Shivaree

    These kettle bells.
    Is it the axe-murderer,
    with green garbage bag
    in the shadows?

    No. Green trees so thick
    their tops are folded hands
    or knotted knuckles
    to make perilous shrubbery
    by the garden wall.

    Yet this is a state of mind
    and shards of multi-coloured
    glass dot the top of stones.
    Interesting. Should a sociopath put
    out his shingle, come calling,
    a much under-estimated, rude uttering
    would take place.

    Still bees are active in the night air,
    not swarms, but a hum. Pleasant odours waft
    thru stiller air. There is no charged electricity
    to things, no tautness or leathery tightness to
    individual seconds. Still and stricken still.

    Yet "what ifs" come slithering
    as if serpents along
    a pasture floor.

    The diabolical. Rich desire to impregnate with evil,
    To embarcation upon conquests.
    To embolden and make one's mark,
    however ridiculous to the sane and balanced mind.
    Horrible. The dirty laundry of just one
    over-flowering and too abundant mind gone wrong.

    One single blossom out of place and "killer".
    Off-kilter. Out of whack. The
    pickle short of a jar syndrome.

    Then there's the hoots and shrill cat-calls
    withered by horse laughs. Guffaws with tattoos and
    rifle-butts.
    Laid back "good ole boys" type of humour going wrong
    soured by too many visits and skunky beers from the
    Orchid Lounge.

    Rinky-dink, honky-tonk. Dotting the landscape with worn,
    thin cars, trouser legs piled up, the "f" and "s" words.

    Charivari. A timely entry. A buzz set to sound, a faint
    blinking button with no sound. Suckers in the creek
    breaking water to catch flies, churning mud bottom
    by their too turbulent tails; a bird hitting the window
    only its night. The echo of moths lost to the stars
    with each jarring knock.