Watershipped

Yesterday I witnessed a rabbit dying.

Other bunnies were gathered around it,
as it took its final breath.

It kicked its back legs
in one last attempt to run off into the meadow,
but it was too badly hurt.

I wanted to help,
but I didn't have the strength to end its life.

I had hoped to put it out of its misery,
but let it die on its own accord.

Had it been a human being,
maybe,
quite possibly,
I could have ended it.

What does this say about my personality?

Wen a human life means less than that of an innocent suffering rabbit?

Bob White

Brittle,
battled,
bones,
bite the big one.

Over
and under,
inside,
and out while,

Back,
alley,
cats,
fiddle
and fray.

Witless
and carefree,
milling about the yard.

Heresy!
and high jinks,

Initiates,
ideology. 

Twiddled
tongue tied,
tactics,
turn the tides,

Ever changing,
never raging,
evenly arranging
erratically blazing.


Words,
woven,
crafted,
and inspired
by the ground dwelling species. 

Polka Man

I saw him again.

This time during the day.


I followed my usual drive home.

Traffic was grueling,
but that was nothing new.

My mind was blank,
save for the 40's polka diner
set to be demolished later this week.

I couldn't help but wonder,
what life was like
back then.

Different problems,
same kind of life.

I myself,
would have been one of the many,
stowing my darkest secrets,
far from the front of the dark closet.

Still,
the thrill of booze soaked cocktail napkins,
while fidgeting with a half used match book,
flooded my mind.

I'd be unhappily married,
with no kids,
and an undying wife by side.

The bar would be a dark shade of red,
while the polka band queued up a sultry lounge singer.

Cigarette smoke in the air,
while glasses all around,
clinked and guzzled.

The wife incessantly clucking on,
while I quietly sip my drink.

A relief,
after a miserable day in the office.

I'd step away,
a piss break to the wife,
but in actuality,
I'd troll for a cigarette.

Behind the restaurant,
I'd slink into the dark alley.

In that alley,
would be another husband,
hiding from his discrepancies.

Neither would dabble in small talk.

Instead,
we'd scream violently to one another,
with our eyes.

What happened next,
I'll never know.

My 1940 flashback was disrupted,
as I stopped at a four way stop.

Crossing the intersection,
and stomping down the side walk
was the motorcycle man.

I could see his definitions much clearer.

He no longer had a tight braid.

His long gray hair,
blew wildly in the wind.

He was dressed in all black,
shirt,
pants,
same leather trench coat,
cut off gloves,
and boots.

Black glasses covered his eyes,
but didn't hide the defined cracks and lines
making up most of his face.


The car behind me,
let in on their horn.

I screeched through the intersection,
glancing at the man in my rear view mirror.

His silhouette shrunk,
the further I drove,
but to this day,
I'd swear he was watching me,
waiting,
and planning.

The Biker

It happened one night....

As these things do.

I was taking the dog for her last walk.

It was Spring, but you wouldn't know it.

Pellets of green desperately tried pushing up out of the earth,
but the frost from melting snow prevented it from doing so.

Garbage littered the streets,
while Ripley sniffed familiar territory.

We managed to make it around the block,
about fifty steps in five minutes,
when my mind began to wander,
so much so,
that we had made it half way around the block before I snapped to.

Ripley had stopped to smell the roses,
about every other house,
when he found me.

The roar of a motorcycle had caught my attention.

It was parked fourth in line, behind three large cars.

I could only see the glaring yellow headlight.

The bike idly roared,
as its owner stepped out from behind the cars.

He must have been twenty steps away.

I pulled at Ripley's leash,
but she refused to leave.

She continued to sniff and pee,
sniff and pee.

I tried to avoid eye contact,
but made out most of the riders silhouette.

He was a tall, older man,
with a gray braid,
woven to the small of his back.

His hands were covered with black, cut off gloves.

He had on tattered black jeans,
a black t-shirt,
and ass kicking boots that thudded with each step.

I pulled at Ripley,
and we were off.

She made it a few more feet before stopping again.

Behind me I could see him slowly walking toward us.

He didn't say a word.

I listened to the crunch of pebbles under his boot,
as I stood with my back turned.

I pulled at Ripley's leash again,
feeling condensation accruing on my palms.

I turned,
ever so slightly,
catching a glimpse of his long tailed,
black leather trench coat,
flapping in the wind behind him.

He continued to walk toward us,
no faster,
no slower.

My heart began to flutter,
as a gust of wind aggressively blew.

He was drawing closer,
without a word,
a nod,
or acknowledgement.

Ten steps away,
I pulled at Ripley's leash, who finally picked up the pace.

We turned the corner,
and walked until we reached the house,
never looking back.

It wasn't until we were in the safety of the driveway,
that I turned to make sure he didn't follow us.

If only that were the last time I would see him...

Tie Dyed Mind

All this wincing,
and weezing,
tires my inspiration.

I see,
then I plan to do,
but when I do,
I fall on my back,
struggling to jump up.

So many colorful pictures stain my mind.

To use that final stroke,
and paint a lush serene,
is the equivelant to the elderly,
taking their last breath.

My heart putters
to a begrudging stand still,
until the inspiration dies.

Come back.