Happy fun time

Life is the doublewide dirt track

atop which monster trucks travel.

We, we are but furry animals,

or insect life immaterial . . .

traction to Bridgestone rubber.

Every exoskeletal crust is crushed,

every chitinous chin held high

pushed down and down

to lay with they of warmer blood.

No help to slink in self-effacing silence,

all will know the roar and wheel

when the shadow oertakes,

when their end is the same.

Friday

I usually write a poem, set it aside for a couple months, come back to it, mess with it, set it aside, and repeat the process until it is done. Not today. Here is one hot off the press. Heard the first line uttered by a co-worker and felt the poem in the words. So, this is definitely draft level.

Another week of my life over

in jest just office banter.

My week in review,

ticket in hand at some figurative station

waiting for conveyance. Some

mover and shaker outside, that motion

Your guess is as good as mine

Her skin will be green,

her hair red like gashes,

her eyes a perpetual flash of distant suns.

In my mind only --

but it will be in a college hall or a country lane,

a city street or tree-lined trail,

like expected horror

hid by rocks overturned by my hand.

Surprise like birth before sex, the hallmark

an echo before sound,