First Glimpse

 

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Thinglewart

So true, so true Thinglewart is blue

And who knew, who knew, what to do?

For Thinglewart is a preposterous pest

Indeed he wears a stiff, starched vest

No stretchy, stretch for Thinglewart ever

Just keeps on shoveling shit ‘til never

‘Til the sky turns puke and poops all over

‘Til rain’s cut short by a stinky gas mower

 

He once lived in the Kingdom of Koove

Where ladies and parasites wiggled and moved

There Queen Wishuwell offered him a job

Collecting mumbleweeds whole or by the gob

But he refused and said he would rather scratch dirt

For Lady Whatmethink wanted it for her skirt

So off to the high Dirtclod mountains he went

Until he gathered enough soil like a knocky-head gent

 

When the night started to dim and blinky blink

Thinglewart returned looking for Whatmethink

But she had ran off with a cute sewer rat

Who promised eons of unwashed chitchat

So Thinglewart sits silent, nose to the road

Where frogs dance and imitate horned toads

Cursing at cars, fucks, and trucks plus more

Thinglewart has become grim as the pink moors

 

Then a spy named Fry just happened to walk by

Overheard Thinglewart, sigh, sigh and sigh

Asked Thinglewart to join the secret Snoots

About love and dirt they didn’t give a hoot

So Thinglewart thought this a pretty good deal

Off he followed Fry to a hideout called Spiel

There he took the oath of the sacred Snootology

Then they celebrated, underneath the topology

Fry toasted sad Thinglewart with rare weasel juice

Thinglewart began to cry like a baby grass moose

 

The Snoots had a scheme all wrapped in evilness

Was named by Fry the Great Unexpectedness

To get rid of Queen Wishuwell was the big plan

And her icky boyfriend named Sir Gurr Fryingpan

They would attack when the moon went Buffoon

Yellow and swirly with wrinkles like a prune

Only by darkness would they inchy, slip, slip

To give Sir Gurr and Wishuwell hurty fat lips

 

But Thinglewart had a soft place in his noggin

The queen had been nice and a little bit awesome

He snuck through the muck, back to the Koove

Finding Gurr and Wishuwell dancing to a groove

He tried to tell them, but they were in no mood

Sir Gurr accused him of being a crude rude dude

Thinglewart was jailed in the tower called Fuzz

For Sir Gurr was a meany, that’s what he does.

 

So true, so true Thinglewart is blue

And who knew, who knew, what to do?

For Thinglewart is a preposterous pest

Indeed he wears a stiff, starched vest

No stretchy, stretch for Thinglewart ever

Just keeps on shoveling shit ‘til never

‘Til the sky turns puke and poops all over

‘Til rain’s cut short by a stinky gas mower

 

 

Chapter Two

 

Thinglewart’ s not alone in the tower

He’s inside with Sir Blastingcap Chowder

Chowder had worked to get out of tower

Diligent, built foam wings hour by hour

He built sets of cute fuzzy arms for two

Jumped out the window, floating up, it’s true.

Thinglewart attached the other set to his arms

Chowder floated, he couldn’t come to harm

But as soon as he jumped Thinglewart fell

Very slowly, like a flying giant gazelle

Chowder bumped into a sweeping loon

She swatted him with her feather broom

Foam slipped off Chowder’s skinny arms

He started to tumble, Thinglewart was alarmed

Chowder fell smack dab back into the tower

Bouncing off layers of foam, laughing, not even sour

 

To be continued?  Well, we’ll see

Thinglewart’s a bit private you see

He doesn’t like unnecessary chatter

He says it’s not good for the bladder

He only talks after a wee bit of juice

Then his tongue, it comes loose.

 

Circuit Tree

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Daily images uploaded on Instagram. Follow @undeciduous on Instagram.

 

 

Flection

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With each leaf a face of dryer future falls reflects the prolonged fixing and fiddling of limb and ground.

I step cautiously, hearing you beneath my shoe. Upon your spine, I search for strength.

Your breath crumples with a sound of what was and is to come; an aging, mingled with every smaller wobble of the globe.

Lovers never smile when they have fallen ,always look for spring as redemption until the rain disappears.

Wind carries your face adrift. Dust is never far.

If my blood could wake you, I would let you suckle my salty oil until bees’ lips turned red.

If my wet mouth quenched you, I would kiss you with sugar saliva until your skin revives.

But there’s so many who fell like me.

I can’t caress the world back to fresh buds or even hold it safe within my drying veins.

Flowers run rampant in the meadow. Beetles and caterpillars hang on for life.

I swear the swiftness of the planet’s spin sends petals flying.

 

 

Watcher

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Dry Thirst

Once we were liquid

Entangled, wrapped in grasps

Scared of the dry sunrise

 

In that morning

I heard the bath water

Small splashes…gingerly

 

The faucet became a trickle, then nothing. I was left with the creaks of the house.

 

Every now and then I run the water

For no apparent reason

 

 

Arc Eternal

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Arc Eternal 

Emily Dickinson’s Refrigerator

‘Twas the vinegar that tippeth

Toward the leftover quiche

Oh, lonely empty bottle, recycler boon

When sun meets to kiss moon—

And mustard, your yellows bold

A bit old, but still at play—

Mummified lime, plastic lined

Awaits blessed water of the fizzy kind—

Four salad dressings,

Daughters of the virgin oil—

Bright Wednesday’s sauce

Must find solace at all cost

Before the scourge of poisoned moss—

A couple of red jellies

To keep a merry belly

Harvested during the sweetness

Of His grand spring—

A dire few leaves of spinach

Must be eaten in a pinch

Or thrown into a stew anew

Cat food can, oh my love be content  

Yet, small miracles abound

In these cool vestiges—for—

Behind the onion skins

And forgotten slice of apple

My hand moves with assured fate—

Look at what Providence hath left!

A cold beer is found no less!

O, wonderous workings, I’m blessed.

 

 

 

Moths Find Daylight

 

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Find a book I’m in here.

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The View

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The northern trailhead of the Oregon Coast Trail.

If I hike alone, I can only tell you what you missed.

If we hike together, we’ll see the view.

 

Here, the wind whips beachgrass, stinging our legs through cotton jeans, a grass that rattles its voice, a scolding, chaotic rustle. Our bare feet run across their roots to reach the soft sand.

There, we’ll see the side of the wind waves know, lulling us into a dreamer’s state, a duet with the flapping of our jackets, a rhythmic trance. We dig toes deep into sun-drenched sand, feeling the same heat, ‘til cooled by the night’s tide.

 

The grass settles into quiet view.

 

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Gilligan’s Soliloquy

TV or not to TV, that is the question

Whether ‘tis nobler for the stomach to suffer

The future of outrageous coconut cream pies

Or take bad dialogue from character actors

And by opposing, end them, and get cancelled after three seasons

To flee, to fly

To be rescued? We say the end to

The heartache, and the thousand bad jokes

That television is heir to, ‘tis a consummation (hopefully)

Devoutly to be wished. To die, to get canned, to sleep,

Perchance there are reruns?

Ay, there’s the rub

For in that cancellation and reruns, paychecks may come

When we have shuffled off our bad wardrobe

And should give the Skipper pause? There’s the respect

Who makes calamity of typecasting

Who would bear the whips and scorns of reruns?

The reviewer’s wrong, the insulting abuse

The pangs of being despised, or loved, and fan websites

The insolence of the network, and the spurns

The patient merry of th’ unworthy takes (over and over and over. Hey, this isn’t Shakespeare!)

When he, (that’s me,Gilligan) might his quietus make

With bare contract, burdens and little cash

Clueless and sweating under a weary L.A. set

But that the dread of cancelation

That rediscovered country of joblessness

Typecast emerges, puzzles, the agent

And makes us rather bear those ills of doing info-ads late at night (or candy bar ads in the afternoon)

Than to fly to others, like mom and dad, asking for money

Thus conscience, does make cowards of us all

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er the entire cast of Gilligan’s Island

Our enterprises, of great pitch and moment

With this regard our currents run awry

And lose the name of “action” — soft you now

The fair Ginger and Mary Ann, nymphs of my hammock

Be all my sins remembered

 

 

Orbital

 

 

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