Beware the Gyac’tus!
Oh you monster, oh beast!
Found crawling over mountainsides
on such uneven feet!

Watch the way it’s hobblin’
o’er rocks and hills alike.
**** now, foulest creature! Rid that-
hobblin’ from my sight!

Gone isn’t far enough,
he stoops within my head.
No hamlet could survive like this,
let’s burn him in his bed!

Forks n’ brands, fires too,
pierce heavy evening air.
Storm straight, we do, his wretched mount
to find him sleeping bare.

Be gone, oh Gyac'tus!
I howl atop its shape
A whimper leaks from his lips ‘fore
I carve across its nape.

Fear no more! Fear is dead!
Echoes proudly out the cave,
thus we flounder up the mountain,
thought victors, found us slaves.

But the mount is unkind,
spilling forks in twos, threes,
soon a crowd becomes a party,
a party ‘comes a leash,

‘til the fire burning
on the crest stands alone,
yet the only thought I think,
thunk of wine slugged at home.

Drunken dreams expose me
the vengeful mount beneath,
my careless kneecap crumbling
like cornbread at my feast.

Tumble down the mountain
rolling head, feet n’ all
'til sprawling on the ground beside
the spoils of my war.

Glimpsing 'cross its body
held down by shorter heft
I find myself an iron cast
fast ‘round his shorter left.

Donning the clever craft,
my fate turns a corner!
I crawl, on such uneven feet,
homeward in a fervor.

Triumphant from the hills,
hunger tempting Bacchus,
my hobblin’ culls an awful tune,
Beware the Gyac'tus!

"There's a target on your back,"
said the man in striped white socks and flip flops.
He swung his arms freely and slapped his face
accidentally or intentionally--his illness wasn't mine to name.

The trees wrapped their arms around one another in a huddle.
"Quick she's coming near. The target is close."
One. Two. Three. Birds flew by and splashed my forehead.
I looked back and felt one of the trees wink and point ahead.

A man on a moped waited until my back was turn and I bent down.
Whistle. Whistle. Head turn back ninety degrees.
You'll get in an accident, I thought; I secretly wanted,
his helmet-less head splat flat on the concrete, skin burning,
melting, bubbling, pooling in a puddle.

The red doors whined against my insistent grasp.
When I found my white door, I air twisted the **** that was
pushed back to show the open space inside the coolness.
I didn't live that cold. I didn't know how.
He did. And he reached into my freezer and removed his tongue.
I sank onto the floor and felt ice hit me my cheeks and my eyes and ears.
The blankets couldn't warm me. My tears couldn't melt what formed.

He tossed my key on the mat, kicked back dust into my face;
looked me square in the eyes frozen wide open, mouth gaping for air.

"I put a target on your back. See ya."

In a past life she was a mermaid.
Her eyes seaweed green;
bright watery globes,
flecks of aquamarine.

Bones made of coral,
and skin from wet sands.
She devoured lost sailors
and made treasure their hands.

She rolled with the waves
of the great Celtic Sea,
and pulled with the undertow
‘round County Kerry.

I know this quite well,
‘cause in my past life
I was a drunk Irishman --
she was my wife.