Becoming Abe Vigoda

The sky tonight is veiled

by horizon spanning clouds.

I feel as if I'm looking up

through a burial shroud.

I can't see any stars,

just a hazy smudge of moon.

October's leaves, like my hair,

are falling way too soon.

The landscape is as desolate

as the plains of North Dakota.

My aura has faded to gray,

and I am becoming Abe Vigoda.

I mainly drink tea or coffee

when I need to slake my thirst.

Some say I should switch to decaf,

but I tell them I will die first.

Ice cream, salt, and butter, I'm told,

are unhealthy for my heart.

I would love a big bowl of chili,

but it would only make me fart.

I can't eat spicy tacos

or enjoy a can of  soda.

My churning stomach reminds me

that I am becoming Abe Vigoda.

I speak with what sounds

a lot like my grandfather's voice.

Laxatives, antacid, and Viagra

have become my drugs of choice.

I wish that time were an illusion

and that I could quit counting years.

The hair on my head is relocating

to a new home in my ears.

I hear birds outside and wonder

if they are singing my life's coda.

The old man in the mirror tells me

that I am becoming Abe Vigoda.  - Jeff Barnes

Count Stinkula

Every night he rises
from his lonely tomb.
He reeks so badly that the rats
all scatter in the gloom.
He has never brushed his fangs
in 500 years of undeath.
His bloodlust is only exceeded
by his rancid, putrid breath,
which is far more malodorous
than the most putrefactive quagmire.
He is Count Stinkula,
the halitotic vampire.

Wear a cross around your neck

and a filter on your nose

to protect yourself from the stench

that rises from his toes.

Nobody can long endure

the power of his foetor.

His shoes could surely use

a pair of Odor Eaters.

Would that someone had staked him

and thrown him on a pyre.

He is Count Stinkula,

the bromodotic vampire.

The villagers fear his hypnotic gaze

and the miasma from his ass.

Who knew that a steady diet of blood

could give anybody so much gas?

They shelter in their huts and pray

down upon their knees,

asking protection from his evil

and his backdoor breeze.

They wait for the morning to once again

break upon their shire,

giving them safety from Count Stinkula

the inordinately flatulent vampire. - Jeff Barnes

Pothole

gray clouds 
dispel
the residue
of daytime

goldenrod

and yellow leaves

glow with a light

all their own

my mind

is as full

as a pothole

in the rain

my fear

is as gone

as the town

this used to be - Jeff Barnes