Posted in Antarctica


Butter up before the sauce was the advice
they did
chowing down big time at Saturday supper
before serious drinking.

Sunday morning
in the men’s
cat stench urinals
and locker room warscape
of championship win – or heavy defeat.

Breakfast 7 a.m.- 8 a.m.
shot gun discharge safe.
Brunch 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.
returnees from the front
red eyed
and hungry.
Ham, eggs, omelettes, pancakes,
French toast, grilled sausage
buttering up, after the sauce.

And for Sunday brunch
cinnamon rolls
soft, yeasty, warm, and sweet.
Removed from the oven at 10:15 a.m.
delivered to the serving line at 10.30.
A highlight. And essential.

The chief is angry – incandescent
he wants to know what happened
and somebody’s ass.
“ I’m sorry Chief ”
the baker points at the unset timer
and 3000 charcoaled shells
“ I just fucked up.”
Fury deflates to empathy
“ get something from the freezer…”

For the back story click Backstage



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.

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