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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