A Hierarchy of Bums

Okay, so you're a bum.
But you still have choices.
The thing I remember most about Paris
was the music on the subways.
There was a whole symphony of them
each working seperate subway trains
making me feel like a million bucks
so I might fork over one or two.

I was introduced to Vivaldi, Chopin, and Bach.
I didn't know it then,
but Paris is where I fell in love
with classical music.

I remember this one old mangy bum
sitting on the steps of Sacre Coeur
overlooking Montmartre
playing his harp.
I don't think he even noticed
the tobacco stains on his eyelids,
or the lovers gathered round listening, falling in love
with Dvorak's Humoresque No 1,
or the stench of cheese rising from his
tattered shoes,
but I do think he could describe exactly
the smell of spring
creeping over Paris.

Saurkraut

There was nothing especially tough
about Perez.
Nothing that would explain why
the other 8th grade boys would
elevate him
to this level of bully.
In fact, he didn't even like
the pressures of always being on,
always coming up with new insults and torments
for the boys that he would otherwise
like to befriend,
but he was caught in a boyhood snare
compelled by immature facial hair
peeking out
like saurkraut
in an overstuffed bun.

Costco

We join the swarming mob
like a hive of impatient insects
grabbing, clawing,
crawling over and over one another
piling up back-breaking hords of
store-racked, pre-packed
deliciousnesses.

Rack of lamb?
Faw!
Give me the whole bleeting sheep.

A 60lb sack of,
whatever,
just pile it on this endlessly revolving
gluttonous heap
before I swipe my credit card.

Waddle next to me
Help me shove our three carts towards the exit.
Hide behind our toppling piles and avert your eyes
lest ye be
distracted by the $9.99 XLarge with mushrooms.

And then
there you are
Mr. hot dog stand man
with your plumpous suductress
sirens wooing me to their bulging beefiness
on this
the 1st day of the rest of my
sluggish death.

Give us two for the road,
wheat rolls please.

The Black Plague

The old tyrrant leaned back in his chair
and surveyed his armies
marching like a black wave across
the globe.
Strategies, plans, alliances,
everything had been in preparation for this moment.
No time for hesitation or thought,
just action
and thoughtless prayers of a madman
for sixes to face the sky
on his three
red dice.

Old Man Oak

Old man oak

twisted trunk retreating towards

knobby knuckles

scorning sullen sky

skin weathered and worn

from sun and storm

creaking fingers cry.

Small Intestines

The road wore on
on balding tires
tired yawns
stretching through grain and groves
growing dusk on and up
upon open plains of oncoming dawn
drawing nowhere closer
and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
through our small intestines.

Old Wood and Stone

Im told the tales of old
And oh, they stir my soul
I dream of ancient things
Whispering to me

Underneath the wonder
Far beneath the raging sea
Rolling past the thunder
Deep calls unto deep

Oh that sound again
Rumbling through the mountains
Climbing through the trees
Rising to the heavens
And on to Thee.

Saint Benedict

He rose at dawn
sword drawn
eyes slit
running the hard edged line
studying it's full weight and
endless depth
to train alone
but led,
alone
but surrounded
in a battle
unknown and unseen
by the world he fought for
still clothed with
dew and darkness.

Photoshop

O Lord,

Your beauty surrounds me,
Entices me,
Escapes me.

A glimpse appears
Is captured
But blurred.

I can try the auto fix,
Adjusting brightness and contrast
Increasing saturation and hue.

But clarity is limited
With only 100 speed film,
No tripod,
And a landscape stained with permeating
Darkness.