Meowlloween

All the hepcats and kittens
Filed their claws in anticipation
Adjusting their ears
Cleaning their fur

And hacking up the inevitable hairball

Trying to forget their tedious day jobs
With collared kittens in the call center
Mewing instructions into their headsets
Tech support for the feline set

All those hard to install games of cat and mouse

Finally the appointed hour arrived
With a simple gonging of the wall clock
Spurring padded paws to the foredeck
Ready to walk the streets at twilight

It was trick-or-treat time at last

Aircraft Mechanic In Situ

The tall tails greeted me
Bathed in golden liquid sunrise
Just as they had
Thousands of times before

Static in the still air
Crouched potential
Seemingly ready to spring into the sky

The same left turn down hangar row
That I'd made for the first time
More than twenty years ago
Now marked by some new hangars
Newer types of aircraft
Fresh young faces
With so many new names

Then
 I learned
And I broke a lot of things
Slowly learning to heal instead of hurt
And never would have guessed
That I'd still be here two decades later

Now
I watch
And I try to teach what I remember
To keep the metal in the air
For as long as it needs to be
And never planning
On where I may be two decades hence

Though let's be honest
I'll probably still be here

Wishing the Days Away

On Monday

I wished that it was Friday

On Tuesday

My thoughts were much the same

On Wednesday

I celebrated Hump Day

On Thursday

I hoped for Friday again

But Friday

I never really saw it

Perishing away just short

From the stress of anticipation

Four Party Plate

I found an errant Democrat
In my publicly funded soup
So I spooned him out quickly
And he did a mid-air loop de loop
Showing off a chameleon skin
Of ever changing politics

At the sight of these demo-antics
The Republicans in my gravy
Espoused a formal protest in mash
Protecting their potato parcels
Searching out errant migrant peas
Using spoons with which to smash

My deluxe Green Party side salad
Was not to be outdone
Offering clean energy from cow farts
Collected in special bags upon their bums

A Libertarian side of cream corn
Solidified its presence too
With a classic symbol of their own
An anarchy "A" painted with thick red goo

I sat back aghast
At what my meal had become
Asking aloud half to myself
"Why do they even run?"

And this is what they said:

I don't know much about big government
And I know I may be wrong
But there's a bigger chance that you are
So that's the refrain of my song

You're wrong!
Your platform it just ain't right
There is no visible support for it
Just puppet strings into the night

You're wrong!
It's the one thing I can count on
At least until it gets up over ten
Then I'll make two little kid fists
And have to start all over again

Tuning out the dull roar rising from the self-edifying edibles upon my plate
I slid back my chair with a dull chalkboard cry
To rise carrying the thick white supper plate with one hand
And quickly raising the lid on the chrome Bed Bath and Beyond trash can with the other
As I turned my face away from the ever ripening raucous stench

Because this meal was spoiled

Cheapskate Mekanik

You've done it again
With your Flea Market brand tools
Bought on the spur of the moment
Along the side of a rural route
Amidst fluttering Confederate battle flags
With judgmental white skulls looking down upon you
From the center of each printed St Andrew's Cross

That new three piece set
Of Vice Grips that just won't grip
Made of coated metal too soft for the job
With teeth that flatten upon the first use
And the chrome just flakes away
Cutting your fingertips as it goes

Your glossy looking pliers
Massive Chunnel Locks that won't lock at all
Interlocking adjustable crescent shaped grooves
That jump out of place
With the slightest of pressure applied
Their motto of "Tightest lock on earth!"
A stamped steel testament
To the time their marketing department lied

An assortment of combination wrenches
With both open and box ends
No attempt at a brand name upon their flanks
Just a simple mark saying "CHINA" in the center
Arranged in sizes that are simple suggestions
Judging from how they slip off of bolts and nuts
In both standard and metric size

The only thing worth a damn that you bought
Is that hickory handled ball peen hammer
Which is fortunate for you indeed
Because you'll need something dependable  available
To bash your skull with
Each and every time all the other new tools you got
Fails you in the worst possible way

Self v Self

In the beginning there was darkness
Until I stubbed my toe
Swore out loud
Stepped in a dog turd
And finally found the light switch
Right where it always had been
On the light pink tiled bathroom wall

At least since 1968

Then there was me
Staring back at me
Reflected from the tin silver
Through the thin substrate
All at the speed of light

So I blinked

And there was a younger me
Clean shaven with lots of hair
A hundred and fifty pounds lighter
Zits on his chin from a football helmet strap
Without a clue in the world

So I had to look away from that asshole

My fingers found the septic system suitable toilet paper
Installed as it usually was
The wrong way on the roll
Tearing some away to wipe off my foot
The thin tissue predictably tore
Smearing dog shit on my thumb

I looked back up at the mirror
As I tossed the waste into the toilet
The image looking back at me
Just another bald-headed fat man with a beard
Washing his hands disgustedly in his middle age

Inspection Imagery

There's a small circular reflection
That mirrors things back to me
From hard to reach and dark places
Comes a little reversed reality

A crack revealed from under the grime
A corrosion bubble about to burst
A loose fastener rattling away
An unlubricated slide grinding time

It all looks fine as the plane lines up on final
But from the moment the tires squawk
Flaws start to appear
Growing larger as it taxis near

Brakes set and chocks blocked in
The time clock starts to steadily spin
Only four thousand man-hours until we are done
Start opening and cleaning so inspection can begin!