The Poet Must Die: Fritz365 2013

By Fred Robel

This third yearly collection of poetry and story verse, which once again takes us to the highs and lows of this human existence. To experience all the pain and joy, love and hate, and the activities that go along with it all. A year in the life of a poet. Whom I think we will all agree: Must someday die a (preferably) normal death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fred Robel
• Release date: May 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311574220

Fred Robel

Born and raised in Michigan, and currently residing in Northern Michigan. I am an aircraft mechanic and inspector by trade, and a writer as a hobby. My wife and three kids keep me busy all the rest of the time.

Book preview

Preface

This is, for lack of a better word, a cosmic dump of content. This is my third year of doing this daily writing thing. After which, I put everything together in one place, because that just feels like a nice way to do it.

This year, I’m making a few format changes, which may bleed backwards into the older collections as well, if I ever get around to making new editions of them.

Besides actually having the year in the subtitle; another change is that not everything that I wrote in 2013 will be in this book. Why? Well, overlap mostly. As I published a few other books based off of my daily works in 2013. Specifically: Bring Me The Sexy!, which is a collection of all my ‘sexytime’ writing, and my short story adaptation of two sentences conveyed by The Oatmeal. Entitled: Cage Fighting Nuns & T-34 Tanks – An Epic Love Story.

Nor will all my aviation themed things be included; as I will be publishing them in a follow up to my first Tales of The Wrench collection. I figure that if I’m just doing this mostly to have everything collected and backed up to the real world; then I don’t need to put it here if it is somewhere else too.

Something else new and different is my Indian Motorcycle Entries series. They are entries into a contest to win a new Indian Motorcycle. The company was doing a contest on the lead up to their unveiling of the new Indian Chief, where you could do one entry per day, of 150 words or less, telling why you Own the road on a new Indian Chief. Which I took some creative license with. Needless to say, however, I did not win a motorcycle.

Carrying on with the prefacing: If you are not me reading this, then I thank you profusely. By whatever means that you ended up with this eBook or physical book, you are helping to vindicate my reasons for doing this in the first place.

Cheers,

Frederick Damien Robel II

The Fiscal Cliff(s) Explained

Strictly speaking sir

It's not just a cliff

It's more of a cliff

With a sort of bottomless hole of filth at the bottom

Followed by an equally steep incline on the far side

Another cliff

If you will

Rightly assessed

I should say that it's more an anatomically correct asscrack than anything

The man in the garishly vajazzled top hat sucked on his now legal joint

How does this all become 'fiscal' in nature then?

Oh right, the fiscal cliff that everyone was talking about

Well it doesn't really

Unless you take the metaphor of pouring money down a bottomless hole

Which is coincidentally fronted on two sides by steep fleshy cliffs

Peering down inquisitively

One can also see some scrubby bits as well

Might be that some of the 'fiscal'-ish bits are clinging to them

"Basically

What you are telling me

Is that we are dumping money

At an alarming rate I might add

Into a dark muddy fiscal asshole

Which will never fill up

And could back up on us unexpectedly

With fiscal assets so tainted

That we dare not touch them?"

Why yes

I suppose I am

Hellogoodbye Beard

Hellogoodbye beard

Farewell little bits of food

That cling secretly for later on

For birds and mice to nibble

Sticky clumped together hair

Showing the passage of sauce

Hellogoodbye beard

Beer running down to my chest

Every time I raise my mug

Sleeves soaked from wiping my mouth

Stray hairs in everything I drink

Hellogoodbye beard

An automatic kiss aversion device

Affixed to my face

Keeping the ladies away

Both the naughty and the nice

Hellogoodbye beard

Keeping the winter wind from my skin

A face warming natural mask

A yeti face in a chilly place

Warm soft cushion betwixt chin and chest

Hellogoodbye beard

Now piles of shavings warming my toes

Mostly brownish red 

With little clumps of grey

Reminding me I'm not young anymore

But not grey enough to wear the red suit

Hellogoodbye beard

Cold smooth cheeks now leading the way

The reflection in the mirror a seeming different person

A fifteen minute phone booth changeup

Pretty slow for Superman

But not too bad for me

New Hat

Boy do I need a new hat

For though I am thick of skull

I despair at the thin of hair

Which is my own fault

Evidenced by the well-worn clippers

Kept tidily in the bath cabinet

I was advised to check out something in wool

It is warm and moisture wicking

All natural and cool

But when I put it on

I broke out in a rash

My head was warm all right

It was virtually on fire

Cooled only a touch by liberal dousing in Calydryl

So with a pink tinged scalp

Now drying and flaking off

Leaving a fine pink dandruff

Everywhere I went

Since that didn't work out

Someone recommended chenille

And at first burst

I have to admit to liking the feel

It was soft and cuddly

Wrapping my tender head like a bath so bubbly

The problem came in

When wearing it in public

For some reason women and children

As well as puppies and kittens

All wanted to touch it

To rub against it with hands and cheek

And other various parts of anatomy

Which made going out a bit of chore

So I set that option aside for now

As the pseudo headwear celebrityness wasn't my bag

With clothing paparazzi snatching shots for fashion rags

Acrylic was fake feeling

Making me feel dirty and cheap

Besides which

My hat totally melted when exposed to excessive heat

Cotton was fine but too porous

Letting cold wind in to sting me

In a painful multi-pronged chorus

Leaving patches of blue in the flaking pink

Furry animal skin was the next step

Which was very warm indeed

With sweat running down my face

The hat virtually hovering in place

Atop a thin layer of man sweat on my brow

Crowned with a grinning taxidermy head

Of a possum now covered in red

Thanks to a surprise visit

By my local PETA chapter flinging paint

With all the difficulty and fuss

I'm going old fashioned with a solution

I'm simply being patient and growing my own hair out

Which at the rate that it's going

Will soon be epically rock and roll in proportion

Hanging everywhere and flying about in the wind

And most of all 

Being just the right amount of warm

Not too much nor too little

A little shelter from the winter storm

Yellow Sign O’the Times

Yellow portable signboard with the fabulous flashing arrow

Pointing endlessly in one direction

With always changing messages on your faces

Thanks to piles of acrylic letters

Arranged in just the right places

What have you got to say to me today?

A half off sale on used sex toys you say?

Well how can I pass that up on this fine Wednesday

What with a few holes I could have filled

With those fine pre-loved items of hyper silicone sexuality

Going away from it

I can see in my rear view mirror

That the reverse side is even better

Busking the area's best selection

In refurbished Real Dolls

Still clearing my head from all that nonsense

I come rolling up upon another

This one sits in the Jesus Junkyard

Saying things you'd never utter around your mother

Amongst all the handmade crosses

And a chainsaw hewn nativity scene

This brightly flashing sign proclaimed

"Man Fukers and Lesbain Gash Lashers Will all go to Hall

Do not suffer their presents!"

I've left the errors for the lulz

As you can see what sort of person that may be

That would put up such a sign in his front yard

Virtually in perpetuity

Just passing the sign now

I slow a bit to take it all in

Seeing if there are any new objects d’art

To be seen on his lawn of anti-sin

But on the other side of it

Sitting on a short stack of metal crates

It's the Mad Country Prophet himself

Now leaping up with a shotgun in his hands

To run me off

Or seal my fate

That's just the way that he is

With all his religion pumping through him

He has the urge to save everyone

But not the tolerance to allow anyone near

He's an odd sort of duck

Motoring onward towards the next town

I keep my eyes peeled

For I know that before too long

There will be another yellow sign

Which I'll slow down to take in

Line by acrylic lettered line

Space Monkeys

As the craft maneuvered closer

I made minor remote adjustments with the thrusters

A little higher on the front

A little to my left on the target

All relative to me of course

I had an anxiety boner that wouldn't quit

No time to rub one out

I just kept pressing down on it periodically

Hoping the pain would make it go away

But I think it just got me more uptight and frustrated

Because it felt like it actually got even harder

Twenty feet became fifteen

Then ten turned to five

Four three two one

The mating gaskets gently came together

I pulled the mechanical lever that pulled the locking fingers down

Engaging them in the opposite lugs on the ferry craft outside

I turned to get on my quarantine pressure suit off the rack

Balancing myself on my two big toes

As I was wont to do in the zero gravity

I'd found that was the easiest way for me

To use fingertips and toes

Gentle pushing and grasping

Something that came with being almost a year and a half in space

The suit slipped on comfortably

Unlike the first few times

When dread and new suit stiffness had hindered it

Today the only issue I had to deal with really

Was my persistent erection

Which I'd definitely have to do something about after the cargo was stowed

This was the last load to be transferred up from the surface

One of the last steps in its multi-stepped journey to Earth

All seemingly one spacecraft all the way from Earth

We had separated the landing unit upon arriving in orbit

Sending it down to land on the ice

Where the robotic craft had drilled down

Extracting samples of the water

And whatever else was there with it

Transferring it into sterile containers

Residing in small recovery rockets

Which blasted off like miniature ballistic missiles

Going straight up into a similar orbit to us

To be picked up by our remote scout ship

Then to be returned to us

A pretty complicated multi step process

Rife with opportunity for failure

But NASA had been bold ever since that crazy sky crane landing on Mars

And their luck had held ever since on such things

I glided through the quarantine cargo area in my green suit

Opening the airlock at the far end

Then the smaller hatch on the scout ship

Pulling out the tenth and last sample container

I held it up to the light

Looking into its thick crystal viewing glass

Smiled at what I saw

'Sea Monkeys'

Same as all the rest of them

The otherwise clear water

Sported little creatures that reminded me of the brine shrimp of Earth

That used to be sold in the back of comic books

To little girls and boys

All hoping for something amazing to be delivered to their door

This time

When our packages arrived at home

We would finally deliver on that old promise

A Relative Size

Today I feel small

All three hundred and fifty pounds of me

Eyes looking up at the sky

A crescent moon looking down 

Dwarfing me no matter how many pizzas I eat

Bucketfuls of starry night filled light

Heaving and steaming in a nuclear glow

The very earth I stand on

Massive in its apparent mass

Made up of a whole table of elements

All vibrating with atomic purpose

All living things seen and unseen

Going about their business

Making me feel tiny

And not overlarge at all

Gentle Forceful Change

The single cell hovered in its space

Looking calm and serene

Happy within its place

But then from this level it is observed

DNA strands unzipping and replicating

In a churning stew of cellular goo

A loud Crack!! is heard

Within a billionths of a square inch space

Fractures are seen all around the cell

Slowly and painfully

With a noise like stretching concrete

The cell divided

Into a perfect copy of itself

Where there was one

There was now two

To the tune of the cacophony of sound and activity

Until a step is taken back

Seen from the distance of a microscope lens

The sound is unheard

The activity quite small

Barely any movement at all

Like a soap bubble's bursting call

Imaginary Friend

Say hello to my little friend

He's a fiend 

Though he may be a she 

I haven't checked as of yet

Sexing these things is a little strange

I'll draw you a picture

Here 

It's a beach ball

It has nothing to do with the subject at hand

But now you have an original by me

Don't you feel special

But this thing here

This he she it thing

Well I can't define it

I can't confine it

I certainly can't stop it

From doing whatever it wants

Oh hell

There it goes again

It just pooped in the corner

Naughty!!!

I'd rub its nose in it if I could find it

Its nose I mean

I think it's that thing there....?

Or is that its elbow?

Ever changing in shape

Subtle in its own existence

Bold in its execution

I'm not convinced that it's real at all

What with the stares that I get

When I interact with it on the streets

Do you see it too?

Just nod your fucking head

Else there's no telling what I'll do

That's a good lad

Or is it lass?

Hang on

Hold still while I sex you

Rising and Hiding

I am darkness

I am fleeting

A hint of something forms in the air

Where moments before was only pitch

A color

A dimness

An unidentifiable affable feeling

Fuzzy stick trees begin to appear on the horizon

Solid coneish shaped pines

Empty branched deciduous fingerlets

Breaking the view with their barky cellulose

Definitely blue now

A pale light spreads from the East

Banishing the night one inch at a time

An inexorable march

A glacial pace

Best filmed and played back at super speed

A National Geographic special

Orange joins the blue

Tinting the edges of the big curve

Blending and bending 

Hints of purple too

Bleeding to yellow

Till a first pinpoint of blinding light creeps into view

Sparkling on the water

No green flash

But not half bad either

Turning West again

The night had fled before the sun

Unseen it slipped away

Leaving a little post it note in its wake

I am fleeting

I am darkness

Do The Gobzaga!

Hold your gals real tight lads

As the lights drop down low

The latest hit is on the radio

With a dance to match its name

It starts like a tango

Slow deliberate and sweet

All in slow motion

Couples moving up and down the street

There's a break dance move

Inserted halfway in

Just where the song breaks into beat box

And the singer sings of sin

Then something that looks much like ballet

With the first two positions and a lift

Then back to a neo tango

A rest for the dancers and something of a gift

When the refrain kicks in

Everything falls apart

In seeming flash mob precision

All the couples taking two steps back for a start

Hands fly into the air

Waving and gyrating like a mad air powered man

Flexing and yelling to the beat

Everybody do the Gobzaga!

At least until next week

Door To Door Attack

Words fly like knives out of your mouth

A virtual Hong Kong Kung Fu flick in verbose excess

I duck and I dive

But I can't quite describe

The slashing that tore at my soul

Leaving punctures and gashes

Numerous open bleeding holes

Your middle name must be Ginsu

Only around because it's your day off

From going door to door with a case

Full of sharp gleaming knives

A rusty pipe and some old gnarly wood 

Your demonstration is just the beginning

And you can tell you must be winning

Because I'm starting to waver

And go into deep shock

You press for the sale

Offering payment plans and extras

A case for the sharpener

A sexy certificate of authenticity

Imprinted with fabulous Japanese characters

That look