New poem posted on the writing page: The Blower-Man Must Die. This is an act of poetic therapy for me. Much of my writing ends up being therapeutic… just not this obviously or directly.
Law-enforcement officials please note: I am an extreme pacifist. And a coward. And weak. And I have a bad back and am no good at subterfuge. The subject of this poem is an amalgamation of the many yard-warring overachievers who have lived around the many places I have inhabited over the years. It is not meant to imply intent on my part to actually do harm to any particular individual. So if anybody who owns a snow, leaf, sand, dust, garbage, mulch, twig, bark, dirt, flotsam or hair blower dies under strange circumstances in my neighborhood… it’s a coincidence. Really.
Andy’s “no good at subterfuge”. Hmph. That’s funny.
Still a rollicking, whimsical farce of a poem and one I thoroughly enjoyed reading again, A. Write more.