The demon who eats electronic job apps - a poem of the web

And you wait for the call
after spending three hours
and a dozen tries at forcing
a website to take your application
only to find the dreaded thing
the hurry up and wait beast
waiting in the cables between
you and the job you seek.

He eats your resume twice
adds extras to your entries
as you fill in the online forms
laughing as he waves his pitchfork
over the whole dang process
to jinx it with every glitch
his hellish mirth can conjure
to curse your efforts with.

You find yourself holding breath
praying another attracts his attention
with some move on a dream job
from his cubicle far away
so you can sneak one by him
and achieve the daily goal
of resumes and jobs applied
as you search for work.

If only there were a toy
some bauble with which one could
distract his impish obsession
with your feverish striving
and lure him into a trap
on a thumb-drive you could toss
into Challenger's Deep without
garnering Green Peace's anger!

Still I have to plod along
and suffer under this burden
then wondering in amusement
if he is immune to blandishment
or outright bribery there in Hell
to close his eyes for a moment
and let this one go down
without a bloody hitch!

To fool him I try checking
email, social nets and others
even submitting a story
to a place I know will reject
just to catch that eye
and hypnotize him to sleep
for long enough to land
the job I desperately need!

Dare I try one last pass
dangling bigger and juicier bait?
I load up a real story
to fire to the winds of fate
as he picks quarks from his teeth
from his last cyber repast
an app for pigsty cleaner
that he giggled whilst devouring.

He sees the lure I tossed out
I can tell by the gleaming
as the backfires hit my monitor
that he senses a true feast
of my total frustration coming.
Off to the big faceless publishing house
I toss a synopsis, three chaps and all
sliding the application by his back.

Danged if it didn't work.
Now I sit on pins and needles
hoping beyond the gates of heaven
some angel notes my situation
and turns the tide back
upon my evil little foe
and heap upon that devil
a case of Cyber-Indigestion!

Soul for sale for love on the web - a poem

It stood out on Craig's List
That weird ad listing a soul
offered up for sale to public
but no details on how to pay
other than the improbable to collect.

"I sell my soul to whoever can give me
the love of a woman good, pure and true
for all eternity your may keep it, unless love dies."

It made me wonder with longing
if the fool found his gold
or was handed by Satan's hand
thirty pieces of silver to buy
a soiled dove under red lights.

I crafted my own ad mentally over that day
seeking some way to pitch my own soul out
as bait for a woman of virtue and beauty.

But would any who would reply
have the love it would take
to redeem my tarnished soul back
into this shell, allowing love's return
or would she toss me aside?

I never knew, the words failed
and the ad was taken down
as souls are not legal tender
even on the web these days,
then again, who can truly say?

Learning Our Numbers by Coins and Maps -a poem of exploring knowledge

We sit down to play with the coins
as we learn his numbers in a way
others could not comprehend
without knowing how things are
in this strange family of mine...
We learn the value of each coin
and how to tell how old it is
and giggle as we find coins
whose numbers show their age
as more then Mother, Uncle, Grandma
or even "dirt" in several cases...
We learn the four digits in forms
that even a three year old knows
of one and nine go together
as nineteen, or nuttin' in cribbage
as the young boy reminds me...
We learn of sixes, sevens, eights,
with all the numbers behind them
and the states in the order
they became part of the union
not that he understands as well
until we get out the maps to see
where each state is and find
a whole new set of numbers to learn
on the highways and byways....
...so we set out on our next
adventure in learning numbers
and learn names and places as well.

Drinkin' with Cap'n Morgan aboard the Clipper ship - a strange poem

I am belly up to my private bar tonight,
Just me and that dude in the red suit
as we haul up the sail on the clipper ship
that is my version of drinking with the captain...

Hell with that three sheets to the wind stuff
it takes more canvas for me to move fast
as I grab the bottle from ol' Henry Morgan
and take a swig while at my own helm...

I set a coarse for oblivion's dangerous shoals
Where others cruise so carefully to avoid
hanging up on the sandbars of alcoholism
but I have no fear, navigating by my own star...

Bow down before me as I knock back a fifth
while singing pirate songs and drinking country
smiling as I become myself again shedding a skin
sewn around me by those who know me not...

You will know my vessel as it passes you by
for the red banner of no quarter shall I fly
as the ship in the bottle I sail aboard tonight
refuses to stop at any stop save the liquor store...

unless the pirate hunters find me to string my corpse
in a cage at the rocks of the harbor mouth to warn
others of my evil ways and black hearted soul
until the birds have eaten me to the bones...

But I will then grab another bottle of rum and sail on!

Black Crow Landing - a poem

Black Crow flies deeper into the storm
seeking some being to lay his curse upon
The mark of the death to come he heralds.

Tossed in the winds that swirl and rise
beaten by the rains that drive sideways
still he flies on, seeking one to hear his cry.

For Death stalks behind him, astride his pale horse covered in lather from his rounds
Azrael moves forward with each stride, praying for the end of the world, and his own death.


Soon the bird circles high to guide in
his partner since the conquerors came
to take the job from Coyote and Wolf.

As he soars he reminisces of the old days
when the hunters sought with compassion
and he dispersed Wisdom with his call.

Above it all at the Gates of Peals, Michael and Gabriel argue long the destruction of Man
each not realizing that only Azrael can part the souls they seek from the flesh with his Scythe.

Black Crow rides the thermals like Eagle
Seeking still the moment's poor target
Eyes on the earth below seeking as always

And in his breast the envy that condemned
him to this terrible duty in the sky all times
with only the rest of a moment to give his cry

Around the messenger bird, now the wild swordsman of Heaven dances his dervish steps
Whipping the Sword of Winds around him as he raises the whirling wind around himself.

At last the one to be gathered up has been found
after a hunt longer than most, measured in minutes
not the space between the beats of a loving heart

Black Crow's eyes glitter in black joy,
as he descends for the briefest of rests
upon a branch so conveniently nearby.

At the fire where the man waits, the last of the Archangels sits with the mortal man
speaking the Wisdom he shall need as the New Earth is made ready to rise from War's ashes

Black Crow comes down to Earth
and makes his landing amid the leaves
to cry his death warning to the hapless man

And to his surprise, as talons clasp wood
the black feathers fall away in overdue molt
revealing his ancient White Crow form of Wisdom


And the Grim Reaper grins in relief and happiness as he rides his steed in one last time
Man rising from converse with his angelic brother sitting at the fire for the end of Watching

As man takes the Knife of Immortality to slay the angel who lived so men would die
and the New Earth is born under the rule of Sophia who speaks through White Crow

As the angels are at last gathered
upon that long debated pinhead
to dance in joy with their work done.

The Friable Facade that Killed Main Street - A poem of small town America

A hundred years it stood there
the storefront on the corner of Main and West
were the immigrants had bought their dry goods
until the big chains drove them under.
Then came the community book trade
the thrift shop, consignment shop,
the ceramics supplies, the barber shop.
All went under. But the building stood still
until new codes were passed by those in power
developers posing as polititicians to get their way,
and the facade was deemed "friable" and condemned.
I had to look up the word, when I got the notice,
I went outside, then, to check the bricks and mortar.
But it was sound, more sturdy than the sinking cinder block
across the town they had thrown up in haste to make money.
Friable, I thought, the last fatal blow for Main Street.

Brumble's Burgers is Dead - Another Small town America poem

The Financial Grim Reaper came one day
to the corner of State and Broadway
in that little rural town
where small business had still thrived.
He came on his metal horse
with the tools of slaying:
The franchise and Chain stores.

With each metal girder raised
and concrete block stacked up
the downtown brick and mortars
suffered from decay of cash flow
as the dark evil beast from Wall Street
came to slay the Davey's of the west
and take away their business.

The last to fall to the behemoths
he had introduced to the town
was the corner cafe long established.
And the folks only noticed
after the grill was off, the booths sold,
and the door was boarded over,
the closing of Brumble's Burgers.
　

The Death of Small Towns is Killing America - a poem of small town America

You think you live small after seeing the metropolises
Until you go to those places out in the real rural areas
where if you blink you miss the whole town from the road
and never realize that fifty, a hundred, maybe fifteen score
call the place home as you drive by the place racing to
the gathering so distant from your home forgeting
that there once were roller rinks, theatres, schools
and thriving church communities in this place you pass.
And now so much of the old life is gone, stolen by the cities
shuttered by low profit margins, killed by insurance burdens
Your grandparents generation would have stopped at every town
explored the antique shops, the cafe, maybe the bar and talked
learning of the place, or at least what the locals would share.
Now, we are too self absorbed, scared of each other, with some reason
and the small town dies.....and with it the best part of America...

Empty Streets - a poem of dying small town America

Shadows and tumbleweeds rule it
that row of store fronts in the small town
so far from the tourists' byways it died.

Children left the farms for jobs in glass walled monsters far away
and when they came back had tastes, the variety and general store would not sate.

The wind sways the grasses
that grow between the bricks and cracks
of road and sidewalk abandoned.

There was a time when it was busy
when folks came home and shopped in town
then the Big Boxes came to the Rural.....

And seduced their children and others to its bright wide walls, leaving the stores
cafes and repair shops to slowly die, with only the bar on the corner still thriving.

The street is empty, save one day a year
when folks pretend to still have some pride
and mock the ghosts in the old shops.

Who stare out unseen and mourn the death of the town they had been part of
and understand at last the tales of the empty places in mining country.

Commando bikini girl on the patio - the original poem I wrote a while back

Commando bikini girl on the patio
with squirt gun spurting wildly
defending her paved grotto's denizen
from attacks on high above
where the guerilla squirrels scamper
along the walnut trees limbs
finding their nutritious ordnance
to send down upon her friend.
she dances too and fro,
working the lower in between her cheeks
more and more with each step
and pirouette she makes.
All the tree varmints of the block
come to join the fray with chattering joy,
plucking the green, brown, and even ripe black
fruits of the trees they live and frolic in
to race over to their dedicated impact range.
To bombard those using the stone and brick patio
and take back their nut storage acreage.
Bombing run after bombing run the shells rain down
until grabbing the cat off the sofa squirt gun
and screaming in the good kind of insane rage
and firing back with the high-powered streams
of water at the rodents of arboreal penthouses.
Like an action movie heroine, her aim is quick and true
scoring hits on the Squirrel Liberation Army troops
who soon begin to realize its a game indeed
and that is when the smile creased her face
as the battle changes to who can hit who
with water or nuts, and her man becomes the goal
for the sailing husks descending from on high.
A vision of loveliness as she fights on
with laughter, joy and smiles
like the children cheering her on
from the sidewalk art projects
they had stopped making
to enjoy the humorous show.
The Realtree Girl pink camo,
muted with its greens and browns
ingaccents the curves of circling hips
in motions of the sweet hula dance,
as she takes on the rodents
and their nutshell bombs.
Her breasts bounce gently
in their fuchsia and vermillion confines
mesmerizing the object
of her desires and defense.
who watches her with a smile
and twinkle of lustful love
in his deep blue eyes
as she stirs him up to amour
for her once again as when they met
until the blue jays join the fray,
stuka diving to deliver their objections
in the form of white chemical attacks
they normally save for the car
when it is freshly washed and waxed.
Driving them from the outside back in
where they dry each other off
with towels still warm from the dryer
forget to don their garbs once more
as they seek to turn their couch
into a most holy of altars to be found
performing the rites of Aphrodite's delight.
　

I showed her the fire before she jumped in - A Poem from my [_] days....

-I showed her the fire before she jumped in-


She came to me for advice
so I filled my pipe as I listened
to her side and view of the problem.
After a time, she wound down a bit
her excitement at the new ray of hope
like a beast stalking inside her breast,
and I could reply softly, calm as I could.

"See this match, this is what you grasp at."
I struck it soft and brought it to flame,
waved it over the bowl as I puffed,
until the flame did dance on shredded leaf.
"And this is what it can turn to; fires, ash and smoke.
So girl beware of the flames you dance around,
lest they singe your wings and leave you grounded."

Another long silence, as I drew in air
to make the next point's exemplar.
When I spoke, it was after tossing out
a wispy ring of floating smoke,
"And this is the end you will see
chasing something you cannot catch and keep."
As if on queue, the breeze tore the ring apart.

She wandered away not long after that
and it was years more before I heard anything
about the boy she went for, or her fate
and if she took my advice about the match.
It had turned out bad, and she took her own life.
I cried, even though I had done my part
to show her the fire before she jumped in.