I fear the bass and treble.
The Stuka's nasal voice ringing out.
The tremulous earth beneath two treads.
The planet itself was set to tremble.

I fear the detonation.
A whistle in the darkness.
Harmonizing bass and treble.
Imminent inflammation.

I fear the bass and treble.

Better duck the Stuka dive bombers
if you want to still paint like Rothko.
I can no more steal your last breath
than exhibit prostrate in your sky,
we all have our crosses to bear
but I am confidently on a fool's errant
searching another thoroughbred obligation
with my paraplastic factory vision,
currently stranded in Haifa
night goggles on!

Frozen above the sweaty masses a fleshy ocean, he’s the dive bomber.
His out reached hands marked with the black x’s, The D.C. kids clawing at the human Stuka.
He has unhinged himself from the crowd. untethered
from the pale white fingers of the misunderstood youth that would pull him back in.
The hungry human piranhas trying to ****** a piece of his flesh.

Now, where only music can reach him.
The off tempo cymbal crash and the four power chords furiously strummed
on a broken five string guitar,
the mad crowd shouts in tongues. Spit and sweat sprinkle his face like an ocean mist.
A vivid reminder of the human meat grind below.

His arms outstretched like a bird of prey ready for the ****,
the wings of Icarus over the blacked out
eyes of the faces below.

However in this instance he is at the apex,
he is captured in a quick second snapshot,
Suspend in the void behind him like a black flag
Waving and violently vibrating with the music behind it.

He is the stage diver,
Voyager before the malfunction,
Icarus before the sun.

I carry freight
interstate
eight
hauling gear.

I fear
noting
nothingness hoarded
the nights on my road.

Carrying a load out in
Fresno,
ok
all of this works if you know
Fresno
and I've seen things here
things that made me fear.

I've seen nothingness in the eyes of a lady, the queen of the maybe and maybe that should have been it, but **** happens and we have to deal with it.

There is
more to the ramblings of gamblers or ex drinkers who foam at the mouth for a beer,
and I've been here
sold my soul for a handful of quaaludes
in a back room with some dudes
I can't even remember.

But I remember the fear when the nothingness lit on my shoulder and you carry yourself even though you get older and the road out to Fresno is the same as the last road which was 4,000 years long,

So it seemed

And Lucy who never knew diamonds at all
only the rough hands of bad men in the crack dens of Harlem

until nothingness steamed in and screamed like a Stuka and you think to yourself
Jeez I am one crazy ******,
but you're still on the right side of
Interstate eight,
carrying fear like you carry the freight
hoping that no one will see you .

Opposites don't attract,
every pigeon has potential  butter on their feet,
sourced from an inalienable  mountain
of bread rolls,
they have  often dreamed  of flying
to the sun
away from the inhospitable  concrete  fields,
but  in the  heat
they become  stuka sirens
and  people will find  that an impossible  thought

A Christmas gift spurned

In a busy Christmas street, I saw her; I was sure it was her,
the way she walked, I could sense her perfume too.
Ran after her, touched her shoulder said halloo, she turned
I had been wrong and said sorry.
She smiled and said, no it is only me what you see.
I read an invitation in her dark brown eyes, but I was hopelessly
in love with a blond, the mythical one.
Said sorry again, flapped my wings and flew high into the night sky
so seek her among the stars.
In the cool outer space, I realized the fabled woman was an angel
And I was an earthling I dived back to earth like a Stuka bomber, skidded on slush,
looked in vain for the woman with brown eyes

On the rebound
finding
bed
and
board
all found on the bounce
where the waste ground
looked inviting,

she saw and she
invited
I accepted
and too casually
I fell for her
she
fell for me,
stopping
just to catch our breath.

Serendipity,
fates collide
provisionally
and then
permanently fuse.

On another digit of the
digital day
the clocks don't strike
the lights don't strobe,
this is what?

I don't know if
it's in morse code
if the road I tarry on
is to Babylon,
what a carry on,

but a couple of dots
and maybe a dash
don't seem so hard
so
I'll have a bash

The crash will always come
like Stuka's out of the sun
you'll be
I'll be
shot down and krapped upon
or should that be not so
we'll go on.

that, in a nutshell,

the debaters think my brain does not contain me,

they assume ai ai ai am imagined by a non verbal brain,

with no reason, come on,
really,
they have degrees in chosen fields that prove fate.

Sci used right, they think the comptroller in my gut,
has no means of intending to empower me

with whatever I feed it, to the best of my ability,

gigo. gogo got it fectul effing affection, love it. So simple.

sponsor my responsibility with a moral from a story

choose the good, flush the evil. Flushing being a process

our bodies seem to know how to perform.

exercise in godliness,
imagine you are the good god who holds evil knowns

in idle never functional states for steering out of bumps,

moguls, ah, I know how this works,

--- stuka's siren, fear, fear fear death, fear destruction

Not here.
--- the sound, we can hear it if we ever heard it,
--- remember the sirens in Anne Frank's diary?

--- wah waah wah waah wah waah

linkup:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2864102/on-the-battle-field-after-all/

been and done, son. This
current situation has been history, scientifically, for

a while, cosmostication time wise, which does this trick,
stretch truth so thin,

you can begin to make something,

out of next. Cool, right? Good genug for governin' werxs?

Leave us went, the future is bright and, we have a sunset scheduled
in Pine Valley.