7th Day of Christmas

The seventh day of Christmas
Taunted me to thee
Teasing cherry dreams
And spent spoiled creams
All curdled in a bowl of rye

Swept from my oak table
With a forearm full of hungry rage
I went forth into the wild for some prey
Something free range and not from a cage

Feeling inspired I found a killer bee hive
Repelling them with my manimal stench
I alighted with honeycomb under each arm
Making for a landmark called The Bear Trench

Arriving at the spot
I broke out the honey
Smearing it on from head to hairy toe
Then running and leaping like a huge ugly bunny

I flipped in the air with grace belying my size
Arriving back-first and right side up
Ten feet in the air and a sight to see
Firmly stuck with honey to the bark of an oak tree

It was then that I started to call out
In a wild bear call that I'd learned from a wizard
Which worked nine times out of ten
The trick was to vibrate the sound inside the gizzard

Soon from deep in the ravine woods
Came a growling and crashing
A black bear smashing into view
Teeth flashing and gnashing!

When the distance was right
I pushed off from that tree
With a roar from the floor of my diaphragm
I did tackle that bear
Sending fur flying till I could scarcely see

Now on this seventh day of Christmas
Also happening to be New Year's Eve
I give thanks and celebrate the year in passing
With two inch thick barbecued bear steaks
So good that you'd scarcely believe

Interstate Oceans

Sailors upon a concrete sea
Our tires our hulls
Plowing the hard roman stone
'Neath metal carriages full of you and me

6th Day of Christmas

The sixth day of Christmas
Snuck in like a sloth
Which means it took forever to arrive
But looked exceedingly cute doing so

I'd love to say that it brought me geese a'plenty
Six of them
All laying eggs

But that didn't happen
What happened was more amazing:

Woke up in the morning
With a frown on my face
Washing, eating, dressing
Like it was a human race

Stepped outside my door
And what did I see
But a terrible Holiday Turtle
Staring down at me

He was tall as ten tall buildings
And built like a truck
He bid me climb up on his back
So I tried but it wasn't enough

I got two tall wood ladders
And screwed them into one
Defied me some gravity
And laughed as my pants came undone

It was a Monday
The Sixth Day
Of Christmas!
And way too tall turtle
Was my turtle shelled bus

Just then the turtle
Really put it into gear
Tearing up the yard real bad
And forgetting to steer

Swerving into traffic
Going super turtle fast
Which left him going pretty slow
And getting constantly passed

I don't think that I am getting to work today.....

It was a Monday
The Sixth Day
Of Christmas!
I'm riding a ten story tall turtle
And can't deny it's a gas

My shelled ride hung a right just then
And walked onto the lake
Breathed turtle fire to melt that ice
So that he could paddle on fast

Long story short

That turtle got me to work on time
Lumbered off honking his horn
He'd be back by at quarter to nine
To take me home
Where I'm not alone
With a too tall turtle pal
And a box of fine wine

It was a Monday
It was the Sixth Day
Of Christmas!

5th Day of Christmas

On the fifth day of Christmas

I awoke with a start to see

That my French hen from day three

Had done something unsettling to me

Five gold rings she'd inserted

Into some of my tenderest of parts

All joined by one golden chain 

With which she could inflict pleasurable pain

The one in my nose

Was a wonder to behold

Inscribed with words

And facets for reflection

Twin gold rings

One for each sensitive nipple

Each tug on the chain leash

Felt at least times triple

Another for my scrotum

Right on the seam down the middle

Currently making a non-stop burning sensation

Which really didn't tickle

Now, the one in the head of my cock

Was quite thick and handsome

With a tiny bell on the ring as well

That would tinkle lightly as I would walk

So it would seem with my sexy French hen Aceline

Who holds tight to my new chain with zero misgive

That on this fifth Christmas day

I'll be learning to be a submissive

4th Day of Christmas

On the fourth day of Christmas
Four calling birds showed up
Singing songs of the impending new year
And rudely waking me up

Four special calling bird rounds
I loaded into my shotgun
Leaping out my door with a yell
And firing at them one by calling bird one

When the smoke cleared
And let back in the rising sun
I couldn't find any trophy calling birds
Turns out I hadn't hit a one

But now it was quiet all around my cabin
So I crept my way back to the bedroom
Slipping under the covers with my hot French hen
Filling my head with her heady musk perfume

The third day hadn't been bad
And now that those damned calling birds were gone
The fourth has some hope to it yet

These things I thought to myself
With a soft stroke to my French hen and a little light yawn

3rd Day of Christmas

On the third day of Christmas
Three French hens stopped by
Not a one of them would give me a try
And I cannot imagine as to why

Is the very suggestion of a foursome so offensive?

So off I went lickety split
In my sleigh made of whiskers
Held together with shit
Making a hell of a clatter
Drinking hot spiked cocoa
Drunk and mad as a hatter

I awoke later that same day
Face down in the snow
Half covered with hay
Being disturbed by a goat
Who thought my hair was a treat
Pulling it out by the roots and not letting go
Till I tweaked her right in a teat
Allowing me to beat a hasty retreat

Where on my long staggering walk home in the cold
I reflected upon getting old
And the questionable wisdom of doing shrooms on a Thursday
Plus a great many other things all told

When who to my wondering eyes did appear
Warming herself at my kitchen wood stove
But one of the French hens in a push up brassiere
Telling me something excitedly in her native tongue
But exactly what, was sort of unclear

Though I am starting to get the general drift of what she's all about
What with her soft dark skin and smooth French words pouring out of her mouth
Giving me the best third day of Christmas gift that could be
Of herself and me beneath my wretched Charlie Brown tree

2nd Day of Christmas

On the second day of Christmas
I worked filling in where my hearth should be
The evidence of my spiked man-trap
Strategically located at the base of the chimney

First throwing in some lime
In the hopes Saint Nicholas would soon dissolve
Shovelful followed shovelful
Each time feeding my festive resolve

To plausibly deny any involvement
With what was at the bottom of the hole
Wrapped in red velvet trimmed with white fur

Past that
I played with my new Lego sets
Eating festive cookies
With fresh buttered baguettes

Some packages were prepared
For the postman and the butcher
The paperboy and snow removal guy
And a babysitter named Ericka

Then I opened them all back up
Rewarding myself instead
Boxing Day is a European holiday after all
And this is 'Murica!

All washed down with two things I love
A locally brewed beer
And two barbecued turtle doves

1st Day of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Not a goddamned thing
Under that needle shedding tree

The baby in it's creche cried
As its mother's milk dried up
Any other child would have died
Good thing this one was Jesus

What does Jesus need with breast milk anyways?

Those needles strewn about the hardwood floor
Are perfect tinder for some Christmas spirit
Just add a shiny Zippo lighter
Instant crackling Christmas!  Can you hear it?

Its almost like I'm there
With the warmth of the fire upon my face
Calling to mind Christmas' past
With their annual fall from grace

Aunt Hettie into the sauce before noon
Basting the dog by mistake
As the Turkey dries out in the oven
Acquiring a crunchy skin of black flake

Oh Christmas Tree
Oh Christmas Tree
On this first day of Christmas
I lie naked underneath thee!

TL;DR

Fuck but this thing is long
I promised to read it though
So I do my best impression of a desert parched man
Drinking in each word like a rare morning dew

But then long before I was halfway through
My mind starts to wander
To think about my grocery list
Or the identity of an obscure shape over yonder

So I have to reread a sentence or two
There is no shame
I'll still muddle on through
But it gets worse just the same

I find myself skimming the paragraphs
Picking up on interesting words I might see
"Oh! Right there it said 'sex'!"
But it was only an obscure reference to the life of an oak tree

As strange as that was
It didn't hold my attention
Nor did most other tantalizing words
Though there were more than I could mention

Eventually I stood firm and read the final last bit
Hoping to scrape away the facts that I'd need
As that is where good writers tend to summarize things
But it did leave me feeling unfulfilled indeed
So I tossed the article aside into an ever growing pile
That had a sign pointing at it that said "Too Long; Didn't Read"

Words Untamed

There is no poetry here

Only an expanse of blank

Filled with apprehension and fear

And the odd unloved tear

Since we've murdered out the poet

The words they seldom rhyme

They just pour out an unmetered spigot

Jangling incomprehensibly all the damn time

Picked up gently in the hand

They squirm as newborn chicks

Peeping their pronunciations out

Before punctuating it with beaky clicks

Perhaps they will grow into something after all

So you shoo them into the open field

Where they run as fast as their Bambi legs can take them

No leash no law only gravity to attempt to keep them heeled

Murdered be the poet

Hanged is the author

The writer had his hands removed

But the words continue to flow

Christmas Kitty

Christmas kitty up the tree
Christmas kitty looking at me
Eyes getting bigger
Almost like she's getting closer....

Christmas kitty still in the tree
Christmas tree fell on top of me

Awakening half under the antique divan
I tap the Life Alert around my  neck
Calling out as clear as I can
"Help!  I've fallen and I can't get up!"

But nothing happens
And just then I realize
That the last time I replaced the batteries
Was way back in Nineteen Eighty-Five

Bad Christmas kitty!
I want to spank her furry behind
But now I don't see her anymore
And looking around what should I find

But the Christmas kitty taking a dump in the corner
Right next to a present for the parish priest
Which will ruin it for sure
Smelling of cat number two at the very least

Hollering at the Christmas kitty does no good
She just sits there twitching her tail
Watching me weakly flail
Beneath the tree that she planted on top of me

And then she is gone from sight
Which worries me more than a bit
And I call out to her
"Where are you, you little shit?"

Just then a strange tug on my foot
Tells me just where she has gotten
She's started to gnaw on me
Right where I'd gone diabetes rotten

They've always told me that my cat would eat me
Though in the tales it was always after I had passed
This Christmas kitty has gotten a jump on things
Leaving me laying there a bit aghast

I can only hope that she will go for some help for me
When she has quite finished her early Christmas kitty feast
Or at least wait on having seconds
Until I am well and truly deceased

36 Scones

Thirty-six lemon iced scones regarded me in silence
Stacked as they were
In their pie slice shapes
In layers of decreasing diameter
Making a presentation platter of perfection
Awaiting delivery the next morning
After another quick inspection

Mustn't touch them
Mustn't taste
Must try to ignore them
Too much effort spent in making them to waste

As the day dawns
Thirty-six lemon iced scones greeted the day
Not knowing that their event was postponed for two weeks
Until after the winter break
Due to snow or the direct fear of snow-like apparitions

So as my coffee brewed I eyed the stack
Thinking that maybe I could freeze them for their now later appointment

"But, that's crazy"
Said a distinct voice
The speaker of which I could not find
Even when I looked around carefully

"That is sort of crazy"
My inner me agreed
Prompting fingers to pluck one lovely wedge shaped beauty from the top
Confection quickly meeting lips
Then tongue
And on to stomach
In a quick order of operations

The coffee was ready
And another lemon iced scone magically appeared in hand
Following it's brother to a shared fate
Along with hot coffee
Never having touched a plate

Thirty-four lemon iced scones regarded me in silent fear
For they now knew that their end was near
And that long before the aforementioned two week break was through
They'd be bidding their sconey existence a fond adieu

Simple Things

I feel uncharted
Like wastelands of lack of interest
And your baubles do not amuse me anymore
Stress me not to press the Delete key
Or to simply Backspace you right out of my life

Sometimes the simplest of edits is the best

Right Turn Only

Right Lane Must Turn Right
It's what the sign clearly said
It's what I must clearly do
Except I can't get you out of my head

Turning right would take me squarely away from you
Something I'm just not willing to do
At this time or this juncture
So I just barrel straight through

Going straight stinks of indecision
Putting off the final choice
Drawing ire and well deserved derision
As my love for you struggles to find it's voice

Turning left is what I ought to do
Being away from you is tearing me apart
And going that way would take me straight to you
Landing you squarely in the middle of my heart

But I've blown through three intersections now
Ignoring the right turn sign on every occasion
I've put off the moment long enough
I don't need any more persuasion

The next intersection is a tee I see
With only a right or left way to go
My hand moves of it's own accord
Setting the left turn signal aglow

This short drive in my mind took only moments
But even so I hope you've waited
For though a heart is a fragile thing
It's high time that our love was conjugated

The sign might say Right Turn Only
But a left turn is the only turn I really need

Five Inches

No lessons were learned
The night I decided I only needed five inches
The night I threw caution to the winds of Seattle
The night my right wing gear jack shit the bed

And it had all started so innocently
With the simple replacement of the left main landing gear truck leveler

That was almost a month ago
An event that I hadn’t even been here for
But I was left on the hook for the operational check
A check that involved jacking the aircraft and performing a gear retraction test

It had come up sort of abruptly during my daily chat with maintenance control
Almost as if they had forgotten about it as well
One of those
“Oh and by the way”
Types of jobs

So now after five o’clock
After all the day shift had cleared out
I pushed the three heavy jacks into position

One at the nose
One at each inboard wing jacking point

I figured I’d do all the prep work myself
As there was only a skeleton crew on second shift
And they were all the way across the airport at the main office

No sense dragging them all the way over here until everything was ready

The jacks now in position
I started pumping them up one by one
Until each one was seated gently in the jack pad

It was then that I remembered a time a few years before
When a jack had failed to work for us
And no matter how much you pumped the handle
The jack would not go up

I decided to test these three jacks before I went any further

The nose jack wiggled slightly as I jacked it up a couple inches
Extending the nose strut slightly as the jack took some of the weight of the aircraft

Nose jack:  Check

I pumped the left wing jack a similar distance
Just barely taking the weight of the plane
Enough to ensure that the seals of the jack weren’t blown out

Left wing jack:  Check

My hand slipped onto the smooth bare metal shaft of the right wing jack handle
The steel slightly discolored from everyone touching it
With chipped yellow paint desperately hanging on further down the handle

I pumped it a dozen times
And was rewarded with a shower of red hydraulic fluid
Causing my optimism for the night’s job crashed into a pessimistic heap

I wiped off my arm where the fluid had made me into a red sticky mess
And throwing the rag into the trash barrel
I stomped back to the desk at the nose of the aircraft
Flopping my full weight down in the old black swivel chair
I spun it around and regarded the broken jack beneath the right wing
While my fingers picked idly at the peeling vinyl on the armrests

Five inches
That’s all I needed under the main tires

With five inches of clearance
The main landing gear would safely retract without touching the ground

Some of my fingers gave up on the armrest and scratched my head instead
My mouth twisted unconsciously as my inner voice pointed out

“You know;
Only the left gear has to be retract tested”

And a twisted plan started to take shape in my head
All alone after dinner hours
In that old condemned hangar in Seattle

Christmas Cookies

The pile of plain sugar cookies loomed large on my left

With an equally towering stack of frosted ones on my right

While I labored loves long lost frosting knife in the middle

Taking from the left 

Giving to the right

Santa Clauses and reindeer

Christmas trees with assorted shapes of gear

Candy canes and stars

Something shaped like a cigar

Along with assorted sized cookie cars

The stove behind me sat with it's door ajar

Cooling it's insides after laboring at it's baking

Cooking all of the aforementioned cookies had taken all evening

Resulting in all the frosted delights gleaming in sugar for the taking

I frost with my assorted colors in front of me

An endless supply of goopy sweet gloop

And little jars of various toppings

Calories enough for a boy scout troop

A sprinkle here

A silver sugar ball there

With Christmas carols swirling all around

Temporarily banishing any feelings of despair

The unfrosted pile gets ever smaller

Even as the frosted one gets more towering taller

Growing in an uneven bendy arc worthy of a Dr Seuss baking book

Warping reality into a festive glazed look

Finally all the cookies were frosted and coated with granular toppings of various gravel grades

And the pile stretched up out of sight

Through a hole in the roof

High into the starry night

Where one by one the Christmas cookies took flight

Floating up into the sky

To join the Starry Night much to the ghost of Van Gogh's delight

Until I was left with a much more manageable pile

For me to sort, box, and deliver through the snow soft and white

A Merry Cookie Christmas

Enjoy them one and all

I'm fairly certain they won't bite

Holiday Blues

Santa is slaying
Krampus is creeping
Hey Soos is trying desperately to be born

The tinsel is on the tree
As well as all over me
Wrecking my Walkman's radio reception

The family is bickering
Green greed LED's a-flickering
The holiday blues have officially arrived

Tic Tac of Lies

The tic tac box makes promises
Promises of green apple flavor and mint
I like green apple
I like mint
Nothing here seems in disagreement

One dollar twenty nine cents later
Three mints pop past my lips
Feeling hard and smooth
With tastes of candy green apples
From the flat of my tongue to its tip

Then the flavor wanes as it does
As I swirl them around in a clicking dance
So as is my wont
I bite down upon them one at a time
Whereupon my eyebrows raise in instant askance

This is different and not what I was expecting
This new mixed mint plus green apple flavor
It reminds me of something
Something from my memory
I let it sit for a moment so that I can think and savor

Then it hits me
From a long ago morning or ten
It is a classic combination of morning after taste
Of some sickly sour sweet vomit
Combined with cool mint toothepaste!

I proclaim green apple tic tacs
To be a vomit flavored treat

Android Love Song

How paranoid the android
Who sings songs of oranges and apple pie
Tastes he cannot fathom for truth
Only with optional taste receptors
And programmed interpretations thereof

So it's not real
It's not his taste that is taste tested
He'll always pick the third drink in the blind taste test
Because that's what the makers decreed that he'd love

It's an all Coke Zero world for this paranoid android

But how paranoid the android really?
If all that he suspects is true
And all the colors of the rainbow remain hidden to him
For all he is allowed to see is blue

Monochromatic all seeing mostly knowing
With banks of android thoughts
Categorized for clarity
But not by himself certainly
All for thinking thoughts that are his
But are not
And making brilliant conclusions
That might not be

For all he knows
He is a super retarded paranoid android
Just spinning his gears in place
Thinking he's a genius at everything
With dumbfounded synthetic drool upon his face

Four Lines

There are four lines
Not three or five
To live above the fold
In a corner of the Google cloud drive

Scenic Road

The ever expanding worm of the universe
Checked his watch and followed the green sign
That directed him towards the scenic route
As laid out by the state tourism commission

It took him far and wide
By circuitous route
To the tallest
The lowest
The prettiest
The strangest
Places and things that this land had to offer

Upon completing his trip
He shook his great glowing head
And vowed to take the most direct route from now on

The Poet Must Die

The poet must die
Not yours to reason why
Though if you must
Just put your trust
In my wisdom
My judgement
My bright blue sky

Too many rhymes
Is the questionable crime
Words full of letters
Offensive to his betters
These twisted font fetters
Keeping him warm as a wool sweater

"Guilty as charged!"
Off with his head
Poisoned by flying lead
Or hanged until dead
One way or another
This poet must die

Falling In Love Again

Your chromium wings reach out to me

Even as you stride along at Mach zero point three

Thou cruel airplane impersonator

Oh over speeding radial resonator

Hold still while I mark thy wings

With teeth of a million broken things

All approaching in a cloud

Of self deprecation and doubt

Testing confidence and resolve

With caustic corrosive salve

Till wings at joints do gently break

Falling to the earth with a grace that cannot be faked

My love

My metal winged beastie

Fly long and hard

All the way home to me

Safety

There ain't no party like a safety wire party!

With the gleaming wire a-twisting

And the safety wire pliers spinning

Quickly upon their Yankee screwdriver stalks

The sharp ends of wire sometimes winning

Leaving red angry smiles grinning

Upon their choice of the proud flesh

Just when you think you might be finished

You realize that you're just beginning

And it's only the first inning

What with all the things left to safety

Hungry as they are to injure your hands and fingers

Oh there ain't no party like a safety wire party

Product Sales

"Hello, 9-1-1?

Yeah, they're back"

The gangs were back in my area

Wearing their matching colors

With various decorations

Surely to mark all the terrible things they had done

They gathered on every corner it seemed

Even setting up outside of Wal Mart

Without raising an eyebrow

With everyone so seemingly inured to their activity

They want me to buy

But I resist

For I know that even one taste is doom

Little samples

In little cups

Handed out by little hands

Definitely getting into my personal space

And I tear myself away franticly

"Get away from me!" 

I snarl

And all the little Girl Scouts recoil from me

As if I were the mad one

Though they soon forget about me

And go back to selling their cooies

In their matching green outifits

With all of those little patches

North and South; Red and Blue

There once was a house on a hill
The people in the North could see it
And the people in the South could see it too
The people in the North said that it was red
But the people in the South said that it was blue

The North warred with the South
At every opening and opportunity
To prove that each's assumption was true
The North to prove that the house was red
The South to prove that the house was blue

Until one fateful morning
When each unbeknownst to the other
Had planned a behind the lines sneak attack
The Southern army looked South and saw that the house was red
And the Northern army looked North and saw that the house was blue

The one not understanding the other's view
Until standing in the other's shoes

Gription

The Gription's got ahold of you
Way down deep in the nethers
It's clamped on with patented teeth
Torquing down your many metal fetters

Soon Gription will be a part of you
Gripping your thoughts with a gentle grasp
With you always and forever
Until your last desperate gasp

Gription cannot be bought
In any common tool store or truck
It's earned with blood sweat and marrow
And not a small portion of good luck

Gription comes to those who desire it
With a thirst that has no quench
A twisted path of broken shiny things
Quietly called The Way of The Wrench

Copyrighted DMCA Takedown Notice of Everything

I'm copyrighting twenty-six things
The letters A through Z
Don't make me list them all
You aren't so stupid you can't see

Picture them in your head
I'll give you to the count of three
Even if you can't manage that
I'll give you this advice for free

I've got lawyers on the line
Numbered at about twenty
A whole law firm full
Unless it's their time to tee

It's not just my words that I'm protecting
It's all the damned letters too
Don't copy and paste lines or phrases
If you do you're through

DMCA takedown notices are on their merry way
To your mailboxes and inboxes
In their cease and desist devil may care jump into the fray
Making you pop out Benjamins like a flippy head Pez

All this shit here
It's mine
And everything else I might ever divine
So toss in the towel, author
Open a vein with your, quill poet

All the letters, words and phrases belong to me
You just don't know it

Burning Angel

Angel burning
Burning bright
Burning brightly in the night

Wings aflame
Heart aflutter
Turning legs
To melted butter

Skin but canvas
For ink varieties
Some deep and permanent
Others a biological temporary tease

Breasts heave
Loins ache as they will
Some in emptiness
Others in the urge to fill

All scenarios play out
In purpose found playgrounds
Sets for a hedonistic dance
Inundated in primal sounds

Players for the cause
Giving hearts a pause
With their beauty
Their passion
Their brilliance

Burning Angel burning bright
Sweeping away any vestige of sight
Leaving only one last image of you

Forever burned into now forever night

O Burning Angel

O Beacon of light

Tea With My Demon

"Just a tick my friend
I'll pour you a cup"

My hands make quick work of getting the clean white bone china cup and saucer out
Filling it gently with steaming tea from the pot
And holding it out gingerly to my demon
Who regarded me with guarded suspicion from across the small table

His all too stereotypical dark red hands
With even darker red long nails
Grasped the cup and saucer firmly
The nails clinking on the china with distinct individual clicks

He stared at me through the steam rising from his cup
I stared back at him
Falling into his beautiful red eyes

A sound distracted me from my almost-trance
Glancing at his cup
The tea was boiling furiously
Evaporating before my eyes

And then it was gone
Leaving only a brown residue in the bottom of the cup

I looked back up towards my demon's face
But that was gone as well

I was left with only the sound of the empty cup and saucer smashing to edge of the table
Then onto the floor in many pieces
And the unanswered question in my head
Of whether or not my demon had ever really been here before me
Or if he simply resided within me as he always has

I sipped my tea and thought about it a bit
And decided that I hoped he was just inside of me
For he never would be lonely
What with all my other demons cavorting about freely

Awaiting their turn to be dealt with on some other dreary tea filled day

I'm Just a Load

Strap me down or I'll fly away

Put tension on the nylon bands

Crank tight the anodized latches

Thrum the tautness with your hands

If this were an action movie

The Hero would stow away

Only popping out when the bad guys were near

Then cutting the tie downs with a Rambo knife

To see the black hat's eyes widen with fear

As the load shifts aft with a vengence

Propelled by the prop guy's tricks

Creating it's own momentum

Flying back to kick the baddies in the dicks

But this isn't a movie

And I'm just a load of interior parts

Bound for a factory in Flint

Though I can dream big

Of my fifteen minutes of fame there is no hint

Oh I'm just a load

A medium sized load

Riding this air ride trailer

A thousand miles on state funded road

Headache

Sword through my temples

Twisting gently with the pulse

The rhythmic push of blood

Pumping steadily from the heart

"Pain begone!!"

I cry to anyone that can hear

Though mostly it makes them edge away

Wary of the strange actions of one so near

I can place a chilled hand to the afflicted area

Causing momentary relief

Which just as quickly recedes

Replaced by the familiar throb of pain

Which gives no gain

Prompting me to wish the saying was different

Perhaps more like

"No gain, no pain"

But then that would be fair

Which is something that this life certainly is not
Although at least it gives us all something common to share
For pain of one kind or another is something that each of us has got

Rorschach

Two men standing back to back
Each wearing a red Devo hat
Shaped like a wedding cake atop their heads
Small bits of mustache straggled upon their lips

A split cat's face with horns topped with shoes
It's fancy cat eyes cursed with many hues
Staring into the observer's soul
A single strand connecting the two
A ready to blow at any second two amp fuse

A house divided
A boat busted in halves
Each a mirror of the other
The image of the other's cues

Two humans in orange hats
Sitting facing one another
Playing endless games of pattycake
Where the prize for the winner is just another card to view

Mothman approaching from the front
Stopping a robbery no doubt
With no Tick nearby to assist
It's doubtful he has any real clout

Two red uniformed policeman with one leg each
Running up the road to the Eiffel Tower
Flanked by giant blue bacteria and several banana peels
With a green bean man dead center at their heels

It's not my fault I don't see a simple butterfly
I really wish I could
There is just too much in each inkblot to summarize
Here, take a look at them
I sense you may have a wiser set of eyes

All Saints Day of The Dead

I wandered the crowded graveyard
Hardly able to see out of the sloppily aligned holes in my mask
While covered in a cheap shroud that crinkled noisily as I moved
Carrying an almost fluorescent orange pumpkin in one hand

From inside it was just an uncomfortable outfit
With plain white plastic mask pressing into my face
The rubber band rolling and pinching my hair on the back of my head

From outside I was Voltron
With the iconic face painted upon my mask
The robotic giant's body printed upon the plastic tarp smock I wore
All gotten on sale at Walgreen's the day before

"Trick or Treat, sir"
I chirped to a likely looking man floating by
Dressed in white robes with a shining halo hovering over his head

He looked at me with soft eyes
And only shook his head

So, no treat in my jack o' lantern bucket
I gave him a trick

Drawing my Voltron sword
I gave the cry of the Lion Force of the Universe
And swiped through the floating saint's wispy form
Scattering him slightly
Causing him to rush away from me
Gathering himself together and waggling a finger at me disapprovingly
Before turning once again to make his dignified way along the path

"Stupid Saints"
I muttered to myself
"Never having any candy....."

No time to dwell upon that now though
As I approached my next stop

The grave site of the Ramirez family
Holding six grave markers within it's iron fence arms
Now carpeted in flowers, smooth shiny stones and flickering candles
Little cups of liquor atop each marker

Four living members of the family sat amongst the flotilla of items
One reading a book
Two discussing deep matters
Another eating half of his dead cousin's offering sandwich
(Which was ok, as they shared everything when he was alive as well)

I waved to them after putting away my sword
"Trick or Treat!"
I called out cheerfully
And walked slowly around the outside of the iron fence
Holding out my treat bucket to each of them

The one that was reading the book looked at me thoughtfully
Then carefully removed a page from her book
Folding it once and dropping it into my bucket

"A treat for your mind"
She said with a smile

The two in deep discussion paused when I came to them
Each offering me a pretty stone from among the many that they had near them

"To ensure that you always stay grounded"
They pronounced before dropping them into my bucket with twin "Clunks!"

The boy who was eating offered me a bag of corn chips
The bag's silver coating catching the candle light just so

"May you never be hungry"
He mumbled through a full and chewing mouth

I thanked them very much before going on my way
A little further down the path
Towards the next family grave site
Hoping to avoid the various saints who were hovering around
As they were bummers who never gave anything
Save the occasional advice on living a pious life

This was truly one of the joys of young life
Trick or Treating on All Saints Day of the Dead

Twist Tie Still Life

A temporary framing of real still life
Of juicy red apple you could cut with a knife
Is it art or is it a pretense of?

Just another smartass fruit in the center square

Day of The Persistently Dead

The Lionel 681 engine chugged around in a big oval
Circling me repetitively
Chuffing it's fake Lionel smoke pill generated smoke
Trailed by it's Pennsylvania Railroad coal tender with electric whistle
Pulling a consist of Lionel freight to an unknown destination on the oval

The cheap cigarette hung from my lips
Smoking unceasingly
Chuffing it's cheap tobacco floor sweepings smoke
Trailing out my mouth and nose without much style
Pulling into my lungs the black death nicotine high

I also had a steak
Cooked just how he liked it
With melted butter on top
A big glass of milk

A radio playing classical music
Handel's Messiah with the volume knob at eleven
Looking to wake the dead
With all of his favorite things

On November first the heavens are supposed to open
So that they can spend time with their loved ones
And here I am
Armed with a few of his favorite things

But where is he?
Still persistently six feet below me

But it's not all a total loss
It's a beautiful day
I've got a toy train running around
Plenty of cigarettes
A glass of frosty milk
And a really great steak

And all the many memories
So it's almost like he is here

On this latest Day of The Dead

Monster Mask

I wear a mask all year round
Like a growth or chronic disease
It's hard and black
Covered in QWERTY keys

It takes the socially awkward me
And transforms my interactions
Committing occasionally witty charming intelligent relations
As opposed to my naturally awkward social actions

Behind it my fingers can fly at 65 words per minute
In crystal clear train of thought stream
Much better than any halting words from my mouth
Which slowly chips away at any self esteem

Causing disconnect at that imaginary first meeting in person
With someone who has only known me from my words
As the playdate slowly turns into an awkward silence
Each soon beating a hasty retreat set to staccato thirds

On Halloween I can wear the mask in public though
Without being mistaken for some misshapen elephant
And everyone marvels at the person amongst them
Who seems so outgoing, elegant and eloquent

From behind this monster mask of mine
I could be anyone or anything quietly unseen
Making me wish that I could be like this always in person
Or that every day was another Halloween

Touch

The flaw beneath my fingertips
It seems so large when I am not looking
As the tips of my digits stroke an otherwise smooth surface
These ridges are as deep as canyons to me

But then I look
And the irregularities are quite shallow
Appearing as no more than a rough scribe line
Though a bit wider for sure

I perform due diligence
I reference my standards
I measure with calipers and depth gauges
Only to find it well within limits

Making note of this
Moving on to the next thing
Not letting it bother me
At least not very much

The next part looks pretty fine as I pick it up
Cradling it in my arms and giving it a stroke and a touch
Closing my eyes and letting fingers help my mind to see
The first little marks again seem as big as mountains to me

Overtorque Epitaph

Bolt: 1/4 x 24 = 23 inch/pounds wet

That's what the maintenance manual said
And there was nothing special about this particular bolt

So with no further thoughtful thinkings
I applied some light oil to the threads
Threaded on the nut until the locking feature gave it's resistance
And applied the torque wrench carefully
Ratcheting the nut down until it mated gracefully with the washer
Pressing into the casting evenly

Sanely

The Snap-On quarter inch torque wrench clicked quietly
Easily audible in the near silent cavernous aircraft hangar

That job done
I turned the page of the manual
Where a further instruction said:

Bolt: 1/4 x 24 = 100 foot/pounds (retorque)

I looked at that for a moment
For it seemed a bit excessive for a fastener of this size
But I don't write the manuals
That's what the pros do, eh?

The stockroom provided a bigger torque wrench
I clicked the proper socket onto the 3/8 lug
Set the rotating handle to 100 ft/lbs
Locked it down and set to torquing the bolt again

I half expected it to snap the shank
But it didn't

And after some light muscle flex on my part
The larger sized Snap-On torque wrench clicked
A little louder than the smaller one
But disturbing nobody in it's clickiness

That done
I read further down the page
Where a further retorque was instructed

Bolt:  1/4 x 24 = 800 foot pounds (retorque)

Now this bothered me
There was just no way that a quarter inch bolt could stand up to that
I mean
We are talking big torque here!
Just about the most that I'd be able to apply without some sort of help

But after double checking the reference and revision
I shook my head and walked back to the stockroom
Trading in my two smaller wrenches for the largest torque wrench we had
Which was a two piece affair
Consisting of two four foot sections
The lower part had the torque wrench guts in it
And I set the dial for 800
Installing the handle extension on it afterwards

Soliciting some help in the form of an able bodied assistant
Who removed her cape
But not her top hat
In a bow to bygone elegance

She held the head of the wrench in place
While I applied all my weight to the bar
Pushing
Pushing
Pushing
Watching the bar assembly flex
Until a loud "SNAP" was heard

Well, that did it
We broke the bolt this time

But when she gently pulled the socket head off the nut
The bolt was still intact
As it should be

So reassured that all was as it should be
I referenced my maintenance manual once again
Looking for the next step in our installation procedure
And wouldn't you know it

Bolt:  1/4 x 24 = 12,000 foot pounds (retorque)

I was astounded
I was perplexed
This just couldn't be

I called over everyone else in the hangar
Who all discussed and quorumed over the issue
The final decision being
That with the help of two others
I would apply the torque while everyone else snacked on popcorn and watched

Griping over their brotherly love
I trudged back to the stockroom
Knowing that there was just no way..............

Only to have the stockroom manager hand me a Sweeney torque multiplier
Which just happened to have as it's highest setting:  Twelve thousand foot pounds

"This is surely doom!"
I cried to my comrades
As I wheeled the unit back to the plane

Who took another sip of their Cokes and waved me on
With reassuring thumbs up and smiles

Hanging the torque multiplier from the crane
My two assistants held the socket in place on the now tiny seeming nut
While I applied the breaker bar to the turning lug

The dial indicated 2000 foot pounds
And I felt my joints start to ache
Metal on the aircraft groaned on my behalf
Strange sounds emanating from the center of the fuselage

The needle inched it's way past 6000 foot pounds
My shoulder felt like it was going to come out of it's socket
The two guys holding the multiplier unit were sweating and shaking with fear
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the left main landing gear strut and tire compressing

Still I pushed the bar onward
Making the tool read 9000 foot pounds
And with a sudden leap of motion the right main landing gear tire rose up off the ground
Causing my peanut gallery of people to rush forward with straps
Which they man handled onto tie down lugs in both the wing and the concrete floor
Tightening them down firmly while I paused for a breath

They retreated back to the cheap seats
And I pushed the bar again
Harder and harder I pushed
Blackness pinched inwards on my vision as my blood pressure boiled
Making it seem like I was looking down a long tunnel
The only light at the end of which
Was the torque multiplier's dial
Moving slowly towards the goal

11,000 foot pounds indicated
And the concrete floor cracked
Sending a thunderclap into the air
Bursting my eardrums

But the floor held in place
So I didn't let up
Looking through the now pinpoint of vision left to me
Feeling blood dripping from my ear lobes
Hearing nothing
Seeing only the dial

The dial

The dial

The needle touched 12,000 foot pounds
My heart gave out

The breaker bar clattered to the floor like a falling sword onto stone
A crowd of onlookers roared it's approval
A stadium shaking sound that pro athletes live for

None of which I heard with my dead deaf ears
As I fell endlessly towards a stone epitaph

"Here Lies Wrench
He Wrenched To Live
He Torqued To Die
Keeping Old Iron
In The Sky"

Legless Swimming Beauty

There is such a thing as a mermaid
I met her just last week
Swimming round my boat in the bay
Flipping her tail
Diving down deep

Her hair streamed out behind her
Golden strands of hydrodynamic waves
Pulling on her pretty head
A constant drag for her
But brightening my day

Eventually I was able to lure her aboard
With the promise of hors d'oeuvres and cheap wine
And up onto the deck she flopped
Almost losing her bikini top
Then panting prettily for a short time

In time we chatted snacked and drank merrily
Watching the sunset disappear entirely
It took little urging for her to stay the night
So without further adieu off came her custom monoflipper
Revealing her shapely thighs
Which ended abruptly above the knee
In two softly creases nubs
She smiled up at me and held out her arms
I picked her up and carried her to the bed with me

My legless swimming beauty
Mermaid of my dreams

What Makes An Airplane Fly?

Just a tiny speck in the sky
Speeding across the hemisphere
Begging questions of how and why
As it travels in hours what used to take years

Flocks of geese strapped to the wings
Each wearing a little leather harness
Pulling for all their feathery hearts are worth
To which their harried honking does attest

Fifteen thousand hamsters
Within each humming engine enclosure
Running upon an industrial exercise wheel
Having been duped by the company brochure

Is it launched by a giant invisible hand
Pulled ever forward by a twisted rubber band
Spinning the propeller with deceptive notions
With clackers and shakers for added commotion

Seven angels upon each wing
Pushing the airplane forward
Propelled by invisible heavenly farts
Perpetually percolated with St. Lawrence's own tarts

Lifted by ladybugs
Clinging on by the millions
Counting their wingstrokes by the minute
Losing track somewhere in the trillions

Science easily explains it all
But it still seems like magic
Watching an airplane sail through the atmosphere
As if it were coated with nonstick

What makes an airplane fly?

Bernoulie's Principle

Ramp Up

Junior plodded through the knee deep snow
Looking for a way up the sheer concrete cliff towering above him
Cold soaked into his very bones
Creeping deeper the longer he walked

Finally after what seemed like hours
Junior spied a possible solution

A pile of dried leaves was swept up against the perpendicular cliff face
Each leaf ten times as long as his own body
With a long flexible stem

Junior stepped gingerly upon the one closest to him where it met the ground
It creaked and flexed beneath his foot
But it held him up with no problem

This gave him confidence to take another few steps along the brown leaf's surface
And before he knew it he was half way up the first leaf
Several of his own body length's high from where he had started

"This will totally work"
He said to nobody but himself
Grinning in the cold
With his breath making vapor as he exhaled

The pile of leaves did not quite go all the way to the top of the sheer wall
Rather it was spread out a bit
Much wider than was needed for Junior's climb

So with ant-like exponential strength
Combined with the relative lightness of the leaves themselves
Junior dragged and pushed
Pulled and lifted
With minuscule beads of sweat running down his face
Causing steam to rise off his head in the cold crisp air

Finally the leaves were stacked and sloped
Into a rough ramp shape
Easily climbable by the tiny man named Junior

Up the first leaf
Across the second
A short clamber across the third
And Junior disappeared over the upper lip of the concrete face

Not looking back

Clipping Daisies

So low as to be called barely flying
With the landscape being eaten quickly by the windscreen
Like something out of a video game cinematic

If I could press a pause button
I could count the blades of grass
The petals of the flowers
See insects upon them with their shimmering frozen wings

But the airspeed indicator loudly proclaims 170 knots
And the altimeter indicating zero

I'd have to get that looked at
I idly thought
Because we are clearly at about 25 feet off the deck

A low hill loomed large in the distance
Causing me to gently pull back on the yoke
The well worn Cessna logo cast into the center coming a few inches closer to my belly

My ears detected a slight change in the twin propeller's pitch
As the sound raised up half a note
Changing from a natural to a sharp
A minor adjustment in a Skymaster duet

At the crest of the hill I spied a small clump of trees a few miles out
Located just to the left of my path

Imagining that I was flying an O-2 on patrol in Vietnam
I kicked the rudder and rocked the wings slightly
Aiming right for these enemy oaks
My thumb hovering over an imaginary red firing button which I'd flipped the guard up on
Ready to press down to release a volley of fictitious rockets from the pods on my wings

The uppermost leaves on the top branches slap at my belly as I pass overhead
Continuing my charge up the valley
Pulled forward by engine number one
Pushed faster by engine number two

If I've flown this route once
I've flown it a hundred times
This place felt like home to me
And if I screwed up a cue and flew into the ground?

Well I couldn't think of a better place for it

"A standard flight
Beautiful weather with light turbulence
No mechanical issues"
I'd write in my flight log an hour later

Then pulling from my pocket a slightly mangled daisy blossom

Laying it gently near the spine of the old hard backed logbook
Before closing it
Pressing the covers together firmly while wrapping it in a rubber band

I'd pulled the flower from a belly panel seam after I'd landed

A perfect little now-pressed memorial
From a perfect low level flying day

The Poet of Bologna

Even as you begin to begin
Your pencil to the paper
Nose to the grindstone
The pressure pressing down
The words on the paper a presence pushing back

But it's all inside your mechanical head
The pen and paper
The pressure and the beginning

Nothing more than electrical shorts within your mechanical mind
A stainless steel dream fueled by belts and steam
As your arm relentlessly slices bologna
Steadily and evenly
Stacking it up and sending it along
In an endless progression of cooked meat paste product

In your dreams you are a writer
A poet most mighty
Rhyming with ease
Wearing naught but a tighty whitey

The meat factory real is blocked away
Smelling of stray pink slime
Always in front of you
Yet many dimensions away

Ye mighty bologna slicing robot
Pause for a moment for a quick sterile wipedown
Beginning again at the press of a shiny red button
Cutting product mindlessly
While simultaneously worlds away parsing verbs and assorted nouns

Angry Sundae

Two scoops of the hardest vanilla bean ice cream
Hammered into the bowl with feeling
Slowly melting flat spots on their bottoms
As I stand there with senses still reeling

The back of my neck is bright red
There is a vein in my forehead protruding
I have to feed this upset emotion
Lest lighter fare comes intruding

With warm syrup in my hand
I beheld my two scoops of ice creamed dismay
Slowly tilting and pouring out the fudge topping of rage
Grinning evilly as it melts into the surface making way

Cradling the bowl like an infuriated infant
I make my way to some grouchy looking furniture
Slamming myself into cushions of fury
And grimly begin shoveling in my cold sweet antagonistic mixture

But despite my worst intentions of feeding the beast within me
I felt the unmistakable feels of my ire melting away
Paired with the warming of the ice cream upon my tongue
Incensed annoyance retreating in a fancifully concise concessional display

In the end all I was left with was a pleasant sugar high
Plus a wonder that I'd let THAT bother me so very much
Along with undying thanks to that very angry sundae
With it's delicious chocolate vanilla bean flavorful delicate touch

StOD

Big black cantilevered Max
Loaded with bent metal ammunition
Slid in with an audible click
Closed and spring loaded dire coalition

Stand back from the crimping clamping and stamping!

For this is certainly a Stapler Of Death

Daleks don't Trick or Treat

Upon opening the Tardis door
The Doctor spied a Dalek
Grasping a salt lick
Singing "Trick or Treat"
In it's metallic bleat
Showing that it knew nothing about Halloween after all

Calendar On Pause

The desk calendar still defiantly decreed it to be September
Clinging to it's month with fall colored claws
That reeked of back to school sales
And felt like the inside of a chipmunk hole ready for winter

Soft
Warm
Full of nuts

There was a doodle of a mushroom cloud on the 22nd
I'm not sure why
But I think it has to do with thinking of you
As that begats nuclear fueled reactions within me

Upon the 27th there are numerous hash marks
Like on a prison cell wall
Grouped in fives
Marking time spent in a nondescript day
Performing a job in common ways

Upon a spare square four days past the 30th
The name "Frero Gelan" is inscribed
Was there a meeting with this person for that day?
A day seemingly outside of time
Taking place after September
But before October

A mystery too big for this moment
When my brain needs to be doing other things
So I tear off the September page
And face October's blank staring rage

Eleven days late

Birthday Wishes & Doubling Tyres - pt2

I have no recollection of why
But on my eighth birthday I small tyre fell from the sky
Bouncing twice and rolling to a stop at my feet

I picked it up and wondered at it
As it looked just like the ones I still had at home from last year
Except that it was eight inches in diameter
And the other five were only four inches across

I puzzled over it for only a few minutes
A newly eight year old boy  has little attention to spare
There are frogs to capture
All the better to chase the girls with

One year later
Upon my ninth birthday
Another tyre crashed to the earth from some unseen height
This time bouncing several times
Smashing a chicken coop
And scaring a cow before rolling to a stop and flopping onto it's side at my feet

I picked it up and looked at it
And it looked so familiar
Just like some other tyres that were back in the house
But this one was bigger by quite a bit

I carried it to the porch
Setting it next to the bench there
And going up to my room to get the other tyres

Returning in a minute with two smaller tyres
I laid them all on the wooden planks of the porch from smallest to biggest

I made another trip to my room
This time coming back with a tape measure
And applied it carefully to each tyre in turn

The smallest was four inches in diameter
The next biggest was eight
With the newest one at sixteen inches

The funny thing was that other than their size
They all looked identical in every way
With the same shiny chrome rim
The same tread pattern
The same lettering upon the sidewall

And I remember the one from last year
When I was over at a friend's house
How it came down and bounced before rolling to my feet

Now this year the same thing had happened
But here at my father's house
But exactly one year later

I looked up into the sky and thought to myself

Somebody up there must like me

Birthday Wishes & Doubling Tyres - pt1

"Happy birthday!"

It was one of those birthdays
Where so many people wished me a happy seventh birthday
That I lost track of the whos whens and whats

The two things that matter here
Amongst the things I received as gifts
Was the small package of replacement tyres for my remote control car
And the lamp

The tyres were smallish and bouncy
And not having my car handy at the moment
I ended up childishly rolling and bouncing them about
Until all but one of them were stuck under the orange plush couch

The lamp was from my great aunt Francis
Who had gotten it originally from gosh knows where

It looked just like the small brassy oil lamps that genies pop out of in the cartoons

So naturally
At the first private opportunity
I rubbed it

Out came a genii
Whose name happened to be Pete

Pete had this to say to me
"My name is Genii Pete
You  may call me Pete
And I am here to grant you one irrevocable wish
After which you shall throw my lamp into the sea
And remember me no more"

I toyed with the rubber tyre in my  hands
And thought with my seven year old brain
Before blurting out
"I want a tire just like this one
To be thrown down from the sky every year on my birthday
So I can see how high it will bounce
And every year
I want it all twice as big as the year before!"

Pete nodded his head
His little spike goatee wiggling a bit
"It shall be so
Every year on this day at this time"

And with that
A tyre identical to the one in my hands whistled down from the sky
Bouncing four feet back up in the air
Before landing at my feet

I laughed and turned to thank.......someone
But there wasn't anyone there
Just a dirty old brass oil lamp on the ground
Which I had the urge to take to the ocean pier and throw into the water