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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.

Friday, November 4, 2016

Bitter Orange

Ironically bitter orange
Took a bite of his opponent
Speaking through the mastication
Of her milky mammaries
Chunks of flesh flying
Through gaps in his teeth
As words flowed wordily
Insults insulting the insults
That came just before
Withering them to rotten ropy bits
Stuck along a throbbing red gumline

Reaching for an old ICBM
To pick at those necrotic specks
Poking with weaponized tip
Grasped by a toddler's teething urge
Cracking open the warhead
With a soothing and curious bite
Irradiating the spot where his soul should be
Leaving an x-ray imprint
Upon the skyscraper behind him
A solid gold image
Of what lurks inside

There a silhouette of an unpaid carpenter
Here a pile of broken hearts
Left from those who tried to love him
Over yonder an infant in tears
Inconsolable and insatiable
To feel the whole world in its hands
But not willing to pay the price for it

An infant orange window shopping tire kicker
Everything he had ever wanted
Especially coveting
All the precious people places and things
That should never be within his reach

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Indifferent Swamp Yeti

Indifferent Swamp Yeti just doesn't have an opinion
Whenever asked
He probably won't even tell you where he is from

Every poll that calls his yeti phone
Gets noncommittal treatment
Pledging himself to some obscure seventh party
From Abominable to Zed the Bearded Giant
The Hirsute Aboriginals will get the job done

This swamp yeti won't tell you what he wants on pizza
"Oh, just whatever you want is fine"
Is something that he would say
Sitting on rotting logs
Roundtable debating topics of the day

So when the pies arrive in thirty minutes flat
No enjoyment will cross his face
Beneath thick hair and masticating grace

Only a vague satisfaction of being full
After consuming yeti appropriate portions
And tossing the crusts to the side
Where the odd toothy creature chews rudely
With lipless maws chomping wide

Indifferent Swamp Yeti takes pride in only one thing
And that is his lack of commitment to anything
Politics, "Meh"
Religion, "Meh"
Yeti rights, "Meh"
It is the predictable response
That he has for everything

Wednesday, September 28, 2016


Carbon fiber flex
As the world fell
Acrophobia attack
Motionless in space
Earth pulling away
Sensation of movement
Gone in the moment

Stage after stage
Reenters the world
Captured in gravity well
Arcing to cinders
Ashes to ashes
Thrust to dust
Matter disseminated

Wednesday, September 21, 2016


Hands hesitant
Reaching to the page
Through pen, pixel, or mechanical machine
Words fall tritely
Results disappoint
So futile
Much fail


Monday, September 12, 2016

Faux Food

If you please
I would like some fake plastic cheese
To adorn my inedible sandwichery
All bread and bologna fakery
Any good taste but a tease

Gooey looking ooze
As pretend condiments snooze
Across bread-like buns
That would kill in one bite
But look fresh all damn night

Sunday, August 14, 2016

It Tastes Better When it isn't Yours

The fresh converts are the worst
Chasing me all around with glossy pamphlets
Stirring up the animosity and dirt

The newest diet
The holiest religion
The shiniest car
The latest addiction

From the main road out front
I heard tires upon the gravel
Turning perceptibly closer

I rose from my recliner
With an urgent throw of the wooden handle
Tossing me forward at an accelerated amble

Squeaking brakes
A car door's mechanical latch
Squonking of unlubricated hinges
Once going open
Once going close
Before the death rattle thunk
Of a misaligned door pin finding home

Our footsteps aligned like fate
That unseen boogey man's and mine
Him fast approaching my front door
Me decreasing the distance to the back

Two hands approach two doors
His to knock
Mine to throw the right angled finangle

Timed to the microsecond
He knocks as I open the catch
Accompanied by a faint voice
"Do you have a few moments to spare for the words of our savior Jesus Christ?"
My door swings open silently and I step outside
He knocks again as I close the door quickly

Nobody the wiser as I make my way back to my house next door
Crunching in the unraked from last fall's carpet of brown oak leaves
That I spend my afternoons while the neighbor is away
Upon the antique green rough cloth-covered lazy boy
Watching his HBO in his living room

Saturday, August 13, 2016

Cruising The Details

Propellers blur with the slurring of a roar
Individual beats too fast to ever count
The WAP of a propeller blade as it butter churns the air
The small explosion in each of the air cooled cylinders

Once lined up and rolling
A dirty grey streak upon the concrete strip
Calloused hands holding us down upon the earth
Until the tires are rolling as fast as they ever dare
With the fear of cord separation in their black rubber eyes

Control arm torques upon flight control
Pushing down upon weighted end
Fabric covered trailing edge soars upwards
Applying pressure downwards
An action-reaction in action

The nose soars upwards at an alarming rate
As the waterline tilts accordingly
Spilling all of its weight and balance secrets
Upon the altar of the fulcrum

Thrust and lift carry ever upward always forward
Are all the lights green?
Are all the important ones green at least?
Ok, let's go

They say that cargo doesn't care
In the way and manner of its handling
But those who say such things
Haven't been trapped in a tube with glittering wings

With all the monkeys in their crates being resigned to their fates
Sliding backwards like the unsecured cargo that they are
Approaching the aft pressure bulkhead at a terrifying pace
Saved only by a sharp downward pitch
Accompanied by unsettling weightlessness

Ladies and gentlemen
We have reached our cruising altitude