meatloaf dream

He was becoming suspicious of the cafe's meatloaf. After having it the night before, he dreamed he had an invisible helicopter and was flying it all over. He also dreamed he stretched a cable a half mile across a lake and built a gondola to hang from it. The gondola had lattice gates painted blue by Dr. Blueberry. The best part was his friends were astounded he knew how to fly the helicopter.

saltine dream

In the limo we could speak perfect french. Confident it was something hidden deep inside me I'd never realized. It felt cosmopolitan as the words aimed at the woman in the sharp business suit dripped from me like warm honey. I was french. Smugly french. And I liked it.

dust

When this time has passed, keep me from that cold dark box.
Light up what remains of me here.

Keep the heart of me in that ashen jar that rests on your mantle.
Cast the rest to the four winds I love so well.

Let my dust blow amidst the bitterweed of pastures long gone.
Frolicking with the crawfish and salamanders of youths spring branch.

Let me trickle in the tears of someone laughing.
A sleeve is not such a bad place to be. An embrace will surely ensue.

Let me rise on wings in summer's oaken canopies.
Nestled deep in the feathers of a tiny wren.

Let me cascade the veil of an approaching storm.
Tumbling in the ozone of it's pensive valkyries.

Let me lay quiet on a worn windowsill.
Becoming part of the musty, the sun baked, the overlooked.

Let me infuse the workings of gadgets and screens.
So they might release you for a moment to see the day for what it really is.

Let me rest on your pillow ever so slightly.
So that I might be near you and witness a dream.

patina

Sunset silhouette. February wind. Backside of nowhere. Beaverwood walking stick. Mud in the cleats of my boots. Old gray glacial granite painted in lichen and thin moss. I pause to feel this lifes patina on my being, brush away the clatter of the days tasks and open my eyes to the evening light. Another day past. Gone the way of so many others. Long live tomorrow.

Long live tomorrow.

snoot

Gooey's nose is a smellavision. One foul whif and he's on a mission. A track, a turd, a tuft of grass, anything that smells like ass gives Goo' a broad olfactory grin no matter how faint or how long it's been. A feather, a stick, a deer bone knuckle prompts a gleeful doggy chuckle in his big pink nose with light brown blotches. Thank goodness he draws the line at crotches.

spent

Time spent. More to spend.

Time is lend't until the end.

Broad smiles. Laughter too.

Lifelong miles for me and yoo.

Birds sing. Flowers bloom.

Indigo skies and midnight moon.

Dogs bark. Babies coo.

Time's 'lest dark for me and yoo.

monday's eve

Shadows cast long in twilight red,

crackling leaves of sycamore.

November's nearly put to bed,

as the dark cloud flocks of mileormore.

Mondays frost will soon be here.

We must abide the grindstone's call.

The lender's grasp is always near,

for those who have to have it all.