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.

Tuesday, March 31, 2015


A gear rolled from my watch when I shook it
A bit of time I'll never see again
Off the edge of the Earth
Just like the Flat Earth Society predicted
Falling forever into the mist of the seas
Perhaps to end up down in the churning of a holding tank
That ran everything through the King of all fish filters
To be pumped up with offset piston pumps made of magma
Starting as steam to speed the journey
Through the cracks and the odd undiscovered cave
To reappear as a fresh water spring
High in the mountains somewhere
Beginning again the trip to the sea
Creeping ever closer to a foggy semi-endless fall once again

My lost watch gear
Stamped and inscribed by some old man in Bakersfield Illinois?

That ended up in the crap trap at the bottom of the world
Where only Jules Verne would ever find it

Monday, March 30, 2015

That Damned Crow, Part One of Possibly Many

There's a crow outside who won't close his beak
Flapping open and closed
Sticking out a rude pointed black tongue
Nonstop calling like the bleating of a sheep

First I tried communicating my desires to him in spoken word
With a few "Please stop!"s called out at some level of volume
Though as you can guess this soon degenerated into yelling and screaming
Sometimes not even in words that just had him answering in kind with dark eyes gleaming

I stewed as I sipped a supper sized cuppa
Imagining it to be a delicious kind of crow stew
When I recalled an experiment I read about once
And thought to recreate it to give him something to do
But he just looked at the glass carafe half full of water
Then a sideways sneer at the pile of small pebbles as he kicked them skittering askew

Before I could do anything
He'd hop-flapped up to the porch railing
And knocked over my cuppa
Regaining his former perch in the tree to continue teasing and taunting me
As my coffee stained the snow with its life-blood brown
Precious twice passed Civet Crown
Purchased at twice the price of regular civet beans
Due to the cost of tying the little things up
And shoving their poo down their gullets once again

If once is good
Then twice is better
That's what Grandpa always said
Which is when it hit me
That I had to try one more time
Firing up the computer and browsing away
Until finding what I wanted on Amazon Prime
Pressing that instant order button that gets me in so much trouble
I even paid extra in order to get it pronto on the double

Thus is was that halfway through my replacement cup of oh-so-refined civet poo water
That the mist parted above the small clearing in the trees
Bringing the sound of chopper blades
Raising hackles from flashbacks to M.A.S.H.
With no Radar O'Reilly to warn me preemptively
I simply drew my fleece robe tighter about me
Covering the bits that might get me in trouble
As I dealt with the remote operator via two-way communique
Upon the Hero camera hanging next to the cargo pod
That itself hung slung low below the twin triple booms of the delivery drone
Bearing the FAA markings of N1754AZ
I verbally agreed to vote 'Yes' on the upcoming drone ballot proposal
Signing a matching petition that was prodded out on protruding appendages
Before the cargo container was finally released with a CLANG upon the front porch boards

Reading "This Side Up"
And "Box 1 of 4"
I walked absentmindedly back to the shed door
Ignoring the constant "Caw-Caw-Caw!" cries that crept into my crowded cranium
Straining my head muscles with effort most strainium
Until I found what I wanted
In that old orange handled box-cutter

Sold before 9/11 took the edges off of everything
My thumb thumbed the thumb button
Causing a stay in the Crow's constant crowing
Drawing its beady bitchy eye with a glint of danger
Of sunlight catching the refined edge of a polished blade
Following my footsteps back to the porch
As I defied everything that Mother had ever taught me
Walking quickly with a sharp blade extended in ridiculous fashion
An accident waiting to happen that didn't this time
Until I plunged the pointed protagonist into the thin membrane of adhesive tape
Decorated garishly with Amazon logos endlessly repeating
Making that initial cut right between the A and the M
Drawing the sharpness towards me across my lap
Tempting every fate that ever was with my arteries so squishy full of juice
Revealing a roll of heavy leaded framework that surely baffled that crow to bits

Sure enough
There were visible question marks above his shiny head

Sunday, March 29, 2015

Thoughts en Prismed

T'was a rainbow renaissance
This flexing of modern cuneiform puissance
Dubbed by most as a nuisance 
Attacked in almost autoimmune response

Red room walls that tower then fall 
From lack of foundation and taste 
Revealing a wooden lattice 
Full of old mouse bones and boundless hope

Orange and trim 
Sporting ruffled ridges and sworls 
This couch is clearly from 1979 
Stuffed with old goose down and memories 
Declaring in citrus zest to be far out of time
Great yellow trees sailing the high seas 
Escaped down the river
Cut from an early spring jam in the north 
To disappear beneath the waves in the end

Great greens grow into shades of brown 
Buried in white for interminable night 
Till melted back awake 
They give their chloroplasts a shake

Choppy blue seas churn for you and me 
Crosswind churned within this earthen urn 
When at last we ride the foamy froth coating the tops

Violet in violence did the Purple Cape dance 
Defeating evil under flaking metal girders 
That form the borders of vibrant vigilante patrols

Individually feeling unconnected and unique
After being split in a precisely ground prism
But backtrack the light's path to the other side
And it's all plain white noise begging for the divide

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Rocket 350 Robbery

It was all just a blur from beginning to end
I can't recall any details at all, officer
You gotta believe me

From the time that I called for the Auto Club
Until HE pressed the keys back into my hands
It just couldn't have been more than fourteen minutes

Why not fifteen?
Because fifteen feels like it would have been way too much time
In my estimation
Don't distract me

His truck was red I think
Though the rust spots had fully taken over the majority duties of color transmission
With that warm fuzzy kind of rust feel
That you can just taste with your fingertips
With a bubbly jagged edge wherever the rust bleeds to paint and back again

That red truck
I could just tell
Had the tasty feel of 80 grit sandpaper from Woolworth's Craft Section
The old store with the soda fountain and free popcorn
That used to be in Frandor
That indoor/outdoor mall down in East Lansing

I'm sure there was other sandpaper available in other places
But that red but mostly rusty truck
It awoke memories of 1975 deep within me
From its original run mold creases on the front of the hood
To the spot on the rear quarters of the bed
Where it was obvious from the shape of the red paint that was left there
That this truck had been ordered with the Big Ten package
Though that decal had long since given up adhesion to the cause

When the truck came to a stop and that driver's door swing open on creaking hinges
The scent that poured out was pure Grandfather in nature
With subdued hints of pipe tobacco and fresh sawdust mixed with oiled leather
With enough force to send my senses into shock
Blurring everything that the mechanic did from that moment onward
In a cheap hyperspace visual effects suite
Those same effects we saw at the SciFi double feature at the M-55 Drive-In
When the booth guy busted David in the trunk of the old Chrysler

That mechanic man blur went from the back of the truck
Carrying a blue toolbox with Champion spark plug stickers all over it
To the side of my Oldsmobile Cutlass
Where the hood was raised in between blinks of my eyes
Witness to a dance of Craftsman screwdrivers
First a No 2 Phillips then a No 0 flat blade type
Black air cleaner cover spinning seemingly in mid-air
Reading "Rocket 350" then nothing then "Rocket 350"
Over and over again
In a magician's act of diversion
As his hands worked magic somewhere around the Holley carburetor

Was that the idle circuit he was adjusting?
Oh wait I think he's done
As the air cleaner has stopped that mad dance it was doing
Now rolling up and down
From fingertip to fingertip
Across his shoulders like a Harlem Globetrotter basketball trick
To play off his left middle fingertip gently
Landing with metallic clang upon center mounting stud
Inviting a wingnut to lay down and spin for clamping action
Followed closely by the hood handlessly slamming down

Breaking the spell
And leaving me standing here in this spot
Wallet in one hand
Auto repair receipt and keys in the other
Some odd bits of dust swirling around
And twin Chevrolet taillights receding down the two land highway

I don't think I was robbed of any money, sir
Just of any clear memory of the most amazing thing I might have ever seen, is all

Though I can't be sure

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Sacrificial Fate

Cut from the same cloth
Stamped from the same mold
Inspected and finished out with hundreds of others
Each being inked with part number 456HK12Y
And a sequential serial number
Otherwise appearing alike as they are carefully stacked into shipping crates

But they are really not

There is always at least one in the bunch
That seems perfectly normal
But carries with it a very different fate
While all of its brethren will pursue their functions as intended
This one
Or small group sometimes
Will be the sacrifices that pave the way for the others

Nested like spoons in this example
The identical bent angle brackets wait in a dark drawer
Slowly becoming fewer in number
As stock levels fall to the re-order level

Every time one is removed
The same person takes charge of it
Carrying it carefully out to the shop floor
Over to the left wing leading edge
Where the same access panel is always open and waiting

Set down next to a rivet gun so old it must have built things in the Civil War
The new bracket sat assured in what lay in store for it
As it was gripped gently
Maneuvered carefully into place
Turned this way a certain amount
Then pushed in one inch further
Before being rotated back the other way a hair
Which cleared the way to place it where it needed to go

This precise movement was learned over six years of practice
With the same person doing it every time every day

Until last Saturday
When the whomping cough caught up to our experienced technician at last
Laying her out for at least a week
Per doctor's orders

So young Cal took over Station 235f on the third assembly line in Building 2
Signing out his tray of p/n 456HK12Y - RH Loom Brackets
Serial numbers P634 thru P672
Carrying them carefully out to the shop floor
Over to his new station on the line
Where an access panel was open near his work table under the shade of the left wing

Set down next to a rivet gun so new it looked like liquid chrome
The brackets quivered uncertainly at what lay in wait
As s/n P634 was selected from the stack and gripped awkwardly
Shoved into the opening
Scraping the sides as it went
Losing green primer in twin straight lines
Before bumping into an obstruction
Being turned to the left and pushed
Not going anywhere
Being turned to the right and pushed harder
To break in half

Leaving the two halves of the part
Which one could address separately as
"456H" and "K12Y" due to the location of the break
Each equally stunned in silent shock

Cal, on the other hand, was undeterred
Because he had just learned that you have to turn it THIS way a bit
In order to get the part past that obstruction
And had grabbed s/n 635 to brave the breach with
After clearing out the two halves of the first

Going in a little more carefully
Not scratching the finish so much this time
Turning it just so
Before pushing it too far at once
Getting it stuck on three bolt heads
And snapping this unfortunate bracket into three pieces

Much to the horror of everyone and everything involved
Cal repeated this process twice more
And adding little metal corpses to the floor at his feet
S/N's 636 and 637
Until he had gathered the information necessary to get the part where it needed to go safely

Thus had the manufactured bits
That had been destined from the start
(Unbeknownst to them)
To be what is known in the industry as "Sacrificial Training Parts"
Or STP's
Met their fate

Such was the cost for Cal to know what Sally had known for over six years
Though it had only taken her two times to learn it then

Monday, March 23, 2015

Marvel-ous Carpet

Midnight in the shag carpet jungle
Shady proto fleas breaking spiders knees
For failure to payback a payday high interest loan
And always the gangs of mites starting fights
Over skin wafer cast offs 
The current currency of choice
In this strange half lit world so close to home
Where their Stan Lee corollary created super heroes as well
Though instead of a Spiderman
There is Manspider
Who was changed when he fell into an open cut upon
The radioactive skin of an experimental man

Manspider is less super-powered than super-handicapped
With an external skin soft and pink
And an anus opening that no longer spins silk
Only emitting stink

Vulnerable to every creature he comes across
Manspider is everyone's bitch
Fetching cigarettes and drinks for the mob
And being laughed at by the nymphs

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Reflection Takeaway

A tiny red automobile
Utterly out of place
Sitting in the wet reflection of a wing
Belonging to a giant flying machine
The first in a line awaiting scrapping
Amidst piles of snow starting to melt 
Amongst piles of chewed up metal
Being hauled away in dump trucks by the tonne to Texas

A reverse of how things were supposed to be
This pick apart take away triage
Of man's dream of flying