What do a Jeep, a Ford and a Chevy have in common?
Wheels, air, heat, dashboard, chrome, bumpers, seats,
Steering wheel, headlights, tail lights.
I start to wind down on my guesswork.
He does not nod so I start up again.
Tires, hoods, knobs, door locks, door handles
Keep going he says
Engines, carburetors, windshield wipers.
I can see him shaking his head no
Go on, he says.
But I do not want to.
Seated in a coffee-shop
an extra-large with hot milk
and a slice of decadence
await her indulgence
she leans forward
and spontaneously reacts
to her companion’s
whispered observation
rose-red laughter
pours white-water loud
from her joy-filled mouth
her floating hand
gee-jawing above the table-top
enthusiastically conducts
the wheeze-gasp spasms of her mirth
she unloads like rolling thunder
pounding the other patrons
as they de-caff-dunk
their croissants
huge, mesmerising
her sheer abandon
reduces all others
to a whisper
a stolen glance
some harrumph
others smile
I would love to hug her
to chat with her
about dinosaurs and daffodils
carburetors and kittens
to fall asleep
next to her smile.
MOM
Mom is for helping you into your seat and helping you out of tall trees
Mom is for bumps, bruises and scratches on your knees
Mom is for cooking meatloaf, corn and mashed potatoes
Mom is for helping you with a word that nobody knows
Mom is for kittens, puppies, hermit crabs and fish
Mom is for calming you down when homework is due and it’s already ninish
Mom is for artwork, carburetors and giving hugs when you really need one
Mom is for emergencies and sewing buttons back on
Mom is for helping to make the hardest decisions
Mom is for finding peace in the most freighting conditions
Mom is for very important things, like finding a lovely wife
Mom is even more important for learning how to love one’s life
5/16/2014
Uncle Mike's news from the past - - - Sometimes the News Bugs Me
July “57, in Hasting Minnesota
Fish flies flew in way over their quota
They covered the roadways
They covered the bridges
They covered the lowlands
They covered the ridges
They clogged carburetors
They caused cars to stall
The townsfolk were stymied
Just who could they call
They called out the cops
And the youth auto club
To clean out the town
To give it a scrub
The bug drifts were deep
About two point five feet
Slippery and slimy
They covered the street
And wouldn’t you know it
In mouth, ear and eyes
The youth of dear Hastings
Were soon filled with flies
But nobody backed out
And nobody gave in
They just hosed themselves off
And got at it again
So the youth and the cops
Finally cleared all the bridges
Let Mother Nature take care of
The lowlands and ridges
The fish flies that year
Was the town’s cause célèbre
And that’s what I learned today
Out on the web
Mom is for helping you into your seat and helping you out of tall trees
Mom is for bumps, bruises and scratches on your knees
Mom is for cooking meatloaf, corn and mashed potatoes
Mom is for helping you with a word that nobody knows
Mom is for kittens, puppies, hermit crabs and fish
Mom is for calming you down when homework is due and it’s already ninish
Mom is for artwork, carburetors and giving hugs when you really need one
Mom is for emergencies and sewing buttons back on
Mom is for helping to make the hardest decisions
Mom is for finding peace in the most frightening conditions
Mom is for very important things, like finding a lovely wife
Mom is even more important for learning how to love one’s life
Hummed inside carburetors,
like lungs do to lullabies,
I grasped my whitened vertebrae,
and crumpled it up
as if I were child without a spine.
Like papyrus on a good day,
I scribbled abstract feelings
(the kind I am incapable of feeling)
and wrote them in verse;
told everyone I was emotional
and needy.
Such a good, big, girl.
I ripped the spinal cord
away from my ribs,
and when I felt
just a little weak -
I tossed it into an honest graveyard-
one built for me,
to house my restraints
and abilities.
'Cause I don't want to feel
what I can't.
And when I split my vertebrae
between my teeth and cuticles,
I can see the light
that once grew inside my lullaby
fade into an anti-positive.
Boring holes into sunset canary yellow,
sprouting between the dirt that's my smile.
I would break every bone in my chest,
if I knew it'd cause any sort of pain.
After all, there's no use for a woman
that hasn't got a backbone.
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