troysherdahl

Khufu’s Horizon

a true pyramid

but is it a tomb?

giant triangle times four

with the square

at the bottom for its root

one of seven wonders

too great

the point at the top

was golden rod and plate

no bones have been found

in there to date

so was Giza Cheops mausoleum?

or maybe a power station for state?

like Nikola Tesla might create

geometry, trigonometry

for physics to generate

electricity in antiquity

Hermetic simplicity

domineering engineering is

lost technology

in archeology

no bones about it

no bones in it—

wireless transmission

to Khufu’s horizon

from Khufu’s Horizon?

just an open minded

triangular

theory

got crusty eyes

yawns ‘n mumble talks

need crusty pies

calling from my ice box

hunger-ies, hunger-ies

got an appetite, dude

for that coveted slice

of morning after too

many brown pops—

the saucy hangover cure

munchies, munchies

mangio pure

dee-lite

between the snooze-y

old black and white

football fuzzy screen

or rather, Bogart booze-y

in HD

’cause the fuzzy screen

is me

loungin’ in

my jammies

loungin’ in the mess

that cold cheese

chilly tomato goodness

loungin’ in my ya!-ya!

and my hunger-ies—

for cold ‘za

do the pigeons of Perron

have their blinders on?

are their narrow minds

that far gone?

ask the little saint—

oops, now ain’t

there feathers in

the Sturgeon?

circle walk

gobble talk

shivers and a puff fluff

bird speak that’s rough, rough

sure is pecking tough enough

dovecote gossip coop

under slander concrete roof

tossing pebbles from

sharp beaks, they’re

letting ’em fly from

Perron Street

never trust

the yellow eyes of

the pigeons of Perron

they give the dove love

to running clubs

the cycling hubs

and skater snubs

cooing, pooping

dive bombers looming

their bike path wrath

needs a head shake

and a bath

hey, little saint?

oops, now ain’t

their feathers in

the Sturgeon?

you woke with cinnamon smiles

enthusiastically, you beguiled

perfect wedding planner banter

hanging with maid of honor

bf flair forever

Privada, so clever

posies picked should

invitations of wood would

the Duchess has cake

for our union day’s sake

now back at the ranch

you shimmy and dance

booty shake in my face

humming right here, and singing in space

you’re making me laugh with the things that you say

and, i’ve never seen you this happy on a winter Monday

in my desert island life

if i had to choose between taking my android

or ten of my favorite old paperbacks

i’d take my old paperbacks every time

my android doesn’t have the history i need

even though it has A I, I T and 4G speed

there is no smell, no comfort

and it won’t start a fire

the smell of old paperbacks

can take me back

to older times and older owners

to rooms they lived in before

yellowing pages and cracking covers

are pulpy and tactile

they capture smells

and i like touching paper pages

turning paper pages

burning paper pages

turning pages of a book on an android

seems void

of enjoyment for me

even though it’s a hell of a device

it just doesn’t fill my palm tree bookcase

it’s not as warm

unless you’re talking microwaves

and they run out

my android has all the apps though

even, best flashlight app!

but if i drop it, sit on it, or get it wet

i’m hooped

old paperbacks fit in my back pockets

like padding

or kindling

old paperbacks don’t run out

of power

they can burn

old paperbacks are never obsolete

and they distract me

from survival

i like their shelf life

still

escape and comfort

the smell of old paperbacks

and my desert island life

black stillness is

my bend in the river

for five minutes

a stretch

paper lanterns low

almost dark

with little white dots

feel light and weight

interconnected

at the edge—

hot surrender is

one sweaty thought

the uncomfortable comfort

here, the yin

hold a pose

hear my breath, try

in through nose

out of mouth— sigh

five minutes of

broken lines

interconnected

at the edge—

my whole is

greater than my parts

here, the yin

it’s fresh!

fresh

exciting!

it’s like a

New Year to me

disco ball twenty

dance party fourteen

martini love bug

hoot n’ holler

is my beautiful ego

an imperfect nothing?

am i nothing, going nowhere

with nothing?

nothing?

perfect, Buddha

i can’t hold on to nothing

that’s too loose, man

i was the second newborn

to cry along with baby one

in the maternity ward

and my father smiled

see, i’ve grown smart with self-image

and conceit at my center

i exist because

i believe in meaning—

i am someone

going somewhere

with something

—something!

even if it’s gilded robes and vanity

imperfect perfection or

perfect imperfection

is my beautiful ego

and i hold on tight

see, Buddha— see?

five lights refracted

in a constellation of icy drips

a foggy curtain of twilight gauze

is my Milky Way

so far away sub zero

as seen through icicles on my eyelashes—

and my moon boots crunch

here, sub zero

actually

minus thirty

reality

minus forty with the wind chill

painfully

it has to be a certain temperature

a certain type of dry cold

to hear your moon boots crunch

at ninety decibels loud

and this isn’t the moon

it’s Alberta

exposed skin freeze

in three minutes

frostbite hurts like hell

or you don’t feel anything

’til you thaw out after

they cut it off

cover up, layer

insulate with

Thinsulate

out on the town

in feather down

wear your moon boots

and go crunching

through loud snow

if you dare

or stay inside your capsule

outside elements

cause strange sounds

when moon boots crunch

at ninety decibels loud

and I see through icicles on my eyelashes

that other moon boots

want to crunch