Jason Bredle – 2 Poems

Jason Bredle

2 Poems

Aurora Borealis Beard Fire Party

I am in the bathroom fancy beard fluffing. Fancy beard is growing in stunningly, ask anyone in the park. As I fluff beard in summer sun, goose feeding youth and goose feeding elderly all stop to receive its glory shower. When I am camping, I need only brush minimal amounts of worms and ticks from beard come morning, then I allow the soft dewy breeze to have its way. Fancy beard is Eden, a wheat field daisy and wildflower sprouting. Tell me where is fancy beard, say Shakespeare, in the heart or in the head. On the face, say I, blossoming and radiating pure swellitude. In the park, I pepper beard with bread crumbs, lie down and allow passing goose to fancy beard graze and nip. Lovely women pause me while I am beard walking, ask to fluff, ask its age. I have no time for fancy fluffing momentarily, say I, for I am to park walking, where I will fluff fancy beard and, perhaps if the mood strikes me, engage fancy beard in a tumbly game of fetch. Afterwards, I may take beard to local Texas-Mexico restaurant for award winning chili. Fancy beard is all-together spirited, carefree, and professorial when I am gambling or upon waterslide laughing. An amusing anecdote: once at dusk I was upon day bed napping when I awoke to resplendent aurora borealis emerging directly from fancy beard. Beard’s enormous pines swayed fallingly in the darkening wind, two fawns tussled near its ample salt lick. I grilled corn on the cob and buttered fancy beard for the ensuing feast. How begot, how nourishèd? asks Shakespeare. A fascinating question indeed! Advice to aspiring beard growers everywhere: patience and constant fluffing are key, as is fluffing and constant fluffing. When hiking, fancy beard may collect passing spiders and ferns. This should never alarm, it should always delight. Do not under any circumstance allow nearby chainsaw to sting and bleed fancy beard, for did I mention fancy beard is an aphrodisiac? I have experienced this with woman one evening who was fancy beard admiring. It was dusk. The pines swayed fallingly in the darkening wind. From fancy beard emerged resplendent aurora borealis which woman and I witnessed amongst pine trees. Dear Mom, fancy beard is torch in black lake. Fancy beard is black lake and torch fire. Westside Cobra Hazing Enthusiasm Party I stand at party, like teenaged prodigy after day of baby delivering, pensively. Tonight I shall emerge into world like gratifying explosion as one may understand gratifying explosion to be explosion such as one sexual or perhaps enemy car tinkering for explosion and amongst honeysuckle hiding later for sweet gratification. Turbo and Electro are hazing the others with bittersweetness, the Westside Cobras shall ascend into lamp-brighted earth, our motobikes awaiting in shadow. Everywhere I ride, I seek the wisdom of Athena, half-sister of the man-god, who arose bloodied from the head of Zeus. To be a Cobra, one must wear the armor of the snake-lord, one must throw the venom at second’s notice. My motobike rests pensively in the shadows, purring like tiger-god after night of bloodening. I drink absinthe from the plastic-god of party cups, I gorge myself upon green apple and kiwi. Party is full swinging, the others are willfully and mercilessly beaten by the glistening fists of Turbo and Electro. Tonight, the Cobras shall ride. Repeateth after me: Westside Cobras, Sssssssss, never shall our poison fail us as we gaze intently the chasm of eternal darkness, never shall we allow our fangs to accidentally bleed us our blood. I stand at party, like teenaged prodigy after day of emergency bypass performing, pensively. Motobike purrs as lizard-god after day of lizarding. The party-god is blood letting, Turbo and Electro work new recruit upper torsos. Mattresses are organ caked, for tonight is the birthnight of the Cobra. I arise like Athena, bloodied, from the head of the cobra-god, venom throwing at random then amongst honeysuckle hiding in sweet gratification. It is late spring, the air midnight soft. My motobike sleeps in nearby honeysuckle, purring after day of motobiking. The moon-god has not yet risen. Dear Mom, I am having clarity moment while amongst honeysuckle hiding. I am truth finding, solitudinal, gazing intently the chasm of eternal darkness, of eternal blood and black leaf, and it is mirror, it is blood mirror of agony and :O

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