stoned

Rocks

I threw them for no reason

Other than Old Harrisburg Road

Ran thick with crushed limestone

Inexhaustible at a languid pace

But finite as my patience with the pious

When I threw them fast and furious

At the window lights of the old school house

Or poor cousin Reesy

Out of plain spite

Rage cupped

In the palm of my hand

Fired sidearm with topspin

Until my arm ached

All those sharp edged consonants

Nuggets of vowels

From ancient pages of seabed

I threw them for no reason

Other than mindless thrill

Heedless of the crunch of words

Beneath the wheels of the morning milk truck.

Dig revised

Dig

We were nearly back to the house

when the front end loader shattered

the silence and back filled the hole

drove off some vireos and cowbirds

amped up seven whitetail browsing

the pine break above Calusa Way.

American Spirit pegging

his new moon gash of a mouth

the operator feathered his lever

while gathered together we grazed

potato salad, deviled eggs, sliced ham

rain from the Gulf over to Melbourne

soaking the operator’s boots

ducking into his truck

for the long drive home to Pedro.

It hammered the tin roof shed  

outback where everything everything

your tools, tarps, trouble lights

line trimmer, home brew insecticide

in unmarked milk jugs, old spark plugs

a lifetime of nuts, bolts and their ilk

huddled warm and dry on shelves

while it ball peened the tamped sand lozenge

on the ragged fringe of those orderly ranks.

It’s hard to find even with a map

Calusa Way coiling through the Bahia grass

flowing past all you stone faced theater goers

house lights up well past the final act. 

Vireos and cowbirds

even the whitetail browsing

the pine break pay me

no never mind down

on hands and knees undoing

the honest work of the operator

sifting spoonful’s of backfill for something something 

I might have missed. 

dug

“Dig”

We were nearly back to the house

when the front end loader shattered

the silence and back filled the hole

drove off some vireos and cowbirds

amped up seven whitetail browsing

the pine break above Calusa Way.

American Spirit pegging

his new moon gash of a mouth

the operator feathered his lever

while gathered together we grazed

potato salad, deviled eggs, sliced ham

rain from the Gulf to Melbourne

soaking the operator’s boots

ducking into his truck

for the long drive home to Pedro.

It hammered the tin roof shed  

outback where everything, everything

your tools, tarps, trouble lights

line trimmer, home brew insecticide

in unmarked milk jugs, old spark plugs

a lifetime of nuts, bolts and their ilk

huddled warm and dry on shelves

while it ballpeened the tamped sand lozenge

on the ragged fringes of orderly ranks.

It’s hard to find even with a map

Calusa Way coiling through the bahia grass

flowing past all you stone faced theater goers

house lights up well past the final act. 

Vireos and cowbirds

even the whitetail browsing

the pine break pay me no mind

scooping away the morning undoing

the honest work of the operator

down on hands and knees sifting

every spoonful of backfill looking

for something I might have missed.