windmill

. . . it wasnt a windmill . . .

it wasnt a windmill with the sun crowded in its center like a patient yellow spider waiting                                                                                                                                 

poised

lazy arms scarcely turning

                                          shivering                                                                                

piquing prey                                                                                                                                   

this spider eats birds

                               murdering  -  bloody murder -  their murmuration  one starling at a time                                                                                                                                   shrouding                                                                                                                                   casking                                                                                                                                   mummifying  sans canopic jars                                                                                                  

parts scattered mell pell                                                                                                                  

                                                shes evidently a lousy housekeeper or carelessly   or birds 

cant recognize muss or fallen avian remains

. . . no . . . it wasnt that . . . it wasnt a windmill . . .

but thats where ones imagination plays riot

                                                                                                                  

                                                                                                          he was wrapped 
but in bedsheets                                                                                                                                 and she had gone over him like four famished women picking his bones clean

he begged for more as she daubed the corners of her mouth with the thumb knuckle of 
her small fist

over its clenchness she smiled slyly                                                                                              

and pleased

she rocked forward over her folded legs  balancing deftly on her knees  her breasts trembling counterweights  and sighed

                                                               Youre never satisfied

                                                                                                     And you are

                                                                                                                              No  But 

we werent talking about me

We werent talking

No  We werent were we     she smiled lavishly

Com ere

No more talking

Braille

on her knees akimbo she strutted  her nipples pointing her way  then straddled his 

thigh                                                                                                                             moist                                                                                                                                

she laid hands on his chest as he pulled her into him    and pinched him playfully

as their mouths sought each other he returned a pinch  by a degree more terse 

she gasped in his mouth                     

overhead   the fan lazed on the evening breeze coming through the screened window 
and their oblivious pants

Wednesday,  19  3. 14

A ragged hitchhiker roadside

A red Porsche convertible roadside

A dead dog  -  Irish Setter  -  twisted and bloodied in the middle of the road

A bitch of a place  a blind curve

A bitch of a place not to have a leash no matter ones opinion if a dog should be troubled or not

A bitch of a place to play fetch  

Bitched                                                                                                                                             

the hitchhiker stood transfixed roadside  his arms spun from his shoulders            

electric antennae broadcasting horror venom and spleen                                                     

his jaw working threats out of his distended features and grime                                    

behind him  askew  his flaccid tattered pack and flimsy bedroll

the Porsche was angled onto the scant dirt and graveled shoulder                                  

slick creamed paths were its tires skid                                                                           

there was no evident or discernible damage on its drivers side                                                      the driver sat erect                                                                                                                 

turned on his hip                                                                                                                            

his right arm extended                                                                                                    

fingers winding around and worrying the bright metal brace supporting the passenger seats headrest                                                                                                                     

observing the magnificent agitation unleashed at him                                                    

its froth and ejected spittle                                                                                                

its contorted chomping black maw

I felt badly for the dog   and easily visualized either man dead in the road

                                              

and as I watched through my rearview mirror on the ensuing straightaway                  

the Porscher dispassionately accelerated into traffic                                                                            either at a loss of what he could do         

or fatigued by the violent berating    

he couldnt possibly hear                                                                                                     

I cringed                                                                                                                             

the Porsches right headlight was a popped bloodied empty socket

    

1504,  Thursday,  10  4. 14