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Apr 13 · 135
Dumb, dumb Daddy
Zeeb Apr 13
Dumb, dumb Daddy what has happened to you?
Are you the same man that I once knew?

See the little girl, napping on your shoulder?  That's me.
You, a bit bare in your undershirt - the smell of Old Spice, and your chest-hair, some of it gray, forges in me a warm and valued memory - peace, security, love.  Forever with me!

But dumb, dumb Daddy, is your mind at its end?
Do you actually believe, this **** that you send?

Walter Cronkite was worthy of your trust and you were safe in listening.
Your parent’s and grandparent’s truth-telling and faith in humanity have instilled outdated notions.
Has being reared in a more honest time rendered you this gullible?
Shall we blame that?
No one knew you carried such liability, that your attention and beliefs could be so easily captured, that you may lack common sense even.  You can't tell truth from falsehoods, or spot a demagogue.

I once thought you so smart.
Oh
Dumb, dumb Daddy, do you get out of the rain?
Did Schlitz, “hi-*****” and cigarettes ****-up your brain?

Stay away from your computer - it's not from your time
Get a flip-phone
Come home
Zeeb Apr 6
Mr. Bill Roberts, approachable man, a great pack of young boys we were
His son ran with us, a fine fellow too, the best boy I know that I knew

So common back then, the boys of their dads, to brag and show off the mementos
Of war far away, though close it would stay, to our father’s lives every day

Mr. Bill Roberts unbuckled his belt in front of our youthful, fixed eyes
We’d all seen his metals and one stood apart, a golden and purple small heart

In tract-housing built for the men who in droves, were lucky to come back
His belt was quite skinny, just right for the times, I remember it silver and black

Now off with the trouser, the work of a Mauser, brought upon us boys quite a gasp
As promised that day, the price of the metal, was fully on display

The bullet went in, and then took a tumble, for to continue its buzz-cutting way
To lay the man flat, and he said to us, “It was then that I started to pray”

He’d seen his men fall, had no reason at all, to believe with the living he’d stay
But “Shook off the sad sap” to use his own words, his own life he would save, that day

The dutiful work of his heart, an evident and unwelcome sight
Pressing his hands to his legs with his might, his own body he would have to fight

Fight for your life young soldier, you know you want to grow older
Your girl is at home and Daddy is dead
Go to Mom and find your old bed

The din of combat subsided, and a peace descended as familiar faces appeared
A dream commenced and Mr. Bill Roberts was home
Zeeb Dec 2019
Ones and zeros hold the key
For the eventual displacement of you and me
Must we unbind our worth perceived
From the job and identity we’ve received?
Seems so I’d say, why just this year
A driverless truck crossed the country clear
We must keep meaning, a useful place
for to preserve the human race
Or will it be synthetic ******
While good ole’ Maxo does our chores
Dec 2019 · 237
Soldier Talk
Zeeb Dec 2019
Atonement ain’t happened if it still feels bad to think about it, man.  And it still feels bad for me all the time, no matter what the  gray beard veterans say, with their stupid caps full of  pins and ******' hair growin' out of their ears, or what ******' pill they give me.  It feels so bad I ***** if I don't get my mind on to something else.  And look how skinny I am.  I'm ******' skinny.

I don’t care what the ******* said.  He can go back to his hospital or wherever he came from and stop pretending he understands us.

You ain’t never going to shake off that memory, so stop trying - I'm thinking now.  You got to live with it.  Live with what you done.  Live with it till you die, and ****, possibly even after you die.  You got to forgive yourself to live with it now and get God to forgive you if you don’t want to carry it over.  Know what I’m tryin’ to say?  The God part is easy, the chaplain said.  My part ain't workin'.  Is yours?

"Talk to your wife about it".  That guy was a ******' idiot.
You know who I really need to talk to?  I'd beg Satan to give me my punishment and then set me free to live for a change.  I can't get that job done on my own.  The devil may be the only ****** that can fix me.  I don't care what he'd do.  I think the more he burned my ***, the better it would feel.  When he was done punishing me,  satisfied and smiling, I'd call it all even then, and give whatever was left of me permission to live.  Permission to look forward instead of backward all the time.

I'm supposed to tell this **** to my wife?
Dec 2019 · 126
Watching the Wonderful
Zeeb Dec 2019
In darkened space behind a sofa-set
I pause my return from the kitchen
The eyes of my family are watching TV
And for that they cannot see me

What’s on the screen is not to my taste
Too innocent and foolish – It's true, I am quite smug!
But the laughs, the smiles, and sparkling eyes
Oh my family, on my heart you do tug

A gentle warm wash pours over my soul
An unexpected deep sweet euphoria

Just a simple reminder how blessed it can be
To be part of a family
Jan 2019 · 4.1k
20% Approx.
Zeeb Jan 2019
Rat-a-tat Bumpstock, Gadsden on his truck, so easily
led by his nose
Has a dip and a beer with an old friend dear
Let's listen and see what we hear

"It's your turn to shoot"
"Ahhh got **** on my boot"
"Did you get you a deer this season?"

Shot a doe just last week, said the sporting man
She was eating corn right in front of my stand

Did you see on the channel this morning
That story about the wedding cake?
Don’t get me started, said Rat-a-Tat
Okay, go ahead, what was Sean’s take?

He said in a town there’s this baker-man
Who believes in Jesus, just like you and me
Then “ding” went the bell of his shop door
You won’t believe what then he did see
Tat it was two men holding hands, dear God, and they said that they wanted to wed
The baker, now personally offended, tossed them out on their ******* heads

Wow such courageous action, said Tat, and from a man who bakes at that!
To the baker and all imbeciles of the world, went a tip of Tat's oily red hat

As not to be outdone by Tat
Came a second salute to the cretins
A loud ****, a belch, and a spit of brown pinch
So common to people like that


Meanwhile, back in the city


Huff and Puff elliptical man, tunes-in, to his friend on the screen
“What’s this about a deep-state?”, he asked
Pray tell me just what does it mean

I’ll tell you HP, said Huff no. 2
There's a group within our gov
They draw a regular check and do have a plan
To take away our man

"****-right ****-right", said Huffy
I've thought that all along
And did you see on the channel this morning
That story about the weeding cake?
Sep 2018 · 624
Black Binders
Zeeb Sep 2018
Black binders beside the linac, hold photos of those most ill
A diagnosis and a treatment plan, the last hopes of a woman or man

I fix the monster when it  breaks, so dutifully with a tool
When I get the call "The linacs down", for that I went to school

Something else will oft present, when the beast is down
A delicate soul, silver nitrate marked, waiting patiently in her gown

So evident she is, and so sad to see.  All the women I love personified - compromised, humbled, made pitiful.

As for the binders I'll sometimes note, a new one added today
The mom or dad of a once young boy, with whom I used to play

Each will have their turn in the beam
In desperate hope to be redeemed

And who'll be next on the cancer roll-call?
******* it, ******* it, seems like us all
Zeeb Jul 2018
The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway… man that’s one long bridge
I drive it every day for my pay - here’s what I see along the way

Here comes:
Corvette Kary, setting pace, he thinks he’s in a race
When Kary’s not waxing his ride, for your safety you'd best pull aside

Petrified Patty, she’s over water and has never learned how to swim
She’s driving a white Lexus, so scared she has no reflexus

Miata Mike, chasing Kary's Vette, not gonna get too far
Trying to convince himself, he didn’t buy a girly car

Watch out for:

Makeup Mary, on cruise-control, wow she’s one of the worst
She loves her new Camry, but her next car might just be a hearse

Yes, that Causeway, can be a long and boring ride
And if you get a flat… there’s no place to pull aside
Oh but that Causeway has its points, take time to see
24 miles of entertainment, and the Northbound way is free

Here comes:

Road Rage Randy, always ****** and he doesn't know why
Today he’s running late, but finds time to escalate

Doughnut Danny, rolling breakfast and a tea
Such mechanized efficiency, has a newspaper on his knee

Wackin Wayne, you're kidding me, you thought I couldn't see?  Vibrating Virginia close behind, now we have equality

We've got:

Maypop Marty, thinks tires last forever
Does he even check the air?.... never

Mark The Spark needs a muffler shop, something heavy about to drop.  Comes Innocent Mike on his motorbike too bad he just couldn't stop.

Headphone Harry and his Pandora, he's hear but also... he's not.  He likes his music best, you see, after a few long tokes of his ***.

Fugitive Fred on the go, at 65 point ooo.  Not a mile to fast or to slow, got to blend in on this bridge don't you know.

Yes that old Causeway, can be a long and boring ride
And if you get a flat… there’s no place to pull aside
Oh but that Causeway, has its points, take time to see
The mechanized circus on parade, our hilarious humanity

Don’t forget:

Frozen Frita, every rainstorm stops her dead in her track
Then here comes Ramin’ Ron, goin 60, aint too good for her back

No Tie-down Tim, **** flyin’ out of his truck
For everyone behind him, Tim doesn’t give a ****

NPR Nancy, she must be in a “Driveway Moment”
Only problem is, she’s on a god-**** bridge

Texting Theresa, I’ve saved the best for last
The last thing in life she did see, was an idiotic emoji

Lookin’ Lee, that’s me, pretty sad that I’m just as bad
Come join us nuts on the Causeway, might be the most fun you ever had
Zeeb Jul 2018
New Orleans has its Oaks, the most beautiful in the world
The Oaks they had an occupant, little squawky squirrel
Squawky squirrel stepped out one day, cross the street he made his way
And if he hadn’t changed his mind, he’d still be here today

The widow sweet Ms. Peters, did receive a call
From a handsome gentleman, who went by the name of Paul
Ms. Peters had been interested, in Paul’s cautious advance
But decided she would wait a while, not to take a chance
Now Paul has found his one and only
Ms. Peters spends her nights quite lonely

Oh yes the case of the pretty pilot
Just seventeen in a flying machine
The weather turned black so she headed back
But her boyfriend intervened

Now close if I may - here's what I say
Trust yourself - the odds break your way
Zeeb Jul 2018
Tool of desperate confrontation
Object of pride for a grateful nation
In Baton Rouge on the mighty river
Kidd rests proudly
376' length overall,  Fletcher Class destroyer
Like every ship, of oil she does smell
When I boarded her, she had something to tell

I was with a scoutmaster, my son and the boys
Concerned with their fun, and the making of noise
But late in the night, as quiet set in
Kidd started whispering, to my within

She spoke of the men who gave up their lives
Their children, their girls, the tears of their wives
Thirty-eight men, in fiery fuel
Hell's agony touched, a death so cruel
Fifty-five more, burned badly that day
Defending our country, our homage we pay
Visiting sailors will stand at attention
… and for a young Kamikaze, scarcely a mention

The big war was over, Kidd passed her test
Now to San Diego, for a permanent rest
But as men will prescribe, it didn’t last long
Kidd went back into action, near Korea’s Kaesong

When in Baton Rouge, you can visit the Kidd
If you’re bold, listen carefully, just as I did
You'll get half of the story, the rest we don't know
The men who have fallen, to Kidd's mighty blow

Let's set now a new tone and have us some fun
The Kidd's crew were pirates but they didn't run ***

Those flat-tops were fancy, their flyers elite
In the galley was ice-cream, their reward and their treat
When a pilot was downed, Kidd quickly steamed
Then radioed the skipper, "your man for  ice-cream"
Jul 2018 · 446
Marvelous Dogs
Zeeb Jul 2018
Buckets of love, every day
Their feet smell like Fritos, in a good way

But they come with a problem, a heartbreak alas
Their clocks run too fast
Jul 2018 · 688
Cold-light Catastrophe
Zeeb Jul 2018
The Mills Brothers sang about them
Must be fifty years ago
And science has long figured out
Just what makes them glow

But still when you see one
It’s sure to make you smile
And they can see each other
From a country mile

"Hey look at me
I can light up half the bark on this old tree
And pay no mind to Jim, can’t you see
His butts a little dim"

The odds are stacked against them
In every single way
With twin-engine Beechcraft
Shootin mosquito spray

And the kids they still do it
Pack them into jars
And of all things, sickly things
Make slimy diamond rings

insert whistle solo (hey look at me notes)

Trees are getting dozed down
To make room for a bigger town
And scientists want their ***
For Luciferase

But tonight he's not worried, 'bout loss of habitat
Got just one thing on his mind
Her yellow-green behind

Hey look at me...

And so when you see one, flashing on the fly
That's the male and like most males, just a ***** guy
And laying on the leaf, bright skirt raised to her waist
If to me you will fly, you can get a taste

Hey look at me...
Lyrics by Zeeb and best sung to the tune of "Hey Janeane" by the Hang Dogs
Jul 2018 · 1.1k
A Rebel is Lost
Zeeb Jul 2018
A click and then as if by magic
Out of state news, something tragic
A childhood friend has rolled his truck
A rebel I knew ran out of luck

What color and excitement he gave to my youth!
Corrupted me, to tell you the truth
As memories flood, here’s what they bring
Crazy as it was, wouldn’t change a **** thing

In Baron’s mind, did I still reside?
If so, well then, a part of me has died

If dice land right then old we grow
To bear the loss of those we know
The dark list grows, year to year
So rain love now, on those held dear!

May I press?  Waive to your face
A list that grows at quickening pace

Take heed friend - advice for you
Cause bet you have your own list too
Apr 2018 · 3.3k
Wesley's Watch
Zeeb Apr 2018
Oh fine jewelry worn by men
Wesley's watch is lost again
"Wesley where's your silver Tissot?"
"Sorry Dad, I do not know"
The little ticker is out of its case
Wesley's watch is lost in space
"Oh now where did my keys go?"
"They were right here a minute ago"
"You lost your keys now, did you Son?"
"Can I use your's Mom?"  "Got to run"
"I found my watch, Dad, mixed in with clothes"
"All the time right under my nose"
But lo in five days, maybe ten
Wesley's watch is lost again
"One day boy, it's going to get snatched"
"And it's a **** good thing your ****'s attached"
Well today the watch is on my arm
Safe from Wesley , safe from harm
It feels warm
May 2017 · 7.4k
Race Day
Zeeb May 2017
Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood
A  new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt

I drove past the banner that said “Welcome Race Fans”
Took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me

I guess chalky grey primer is not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place

I chugged-popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old

Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said “sounds good”

The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up

Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine

Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement

Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise ---  becomes music
Speed --- satisfaction
Apr 2017 · 625
Ode to a Teacher
Zeeb Apr 2017
Drawn by the yearning for direction and gain
To stop the drifting, uncertainty and pain

A dropout, I was, as lost as can be
In desperation said “Mom, I think it’s for me”

The school ‘s real mission was to take in the dough
How much poor Mom stretched, I never will know

Yes, all of that’s true, but the first day I knew
The man we’d call teacher, was a teacher true-blue

He worked for quite little, I now will surmise
But shared well his passion, he opened my eyes

While I was enrolled, the small school did close
Left some of us hanging, like fools, I suppose

But despite the fiasco that was on the surface
I knew what to do, I’d finally found purpose

And so due to Jay (Tranchina)
I was well on my way
And thank him in rhyme
For my life of today.
Apr 2017 · 331
You Can Never Go Home
Zeeb Apr 2017
I made a visit to my old street
No one I know was there to meet
Some trees I’d climbed, I found still there
Green tops now higher in the air

At my old house I then did stop
and lo, no sign of Mom and Pop
Our cats and dogs, our youth sublime
stolen by a thief called time

It takes from us at clockwork speed
all those we love and those we need
and finds us wanting for the past
while knowing what is now can’t last
Jul 2015 · 879
My Father's Business
Zeeb Jul 2015
“Can you hear me?”  “Can you hear me?”  …. “Come-in”
Boys with “walkie-talkies”, walking and talking, squealing and squawking
The girls were chalking – on the sidewalk
Range, one quarter mile.  More over water, the box said

If all you hear is static
Run some wire in your attic
Or tie it to your gutter
“Can you hear me?”  You may utter

Copper wire strung on a fence
For Russian signals the pretense
Every beep, buzz and whistle
Was that to do with someone’s missile?

A weather fax for steaming ships,  “doodle doodle” sound
Deadly tips!

Vacuum tubes soft-lit for me
RCA, Westinghouse, and GE
Their glow-warm magic casting a spell
A hook set lightly - I could not tell

Gizmos, and gadgets, in crate after crate
Rolled into the business, helped shape my fate

First pretended, then suspended
This special wonder soon had ended
To reappear in later year
A guide to me to find career

So thank you Dad – the hook you set
grew into a job, my needs were met
A needed change, a needed change

Courtesy, Machinery Exchange
Jul 2015 · 458
Where They Live
Zeeb Jul 2015
I do believe it wonderfully true
That loved-ones and friends never leave you

That who we are is bone and skin
and the places we fill in other’s “within”

For those to whom ourselves we gave
We stay with them till they meet grave

And we, still waking, breathing to live
Hold in us, what they did give
Jul 2015 · 61.6k
Hot Rod (long, for gearheads)
Zeeb Jul 2015
Hotrod
Verse I

Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood the young man spilt
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt

Feeling good.  Head under a raised hood, hands occupied, the job nearing completion.  Sometimes the good feelings would dissipate though, as quickly as they came, as he cursed himself for stripping a bolt, or cursed someone else for selling him the wrong part, or the engineer whose design goals obviously did not consider “remove and replace”.
He cursed the “gorilla” that never heard of a torque-wrench, the glowing particle of **** that popped on to the top of his head as he welded, the metal chip he flushed from his eye, and even himself for the burn he received by impatiently touching something too soon after grinding. 
 He, and his type, cursed a lot, but mostly to their selves as they battled-on with things oily, hot, bolted, welded, and rusty – in cramped spaces. One day it was choice words for an “easy-out” that broke off next to a broken drill bit that had broken off in a broken bolt, that was being drilled for an easy-out. 
  Despite the swearing, the good and special feelings would always return, generally of a magnitude that exceeded the physical pain and mental frustration of the day, by a large margin.  
Certifiably obsessive, the young man continued to toil dutifully, soulfully, occasionally gleefully, sometimes even expertly, in his most loved and familiar place, his sanctuary, laboratory… the family garage.

And tomorrow would be the day.
With hard learned, hard earned expertise and confidence - in this special small place, a supremely happy and excited young man commanded his creation to life.

Threw a toggle, pressed a switch
Woke up the neighbors with that *******

The heart of his machine was a stroked Chevy engine that everyone had just grown sick hearing about.  Even the local machine shop to which the boy nervously entrusted his most prized possession had had enough.  “Sir, I don’t want to seem disrespectful, but from what I’ve read in Hot Rod Magazine, you might be suggesting a clearance too tight for forged pistons…” then it would be something else the next day.  
One must always speak politely to the machinist, and even though he always had, the usual allotment of contradictions and arguments afforded to each customer had long run out – and although the shop owner took a special liking to the boy because, as he liked to say, “he reminds me of me”, well, that man was done too.  But in the end, the mill was dead-on.  Of course from the start, the shop knew it would be; that’s almost always the case; it’s how they stay in business - simply doing good work.  Bad shops fall out quickly, but this place had the look of times gone by.  Good times. 
 Old porcelain signs, here and there were to be found, all original to the shop and revered by the older workers in honored nostalgia.  The younger workers get it too; they can tell from the co-workers they respect and learn from, there is something special about this past.  One sign advertises Carter Carburetors and the artwork depicts “three deuces”, model 97’s, sitting proudly atop a flathead engine, all speeding along in a red, open roadster.  Its occupants, a blond haired boy with slight freckles (driver), and a brunette girl passenger, bright white blouse, full and buttoned low. They are in the wind-blown cool, their excited expressions proclaim… "we have escaped and are free!" (and all you need is a Carter, or three).  How uniquely American.

The seasoned old engine block the boy entrusted to the shop cost him $120-even from the boneyard.  Not a bad deal for a good high-nickel content block that had never had its first 0.030”overbore.  In the shop, it was cleaned, checked for cracks by "magnafluxing", measured and re-measured, inspected and re-inspected.  It was shaped and cut in a special way that would allow the stroker crankshaft, that was to be the special part of this build, to have all the clearance it would need.  The engine block was fitted with temporary stress plates that mimic the presence of cylinder heads,  then the cylinders were bored to “first oversize”,  providing fresh metal for new piston rings to work against.  New bearings were installed everywhere bearings are required.  Parts were smoothed here and there.  Some surfaces were roughened just so, to allow new parts to “work-into each other” when things are finally brought together.  All of this was done with a level of precision and attention far, far greater than the old “4- bolt” had ever received at the factory on its way to a life of labor in the ¾ ton work van from which it came, and for which it had served so dutifully.  They called this painstaking dedication to precision measurement and fit, to hitting all specifications on the mark, “blueprinting”, and it would continue throughout the entire build of this engine.  The boy remained worried, but the shop had done it a million times.

After machining, the block was filled with new and strong parts that cost the young man everything he had.   Parts selected with the greatest of effort, decision, and debate.   You can compromise on paint and live with some rust,  he would say, wait for good tires, but never scrimp on the engine.  Right on.  Someone taught the boy right, regardless of whether or not he fully understood the importance of the words he parroted.  His accurate proclamation  also provided ample excuse for the rough, unfinished, underfunded look of the rest of his machine.  But it was just a look, his car was, in fact, “right”.   And its power plant?  Well the machine shop had talked their customer into letting them do the final engine assembly - even cut their price to do it.  To make that go down easy, they asked to have two of their shop decals affixed to the rod on race-days.  The young man thought that was a fair deal, but the shop was really just looking out for the boy, with their herring of sorts.  
The mill in its final form was the proper balance of performance and durability; and with its camshaft so carefully selected, the engine's “personality” was perfectly matched to the work at hand.   It would produce adequate torque in the low RPM range to get whole rig moving quickly, yet deliver enough horsepower near and at red-line to pile on the MPH, fast.  No longer a polite-natured workhorse, this engine, this engine is impatient now.  High compression, a rapid, choppy idle - it seems to be biting at the bit to be released.  On command, it gulps its mixture and screams angrily, and often those standing around have a reflexive jump - the louder, the better - the more angry, the better.  If it hurts your ears, that’s a good feeling.  If its bark startles, that’s a good startle.  A cacophony?  No, the “music” of controlled explosions, capable of thrusting everything and everyone attached, forward, impolitely, on a rapid run to the freedom so well depicted in the ad.  

This is the addictive sound and feel that has appealed to a certain type of person since engines replaced horses, and why?  A surrogate voice for those who are otherwise quiet?  A visceral celebration of accomplishment?    Who cares.  Shift once, then again - speed quickly makes its appearance.  It appears as a loud, rushing wind and a visually striking, unnatural view of the surrounding scenery.  At some point, in the sane, it triggers a natural response - better slow down.    

He uncorked the headers, bought gasoline, dropped her in gear, tore off to the scene
Camaros and Mustangs, an old ‘55
Obediently lined-up, to get skinned alive!

Verse II (1st person)

I drove past the banner that said “Welcome race fans” took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me

I guess rust and primer are not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place

I chugged/popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old

Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said, “sounds good”

The Nova I parked next to was “classic rodding” in its outward appearance.  The much overused “primer paint job”.  The hood and front fenders a fiberglass clamshell, pinned affair.  Dice hanging from the mirror paid homage to days its driver never knew, but wished he had.  He removed them before he drove, always.

If you know how to peel the onion, secrets are revealed.  Wilwood brake calipers can be a dead giveaway. Someone needs serious stopping power - maybe.  Generally, owners who have sprung the bucks for this type gear let the calipers show off in bright red, to make a statement, and sometimes, these days, it’s just a fashion statement.  Expensive calipers, as eye candy, seem to be all the rage.  What is true, however, is very few guys spend big money on brakes only to render them inglorious and seemingly common with a shot of silver paint from a rattle can - and the owner of this half fiberglass racer that poses as a street car had done just that.  I'll glean two things from this observation. One, he needs those heavy brakes because he’s fast, and two, hiding them fits his style.  
Really, the message to be found in the silver paint, so cleverly applied to make your eyes simply slide across on their way to more interesting things, was “sleeper”.   And sleeper really means, he’s one of those guys with a score to settle - with everyone perhaps.   The list of “real parts” grew, if you knew where to look.  Looking was something I had unofficial permission to do since my rod was undergoing a similar scrutiny.  
“Stroked?”, I asked.  That’s something you can’t see from the outside. “ No”, my racer friend replied.  
“Hundred shot?”  (If engines have their language, so do the people who love them).   Despite the owner’s great efforts to conceal braided fuel and nitrous lines, electrical solenoids and switches, I spied his system.  The chunks of aluminum posing as ordinary spacers under his two Holly's were anything but.   “No”, was his one-word reply to my 100- shot question.  I tried again; “Your nitrous system is cleanly installed, how much are you spraying?”  “Two hundred fifty” in two stages, he said.  That’s more like it, I thought, and I then figured, he too had budgeted well for the machine shop – if not, he was gambling in a game that if lost, would soon fly parts in all directions.   Based on the overall neat work on display, I believed his build was up to the punishment planned. 
  I knew exactly what this tight-lipped guy was about, seeing someone very familiar in him as it were, and that made the “sounds good” complement I received upon my arrival all the more valuable.  I liked my neighbor.  And I liked the fact of our scratch-built rods having found each other - and I looked forward to us both dusting off the factory jobs.  It was going to be a good day.

The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up.

Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine

Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement

Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise ---  becomes music
Speed, satisfaction

End

— The End —