we can't erase what is already on a canvas
but we can always paint over it

Do us old farts really need testies
They get in the way of
Our branches.

I might be a filthy old rat
At least i know what fun is
And these day's
Old Prune's forget to have fun.
Thats why their dead by forty.
Ill live to 100.

dear kind reader,

humor is a very personal,
a very individual thing,
so,
i beg your pardon,
i never promised you a rose garden,

if the parlance of the street,
offends your nature so sweet,

i beg your pardon,
i never promised you a rose garden.

but this much i will confess,
funny i find much of this mess.

and i'd rather go to my grave,
with hearty laughter,
milk spilling laughter,
screaming ' yer killin' me!"
than any other way!

My friend cut his hair.
Many weeks ago.
His hair was long,
But now it's short,
Much shorter than before.

My friend cut his hair.
It's softer to the touch.
I pat his head,
A gentle tap,
He didn't like it much.

My friend cut his hair.
It used to hide his eyes.
I see them both,
Like pretty jewels,
No longer in disguise.

My friend cut his hair.
It makes him different now.
His eyes light up,
His smiles are warm,
As warm as he'll allow.

89 degrees and humid, sunset at 8:30.
Eastern barbeque smokin out in the backyard
the grass is getting lo-o-o-ong, but
it can wait until next Sunday.
iced tea, sweet, sinful tea
and no cowboys in sight.
just Low Drawled Camouflage Men
and Freedom to Own a Gun,
black n milds, porch swings and
mosquitoes turn up in your ear holes
like politicians touting their pro-life campaigns.

Someone say
Filth, ****, dirt,
Just ask me
I'll take off my shirt.

Wanna make me boil?
Take my food
Bundle it in iron foil.
Wanna touch this nature
Go out in the field
Work for me
It's fine, I'll pay you for the slave labor.

Hey there's an avocado over there
Yes, there young man:
There's a tomato over there
Plop, yes, in my hand's.
Juicy, ripe, ready for a pickin'
See you later son, have to go to the grandmom's request,
She has hot juice ready for me
And some egg's, toast
Waiting in my kitchen.
Not to mention
Something else ripe for the picking.

and I have to wonder
If you meant
What you said
Or if they were just
hickeys
Sweet at first
But made to leave bruises

a balmy summer evening
on a countryside
dotted with villages

a man on his motor bike
100 hp between his thighs
a stretch of straight road
   rare in the these hills

he lets go

he can
he can do it
   tear early sleepers from their dreams
   make people flinch at their dinner tables
   plough through the fairytales for the little ones

he can
he can leave the noise behind
   together with the thoughts
   of his monotonous job
      security night man at the bank
      well paid, though
leave behind the memory
   of the diverted gaze of his wife
   who would gladly trade
   the 100 hp
   for one more room
   for their children

children

just in time
   he saw her
just in time

the girl carefully walking
   over the zebra stripes
with a mug of beer for her father
from the pub across the road

just in time

nothing spilled
   except a little beer
   under horrified eyes

children

another stretch of straight road

he can
he can do it
he can let go

he cannot resist

Discombobulated and flabbergasted, flummoxed indeed?  No such bemused and befuddled?  I am not perplexed on the prognosis to prospectus.  They’re incongruous, I’m incredulous, it’s catawampus.  Reconnaissance reconnoiter,  rectilinear reciprocal rectitude.  Radix repartee: Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugue-ness, estranged ensemble orchestrations and all.  Some of us are even into the various assorted forms of related stranger weirdness.  We’ll be having none of this putrid quasi queasy.  Corrupt costume counselor siren skeptic.  None of you ignominiously pusillanimous incorrigibles who aren’t brave enough to love are required.