I burn
beautifully in the
fires of
vanity

I got lost
in my reflection
on the
frozen foods
doors

I was
displayed
with all the other
products
on ice:

three fifty-nine
for four
egg rolls

six twenty-nine
for frozen
bread dough

six ninety-nine
for wild
blueberries

and
superimposed
among them
my long mug
doing its best
to fit in

according to my
forehead
I am
three ninety-nine

but if you
ask my solar
plexus
I'm clearly marked
five fifty-nine

however,
my **** is apparently
on clearance
reduced by thirty
percent and
selling for
one dollar and
nineteen cents

and that old lady
at the end of the aisle
is eyeing
my biscuits
and rattling
her coin purse
like she's about to
roll
a yahtzee

my eyes dart
back to
my reflection
on the doors

what did I
come here
for again?

Sobriety,
with regards to me,
who would've thought I'd've thunk it.

Cavalier,
***, wine or beer,
if you gave me a drink I'd've drunk it.

Alternatively,
a biscuit with tea,
and I'll contemplate life while I dunk it.

Cupboards filling up
with stuff we can’t touch
like industrial sacks of dry roasted peanuts
and biscuits for cheese, specifically.
Seems this season of excess
begins with an interminable exercise in restraint,
where even one mince pie is missed.

Cookies are bright twinkles

fun and easy on the eye

they say 'come on, you know you want me, step up and don't be shy'

take off the lid

dip right in

everyone loves a tiny bit of sin!

it was still pitch black when she slid out from under the princess and pea
sized stack of her mother's quilts

her feet slapped the chilly
wooden floorboards
of her grandmother's screened sleeping porch
as she scurried into the main house

made her way into the kitchen
snatched several day old biscuits
stashed them in the pockets of her flowered flannel robe

silently, assuredly she swept a mason jar from the pantry shelf
carefully crept to the icebox
poured herself a fridgid, frothy jar of cow juice


slid silently

out the side door into the crisp predawn air
of the country morning

on winged feet

made her way to her favorite meadow
plopped unpretenciously under the
welcoming branches of grandfather oak
snuggled into the ruff bark of his trunk

a bite of biscuit
a sip of cold cow juice

a smile

what better way to begin a day
than welcoming
the bird's songs?


patiently she waited
the sun began to rise
the field flowers turned  their faces toward the light
as her feathered friends songs began


smiling, self satisfied she said outloud, to no one in particular,

it is good to greet the day
it is better to catch the first worm

The alarm got us up before the sun fully awoke
we pulled our sleepy bodies out of bed
got on our grungies not even fixing coffee yet,
got our gear together in the pickup
and headed for the peninsula
where we hoped the sand bass would be schooling,
searching for some breakfast of worms or flashy things that looked to them like food.
If we were lucky we hooked a few which we would cook later
or save for the freezers back home.

When we got back to the campground
we’d comb our hair brush our teeth and head into town
for Pat’s Cafe who served the best biscuits, eggs, hashbrowns, and pancakes in the region
and if we were lucky Pat herself with her long black hair and **** lips
and substantial hips
would stop by and in her Texas twang and charm
she’d tell us about their farm
we’d speak of our wives
and some of the small details of our lives
and how we loved that large beautiful body
that sparkled and sang to us each spring
and how we savored dipping into Lake Whitney.

In late afternoon we would laze about the RV
discussing Theilhard and Jesus and Charlie
he’d speak of Bob Wills and we’d share
trying to make sense of the spirits there
and how they made us leap and soar.
We spoke in sync and explored
lines of novels, and fascinating texts
that made us eager to discover what was next
that would make us laugh or shed tears
of all those memorable years
we’d been brothers
afloat of the same waters
becoming men who hoped to make their mark
spark something good in the minds
of other seekers who also drank wines
fermented in corridors of learning
who had the same yearning
for knowledge and truth
embedded early and deeply in our youth.

Biscuits
It will take time to adjust to this new reality
There will be good days and bad days on the way
Along with other pre-discerned times unmentionable
Where life will be Mad Max esque and totally lawless
What will I do at such times and what will life do to me?
Tea and biscuits with pals or robbing banks with sawn offs?
Or both...

Ya, weeds.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCMLXXXI)


Now April dogs our sunny minutes, pale
Blue skies with nary cloud to mar that sense
As orange 'non splashes buildings in defense
Of rosy sunset just where dinner's bail,
The biscuits cut ere that eye cease t'avail,
And curtains drawn while steamy soup fr'intents
Give us cause to reflect, black night what'd fence
Dessert as we talk oer the future's tale.
I roll the first words 'cross my tongue as't stir
'Fore butter gives flour cause to be anew
Sheer dough, that haunting sense light rouses fer
Auld memries of lost days what winks unto
My soul, though's but March first.  Is it sae poor
To feel it in our bones likeas twould woo?

01Mar18e

who are you?
please tell me for i'd love to know
i'll invite you in for tea and biscuits, you can tell me everything
please tell me who you are
i'd really love to know
for otherwise you're nothing more than just a stranger to me.