taco shell around one of the fan inlet struts
With the fan blades whirring at their uncountable with the naked eye RPM's
Only millimeters away from grinding it up like a giant titanium Cuisinart

That Pratt & Whitney JT3D engine was taunting him
Just as surely as if it had hung a pizza
Or a dollar bill
Or whatever you want to imagine you'd be tempted to grab
On a string just out of reach

Oh yeah
We laughed
And we may have laughed a lot
Some of us may have gotten narrow tunnel vision and stars across our eyes we laughed so hard
Which was a real safe thing for us all to do right next to a running aircraft
But then, we were all about safety back then

I swear we didn't really laugh at him
We loved him too much for that
More at the impossibility of that situation
Of getting a hat sucked off your head by the jet engine
And gaining that instant of "Holy Shit!" as you see your hat hanging millimeters from shelling out a six figure power plant

Sal bought the drinks that night
Sealing us to secrecy perhaps

Until now


*RCH = Red Pubic Hair (you can guess what the 'C' really stands for maybe)
  And there was also a BCH, which is for Black Pubic Hair.  This was a unit of measure; with red being very fine and thin, and black being thicker.  So in practical use, if you were working with someone trying to line something up with hammer blows, and your partner says, "Just another RCH!", that would mean just a light tap of the hammer should get it lined up, as it is super close.  But if he says that it's a BCH, then you better hit it hard, because it isn't so close yet.

What Makes a Poem a Poem Because Moan Lisa Asked

A poem is whatever you want to make
It can arrange letters to dance around
Rhyming if needed in a two-step half-turn shake
In end-line mimicry of A-C B-D sound

Or it could-good-goodery
Be the best Seuss that our pen stuffed with ink can make make makery
Snarfing dotes from the moats to float ink upon their coats
With words all over the nerds who read opera to their goats

Often it won't rhyme at all
Especially where things take a serious turn
With a dark moment illustrated in great detail
The feel of the pea green shag carpet between your toes
As your dad walked in still wearing his work suit
An unlit cigarette held too tightly in his left hand
Bending the tube of mighty fine tobacco until a small tear appeared in the paper
The spearmint smell of his breath as he tells you the news that your grandfather has died
And how it is really ok
Because that is what happens to everybody
And is the most natural thing that there is
Though you don't believe him
Because the world just won't turn the same without grandfather in it
To fix all the clocks and bicycles
To build all the chairs and kitchen tables
And tell you stories about the old country
In tales spattered with the odd German word and phrase as he forgets himself

Poetry can be.
A stopped up sink of stopping.
Staggered.
With periods.

Or

Extra

Spaces

I've seen poetry in xy78.88.00.09679
Which led inexorably to http://ThePoetryDoesntNeedTo.org/Rhyme/Ever/xbin

Poetry is what you make of it
This arrangement of words upon a page
Which is itself just one facet of what poetry could be
Sometimes it never gets written down at all
Spoken out loud
Shouted into a canyon
And echoed back
For a thousand person audience
Or one person
Or just you and the mule that you rode in on

I've seen poetry in metal
With curves swerves jiggles and joggles
Paintings with colors I cannot still comprehend
A singer singing in a language I'll never understand
A wad of paper bronzed high upon a pedestal

All is poetry
Poetry is all

Though the thing that really screams out poetry
In all caps like this: POETRY
Is when I see it, or read it, or feel it
And it makes me stop in my tracks
Either mentally or physically
Causing me pause
To ponder its cause
Feeling revulsion joy disgust happiness sadness despair hate and love

The best poetry leaves an imprint upon something
Whether it is on the person who reads
Or the one who writes it
Or the rock in the desert it is inscribed upon

That is what poetry is to me


Thursday, January 22, 2015

Aviation Catholic Confessional

My dirty black work pants
Covering bruised and battered knees
Fell heavily upon the red velvet wrapped kneeler
The massive confessional door clicked shut loudly
Cuing a sliding panel to open in front of me
With a silhouette in view past the woven bamboo fingers

"Bless me father for I have sinned
It's been so long since last time
I can't even guess since when

I have committed grave sins against Type Certification
Creating Frankenstein's monster
Where once a Cessna Citation once had been

Three hard points upon each naked wing
In support of various ordinance
Wrecking the aerodynamics
Defeating physics at last
I don't know how it stays in the air to be honest
If not for the high performance turbofans we installed

Beefed up engine pylons
With oversized lugs
To take GE F404's
Complete with afterburner nozzles
Shrouded in one of a kind cowling

Four extra fuel bladders beneath the floors
Plumbed with titanium line
Inline fuel pumps with magnets around the outlets
To align the electrons for higher performance
Because the owner had watched too many late night commercials

A cockpit panel made of one piece of interactive touchscreen glass
Made by the Chinese
Which company I forgot to ask
Basically a king sized iPod with wings
With fly by wire control sticks
For the pilots to do their things

Jammers and boosters
Penetrating radar to the rear
Satellite internet service
Which costs pretty dear
Though money was no object
And we all worked through the night out of fear

I seek absolution for this sin against aviation
More rocket than aircraft
The only thing keeping it in the air is thrust
An F-4 is a glider dancing upon thermals by comparison"

The priest cleared his throat
And offered this,
"My son
Jesus would not approve of your bending of the rules
But He would rejoice in the high performance of the result
Therefore I prescribe a light penance to remind you to look at your maintenance manuals a little more often

Perform six Acts of Contrition
Three Hail Mary's
Read the AC43.13 latest revision from front to back
And write "I will not modify aircraft and components without a Form 337 or STC" exactly 100 times

I will expect that last one upon my rectory desk by tomorrow morning
Now go in peace with God's blessing my child"

The little door slid shut with an implied sigh
Echoed by my own
As I rose
Opened that large door
And went to the front pew to get started on my penance


Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Community Violation

VIOLATION

You have violated our community guidelines
That bar profanity and sexually explicit content.
For your convenience we'll handle you gently
And the guidelines will be reiterated presently:

Due to our desire
To appeal to varied audience
And stoke a tame creative fire
We only ban certain things to maintain a balance

For example we don't ban all seven of the Dirty Words!
Of shit piss fuck cunt cocksucker motherfucker tits
Only six are banned outright
With two available for use under proper contextual light!

Piss is always allowed
As a bodily function it can add zest to any poet's work
So feel free to piss on this or that
Consider it yours as a post pissing perk

Cunt could sometimes be allowed
When used to berate one's best mate
In the best way possible
Seeing as how he's a good cunt to drink a pint with

Cunt could never be allowed
When in reference to the female genitalia
Every American conservative conservationist knows
That's one slimy slobbery gibbering gash that only grows and horribly grows!

Tits is also allowed when writing of the Paridae and its high pitched wit
This large family of passerine birds includes the Tit
And in this context Titmouse and Tomtit would also be lovely
Describing pretty little flying bits with some things in common with your pet budgie

Tits would be horrifying to both pixel and printed page
Were you to use it in description of mammalian mammaries
Women would scream
Children would cry
Men would grow stoic
And would only result in a stern presentation of the birds and the bees

Those three are the only ones allowable in our great Google Group
One for always and two for sometimes
Which leaves us with four more to discuss briefly
But which never should ever be used specifically

Shit should never be used at all
Whether referring to excrement
Or used as startled exclamation
It just sticks in our craw like an unwanted shit ration

Fuck is just a vulgar set of letters
And using it sets you lower than your betters
Who would look down upon this descriptive noun
Describing the finest activity of reproductively getting down

Cocksucker is a terrible word and even worse thing to do
So Shocking to utter or scribe we have a saying to help avoid it
As cribbed from our sisters from their Temperance movement towers
"Lips that touch cock shall never touch ours!"

Motherfucker is just the worst kind of word
It walks into the bar and orders a whiskey
Cheats its way through the card tables
Before giving its mother a high inner thigh hickey
It is the worst
And makes us fit to burst
You can't make us tolerate its use
Not even if that mother needs it so bad she's knitting up a noose!

These rules are for everyone's protected enjoyment
Art is only art when it adheres to rules
Any other kind we simply do not need