The Greatest Puppet Show on Earth

It’s not scaring some crows
Chest bursting hay overstuffed
With corncob pipe gorilla glued to mouth
And wicker stray sun hat shielding
Stone eyes drooping from gravity
Above spineless flaccid neck
Duct-tapped to habit
Fastened to half a severed telephone pole

Bleached to the very straw from sun
Whitewashing chest & wrist hairs
Standing guard to another autumnal harvest
Upright, an endless stolid sentry
Weathered, crop-dusted, surveyed, speculated
Quiet spectacle to fly buzz,
Mosquitoes swirling hover sounds,
–As well as seemingly undetected
Electronic bugs observing the growing rows

and electronic bugs, & electronic bugs

Prelude to The Haymaker

Lightning flash shoves cloud
Swirling wind scythes foam, sea roars
Thunder booms kick start

 

Dædalus

…I believe that prison tower confining your physical freedom stood stuccoed pale ivory and flaking; drab in comparison to having built a structurally sound edifice—to entrap others lost within its maddening labyrinth—predicated upon your slipping into irony’s goat-skinned moccasins…

Thus made to walk the remaining measured steps of life not unlike your meandering victim’s did in their ensnared shoes…

However; you dream a way out—a series of epiphanies all knowing well the potential catastrophes ensuing possible design flaws…

Having reasoned obsessively; then learning to soar through selfsame determination—

As simple as water flow,
Rivulets turning back upon themselves
Beginning to end one; or nature’s inspiration
Out of the very flight of birds
Perhaps traversing over a security moat
& drawbridge

Such wanton ingenuity ultimately kills your beloved young son who wanted to be like his father; dead at the hands of his old man’s invention.

A few shed feathers floating upon the seas’s surface tension marking the crash site.

Later in life, you attempt to murder your brightest protégé: out of envy for being second woven wicker fiddle chair—that pent rage of being out shined from inferior self-concept (it was all too much indeed).

So, how did you live with yourself?  Your namesake and legacy revered, many times over, most notably in James Joyce’s masterpiece (he suffered beholden & led by your bullshit). Moreover lost in multifaceted holographic air and light, chimeras of meaning and language cast into words through time fashioned hooks, lines, and baited yet reeling back nyet.

                                                                    But when my mother died. Not only did I kneel (non-believing at the time), I soon thereafter heaved that burden of erudite garbage out that pigeon grey smashed window of reality—which held me mentally captive in a tower not unlike the two of you;

a golden red-faced American finch perched upon that ledge the second it reopened, and while secured yet unmoved, my mind finally freed itself.