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.
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