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Copyright: Fred Robel, and Fritz365 2010-2017. 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


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