Timmy Ran Down the Junction with Tulips for Arms

Timmy wasn’t Dutch or any known mixture of cultures or race. He was pure American mutt. No surviving traditions or folklore to pass down to anyone who’d listen. He wasn’t even really sure what the deal was with Vandalia onions or windmills.

He just always met up with me in the middle of the junction, holding Edgar Allen Poe era candles and two Van Goghesque ears in the pockets of his denim cut-offs.

Timmy and I would sit, Indian style, and count the stars from brightest to doomed. I added to the candles and ears with Absinthe and ignited sugar.

The Fierce Felines Rumble on the East Side

Tonight cats fight.

Feral ones that live in my garage vs. the
indoor/outdoor types who lounge about
in the houses across the street.

Pampered feline soldiers trying to eradicate haggard scavengers,
jealousy and envy for intact reproductive parts.

The wild cats have crusted eyes, mangy fur,
anger and abandonment. Their days are spent sleeping in an old Chevy,
searching for trashcan nutrition.

The loved cats, with their fancy, clean lifestyles
glide through the neighborhood with their shots and gourmet food.
Tags dangle from collars, gleaming in the sun’s relaxation
through the maples and pines.

The unloved cats prowl the night, make survival deals with
raccoons, expose rodent hideouts to
owls in exchange for street knowledge.

They congregate like their human domesticators,
loud purrs and systematic scrounging for survival.

I’m rooting for those feral cats. The ones
who never should have stood a chance.

They don’t seem to bother the birds flocking at my feeders
as much as the one’s that visit the vet do.

Family Vacation in the Scorches of Heat and Drunk Sincerity

The night flashed with lightning across a dead moon.

Before the alarm clock’s scream
children had already awoke.
Toys and cartoons lead the way.

Just like the time alcohol brought your spouse out from hiding.
Maybe it was St. Patrick’s Day or Cinco de Mayo or
Dyngus Day or New Year’s Eve, but it happened.

Not the way your grandparents experienced it,
not the way animals have instinct although

you’ve dreamt about your ancestors getting mammals drunk.

No U-Turn on this highway.
Yield to your dreams for the sake of others’ plans
and punch life’s timecard on schedule.

Day after day we all get shit for what we’ve said and done.
Like the time I left my gun at the side of a peppermint field and
stumbled through the age of growing up.

The lazy bones sat with filterless cigarettes and jugs of homemade wine.
They offered their outdated advice and said phrases similar to,

“What’s the price of rice in China got to do with American supermarkets?”

We fell down, assumed the fetal dance and poured gasoline into flowerbeds.
The aroma hissed like rusted radiators foaming when Death Valley
sucked life from technology.

Negative Revelers

It’s my superstitious ability to
wander around
wondering about my capability
in this desolate town.

My eyes never lie
and my soul will never reveal the truth.

You stared into my essence,
tried to penetrate my psyche which
you feel lacks life
or any kind of meaning whatsoever.

It is this inner being that has ripened into
multiple truths and falsehoods that
gnaw at my guts and put pressure on my sweat glands.
Requiring me to hide in the darkest corner
with the stink bugs
and spiders.

Though this is how it is for me,
we should not base life on one that is disoriented
or that has been torn, shredded and discarded

before being tossed into society’s
ever full recycling bin.

Another Release

I started up another site.

http://neilkellyphotos.blogspot.com/

In Kalamazoo