Friday, July 29, 2005


It was on a tour, the kind I'm sure you're familiar with, aboard an outdated, dilapidated train, passing through a plain, uninspired terrain in Italy, as look-alike as a Kansas countryside. Just another boring ride.

Where we were headed didn't matter. The steady clatter of the wheels on ancient rails. It never fails, the tour guide was young and hardly spoke our tongue. She came from some place we never knew. She was sweet, but she was dumb.

With engine roaring, most of the tourists snoring and two teen-agers playing boring rock-and-roll on their erratic, static radio, a baby cryingand a mother trying to soothe her child with a mild foreign lullaby and the temperature soaring in this un-airconditioned mode of transportation, my vacation had become just one long frustration.

A couple sat in the seat in front of me, trying desperately to be heard above all this noise, plus two small boys banging their toys against the window pane. again and again, was enough to drive the saints insane.

Finally the train came to a screeching stop. It was time for our scheduled lunch. I had a hunch if the tour was bad, of course, the food would be worse. How wrong could I be? We went to this small cafe along the way and the menu was pure gourmet.

The salad greens, the rice and beans, the mushroom puree. the broiled trout in a lightly spiced mysterious way, dish after dish made us wish this meal would never end. We'd never tasted such a blend of delicacies. The home-made wine? Divine! The aperitif? Beyond belief! And all topped off with a fresh baked pie I cannot deny was conceived by angels in the sky.

Before we left, we met the chef, a tiny, wrinkled lady surely way past eighty, her hands thick with flour, her apron painted with gravy stains, who, with grace, took a bow and, one by one, to show how we loved her meal, we held and kissed her and I believe we made her feel special on this otherwise ordinary day.

As we left we heard her say in her modest Italian way, "I thank-a you. You like what I make for you what-a you ate? I appreciate. But, hey! It no big deal."

Wednesday, July 27, 2005


Once intercourse was the only source of creation. Without it there could never have been be a population or civilization. It took sperm and ovaries for gals and guys to fertilize.

The procedure could take place in bed during a romanic rendezvous or on a beach or in a chair or anywhere two decided to do what is a lovers due. It can happen in a sports car or in an SUV or any where parking's free or the meter's filled to capacity. With some it may take more time to come, some less. Premature ejaculation speeds the anticipation and provides greater opportunity for post-penetration exploration.

That was then. This is now. 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 has proven to be a good astute substitute for a go-go romeo. And if it's a lady's wish, a quick mix in a petri dish can grant a gal her fondest wish. So what's next? She may even choose the sex.

There are pills to turn couples on, to stimulate the drive, to make the sex act come alive, to add jazz to the jive, You can spend your passion the old fashioned way or seek modern science in defiance of what nature had in mind.

You'll find in the end the results will be the same. A baby's born. It has your name. Lass or lad, you'll be their mother or their dad. And that, no doubt, is what it is all about.


There's intelligence in outer space. It's everywhere, it's every place.
It's not that we don't know. It's just we don't know how and where to
go. We and the stars are playing heavenly hide-and-seek. It may take a
day, a week, a month, a year or many centuries to find what we're
looking for.

There are many places in space where we have never been, each a mere
million or more light years away. That's how God designed it. His
theory: Make it difficult for man to find it. Maybe when they've solved
the riddle they'll have found you just don't fiddle or mix in another
planet's politics.

If we find it will we know it? Once we know it will we blow it? Will
those we meet treat us kindly? Or will they, like we, plunge us
blindly into a galactic holocaust?

Tuesday, July 26, 2005


Since he was blind as a bat he couldn't tell where he was at, but being a bat he didn't mind that,
He was covered with stripes he couldn't wipe off, but he was a zebra and if he had lots of spots he'd be a Dalmatian or some other combination of mix breed mutation. So a zebra he be.

He was a lion, always roarin' but if he was an eagle he'd rather be soarin'. To a lion, soarin' is borin'. To an eagle, roarin' is foreign. A lion climbs trees, an eagle stirs up a breeze. Both do just as they please.

He was a hippo who took a dippo in dirty water with his daughter like he taught her. If he was an albino rhino would he keep his skin clean by taking a bath in a washing machine?


A brush of blood smears swastika streaks on the door of an innocent Jew.
The streets ablaze with malignant mobs who seek God's chosen few.
A cold gray sky of evil clouds stabs icicles in the blue.
A twisting trail of blood is blazed. Such things men often do.
Like lonely echoes lift from lips and propagate in space,
Like summer weeds thrive angrily and spit in nature's face,
Like weaklings turn to supermen behind a gun's embrace,
The venom fangs of slimy snakes infect the human race,
The Bible's words, the Lord's deep truths, the teachings of the wise
Are burned at stakes by angry mobs who see not with their eyes
And spoilers from a long dead past from lonely graves arise.
The freedom man once cherished shrivels up and dies.
The time is now, not yesterday. The haters grow in skill.
The angel of infectious death bids men to do her will.
"Scorch the earth!" the madmen cry. "Catch them all and kill!"
Hate moves ever onward. The men of peace stand still.

Friday, July 22, 2005


The population of this nation is living longer, growing stronger, more vital and less suicidal, in love with life and rife in the determination to make their time on earth of greater worth and last longer than statistics will allow. They've made a vow that their future's now and somehow will be filled with less sorrow and more luxurious tomorrows.

They have greater wealth and vibrant health and unbound determination to exceed their expectations as they pursue new fun-filled thrills of instant stimulation that await them on vacations. This is the crowd, a little loud, flashy dressed, bedecked with gems and jewels to impress the the less fortunate fools who serve them.

Mostly overweight, they stay up late to dance and dine, get high on wine, and gab and blab and back stab the full of baloney phonies who flash more cash and credit cards just to prove they've got a lot and spend it, lend it, choose to lose it on a roll of the dice or on the slots. It's easy come, easy go when you've got lots of dough.

This is the high society of seniors who drain their cup and live it up and hang the expenses, damn the consequences,


The sands of time, one by one, run through the hour glass and as the sands pass to the depths below you know this hour of the day has passed away. Flip the glass over and then the sands of time are reversed again and, like actors in a play well rehearsed, they once more descend and blend into a morass in this urn of glass. Cremated bone of another dead hour alone, the ashes of a full day gone never to greet its child, the dawn. This is how time devours hours. Who mourns the passing day? Without regret or sorrow, make way for tomorrow.

Monday, July 18, 2005


Because of the wrath of a sick and sadist psychopath this nation is on a one-way path to self-destruction. One man without legitimate reason is conducting a course in how to force treason down the throats of billions with the brains of billy goats willing to go willy-nilly to the no think brink of red ink ruin.

The lesson is a being taught by a Texas sleaze who graduated college with c's and d's and takes pride in his limited expertise to run a government he had to seize because he couldn't win it by legal means. To state it simple, George doesn't know beans from jellybeans, yet prances and preens as he plays the scenes on a stage of rage, reading a script from a text on Revolution 101.

"I have the solution," says the corrupt instructor, "Let the voters vote and when it's done you count one plus one as twenty-one, yes as no and no as yes and then compound the mess by making what's wrong come out right. That's the way to win a fight. And if that fails, forget the details, your last resort is a captured supreme Court of Courts."

Well, they did all this. It couldn't miss. They achieved their goal and, bless my soul, they're on a roll out to take control of the whole ding-dong-dang shebang. Before they're through they'll do it. And enough of us knew it would be the result, the final insult of this cult of robbers out to clobber our democracy.

No S. O. S., no Signal of Distress, no power we no more possess can save us now. Somehow. the game is lost and, oh, the cost! We need a savior to reverse this behavior and put our sources and resources back to work again. And this will take strong women and men with resolve to solve what has evolved.

So where are they? Where are we? Where are the millions striving to be free?


I am a woman with body for sale. I am not immoral or cheap. I bring pleasure to frustrated souls who tremble and turn in their sleep. The craving I satisfy is part of God's plan, more basic than food, rest or drink. It soothes the taut nerves of men who are poised on the edge of life's perilous brink.Passion? True love? A melding of hearts? These are God's gifts to the few.Fear disappears. Joy dries up the tears. They fade like clouds from the blue. Where else shall the lonely, the lost without love, find peace from a pain-ridden mind? I save lost souls from an inexact world. The price I exact is not high. This is the mission I chose for my life. Oh, God, can you understand why?


Poor countries come with hat in hand to America. the "I Promise Land," not to demand but just to make us understand if we don't treat them royally and loyally they may become our enemy. And even if we shell out now how will they respond when the money's gone?

When their well runs dry and we ask them to repay what they owe they'll moan, "We didn't know it was a loan. We assumed it was a donation to stave off the starvation of our booming population and pay for a vacation for the leaders of our nation."

It has been ever thus. It's more for them and less for us. Tax our people to the hilt so what our bombs destroyed can be rebuilt. Send them food, just park it and go. The black market is waiting to turn our flour into dough. To sell our greens and rice and beans to earn the green to buy the leaders new limousines.

Much of our aid, I'm afraid, is just good intent misspent that went south and wound up in the wrong mouth. And there's little left for the starving hordes on the street to eat.

But what can we do? I'm asking you. Ignore their need? Let them bleed? Don't send pills to cure their ills? Don't pay their doctor bills or fund their clinics? Just become a bunch of cynics, deny and let the nation die while their leaders bid their subjects goodbye and hightail it to a land of crooked banks where they say thanks and never ever ask or care where the millions came from. They just act dumb and that's OK in a land where crime does
pay in a very special way.

Hey! Hey! U. S. A. Pay! Pay! And get out of the way!

Saturday, July 16, 2005


Life is an illusion, conceived amid confusion. It is merely an intrusion in the nothing space of a place between the past and the last gasp of the nothingness to come when the drums will roll and a godless God will achieve His goal, whatever that goal may be.

During this moment of intermission on a stage of exhibition, where fiction replaces conviction, and fact causes friction, the unrestrained brain will serve as an astute substitute for reality in the finality of erratic, dramatic frivolity.

The universe, for what it's worth for better or for worse, is the end result of an impaction in which opposing forces traveling on separate courses, collide, bringing a stinging ending to what set out to be an endless ride into infinity, But instead of wending aimlessly it came to its ending famously in the biggest gol-dang bang that will ever be.

And that, my friend, is why the sky and all the birds that fly and every fish in the sea and variety of creature that will ever be, including you and me, are here---temporarily.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005


Are chickens and turkeys and pigs and cows and steer and lambs and sheep aware when they are about to be slaughtered?

Do fish know when they sink their jaws into the hook or become trapped in the net that they will no longer ride the waves or bask in the sparkling sun, that they will soon be beheaded and gutted, cleaned and scraped. that they never again will travel in schools with their brothers and sisters?

Does a deer or a scampering rabbit, a duck or a goose realize that, at the blast of a bullet their life on earth will come to an end? Does a clawing lobster feel searing pain as it is immersed in boiling water by a lipsmacking lover of its succulent flesh?

Do the creepy, crawling bugs or the industrious ants, the wasps, the bees, the flies and fleas, sense impending doom ordained by the swat of a hand or a poison spray?

Are our pets aware as they are placed in the gas chamber that they will no more feel the warmth of a master's embrace, never again be given the opportunity to express their love and compassion to ease the pain of their two-legged friends, to be removed from life simply because they are ill or because there are too many of them and too few of us?

Do trees and flowers and even weeds and all their garden neighbors who thrive in mother's earth feel the woodsman's axe or the gardener's shears or the whirling blades of the lawn mower, the agony of burning chemicals?

Do all these creatures of creation share the same pains as God's two-legged children? Are we and they not all members of the same family?

Tuesday, July 12, 2005


I live in a secret world inside of me with my fantasy family of children who all look like me and a mate of unquestioned loyalty, where everything I crave is free and friends all depend on me. My island's in the center of the Mystic Sea, beyond the reach of the IRS, of IOUs and union dues, of debts for bets I had to lose.

For what it's worth, it takes only a second to go from Earth to here. I do this constantly when life hassles me. I close my eyes and wish. Swish! I'm there. I share my time with those I create. I could be a hermit and live alone in this world all my own. Or have a loving family, sisters, brothers, many others. All it takes is imagination, determination.

I conceived my world while confined to my imprisoned mind behind the walls of an institution which thought it had the solution to care for people like me, victims of insanity. Lock 'em up, throw away the key. Fill 'em up with drugs and pills when they hurt. Let 'em view sitcoms day and night, feed 'em tasteless food three times a day with X-lax for desert.

Let 'em live in filth and dirt, sleep in halls, scratch lice and watch mice play hide-and-seek week after week. This routine will break their will and they will die. Cremate their remains and flush the ashes down the drain. Presto! One more empty bed to fill.

Check the waiting list. Jack or Jill, Sam or Lil, Dick or Rick, all were sick, they went quick. Juan is gone, infected by bites from blood-soaked fleas, Jose raped a nurse, then escaped. Cross him off the list. It goes on and on. Wasted souls wait to die. Freddie, Didn't he croak last week? No, that was Eddie, what a freak! Mary, she was sweet. Always biting her feet. What did her in? Who knows. Halitosis of the toes. Death's a joke. Poring over lists is boring. C'mon, let's go have a Coke.

Some names the same. Some had no names. Who cared? Who shared their pain? Did they live inside their brain like me? Are they somewhere out there in the Mystic Sea?

Monday, July 11, 2005


Research, read and think and write. State, relate and cogitate, then create something great with words of weight and share your views and spread the news to those who choose to use the net as their outlet to the wisdom of the world so wide. Don't decide what's wrong or right, what might or might not be until you are satisfied with what appeals to you and feels real to you.

Don't be blind to every kind of philosophy or theory and fall, instead, for dumb hypocrisies presented in generalities, laced with well placed banalities and filled with hidden fallacies that defy practicalities and realities.

Modern politics is thick with dirty tricks and quick-fix economics and stand-up comics spouting Bushanomics and can't-work tonics to silence moronic chronics trained to convince voters we need more killing tools to enforce the rules of our schlock and awe-ful fast growing fascist fanatic democratic society.

Friday, July 08, 2005


Loans to Third World nations are granted with little expectation that they will be repaid or spent on aid to those in dire need. More than not, a lot of what is spent is sent by greedy leaders to foreign banks with a wink and a nod to depositors who steal what they invest. But bankers know it's best not to ask. Depositors don't tell and it's just as well. The starving millions can go to hell!

Records show most billions windup where they're not intended, yet they're defended as humanitarian aid and that's the way the game is played. Some help the poor and insecure, the population suffering from starvation. But the amount's so small it doesn't count.

Billions of bucks windup where? Debtor nations, they don't care. It's all just public relations to win ethnic votes at elections with few expectations loans once made will be repaid. They're just buried in mile long lists of loans, as hard to find as dinosaur bones, Few checks are made as to where it went or how it's spent. And if they are, so what?

Some lobbyists for creditors pressure donor nations to forgive "donations," others insist they be repaid. Neither group will get their way. They argue: We don't owe. We couldn't vote for the so-and-so who got the dough. We say No!

There's a history of loans being corruptly diverted, laws skirted and averted. Of loans squandered, laundered, spent on fancy cars, Cuban cigars, high living luxuries. And when leaders are deposed or exposed they flee to havens far away and the money goes along. Wrong? Of course. What could be worse?

Sure, we want to end starvation, provide medication and the expectation of a better life in other nations. But while the rules of humanity say give your brothers a helping hand, what I will never understand is what about our neighbors in the U, S. A. who grow more desperate day by day and could use the money we throw away? Give them less. Give us more. Isn't that what our taxes are for?

Wednesday, July 06, 2005


Tarzan of the Apes is eighty-three, far past the age of jungle longevity. Because of aches and pains he can no longer swing with Jane. He needs new knees and every time he has a sneeze he has to dry his loincloth on nearby trees.

The King of the Jungle is known to bungle when he strays from the beaten path. He loses his way and has to call Triple A to guide him home. If it rains, Jane worries, did my fella take his umbrella?

Tarzan cannot scream his famous yell any more. Every time he tries his throat gets sore. He was once an acrobatic fanatic who lived in an attic in a tree so high his nose would bleed and he would need a Kleenex to stop the flow. His allergies make him sneeze and wheeze and Jane sends him to Walgreen's for remedies. Tarzan's cholesterol is out of sight from eating coconuts every night. He has his share of diseases rare and doesn't even qualify for Medicare.
Jane loves her man but since he can't do what she can and her sexual cravings must be met, she's getting all she can get and you bet, the best place to get it is right here. She's making out with two giraffes, a zebra and a kangaroo, a hippo and a rhino, too, not to mention a new gnu rejected by the London zoo.

When she's not in the sack with Jack the Yak she's making it with Jake the Snake, Then there's Myrtle the turtle and Lena the hyena who giggles but never laughs. She likes to prance with elephants who can't wear pants because it would take two sheets to make one pair and underwear even more and if they tore they're not for sale at the Walmart store.

Jane has her designs on an ape who makes monkeyshines and pines to get out of line with the human kind, male, female it doesn't matter but truth be told he prefers the latter unless she's fatter than elephant with an overflowing bladder.

While Jane's sex is not on the wain it's sad but true Tarzan's end is overdue, his days of jungle glory gone. But here comes Boy, Tarzan's son, his pride and joy, to carry on. Boy has a wife, a plump young chimp who eats bananas by the bunch for brunch and lunch because she has a hunch an impish chimp is on the way. Let's hope so. For when Boy is old and gray there'll be a halfbreed where Boy and his dad had long held sway.

And as he/she swings in the trees there will be fond memories of Tarzan's past. And maybe you'll share with me that famous cry Edgar Rice Buroughs created for all eternity.

Monday, July 04, 2005


I salute the unsung heroes of the bloodstained past, of men who tried, who fought and died for peace that could not last. They bought the book. They took the hook of patriotic glory. Now let me tell about their hell. This is their untold story.

There was Jim. Remember him? He had guts aplenty. The enemy shot him. A bullet got him. He was only twenty.

There was John. Gentle John. He killed but hated killing. He cried each time a soldier died. The deed was not fulfilling. John survived. He's still alive. Spared of death around him. He fought up to the very end. This is how they found him. No legs. No arms. One eye to see. One heart that's strong, still beating. Prayed to the gods. He beat the odds. He's living, breathing, eating. He sits and stares. Nobody cares to hear his tale of glory that left him a shred above the dead. No one hears his story.

There was Bill, strong-willed Bill. The enemy enslaved him. They pried, they tried to break him down. He lied, but that's what saved him.

How many men! Some lived, Some died. Most served their country gladly. Those who left, not to return. are grieved, remembered sadly. World War One and World War Two, Korea, Viet Nam, Desert Storm, Terrorism, Middle East, Iraq. Will next be all Islam? Will good men cry, "No! Not again!" Will killings ever cease? Will ever there be sanity? Will ever there be peace?


It's a given that we're livin' worse under Bush, It's a reign of pain plain and simple where that pimple of a president calls the shots and soldiers die. The still unanswered question, Why? goes back to the Original Lie, WMD and the Oil Industry.

But that's not the only crime that has been committed on the Dubya dime. Time after time that crook who wrote the book on how to destroy democracy creates new ways and sends more waves of terror raging through our once free society.

Last night, thanks to that creep, I couldn't sleep. And although I know logic says he has to go, and the truth he lied cannot be denied, how many really realize how his enterprise and imagination, how his one of a kind twisted mind could destroy not just this nation but also all of civilization?

There are doubters, what-abouters, pouters and shouters, even a few new just-found-outers who admit the errors of their ways. It's not enough just to know. It goes much deeper yet. That's why I spent hours on the internet during my sleepless night collecting bits and bytes about this scandal Bush can't handle. I hope what I report will sort out the winners from the sinners, the beginners from the begonners.

We're dealing with a regime unable to tell right from wrong. So go along with me on my odyssey into the land of lunacy. What I review may not be new but you will see the logic of my ways as I recall the days and what Dubya did. It's enough to flip your lid.

There's that smirk and sneer that says "I'm here and I ain't gonna go away. God gave me the nod. I was heaven sent to be the president." He doesn't have what it takes to admit mistakes. To GWB might makes right even though he might by wrong. Dubya started his defection from the truth even before his selection/election. Let's stick with the stress the mess created.

Of course there were the WMDs he and his cohorts said were there but couldn't be found anywhere. And those who provided intelligence were either dense or dumb or great deceivers to help Bush turn the gullible into believers.

What brain created the uranium scare? To twist the truth Bush said Iraq was in back of the 9/11 attack. Of course the source of Bush's so-called facts could not be worse. That he'd use them to create the crime is enough to send him and his collaborators to jail for a long, long time.

The president who lied us into war is not satisfied. He takes pride in robbing the poor to enrich the rich, denying the crying moms and dads kids who died without a cause, destroying laws, trashing civil rights, jailing innocents to satisfy evil intent, creating hate and disrespect in foreign lands that once admired our democracy, now are shamed by our hypocrisy.

It's worth repeating endlessly, "Thousands died because Bush lied." More than a thousand GIs with hopes and dreams and peace the prize. Innocent Iraqis, families, daughters and sons, loved ones who, like us, just want to be part of a free humanity.

We demand Bush and his brigands, the neocons and potential cons, all the hangersons, the corporate crooks who cooked the books, must be tried and, if found guilty, must reside in federal pens and do their time for their role in the greatest crime in history.