Aside To My Audience

I'm going to manipulate you....

the only way you can avoid  it

is to stop reading.

Still there?  OK.

You like word play, twisting images

into new thought balloon animals. 

You don't want my opinions piercing

the balloons I think you're thinking.

"Write about birdies, don't pollute us

with polemic, we have enough already!"

So, yes,  birdies fly in the face of our

perceptions, nest in the trees of delight.

It's good to write about things you notice

once in a while....(oops! almost slipped 

up there into diatribe...but I can balance

on the airship of my lofty devices. If I fall,

"kersplat!" perhaps it's welcome.)

"So, words," as Quasimodo continued his

splendid word feast. Words, music, even

white noise is a useful slip slide around that

which will remain nameless for the duration 

of this poem.

The words I'm using are meant to entertain,

not serious enough for the unexpected post

card that reads: "I'm dying!!" leaving no 

return address.

I think it's safe to say life is a balancing act,

lean too much one side or the other and eat

dirt.

I loved words my whole life, even as a grade-

schoolist since my first story: "Colonel Pop-nut

and the Scrummies", long lost, thrown out with

all the photos of my family by that bitch my

father called his second wife.

Weren't expecting that, were you?

So, yes, I'm having fun, steady stream from the 

invisible well, no axe to grind, pechuga de pollo

alambre a substantive feast, yada yada yada,

and then we'll have world peace?

I gave the world a piece of my mind, lost in the

jabbering multitudes of social media clowns

of (h)unt and pecker, finding meaning in their

own dirt.

I watched a good, bloody Tarantino last night,

"Hateful Eight"...he doesn't leave many standing

at the ends of his movies...bad childhood? 

Wishful thinking? Just good cinema? Same reason

we jump out of airplanes, run with the bulls, take

drugs, masturbate....

Did that come as a surprise?

Got to cut this off now, enough part of the one poem

all poets write...only one. If you can dig one poem,

you can dig them all...(just to leave this poem, nice

and tidy.)