The Ultimate Terrorist - A bit of Fried Food Day Satire

You might think that as a member of the Homeless Community, I fear the gangs and addicts hanging around us, slinging drugs, stealing stuff, and the like. But it ain't so.

I still fear the one branch of criminal activity we will never control. The mafia so determined to win, even Al Qaeda and the Sicilians sit in awe over their perseverance. Terrorists to us all, capable of far more dollar damage at the individual level than anything short of a natural disaster.

And this morning, I detoured around the long way to check on the local branches of this foul organization, wondering what dark thing they plan next. What I saw sent shivers of horror down my spine.

The Wild Ones are nearing that time of year, when they wreak havoc on us all.

They're up there, watching for their moments. All the branches and chapters.

The most aggressive stand just inside the cemeteries, ears twitching as they choose targets. Occasionally one lowers his or her head, tossing it about while pawing the grass, before calming down, head still low, eyes narrowed, ears tilted back. The others look at them, trembling as they know what was said.

"Dibs".

And thus the fate of yet another poor motorist is sealed, as some buck, doe, or foolish fawn claims the right to ruin our day, choosing our car to take with them to the "other side".


Saw it this morning. That old buck with the graying muzzle, looking around at the young rivals and deciding he was done, then glancing through the fence towards the road. He's looking for his target now, the car to claim as his headstone or monument of destructive suicide. Might take a while, he seems picky about who to inflict the insurance claim upon. Might even wait for better weather, and a chance for a convertible.

Yes, Deer. And you know they are pissed off when they reach out to their allies and cousins to make matters worse.

It's organized, believe me... and when they feel you are beneath worth, they'll taunt some foolish pronghorn or armadillo out onto the pavement to collect their rightful due for them. Sometimes a fat raccoon or other beast gets conned into taking the fall for the events. They love to watch your shocked expressions, frantic braking or swerving, and revel at the satisfying "Bang-Crunch" noises that follow, especially if they can survive unscathed, and rack up a tally before heading to the Happy Grazing Grounds.

Worst is when they call upon the ultimate enforcers, seeking vengeance on even the largest vehicles. Ol' Uncle Bullwinkle and Cousin Wapiti smirk at the mass, lean in a shoulder and take on even semi's, just to keep us all on our toes.

All this, just for racing through their turf, those neighborhoods called "Rural", "Urban-(blank) Interface" or "Open Space".

And you have to watch out for their own Black-And-Whites:, the most feared of all. The little demons that issue tickets even without stopping you, or any contact. God help the poor driver following that minivan with the health-conscious mom that tosses out the half finished pack of donettes... the buggers smell that rich, chocolate caked pastry from miles away, diving in like TV cops on a box of full-sized donuts, tail raised to let all know, you interfere with our investigation of this littering, we will tag your vehicle beyond redemption of several power-washes. And no make or model is safe from their vigilance, even the light rail trains carry the citations they issue, as any nose can tell.

Yes, beware the Wild Ones.... the ultimate terrorists, who can dive through windshields, serve their own home search warrants and against whom there is no legal recourse!
Take heed, folks, those critters are up to something, their "Chatter" is up....

Nuttin' but Nineteens - More Cribbage and Philosophy Mixed in Poem

Life's been dealing off the bottom,
nothing but crappy Nineteen hands
meant to break my spirits,
and wear me down to grist.

So I do what I can,
trying to peg my way
round that final corner
ahead of the Grim Reaper.

Fate is a fickle gal,
so I hope she turns
her back on the others
trying to catch me 30 back.

We'll see what she deals
once I make the effort
later this week at looking
for a job yet one more time.

Better be enough
to prevent the skunk
I've been smelling lately.
Or to slide to 121.

Been a rough spell,
these last few years,
enough to wear one out
and make one fear cards.

Still, never can tell
what a crib will hold,
especially in the game
life makes me play...
...Upon God's Cribbage Board.

23September2013 - Dyfeddd Rex

The Real Owner of the House - A poem about an animal friend long gone.

I knew what the deed said,
who the bank took payments from,
even who paid the damned bills.
But I never really owned it,
that house down on the Bottoms
in a place between the tracks.

The real owner never stayed inside
he lived underneath that front porch,
and came to remind us all
who really owned that old place
at the first hing of activity
above the only home he knew.

He'd wait at the broken grating
sniffing to see if odors spoke
of food being made up there,
then charge out the cement stairs
once he had convinced himself so
squinting up at us with patience.

When the plate of meat exited
the chirps and growls began earnestly
for he had to be reassured
his bratwurst was being cooked also
or he'd waddle up the steps
to remind us rent was due.

God help us if we forgot
or tried to ignore his demands.
That was grounds for odiferous eviction
from the sacred place he ruled,
as he raised his striped tail
to let us know "pay up".

Yeah, I owned that small house
yet I never was the master,
for the porch and front yard
were his domain to wander over,
or lay around on cold nights
nesteled inside the broken screen door.

Junior was the greedy skunk's name
at least the one he answered
when he sometimes missed us preparing
to use his home for picnics
or at least our outdoor kitchen.
Our landlord from under the porch.

I miss ya, buddy. Spray some politicians for me in heaven, will ya?
8December2012 - Dyfedd Rex