Faretheewell Google Plus

This song inspires something
A lyp sync battle
A half remembered hip shake wiggle
A lyrical introspection
About how this could have been you
If only you were more outgoing
And could play music
Or sing

Goodbye Google Plus. It has definitely been a thing.

The Ugly Tree

The tree was ugly

A chrome-needled creation
From the twenty-five dollar pile
At the local superstore
With pre-installed lights
Which did nothing to help its looks

Tall and narrow
To keep the cats
From perching on the branches

No star on top
To light any wise man's way
Nor a hidden pickle
For a joyous child to find

The tree was ugly

Charlie Brown would have passed
For it deserved no love
But someone did buy it
And that someone was me

A desperate plea for Christmas cheer
Falling upon several pairs
Of tone deaf ears
Leaving the tree all alone

The tree was ugly

No one gathered around it
No cats desired to play with it
No presents hid beneath its apron
No train ran endless circles around

This mostly unwanted tree was ugly for sure
A glorified vertical stick with lights
Standing too tall and narrow
For anyone to take seriously

But it is mine
And holds all my Holiday hopes for me


-FDR13DEC2018

Southside Lake St. Gunnigan

The Southside is the best side
All roads circularly lead to here
Two lanes with a gravel shoulder
An endless stream of cars seems to appear

In the North
They murder the tourists
Clicking their cameras
Wearing their Crocs
Looking for the perfect spot to Instagram
Until all the trinkets have been bought
The unique traditional recipes eaten
Local craft beers drank
It's into the tourist traps with them

To the East
Lay Changeling Fields
Where nothing is as it seems
And you are guaranteed to leave
A couple quarts low
As that sweet old man who shook your hand
Had an ulterior motive to his colloquialisms
Quaint though they be
A woven illusion is what they really were
While he and his kinfolk gathered to feed

The West is where the Mayor lives
Guiding Lake St. Gunnigan with a velvet glove
Always hiding that iron hand
That he got as a souvenir from a long ago war
Always grooming his vast estate grounds
Changing the landscaping every year
Deliveries of all that kind never seem to stop
Along with a curious amount of lye
He spreads a fine white powder every few days
Claiming it helps everything grow

The South is certainly the best though
Stay in the local Pine Log Lodge
Sit on the wide promenade porch
Overlooking the length of the whole lake
With waters primed for fishing
By artificial reefs made up of old cars
Whose?  You may ask
But that's not important now
Only that we have the tastiest Lake Trout in the region
Come for the weekend
Catch your limit

Then we'll catch you

Welcome to Lake St. Gunnigan!

-FDR08OCT2018

Bottled USA

Advancing with ambiguous intent
Powered by the most powerful ferment
That man has yet to invent
The fumes alone were enough to cloud your mind

"Oh give me a home...."
Sung out in a cracking mechanical falsetto
"O'er the ramparts we watched..."
Disconnected random lyrics layed down
Upon an uncertain melody
"Aux armes, citoyens, formez vos bataillons..."

Haunting snatches of tradition and patriotism
Distilled into nothingness
Now just comfort in a bottle
Hawked by a barker at the podium
A mobile stage rolling noisily by

I buy one
Because I must

Drinking it down
It burns away my doubt
Fortifies my sight
Cures my lead poisoning
And I can think clearly
For the first time in years

But then it passes just as quickly
So I take another swig
And the promised effects take hold
Giving me enough to chase after the contraption
One hand in my pocket digging for coin
The other holding fast to the elixir

With enough of this in my cupboard
Perhaps I can make it through yet another day


-FDR07OCT2018

Diamonds Are the Moon's Best Friend

Sunrise was coming quickly
Marching its way across the grey surface
I wasn't paying much attention to it
As I was pretty busy

Moving boxes of course

Once upon a time
The term "Astronaut" transcended the real job assignments
Adding poetic romance to any position in space proper

Your job cleaning the toilets on an orbital platform?
Fuck it, you're really an Astronaut, baby!
Rockstar status bestowed
You could now cruise in your Corvette with pride

But I digress

The fucking cargo-bot is still broken
Two months and counting, now
So I'm the cargo-bot for the time being

Supply shuttle comes in
Shit needs to be offloaded
Shit needs to be loaded

Then I get to do my real job
Of turning the shuttle for relaunch
Back to Earth orbit

Repeat as necessary

Suddenly a shiny pebble "tink!"s my faceplate

Dammit, sunrise is here
Which means all the diamonds near the surface get pushed up and out
By the light steam pressure exerted by the abruptly melted ice crystals in the Lunar soil

I drop my sunvisor and try to work more quickly
So as to reduce my time out amongst the tiny flying pebbles
Bursting forth from the ground
In a tiny shower of crushed soil
Arcing upwards about ten to fifteen meters
Before coming back to rest on the surface

Certainly one of the most annoying things about working here on the Moon, really

Janet

I can't always see her
But I always know she is there

I've come to call her Janet

With a light crunch of gravel
While strolling on a moonless night
Closer than seems comfortable
Ceasing before I can illuminate a light

That car that drives by
Just a little too slowly
Windows gangster tinted
Just a little too dark to see

A presence hovering up above
When no one else is around
Gone when I abruptly look up
Without aerial disturbance or sound

Under my bed in the dust
Is the only place I've seen evidence
Upon lifting the dust ruffle to peer beneath
A clear bodily outline is defined

Showing Janet is always near

Broken Shmoken

Everybody gets broken

Into a few big pieces

Or a myriad mosaic

Image of randomly pixelated life

Some glue and patience can work wonders

But the edges are never again quite true

With microscopic misalignments at best

And bits swapped here and there as the norm

Everybody gets broken

So being so is no badge of honor in and of itself