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Copyright: Fred Robel, and Fritz365 2010-2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog's author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Fred Robel and Fritz365 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Sunday, June 28, 2015

Silence

Silence
It's killing me slowly
Without an echo
Lacking waveform

No matter how hard I bang upon the keyboard
There is no accompanying clatter click of the keys
Whether the dusty typewriter from nineteen oh three
Or my buckle spring IBM Model M

Individual letters appear as they seem they should
But are lacking a soul
Forming sad depressive words
That trail off in suicide notes
Voted off the island though nobody votes

Walking in the overgrown lot next door
Where old sticks and past year's leaves litter the forest floor
My feet can feel what is beneath them
Breaking a dry stick here
Crushing a pile of brown oak leaves there
With no accompanying crunch crackle crisp peaks for the ear
Nothing is transmitted
A giant has sucked away all the atmosphere
Holding it hostage within her lungs
Until stagnation sets in
Exhalation never comes
And she turns blue

Keying the RUN command for a new mp3
Pressing play on a favorite compact disk
Activating spindles inside the cassette player
Cycling through the four tracks upon the 8-track
Lowering the stylus to the vinyl
Cranking the spring to spin the cylinder
Poking the piano player with a ten dollar tip

All result in the same flat formulation
A lack of notes within the staff
Clef both treble and bass
Seeming such a waste
This lack of cacophonic joy

An unwound broken sound toy


Sunday, June 14, 2015

Button-Eyed-Doll

Rag-doll bits and pieces
Frayed around the edges
Until nothing but threads remain
A screen door skin
Letting everything out
Everything in

Mismatched button eyes
One with two holes
The other with four
Looking out at the world
Remembering all the images
All the hands
All the breasts
All the kisses
All the pets

Recalling that far away time
That hands had carefully sewn together
All the bits that the relentless march of time
Was now slowly tearing apart


WarGod

Peace should only be found in pieces
A little here
A little there
Too much peace
Would prosperity me right out of business

So I'm always present at the point of engender
Prodding a war or two to life
By blowing upon the coals of unrest
Feeding upon the resulting strife

Sowing the seeds for bullets over here
While over there bear witness
To the beginnings of a brass casing forest
Future food to sustain steel weapons
That my worshiping children will need

Greed feeds most of my needs
With little help or urging
My part played by little men
In ridiculous clothes
Red faced with heavy feet
Followed by unshorn sheep that bleat

Sometimes too much success is achieved
My belly stretched and aching from the gorge
With only a few survivors
Mixed with the rubble and leavings

Several generations are required for us all to recover
Until I'm hungry again
So I introduce a Cain to an Abel
Both full of fire all willing and able

"Cain, this is Abel
Abel, this is Cain
(and he really seems to hate you!)"

Just another endless cycle
Which to many would be a bore
Though no matter how many times go by
It excites and nourishes me
As I am the Goddess of War


Friday, June 12, 2015

Tree Study #5

With gnarled fingers of white bark
A treetrunk reaches for LeCar
A sad result of both being planted in the wrong place
And of being raised in the wrong sort of forest

Treetrunk reaches for LeCar

Treetrunk reaches for LeCar

Treetrunk reaches for LeCar

Treetrunk reaches for LeCar

Treetrunk reaches for LeCar

Treetrunk reaches for LeCar

Treetrunk reaches for LeCar

Eventually all the reaching grants results
A lesson in tenacity
A story of love
The heart beating ten sizes too big birch tree
And a little red French car
Brought together at last
A marriage of wood and steel

What nature hath joined
Let no man tear asunder


Saturday, June 6, 2015

Wintry Inspection Blues

Twisting
Turning
Torque tight
SB's
AD's
Updates right
Intergranular
Exfoliation
Light bright
Wish may
Wish might
Inspect this plane tonight

From the fourth button going up on my blue work shirt 
The world was calm as can be
A dim compartment lit by my flashlight
The air still and smelling of airplane
As a newborn baby smells to its mother
That's what the aircraft smelled of to me
Enveloped inside of it
Warmed by the hot air tubes that ran through
Kept company by several dead bugs
And what was left of a twig-and-fluff bird's nest

From the fourth button going down on my blue work shirt
The world was full of wind and snow
With temperatures measured in the below
Darkness brightened by nothing but far-off blue taxiway lights
A dim glow for the hills of snow
As they built up all around
This torso and pair of legs protruding from the bottom of an aircraft
Perched upon a wobbly military green B-4 work stand
Toes going numb from the chill of frozen steel toe shoes

Singing the distinctly filthy color collar sound
Of the midnight shift outside in the winter
Inspection blues


Monday, June 1, 2015

Not Today

Not today
Will the Man beat me down
Instead of hammer hell bent
The other way around

Not today
For there is a presence in the garden
Striding through the yellow slinky seed strands
Gifts from the trees
Twining together in an almost erotic way
Blowing with the spring breezes
Bringing on the heartiest of sneezes
Stirred by those ever growing closer feet

Not today
As the maniac stands in the door
Angrily ajar light streaming inside
Early midges swarm past in golden rays
Eager to transition to that promised land not outside
Only to cling to whitewashed walls and die
With tiny appendage hooks hanging them in place

"Not today!"
I cry as paper presses purposefully into my palm
Black ink oozing to form freakish imagery upon the floor
Devoid of any meaning to me in the moment
And seeing my confusion the madman mutters
"You have until Friday to cut your grass
Or the association will fine you fifty dollars"
Sending me to my knees wallowing with inky coolness

Not today
I think to myself as the last of the twilight fades to black
Not aloud
For the zoning man left hours back
But to myself not because of any lingering lack of reality luster
Only due to one simple situational reality:

The lawnmower is busted