Wednesday, November 30, 2005


When an Arab dies and goes to that holiest of holes in the sky he expects a welcoming committee of vibrant virgins on fire and filled with desire to satisfy his urges instantly. He's greeted instead by scores of whores, street walkers and smut talkers to do his bidding and they ain't kidding.

Like, Virgins are on the verge of a Mosque-wide strike and they ain't gonna lay till they get extra pay even though their demands as future ladies of the night are out of sight. They want guarantees against sex layoffs, a day off to watch the playoffs and extra pay for hard positions. They want less freebees for obstetricians, treatment for their inhibitions and time and a half for exhibitions.

They want to negotiate that when they work late and endure frustrations with partners who have multiple ejaculations and guarantees the gents they're sent will not be impotent.

All future contracts must state they get a discount on condom rates, free tests for AIDS and related diseases. And most of all, they be granted a vacation and time and a half if they become victims of impregnation.


When darkness rules the heavens all the stars will disappear, the moon will cease to glow and show the way in dead of night, the sun's fire will expire and greed and mad desire will control the precious fuels and oil will cease to burn and turn into blocks of ice. And the world will be locked into a penetrating cold.

As everything that kindles dwindles even bits of kindling wood will become worth its weight in gold. Matches will be sold at a hundred bucks a strike and there will be no guarantee that these sticks will light. Only in our sleep will we see a sun still burning bright.

The darkness that surrounds us will confound us as we stumble, bumble, grumble bumping into this and that and falling endlessly, not knowing where we're at. And the walls of blackened air will declare control of life on earth.

No longer will man see a smile, admire a style, start a fire on his barbecue, smoke a cigar, enjoy a campsite bonfire light, sing along to the strum of a lone guitar, The poet will not write about the beauty of a day in spring, a sparkling brook or anything. He will fling away his writing tools and babble endlessly, creating words that will disappear in the darkened atmosphere.

Foods we need will crumble like weed and feed for cattle we breed will disappear and cow and steer and lamb and sheep and fowl and even the wise old owl will die of cold and confusion, robbed of the illusion of day and night, dark and light, lack of sight.

Loss of light will cause distress and madness, destroy awareness and who will care less about fairness in a world where we are all alone in a crowded room of gloom, doomed by this darkness that dominates the sky?

But whatever evil force caused this change in course in outer space, a new power force is on the rise to take its place until light returns. There is one thing to keep in mind above everything. In the land of everlasting darkness the Blindman is the king.


Life's a bowl of sour cherries. It's the pits. It builds you up, then lets you fall like Humpty Dumpty on the wall. The joke is when life's through with you, you don't even have a broken yolk to prove that you were there. Who ever said that life is fair?

Life welcomes you, then runs you out of town. When your walls come tumbling down, you're buried among the bones of lost souls confined to lonely, lifeless big black holes.

What you've gained in life you lose in death. No more to take one final breath of perfumed air, to share a rare, enchanted night, romance by starlight unde a full moon, listen to or sing a happy tune.

Death comes to all all too soon. You rarely have the time to cry, to say goodbye before you die.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005


First and foremost, this post is not to boast that in less than a year since my blogsite did appear the response has gone beyond my wildest expectations and my anticipations and so I thank the nation's bloggers, whoever and where ever they are.

As I celebrate eight months here and my eighty second year alive (or a reasonable facsimile of) on this galactic sphere I do not admit any crime for my rhyme. I love (and that word rhymes with "of") that I've received, as this is writ, more than fifteen hundred hits and growing.This is my way of showing my appreciation for your response to my creation.

I find it hard to believe that an old fart like me could see his art (such as it is) rizz (which means "rise," I surmise) in this very contrary arbitrary literary somewhat scary fairyland. I couldn't resist. I exist to make matters verse.

So now to what I want to say. Starting today adfeminam when I write 'em I will post 'em on my site every night, at least one or more is what I'm aiming for. I want to be known as "most with the posts" in Blogland. If now and then I miss, I apologize for this. But I'll try to keep things humming as long as hits keep coming. --- Sincerely, ME.

Monday, November 28, 2005


Approaching eighty-four, I'm not looking for more or less. You can say yes, you can say no, you can say go slow or just no go. That's OK by me. I'm looking for what I hear and what I feel, not so much what I see but what seems real to me.

What I look for more and more is personality, morality, vitality of mind (not the other kind), a pride in individuality, active in a passive way, someone who has a sense of humor, is not obsessed with Hollywood rumor, the chatter from the Soap Opera/ Oprah set, not deep in debt or likes to smoke or bet.

Pride in well coifed, dyed beauty parlor hair, a sleek physique, hooked on the diet of the week is not the type I seek. One who paints or writes, stays up late at night, likes hot sun and simple fun, not popping pills or shopping for the latest frills, that's the gal for me.

Interested in peace and war, not the reigning tennis star, does not get her complexion from a jar, does not "look just like a movie star," that scores with me by far.

I'm just looking for a friend on whom I can depend, someone to stay with me, not play with me. We'll eat in or out, get about in wheelchair or cane, tour for sure sometimes Dutch treat, can't complain. If you still drive, that's OK. If not, we'll go the transit way. Comment to what extent you wish. Or just make contact and I'll react.

Now you know what I seek. See you next week?

CRISIS IN THE COSMOS OR: The Heavenly Situation

The population of Heaven is an ever-fluctuating situation. The ins and outs come and go. God knows how many citizen souls are alive and well at any one time in this nation of candidates waiting for reincarnation.

Any total would only be an estimation, depending on whether those who opted for cremation after they died, of course, would be qualified. It's fair to say, given the situation down below the normal flow, plus war and disease and the intricacies of life, if you please, did God gave up on these in the early days following creation?

Historically and categorically, things started right, then went wrong. It wasn't long after God gave man, and woman to a lesser degree, the power of self determination. Once decided, God confided only to the few He relied on that once He made up His mind His children would have to arrive at their own decisions based on prevailing conditions.

But long, long, very, very long, long ago things got out of hand and the demand, based on prayer polls throughout the lands on Earth and many other places, was that God must get involved to solve the Galactic situation.

How could God admit after all these endless millennia He was wrong all along and must be strong and concede He'd made a mess of it? Not only had God lost His faith in humanity, He had stricken off His list the sick and well, and who can tell, those who think war is hell, even those who buy and sell on Wall Street and those who eat meats and sweets and stuff their gut with God knows what would disagree.

God continued to make excuses for permitting abuses but now He knew t somehow He no longer could defend His position. The moment of decision had come. He had to show He was not dumb, just thought a lot and now that He was on the spot, had to unwrought what He had wrought.

In a precedent-setting act it is a fact God appeared on prime time TV, in all the media, on the world-wide Internet and on like outlets on every planet He controlled. The ways since the days of old had to go. His plan for man (referring, of course, generically) was that he was no longer the master of his destiny.

"From now on," God's speech concluded, "you must answer directly to Me and only Me for what you do. I'll think it through and reveal my decision and if you don't do what I tell you to, you'll go straight to hell, no second chance, none of this forgiveness business, and I, as God as My Own Witness, thus have I decreed." With that God concluded, except to add as an after thought what He ought: "God bless."

The announcer, shaken because he'd heard the word of God, alive, not taped, gaped into the microphone, then muttered: "The management states, categorically, IT does not agree with God's views. And now it's back to the evening news."


There's a magic pill called testosterone. It's a pill each man must own. It's the key to masculinity that improves the sexuality,

Testosterone has been known to thicken hair on chest and chin and other sections of the skin. it's been said to improve performance in the bed.

You can buy it in a health food store because that's what health food stores are for. Take the pill and wait until it produces juices that will thrill.

Nothing's greater than this innovative stimulater. It's a miracle rejuvenator,

Sunday, November 27, 2005


Once upon a sexier time intercourse was the only source of all creation. Without it there would have been no population. It took a sperm plus a lot of hot to trot ovaries highly prized waiting to be fertilized.

All that said, the procedure could proceed in bed or the seed could be planted during a romantic rendezvous by two on a beach or in a chair or almost anywhere the pair decides will do.

It's been known to happen in a sports car or an SUV or anyplace where parking's free or the meter's filled to capacity. With some, it may take more time. If you're on a vacation premature ejaculation may heighten your expectation allow more time for post position penetration.

That's the way it was back then but this is Now and things somehow are not the same. Ain't it a shame! Today there's no need for an assignation to achieve impregnation. A well chosen frozen sperm, source unknown, has been shown to be a good, astute substitute for that go-go romeo. And if it's the lady's wish, a quick mix in a petri dish may grant a gal her fondest wish. So what's next? She can even choose the sex.

There are pills to turn the couple on or off the reproduction production plan. Pills to stimulate the drive and make the sex act come alive. Pills that work almost instantly, pills that take more time but last extensively if expensively.

So do it the passionate old fashioned way or go for modern science in defiance of what nature had in mind. You'll find the end result's the same. Once born, the baby has your name. Lass or lad, you'll be the mother and the dad. And if it doesn't look like you? If, if, if! What's the dif?

Saturday, November 26, 2005


There's nothing worse than riding in a hearse to a waiting grave, all dug out and saved just for you. And while the twenty-one gun salute gets set to shoot, mom and dad and sister Sue, wife and kids who loved you true. cry hysterically, there's nothing you can do but lie there in your box while diggers cover you with dirt and rocks.

Soon the ceremony's done and everyone in pain and sorrow goes home to face tomorrow.

That's how it goes when foes make heroes of the losers of a wasted war and a cause not worth fighting for. I, just one of thousands dead, were fed a lie to satisfy the war mongering gang in D, C, Now I sleep at their behest in nature's breast while the rest still alive await the fate that put us at St. Peter's gate.


The younger hunger for love, for passion, for fashion and, of course, for a share of the action and satisfaction that comes from mutual sexual satisfaction.

Later in life as man and wife the interest turns to how much they earn, luxuries they can afford, will they drive a Lexus or a Ford, spend the winter on the Riviera or share a cabin at the shore with the neighbors next-door?

As they get old and can no longer take the cold they'll settle for something within their reach, probably a condo on Miami Beach.


I'm just an old shoe, rejected for a brand new pair. Once shiny bright, pride of my master's feet, now I lay in disarray in the closet of his past. Made of indestructible leather that kept his feet warm and dry in inclement weather, I've been replaced by running shoes, I guess I'm out of style. I've walked my last mile.


The birth of a child is and was meant to be the greatest event in history. For in an infant lies all the promise and hope of humanity. Who's to say? Maybe that baby, an innocent new creation someday may be kind or cruel, wise or a fool, who'll rule or save an enslaved civilization. What will it be at maturity?. The possibilities are endless, God bless the sleeping child.

Those who love understand the immensity, intensity of emotional devotion they'll bestow on this new human being they are seeing moments after birth. It has been on earth just hours, but it's ours, they say, until eternity---at least until maturity. But that's a full lifetime away.

They assure the child security, teach it passion and purity, the strong feeling of belonging to a loving family, the pride in name and all that came before to make them more aware of who they are the way they are, what they could someday be, how much depends on love and devotion to family.

Children grow up right, doing what they're told, learning all the lessons taught by family and in school. They know about the golden rule, be kind to old folks and pets That's what gets you into heaven when you die.

At this point a child might cry and ask; "Why must I die?" You'll reply, "You learned that in Sunday School." Your child might say hostilely, "That means God is cruel." Your silence pushes the child away.

What can you say? How can you admit that's true? That defies all the lies the church has drummed in you.

When children doubt they find out. That's when parents lose control. That's when children go their separate way. What do they become? Who can say?


After fifty years of a mostly happy marriage, interspersed by discontent and disagreement, time well spent and good intent. I'd say it was meant to be. And as we edged toward fifty-three we became each a half of "We."

After stops and starts and new begins, of mistakes and aches and one time sins, after memories stored, vows ignored and then restored, after changing moods and things that intruded on love that sometimes faded but never really died. After lies and sighs and cries and tears and doubts and fears and years and years, we were still together. It appeared we'd scaled the heights, had fights, survived the lows, who knows better than "We" how and why the marriage lasted endlessly,

After the luxuries of fantasies, the victories and defeats and incomplete attempts to satisfy our separate sexual and intellectual needs and greeds, our hesitancies and unfulfilled expectancies, we strived and, finally, my wife, Betty, had two successful pregnancies; two children born and grown and on their own in spite of stress, illness and unwillingness along the way, of pain-filled hours of grief and belief that the powers of our faith in "We" would see us through, "We" held tight and prayed day and night that everything would turn out right. Sometimes it did. sometimes not. But we cried a lot and tried a lot and defied the odds and we won. (How 'bout that, Hon?)

Money woes? There were some. They were overcome by spending less and eating more and counting pennies at the discount store. But even as things got better, we lived by the letter of our rule. "Save for a rainy day and pray the gray clouds go away."

This was the bittersweet life of success and defeat. You'll find our story on every street. In folks you meet. And remember this, my friend. Our lives are all Soap Operas in the end.

But for me, the other half of "We," the end came all too suddenly. Death struck in an instant of a blinking eye, no time to say goodbye. What once was no longer is. But as they say in showbiz. "The must go on." I alone remain, half of what was once a "We," is now just a "Me."

Tuesday, November 22, 2005


It was unbelievable. The inconceivable had been achieved. No one ever believed it could happen but it did. It took ten million dead, two million maimed, six nations shamed. bankrupt economies and miseries from shore to shore and sea to sea, but when it all was over, as predicted, the afflicted would be cured, the convicted would reform and conform, this would be a land of milk and honey and non-inflationary money, no bombs or vices or killing devices to end a grievance.

It would usher in an era of terrific scientific achievement, cures for all who ailed, medicines that never failed, full employment, endless enjoyment, no one expired unless they desired, longevity replaced brevity and clean water and air everywhere.

Life was sweet, the streets were neat, everybody had enough to eat and tourists were assured airplanes could not crash and airlines never lacked for cash. There was no sin. Every bet was, indeed. was guaranteed to win.

That all became a reality in the year three thousand thirty three after a war that raged endlessly and all but destroyed the insanity of something called humanity. World peace was everywhere. One government reigned and nobody ever complained. All refrained from breaking laws and there really was a Santa Clause.

A benevolent president selected for life with close relations to run the one world nation when he went on vacation or if he died, and although many tried assassination, there was no indication they could succeed because it was decreed he'd live as long as he desired. He could not be fired, his term never expired. In fact, it was suspected before he was selected he had been wired and was not real but a robot with mass appeal.

That's the story of a world at peace. If you don't like it, tell it to the police. That's what you should do. They've got laws for people like you.


You read about it all the time, a gifted man is killed self-willed or otherwise, in his prime before his life has run its course. Dead at thirty-five, so much promise denied, a future of hopes and dreams unfulfilled. When one so young, so wise dies they leave behind a trail of tears and empty, unused years.

People who lead an ordinary, unvaried existence seem to have a built-in resistance to maladies and dread disease. No matter what they eat or drink, whether they are fat or thin, whatever shape they're in, they exceed life's expectancy. Which leads me to the question people ask when things go right or things go wrong: Why?

Why can't life proceed at even keel, why must disaster steal the treasured pleasured moments we anticipate and treat so casually? Why must lives make sudden turns instantly or pain drain the body and the brain so casually?

In one fleeting moment life is through or hope begins anew. Who decides when or why? Not you or I. Is there such a thing as fate, a mapped-out route we all must travel, preordained and unexplained?

If fate there be, it makes no sense to me. It's strange how change can rearrange pre-planned expectations. How vacations can be cut short by tragedy. How a casual meeting, a fleeting encounter can counter plans once set in stone. But a voice inside tries to help you decide: "Don't play with fate. Let life alone."

But wait! Isn't every change you make, every step you take, every morning you awake dictated by fate? If you believe this is true, don't stew when faced with something new, don't ask yourself, "What should I do?" Fate will decide so why should you?


Why do I dream a dream I have never seemed I ever dreamed before? A dream about a sea that does not exist on a non-existent shore. I see a sea and a tropical tree on a land not there before and a people free who lovingly sing of a time of yore. I hear their song and sing along in a tongue I don't understand and the peace I feel is really unreal in this unknown, uncharted land. The perfumed air is clean and pure, the breeze is a lullaby, and what they sing recalls memories of a time and place gone by. I know there was not and could never be such a land and sea, yet they are real and I feel will always live in the dream inside of me.

Monday, November 21, 2005


No matter how much politicians make, they're on the take. There's the Congressional cafeterias and restaurants where they eat for a fraction of what they'd pay in high class D.C. eateries. Congressional barbershops with cut-rate prices. Stretch limos, chauffeur-driven cars, penny-ante perks for lawmaker lawbreakers. All the freebies give me the heebie-jeebies!


How could a minority of We the People have been so insane to elect a warped brain candidate of evil intent to become our president?

How could a man with an ego so immense that even though what he says and does makes no sense and represents an open invitation to annihilation and the eventual end to a civil civilization we, as a nation, are stuck with him for three more fearful years?

We have a president who thinks he can do no wrong, who goes along with any hair-brained view that says he can do anything he wants to do because You the People told him to. That in any war, legally or not, he's got the bully pulpit power to exercise his might, right or wrong.

No matter whether he wins or loses in the polls, has no goals or plans, and nothing he attempts pans out, he leaves no doubt, he's above the laws just because...well just because!

After all is said and done, wasn't Bush the one who won because he was chosen by that Commander on High to lead his children lo the Promised Land?

Sunday, November 20, 2005


If a repulsive caterpillar can become a beautiful butterfly and an ugly duckling can turn into a graceful swan, why can't I, a far from good looking guy, become a Don Juan who makes the maidens swoon in the marrying month of June?

I want to wed and go to bed with a redhead or brunette or any woman I can get who will let me pet a bit and do whatever it might lead to or proceed to and you know what kind of love I have in mind.

So far my lovelife's been OK in a conventional way, but frankly it has been a bore. I'm not asking for more. I just want variety and impropriety in my sexuality. Does lovemaking have to be mostly faking, forsaking an orgasm far less thrilling just to do it with a dame in the same missionary way? Just once in a while why can't I see less smile and instead an enduring, alluring look telling me she can't wait to mate with me?

What I seek is complex sex. A little less of "Yes! Yes! Yes!" and a lot more of "More! More! More!" On the floor. In a revolving door. On the shore or in a hardware store. This is what I need. This is what I plead. This is how I want to plant my seed. Yes indeed! Yes indeed!

Saturday, November 19, 2005


I am walking through a graveyard in my mind, reading lines on tombstones, sentimental monuments, feeling lost, alone. I am looking for my own, hoping I will not find it. In my deep sleep I remind myself I am still up here and not down there.

The night is late with a not so bright moon hiding behind a thick layer of clouds, shrouds of the dead. I scream loud: "I CAN'T FIND ME!" I know this is a dream. But it seems so real to me. I touch my face, my lips. I sip the moisture of the night. I strain my eyes. There is no light.

The sadness that I feel is not for me or members of my family. It's for those below, so near I hear their mournful cries and weakened sighs and listen to their last goodbyes.

Why are they gone while I live on? I miss them even though I did not know them, or if I did, not well enough to show respect they had a right to expect as I passed them by. I reach out and feel the crosses and five-point Hebrew stars, the flags of those who died in wars. I slightly hear the whimpering cries of children whose eyes are filled with tears who died because of someone's irresponsibility or of a fatal malady that wouldn't let them grow old like me.

Some succumbed of self intent, suicides they must have been, for a sin or a battle they could not win. Was it a reason for self-treason? A reason why they had to die? So many lost who could, who should be here. Oh, the cost in bitter tears!

A graveyard, such a lonely place. In my dream I know someday I'll lay among the dead while others walk above my head. I'll hear the sound of shovels turning over ground, the diggers laughing while they drink their beer. And in my dead mind I'll hear their labors as they prepare a resting place for the neighbor who will sleep eternally next to me.


Remember that fatal September day? How can you forget? Scenes of horror never fade. The world's afraid. Life's not what it used to be. It's fueled by greed, ruled by the need for Black Gold. No matter how you slice it, dictators regulate the price of it. They drill for it, kill for it, we pay the bill for it. Until we find a substitute for it, we'll die for it because oil is the why for it. When there's no demand and oil's abandoned in the sand terrorists will cease to exist. Then the endless war will end.

Friday, November 18, 2005


Pigs live long, eat good, grow fat and know what their fate will be. They'll feed humanity in a variety of ways, a pork chop here, strips of bacon there, a slice of ham with a candied yam, a rib to spare well done or rare. Delicious dishes for the family.

A chicken fried, roasted, broasted, barbecued, slowly stewed, soup with oodles of noodles or matzoh balls, fricasseed southern style, a yummy drumstick. wings or other things, a fowl can make the belly growl. There ain't nothin' beats the dickens like those finger lickin' chickens.

A duck quack quacks, a goose honks back, a rooster crows, a hen bestows its eggs for quiches, knishes and all sorts of delicious dishes, fulfilling every gourmet's wishes.

Now we get to the turkey, a quirky bird that doesn't chirp or cheep or peep. It gobbles. While it's gobbled up all year round it's found most on one holiday. In fact its basic reason for living is to satisfy the family on Thanksgiving.

And when the feast is through, what do you do with the residue? How many sandwiches can you eat? Which is what this poem is all about. Turkeys are so big and fat, you can't eat them up just like that. And as November comes to a close, you'll wish the Indians chose another bird to feed the Pilgrim population, symbol of our pioneering nation.

Thursday, November 17, 2005


George Dubya Bush awoke in the middle of the night in his White House bed, in fright and dread, surrounded by ghosts of the GI dead. He was in a cold and slimy sweat that wouldn't let him rest. He shook his head in grief and disbelief and this is what he said:

"I am the blame. I am the shame. I am the cause. Because of me and my ignorance, my arrogance the GI bodies have risen from their graves to tell me I cannot be saved for have lied and they have died. I have defied the Lord. I have slain not with gun or sword but with words I knew were untrue."

Guilt and pain were driving him insane as they pounded on his inane brain like a hurricane thundering in his flapping ears, forcing fear from his squinting eyes, all mixed with his sobbing cries as he moaned, "Why did I lie? Why did I lie?"

Bush looked into a dresser drawer, where he kept news clips and magazines galore deploring what this boring, unrepentant president had done. He grimaced a sneering grin. "My nickname's proof of fame or, is it shame? It's all the same. They dubbed me Dubya. What would Shakespearmint say? I'll have to look it up someday. They all say I don't care. That I don't share the pain they feel. Can't they see the fake pain that my sneer reveals?"

Tuesday, November 15, 2005


To this couple a child was born, not a daughter but a male who would prevail until he became cannon fodder. Then war began and the child they raised to mankind to be good and kind and sharp of mind, were mindful of the tragedy eventually they'd have to face as members of the human race,.

When he was twenty-one, a man who never touched a gun, who loved the sun and sea and all of nature's majesty, was called to arms to harm and kill a foe he didn't know or hate. The fate of the enemy was in their hands until both sides realized killing served no need except a madman's greed;

He knew he had to do what the military ordered him to---become an unclean killing machine. No longer a raw recruit, now a human robot who would point and shoot and forget the targeted mother's son he had slain. His only fear, would he be next, dead with a bullet in his head?

Would this son, loved and respected by everyone, smart in school who lived by the rule of law, saw only good and loved his god, who found it odd some did not share his love for life and liberty and found thrill in killing wantonly?

But here was he, crawling in mud and crud and spitting blood and cursing the insanity of humanity.


How much longer must America swallow the disgorging of a man named George who claims to be our president. He's the resident of the White House, nothing more. When he leaves home it's to roam the nation with just one oration: honor our thousands who died for the cause of liberty, who gave their lives so we could stay free...all that blah and blather and raw hypocrisy.

Bush keeps talking about the mission he once boasted had been completed, crows our enemy has been defeated and repeats and repeats this lie while day by day more GIs die.

Finally, the nation's crying out against this sham by a damn fool man who is both dense and makes no sense and has committed more than one impeachable offense, who has triggered events that sent our brave to an early grave and gave him gratis temporary instant hero status.

Well, the president who wears no clothes now stands naked before millions who oppose his war and all he stands for. They agree Bush and the GOP are terrorists more fearful than those from Iraq, Iran and all the insurgents from the Arab lands.

If some in our incongruous Congress can't agree he poses a threat to democracy, the world must face its responsibility to all humanity. Let the World Court decide Bush can no longer hide behind the skirts of our High Court and the dictatorial rule of one party which, like its leader, has no soul and its only goal is total control.

Monday, November 14, 2005


When I was young I had ambition. My mother said, "Be a physician. They fulfill a sacred mission. They spend less time working, more time fishin', They drive fancy cars, booze it up in high priced bars, cut people up and leave big scars, preserve kidney stones in jars, keep their kids out of wars. That's what doctors do. Besides all that, docs get rich as a son of a bitch. Gods get fat as an alley cat. And Medicare's where the money's at."

I told my mom. "I know it. Still, I want to be a poet. Is it a crime to think in rhyme, to write of love and stars above, to rail against hypocrisy and defy phony democracy, to wax poetic and be sympathetic to each heretic who defies the Constitution and calls for revolution?"

My dad had a different view. "Be a politician," he said. "Doctors are a bunch of fakes. People die from their mistakes. All they do is give a pill, then send a bill for God knows what and who knows why. They won't let you die until you pay their lousy fee. Say it's unfair? Take your gripes to Medicare.

"Better yet, go into politics. They know every dirty trick that makes big bucks quick. These leeches make speeches about honesty, integrity, democracy. the good old red, white and blue while doing all they can to screw the voter legally. Politics is the place to be."

"Why not be a CPA," my sister said. "They make good pay helping you steal from the USA and Uncle Sam doesn't give a damn if you make money off the books like other crooks. And if they commit big time crIme they know they'll never do the time."

No doubt, I had a lot to think about. But in my working days to come, I think I'll just be a bum.

Sunday, November 13, 2005


I am a skeptic. I don't believe or disbelieve. I ask, relieve me of my doubt.Let the logic out. Be exact with your facts. Talk with tact, Skip theory. That doesn't interest me. I live in a world of reality where those who say they know say so. If you ask them how, they'll say just because that's the way it is now.

"His (meaning God) is the law that is," he'll say. But then he'll boost the Bible biz and quote some faker who says he met the maker of the maker. And when I ask, who is that? he'll say, "Hey! Hey! I've got you there! There's only one. The He who made a son with Mary, contrary to what you believe, that the only way woman can conceive is through sex.

God objects to doing that without wedded bliss and a virgin miss. Since Mary has a mate, God came too late and Joseph came to soon or not at all but it's said Joe and Mary had a ball before God had to come and spoil it all.

Now this is the old story I've been told and I think it's just one big spoof because there is no proof. To those who insist God existed I say, "Show me his birth certificate with time and place, race and name, his mom and pop and all that slop." You can't? Then I guess I shan't believe, by heck. I'm a skeptic.

Saturday, November 12, 2005


Men born of pointless passion in the padded cell of life
Lead lives of desperation often visited by strife.
They squeeze love from a lemon and drink its acid juice.
They swim in stagnant, murky pools and seas of stillborn sluice.
The clouds of black oblivion, obdurate in their task,
Black out the burning sunshine in which all others bask.
Fond dreams turn nightmarish as they fail to meet success.
They are the men whom destiny deserted in distress.

Were they marked for failure as they slid from mother's womb?
Did some all-knowing deity so preordain their doom?
Or was it early setback which the stronger man repels
That chased them from the uterus where self-defeatism dwells?
Do they crave cloak of cowardice and banishment to blame?
Do they fear lofty pinnacles men climb to heights fame?
Is life's responsibility more than they can bear?
Do they breathe stench of hopelessness and filter out clean air?

Friday, November 11, 2005


I know George has said a lot of things, some dumb, some so far off base with such a sneerful face you'd think his brain was numb. Some must come from a sense of innocence you'd expect from an erstwhile juvenile or someone on pot or what.

Bush wanted Bin What's-his-name "dead or alive." That was just a lot of photo opt jive. Then Bush said, "No, that ain't so." He;s just like any Arab guy on the street dressed in a sheet. With all his money he could by a shirt and tie. Who needs that half-baked sheik? The Afghan war's a piece of cake. He said it. Give him credit.

Dubya bragged "Mission Accomplished." He wished! He should have said: "War's a flop. Time to stop." George pressed on. Now more than a thousand troops are gone. He said it. Give him credit.

Bush didn't say the world is flat. Any dummy knows better than that. Come on, be fair. He's pretty sure the world ain't square, Does God wear a cowboy hat? Ask Dubya about that. But this we know: Bush says it's so. The world's shaped like an oval, an egg. Life begins and ends in that Oval Office. And to this square peg in a hole. totally out of control, his world is just a keg of beer. I fear George, who's also taken to drinking red ink, thinks that's so. So give him credit even though he maybe, hasn't said it.


I once knew a guy named Blott. A hot shot he was not. No one ever thought Blott would get what he got. Then one day Blott bought a pot. Paid for it with his last ten spot. Now his wealth was diddley-squat.

Why Blott bought the pot, he knew not. He thought and thought. What do I need with an empty pot? But maybe empty it was not. Blott took a look. A miracle had been wrought. There Jeannie lay on a cot, wearing a bikini and boy! was she hot!

"I've been waiting for you, my master, Rajah Hottintot, to give you all I've got." She waved a magic wand and do you know what? Jeannie's bikini was made of solid gold. She wore diamond bracelets and strings of pearls and her hair was made of platinum curls. She wore a ruby in her belly button and from her navel down she wore nuttin! Her bra fell off and Blott got hot and Jeannie was hot to trot.

They romanced all day and danced all night and went to Wall Street the very next day. They didn't buy, they didn't sell. They investigated, then incorporated and the rest is history. There's the unsolved mystery of where Blott got it, how'd he get it, You can bet it kept folks guessing. They slept in their pot at night and at daylight counted all their blessings.

But who would guess the IRS would ask Blott where he got it and when he could not explain it they took it all and wanted more. He told Jeannie and she got sore. She waved her wand and the pot was bare. She waved it again and bankruptcy panic filled the air. And Jeannie was no longer there.

Blott still had his pot. He slept in it a lot, but awoke alone. it seems, Blott also lost the Jeannie of his dreams.

Thursday, November 10, 2005


The Iraq war reminds me of a five-cent cigar: one puff and that's enough. Well, this war has had too many puffs.

The real problem's this: a chronic liar, a self-denier with fire in his ass but not his belly, is out to please his mom and daddy and prove their little laddie has the stuff to stomach endless killing willingly and thrillingly.

Let's admit it, George thinks in terms imperial where he is king and it's immaterial what the subjects say. He's a serial killer and is going to get his way.

The troops are the dupes who live and die at the whim of Him who lies and the gang of He's and a single She who are running this dying dynasty. They didn't have a clue that what they were about to do would do to me and you and millions more who knew the score, but were helpless to prevent what they would invent to justify the lie to set the scene for the Bush killing machine,

OK, they got their way. They had their day, They had their say. Now it's time to put the toys away and if there's got to be more ack-ack-ack, let it be Iraq against Iraq.

Let not another GI die to satisfy those who live the lie of a free Iraq or Middle East. At least, let all our dead rest in peace. Let the wounded, maimed and those still alive shamed by this misadventure venture forth into a life of worth and let this earth settle down to sanity and amity where all are free to control their own destiny.

The dead are dead. They died in Iraq. There is no turning back. Now the world must look ahead, No more dead. No more dead


The nostrils twitch, the membranes itch, the sneezer starts to swell. The guts produce an acid juice. You retch. You have smelled a smell.

The tonsils pinch. the senses flinch, the adam's apple bobs. The dinner roast and breakfast toast all come up in globs. You have smelled a smell.

The ache prevails, the sore entrails twist tightly into knots. The eyes grow weak, you cannot speak. You have smelled smell.

The senses reel, turn like a wheel, the muscles shrink, then swell. You cannot think or sleep a wink. You have smelled a smell.

But wait! Not all smells make you regurgitate.

The nostrils spread to fill the head with aromatic treasure. The senses perk and go to work paving way for pleasure. The belly bile beams like a smile and gurgles like a baby. The nose knows well each cooking scent and every kind of gravy. Sugared hams and candied yams trigger titillation. Scent of steak and chocolate cake precede participation. These aromas make home sweet homas. They foretell eating events. Damn the caloric consequence. FULL FEED AHEAD1

Monday, November 07, 2005


Some people are defined with different kinds of minds. Others are absent minded. They misplaced their mind and they can't find it. A few I know have amnesia, a disease when ya can't remember who you are, where you parked your car, who lost the war that can't be won, can't be undone.

Then there are those everybody knows who count on their fingers and toes and use their nose for a decimal point. Their mind is out of joint.

Some, seniors or not, have senior moments, but that's OK. We all have those at least once a day. They finally recall all they forgot, but not on the spot. Nothing's wrong. Their memory's like a ping-pong ball. It bounces up and down, wanders to and fro. It rises and falls like bread dough or a winter snow.

Does the mind lose its concentration, go on a week's vacation, go up a creek before it decides to end its game of hide-and-seek? The mind can be an awful sneak. It can be weak for a week, then reach its peak, But enough of all this brainy stuff. Let's deal with Dubya whose empty head is one big bubbleya. He can't lose a mind he never had. Don't believe that? Ask his dad. He's not absent minded. His mind is absent and he has no mind to find it. He's more than a little bit illiterate. His mispronunciation frustration reveals his lack of edgycation.

His train of thought is off the track and won't come back. It's headed straight for Iraq, To be precise, this mentally deficient president eventually will crack up. Can we back up to when we had a president who was sinning a spot but was winning a lot?

Now all we've got is a pot of you know what.


One morning I awoke at half past three which I did occasionally. Nature was calling me, as they say. Bleary eyed I'd do what I had to do, then creep back to my bed and resume my sleep as I always did before. But not even a hint of snore, not the relaxation that precedes deep sleep, not the heaven blessed rest that is prelude to quietude of intruding unconsciousness eased me to the insensibility I sought so desperately. I shut my eyes. To my surprise I could not sleep.

I had read and heard it said that if I counted sheep in my head my bed and I would comply and by and by the shuteye I craved would come. Sounded dumb but I'd give it a try. I started out---one, two, three, four until I'd totaled enough sheep to fill a mutton store. You'd think wink-eye would welcome me. That was not to be.

I tried counting other things. Telephone rings, swinging swings, romantic flings, ding-dong-dings, My imagination only led to more frustration. Then I asked the inner me, why not imagine a symphony or even a simple melody, some harmony to serenade me to slumberland? That didn't bring the sleep I sought but, oh, the sounds it wrought ought to resound at Carnegie Hall. I was so enthralled by what I heard that I forgot to do what I wanted to. I held my breath at each pause and found myself joining in the applause.

I thought I was wide awake, but when the maestro came out to take a bow my clapping startled me out of my hypnotic spell. I opened my eyes and to my surprise I was not front row center at Carnegie Hall, I was sitting on my toilet seat keeping time with the orchestration with my squeezing, displeasing flatulent sounds of constipation.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005


If you seek justice in a maladjusted society you must be willing to adjust to the unjust justice that prevails. Like the rights of the luckless who live in jails, the details of your case will be based on scales that determine right from wrong which, in the long run, will depend on the one in charge of the trial and the style of the prosecution's elocution in presenting the inexact facts to the packed and stacked members of the jury.

In this land where you go along or go alone, it's known that those who own up to a crime, even though you and they know they are innocent, will face a future spent behind bars made of steel from recycled stolen cars and bombs exploded in foreign wars that still have traces of faces and unmentionable places of the anatomy of those who fought for justice in an unjust society.

If all hope is lost the final cost of those who just wanted justice from a stunted judiciary will be found at the end of a rope and buried in the bottom of a pit among the bits and pieces of an abandoned marble quarry.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005


The pubeican pottyparty beholdenup by a mudia media in love with Dubya, the flubia of the grubia greedia is determined to destructivate the democraptic system that they fear threatens their dienasty.

You may notice, I'm making up words you never heard because there's insufficient choices in the dictionary to justify the way I feel about the GOP piglosophy, With the help of bloglogger bloopery and Bush misconfabulated creatrivolity. we should get enough to fill a gourbage can. (Daffynitions sloptional.) We hope to compile a Dubya dickshunweary. So make up the absurderist word you never heard and send it via comment file. Let's hope it makes Dumbya sneer from ear to rear.


Most Democratic Congressmen are wimps. some are political pimps who sell their support to Gods of frauds with power by those who cower to a precedent-setting president who's a resident by accident and court decree in the Mickey Mouse White House.

What Bush and Company do to undo years of laws and legislation, vital to the democratization of our Nation, is aided and abetted by Democrats in name only who sell constituents short to support a power hungry administration that can make or break them in the next election depending on the way things are going and winds of change are blowing. More likely than not, the GOP will still be hot at the ballot box. And even if it's not, so what! Stealing's an appealing alternative to those who live by the sword of the unspoken word.

Republicans have power. Some Democrats are shirt-tail riders. By playing patsy with insiders, who pull strings and do all sorts of things, they can win illegally what they've lost politically. If George can do it so can they. And do.

Politics is a game of shame in search of power and fame and wallets fat, but we won't talk about that. Just like storks bring babies, maybe Easter bunnies deliver funny money that makes life sunny for cook-the-books crooks.

There's just too much corruption, too little interruption of crap-shoot looting. Numbers arrested don't amount to a hill of beans as to what goes on behind the scenes where deals are hatched and backs are scratched, trades are made and you-give-me-and-I'll-give-you and that's how bills get through. And who gets screwed? YOU!


It's itty bits of dots and tiny, mighty bits of bites that cause fat to form beyond the norm and wind up on the hips and thighs and change their shape and size and when all is said and done it's no surprise. Scales don't lie. You're not the Slim Jim guy you used to be.

Once the fat knows where it's at it grows and grows between your navel and your toes, spreading south from cheek to cheek across your mouth. And when that stuff puffs up beneath your chin you know you might as well give in.