Jingo Farm

 

blank-faced

yellow-haired

nourished by rain and rot,

they leave room for nothing else

save rats and borers

giddy with vicarious triumph.

Here is the butter-bland vision,

every bloom the same,

all weedy twist of grasping arms

cradling babbling seed-faces

with their cheap coronas.

Already dying,

their identical progeny prop them up,

unremarkable, 

invasive,

stone-stupid,

legion.

_____

for Flash 55

and Sunday Muse #123.

Cartography

I represent actual things

with a representation of those things.

Come in,

sit down.

I'll select posture, expression and language

like semaphore,

 an agreed-upon symbology

like mailing some version of myself

to some version of you.

Behold this Orinoco

made of ink;

this range

comprised of bumps.

Roll your fingers over them.

That, is real.

Let us fall in love

with what we seem to be.

Let us share a border

clear on charts but apocryphal on scene

where we may meet and express our confusion.

I am a cartographer.

I can tell you how far from here

 to there,

from where I am

 to where you are,

and at how many degrees

 longitude and latitutude

we can expect to find various landmarks--

happiness,

children,

retirement and so forth.

I am a cartographer;

come live with me

and be my love.

Some day,

I may write you a poem

throwing everything we depend upon

into chaos.

_________

for The Sunday Muse #122.

Following the Fathers

 Fathers' throats fill with wind.

Stars bay like lost dogs

defending the edge of the world

from the shriek of memory.

Take my hand.

It is made of Egypt and empty windows.

I build monuments

to sparrows with royal souls.

I am dead, blown to the borders

of everything I am and was.

This little hill of baubles

is yours now to sell or sew into the sleeves of poems.

Mothers, strangers, mute myths of shadow,

leave me in peace at last. 

I follow the fathers with their wind-throats

a girl again, sung to, willing to be fooled for a kiss.

_____

a second poem for Sunday Muse #121.

Think Fast

 

We come from clouds

and end in dirt.

In the time between,

a reeling dance,

a disappearing interval

where

panic

and 

ecstasy

look very much the same.

_____

for Sunday Muse #121 

Buck Moonskull, Private Eye

 Buck Moonskull, private eye

slugs down a spring water, heaves his hooves up on his desk, and coolly sizes up his client.

What a dame. 

Big "who, me?" brown eyes behind long lashes and a come-hither look. Buck laid odds they'd be sharing a salt lick before this case was over. 

"Jane Doe," she said when he asked her name.

"Sure, dollface." Did she think he was born yesterday? Why, it had to have been three years ago now. He watched a blush creep up that perfect face.

"I--" she began.

"Stow it, Toots," said Buck Moonskull, a little sharply. He didn't like being played with.

"I know who you are. I'm not the kind of flatfoot who can't see the forest for the trees." Buck picked up a cheap plastic folder and waved it. "Does the name Bambi mean anything to you, doll?"

"Where did you--"

"You're his mother. Don't bother to deny it. Oh sure, that faked death scheme paid off when Stag Antlersen copped the insurance money. I'm on to you sister."

A sly smile played around the edges of her kissable lips as she drew the .22 and purred, "So. You found out about Stag." She raised an eyebrow. "You're good, dear. But not good enough." She raised the gun and, as fast as a landlord on rent day, Buck Moonskull dipped his rack and knocked it away with a practiced swipe of a his 8 points.

"I must have been crazy to try to con a con," stammered Ms. Doe. 

"Lunacy," said Buck Moonskull as a gold halo of light shone above his head, like tacky foil on the neck of a bottle of drug store champagne. He picked up the black rotary phone from his desk and, gesturing with it, asked, "Do you want to come clean to Bambi, or do I put him straight myself?"

Jane Doe sighed, crossed her legs provocatively, and reached for the phone. In the middle of the dialer it said "Buck Moonskull. CLOverfield 5-2999." Watching her, he had a feeling that number would be ringing again soon.

_______

for Sunday Muse #120. 

Book Review : "A Dirty Job"

A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore
My rating: 1 of 5 stars

It's rare for me to give up on a book I've already invested time on, but having slogged through a third of this one, I was not about to endure any more.

If you like middle school level humor, casual white male privilege that thinks it's cute, or reading the phrase "beta male" seventy thousand billion times, then this may be the book for you. Moore has evidently been told how hilarious he is so often that he never says in one sentence what he can stretch out to five in order to include all his knee slappers. Ugh.

The characters here are not really characters, they are caricatures. The plot had promise, but Moore tangles it up in so much nonsense and convoluted silliness that it leaves the reader wondering WT exact F? I found it not to be worth the effort of finding out. By the time I had waded through the easy shots at women, Asians, and blacks, I'd had enough. You don't have to be the PC Police to know stupid.

NOT recommended.

View all my reviews

The Knave Of Hearts Victorious

There is a sweet weight beside me in bed

curled close,

and that is my heart wandering

beyond the edges of my skin.

There is a jester who conquers with nonsense.

Ancient queens called, "Bring me my fool!",

but I am the witless one enticed into battle

over a headless rag that used to be a green frog.

See, Master? My heart is flown

and follows wherever you go,

like a colorful pennant declaring my imprimatur and blessing 

over Lord Goodboi, royal dog!

________

for Sunday Muse #119.

Old King Bosco, blind but still all-seeing. I was (and am) his personal Sheep to herd.

 

Young King Bosco, certain of a treat!

Zacky Peanut, heir to the royal throne!