Category: Poem
“If I Were A Plant, I’d Sue!”
Two try to make “Square*”
a Smokers’ Aquarium”
sans plexi-glass cube.
- (Magnolia Square in downtown Sanford, Florida, a cloosed-off portion of Magnolia Avenue fronting First Street, turned into a brick-paved fountain-centered, planter-ringed gathering place for music, art, food and gatherings. The two men from the upstairs near-constantly changing business doing something internettishly significant, this time with insurance hawking, crawl out the stairwell’s card-holder-only door and one lights up a cancer stick and the other produces an E-pipe and both pump poison into the air. All that nicotine-laced water vapor and those carcinogens right under the hanging planters which decoratively dangle from the faux-antique lampposts: what’s a tree hugger and/or liberal to think or do. Form a Shame Police? Naw: get crackin’ on sentient decorative plants from your personal laboratory and then introduce them to a like-planted-mind lawyer and sue the feces out of them and the city to force them to build Smokers’ Aquariums – a notion first brought to me by Libertarian reformed lawyer-turned-radio-talker Neal Boortz as he described the glass-enclosed tower into which the so-called addicted may repair to puff away at Atlanta, Georgia’s sprawling jetport. If these Sanford downtown toilers of internet wares must exit their offices to smoke why must we tolerate their doing so with impunity once unleashed to the outer-world? Put them into cubes of plexiglass and make them pump quarters (or swipe cards or point phones) to pay to wash their befouled air elsewhere where it annoyeth not the people or plants who so choose to die differently. In the local library entrance alcove is a sign prominently displayed: No Smoking. Yet there is a butt-can within the bounds and overhead. And the smokers thereby gathered congregate on the sidewalk before the aforesaid entrance. Makes sense, right?)
This Little Dream O’ Mine”
Sometimes, Mon, God, she
a bitch, Mon, and she has wants:
Like get up And Write!*
- (1:24 a.m. October 5, 2017. Just pissed enough to make sure to get the date and time “stamped.” Dream sequence which later attributed Mon’s name as “Jeffy” after a science/fiction mil/fic yarn which deposited the following gem: “Hey, Jeffy, we’s got to win. The man: he must win every single time or we win. All we got to do is win once!” in the midst of a zombie-filled dream I hated to leave because it had such a fine antecedent and I was not sure I yet retained the ability to drive to the next dream on-ramp and resume my travels. And, now, typing this the imagery flashes across my four- (or is it five-?) head screen and says: just you wait until tonight!)
“My Shoes So Un-Knightly!”
I never bought shoes
from “Knight’s” store downtown Sanford:
That makes me so bad?
“Week-old Hurricane Irma Pre-Dream Found Hiding In Posts”*
Irma’s tail twitches
Florida with blessed rain:
some say more to come.
- (I was bugged all week, not being able to find the above post in my perusal of past posts and running eyes down the scribbled pages of my notebook…then, after a day off from the keyboard doing the pre-Hurricane pre-preparedness stuff like trimming hedges and palm fronds and big-shrub branches, moving things about to get ready to move things about in case they require garaging. Still have 100 more 2-liter water bottles at “The Ready” to fill; got the supplies laid in, the fridge and freezer mostly eaten out of no-generator blues in case electricity fails, and but need a few minor twitches.
- (But not finding the haiku really bugged me. Then when I quit looking, what pops up? Yup. Irma’s Tail Twitches, whose headline failed to type Irma. thereso making the finding of same more difficult. I do difficult well, though much more accomplished at impossible. The possible and probable are problematic, however.)
“Syncopated Claws”
Only the clicking
of syncopated cat’s claws
on polished hardwood.
“Unstoned Terns And New*** Beaches”
unstoned terns fly off
no particular handles** :
search for new shorelines!*
*(half-vastly changed from original attempt: “search for new beaches” came to shorelines, and at the count of seven I truncated “no particular handles or beaches:” by two words and now quandaryfie whether ’tis better to leave the last line (done first) as is or replace with the beach-bit. Taken to heart and notebook by watching – before loudly stopping – some young lads throwing anything they could find at wading shorebirds on the estuary marshes surrounding our beautifully appointed beaches’ backsides. **Wonder: whether it would be fun to change handles to Handel’s? ***The beach in question was Playalinda on Canaveral National Seashore – and as Federal land nudity laws need not apply: thus the New Beaches poor pun.)
Sent Tales of Harry (t.) RATT to the appropriate November 7 calendar collection because that’s when Flap told me he was dead.
sitting in a booth
back in the corner reading
and biker beers me
thirty-nine years later dead
but i did buy him his back*
*(Harold “Harry” “Ratt” Krohn so much older than I – April to my July. Wins our last boat race. Gotta go make phone call. And get a 1.75 of Morgan. The rest of the poems hide out at November 7, 2016. Don’ rest. No Peace. You gotta pitchfork to drive!)
richwrapper 