Copyright Notice

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.

Friday, November 4, 2016

Bitter Orange

Ironically bitter orange
Took a bite of his opponent
Speaking through the mastication
Of her milky mammaries
Chunks of flesh flying
Through gaps in his teeth
As words flowed wordily
Insults insulting the insults
That came just before
Withering them to rotten ropy bits
Stuck along a throbbing red gumline

Reaching for an old ICBM
To pick at those necrotic specks
Poking with weaponized tip
Grasped by a toddler's teething urge
Cracking open the warhead
With a soothing and curious bite
Irradiating the spot where his soul should be
Leaving an x-ray imprint
Upon the skyscraper behind him
A solid gold image
Of what lurks inside

There a silhouette of an unpaid carpenter
Here a pile of broken hearts
Left from those who tried to love him
Over yonder an infant in tears
Inconsolable and insatiable
To feel the whole world in its hands
But not willing to pay the price for it

An infant orange window shopping tire kicker
Everything he had ever wanted
Especially coveting
All the precious people places and things
That should never be within his reach

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Indifferent Swamp Yeti

Indifferent Swamp Yeti just doesn't have an opinion
Whenever asked
He probably won't even tell you where he is from

Every poll that calls his yeti phone
Gets noncommittal treatment
Pledging himself to some obscure seventh party
From Abominable to Zed the Bearded Giant
The Hirsute Aboriginals will get the job done

This swamp yeti won't tell you what he wants on pizza
"Oh, just whatever you want is fine"
Is something that he would say
Sitting on rotting logs
Roundtable debating topics of the day

So when the pies arrive in thirty minutes flat
No enjoyment will cross his face
Beneath thick hair and masticating grace

Only a vague satisfaction of being full
After consuming yeti appropriate portions
And tossing the crusts to the side
Where the odd toothy creature chews rudely
With lipless maws chomping wide

Indifferent Swamp Yeti takes pride in only one thing
And that is his lack of commitment to anything
Politics, "Meh"
Religion, "Meh"
Yeti rights, "Meh"
It is the predictable response
That he has for everything

Wednesday, September 28, 2016


Carbon fiber flex
As the world fell
Acrophobia attack
Motionless in space
Earth pulling away
Sensation of movement
Gone in the moment

Stage after stage
Reenters the world
Captured in gravity well
Arcing to cinders
Ashes to ashes
Thrust to dust
Matter disseminated

Wednesday, September 21, 2016


Hands hesitant
Reaching to the page
Through pen, pixel, or mechanical machine
Words fall tritely
Results disappoint
So futile
Much fail


Monday, September 12, 2016

Faux Food

If you please
I would like some fake plastic cheese
To adorn my inedible sandwichery
All bread and bologna fakery
Any good taste but a tease

Gooey looking ooze
As pretend condiments snooze
Across bread-like buns
That would kill in one bite
But look fresh all damn night

Sunday, August 14, 2016

It Tastes Better When it isn't Yours

The fresh converts are the worst
Chasing me all around with glossy pamphlets
Stirring up the animosity and dirt

The newest diet
The holiest religion
The shiniest car
The latest addiction

From the main road out front
I heard tires upon the gravel
Turning perceptibly closer

I rose from my recliner
With an urgent throw of the wooden handle
Tossing me forward at an accelerated amble

Squeaking brakes
A car door's mechanical latch
Squonking of unlubricated hinges
Once going open
Once going close
Before the death rattle thunk
Of a misaligned door pin finding home

Our footsteps aligned like fate
That unseen boogey man's and mine
Him fast approaching my front door
Me decreasing the distance to the back

Two hands approach two doors
His to knock
Mine to throw the right angled finangle

Timed to the microsecond
He knocks as I open the catch
Accompanied by a faint voice
"Do you have a few moments to spare for the words of our savior Jesus Christ?"
My door swings open silently and I step outside
He knocks again as I close the door quickly

Nobody the wiser as I make my way back to my house next door
Crunching in the unraked from last fall's carpet of brown oak leaves
That I spend my afternoons while the neighbor is away
Upon the antique green rough cloth-covered lazy boy
Watching his HBO in his living room

Saturday, August 13, 2016

Cruising The Details

Propellers blur with the slurring of a roar
Individual beats too fast to ever count
The WAP of a propeller blade as it butter churns the air
The small explosion in each of the air cooled cylinders

Once lined up and rolling
A dirty grey streak upon the concrete strip
Calloused hands holding us down upon the earth
Until the tires are rolling as fast as they ever dare
With the fear of cord separation in their black rubber eyes

Control arm torques upon flight control
Pushing down upon weighted end
Fabric covered trailing edge soars upwards
Applying pressure downwards
An action-reaction in action

The nose soars upwards at an alarming rate
As the waterline tilts accordingly
Spilling all of its weight and balance secrets
Upon the altar of the fulcrum

Thrust and lift carry ever upward always forward
Are all the lights green?
Are all the important ones green at least?
Ok, let's go

They say that cargo doesn't care
In the way and manner of its handling
But those who say such things
Haven't been trapped in a tube with glittering wings

With all the monkeys in their crates being resigned to their fates
Sliding backwards like the unsecured cargo that they are
Approaching the aft pressure bulkhead at a terrifying pace
Saved only by a sharp downward pitch
Accompanied by unsettling weightlessness

Ladies and gentlemen
We have reached our cruising altitude

Monday, July 25, 2016

One Chef's Special - ISIS Smothered in Bacon Grease

ISIS smelt of the oldest of mummified feet
Freshly unwrapped after a thousand years bound
A fetid stench that spread for miles around
Turning even the most stolid of citizen
Until they crouched like a dog vomiting on the ground

ISIS rolls from town to town
Billowing dust and sand
Till all their asscracks were well packed
Not to be emptied
Till their black coward's headcloth is unwound

ISIS has a goal, they must, don't you?
A goal that an Armageddon can be bought for cheap
With the whipping of the weak
Boxes of surplus military rounds
And an endless parade of white Toyota jeeps

ISIS will be the star of the next Home Alone
Bamboozled by a clever child's tricks
Cardboard cutouts of military assets
Placed carefully in full silhouette
Will have them moving along to an easier target

ISIS reads their Quran with eyes firmly crossed
Understanding every other word at best
Ignoring all the words of kindness
Embracing all the horrid rest
Embroidering their 'kerchiefs with a black and white crest

ISIS days are filled with religious hate fueled madness
ISIS nights are olfactory visions chock full of bacon products
And dreams of drowning in virgins
Revealing that ISIS isn't that much different
Than a cheap strip club bacon buffet on a slow Tuesday night

Saturday, July 16, 2016

Watching the World Burn

Watching the world burn
In twenty sixteen
A Turkish coup de grâce
A nondescript truck in a crowd
Just the latest and greatest
Whose life really matters anyways?

Burning marshmallows on whittled sticks
Just for the cancerous burnt sugary taste
That hangs in the mouth
An aftertaste of Trump
To accompany a sore throat
After far too much cheering for the wrong team

A bomb in a crowd
Is just my favorite thing
Popping popcorn in time with shattering bones
When it stops your snack is done
Remove and enjoy
Don't forget the salt

Looking out the window
From a privileged life
There are no fires burning in my night
Gas is cheap
No outward signs of strife

To enjoy such sights and sounds
Just tune in the local internet stations
To witness a villain being the other side's hero
If you have no skin the game
It's guilt-free entertainment
From the warm glow of all color high def LCD

And if suddenly feel myself succumbing to a sleepy kind of rage
I can text
"I fucking care"
To a toll free number
Auto-donating five dollars to repair my conscience in paper mâché
And fight the power with fists that hardly matter
Striking their chest in a barely audible
Pitter patter

Watching the world burn
In twenty sixteen
With hatelove the latest newspeak
You know what I mean

Sunday, July 10, 2016

Xanthotype Sospeta

When I take flight
There will be none to see
Quivering in anticipation
I wait until your back is to me

Resplendent in yellow feathered head
Wings spread
Taking in the sunlight
Feet hooked on tight

Posed for your pleasure
Upon this random surface
I can see your horrifying pair of eyes
Gazing upon me
Prepping me in your mind
To be murdered kindly in a jar
Pinned on a board inside a slick wooden case
A neatly printed label just below me

Xanthotype Sospeta

Row upon row of other carcasses would accompany me there
A macabre display indeed
If I were not so simple
And yourself considered oh so complex
With your self awareness and opposable thumbs
Lepidopterologist tendencies and metal tools

A fellow calls out to you from outside my range of vision
For even you are just a vague shadow to me
And with excitement you turn away
Gesturing towards where I once sat for your pleasure
Antennae quivering with your every breath

With the softest of flutters
I glide away
So when you look back
There's nothing to say

Sunday, June 26, 2016


Two steps forward
Towards the fire
Towards the light
Burnt rubber toe tips
Accompany a hasty retreat
Of a one step backwards beat

The smell hangs like a passing skunk
Up up nostrils and nose
Past the first knuckle's reach
No hopes of getting it out
Not even with bleach

Cheap gumsole sneakers
Leaving inexpensive footprints
In the mud all the way to the car
Altogether looking like a stock footage scene
From a far off undeclared war

Fumbling in dirty pockets
For keys that hung from the visor
Directly in front of far off eyes
A deep sigh as metal slides into place
Actions causing a hesitating mechanical mayhem

Random sparks

Would you know it was me
When I turned the corner onto our street?
Slipping the clutch
Matching broken synced straight cut gears
Clattering plates
Stressing springs
Flexing the driveshaft
Flying to you on rusty wings

Saturday, June 18, 2016

The Dog That Was Almost Something More

The dirty white dog
Falls twisting in the air
Feet searching for purchase
Eyes showing their whites in fear

Her life flashes before her
All a whirly-burley speed montage
Of food-sleep-outside-food and lazy
None of it mattering the least smattering
To anyone at all

A sudden surge of yearning
Fills the tiny weightless pup
A to make a difference feeling
A thirst for adventure
A want to leave a pawmark upon the world

Until she lands gently upon her favorite pillow
All new thoughts pushed away instantly
Replaced by a hunger for snacks
A thirst for a sip of dirty water
And a desire for a nap


Somber-faced DJ
Spin me a song
Scratch it out with your dirty beak
All the night long
Above the gunfire and the screams
Make the humid night air thrum
Till I can't tell the difference
Between a bass beat battering my body
And the Pulse of violence all around me

Oh Brother, Vend to Me a Memory

A dollar slipped right past me the other day
Right between the gender pay thigh gap
Unbeknownst to me
Straight into a vending machine
Freshly packed with butterflies
All delicate wings mangled by corkscrew dispensation
Hung up on that last little ledge
Just above where it says $1.00 - A3
Now to either fall victim to a two for one
For the next patron to come along
Or to a Hulk-worthy grasp and shake
Of this vending automaton bandit
Where I will walk away with half of the inventory

Crushed colored veneer thin wings
And mangled caterpillar body bits and things
All gotten for the low price of one dollar
Proving that money can buy happiness once again

I collected them all up in an impromptu pasted bouquet
To place upon your grave today
Held close beneath my painted face horrific
To frighten away that curse specific
Of time being the great forgettorator
Where you will become less and less with its passage
Crushing out all the specifics as it does
Leaving a furrow trail within my mind
A place for new memories to take root
No matter how frantically the little farmer in my brain
Comes and tries to smooth out the soil once again
The details are gone
As what grows anew will never be the same

The forgetting cannot be stopped
Even with a million broken butterflies
Until only generalities
And false memories

Friday, May 13, 2016


An outline of a foot
Pressed softly in the sand
One right after another
Leading off to the horizon
As it dips like a frown
To both the left and the right

I follow these most diligently
Stopping only for necessary breaks
Chasing the occasional shiny butterfly
So that my own trail of footfalls that follow
Is more a zig zaggy impressionistic art line

Attention Deficit
And its little brother
Pure unadulterated laziness
Both taking their unseen toll

With ultimate goal a bit  uncertain
Just a hazy gaze outline of a plan
To perhaps reach one step further
Than the ones I so vaguely trace

Sunday, April 10, 2016

A Penny's Worth of a Memory

Out of season snow flurries all around
Gusting and swirling
Puffing cold unique flakes
Straight up my new dress pants
Stinging the skin above stretchy dress socks
That cling a little too tightly to my calves
Causing them to moo in discomfort
Later on leaving impressions in the skin

Always late
Scuttling along the sidewalk near my house
Trying not to slip and fall
Red-brown penny loafers not offering much grip
With their leather soles
And hockey puck material heels

Each shoe carries the obligatory penny
Both from the same year
The year of my birth
For luck
A little loafer secret

Pennies never to be spent

Tuesday, April 5, 2016


I feel the feather touch of the fantastic
A kiss of breeze
A waft of home
A dash of something alien
Flashing lights behind my eyes
As I rub them in disbelief
Before falling back to grips with gravity
Slung between two paper wings
Soaring to the stars

Saturday, March 19, 2016

Loose Ends

Some people are tied up tight
Continuous strands of geometric might
Complex knots at all the joints
All acute angles with purposeful points

Some people are flexible structures
Taut arcs of stretchy strands
Able to squeeze through the tight spots
Then simply take a deep breath to re-expand

Some people are less whole and square
More a ragged flag left too long in the wind
Streaming through life darting this way and that
Ends frayed and unfinished trailing behind

Some people cannot move on without finishing things properly
Tying up every loose end in a permanent way

Some people move on constantly with no end in sight
Less finished business
More anything but

Saturday, February 27, 2016

Good Humor Beach

Orange awesomesauce glaze
Gleamed in wet sheens of thin foam
Running from rays of unblocked sun
Brought to just above melting as one
Sloughing off in a solid layer of could have been fun
Adding to the disappointment that is this creamsicle
Streaked in milky strands
Draped as a silken lace skein
Across the growing grasp of orange coating
Creeping effortlessly down a small boy's arm

Small hand rigidly gripping thin flat wood
Elbow awkwardly held in a certain position
That you may recognize as being called
"Halfway to his mouth"
Upon a journey undertaken some minutes ago
When the frozen treat had possessed tiny crystals of ice
And crisp fine edges left from the factory mold
Newly nude to the world
Torn white paper wrapper dropped right next to a lined can

Sand stirred in the ocean breeze next to a pair of cheap sneakers
Orange droplets congealing into sticky cement
In a random pattern
Falling from a faraway hand

Sunday, February 7, 2016

A Mixed Blessing

Oil dripped steadily from the jet engine tailpipe
Forming a green-blue puddle upon the pale concrete
Tattooing yet another stain upon its brittle honor

The Boeing 747 sat heavily in the hot sun
Looking for all the world like it knew
Knew that one of its engines was shit
Knew that it had used four gallons of oil on a three hour flight
Knew that it wasn't going much of anywhere for now

Somewhere else in the world
A small team of mechanics was busy
Packing their tools
Gathering up supplies
Forking an engine change kit to the main ramp
Unwrapping a spare engine

Getting ready to leave for a few days in the sun
A welcome respite from the winter blues

Sometimes the gods of aviation give good with the bad
And this was one of those times

Sunday, January 31, 2016

Magic < Money

Levitation simply for the sake of it
Supporting three tonne by nary a string
Hoops passing all along it
To show the magic of the thing

At first it was a mystery
Something to be marveled by the masses
Fences were erected
Tickets were sold

Along came the VIP boxes.
As the money followed the spectacle
As sure as Shirley loves Laverne

Soon it became less of a miracle
And more of a money maker
Until the wonder leaked away
Leaving the leviathan to settle back to the sand

Today few remember what all the fuss was about
As the moss and the debris pile up all around
The shape of the wonder that tore reality asunder
The Miracle Rock of Puget Sound

Saturday, January 30, 2016


Once upon an un-moonlit evening
A rosy red apple of undetermined origin
Regarded themselves with distortion
Courtesy of the polished spoon before it

But I wish I were rounder
And much redder
With a bit more stem up top

No green shading over there
And no half dimple right here
To be shed of this shelf life wax coating
A perfect little apple would I be"

But the apple sat just the same
Not changing for the wishing
Nor for the better
For anything else

Instead turning a bit more brown
With every passing day
Inside becoming a strange sort of mush
The rosy red outer skin all that held the general shape

Sunday, January 10, 2016

A Road Trip Medley

Six to four
Four to two
Two to one
One to none

A bus full of people travels the highway
Colored white with a blue stripe
And a heavy duty wheelchair lift on the side
Wheels spinning
Tires humming with the rain grooves
Extra all-terrain grip tread tracking smooth

Mile marker 87.5 sped by the right hand windows
In the fourth seat back a six year old boy began singing
A sing-song simple tune
Not catchy
Not annoying
Very forgettable

"I bent to your progress mommy
I went around the way for you
Past those hips that bore me to term
Out of reach of the hands that scold"

The six lane highway outside the windows slid by silently
Three lanes going West
Three lanes going East
Sun rising
Sun setting
Shadows chasing after all
A mountain grew in the distance
When Six lanes shrank to four

The old woman in the second row got up to pee
Stepping on the toes of her seatmate
Who wept silently for the completeness of his corns
Though nobody took any notice
As the bathroom agenda grew from number one to two
And a skunky clinging stink slunk through the cabin
While the fourth seat child adjusted free-formedly

"When the box it closed me on in
For one half a fortnight and more
The stench I called mortality
When you too added your perfume"

Four lanes of divided highway with no other car in sight
Bore that special transport van into colored twilight
Flat plains covered in seas of grass
Roughening to foothills of broken glass
Till four lanes became a more flexible two
That joined at a double yellow line
That snaked across the landscape it danced through

Nobody ever came back out of the bathroom
Which would have seemed disturbing anywhere else
But the quickly fading stench of life's process was such a relief
That the others on the bus didn't care overmuch
Though all the ones who considered themselves to be smart
Held their bodily functions
Tightly in their clenched buttocks and thighs
A few even wet the seats

"A door to heaven and hell as well
Is installed to the rear I fear
Don't nobody get up to investigate
The driver is in control of your soul"

Old school two lane blacktop narrowed to the horizon
Disappearing in the shadow of the mountains
Which glowed blackly at their base
Sucking in all the available light
When the roadway started climbing quite suddenly
With the shoulders dropping away frighteningly
To impossible drops of fathoms deep
Two lanes vanishing into one
That was unmarked
And steep

All remaining passengers tilted backwards with gravity now
Strapped in with five point harness and dreams
Both wrinkled old and smooth young
Knowing that the end can not be far from come
Lungs strained at bone cages
To inhale the last bits of life
Greedy to the end

"Ave' contradicting theology dios
Both right angles and flat lines
Riding rails covered in tar and feathers
Hand in hand we give out our names

Hoping to be let into the gates"

Nothing left now but a dead end sign
Made up of Bugs Bunny wood and nails
Randomly hammered into the narrow track
Though with a roar our driver revs up his Cummins diesel
In a last burst of turbo assisted acceleration
Shattering the stop sign to dust
For there never really is such a thing as a Dead End

Six to four
Four to two
Two to one
One to none

Friday, January 1, 2016

Happy First Day

First Day
Same as Last Day
Just an arbitrary latitude
To separate them

New day
Old day
Promises made
Promises lost
Resolutions like words on the wind
Cold with January's bite