The oil stained teenager toiling in RUBBISH RECOVERY piles used frames after kicking, the paintings out.
A critic by circumstance.
While booting a lighthouse, he mutters, "Lights out."
With his steel toes slamming through dogs playing pool he comments, “Dog crap.”
He eyes his next two assignments- “Potential.”
A creator by destiny.
Turning to see if anyone is looking he begins his razor knife slices a solar system off a landscape, cuts the top of a woman's off
He ponders then places the piece of solar system from the woman' forehead up He stands back.
"More like it. Stars for brains, and a face like that."
He selects a golden frame inserting and aligning PRETTY WONDER.
Acknowledgement
Leading the Independence Day Parade, spinning on his unicycle, the rotund rider odd Claude in the red, white, and blue apparel of Uncle Sam with beard, top hat, and all wings Tootsie Rolls all over the road bed.
“How did he get out there,” young Joe asks. “Don’t know,” says Dad, “but, he’s pretty good.”
Quite a performance, for the town’s down-and-outer ducked on a normal day too slow and sometimes crazy from shrapnel in his head
“They should let him ride.” “Why not. He’s earned it.”
Further down, Main Street’s mandated white houses glow red at the sight of the unannounced Marshal.
"Unacceptable!" spouts Dr. Porter, "The Selectmen march first in order." "There needs to be regiment." pipes Mrs. Spaulding, "No place for this." “The man is a disgrace. Lock him up," snaps Mr. Knowles. “Retard!" spits the Wilkins boy.
A block later, Claude is tackled and cuffed the red, white, and blue outfit grass stained in front of the town’s Commemorative war monument with his name etched on it.
One might have done things different.
Despair
A dark silhouette against the sinking yellow sun.
Black monkey with marble white eyes pries my heart loose with an icy iron bar to the edge.
Thundering it down to the silent canyon suffocating in cries.
Confession of a Hanging Man
Once again, noose opened wide hoisted to head dropping down.
Down the throat getting tight burning getting tighter blacking out.
. . . morning fog Lazarus rises off the porcelain altar.
Mirror spitting back a pale portrait with ripe red cherry blotches. Ballooned body fearing a pinprick springing a leak.
Sags dingy yellow bags under slaughtered eyes
Mouth open breathing "Never again."
Skipping Stones
When I was young I hunted for quiet ponds
Here, I did my business: skipping stones.
Given a decent flat stone, Guaranteed at least four skips.
Murky ponds were perfect darkness accenting ripples
The thrill of skipping stones is not the bouncing off it’s watching resulting rings and ripples.
Circles changing the whole pond; some intersect; some race off, some roll calmly to the shore. Soon memories. All pass. Inevitably.
Like people, the murky pond regains its poker face.