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Sunday, March 31, 2013

The Great Easter Rave of Jerusalem

The tags started appearing Friday morning
Painted on the wall of the temple
Randomly splashed on buildings all around the city

"Joe's garden - sundown"

Not everyone knew what it meant
But some did

And after the clouds gathered
For the last living breath of Jesus
After he was taken down
Put into the burial mound
With it's rock solidly rolled before the door

Sun setting over the olive trees
People set out by twos and threes
Some lugging boxes
A few with wagons laden with covered goods
All to meet outside the tomb in the garden

Later that evening
After the sun set
A strange beat was heard over the city


Powerful and rhythmic
Even shaking Pilate's wine cup next to his bed


In the pretty garden oasis
All around the tomb of Jesus
The apostles and believers from the city
Who had seen the tags and followed their feet
All gyrated and bounced
Dropping acid and popping pills to the beat


Laser lights and strobes called out
In all their light energy
Neon wands and necklaces were passed out
Adding to the flurry of activity
Making this a time for the ages
The Great Rave of Jerusalem

It kept right on going
With DJ following DJ
The swap happening without a drop in pace

Sometimes people slept
Other times they ate
Occasionally they'd fuck
A celebration of life and each other
Awe writ large on every face

After it felt like this just couldn't go on any longer
And the Sunday sun began to rise
A miracle did occur
And right along with it
Came Jesus to amaze and surprise

Rising up right out of the tomb
In the middle of a breakdown
The DJ on duty handed it off
Without skipping a beat
And Jesus picked it up
Standing in a spotlight
Surrounded by turntables and laptops

Letting his platform rise until it hit the stops
Jesus put his hands up
And let his words drop

"These beats are for my freaks!"

As he spoke he sprouted more arms
One for every keyboard and turntable
That surrounded him in a circle
Gyrating his hips to the beat
His halo at a jaunty angle

Jesus rocked the house just like the son of god
Durga-ing the music in multi limbed fury


"This is The Great Easter Rave of Jerusalem
And it's just getting started!

The crowd responded with a roar of approval
Hands up in he air
Moving their bodies to the Jesus beat
Like they just don't care


(Happy Easter!)

Saturday, March 30, 2013

Ballerinas and Buffalos

John's hair splayed out on his pillow
As he dreamed

Of lacing up his pointe shoes tightly
Stretching his muscles out
Opening the door and setting out
Westward ho!

Dancing down the cobbled streets
Waving to his friends
Stopping to meet and greet
Gaining a few followers
Who likewise laced up their shoes to feet
Before setting off again
A group now fifteen dancers strong
Across the city
Past the statue of the founders
In the city square
With it's fluttering flag and war memorial
Saluting their sacrifice as a united throng

Passing the city limits sign
It's population numbers now wrong
To the tune of twenty two
As forty four feet
And two hundred and twenty toes
Danced and flexed in formation
Sometimes in one column
Other times making separate rows

Music coming from nowhere
Always accompanied the troupe
As they improvised
In time with the music
As their imaginations advised

Every little town they danced through
Sometimes following roads
Other times not
Twirling and leaping over the grass and flowers
As one
In pairs
In threes
More dancers joined them
As more heard the music
And felt their feet stir
Shucking their shoes and boots
Feeling the urge to go
Revisit their nomadic tribal roots

Dancing across the prairie now
Three hundred and sixteen danseur and danseuse
Lifting and tossing one another over obstacles
With grace and strength
Toes pointed
Legs flexed
In formations of various shape and length

All coming to a halt between two hills
Face to face with a buffalo herd

John stepped lightly to the head of the phalanx
Eye to eye with the first buffalo
Bowing slowly and rising into position five
Hands gracefully over his head
Pirouetting lightly
Catching the buffalo's eye
As it too started to sway with the unseen music

John and the buffalo began to dance in tandem
Mirroring one another after a fashion
In this dance so unlike the other
This addition of bovine quadrupededness
Of hooves dancing on edge in the dirt
Heads of enormous size
Horns coming dangerously close
Sparkling wild buffalo eyes

With a crescendo the entire herd joined in
Along with all the two legged dancers
An explosion of movement
Creating it's own shock wave
Rippling across the tops of the chest high grass
In concentric circles from the group
Now moving as one coordinated performance
Continuing on West
Towards the future
And the end of John's dream
Maybe reaching a destination at last
Leaving him wondering what it could all mean

To twirl and stomp
To toss and shake
Dancing it's way onward
The moving performance the end in itself

And so goes our tale of ballerinas and buffalos
Tall tales of the tall grass
Flights of fancy in the flatlands
Tacking with the winds
In diagonal lines
All signs pointing Westerly
Following the old dreams
From sea to shining sea

Good Friday Been Good To Me

Sun setting and my hand in yours
Good Friday been good to me
Since that year so long ago
That I spent out at sea

Chasing the sea turtle
Watching them mate
Tracking migrations
Some early some late

Upon the decks of the sloop Shell Maiden
I watched every sunset
Wearing grooves in the wood
Observing and taking notes
Doing science as science should

After a year had gone by
And I'd visited many beaches
Covered nautical miles by the gross
I turned in my work and rested
Thinking that I may have learned the most

Of myself a ship and the sea
All individual vessels
Holding various things both within and without
Some things unneeded
Others precious indeed

And on that Good Friday
The day I returned from the sea
I found the puzzle piece
That finally completed me

The day that I met you my love
Made that day a Good Friday
And on every Friday since
I can reflect on how Good Friday been good to me

Thursday, March 28, 2013

The Miracle of The Easter Eggs

And so it came to pass
That in the Year of Our Lord 33 Ano Domini
Jesus, who preferred his name to be pronounced as "Hey-soos"
Hung upon the cross above Jerusalem
In great pain
With a cruel crown of thorns upon his head
Piercing his brown skin
Small rivulets of blood streaking his face
Marking him as the King of Jews

After crying out to his father
And anyone else who would listen
His head slumped forward
Beard pressed into his chest

The Roman soldiers on duty remarked upon this
And one with a spear approached to make sure he was dead
For you are not removed from the cross until you are

Planting his leather sandals in the rocky dirt of the hill
He thrust his strong arms upward
The spear firm in his grip
It's sharp head piercing Jesus' side
Below the ribcage

Removing the spear
The Roman soldier jumped back in shock and awe
As a waterfall of color poured forth from the torn side of Jesus
Hundreds of medium sized eggs tumbled to the ground
With all the colors of the rainbow marking their shells
In numerous and interesting patterns
Not the least miraculous part
Being that none of them cracked

Jesus' followers gathered all the eggs in baskets
Removing themselves from the area as soon as they could take no more
Until only a few women were left
To receive Jesus' body as it was lowered to the ground at last
A seemingly ordinary lifeless body now
No hint of the miracle of the colored eggs marking him in any way

You know the rest:

Jesus was entombed
To arise upon Easter Sunday
Just in time to partake in the First Annual Jerusalem Easter Picnic
With the massive buffet of lamb, kosher ham, and chicken
That was served just after the children's egg hunt

Where all the children of the city
Romped across the landscape
Searching for all those miraculous eggs
That the Apostles had so carefully collected
Then hidden creatively to be found

Thusly was the tradition of the Easter Egg born

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Post Fashion Magazine Body Consult

I come into his embrace
A feeling of warmth
Without the physical contact
My eyes closed
Tears weep through my lashes
I empty my pain upon his ears

"They told me I was ugly
That my nose was too big
My eyebrows too full
I was too fat
I was too skinny
I have too much hair
I don't have enough
That I only look beautiful in makeup
That I only look beautiful without"

I could feel him thinking
As his hands brushed against me
Touching but not touching my bare skin
For as always I was naked before him
Though I was fully clothed

A fine electric charge between him and I
Giving the illusion of touch
Very gentle
Not shocking or rough

With a feeling of his lips whispering against mine
He speaks to me

"You are beautiful
Everything about you is as it should be
You are not too much or too little of anything
The perfection of you is just what I need
You inspire passion
You are loved"

Tears dried
My eyes open
Seeing the world once again
Just as cruel as it was a moment ago
But unable to hurt me
Safe inside my armor as I now am

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Gummy Attraction

I can see the critter's appeal
For upon prodding it squeals
It's well worth the buck fifty
Even if it's survival is iffy
After all how long could a squealing gummy bear last?

Certainly not past the next meal

Monday, March 25, 2013

The Deer Is Dead

So the deer is dead
I'm half thinking as I jump up and down
The drum and crinkle of thin sheetmetal accompanying me

What am I jumping on?
I'll get to that

This all started on my way home Saturday night
Or Sunday morning
Depending on how you view such things

It was 1 am

I was only three miles from home
Driving the superhighway of US-23 at 55 mph or so
And I was just passing the cemetery where my father is buried
Beneath his stone bench
With his name, birth and death dates upon it
And, disturbingly to my children
My mother's name and birth date upon it
Even though she is still alive

We told them that was perfectly normal
As she plans on being buried there

But it is a stark reminder of life and death

Just past the cemetery
Four deer trot out into my headlight beams
I was about fifty feet from them
And they were covering the entire road with their four-in-a-line march

I aim for the empty spots in the herd when such things happen
It's gotten me through numerous close calls in the past
But there really weren't any this time
At least none big enough for the whole width of the car

On my brakes hard
But not nearly enough distance to stop from 55
I aimed between the tail end of deer #2 and the front of deer #3
Perhaps the gap would miraculously widen by the time I got there
But it didn't

I smacked into the rear end of deer #2 at about 25 mph

Which doesn't seem like much when you say it like that.

But it was enough to break his back and kill him
At least I figured that's what happened
As he was certainly dead when I went back to check on him
Eyes wide open
Tongue hanging out
Classic deer death pose
Though his hind end was strangely twisted

I resisted the urge to rearrange him in a more natural position
I'm not the deer mortician
What do I know?

I walked back the the car
With it's right front looking just like I'd hit a deer
The relatively thin sheetmetal of the hood concaved in
But not as bad as it could have been

None of the other deer stuck around
I suppose you learn to move on quickly when you are a whitetail deer in Michigan

Which brings me back to Sunday
Right now
Which finds me jumping up and down on top of my smashed hood

I'd taken it off
And tried to imagine how the heck I was going to straighten it out enough to use
The only thing coming to mind was removing it and laying it upside down in the leafiest, softest part of my yard
And jumping up and down on the dents

Thinking about the dumb dead deer and his friends
Walking around the roads at night
And dumb alive me and my little car
Driving around the roads at night

One of the two of us needs to change their habits

The hood?
It didn't turn out half bad, considering

Friday, March 22, 2013

Rainbow of Choice

There are red ways to do everything
Some wrong
Some right
Some orange

Which way will you choose to be yellow?
To impress your friends
Pick up chicks
All for fun and green

Choose wrongly and the blue will overtake you
Causing heartache to you and me
Tinted in shades of purple
Life's bruises for all to see

Thursday, March 21, 2013

An Almost Perfect Night

Two little green dome tents
A small crackling fire
The lake standing still beneath six inches of ice
And us sitting on some stacked flat rocks
Our feet a little too close to the fire
The rubber of our boots beginning to think about melting

My hand in hers
Both of us staring up at the expanse of stars above
A drunken excess of far away stellar furnaces
Shining in our eyes

The silence is broken occasionally by the lake
Making queer ice cracking sounds
A sharp crack
Followed by an echo
Sounding like a bow saw flexed by mischievous children
Out in grandfathers barn giggling at their own inventiveness

I'm filled with awe at the natural wonder bearing down on me
I look over at her
Her face illuminated by the flames
So beautiful to my eyes

She catches me looking and smiles
Leaning to me
Kissing my cheek

I turn slightly to face her
And putting a hand to her face softly
Our lips meet
In a stroking lingering kiss

She pulls away abruptly though
Her nose wrinkled slightly
"Your hand smells like poo
Did you wash after you went?"

I was taken aback
The bathroom had been little more than a cinder block outhouse
With all the amenities you'd expect
Which consisted of a throne over a pit
And some toilet paper

"Of course not!"
I exclaimed
"I rubbed them around in the snow bank
It was the best I could do"

She got up and went to her tent
Saying she was done for the night

I sat there alone for a moment
Listening to rustling sounds emanating from her green tent
Her zipper went up a little
Making me hope she was coming out
Or inviting me in
Either if which would be great

A box of wet wipes came flying out to land at my feet

"Use them!
She barked at me

And so I sat there
Looking at her tent
Staring into the fire
Listening to the serenade of the lake
Stars shining down in their million pinprick glory

I glanced at her tent to see if she was looking

She wasn't

I sniffed my fingers carefully

They do smell like poo

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Happy Springtime

Snow making that unique 'crunching' sound is underfoot
Telling me that the temp is somewhere around 20 degrees Farenheit
As long as I keep moving my feet wont get cold
Though my steel toe boots have seen better days

The grey sky is greyer in areas
Particularly along the northern horizon
Where I can see curtains of snow
As millions of unique flakes make their way to the ground

My next step is onto seemingly virgin territory
No footsteps to lead the way
I slip instantly and almost fall
The devious newly fallen snow successful at hiding some ice once again

My moist breath has made icy little tendrils out of my mustache
I occasionally touch them with my tongue
Just for fun
Feeling the icy crunch as I apply a little pressure

My phone buzzes lightly in my pocket
It may be important so I take a quick look
It's an alarm I set to go off this time every year
Telling me that it's now officially Springtime

Lest all the ice and snow would have me forget

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Cancer, My Friend, My Lover, Me

Oh cancer
Thou art my only friend

You bonded with me
More quickly than most
Showing that despite the reviews
I am in fact a hospitable host

Tucking up in the most forbidding of nooks and crannies
Spreading exponentially throughout
Loving me as much as any old rocking chair granny
Whispering that you love me even when told to get out

You lay with me every night
More intimate than sex
Inside and all around me
Loving me far more than my ex

When others decided what was best for me
And removed some vital organs
In a desperate attempt to rid me of thee
You simply popped up in some other place
Filling and feeding on the void as roots from a mighty tree

It's gotten so I send you birthday cards
To commemorate the day you became real
And though you never respond
You occasionally tweak my pain centers
Spinning my head as the brain reels

I can't tell where you let off and I pick up anymore
If I touch myself am I touching you or me?
You may have even picked the lock upon my soul
As surely and deftly as if you'd had a key

Oh cancer; as we slowly become one
And know that I will never mend
You are the best friend I could ever have
Here at the bitter end

Flashlight Up Da Nose!

Mysterious blue stick of power
I worship the electrons that flow from you
Shining my light to the tallest tower
And if I stick my light up my nose
Allowing the light to pinkly shine on through

Just like Rudolph
The red nosed Germanic mechanic

Monday, March 18, 2013

Post St Patrick's Day Morn

Her Irish brogue awakened me
And for a split second I thought it was cute
Until I realized how sick I felt
Holy gods what did I do last night?

Shielding my eyes from the morning light streaming in through the window
I caught sight of a flash of red hair

A ginger

She was wearing a cream cable knit sweater
And not a stitch else
What, was she waiting for her fisherman husband
To come back from the sea?

"My husband is out at sea for a week"


She knelt on the bed
Softly kissing my cheek

"You're so cute
I told you we had an open marriage"

I admitted to vaguely recalling such a thing
Before making a run to the bathroom
To throw up
But in a very dignified way
Accompanied by her light laughter

I didn't appreciate it
And scowled out the door to her
Which just made her laugh harder

I wasn't sure why I'd come home with her
Though she did have quite a wiggle to her as she walked

After getting dressed
I took her up on an offer of breakfast
And allowed myself to be led out the door and down the street
Which made me growl as the fresh air hit me
Turning my stomach all the more

It was mostly a foul feeling blur until the food showed up
Filling our small bench seated cubby of the pub with deliciously nauseating smells

I expressed distaste
She shrugged and started eating anyways
Not wishing to be outdone
I followed suit

And wonders unceasing
With every passing bite of whatever magical food this was
I felt a little better
Soon I noticed that I rather liked the look of her
She wasn't half as annoying
Her face a little more comely
Lips slightly inviting

I think I'll have to figure out what her name might be
Perhaps she's looking for another husband

Belated Birthday

Measuring carefully around the circumferential
A number came up which struck me as almost existential

Not a common denomination
But a surprising combination
Equaling the date of my birthday celebration

So I took a quick break
For a slice of birthday cake

Too bad my birthday was three weeks ago

Sunday, March 17, 2013

Instant Karma show interviews me!

About 13 minutes long.  I was interviewed by the wonderful Valerie Clark for her Instant Karma show.  Had a wonderful time, and was so pleased with how good she made me sound.

Friday, March 15, 2013

The Little Guy Probably Went Blind

I had a place where I got back to nature
I'd remove my clothes and relax in nude stature
Which is a fine sight though public opinion varies

Then one fine St Patrick's Day morn
I discovered a leprechaun there hunting for fairies
But unfortunately for him 
When he looked up all that he saw were my berries

The Last Thank You

Miss Manners always said
When someone does something nice for you
You should always thank them
And if you cannot in person
Send a thank you card in your stead

This I have always done
Which went well and good and proper
Until one day

I got a thank you card for my thank you card
It was intricate and hand made
Better than the one I'd sent
By at least 44 percent

This would not do!
So I sent a thank you card
Saying in no uncertain terms
That this thank you was for the thank you
To the thank you that I had sent
In thanks for the lovely lemon bundt cake
That I had enjoyed at tea with the ladies
Only a fortnight ago
In the fancy club on Main Street
Just around two o'clock on a Tuesday

This card I sent was the best I could manage
It had frills and flourishes to give a craftsman the chills
At the time and expense that it must have taken
For I am a woman of many a talent
And the world would be best not to forget that
Thank you very much

I put it in the post
And that was that

Or so I thought

For a week later
There was another thank you card
Thanking me profusely for the thank you card
That I had sent in thanks for the thank you card
That I had received in thanks for my thank you card
That I had sent in thanks for the lemon bundt cake
Eaten with gusto at tea time on a Tuesday at the club on Main

Where would this end?
I wailed and pulled at my hair
Which was a wig of great cost
So I stopped immediately

I just won't send another
I thought to myself
That will put a stop to this

And so it went
For two whole weeks
Every day of which
I stopped and I stared at the breathtaking thank you card I had last received
Until I could take it no more

And I made and sent one again
Hoping almost selfishly
That perhaps the woman had died in the interim
So that this cycle could end with dignity

With a fervent prayer to all that was on high
As I dropped the card in the Post
That this would be the last that I would ever have to send
I turned to go back to my cottage

And dropped dead on the sidewalk
My beautiful sun hat
The one with the rose colored ribbon
Fluttered down beside me

The last Thank You sent at last

Thursday, March 14, 2013


Fireplug pulled itself free of the water main
Leaving a jagged pipe sticking up
Water fountaining in it's wake
As it hurried away to discover the world

Eight weary years later
It's fire engine red color
Now painted over and over again
With garish and intricate colors and designs
A few travel stickers from around the world
Stuck here and there upon it's body

Fireplug came to rest
In the prettiest garden it could find
Overlooking the ocean
Near a bench

Happy to just sit there forever
Staring out at the waves
Being peed on by the occasional dog

What more could a well travelled fireplug ask for

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Great Chief Messypants

I really should remember her name

The three of us were in my best friend Jeff's tent
Out on his lawn under the oak trees
Jeff, this girl, and me

Jeff's dog was running amuck in the yard as usual
He was a beautiful Husky brand dog
With those ice blue eyes typical of the breed

Jeff and I were both about eight years old
I don't know how old the girl was
Maybe she was supposed to be babysitting us
Who knows after all these years

What was important
Was that she was scaring the crap out of us

"I can feel it coming
It's almost here"
She intoned to us
Giving us a look

As if on cue
The wind began blowing
The twilight sky darkening quickly
Jeff and I looked at each other
Rethinking the wisdom of a tent sleepover

She looked out the tent flap
Her long brown hair whipping in the wind

"I see him!"
She cried
"Call your dog in here
He will be taken if he stays out there"

One of us asked her who was out there
Who did she see?

She turned wild eyes upon us
"It's the Great Chief Messypants!"

I know
It takes some of the punch out when I can't remember the actual name she used for the Great Chief

Jeff was just outside the tent by then
Frantically collecting his rowdy dog

When they finally tumbled inside
I asked him if he had seen anything

He said he didn't know

I asked if I could look

Our resident girl fixed me in her gaze

"As long as you don't look directly at him
Otherwise he will capture your spirit!"

She had put her face about two inches from mine as she said those last words

Needless to say
I about peed myself

Completely terrified
I slowly looked outside
There were leaves blowing around
And out if the corner of my eye
I thought I saw someone

I pulled my head back inside
And joined Jeff next to his dog

"You two are wise to stay close to (whatever the dogs name)"

She stood on her knees as dignified as she could in the little tent

"He will protect you from Great Chief Messypants!"

With that
She left us alone in the tent
Terrified that some crazy old Indian Chief spirit was going to steal our spirits in the night

I remember we slept
With dog between us

Every time the dog moved
We tried to hold our spirits a little tighter

Well, at least I did

And I still can't remember her name
Or even if she was real

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Bad Bunnies

Poofy rabbit eyed us
From amidst it's rabbit puff
Surrounded by rabbit riches
Never satisfied with enough

A bowl of food
A water bottle as well
Maybe some Timothy hay
In a hanging basket with a bell

Bunnies are not recommended
After all they are only rodents
Of small and unusual size
With wicked sharp teeth
Within cute pink mouths
With which to rip tear and incise

I am not impressed
With the fluffy tails
Nor with silken long ears
For which the oohs and aahs never fail

It is rather cute
Though I'd never tell her that
When the white one sticks her head in a ball
Wearing it like a tiny blue rubber bunny crash hat

Mostly the bunnies stink
Seemingly pooing their own weight in pellets
Each and every day
If you think that's no big deal I invite you to smell it

At night the bunnies run around
In a white and grey dervish whirl
Bouncing off the sides of the cage
Yelling bunny curse words
Wicked enough to make my beard curl

I'm not sure what they hope to accomplish
With this nightly activity
Maybe some mad scientist bunny told them lies
That doing so would release them from captivity

When they sleep all stretched out nose to toe
Their little whiskers atwitch
Dreams running through their bunny heads
Perhaps that's exactly what they dream of
Escaping in a centrifugal bunny explosion
Of cage parts poo and rabbit feed
Creeping in to my darkened bedroom
Lighting upon my heaving chest as I snore
Staring me down and whispering in hushed bunny tones


Sunday, March 10, 2013

Tiny Turtles

The simplest answer is always the most correct
That's why I went with the tiny turtles

Breeding them down that small wasn't really that hard
Just took a lot of time
I went with painted turtles
As they seem to be the smartest
And are happy in a liquid environment

Generation after generation of painted turtle
Got smaller and smaller in my lab

I was training them too as I went
Not that they could pass that on
But to breed in intelligence as well

Six years after I started
I had my smart tiny turtles

There were problems though
I won't lie
At first, they kept on drowning
As there wasn't any air under the membrane

What's that?
You want to know about the membrane?
I'll get to it

The solution of course was total liquid ventilation
I simply used conditioned perfluorocarbon
Instead of plain water

After learning how to breathe the liquid
The turtles were happy enough I assure you!

The training of the tiny turtles was a bit challenging
But with the judicious use of electrical prompts
I was able to get my desired results

As I've clearly laid out
I have crafted a changeable braille tablet!

You see
The tiny turtles interpret the electrical signals
And move into formations underneath the membrane
Forming the braille writing
Isn't it marvelous!

There is one small snag
Though I think people will get past it
Whenever the unit is powered down
The tiny turtles always revert to a familiar pattern

One that spells out:

"Please help us. We are being held prisoner inside this device"

Perhaps I bred them a bit too smart

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Moping Bench

Moping bench moped
Bringing down everyone around

Little boys with cowlicks
Little girls in pigtails
Men in high and tights
Women in beehives

Moping bench was having a right good depression

The townsfolk banded together
Determined to improve the bench's lot in life
Moving it to a sunny meadow
Near a creek where fish sparked in the light

Moping bench took in his surroundings for a bit
And decided that things definitely could be worse
So thence being known by the folk of the town
As the Just About But Not Quite Happy With Life Bench

An Illusion of What Was

The lake is still beneath it's inches thick covering of ice
It is early March after all
The orange snowfence on the beach blights the view somewhat
But not too much

The stones beneath my butt are cold
The kind of cold that won't go away
That will seep up into you as you sit
Until you get up moving like the old man you are becoming

Beneath those paving stones is the concrete seawall
The seawall that your grandfather poured himself
Some sixty plus years ago
Somewhere down there
Underneath the blown in sand and light coating of snow
Is your mother's initials and the year it was set
She was about ten years old

I'm sitting on what looks like a stoop facing south
From the front of an old brownstone building
Sort of
It's a set of steps with walls jutting alongside them
I like to sit here on the wall on one side or the other
Usually dependent upon where the sun is

At the top of the stairs
On either side
Are two lampposts
Originally black they are now white
With fancy little tops on them for the lights

There is a sidewalk leading up behind me
To the house
This is an old concrete walk covered in newer pavers
Much like the ones on the steps

All this that I've described
Is all that is left

And sitting here I can almost pretend that it is as it was
My back to reality
The steps and beach much the same as they always have been
I can deny what really is

Until I have to go back inside
And turn around
Reality not what the faded picture in my mind is at all

Grandfather's cottage just a wispy mirage
Batted away with the turn of a head

Friday, March 8, 2013

Non Inspiratione

There is no rhyme this time
As the pen almost meets the paper
In a slow motion mime

No words come out
As though the ink has run out
There will be no rhymes today

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Once And Future Beast

The Duke of Goat sat upon his throne
With it's three mounted sheep's heads
Covered in soft fluffy sheepskin

He tapped his cloven hoof nervously
As he waited to see the bride his father had chosen for him
Mad thoughts raced through his head

"What if she is ugly?
One of those four horned sheep women?"
Or worse
She could be one of those sheep who shaved in inappropriate ways
Ways that only a sheep from the wrong end of town would do

Unconsciously his fingers were stroking the sheep's head on the left
Between it's stiff tanned ears
Yet another nervous tic
Amongst a long list of such things

The breeding process to get goat-men and sheep-women has been fraught with issues
Many undesirable outcomes had been seen and culled as needed

Nothing had gone to waste though
As evidenced by the stately throne the Duke was sitting upon

The current state of the species
Had most males with the upper torso, arms and head if the ancient humans
With everthing below that more resembling a goat
Why the men were called 'goats' instead of the more classical 'satyr' was a mystery to most

Females were usually having the reverse
With human lowers and sheeplike uppers
And were preferred to be this way by most of the male goats
With origins of that preference likely laying deep within misogyny
This chimeric mix of parts the result of thousands of very strange courtships

Suddenly the Duke heard the clip clop of hooves
Accompanied by the soft slapping of feet upon the plank flooring
He apprehensively gripped the woolen heads on either armrest
Biting his lower lip in anticipation

As the small group came into view
His bride marked by her white sheer gown
Her long statuesque legs visible in silhouette

The straps of her dress resting lightly upon the whitest, softest looking woolen coat he'd ever seen
Her petite face looking intently his way
Her long ears twitches slightly at the sight of him

She was perfect

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Of Aspirations, Itches, Lost Things & Pee Dreams

I strive to be a builder in my dreams
To take sticks and mud
Or steel and stone
In the making of something grand

Or something not

Maybe just something useful
That gets touched every day
But always subtle and never noted
Sturdy and needed in every way

Instead I pick at scabs
That itch until they drive me mad
Which can't be scratched enough
Never paying off like a deadbeat dad

Or I look for things I'll never find
Always just out of sight
Perhaps around the next corner
Trying with all of my might

People get lost and looked for too
Though I seldom know the who
Just that they are lost and need finding
The fact that I'll never succeed neverminding

The pee dreams are the worst
Having to pee but not able
No matter how I pose and swear
The water never comes

This means of course
That I have to wake up
Or I'll wet the bed
There is no veiled meaning here

As for the others it's always a mystery
With the itch that won't be satisfied
And the things and anonymous people
Who refuse to let themselves be found


Poetry is for suckers
It often pokes at your psyche
Looking for holes
That it can wriggle itself into

A tear rolled down the lamb's face
Keeping pace with the progress of my knife
Drawn slowly across it's snowy white throat
It's innocent eyes losing focus as the wound drained it's life

See what I mean?

But wait
What if that lamb was evil?

A red glow overtook the look of innocence
The lamb's head raised up with a snarl upon it's little upper lip
Baring it's teeth that weren't there a minute ago
Lunging at me as I tried to roll away
Burying demon teeth deep in my hip

Monday, March 4, 2013

Sit, Trigger; Sit

Pulling the trigger on a gun
Causes a precise chemical reaction
A small contained explosion
Channeled and chambered to propel in ballistic fashion

Drinking too much
Triggers a predictable thing
A headache and retching
The result of alcohol poisoning

Eating strange food and drink
Can trigger Montezuma's revenge
A burning clenching fever dream
Dubbed worth it in the end

When the president says "Jedi mind meld"
It triggers a face palm
Every explosion I hear
Triggers a flashback to Vietnam

The right word whispered in my ear
Will cause me to buy
While another strategic phrase
Will trigger the sell off

Telling the wrong tale from your past
Or spinning a certain fantasy
Will trigger me to go fetal with fear
Your predator personage all that I see

Thou shalt label such things
To keep my eyes away
Warning labels and safety gates
To prevent the poison trigger or treacherous fall

The act of living
Triggers death itself
Everything is a trigger for something
No mere warning will ever be enough

Friday, March 1, 2013


Words can be merry
Words can be scary
Words can be witty
Words can be light

Oh that they could be hairy
That those wordbeards could dance warily
Upon my blank pages
Each and every night

Place Progression

There is a place
Full of something
Maybe full of answers
Or perhaps more questions

Down this path
This barely visible path
With an occasional ancient cobble
Poking through the knee high scrub

Past the rotten log
With the partly hollow inside
Decorated with mushrooms and moss
A lucky toad's high rent abode

At the very shallow lake
With the shimmering clear waters
Showing everything to any observer
Sometimes what they least want to see

There you'll find what you seek
Where they lyric takes life
And you might not get what you want
But you'll surely get what you need

Then it's away from the shallow lake
Following your footsteps in the loamy soil
Crunching the occasional small shell
To the coolness of the trees once again

Past that same rotten log
Where the toad has rearranged the place
Adding a few sticks and a daisy
To spruce up the joint

Back up the path
Grasses brushing your calves
Tripping over new and different cobbles
On this ancient forgotten road

Now with a memory of that place
That fades in the details
With every passing step
Until only what is necessary remains

Nestled just where it needs to be