Smoker 56

Odometer reads well.
Speedometer too.
Standard.
Gear shifts near perfect when
the asphalt speaks to the motor and transmission
road speed matches.  Golden.  Shift.

Without a thunk.  Whisper and an easy nod.

Old iron hide.  Broken knuckles and skin flakes.
Blood on the chassis and some burned to oil fumes
on the engine block.  Torn fingernail tips sitting
in the "I" and "C" beams that keep the machine
churning.  Flake of eyelash vaporized at 600F.

Silly function.  Park.  Get out.  Sit in the truck bed.

Spark.  Think.

Pilot a weapon every day or ride a refrigerator
to the third star on the right.
Stories have been told of an oasis
where sandwiches come already made
and where the made come to look at sandwiches
without buying.

Read the cloud like flipping coins
with chicken bones.
It is a shame no one believes in magic
with the same fervor.

Be sure to stop by the general store
to pick up more needles
and thread.  The ashtray is already prepared.

Proclamation C445.2

Those of us that live with the blessing of machinations
shall gift their shadows to all, with neither malice nor
fear.  In that shade will grow all things beautiful and
cell.  Within the galaxies of cells are universes.
Within these new alls, we are.
Roads to glory are paved in bone.
The gifts of shadows are not these.
The machinations will join the tree as time
joins all rivers and seas,
all lives in breaths.

Blade Runner

Every time you walk the razor
you renew the lease
on this body.
One more nail to hang a picture.
One more mural committed to walls.
One more reason to see
the sun rise and bathe the evening slag
and die.
Every time you walk the razor
to renew the lease
on this body,
promise me the evening sky
when the chimney swifts are feeding
and the bats are beginning to take wing.
That silk spectrum sky between
diamond black heaving and
sunlight's bleeding.
Every time you walk the razor
and renew the lease
on this body,
show a glitter of teeth
to let the engine seething
breathe underneath.

WQgh

Who does not love to be tickled.

Thinking over from the outside.

How many years did it take

to understand what that thing 

on the side of your face was?

Do not stick a pencil in there

or scratch it.  Stick bubblegum.

Or fingernail.

No, the eraser end of a pencil

is just as bad.

It is okay, to be a little bit ticklish,

shush!

In all seriousness;

years were spent well.

I know better than to stick a pencil in my ear.

You Should Eat Something

Have you seen the snow caked along the fence
in triangle fold napkin nubs
in the crooks of every single link
except the spots where dogs have walked,
sniffed, peed, and wagged with glee and
the little holes where birds have pipped
and popped up and down on the cold wire?

The garbage trucks didn't come.  Neither
did the mail.  It did - not for me.  The way I like it.
The cold was lovely and the air pressure
too low to really enjoy running around
with pinched nerves pinching again.  Toss snowballs
regardless, shaped like saucers to fly farther
and knock miniature lengths of frosty walls
off of the power lines overhead to the  walks below.

Pain is tiresome.  Or am I tired because I haven't eaten?
Or am I tired because I laid down
instead of sitting up to read the news?
Or am I tired because I read the news?
Or am I tired because I ate too much last night?
Or am I tired because it is, after all, Winter again?
Or am I tired because it will be 55 degrees tomorrow?
Or am I tired because I will eat too much?
Or am I tired because I don't want to eat and must?
Or am I tired because I cannot do it today
and must?  You should eat something.

I know.  Have you seen the snow outside?
A cup of tea would be stellar in this cold
that is impossible to acclimate to.  By the way,
have you seen the snow on the fire escape
nearly an inch thick with paw prints
tracked through in black circles of circles?
It is lovely.  A cup of tea would be stellar,
thank you.  You should eat something.

Creature of the Night

Voicemail.  Voicemail.  Sneeze.  Rise. Yawn.
Stretch.  Head and tail lights turn as they should.
The lunch rush.  The get home.  The day shift
and graveyarders.  The drones and kid linked.
The zombies with too many chemicals inside.
The walkers and dog folk.  The joggers. The fit.
The teens and cutting classes and the crack
slippers.  The up to late and the never slept.
The sleepers and the ambitious.  The gray and
car pooled.  The stay at homes and the young
at heart and the "why am I here"'s.  The juke
boxers and fire drillers and the gamers too.
The nature watchers and the camera quest
head firsters.  The old song and dancers and the
ragers.  The kleptomaniacs and the negotiators.
Voicemail.  Voicemail.  Cough.  Rise.  Yawn.
Oh what a happy day.  The stars are almost up,
Sol not entirely gone.  Somewhere up there
I do believe
the moon is
doing its thang.
Plenty of time
to shower
and polish my teeth.
There is a big day ahead of us.
Have the decency
to smile with a little sunshine when you speak. 

Headphascanaut

Stop what you are doing.
Proceed to the nearest shelter.
This is not a drill.

Stop what you are doing.
Proceed to the nearest shelter.
This is not a drill.

Hallucinations are real.
They can hurt you.
Manifestations are imminent.

Stop what you are doing.
Proceed to the nearest shelter.
Frequencies are rising.

Hallucinations are real.
As real as you and I.
They can hurt you.

Manifestations are imminent.
Proceed to the nearest shelter.
This is not a drill.

Hallucinations are real.
If you cannot find a shelter
proceed to open and empty spaces.

If you cannot move
shelter in place
and do not speak.  They can hear you.

Stop what you are doing.
Proceed to the nearest shelter.
This is not a drill.