IT ALL BEGAN AT BIRTH

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.

GEORGE THE DISGORGER

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.

WHEN I GROW UP WHAT SHOULD I BE?

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.

SKEPTICS: IT'S ABOUT DOUBT

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.

SECRETS OF FAILURE

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?

IS HE STUPID OR WHAT?

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.

HOW BLOTT GOT WHAT HE GOT

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.

QUIT THE DOUBLE TALK. WALK AWAY!

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

SMELLS AND AROMAS

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

DIFFERENT KINDS OF MINDS

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.

SYMPHONY TO A SLEEPLESS NIGHT

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.

ADJUSTING TO UNJUST JUSTICE

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.

A SPELLING B FOR GWB

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.

THE WIMPS AND PIMPS OF WASHINGTON

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!

BITS OF DOTS AND MIGHTY BITES

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.

RHYMES ABOUT THE SNEERING SLIME

DUBYA, DUBYA, once a comer, now a dumber, prone to slumber while the voters do a number on his wrecked plumbing down while this clown still wears a crown as the self-declared King of Ding-a-ling. No doubt this Texas horse's ass should get out. This "dirty wurd" can't pass the mustard.
* * *
THIS TWICE selected president, illegal White House resident, this loser boozer, accuser diffuser of the truth, burglar at the voting booth, has made a mess of the U. S., aided by a bought and biased press and the far right fright. no less, should confess and face his doom and vacate the Oyeval Room. He and his phony baloney cronies gotta go. All the surveys say that's so.
* * *
POOR LITTLE Harriet takes her lumps and jumps off Dubya's clunking chariot. Says she: "I can't stand the daily dunking I've gotten since this punk plunked me in this race for a seat on this Court of Disgrace. And what's more, me and George ain't friends no more."

ABOUT THOSE WHO DOUBT

Have the religious right flight of fancy voters with ants in their pants who cast their ballot for Bush the boozer loser finally realized their prize is a just a booby?

Do they now know the things he said and didn't say, the lies he told along the way, the way he walks, the way he talks, the crude words he used were misconstrued to mean what he didn't tell these stupid people who can't tell a box from a two ton ox, a ham on rye from cream cheese and lox?

Just because they admitted what they got was not so hot, is just, in fact, a blot on humanity, does that get them off the spot? All those who went to bed with Big D must share the guilt of his dishonesty and hypocrisy. How can they atone? Disown this fragment of a man and dump him in the GOP garbage can for the also ran.

Because Bush lied more than 2,000 GIs have died. We can't bring back the dead, Bush can't deny what he said, but by using your heart and head, at least you may be able to sleep better tonight when you go to bed.

IS IT ALL JUST FATE?

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?

THE AGING BACHELOR'S LIFE

Every time I go to bed with that cute redhead of sixty-three to demonstrate my virility and my ability to rise to every possibility with the agility of my yesteryears I have a propensity to dwell on the immensity of my potency and sleek physique. What I fail to recognize is my heart and eyes are weak, my bladder's sprung a leak, my back gets out of whack each time I tax my sacroiliac.

When I take a chance to demonstrate my prowess at romance voices in my brain complain I'm putting too much strain on my ability to fend off senility which is slowly taking hold of me. "Act your age," the voices rage as I tear a page from my past when I used to last from dusk till dawn.

Although I know it's true I'm through or nearly so, I can't admit it's time to go. The mirror says I'm old. The calendar reinforces that. When did I cease to be a he-man man and become an also ran? When did my muscle turn to flab and I began to gab and blab and grab at straws to prove I could still get it on? When did I become an ex-Don Juan?

We Oldsters have a tendency to deny, to lie, to even cry when no one can see us letting go of our masculinity. It's a false belief our grief is brief, but we'll pay any cost to replace the love we've lost. We'll wine and dine a younger woman to ease the pain, to clear the cobwebs from our brain. But no matter who we embrace to replace our mate, when we go home late and walk into those empty rooms, the gloom looms, won't set us free.

My condo's in disarray. Clothes, laundry scattered everywhere. Dirty dishes in the sink. I think I'll clean it up next week. Or maybe wait and let my date who hates to see the mess do the job for me, the slob. Eventually she'll become the maid and cook and more, just what most widowed men are looking for. But what can she do? She's lonely, hurting too. So we both accept second best. You know the rest.

MY HATE AFFAIR WITH WILMA

Men who have love affairs rarely admit it. I had a hate affair and this is it. With me and Wilma, the windy witch of the South,it was hate at first date. I said to Wilma, gimma break, for God's sake, and take your insane Hurricane to some other terrain like Iran, Iraq, Therein or even Spain and leave my domain alone.

As a resident of South Florida I resent the bleak week I spent at your detour into my Brevard back yard. It was one of the most horrida experiences of my life. If you were my wife, I'd divorce you faster than a race horse coming around the homestretch, you windy wretch.

Life was so serene before you appeared on the scene with your mean intentions and your ploy to demolish and destroy the joy that, until of late, was great here in the Sunshine State. I must admit you play rough, but one puff from you was quite enough. So take your stuff and stuff it. We've had enough of it. We can't tough it anymore here on our shore.

Look at the homes you destroyed, the now unemployed. floods and fires we couldn't avoid, good times we could have enjoyed. My neighbors and I are not just annoyed, they're furious. I'm curious, why'd you pick our bailiwick, you sick chick? You came and left quick, such heart ache in your wake.

We'll clean up the debris you were so unkind to leave behind. We'll replace the trees you uprooted. The foliage you denuded. The wildlife you executed.

Thank God you now are gone. Life goes on.

SYMPHONY TO A SLEEPLESS NIGHT

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 shuteye 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 conductor 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 to the orchestration with my squeezing, displeasing flatulent sounds of constipation.

THE MAGIC PILL

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.

COMPUTER LOSES, CLUTTER WINS

I found this insignificant ball point pen. I don't know where, I don't know when. It had a faded message on its side. I tried to read it but the letters were hard to see. The point was crusted, rusted, long unused. If a pen could be abused, this son of a pencil had been neglected, rejected, disregarded, discarded, It hadn't written since who knows when.

Will this pen ever write again? I found a scrap of paper on the ground. I wiped the tip on a leaf and, to my disbelief, it could \write.

A miracle of modern science, this simple writing appliance still filled with ink in a blink responded to my test. I shrugged and put it in the pocket of my shirt. It couldn't hurt to have a pen. I had to use one now and then. To
write a note, jot an address, make a mark next to "Yes" or "No" on an application for a vacation deal I never bought.

So my name and address and other detailed info more or less remained unmailed in my desk drawer. Wasn't that what cluttered desk drawers were for? Abandoned dreams, unlikely schemes, ideas that seemed important at the time, in retrospect weren't worth a dime. So I tossed the pen in the drawer. It soon got lost among the scrap and all the crap collected by an absentminded mind,

One day I found the pen again and decided to throw it away and join the computer generation. That miracle machine would be my salvation and spare me the frustration of a drawer so filled with this and that I seldom knew where I was at. I'd clean it out, starting with the pen and the computer would let me start all over again.

I went to the electronics store and told the clerk what I wanted the computer for. "Easy," he said, "just watch me." With mouse in hand and one quick click, he showed me how to organize. I could not believe my eyes. I learned a lot. I bought. I took the set and plugged it in, turned it on. The screen turned green. A welcome message filled the screen. No sweat. How easy could it get? I'll soon be surfing the Internet.

I took the mouse and clicked. Boy! This is fun! Then, I clicked again. The screen went black. I couldn't get the message back. Squiggly lines. Dashes, dots. Funny spots. Erratic static. Grunts and groans. Mechanical moans. I punched more keys. I think I heard the damn thing sneeze. Must be a virus. Must be sick. Click, click, click! Flashing, dashing little darts. Stops and starts, Big fat farts. Then it sighed and died. I couldn't resuscitate it. I hate it!

Thank God for the warranty. They gave my money back to me. I filled my drawer with brand new clutter. Not a flutter or a stutter. no dashes, dots or funny spots. Paper here and paper there. Rummage, rummage everywhere. Look and look. A note I wrote. I can't find it. I don't mind it. Even my trusty, rusty pen is happy to be home again.

DEATH DELAYED BY LOVE

A loaded gun lay at his side. A Bible in his hand. "This ol' pain ah cain't abide," he cried. "Dear Lord, help me understand." Amos wasn't much on writing. But he was done at fighting what had to be. "Got to write the family. I know I should. Ain't gonna tell them why. Just wanna say goodbye. My kids, my grandbaby. Maybe someday they understand what I 'bout to do."

He picked up the gun, put the barrel to his head. "Soon's I pull the trigger I be dead," he said, then put down the gun and a frown etched his fear. A roar like a howling wind pierced his ears, penetrated his brain.

"Is I crazy. God? Is I insane?" He heard a voice, faint but clear. In his right ear where he was stone deaf. "The left be the the onliest good ear I got good." In spite of his plight he had to laugh. "God give everybody two. Then he take one o' mine away day I borrned. Was meant to be.

"Kids wanted buy me a hearing aid when I make ninty-three, 'Naw,' I say. 'Lord decided how I should be. Don' stick no wire in my ear. I hear good enough all these years. 'Pears I live some more the way I Is'. Kids, they lovin' me. I loves them powerfully."

Pain like lightening came again. Wouldn't go away. His trembling hand picked up the gun. "I be done thinking 'bout things they in the past. I got to do it fast, do it shore. Guess it hurt a second, then hurt no more. Then I be at peace at the feet of sweet Lord Jesus. He meet me at the Golden Gate. I say, "God, why you wait fo' me?" He say, "Moses, you my son." Then I say to God, "I be black. You be white." I look up and God he black. Jus' like me."

Now I know what I got to do. My finger wrap around the trigger. I sure I gonna die It what I about to do. Then the strangest thing. The telephone ring. It be dead 'cause I don't pay the bill. Figure I will one day I get the
money. Somehow, funny, it be ringin' now. I picks it up. hold the phone to my deaf right ear. I hear clear's a bell. It little Dandy. My kids name her that 'cause that's what she be, a fine an' Dandy chile, "Hi, Gramps," she say. "Why you callin'?" I say. "Ain't you 'posed to be in a school?" She say, "Gramps don't be foolin' me. It Sunday. Why ain't you be at church?" I 'bout to say I got this date with God, but I just nod. She say, "This be our special day. I don't remember but Mama remind me, today the anniversary of the day you save my life when those white boys come after me." I smile. I put the gun away and say. "I do remember. Indeed I do." Then Dandy say, "I love you, Gramps. And Mama say remind that ol' fool---that's how she say it---she say, you come here eat tonight. We celebrate our special day."

Then Dandy say, "Bye now. Gramps. I loves you...powerfully, like you say." And I say, "Y'all go out and play. I be there by an' by."

Moses hung up the phone, put the gun away and began to cry. He looked to the heavens, gave a nod. He whispered softly, "Thank you, God."

BE A KILLER LEGALLY

As you drink your morning brew and read the local news you know what it's telling you, compelling you to do. You've looked around, you've scrounged around and haven't found a way to earn an honest pay because all the jobs have flown away to foreign shores for that's the way things are today.

Without work there's nothing you can do but steal or rob---isn't that a job of sorts? It makes work for cops and courts. It tips the scales, fills jails.

When all fails, all's bereft, there's nothing left but kill or be killed If that must be, do it legally. Join the military. It endorses murder, mayhem. Be one of them. Be a hero. You kill them, they kill you.

The president who sent you there through influence was spared military servitude. That college dude, with grades of C and campus revelry, stayed safe and on the lam as lesser men killed and died in Viet Nam

Take the job. It's steady pay 'til they put you away. Hooray for the U. S. A. Three cheers for the Red, White and Blue and Dubyu!

MASS MURDERER IN TRAINING

When he was in his teens most kids his age read sports and comic pages and headline news of violence that raged across the continent. Each event, real or fiction, was a prediction of what was to be. Sports, in certain events, glorified violence, sent chills and thrills up his spine. Reading about it, hearing mad fans shout about it, made his mind spin like the time he sipped his father's gin.

His real world came alive when he read of war and crime, killing that filled the news and the TV screen. He asked himself, "What does it mean?" One day he knew. He read of over populated nations where unfed blacks, were just skin and bone with bellies blown up like balloons, graphic indications of starvation. He was convinced wars were good. They killed bad people as they should. And the bloated who'd die anyway. But he could not do it alone. That was a GI's destiny. It was meant to be. "That's for me." he told himself inwardly.

Empty spaces quickly filled with new young faces, waiting to die. God told them what to do. God talked to him, too. Slay the bad to save the good. The wrong, the strong may may die along the way. That's the soldier's reality. That's his destiny.

BONDING: THE "OTHER" TO ANOTHER

It is said that when two bond they achieve a closeness deeper, sweeter and more lasting than any other kind of meeting of the mind, it is a unique relationship, stronger and longer than any other kind of love. It doesn't happen to everyone, but when it does you and your "other" know it,

I refer to this partnership not to just so-called blood relationships, mothers, brothers, varied members of a family. nor quote-unquote lovers, a word that implies semantic but not necessarily romantic meaning, simply a term that sounds profound.

"Others" are two who meet and find a common ground, a mutuality of views, who choose a similar path of life. Bonding of two can and should be any combination of the above. Caring and sharing can be a part of it, but at the heart of it, it's much more. Bonding is at the core of what we are or hope to be. It is the true reality.

Whether it is male and female or two of the same gender, even if it is friend or foe, someone you grow to know, or will not know until it is so, the term "other" still applies and defies another who has not yet found an "other."

I held this classification for last but it is not the least. I refer generically to "man" and "beast." Can humans bond with a pet? You bet they can and usually do. The closeness and the preciousness between the two is known by more than just a few.

To bond is not beyond the scope of any. Can many in search of meaning choose a pet and get a like response? It happens just because the one who gives and the one who takes make a perfect pair. They care, they share, they are there for each "other." And that, no doubt, is what it's all about.

TABOO AND T0-DA-LOO TO YOU!

Whose taboos? Yours or mine? Must we all toe the same line some asinine defines as right or wrong? Must we all sing the same old song? If you ignore the don'ts or do's and taboo who will be the loser, the confused or the confuser?

If we refuse taboos crudity will be out, nudity will be in, curse words won't be the worse words. Say what you say, that's O. K. Four letter words: If they say what you mean they're not obscene. If said just for effect, they're incorrect. Don't mince, convince. Be. distinct, succinct, intent, eloquent.

MEDIOCRE MEDIA

Our media's less than mediocre. TV talking heads report what Dubya said, They don't discuss. They lie to us. Ignore the Constitution. Trash democratic institutions, News reporters, tube distorters agree: "What's good for the GOP is good enough for you and me. "

GEORGE WALKER BUSH IS EVIL

Of all the presidents I've known about he's the hardest to figure out. Of all who've slept in the White House, he's the most inept, the least adept to negotiate the ship of state or deserve the respect of our armed forces or the horses in the cavalry.

Even those who drive his limousines, clean his latrine or run the nation behind the scene can't figure out what mealy mouth means when he lets words dribble from his bubble head. I can't understand this one man wrecking crew. Can you?

I've watched him infrequently on TV, heard and/or read what he's said in the press and on the Internet. This I know: we made a losing bet when we let this mouse move into the White House. Now not even an exterminator can't get the lout out.

Dubya's evil has caused monumental upheaval of the world economy, contributed mightily to the dollar's insolvency, helped destroy our water and air, waged war on the ecology. He's done all this and more without as much as an apology or an admission that his mission has been one big bad decision.

The Big Bad B ordered a killing spree by sending more than a thousand GIs to die to topple a hack dictator in Iraq and after millions squandered can't capture bin Laden who's still in command in Afghanistan. Even with his popularity in a dive, Bush insists his unjust war, contrived of lies, must slog on until every mother's son has tasted blood and mud to satisfy this Dubya dud.

Bush constantly amazes with his stupidity. But calling this appalling president stupid is too kind. He's insane. a man with a brain of sorts that courts disaster, a man who can't find a shred of compassion for the dead or share the blame for thousands who will never be the same, forced to live with injuries and disabilities, plagued by memories of tragedies they can't forget, Yet he and the war go on and on and on and????????????