Protozoa vacation dreamin’

For my next vacation I thought I would like to be Aquaman but since he is kind of an “in charge” ,scaly kinda guy I decided against it.
I think for my next holiday I will be a protozoa. Just float around in some good clean ocean water without a thought for the hungry predators lurking around salivating over the thought of me as they follow in the wake of Aquaman to save the world from some catastrophe I stirred up earlier in the sea  thousands of miles from my vacation as a protozoa.


Headlights on mondaY

I slammed into the day
Little pieces of me spread around it
A crime scene investigation
Would reveal
Could reveal
The rhythm of the world
Disjointed discord ushered in by my own rude awakening
Five minutes after
I slammed into the day


The ghost at Arby’s


The ghost “A” at Arby’s makes me look twice
A Gothic marketing thing?
Tables full of skinny boys wearing mascara and girls with jet black hair arguing for hours over sandwiches
about how to bring in the throngs without a movie star or a beauty queen.
At three in the morning they decide to take down all the A’s.
They go home to their apartments in rusted out Nova’s and Dodge Darts .
They dream of spiders and bats.
They don’t care where all those A’s will go.


Death of night

At midnight there are howls from wolves and yelps from coyotes
°°°°°There is no thought of eggs or bacon
At one the moon seems brightest and the night seems self-assured
At two there are slamming bar doors and tiny riots in the street
°°°°°Not even a hint of coffee
At three nightmares rule in a guarded fashion
••••• they look over their shoulder for
At four the yen Yang spins into gray
At five there is orange light breaking through coffee steam
At six the nightmares have fled to gray clouds
••••• Eggs
I smell eggs and bacon


Stage left

On the other side of the emergency exit there is a rocky ledge
Six feet long and overlooking the prehistoric world

misty ,murky and punctuated with screams and terror and all manner of bloody gratifications

On this ledge sits a shaggy man wrapped in torn skins
he is rubbing some sticks together
You take a picture with your phone
A pterodactyl flies by and takes your phone away
On your way back through the door the caveman stops you
he says
Is the word
for fire



Cavemen rush to lightning
Hungry for a flame
Cavemen whistle Yankee Doodle
Desperate for a name
Cavemen want a country
An anthem, a choir, a song
Cavemen dream of carrying cell phones
And bringing chic girlfriends along
Cavemen shine their belt buckles with the corner of a bandanna
Paisley/sibertooth print
Cavemen stare straight in the sun
They stammer, spit and squint
Catch a caveman by his toe
Feed him baby’s milk
Dress him in the finest raiment
Cashmere, Tweed and silk
Hold him up against the wind
As a hawk flies by
Set him free like ether
In the northern lights
Like fairy tales and Viking sails
And ragged dragon bites


Oil and tempest

She ran to the tall window and stared out on the storm crossing the sea.
It was about four miles out yet but the trees were trying to lay down already and the cold rushes spoke of hail and big hard rain drops . She turned back to look in your eyes as lightning struck and turned the whole bit to oil and canvas.
And you stood there, enthralled.


The down time

The down time is a bear trap that floats around
And try as you may to chart its courses or calculate its velocity based on nutrition or the weather
in the end it will always play you for the fool
                         if you were right
That is part of the power
                        of the down time

You may not know exactly when it leaves
but you won’t have to guess
about the arrival of the down time
when its sharp jaws mash your heart and head  together in a bloody hemorrhage
to signal the beginning of the long dull tics
The tics that mark the passing of the down time