Crunching Numbers

Clicking and clacking,
With wings a flapping,
Battered-
In hot oil,
Fried to a,
Savery golden brown.

In some parts of the world,
Markets daily fare.
Insects are,
Like potato chips,
Chrispy-
Chunchy-
Snacks.

Grubs squirm, humm hoppers,
Picking teeth and choppers,
With toasted ortho- claw,
Food,
Crawled from sea.

Odanàta,
Mantòdea,
Blattàriea run and hide.
Others,
Take it in stride.
Numbers grow,
And so the dough,
Humm!
Food for that empty feeling.

http://www.insects.org/entophiles/index.html

Pithy Pulp Fiction from the 1950's

Will the redhead bombshell win her position as top banana?

http://gunsinthegutters.blogspot.com/2007/06/it-rhymes-with-lust.html

Home Brew

The Pod People

Turning and turning,
Round and round,
Up and down,
The economic spin.
Where manikins play with dolls,
Flying high and feel low.
Spoon fed from digital tube,
A daily dose of crap,
Spewed from high above.
In the market locker,
Raw meat hangs from hooks.
Hungry greedy eyes, with-
Chicken chumming buckets,
Bait and switch, Buzzz suckers,
Watching to jump in,
The feeding frenzy on the floor.
Crooky cookey, chippy keys,
Many banking on the fall.
Fuck the smut idea,
Don't you think at all?
Plane and simple,
No puzzles please.
Fast bites drawing blood,
Under darkness cover,
Obsequiousness fade then,
Abrazos(hugs)the curve with cash.
Round and round,
Up and down
The economic spin,
Keeping it simple.
Hal-luci-nation,
Changeing au handshake,
To the kiss of death.
Painted faces,
Nip and tuck,
Piching caching,
Richer than the mass.
Pod people high,
The t-urning.
Demons and Angels
Underground earning,
My trust in love, and play.
Diving for the deep.
On the wheel of trading day.

Watching the Box

What is Love?

Dreams sent on wings,

Above food for what,

A thing called time.

Low landing alone,

On two legs still standing.

Many hearts singing,

Beating drums,

Empty time dreaming.

Writing,

Reading,

Watching,

Passing,

Full the cup of life.

Emotions in the Park

This photo by Diane Arbus sums up the pent-up emotions possible when life's problems seem a little unusual, or you've been cooped up in a cabin all winter and are anxious to get outside and play.

With Spring right around the corner, and much appreciated warmer weather, I'm looking forward to an explosion of blooming flowers when the snow finally melts. It's been a long Winter here in the mountains.

Stopped by my friend Aye's blog

http://ayesrandomravings.blogspot.com/, seems he's having his share of puzzling starter problems. I'm confident he'll have the situation fixed and running smoothly without popping a gasket, or pulling the pin.

Crossing yo Teez, Dotting yo iz

Argot-A distinctive way of writing or speaking... a unique vocabulary used by a particular class, profession, or social group.

Faux simplicity,

Pruned!

Is three enough?

Is six to many?

Reality!

Club members,

Address the ball.

Keep yo head high!

See the hook,

Dump fee,

Smack on the green,

Rolling, rolling, rolling...

Plop!

In the cup.

"Eats shoots and leaves."

Crossing your Tee's

Persistent Perseverance Suited

While the Witches of Wüstland sat in council in a dark tent, Tortu of the Chelonia clan quietly listened from her perch atop a large rock outside. A single tear dropped from her eye to quickly evaporate in the desert heat. Tortu had learned not to shed many tears of precious moisture on her emotions in the forsaken wasteland of the southern regions. She tapped her claws on the bolder, thinking in rhythm as she listened to malicious rumors spueing from the evil witch Diadema. Yawning and torquing her neck forward to hear better, Tortu vowed to make Diadema pay for her lies.


Overhead in the turquoise coloured sky, white clouds moved slowly in the hot breeze. Two eagles of Haliaeetus cried out in agreement with Tortu's whispered vow. "Thank you my high flying friends."she said, "Your view point is always welcome." And again turned her head to hear better. Tortu could hear laughter in the tent where the witches sat in a circle around a pit of steaming hot rocks.

The evil witch Diadema had stopped talking, and now the brave mother named LittleThunder began to speak. "North, from the land of Fangrala in the forest of the Roux Ga Roux a message has come to me. Time and distance has no meaning in that forest. It is a place near to the spirit world where all calls are local." Waving her hand in a right-hand circle around the sacred stones glowing scarlet in the dark, LittleThunder smiled, and tossed her long hair braid from her shoulder playfully. "Now we will sing a song of healing for those brave hearts that are heavy with the responsibility of guardianship."

Tiny Iktome sat near the door across from LittleThunder as she sang. Iktome's many eyes and hairy legs danced as she dangled from a strong thread of spiderweb. Because of jealousy, Diadema reached out to kill tiny Iktome as she danced. LittleThunder grabbing Diadema's hand saying, "Here we respect life. Iktome dances for joy at our songs, let her dance in safety. You must not harm her. Do you understand me?" Wicked Diadema quickly pulled back her hand in fear of the power in Little Thunder's strong voice. All the council witches joined in as LittleThunder again began to sing the healing song.

Outside, Tortu sitting on her rock smiled as she listened. She could hear the small voice of Diadema join in the singing. Now Diadema's heart also began to heal form the jealousy she had carried, for she was beginning to learn from her many witch sisters. Tiny Iktome danced and danced, bringing much joy to those who watched. Above in the sky, the eagles of Haliaeetus soared. Their high pitched whistling crys brought a feeling of freedom to all those who were honored to hear them.