Blow, Lyceum grasses, blow,
From coiled lips of your wolf-god Apollo
Whose dawn-padded paws to starprints roam
This temple-tribute to thought-illumined roads.  

Blow, Lyceum grasses, blow
Of wave upon wave of your brushings-by,
From staff to sandal-fall to cloak hemline,
For rhapsodes, your song-odyssey to sew.

The Greeks built the sun,
Upon scaffolding~acrobaticon~  
With pear-skinned lightness to glow,
Or like leavened bread from the woodburning stove.

Blow, Lyceum grasses, blow,
The sun lies old on its famine-cracked pillow,
In spittle of gold and yellowed phosphorous,
With the gods past-blown to ruin.

dirt after rain
sunscreen
bug spray
cigarettes
grass
laundry
sweat
mud
algae-filled water
burning wood
marshmallows
the cologne Pa wears
the smell of their house
old New Orleans buildings
airports
hotel rooms
basketballs
woodburning
the lodge at camp
bridge cabin
the rez in the morning

Hollywood, oh Hollywood.
Oh Hollywood, oh Hollywood, oh Hollywood.
It's the end of the roadwork.
Your timepiece has come,
And it's a swatch.
Notch one more crotch on your bedposter -
That glossy, ten five twenty-two eight
That I have to pass every day on my work to drive.
Five days an hour, eight weeks a day
Hollywood, you make it so!
You make so,
And you make it so easy.

But no more.
I'll not have it.
I'll not have your scientists of magic.
I'll not have your tragic matches
Acting as hatched from practiced scratch,
Far detached from my actual batch.
I'll not latch.

Holly, I enjoy woodburning,
And I'll be ****** if I let you talk me into
Buying wood in sizes I don't need.
"It's bigger and looks better, and it can be yours!"
Well, so can the forest, Holly.
So can the sticks and bits and wild peach pits.
All for free, all for me,
All without fashion, death, or ****
(Unless I choose to use them).

Hollywood, you are my tenth grade English teacher.
You should be teaching math,
But you been subjected to so much juvenile crap
That you sell your contributions
As though they were miracle cures for a dying language.
BUT.
You're in a rut.
You don't know it
(Most 70-year-old virgins don't),
But you are.
Go on, get ******.
You believe in formulas.
Hollywood, this movie
(Yes, the one I'm typing and you're reading),
This movie would never make it in your classroom.
It has no meter,
Just a hint of rhyme,
And very few explosions sixty minutes in.
If I can't mumble it to a children's tune,
I get neither "A" nor award.

I don’t smoke
Too many people I know have died due to it
Too many heartbreaks, too many mistakes.

But if I did
I’d light you on fire and breathe you in
Inhaling your smoky scent, like woodburning
Until my lungs were coated with your ashes.

No chance of lung cancer
But maybe a chance of obsession
A dangerous obsession
An unhealthy obsession.

And I’d watch the tips of you slowly burn
Until my fingers were in danger of blistering
And you could feel the heat from my face.

You are a dangerous habit.