Deep Fried Puddle

A frozen puddle
reminded me of a chicken thigh
lightly dusted with flour,
waiting on a deep dive
in roiling oil.

I thought about
stepping on the metaphor
but, decided not;
soon enough
it’d be cold broth
for a rising, hungry sun.

Hint Of Humidity

I zipped my zipper
in a cold Spring wind
(I’m sure you understand why).

Nature doesn’t have call waiting, or
a button to place on hold.

I checked for tracks
on the landscape of my legs,
no trace of the legacy of age.

Gray Cold Cloud

I crawled into the stomach
of a gray cold cloud
hiding from the fire-grip talons of day.

I rode bareback on a worm
through gauzy veils of flash-back memories;
not so good, not too bad.

I wrote anecdotes on naked roots
of roadside flowers, billboards,
for the dirt-blind eyes of sniffing sneaks.

I wished in the well
of a dromedary king, all
in the stomach of a gray cold cloud.


Authors note:
I promise I'm not stoned, tripped-out, or stumbling drunk through the labyrinth of insanity. Of course, you may see it otherwise.

Fatal Crash

I was recently in a head-on collision
with a Mac-Attack.
The sesame seed metallic hood
crumpled under the force
of my pearly white grill.

The double beef passengers
left this world
through the tunnel of appetite satisfaction.

A memorial service
was held in a chapel of grease;
their names recorded
in the book of my blood.

Wind Feet

The wind kicked the water
with wrinkled feet, and
crusty white toenails.

A foul mood
(being kind in my assessment).
Maybe, a cold Moon

rankled its shanks
as it cuddled up for
a dark-side one night fling.

Whatever from
the gouging heels of fury
lifted water hide off bottom bones.



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