Season of Cow Smells; draft 1

I walk past buildings shuttered and dung covered
red paint a hundred years old painted a dozen times over,
nose stink filled, inhale 'cuz deep I dare you.
This is fertilizer season, season of cow smells on the farmland.
This is Oley and you know you love it.
Pale flaking paint half-covers the barn,
red and blue stars of the hex sign reads the country side,
corn crib ripped-almost apart by the tides of the wind and weather and climate and seasons gone by.

Iron trusses ring against metal
and my mother calls us to dinner with the din of the great triangle.
Family, now called, comes from distant fields to dinner,
part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, pumpkins, corn, and so many that the mind loses count.

Prunes, cherries, pears. A grape vine for my daddy's homemade wine:
I stomped that wine, and having many years later drank that wine,
woooh! the blast comes first and then perhaps you reminiscence of the taste.

Season of Cow Smells; rough draft

Walking and I walk
past buildings shuttered and dung covered
nose stink filled, enhale deep I dare you.
This is fertilizer season, season of cow smells on the farmland.
Paled red flaking paint half-covers the barn,
corn crib ripped almost apart by the tides of the wind and weather and climate and season gone by.

Iron trusses ring against a triangle of metal.
Family, now called, comes from distant fields to dinner,
part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, pumpkins, corn, and so many more
the mind loses count.

Prunes, cherries, pears. A grape vine for my daddy's homemade wine:
I stomped that wine, and having many years later drank that wine,
woooh! the blast comes first and then perhaps you reminiscence of the taste.

Tickle; draft #1

The more I am tickled the more it hurts
I can't explain my irrational gasps
or the sensation that runs across my skin like army ants on the march
soft blue electric lights seeking for fuel
or a wind that quickly whips across your face
I flush red and my body shakes.

My cat Bella has an uncontrollable purr.
Touch her and she purrs. Give her attention and she purrs.
Now, at least a little, I understand her automaton nature:
tickled I laugh a chaotic mess, not funny but an unthinkable
gagging breathless gasp of funnies left behind.

My wife enjoys my helplessness.
Touch me wrong and I tickle.
Smooth skin and I tickle.
Tickle me I'm the tickle monster's return for revenge.

Tickle; rough draft

The more I tickle the more it hurts
a sensation runs across my skin like army ants on the march
like a wind that quickly whips across your face
I flush red and my body shakes.

My cat Bella has an uncontrollable purr.
Touch her and she purrs. Give her attention and she purrs.
Now, at least a little, do I understand her automaton nature:
tickled I laugh a chaotic mess, not funny but I laugh nonetheless.

My wife enjoys my helplessness.
Touch me wrong and I tickle.
smooth skin and I tickle.
Tickle me I'm the tickle monster gets his revenge.

Tight Rope Walker; draft #3

I stand on the tight rope
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind sees three-sixty:
steady while I sway, approaching halfway.

The crowd is silent. Should I achieve unscathed the distant edge
they'll applaud but for the most part they await disaster,
that I should fall without a safety net:
I too was dared to perform by passersby
too afraid to walk the straight line herself
but nonetheless gleeful bystander to the glitz
the glimmer of this media driven spectacle.

From on high among the rafters, the nosebleed,
a yawn settles upon silence
my soft feet lift glide inches at a time
eyes glued to the goal despite the catcalls.

The platform nears
my mind turns to the philosophy of distance,
how it changes moment to moment
relative to my pace, the subtle swish of legs.
Mind and eye are one
an audience of Baptists thinks I look like Jesus walking on air.

My right foot clears the cedar wood platform edge.
I hear first a solitary clap and then a cacophony of applause
the rhythm to which I declare my living pulse.

Newton's Only Law; Draft #1

For many the dance
quixotic spectacle of crystal meth chandeliers come crashing to earth,
Newton's only law,
became the only thing worth waiting for.
And so sweat boiling on brows and the tension in the air
and thoughts juggled as bites from apples appeal to the worm
while people stared,
made up for puking out metal shards and shitting black tar.

Newton's Only Law; rough draft (very rough draft!)

For many the dance
quixotic spectacle though it be
chandeliers crystal meth come crashing to earth
Newton's only law,
became the only thing worth waiting for.
And so the sweat boiling on my brow
the great heights that among I stood dizzying,
the tension in the air
thoughts juggled while people stared,
made up for puking out metal shards and shitting black tar.

Cherries Wet in the Sun; draft #4

As a youth I would climb high up in a thin-limbed tree,
bark scratching bare arms as I picked cherries,
droped them into a bucket
and relished the wind on my face and the sunshine that warmed my skin.
These memories are now confined to a photo that my mother gave me many years ago as part of a birthday gift: one piece in an album of photos.

But when summer downpours sucked my sister down a ditch
under and inside a thorn bush's craggy and cavernous insides
I learned not to expect worn out shoes
or tattered clothes to keep the rain out:
funky mold and fungal feet swollen like monkey paws
clutching pacifiers licking lips rinsing toothpaste.
Tobacco smoke residue whitens teeth as history too before us.

Parched throats need water
arid eyeballs stare down periscopes with foggy lenses
down down down the drain
meter maids make money,
mountain gorillas run on four legs
their knuckles skipping against stones,
and instead of English they use sign language:
universal love signifies speech like bitches signify heat.

Birds see trees and buildings alike
and so they find the best real estate
and with interest accrued on profits made
deathless the pale rider comes,
rare is the prize fighter punching holes in walls,
thumping charcoal skulls
till iron-cast blood runs from holes new made:
projectiles finding fingers crawling clawing the brain.