A novel nosh

Hungry for something good to read,
(a never ending need)
my nose went sniffing over the shelves
seeking something scrumptious-
after my last four hundred page meal
I simply wanted maybe
a metaphor more,
another piece of poetic prose
to satisfy my insatiable nose
for narrative
(like food, how I live).

So I crack open a new
book of morsels,
after reading the back ingredients
briefly-advertising its
nutritional value.
I put my fingertip in it
and get more than a lyrical lick
or a great idea for a story-
this one is tough to chew
on, a grisly allegory
about a girl and a black flower
but the middle is missing...

Then the next one I choose
is about a fantastical mythical 
rabid Time eater-
then I learn it is really about
an avid reader.
Like a bad nut, the taste
can only be replaced
by something yummy and fabulist,
like a sweet and savory fable...

So I grab a good old classic
about some animals on a farm
and take a seat at the kitchen table-
not quite considered a fairy tale
but unprocessed and easier to digest
than that hormone injected one
with the wicked white whale.



Image of painting by Jehan Georges Vibert, The committee on moral books, 1866 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Look it up

Label and Libel

are one i away from the

same definition.

published 1/9/16.
Image Warpath tobacco label, c. 1885 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sponge Rob and Kitty Pants

From the East, golden light pours out over the
sleepy soppy treetops.
The raw fence slats all smoke in the sultry sun
after a rough night of being naked and exposed,
unstained as of Yet.
Loitering lumberly after the storm,
the weathering of wrinkled wood
lining up swollen.

The injured cat laps the rays up
like this warm milk from my fingertip.
He has been hurt again,
he is healing in the soft morning sun,
and smiles like Buddha or Krishna,
with milk on his chin.

The topaz sky looks newly buffed
and polished, it holds no dark veins today.
Offering up another chance
to dry out and soak it all in a day.
Porous (Poor us), all stormy moods have been washed
away, now suede-ing softly

in the strong dawn honeyed sun.



Image By Photos Public Domain [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Enigmatically Silly

Why aren't riddles called puzzles,

and puzzles called logic twisters?

I don't know.

The math always tries to blend in

with the words

but blurs it all for me.

Teasing my brain is better than my hair,

I guess,

but I am often wrong

Rhetorically,

metaphorically

brain building blitzes

that run by you when you're looking

literally,

even spelled out

like a seven letter word

-(minus two letters)

equals eight,

more than its own weight.

See, it discombobulates

and misstates and

calls this a ball?

I figured it's more like a cold,

which can be caught

but not tossed (out)

with the enigma.

Image By Formanavt (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Little Ms. Pants on Fire

My black jacket with the fur-rimmed hood
whispered in my ear yesterday,
that one day
we will go live in the snow.
Although, we don't talk much,
since I live near (warm) San Diego
(now) it has been cold
so we've been friendly lately.
Then, when
I was having dinner
with a lemon verbena candle
the other night, thyme on the table
I read something interesting,
which actually gave me quite a fright-
but the candle jumped in and uttered a spark,
'You wont die in the dark-
and it wont be from fire,
those words were written by a liar!
Tho', idle fears, I have years and
I don't necessarily think so-
acrophobia,  arachnophobia and pyromania.
Fear, Love and Webs, scary things
to get tangled in.
To things I harbor like hobos
And as I begin to listen in
to assorted precocious objects,
threadbare trinkets and baubles that pop
I harbor like lazy houseguests,
I still hear the ring of fear
in the old quaking clock
five-fifty-five-tic-tock
five-fifty-five-tock-tic
I was told
this fateful mortal time
I accommodate and appropriate,
still chimes in my head.
My watch has no comment,

it's face, expressionless
and lays like a remora, leech.
I proceed  with today anyway

as though I too, 

have no need to know
such sagacious

miscellaneous things

such as where, and when, by how

I will die, not now

from animated things with no eyes
who see my future
and how it
lies. 

Composed 1/18/16.

Image by By Jon Sullivan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Flash flood

On the day of Epiphany

the sky floated dirty grey sponges,

called storm clouds by some

which wrench and wring overhead

my tin box called a truck

for the second after-

noon, awaiting the bell, it begins to flood.

El Niño, they all point, name, and blame-

not the children though, who don't know

him yet and squeal at the thunder in de-

light-ning, claps all around.

An ominous sound to

a sitting truck, quaking the floorboards rumble,

but I am grounded, in technical terms.

Rivers run along the roads,

gurgling gutters are choking

on the leaves and it is okay,

I had nothing to say today,

anyway. Listening to the lights

blur and sob, struck dark as night

at two-until a conflicting flash, a

sneaking streak, the epiphany speaks,

Time is not everything.

The wind is whipping

laterally, bending palms

like cracking knuckles

lumber joints that prefer

dancing with Saint Ana and yet

a seasonal storm is all winter needs

to feel right

on Time...

Pouring my heart out into the rain,

watching all my words spool and eddy

washing away, skipping over school

and strangle the drain

plundering prudence

scatter the slated soggy students.

Composed 1/7/16.

Image by By Eliud Echevarria (This image is from the FEMA Photo Library.) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

(Lip) Service with a Smile

A man walks into a bar

and sits between

an insurance salesman

and an off-duty security guard.

The three are there,

all six i's

for the bartenders two bouncy breasts

and cheap smile.

The man in the middle

is an accountant.

They are all regular(s)

Men

with regular needs

like thirst

and confidentiality.

She serves them all

on the house

this one

with a wink-another drink?

As a matter of course,

they all obey

(after all-

she's doing her job)

with she-grin.

What do you call a bi-polar accountant?

The salesman asks,

'Off-balance',

he says first.

The security guard

responds to the call,

I heard

insurance agents do it

with third parties,

he says smugly.

Go figure,

the accountant

in the red (tie) said,

Did you hear about

the guy that lost his left arm

and left leg in a car crash-

Well, he's all right now.

The bartender tosses back

two cents,

What's the difference between a job

and a career?

One is,

the other does.

Nobody laughs.

A cell phone rings,

the men all nervously check-

his wife is calling

for help.

A new message awaits him.

A call ignored for now, he’s too busy

to protect the innocent,

for she who does not work,

for a living.

It was the last call

to come in

on the punch line. 

Image of painting by Édouard Manet [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.