Blessed Dysfunctional Clouds

The thunderstorm, that needed Viagra
to express its pleasure as a virile entity,
cooled the afternoon enough so I could
sit on the back deck, and listen to a hoot owl
and hawk harmonize on the same dinner melody.
I’ll never know if the screech, or the hoot,
won the take-out prize, but, I thoroughly
enjoyed the dysfunction of the afternoon storm.

Breakfast Marauders

There’s more to life than cinnamon pancakes,
and fat-sweet bacon frying in a non-stick pan.

But, when

the raging fragrances of breakfast are close
to breaking down the olfactory gate, and

drowning

my appetite in buttery maple syrup,
it’s time to cease my Sunday morning prayers—

“we give thanks...”,

and slice and stab the source of the raiding smells,
sending them to the bowels of contentment.

Skin Art

If I ever decide to redecorate
the birth-issue-fits-all-ages skin God gave me,
I’ll probably rip off two patches
of peel-n-stick blue sky, and
lay them over my dried-out hairy arms.

I have enough sun covering
the hills and valleys on my forehead—
ground cover that never needs mowing;
maybe, some moon-cream to moisturize,
and bring out a soft night luster.

I already plan to get an earring when I retire,
but, before that, I might steal two studs
from Orion’s belt, and brighten up my nipples.
I can hide those under my shirt.

Stud-Mutt With Means

Murphy loves tassels on shoes,
strings on rugs, and gritty lumps
from the cat’s litter box. Yes,
oh yes, that is what it is.

Dry Onion Soup mix is a favorite,
two packets to a box, chewed and
scattered all over the kitchen floor.

He’s in love with the girl next door,
who won’t give him a prayer of a sniff.
Milk bones and Pedigree dining at six
have him acting like a stud-mutt with means.

Needle-Tooth Pricks

She will stick a hollow steel fang
in my arm, or hand, depending where
she finds a vein unwilling to roll over.
Then, draw the plunger back sucking
my blood into a plastic “vial” throat, with me
sitting helpless on sterile butt-sticky tissue.

If she hits the mother lode on the first stick,
it won’t be as excruciating as the last. But,
I know better, my veins are tunnels of
make-the-eyes-squeeze, dog-slink rollers
away from needle-tooth pricks.

Always A Meal After

It’s been over two years since a fish bellied-up
above the ceramic castle in our aquarium.
It floated like a yellow cloud over those
it swam and ate and nipped at as peers.
I slipped the net under its fin-still form,
a dripping mesh hearse for the ride to the trash.
Wet coffee grounds to coffee grounds, covered
on a pile of gnawed-to-the-bone chicken legs;
the burial done, time to feed those that are left.

Keeping Up With

The crape myrtle is full of itself,
decked out in fine Summer blooms.
You’d think it was going out for lunch,
or receiving guests for afternoon cards.
Of course, it’s just keeping up with the petunias
wearing purple and white, everyday the same.
And, they’re determined not to be outdone by
uppity impatients sneering at them from the shade.
My God! A yard full of one-up-it petty “petalites”.
The grass, in lingerie shadows, will not be left out ,
and nothing will stop the pines and pears from
braiding their leaves with moon-dyed ribbons and stars.

Two New Dogs

The one hates the other,
the other is playful and young;
neither of these “anywhere-on-the-carpet”
dog food re-processors is house broken.

The first, was a male Australian Shepard,
street trained, between one and two,
or seven and fourteen in canine math.
The second, a male black cocker with
a schnauzer nose, cuddly, cute
and quick as a blast of back-fire smoke
when escaping the Shepard’s snout.

The younger came without his manhood,
the Aussie’s are intact for another week. But,
even without his testosterone birthrights,
I’m afraid he’ll always piss-out yellow post-its
telling the cocker to get out of his house.