The times, they are a-changin’

The Elder bugs tasted the best, Itchy thought.  When you couldn’t get crickets, that is.  Toasting them like so many pine nuts in his banged up aluminum frypan,  he fancied he could hear little screams as their legs shriveled and they made popping noises under the lid.  Their chitinous wing cases sometimes got lodged between his teeth, like so many popcorn hulls.  But the flavor, crunchy and al dente, kept him going.  A steady protein supply, and plentiful in this time and place.

He didn’t know his own name anymore, just the things that people called him.  The name Itchy stuck, ’cause all he ever did after the flash was scratch.  Lots of nasty scabs he had.  When they got nice and hard, he picked and peeled them, just like normal people used to peel the diaphanous skin from their sunburns.  Put ’em in his pocket.  Save ’em for later, for the desperate times.

Normal people were hard to find now.  He had fallen in with a group of wanderers, on a time.  They had welcomed him in, and had given him his benediction.  But, boy, they all got real sick after a while, getting blue and bloated, with cracks and open sores.  He thought he would get it too, and so he ran.  Collected useful items along the way, things that seemed to have rained haphazardly out of the sky.  A wavy-edged lid from an aluminum can was his knife.  A curved lens from someone’s pepsi bottle spectacles served as his fire starter.  The pot and lid from a collapsed cabin.  Leather shoes, still smoking a bit, and a little too small.

He tried remembering how old he was, but he had no reference point.  Further and further he got from the old city, and he began to find houses still standing, country type homes isolated on backroads or in the bush.  In one of these, he found some good tools that he could carry, and, as he was taking his leave, he spotted a calendar hanging on the kitchen wall.

In the month of July, 2027, someone had circled the 3rd, and penciled in Bad news today.  This might be it for us.

***

Image: Pixabay

From under the eyebrows

As a young man, out with the raucous crowd of youth,
he’d followed their lead.
Made with the dirty giggles,
the snide remarks, the invented names, the donkey grins
whenever they came upon
the white-haired, the bent, the shambling, the cane-walkers.
Sheep that he was, he had followed and fit in.

Some returned the glances
from under salt & pepper brows.
May be the colour had washed some from their irises,
but they burned all the more brightly.
All the more knowingly.
A disturbing bane for the schooled bully.

The months of his donkey following
gave way to uncertainty,
and then to a budding courage
that was not the courage of the crowd.
Still a young man,
the stabbings of life made their wounds to him
too soon.
Loss, pain, emptiness, the hollowness of yearning.

And now, on this late day, his old leg does not work very well.
He grabs a fallen branch from the yard,
whittles it down a bit,
cuts it to just the right length for a prop,
and shambles uptown for a much needed haircut.

He has this peculiar feeling.
A kind of swelling, more like a welling.
A burgeoning anticipation.
There will, after all, be something more.

In his slow progress up the sidewalk,
he meets with counterparts out of his youth.
Cocks his head a little, gives them a glance,
without balefulness,
and they pass by with tremulous laughter.

The barber asks what’ll it be today?
He says neaten up the curls, trim the beard,
and (with a sly grin)
skip the eyebrows.

Fatherless

alone i walked
before the rivers were named
the raising up of mountains i beheld
mine eyes floated in mists
my ears heard the hiss of original rains
i was shown all creatures
and was known to them
i knew their purpose
and they mine
through the thousands and the billions have i been
within the living flesh, so as to teach
and in the swarming airs, so as to watch
to teach and to watch
you,
the second comers.

Animal crackers

a stork, a crane, a pelican
a leaping jumping gnu
a fish’s spiny skeleton
a pouchy kangaroo

a monkey, mink, and elephant
a cassowary too
but daisies are not relevant
the cattle will but chew

cats and bats and dragonflies
and porky pigs and cows
and things we can’t reclassify
until the time allows

the dog, the hog, the butterfly
the hornet with its sting
the moths that only flutter by
and don’t disturb a thing

majestic hawk and eagle
the horse and donkey too
the peacock is so regal
its rainbows of the hue

the lithe and speedy antelope
the spider and the ant
but don’t include the cantaloupe
upon this list, you can’t

the mouse, the louse, the chickadee
the octopus’s arms
the crickets chirping crickety
their song, with all its charms

the lizards lurking in the dark
the marmosets that jump
the woodpecker that pecks the bark
the camel with its hump

there’s more to come, ’tis just a few
and I forgot the fox
and many more, I’m telling you
won’t fit into the box.

Soup of the Evening

Like Dorothy ‘mongst the poppies

I cannot stay awake

I dream of old jalopies

And fuzzy birthday cake

I hear the voices calling

Get up, you lazy thing

But I cannot help but falling

My thoughts upon the wing

I’m spent, and not recovered

And now I’m catching up

My friendship with the covers

Has needed patching up

So, if you want to spoil my day

I’ll thank you very much

To leave me be, I’m miles away

‘Til Dorothy’s snowflakes touch.

Blah Blah Blah

no mail today
nobody calls
too cold to play
outside these walls

nothing written
worth a damn
just a-sittin’
nothin’ planned

what’d they say
’bout idle hands
the devil plays
I understand

inspiration
missing, too
I guess I’ll do
the boogaloo

eat pistachios
play guitar
my moustachio’s
grown so far

comb and wax it
twirl it too
they wanna tax it
wouldn’t you?

brush the kitty
stop a sneeze
end this ditty
finish, please!

If you like

If you like,
Let’s stroll in the snow
The flakes flittering
In the moonlit glow

Then at home,
Out the window,
The ice glittering.
Ah, what a show!

If you like,
We’ll put on a fire.
Or, whatever’s
Your heart’s desire.

It’s so cold
Out of doors
Warm my hands
I’ll warm yours

In winters of past
I’ve thought this is our last
The years, they go fleeting
So short, and so fast.

Still together are we
The die has been cast.
The time since our meeting
So full, and so vast.

Now, we are cozy
Your cheeks are so rosy
The cat takes its place on your lap

Christmas card dreaming
Outside, all is gleaming.
Let us both have a lovely nap.

If you like

Spare me, please

I’m the proud owner of one of the newer cell phones, and I use it quite a bit to idly surf the net, reading news stories and the like.  When I come upon an interesting article, and click on it, two things invariably happen:  because of the limited screen space, the feed is formatted so that the annoying advertisements are injected after just about every paragraph, and, if this is not galling enough, I am frequently redirected to another page in order to view the denouement.
That said, the denouement is often a disappointment, and has little, if anything, to do with the clickbait headline.

I sometimes think I should get a job as an advertising critic.  Do these companies really think that these ads and their irritating placement actually help sell their products?
Then, there are the mandatory ads on YouTube.  My immediate reaction gives me a negative impression of the company and their product.  It actually makes me not want to buy it.

Makes me wonder if products such as cars, trucks, beer, etc. would be any cheaper if they had to survive on good old word of mouth advertising and real honest to God quality.  The millions that are spent on production of senseless repetitive TV ads could go into giving us something better.

I, for one, would be scared to drive a car that was sold to me based on the number of ingenious “safety” gadgets it had.  If my seat vibrated every time I came close to the dotted line, or my brakes slammed on because of a perceived hazard, I think I would get out and walk away.  What happened to good old PAYING ATTENTION. ?

Itchy and scratchy

God, I itch.

When they say it’s all in your head,

Forsooth, this time they are right.

The tympanic membranes

vibrate at a galling frequency

perhaps meant for Fido to hear.

But I cannot scratch

this bitch of an itch.

Scalp over scabbed skull I scratch,

helping along that balding patch.

There…..relief.

(at least, that’s my belief)

But the stuff inside my meathead brain

it won’t be calm, and won’t refrain.

Miles and miles of duodenum.

Fold upon fold, in dreams I’ve seen ’em.

Oh, let me lift my lid now, just this once,

a give a good scratch, stir the stew.

Like that wretched Dr. Finklestein

from The Nightmare before Christmas.