Tree Study #2

Acorns accumulate
Dragging down the limbs ever so slightly
Flexing the stiff hardwood
With the kiss of tension and compression

A few squirrels happen by
Tiny clawed hands brushing the green 'corns
Still soft and sickly sour to their taste
One of those things that are passed down
But only believed once tried for themselves

As evidenced by a young squirrel in the background of the scene
Plucking a green acorn from a branch
Sampling the too tart nutflesh
A look of puzzlement upon the tiny pinched rodent face
Before spatting out the half chewed morsel
Like a professional tobacco chewer aiming for an invisible spittoon

The nut with a bite out of it
Tossed into a nearby stream with a half mighty throw
Perhaps to inspire some tiny computer maker downstream
Into having a new product logo

Or maybe not

Signature thick green leaves flutter in the breeze
Coming late and staying later
Sometimes to flutter down upon the first or second snows of winter
Much to the frustration of the gardener

Cycle performed year after year
For a century perhaps
Maybe more
Such is the life of an oak

Tree Study #1

A yellow splintered heart for your thoughts
Or some sappy dreams to hang from my boughs
A dusting of yellow pollen in the springtime
Tall swaying perches to rest weary wings
Does my pine-ness offend thee?
Such a shame
For my roots go deep
With an uncontrollable urge to populate
In a barrage of bomb-like pine cones every fall

Tree study at 12:28 AM

Craft Fragile

I started in the middle
Going a million miles per hour
Or so it felt at the time
Excited adrenaline gripping the hands
Gripping the throttles

And since the middle came first
That's just where it stayed
All stickey-outy center locking bits
On the first page where it really ought not be

Next came a cleansing fire
Where memories and guilt are confessed
Into the furnace then up in smoke
Mingling with the stars
Until indistinguishable from another galaxy splotch

About then a squirrel went by
Inspiring something different
On acorns, airships and weightless wood
For another puzzle pile entirely

Every saga needs a dog
And thus it was so
In all its optimistic furry glory
A canine companion fell into place

Some desert scenes
And a few in Vegas
With several pushing the story on
Lots that kind of did not
In no particular order
A sure victim of too many Tarantino movies
Until at last an order was found

With tacky glue from Elmer's
Super glue from super
All the bits cemented into place
An abstract albatross abomination
With a dingus as an afterthought at the end
And we don't touch it anymore
Even if a flaw is found
For with the even lightest of touch
The whole lot would collapse into the ground

No, I'M Spartacus!

If I could just remove this identity
Then I could be truly free
No expectations or repercussions
Just honest kudos or condemnations

In the old noir novels
It's the fingerprints that always give you away
With the private dick tricking you into drinking a brandy
Before bidding goodnight
To grab your glass with his handkerchief
So that Hoover's experts can suss out who you really are
With those unique to a fault
Mosaic of twisty drunken sworls
That definitely have to go

I walked on down to the railroad tracks
The ones at the end of the road by the swamp
And waited patiently for the evening train
Catching it unawares
Reaching out
Letting my fingertips ride along the bumpy side

Before I knew it
That Amtrak was just a receding red flashing light
A de crescendo clickety clack steel rail attack
A far off crossing horn dopplering away in the night
Leaving me with shaking knees
Chuck Taylors swaying on shifting grade stones
Fingers on fire it seemed
Inspiring a fear of looking
But I did anyways

Mostly
It looked as if I'd tried to grab onto
A fleeing cheese grater
That had tried to run from the scene
Fighting back with all of its means
The actuality of what the sixty mile per hour
Corrugated steel coach sides had done
Approximating what that hypothetical
Kitchen implement on the run
Was capable of

Even a man as mad as myself
Could see how even a child would
Be able to scotch tape paste these fingertips
So that any Barney Fife could ink-stamp-identify
This hulking hunk of human that is me

There is no sense denying it
I am Spartacus

Katamari Hipster

Hipster season was in full swing
With the downtown streets ringing with their calls
"Oh, I was into that before it was so popular"
And a whole lot of
"I know, right?  It is just so goddamned authentic!"

With that cry
They summon one another to the area
Hipster whalesongs echoing off the buildings
A haunting sound for every girl and boy
But irresistable to others just like them

And so they came
With their hair pinned down
Under a force of a thousand hippos
Rigid in place
Both with beard and on top of the head
Whether running, walking, or wrestling about
Those magnificent coifs didn't move a millimeter out of order

Which was when the trouble really started
As Hipster #1 entered stage left
Crossing paths with a floating plastic bag from the local mini-mart
Dancing upon the wind in that lovely way that they do
Usually until they end up in the ocean
To migrate to that mythical garbage patch in the Pacific
Or eaten by a misguided leatherback turtle
Sucked into its horror show maw of a thousand angled teeth
Having been mistaken for an errant jellyfish

Though clearly this particular plastic bag did not share that destiny at all
And was promptly impaled upon the spiked end of Hipster #1's perfect hair do
Plastering itself awkwardly against his scalp
Half obscuring the staggeringly magnificent beard and mustache show going on down there
All without the cognitave notice of said Hipster #1
Being as he was
Much too busy arguing with a passerby about the quality of a certain cup of coffee
The recycled content of the cup that held it
And the state of the other person's fingernails

Bored of that discussion before it was concluded
Hipster #1 turned abruptly away and began walking again
Plastered plastic bag joined by a ring of keys
Skewered out of the hand of a Russian land lady
Who had just now been so unfortunate as to be unhip directly in the path of this hip person

Bag wiggling in the breeze
Keys jingling with every step and head sway
Both clinging like velcro to Hipster #1's head

Without warning Hipster #1 turned into a corner bar
The one that had been run down and dingy since 1958
Now a run down and dingy hipster hangout with ironic beer on tap
At least until all the uncool people discover it
But that hasn't happened yet
So he orders up a canned Pabst Blue Ribbon beer
Popping the old school pull tab and dropping it into the can
Because that's what a man does
Damn the risk of ingesting sharp metal things
Downing the fermented mess in one tough man draught
Then daintily dabbing at waxed mustache with a cloth handkercheif
Carefully folded back up for the back pocket of his jeans

The empty can of Pabst got impaled upon his hair
To be displayed along with the plastic bag, purloined silver keys, and impeccable hair product use
Just the start of an offering to the Hipster King of Kornhoe, Kansas
The coolest of the uncool
The hippest of the ironically hip

The so old that it has gone from cool to uncool and back to cool again clock tower rang once
Marking one hour past noon
And four more hours to gather all the hip and secretly better than you things
For careful mounting upon that perfect dome of hair

Aha!
A used bookstore
Hipster #1 heads straight over to it
Thinking that there just may be the most appropriately worn paperback edition to add

"Of Mice and Men" is cool, right?
You nod in absent minded answer
As if he is talking directly to you

"Well fuck, I'll have to think of another title, since you've ruined it now"
He sulks
Walking between the stacks of musty basement smelling books

Because if you like it
Then there is no way that he can too

Miss Bonnet Beetle

The beetle in her cruel bonnet
Slowly burrowed into her insipid brain
Taming the squishy beast
Throwing a saddle atop it
And installing a set of reigns

Now in a tiny cowboy hat
Perched smartly betwixt antennae
Miss Bonnet Beetle steers her course in full control
Quelling fears from the host
With strokes of mild neurotoxin
Administered as crystal beetle tears

One windy day the bonnet blew away
Leaving Miss Bonnet Beetle exposed to the world
Lucky for her the wind fluffed the surrounding hair a bit
With the experience best summed up with a passerby's comment
"Goodness, what a cute little cowboy hat!"

Miss Bonnet Beetle could be driving a tank in a past world war
With hat and beetle face poked up through a hatch in the cranium
Controlling with professional precision her host in daily activities
Signing her name to withdraw some cash
As it is time to see some of the world
Because as fun as this is for our Heroine Beetle
Her bucket list better get taken care of pretty soon

She is a beetle
After all

And before you shed a tear that the horrid woman will get control back
(There is a story there, that we don't have time to tell)
Sleep well with the hard shelled assurance
That there are plenty of fresh eggs maturing in that captive brain as well

Alt Universe Monster Truck Event

This SUNDAY!

SUNDAY!

SUNDAY!

Help us raise our voices to the LORD on His day!
Get your tickets now
And meet us at the downtown Civic Center
For monster car crushing
Earth tearing action!

Featuring Brother Randall Moss
Driving the 1994 Packard Special custom truck: Beast From Below
Going head to head with the favorite to win, Father Fritz Gunsheil!
As always, behind the wheel of The Great Redeemer
A modified Monster Studebaker blessed by the Pope himself!

This SUNDAY only!

Tickets available at TicketMan box office outlets everywhere

Read The Leaves

Oh soothsayer
What say you this year?
Is it time to hide under my bed?
To duck and cover with 1950's fear?

It seems you are a few months late
And that's ok
I can take what you are giving
Just write it down and send it my way

"On August the 7th, you will have a great difficulty"

Soothsayer
That's both oddly specific
And again not quite so clear
Perhaps you could aim a little tighter?
If you're going to pour some precog into my ear?

"If you vote as your heart tells you, you will rue the day"

Oh bother, there soothsayer
On which issue do you say?
Do you speak of Proposal A?
Or could it be B, C, or D?
I don't know what those are as of yet
I'll just have to wait and see

"Ignore my words at your own risk"

More like follow them and be a fool
Is more like the truth of things I bet

Farewell To Radio

So turn on the radio
Let's groove to the static
As that's all that's left now
Since The Man sold all the bandwidth away

"It's all valuable spectrum!"
That's what they'd said
As AT&T Verizon and all the rest
Queued up to buy it from the Fed

Till there was that one last Disc Jockey down in Idaho
Playing at Bumfuck megahertz on the AM band
Just his old glass record collection
And whatever anyone else had on hand

That went away too
And it was only then that we realized what we'd lost
In our drive for cheap and easy
Convenient and sleazy
Podcasts from everyone under the sun
Mouth breathers and professionals alike
Competing for invisible clicks
Plusses, despises, and likes

The ad revenue dried right up
Till everyone who was anyone doing it
Was just a part time hobbyist

And that's when they hit us
With super slick productions from the big companies
Assisted by Citizens United and the FCC
Jamming funnels in our ears
Pouring in their fears
Until we thought like them
Grooved to the same tunes as them
And of course
Signed away all our money to them

Till static was all that we could afford
Listened to on old radios we dumpster dived for
Powered by old car batteries and dreams
Listening for the odd suicide by pirate radio
Which would last for about five minutes
Before the drones zeroed in on them
Blowing them ten miles high

But for those five minutes
It was Down With Big Brother-Aerosmith-Black Flag-Beethoven-Satchmo

And we all wept when it was done

Day One

Inspecting a blind area on the 747
Thirty feet above the sun seared concrete
Stopped dead in my tracks by pain like fire
Unseen pointer finger decidedly aching and bloody
Impaled upon some carelessly pig-tailed safety wire

Day One + 5 min:
Beginning to despair
Supplies running low
Two Butterfingers plus a Snickers bar
And one half can of Monster left
Thank god my right hand is still free

Day One + 30 min:
Using now empty can of Monster
Plus loose candy wrappers
To create a distress flag device thing
Observed once on that survival show
I think a guy named Bear.... Something, does it?
This metal has some sharp edges

I'm frightened

Day One +32 min:
Cut finger on metal from can
It really stings!
Dropped all my stuff onto the concrete ramp
Leatherman along with it
Now using scraps of my underwear as band aid

It made sense in the moment
Though septic shock is now a possibility

Day One +42 min:
Another crew's ramp truck drove by
And I tried to reach the horn button on the control panel with my foot
Accidentally hit the emergency descent switch
Sending man-basket down to the ground with a clang

Currently hanging on

Day One +43 min:
Might not have been even one minute
Lost grip
Fell into a pile of old aircraft seats
May have broken my collarbone
Cushions are moldy
And appear to have poison ivy growing in them

Index finger still stuck on the wire up on the airplane wing
The rest of me on the ground
Seems worth it

Day One +74 min:
Tetanus shot updated
Left hand bandaged
Discovered it was Mexican day on the food truck
Guy took pity on my stupidity
Gave me a free taco pack
And a grapefruit soda to wash the Vicodin down

Seven Deaths for Seven Brothers

Reinventing the wheel once again for fun
It's what we do in this land of seven sons
All in line for the throne of sixteen gemstones
Named such for the gems that used to be inset across the top
Though now there is only three

All of these seven sons quested for their father the king
In search of the gems to complete him and his seat
Restoring glory to the land
Or so was the plan

With the first one was named Sven
Renowned for his strength
As a man named Sven just might arguably be
Traveled to the land of Iron seeking gemstone secrets
Bending steel bars over his head while trying to impress some ladies
Cracking his skull upon some exceptionally strong alloy one day

And then there were six

Olaf was number two
All of his brother and father never let him forget it
"You were born one too late" they'd say
"Too late to make a difference
You might as well find your own way"
So he did
Going half around the world and again
Discovering things he'd never tell about
Because seriously, they treated him so shitty they don't deserve to hear it
Marrying a lovely girl who looked nothing like him
Unlike all the women back in the kingdom who were practically pale skinned close kin

Which leaves only five

Freyide was pretty weak and dull
Altogether hopeless in most every endeavor
Unless it had to do with food
Though to everyone's surprise
Not least of all his own
With a bite into a strange foreign bread
He busted his eyetooth upon an odd unground bit of wheat
Which turned out to not be wheat at all
But one of the missing gems

You'd think there was a story about how it ended up in Freyide's bread
But nobody made it out alive
After Freyide turned into a rage monster from the pain deep inside
As the gem cut open his tender bits from in to out
Leaving that inn a smoking rubble
And that fifth son to crap out the gemstone alone in the woods
Naked and alone with no memory of what he'd done
Staggering back to the castle in a state of disarray
Trophy held high till he fell into the moat
Impaled upon a stake of paranoia placed there by his grandfather
Shiny stone held firmly in now rock hard hands

Four brothers left
But the king is up one more jewel
It's how he figures things upon his selfish ledger
Though it is not the way a father should think and overly cruel