like bad poetry.

ohhhh, man.
i did it.
it's true.
after months of avoidance, deflection, evasion-
i caved in,
more because of a directionless early-evening energy
than any sense of obligation.
instead of a berfday party,
i got busy by myself...
take it easy,
i used gas-powered machinery.
(that's what she said?)
oh man-o-man-
one step deeper into homo-wnership.
one more concession to the responsible adults.
one last chore, on a saturday, no less, to confirm my old man dadness.
in the suburbs, they'd consider this a success story.
here, though, it's more of a cautionary cervantes tale.
oh, MAN.
it finally happened.
i fought it off for as long as i could, duders.
i let the limbs climb to untold heights.
i kept the criticisms out of my ears,
i even acted like it was supposed to look like that....
but in the end,
on a saturday night,
in the woodsly goodness,
some pre-father's day intuition ignited,
and i mowed my mutha-flippa-b!tchin' lawn.
there.
i said it.
i mowed the lawn.
it's official,
almost one whole year later.
i did it.
and let me tell you ninjas:
it looks real sexy.
on the real real.
not that it should matter much to me,
or, for that matter,
to our single set of shortsighted elderly neighbors-
i'm just sayin',
curb appeal seems silly on a dead end road.
sillier still on an unmarked, dirt dead end road.
how inviting do i really want this little crammed and crannied nook to look?
not very, that's for sure.
i'm on a more "what's inside is what counts" angle up here.
and the inside is taken care of, kids.....kinda.
or at least, mowing won't help what's wrong with all that.
so was it better than cupcakes and candles?
nope.
but,
i did treat myself to a swarthy swab of stout stank afterwards.
a kuba kuba maduro.
drew estate acid cigars.
they got that stank sauce added in.
the essence.
the activation, even.
like a muffler on a diesel truck in china,
attached to my throat...
...and by conscious choice at that.
not really so much a party as a punishment for my face.
more like yet another 'nother other  face-punishment, i mean.
y'know,
besides looking like this already.
***********
acorns are the truth, kids.
one single serving starter kid for the mightiest trees in the forest.
hottness grenades, more like.
last years bumper crop has caused a growth spike in the chipmunk population,
and a dam in the drainage ditch on the road.
little baby oakenshafts, y'all.
poppin' out and about between all the rocks,
in the road, beside the road, everyflippin'where.
crevices, creases, cracks, and culverts.
the stopped rolling and started growing.
...and if they were attempting to sprout it out loud up in my lawn?
well, i'll bet they feel duped, like a bunch of b!tchbags-
all these months of uninterrupted expansion,
and then, lop-loppity pop!
they got their heads chopped off.
last night, all those unlimited systemic seismic synthesis potentials
were rendered obsolete.
if you're in the grass,
then you're not a baby tree-
you're some 'needs to be mowed', like jim says.
potential isn't much but mulch
when faced with a spinning stormswept berserker blade.
there's some truth in THAT, too.
never quiet, never soft.....