Mynd's Letter; draft #4

In mynd's eye there's a letter I mean to send
but since heaven forfeits whoever it forbids
and writing is not a sin,
this bloody letter
iron rich as the rise of society,
is mailed if in word alone is mailed.

Change the rules and dress up names
maim commonality or at least make lame
and after wringing capital paragraphs to thunderous applause
we all clap and jingle our change.

Down the lane
the dapper dressed walk in unison swinging their canes
dipping quills in pitch black ink wells.
Splendor's reckoning comes as a heart wind terrible to behold
and we cease to feel the wisps of wind that sometimes soft
dance across your face on a hot summer's day.

Mixing feelings with volcano thoughts; draft #3

I can't stop mixing feelings with volcano thoughts
and sometimes you need to vomit crap before you get cuisine.

Night ride I
down tree vaulted asphalt of Martin Luther King Jr Drive.
Headlights flash and blur in my mini rear-view
cars passing too close,
but my aluminum tubes, carbon reinforced fork, and steely resolve
keep my company close as I ride on,
wheels spinning some sixty rpms on this river side ride
empty miles
the moon casting reflections in the rain flecked street
and the forest hanging overhead to the right
while on the left
mixed among the damp thirsted hunger of foliage upon the riparian zone
and the wild
geese and goslings and goose shit piling high on and along the grass and pathway:
but I who choose the road avoid gutted
mutilated rotting geese carcasses deeply genuflecting on the bike route.

Untitled; rough draft

Trouble seen but not believed
algae green water-tossed in the oceans
here at home the thermostat turns to 68
and the winter season begins.

Looks you – in the eye
of tiger black and orange lamé
better than warm showers polish morning is wax
and the winter season begins.

Mixing Feelings With Volcano Thoughts; draft #2

I can't stop mixing these feelings with volcano thoughts
and sometimes you need to vomit crap onto the paper before you get cuisine.

Night ride I
down tree vaulted asphalt of Martin Luther King Jr Drive.
Headlights flash and blur in my mini rear-view
cars passing too close
but my aluminum reinforced tubes and steely resolve keep me riding on,
the wheels spinning by on this river side ride
of empty miles of moon reflected rain flecked
street forest hanging overhead to the right
while scattered trees mixed with non-native invasives upon the riparian zone
and the wild
geese and goslings and goose shit piling high on and along the grass and pathway:
but I who choose the road avoid gutted
mutilated rotting geese carcasses deeply genuflecting on the bike route.

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.