Hellhounds Take PTO

You don’t have to worry about Hellhounds tonight,
For they’ve been forced by HR to take a PTO day;
So live this life now with eyes open bright.

You may find life without death isn’t quite right,
But in their out-of-office message the Hellhounds say,
“We’ll respond to your doom sometime tomorrow night.”

All now have a chance to bring to the darkness light
And lessen the loads upon them that life has weighed,
So live this life now with eyes open bright.

The Barghesst, Bargtjesst, and Bo-guests are in flight,
On a moonbeamed-drenched beach they’ve their hellbodies splayed,
“We’ll respond to your doom sometime tomorrow night.”

Take time to breathe deep and know things are alright.
Great joys and deep sorrows arrive and then fade,
So live this life now with eyes open bright.

The Hellhounds growl always from their heated heights,
Yet for now they’re relaxing, far from the fray.
“We’ll respond to your doom sometime tomorrow night.”
So live this life now with eyes open bright.

————————————
another napowrimo in the bag.
thanks for reading along.
enjoy may.

Hellhounds Take PTO

A few nagging doubts linger long after April 21, 1977

The only thing that worried the police was my story; I was a good kid and I swore on a stack of bibles.

Atop a broken, crumbling, faded remnant of a once-strong stone wall – that’s where it perched.

I was old enough to know better, not drinking, air so crisp and clear.

You should (and must) know I wasn’t the only one.

John & Abby, too, check their stories.

We all drew the same thing.

Mine was best. I was known as an artist.

I am an artist. I wish I had imagined this. I am a painter. I am an artist.

The second oldest road in Dover, Massachusetts.

You don’t get that old without a tale or two behind your ears.

These stories will not die. Mysteries with orange skin and tendril fingers and, especially, mysteries with glowing eyes will not die.

I’m a serious painter, you know. An artist.

I wish I had made it up.

I wish someone else would see it.

I’m sure.

I wish I could be sure.

I wish I had made it up.

Something in the dank, wet woods.

Something deep in the woods.

I wish I could be sure I’m sure.

A few nagging doubts linger long after April 21, 1977

A Straightforward Method To Beat The Jersey Devil at Texas Hold ‘Em

Bluff deeply.
Breathing can go wrong in the blink of an eye.
    Do not misunderstand the stakes.
You are playing against The Jersey Devil.
    And when The Devil’s stack is deep,
    he’s gonna look you up.
Study well.
Know The Jersey Devil’s tells.
The Jersey Devil has wings and ain’t afraid to flap ‘em.
The Jersey Devil may be a kangaroo…with wings.
It may be a kangaroo…with wings…and hooves.
    That is telling you something indeed.
The Jersey Devil speaks a body language
    no Rosetta Stone can help decipher.
How is your poker face?
Practice.
The Jersey Devil isn’t human
    so rarely uses props.
This is to your advantage.
You can bare your teeth
    and really raise The Jersey Devil’s ire.
Bet before the flop, goddammit, but not too much
    ‘cause then you’re just looking for death.
It takes guts to carry out a blue bluff.
You know this.
    Good human guts, pink and wet.
You know this.

    But so does The Jersey Devil.

Tell a grand story with your bet and tell a bold story with your bluff and bluff your bet with your grand story and bet your bold story on your bluff.

Watch that cold river turn.

Keep one eye on the treetops.

Watch The Devil fly. Or leap and flutter. Don’t hit on the turn. Know when to hold ‘em. Don’t flip on the flop. Know when to fold ‘em. Know when to calculate the odds of winning a particular hand and use this information to inform your play and know when to run away when you take all The Jersey Devil’s money when you’re sitting at the table and his winged, hooved kangaroo ass bites your fucking head off and slurps out your brain and laughs flips and flaps his sated behind back and back to the pine trees, to the quiet dank of home sweet home.

A Straightforward Method To Beat The Jersey Devil at Texas Hold ‘Em

Welcome to the Wonderhole!

ǂKawa ǁeiba xu ǂgosen tama īs gye ǂkhõas tsĩ ǀam-ǂgōsens tsĩna ra ū-hā.*

You fuckers know nothing.
Call me a mistake –
Jy dink gode maak foute?
Maybe they do. Sure. But the mistake is you.
You, with vinegar for blood.
You, with broken glass for teeth.
You, mistake of the gods.
Nie Grote Slang!
Grote Slang die voortreflike!
You never run faster than when
     you see the elephant snake
     running your way.

So Welkom by die Wondergat!
     where there were no mistakes
     until you arrived, wicked head,
     wasped tongued
     preying
     tulpe uitloop uit jou bors.

Welkom by die Wondergat!
     Richtersveld
     where we’re all smiles and candy
     treasures for you here;
     where we’re decked in crisp, dress whites
     for the belles of the balls.

Welkom by die Wondergat!
     Richtersveld,
     deep underground,
     treasures for you here,
     last bastion of perfection,
     first place the gods visit
     when they drop in on creation.

Speak so guttural and bathe yourselves in milk, mistakes.
Stay out of the sun and lick your trigger fingers, mistakes.
Play sad songs under wax, wooden candle-lights, mistakes.

Invent new words and worlds, mistakes!
Welkom by die Wondergat!
Welkom by die Wondergat!

Treasures for you here.
We can’t correct you here.
No, we won’t correct you here.

*Nama – “What sorrow and trouble are brought about by useless anger!”

Welcome to the Wonderhole!

Field Guides and Frogmen

The Field Guide to North American Monsters tells me
that in Loveland, OH,
along the reedy trenches of the Ohio & the Little Miami,
tucked under old steel bridges,
poised just at the waters’ edges,
lives a Frogman.

The Guide does not advise whether the Frogman dines
on buckeye candy and shaker lemon pie,
or whether he sticks to traditional riverside cuisine
like wayward flies and lost flutterbys.

The Field Guide advises that witnesses provide disparate details.

The Field Guide to North American Monsters has no information
about the tepid summer of 1997 when sixteen-year-old Missy Barton
went for a hike at Lake Isabella Park
and found the Frogman,
kissed him lovingly, leisurely, longingly
on his damp and somewhat slimy lips.

The Guide does not advise on matters of the heart –
only matters of monsters,
North American monsters.

Field Guides and Frogmen