I hate whiney relationship poems--
By the poem’s middle-- I seldom further get--
I know the poet’s a narcissistic selfish twit.

Buddy, was a dachshund,
an older dog.
Rescued in a Walmart parking lot,
existing on God knows what,
sick, hungry and afraid.
His foster mom called him "Verloren"'
which means lost, in German.
But we called him Buddy,
because he was.
He was with us just a few years,
that was all.

****

When I woke in the morning.
Buddy lay unresponsive,
with shallow breath.
The night before he couldn't walk.
I think it's time, old friend.

At the vet,
I held him and gave the directions
in a wavering voice.
I left as soon as I could.

A dark cloud settled over our house.
That night we slept fitfully,
but the next night,
I was in an indeterminate space,
with furniture scattered about.

Buddy was under a highboy,
sleeping peacefully as he usually did.
I looked again but he wasn't there.
A moment later, I saw him again
and then he was gone.

Some will say my dream,
was just  me processing.
Or was it a sign,
a message from Buddy:
I'm OK.
It's OK.

Dropping her cloak, **** she leaned into the storm and glistened.

The rocket shot to its apex, and filled the twilight sky with white and orange glowing fragments

The car skidded to a noisy halt, the sides fell away to reveal 8 clowns smoking cigars

N-I-P-P-L-E-S. ******* was his name. *******, Joe *******.

A cherry ‘67 Ford Mustang, sumbitch, be still my heart.

After eons, the T-Rex pushed his head through the earth and thought, “Oh good, a picnic”.

Confronting his mortality, next time around he wanted to be one of those **** tomato eating gray squirrels.

The Venetian Red fish
Slithers through the magentic sky,
Sniffing the violence of electromagnetic vibrations,
I, behind the branchia, spur her/him on,
Far away, the sight of thunder rumbling and static,
Feeling the inky indigo of the mirage of toothy desire.
Hearing cold textures of slippery fishy scales,
Tasting the black velvet Jesus, Elvis, and Nixon,
Our banner.

Oh, that can’t possibly happen said Jonah,
As he was enveloped by exactly that,
A piercing cacophony of clashing color
That resolved itself into the image of his ex.
No more, no more.

The red fish jumped the river Stix,
Halting at the 7-11 from hell.
A seventh circle infernal Powerball anyone?
A hellish scratchie tempts my soul.
But my lucky number is a binary: 1-oh,1-oh, 1-oh.
That’s hell for you, unsymmetrical.

Needed, perhaps a chance encounter,
with an itinerant puzzle person
Would they sort the senses and find truth?
Could that help or should it?
He winks and I don’t believe her.

A stolen kiss thrown
At the 2018 Little League Playoffs at Southaven, Mississippi
Still echoes in their brain pans and mine too.
The dull stylus of dangerous thrills
scratched my pancreas as Jim shoveled his lunch.
But I have better manners than that.

In the chaotic magentic atmosphere,
I mount my scarlet stead,
and move on-- as you should too.
Adieu. Adieu. Adieu.

Entering, marble and shiny surfaces everywhere.
37 minutes waiting on the outside of the iconostasis,
Waiting for the acolyte to lead me into the sanctuary.
She calls my name
Presides over the ritual weighing of the meat,
Leads me to a vacant cell.
Blood pressure measured and blood taken.
Thank you, sister, for not hurting me.

Alone again, imprisoned.
Observing the posters on the cell wall:
There are images of all the doctors and deacons.
Twenty percent have ears that stick out.
Can't tell about the women.
The priestess arrives, listens, decides and prescribes
12.5 minutes to her, an hour and fifteen to me.
My offering, a tenth of the non-insured offering, is collected,
Then I'm done for 3 months.

I don’t think anyone lives a normal life—
One New Normal becomes the next New Normal.
Birth, accidents and illness, death, marriage, children, divorce, a new job, a new place to live.

There is only the Now Normal.
Like straight sections of a road between curves—
the Now Normal responds to a big change
and lasts until the next big challenge.

The normal, as spoken of,
is a predictable pattern of days.
Is that even desirable?
What would life be without changes that test us?
Nietzsche had a point:
“What doesn't **** us makes us stronger”.

Maybe change is the real normal.

Written by Jim Beaupre on this 474st* day of the current Now Normal.
Or it it the first day of the new Now Normal?

* February 9, 2020 - May 27, 2021.

Erwin, bitte, bitte!
I guess I should have told you first
when I found your missing diary.
So here I am, stuck in the kitty SuperMax.

Yes, I am Schroedinger's cat
trapped in a box with
food, water, and air--
and an infernal machine.
There's no way out--
no litter box either.

I assure you that I'm alive-- for now--
But I wonder about the world outside--
Does it persist, has it vanished--
or is it in a more indeterminate state?

If anyone is out there, please LET ME OUT!
Because life goes on— for a while,
How about some kitty litter, Bitte Schön?