golf shit

the sand
fractures of the star
open hands a-per-at-ur
over under water
what else foot prints
your waltz is it

octave span

spider searching
eight legs and array
of eyes

true_stories_

a champion never retires
unless from champlain depths
catfish leaves tire
to send a wake adirondack wide
aged and whether wise
or just timely smiles jaws prize
the mud burnished eternalist
ever construed in mid jibe
up to challenge the confederate
pinger ponger one on one
they offered odds as good
as tasty cakes makes pies
they threw bets dollars and cents

as the victor goes as rex
as the supplicant goes to rest
mais un chat perdu
ne peut jamais perdre

true_stories_a

In Pittsburgh, there was this cherry tree in my yard, making cherries.  The red ones, the sour ones, maybe the ones that become married to other cherries or whatever. 
The sour level varied from pucker up to spit your teeth out.  But for a few days the cherries were sweet sweet sweet.  But most days I ate them sour and the best way was with vanilla ice cream. 
And I ate cherries every day. For being a spindly old tree, she built so many cherries.  Not being able to let them go to waste, I ate them every day.  I ate cherries with ice cream on toast for two weeks.  Everyone said I was going to die.  Never have I felt better and was better than those two weeks.

Ice cream, Cherries, and Toast is my main food group.

After the cherries peaked they went killer sour. The robins and starlings came and got drunk on cherries.  Every morning drunken robins bobbed on the stairs and sat stumbling around the yard.