Monday, February 27, 2006


Once upon a midnight bleary I said to my girlfriend, "Dearie, I'm weary of the query you subject me to. You know I'm true blue, faithful to you. There's no other."

She replied, "Oh., brother!"

She caught me cold, and had cause to scold. I mean, I had to come clean. "OK, I admit it. But you only know part of it. I've had hanky-panky with him, yes. But I confess, I've also done it with your sister."

She looked at me and said: "Mister, now I know you're near queer. You can just get outa here. Hit the road. you miserable toad!"

"I try to satisfy. I don't know why you're mad at me. Let it be. You still need me to give you cash. I take out the trash and dash here and there and everywhere shopping for the groceries."

"Please," said she, "don't play that game with me. You live here free. You use and abuse me sexually. You were once my honey bee. I loved you totally. Now you say you get it on with my siblings when I'm gone."

"Oh, come on. Stop this quibbling. Let's go to bed. I'll do some nibbling like you like. Don't I do it better than Mike or Ike?"

"OK, I admit, you got me there. But I swear, there is no other."

"How about my twin brother?"

"Yeah, that's true. Him too."

"So what's the big to-do? Come to bed, you sexy shrew."

"Oh, screw you!"

"So what else is new?"


I'm not looking for a love affair or a bed to share. for someone to repair my underwear. I'm not looking for someone to clean and cook, just for a friend to care for me.

We can be friends to the end, whole mates or soul mates, giving, taking, not forsaking, caring, sharing memories, remembering how life used to be.

Of course, passion does not have to be out of fashion We may be able to rekindle it now and then, recapture how it was way back when. If, perchance, romance blooms in our fading years, that's a possibility and a probability we'll explore. Who knows what the future holds in store?

Can love be better the second time around? Some have found that to be true. That will be up to me and you.


My mate and I went to bed and I said, "Let's make a baby."

She said, "Maybe."

I replied as she opened her legs wide: "If it's a boy we'll name him Abie."

She dissagreed. "Why not just plain Jimmy?"

Then I suggested: "How about Jake?"

"For heaven's sake, let he or she be until one or the other becomes a reality? Let the kid pick its own name."

"I insist. Why wait until the kids exists? While he or she is in your belly, we'll watch the telly and sure as hell someone will say this and we'll say that's what the kid's name is gonna be."

While this discussion was going on I go it on and, oops! I ejaculated. The deed was done. Nine months later we had a son.

Sunday, February 26, 2006


This is the story of war---any war. No matter the name, they're all the same, Forget the shame, the fame, the gore, the glory, the story of why and how they're raging now, or shaped a temporary peace, or ceased the killing to bury their dead. They all have one commonality--- bigotry, greed and anti religiosity and ethnicity. And that takes in a hell of a lot of territory.

Men and, sometimes, women too, will talk and talk till they are blue to work their worries and their wearies out, face their mistakes, bemoan unlucky breaks and alter rules made by fools that fueled the wars that changed the course of history of friends and foes and those who maintained integrity and sustained neutrality while hostility was tearing the world apart and breaking hearts and upsetting international apple carts.

Opposing forces inevitably fail to see how even small inconsistencies can lead to the impossibility of harmony to nations whose economies are meant to be interdependent. That doesn't make sense in dollars and cents, yet foolhardy events increase the chance of unintended consequents.

Yes, this world is in a mess. Yes, it will always be, more or less, the way it was, the way it is. But that's showbiz.

There ain't no hope when dopes can't cope and grope in the dark for a place to park their addled brains. Humanity is hooked on insanity and its leaders have too much vanity to face their fate if they don't set the record straight before it's too late.


(This is another in the random series about my childhood memories.)
* * *

My mother was a wise old owl when it came to checking bowels. I know she meant well, because my chronic childhood constipation caused her endless consternation.

I wake early. She hears the toilet flush. She rushes to my room. "Did you go? Was it Number One or Number Two?" For Number One I stand. For Number Two I sit. You know what I mean. There's time before the school bus comes. She points to the toilet. "Sit down and try," I comply. She's obsessed with "our bowels." Howls of protest never put the dispute to rest.

This was the situation during my years of constipation. Here's how it went. "Did you?" "No, not yet!" "Sit until you do." "I can't." "Do you remember when..." "I was in kindergarten then." "What if it happens again? And I have to come to school and clean up the mess?"

But when "we" made she'd look at the ceiling and with great feeling intone: "Thank you God. We couldn't do it all alone." Then to me: "Let us see what we've done." She'd nod her head and say. "Not enough. Squeeze some more." I tried. Eventually, she was satisfied. She'd wipe my backside with glowing pride. We did good, my son. We're all done. Go! Here comes the bus. God is very proud of us."

Of course this recreation of my mother's war on my constipation went on endlessly. She'd always get her way. Sometimes she'd pray. And I would sit and wait for her to say: "We're all done."

Then I was in my teens. The machines of war were on the scene. My greetings came in the mail. My mother laughed. "Don't worry, son. We'll be be deferred." She claimed chronic constipation required an enema every day. "Laxatives won't do the trick. My son's bowels make us sick."

The draft board heard what she had to say. I received my orders without delay. I joined the Navy and, miraculously, my constipation went away. I told her. This is what she had to say: "God heard me pray and found a way. He unblocked our bowels. Let us pray."

Wednesday, February 22, 2006


(Another in a series about my childhood.)
* * *

I flee and leave my past behind me. Where I go I do not know. But this is so: No one can find me. My flight into the all-consuming night leaves no light to trail me by. What am I? Why am I? Who am I? Will I ever know?

I am confused, Was I battered and abused? Is my memory playing tricks on me? Will it ever set me free? Just let me be? When I did not mind my mom and she caught me all alone doing things I shouldn't do I wished she was dead. Then I told myself that wasn't true. "I love you, momma. Honest I do." She'd stroke my hair. "Of course you do. All sonnyboys love their moms. That's what they're supposed to do."

I am grown but still the little boy I was that day. A little boy grown tall who cannot cry. A youth who never learned to play, The same old fool I used to be. A clone of the younger me,

In my years of budding puberty, in moments of despair, when crisis crowded in on me and demanded I decide, I'd crowd into a shell where only I could dwell and in this shell I'd hide.

My awake world is a dream world of unreality. My dream world is starkly real to me. Dreams I alone create leave no guilt in their wake. They do not break the waking heart. They fade as beds of night are made.

I have no place to call my home. My presence where chance finds me. Dreaming of a long lost yesterday, filled with sorrow, I stumble aimlessly into tomorrow.


What is a family? Moms and Pops and kids and pets. Aunts and uncles, cousins by the dozens. Old folks. kinfolks, grannies, gramps. Little scamps. Telling jokes and spilling Cokes, Boy Scout cookouts. Trips to the Zoo. Brand new twins and toothless grins. Birthday cakes and bellyaches. Easter bunnies, Sunday funnies. Teddy bears and falls down stairs. Little precious memories. That's what makes strangers family.

Families say a lot and eat a lot and weigh a lot and, on special days, pray a lot, and do you know what? They care a lot and share a lot and that is not the end of it, They spend a lot and lend a lot and give a lot to hard luck members of their family too proud to admit they are in need when, in deed, they are. They scream and yell like hell a lot and get so mad they'd like to kill a lot, but never will because, in spite of all, they are still members of the family.

You see, there's something special about each family. Some are old, some are young, some rant and rave in different tongues. In a way they're not all the same. They have a lot of different names. Many come from different nations. They all have other relations. But once two strangers meet and wed it has been said they are one and that's the way it ought to be. They're family!


There's a revolution going on that will lead to the swan song for those who go along with oil that one day will be gone. It will dry up in the sand as the demand for alternate energies, like ocean waves from the seas, corn plants waving in the breeze, the wind that blows, the sun that shines, hydrogen that can't run out and other sources will be found, no doubt, and that slimy goo in the earth won't be worth a greasy dime.

There's research underway, even in the U.S.A., to do away with fossil fuels we now choose to use to brew our booze and make our shoes and print the evening news and, without thanks, fill the tanks of our trucks and cars and, who knows, maybe our trips to the stars.

Why not the waves that dash with wasted motion in the ocean? Sweden's leadin' the world in creating the first "energy farm" to keep its people warm and fill all its heat and eating needs. Pretty smart, those Swedes! Ireland's looking to the wind to begin its factories and create new energies. Will Russia use alcohol to run its new Vodcacar?

Future generations of all nations will find new ways to replace oil that's running out, anyway. Those who look ahead instead of waiting till it's crisis time fear that not next week or next year, but by two thousand ten or soon thereafter, oil use will reach its peak. And sooner or later the world will face disaster if they don't work now to find a way somehow to do what's doable. Renewable is the answer.

Green power will someday be the power of the hour to run transportation, reduce the cost of your summer vacation and energize industry. We'll use plants and weeds and even seeds to fill the needs for fuels. Cooking oil, now used to make and bake our pies and fry our fries, print our views, take a cruise or do what else we choose will flow from pumps now filled with that obscene gasoline.


Monday, February 20, 2006


From time to time, in my rhyme or sometimes straight, I want to share with you moments in my life, both good and bad, about my mother and my dad, my brother, sister and other members of my family. I want you to know me as I know myself, and I'll keep nothing hidden on a back shelf. If some of what I say turns you away, that's OK. It won't all be pretty. If you'll pardon the expression, some of it will be downright shitty.

Some who know me will say, "Spare me the therapy. Leave me alone. I've got troubles of my own." But haven't we all? This is my call. If you want to share, anonymously, be my guest. We've all got things to get off our chest. But first let me tell you about my mother, perhaps unlike your own or any other you have known.

Goldie was a natural born musician. According to what she told me. she sat down at a piano at the age of three. and started playing a yiddish melody her mother sang constantly. And then she began to sing, haltingly at first, the very words her mother did. A kid of three? When she sang, her mother turned to her husband ands said, "A gift from God." All he did was nod and walk away.

That night as they lay in their bed all he said was,:"What Goldie has is not a gift, It is a curse, Maybe worse."

"But why?" Sarah asked. "Why, Joseph? Why?"

Joe Ginzberg turned and stared at the wall. He did not reply. He breathed a sigh and went to sleep. The next morning he went to the synagogue and prayed. "I am afraid," he whispered in God's ear. "I fear this should not be. It will cause her pain. I cannot explain how or why, But it will happen before I die."


Why should death be final when vinyl lasts forever? Why must I be forced to sever all connections with those of my affections when they die? Just because the mouth's no longer eating, the heart's no longer beating, the voice is no longer repeating words I love to hear, the kidney and the liver cease to be the giver of life sustaining functions, mortal mechanization need not end communication with those on a permanent vacation,

There should be no compunction to enforce a non-function injunction against communication with bodies six feet under or dumped into the sea or frozen temporarily. Let us all be made finally of vinyl

How can God defend his intention to resign us to another dimension after we are dead? In this age of technology, you'd think theology could convince the Creator top be more than a spectator in the case of our mortality in this 21st century reality, Why not switch from blood and bones to ever lasting vinyl?

Damn the devil. Let science take us to a higher level.


I've got this ball-point in my hand. It is filled with fluid ink. The pen commands me to think. Its virgin point waits for me to make a point, in a creative rage to fill this page with words only my mind can find in the recesses of my soul. I am flattered that my gray matter permits me to spread random thoughts in my head to paper where they might be read.

My fingers linger on my pen and now and then when I start to compose those gems, of priceless prose the voice inside my head shouts out, "WAIT! You're not ready to create. Inspiration must precede creation." There's a pause. Faintly, I hear my mentality debating as I sit waiting, hesitating, then the silent pause ends in a roaring, outpouring mad applause. Above the noise I hear that voice cry out and I rejoice: "THE TIME IS NOW!

In the dark of night I see a spark and then a blinding light, I touch my pen to paper. There is a rousing cheer. The audience is tense as I commence. I write the first immortal word: "The." And then my mind goes blank. What is happening to me? Why don't the words flow freely? A man in the crowd shouts out loud: "GO! GO! GO!" The mass picks up the chant. "GO! GO! GO!"

"I CAN'T! I CAN'T!" I cry. My writing hand trembles as I seek to assemble words profound. The sound of cheers is replaced by jeers pounding in my ears. It appears my worst fears have been realized. I am in shock. OH, MY GOD! WRITER'S BLOCK HAS SILENCED ME.

My adoring, roaring crowd abandon me. They command that I create. I cannot. They wave my past best sellers in the air. Then, in a sudden rage with blinding speed, page by page, they tear them free and a mountain high of poems I wrote that millions quote reverently, my fiction and my commentary, words that brought fame to my name flare in incendiary fury. My loyal, once dedicated public has become my judge and jury.

Sunday, February 19, 2006


Once upon my life I had a wife, I had a friend on whom I could depend. I had a bed where we would sleep and I would creep to her side and touch her and she'd respond and sometimes things would go on. But when all was not just right we would spend the night in close companionship as we slowly slipped into sleep in each other's arms.

Ours was not a life of sex alone. It was also of sharing jokes we owned. It was eating as we watched TV. It was sharing, caring, bearing up when things went wrong, It was just getting along.

I wonder as time goes on, how long, how long, how long? For me, there is no night, no dawn, no in-between. Life's become a wear, dreary, sometimes teary scene. Someday it will all end. Will I then again be with my friend?

I was allotted more years than she. That was not supposed to be. Wasn't she slated to outlive me? Don't men usually precede their mates statistically? But life is not all cold statistics. Sometimes it's realistic. She had cancer, I do not. Why she got it, I know. Life is mostly heredity. It took her mother, sister. Her cousin, aunt and uncle too.

In Europe where her folks came from, it was said, relations wed. First cousins, too. Tradition was, Jew married Jew, and in the schtettle there were few who mated who were not related, Betty's mom and dad, uncle and aunt and many she never knew were first or second cousins and, of course, were Jew.

Inter breeding took its toll. Many looked alike, cooked alike, suffered all the same diseases. Cancer was one. Many had this family trait. That is why my wife, genetically, was programmed to die.

I pray our children will escape this fate. Their blood is partly mine and my parents came from a different line of European Jews where inter-marriage in my grandparents day was not always the way. And my kids, on their mother's side, are American as they can be. A great grandmother way back when was a full-blooded American Indian.

Friday, February 17, 2006


Dick is sick, obviously Cheney's a no brainy, He travels the land, gun in hand, in search of quail who also filled the air from the chair of the vice presidency. He and Flash in the Pan Dan both ran with a Bush, two not so gorgeous Georges, they, who let the economy fade away to play at tricky politics.

And for a while everybody let 'em. Dad had one term as president but lost that to Bill, a Democrat, who took control and launched the nation on an unexpected eight year celebration of rising stocks and bonds.

Daddy's demise was a steady decline of the bottom line till Bill got going and made a good and profitable showing. The market kept growing, but near the end there was The Bubble and a lot of trouble was dumped on George and Dick. The economy turned sick and they didn't know how to lick it.

Bush and Son, they done much the same. Both started wars with Iraq. The first came to an end foolishly. The current war goes on and on, ghoulishly. The economies of both Bushies were devastated by inundated, unanticipated difficulties, not necessarily their fault, but the after effects were and they didn't know how to stem the sliding tide.

Now, as our nation nears the end of another Bush administration; it's up to the Democrats to undo all the trouble the GOP got this country into. No sense itemizing here the surprising loss of liberty, the graft and corruption throughout the land, the dirty tricks we just don't understand.

So now that brings us up to date. It's never too late. Undoing the screwing will take time and money we don't have enough of. But there is love---love of what made our 50 states great. I don't know how, I don't know when. But with cooperation and dedication we can and will be great once again.



I was introduced to the good life the day I wed and went to bed with my wife who I seduced and, in return, learned the pleasured treasure of being welcomed to the arms of one with such magic charms offered openly just for me.

Is this what wedded bliss was meant to be? Or, like a precious sunset, would its beauty fade after it had played its serene scene and eventually become a routine masterpiece, a creation oft repeated, always different, still the same. Would the pleasures and the treasures of our introduction to mutual seduction become just a game that would lose its glow? Who is to know what is so or what is destined to be for my wife and me?

This joy of nature did employe many ways to fill our nights and days with delight we might not have known alone. But skeptics told us this gift of gold would not last. Old lovers, in the past, had expressed the same fear that the magic of the moment would eventually disappear.

But we refused to hear their disillusioned conclusions, their intrusion of reality upon the totality of the vitality we two possessed in this blessed happiness that treated us like honored guests to the land where lovers dwell. Could this heaven become a hell? Who can tell?

There was a night we turned off the light. The moon loomed full and bright and we assumed the gift of love would again come knocking at our door. We held and kissed and whispered words just like before, but nothing happened and the more we tried the less love complied. I sighed, she cried. We wept and slept side by side, but far apart in an ice cold bed.

This scene remained. Our love was strained and in time it faded as the skeptics said it would. It made no good sense but incompetence had come knocking at our door. Love was not there anymore.


If you're a V.P. on a shooting spree, as long as you point your shotgun toward the sky and not at me, and down a few birds on the flee, that's OK.

But how can you spot a covey flying by, and instead hit me in a bush (that rhymes with Bush and tush} as the quail swoosh in the Texas sky I cannot comprehend. Unless it proves you're good at shooting off your mouth, but not for aiming north or south or any other way, that makes sense.

But aiming toward the sky and hitting a target at eye level, beats the devil, don't you agree, Dick Mickey White House Mouse?

Your aim was right, your target wrong. Aim at the man, Dan Quale, as dumb as your boss. Neither Dan nor Bush are worth the left wing of anything that can fly in the sky.

Sunday, February 12, 2006


You wake up in the morning to a burning sun, surprised that you are still alive. The day has just begun. It's dawn, the war goes on and on, neither side has won.

You stretch and scratch a match and wipe the mud off a watch you wore the day before to see what time you must climb out of the mud and slime to resume the killing you unwillingly have done. The watch you wear you took from a guy you watched die. the day before. You cried. You felt an ache of sadness deep inside, a wave of madness occupied the place where not so long ago you marveled at the sunrise that had that special glow that portrayed the awesome wonder of a life you used to know.

A young man broken, bent, his short life spent sleeping in the blood and mud and waking to the smell of hell that only the near dead can tell. This not so brave GI slave to the guns of war told you, "Save yourself and let your buddies die. That's what all the shooting's for. That's the reason why.

"There's no hero medal you can earn that will learn you that. Just keep a picture of your wife and kids that you shot tucked inside your hat. It's all you've got.

"What can I say or do that will tell you just what this crap of victory and democracy means to me?" He closed his eyes, listened to the cries of other guys and just before he bid goodbye he told me what it was all about. He cursed the sky and the God he once feared and revered and with the last beat of his heart he laughed sardonically and grunted out a rumbling, angry fart.

What more could be said? My friend of war was dead.


(This post is too serious to be written in my verse style. Read on!)

"Can the President order a killing on U. S. soil?" This question was raised at a closed-door session of a Senate Intelligence briefing in Washington. Steven Bradbury, acting head of the Justice Department's Office of Legal Counsel, said George W. Bush could do just that in "certain circumstances."

The issue arose during questioning by California Democrat Dianne Feinstein about presidential powers regarding Al Quada. News of the session was first reported in the magazine Newsweek and expanded by Buzzflash,

To authorize any government official---especially the current president---to order murder of any foreign or domestic "suspect" of any crime he/she has not been legally been found guilty of would set a precedent with potential serious consequences. Knowing the incompetence of U. S, intelligence and the unwarranted and irresponsible actions of the President, authorizing the killing,if it was carried out, and then was learned that the accused was totally innocent wouldn't Bush and the U, S. Government face murder charges for ordering the "hit" of the victim? Even if the "suspect" was later found to be guilty, would not Bush, the agent who carried out the order and the government itself be guilty of an illegal act?

Placing such power in the hands of a corrupt, incompetent and irresponsible trigger happy man like George W. Bush would be a dangerous thing to do.

A "suspect" is innocent until proven guilty of any crime by an American court and a binding verdict by a jury of his/per peers, The blood of the victim, if proven innocent, would forever be on the hands of the person who committed the crime and all his accomplices, and that includes the president and his entire administration.

Friday, February 10, 2006


Believers believe without question. Any suggestion that faith is not enough is met with rough rejection. God is the one and only Almighty. To say that he might be wrong on occasion is regarded as an evasion of the truth as told in the Old Testament, in the Torah and Koran and the holy writ that can be traced to early man before civilization even began.

Masses regarded God in many ways. Some prayed to Sun gods that controlled the seasons of their lives. Others worshiped for various reasons but the underlying belief in what they could not comprehend brought relief from every day stress and strain. "Don't try to explain my faith to me," the True Believers say. "I will be right, you will be wrong on Judgment Day."

"What's the date of Judgment Day?" the skeptic wanted to know. "Will it be a legal holiday when we will have more time to shop and play? If I have to work on Judgment Day must my employer pay me time and a half?"

"You don't get extra pay on Judgment Day On that special day you go to your Church, your Synagogue or Mosque. And you pray."

"To who? For what? How much will it cost? Will inflation raise the amount of my donation? Will it reduce my income taxes? The fact is, I'm not sure I can pay. And, anyway, I think I gave at the office. Does that count? Will that affect the amount? I'll have to discuss this with my accountant. He's a CPA and can advise me how to pay it through my IRA and, in the process, give less to the IRS."

"You don't understand," said the man of faith. "Judgment Day is not the same as Christmas or Thanksgiving or other seasons when there's reasons to be giving. You don't have to pay, you just go and pray, to thank your Maker."

"That old faker, the one who calls himself the creator? That phony can loan me a buck or two to drop in the collection plate if It gets me a cheaper rate if and when I meet St. Pete at the Golden Gate."

"Aha! Then you do believe. You're not the true nonbeliever I perceived you to be."

The skeptic then became caustic under the collar. He started to holler. "I NEVER SAID I WAS AN ATHEIST," he did insist. "I'm just a bit agnostic. I want to play it safe. I don't believe or disbelieve. I doubt, but don't want to be counted out if I die and find out God's no fraud. But if he is I'll level with the devil."

"You can't have it both ways," the believer said.

"But you can on Judgment Day. Pray, don't pay. That sounds OK by me. And, by the way, if I decide to pray, what am I supposed to pray about?"

"Whether God forgives you of your sins."

"Maybe I lose. Maybe I win. That begins to sound pretty nifty. Chances are, fifty-fitty, that old grifter's pretty thrifty. I'll slip him some dough on the sly and he'll let me get by. A sexy angel will satisfy. So don't judge me as there go I to that heaven in the sky. I'm beginning to like that Judgment Day. It's OK by me. And it's all free."

The believer threw up his hands. "That nonbeliever will never understand," he said. That night when he went to bed he prayed: "Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray to God, my dough to keep. If I die before I spend it I'll lend it out at ten percent. Is that what Judgment's all about?"

Thursday, February 09, 2006


If you're born into a family that's poor and insecure, no matter how you fare and achieve success in your working years, you never completely outgrow the fears of poverty you knew when you were just a kid. Your family did things back then just to survive, to stay alive, to scrimp and save and stave off hunger. You were younger and you suffered too. You did what you had to do, just like your mom and dad and all the other kids they had.

It's strange how nothing seems to change, how memories stay and shape the way you are. When you were young your family never owned a car. You never had new clothes and even those that fit were hand-me-downs. Now you have two cars, maybe three, wear the latest fashions from Fifth Avenue, take expensive vacations, just to lord it over your relations that you climbed out of poverty into middle class society.

But although your success is real and you feel secure, you never forget when you were poor and had to endure the pain and shame of poverty. It's like a scar that never heals, a greedy need that aches for more, a fear that life's revolving door that let you in will throw you out and what you've won could be lost as costs rise, investments fall and your dollars lose their staying power. In a hour or a day you could be on your way back to that distant day dad came home, turned to his wife and sobbed, "I lost my job. My pension, too." And Mom replied, "Sit down, have a cup of tea and then we'll see."

Mom held dad and kissed him as she never had before. He hardly ever worked again. Like other men in those days of depression, he walked the streets, applying here, trying there. Eventually, he could no longer hide his agony. He came home weary, kissed his wife and hugged us kids and went to bed. He closed his eyes and he was dead.

Mom survived. She kept us alive and together. She weathered the lean, mean days until FDR and the war brought a return of solvency into our family. Mother earned a modest pay, but over the years her fears never eased or went away. All the kids pitched in, a dime, a dollar. sometimes more. We all worked hard, some found success, some suffered from pay check stress. But more or less we all achieved beyond what mom believed we could.

On the fateful night we all were there. With pride she eyed us, one by one. "I done good," she said, She closed her eyes and she was dead.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006


A loss of clear-cut vision can lead to a collision of logic and religion that will cause the laws of sanity and egotistic vanity to collide. Thus the seeds of war are planted and plans for a peaceful planet are again delayed while the game of war again is played and death rains down on the world's parade.

Who will win and who will lose? Who will choose? How long it will take right and wrong to make up their minds? Should the weak or strong be in control? The whole world waits impatiently while the two sides debate with bombs and hate. Bullets fly and millions die and mothers and fathers cry and nobody knows just why.

After the war is done and no one has won and no one has lost, what will be the cost in human life and sacrifice? Will the lessons then be learned? Will the world be given one more chance or has it had its final dance with democracy? We'll just have to wait and see.


The cat found out that it could think and thought about the rat it caught and as he got set to take a bite the rat cried out in frantic fright, "Please, Mister Cat, don't eat me! Just think, if you were me and I were you, what would I do? I'd wonder, do you have a family that would grieve if you should leave your wife and kids to satisfy my appetite? I, as a cat, would be much touched by that plea to me from you, as a rat, and I would agree, I'm not that hungry, anyway.

"And I would open up my jaws just because you If you I ate I would create great sorrow when your family awoke tomorrow and you were not there. Cats should care about their rats bill of fare. It's unfair of we cats to sate our greed just to feed our need, And so I beg, please spare me, Mister Cat."

The cat considered what the rat had said, the sincerity with which it pled, and did consent to set the rodent free, And as he let his prey get away it said to him, "Have a nice day."

The cat went home, his conscience clear, smiling from ear to ear, and checked his dish. He'd granted the rat its wish and felt an inner pride. He satisfied his appetite with a drink of milk, a bite of cheese, a bit of meat, some delicious delicacies his mistress dropped intp his plate. He felt great as he ate. His gourmet meal made him feel quite satisfied. Each bite was sheer delight. He was in the mood for people food. And that cat never ate another rat,

Tuesday, February 07, 2006


Is our presidential poop, dupe of the groups that sent our troops into a noway back road to Iraq, now a snoop on moms who make chicken soup, jilted investors who stoop to recoup illegal losses, prizefighters who earn their living with their dukes, those who oppose our use of nukes as a last resort to nations who sell our country short, lawyers who fight Bush in the court, whistle blowers who report on corporate graft and greed, in fact, all sorts of workers rich and poor, young and old and in-between struggling hard to earn their green.

Also, the needy seeking aid from Medicaid, seniors on Medicare and those who dare demand their share of the American dream and scheme to meet their bills on time, givers, takers, butchers, bakers, candle makers, Wall Street shakers, farmers plowing acres, planting seed, growing food to feed those in need, mechanics fixing cars and such accused of charging consumers much too much, the military fighting the enemy and you and me and all who oppose the GOP.

So here's the scoop: We're all affected by the president's right to snoop. Is this another step along the way to ending democracy in the USA? When all is said and done, are we the ones who are the dupes?

Monday, February 06, 2006


Who choses sides? Who sets the stage? Who makes the rules?
What sets the spark that lights the flame that fuels the fire of fools?
What disturbs the minds of men, destroys their self control?
Why do greed and hate and anger consume the sainted soul?
Decent men once lived by laws, at least they did until
It was declared by men of fear they had a right to kill.
With gun in hand man roamed the land and sought his legal prey.
The stench of death was everywhere and by the end of day
Blood flowed free and stained the earth. When the blood congealed
Bodies lay like fallen trees on a littered killing field.

Victory! Victory! Glory be! The war was fought and won!
Flags unfurled throughout the world beneath a smiling sun,
Bands played on. Gloom was gone. Heroes all were hailed.
Peace and love filled the air. Justice had prevailed.
Tears of joy flowed shamelessly. Our boys had all returned.
Older and much wiser, they. What had the people learned?
War is hell. Some knew that well. Most wanted to forget.
The heroes bowed to the crowd, beamed happily. And yet
When night turned off the joyful light and sleep came at last
Dreams were filled with men they killed, the madness of the past
Crowded out the cheers and praise of the treasured day,
Haunted them and taunted them and would not go away.

Sunday, February 05, 2006


Politicians who make promises turn believers into Doubting Thomases who lose sleep worrying about what is less deceiving and more deserving of their vote. Take note, what each is saying is donkey braying and will long be forgotten after all the votes are in. All the thundering and blundering have started me wondering why would anybody want to compete for a seat in a Congress in distress?

Why are some hell bent on being president? It's the greed and power that the hero of the hour can impose on those who chose him. They picked the wrong horse, of course.

The candidates will lie and cheat as they try to beat each other to win the post all crave the most: the presidency where they can turn the tide of history, revise and disguise democracy and fulfill their deep desires like all political liars.

Who'd want to be president, the job held by a slob who struts his stuff and rules by bluff to keep the floundering ship of state afloat? Eventually it will sink in a red ink sea of insolvency.

Unless, unless---sound the distress! The marathon will soon be on. Who will win and who will lose? This time let the people choose!

Saturday, February 04, 2006


The rivers, the lakes and the streams and the oceans teem with the scum that comes from the oil drums, frying pans, garbage cans, fumes from vans, man's excrement and special events where beer is drunk and no-brainers punks plunk empty containers helter-skelter without a thought that this is not what those hell bent to protect the environment had in mind when they signed on to find a solution for all all forms of pollution.

The average Joe and Jill instead of popping pills to get high should try with all their might to end the blight in the air which could turn off the sun and turn day into night, remove the stink from the water we drink and the home of the fish we eat instead of meat and clean up the soil that is replete with all sorts of artificial nutritional additives than give the crops a mighty whop so they'll grow big but not hopped up with any more minerals than the white bread dinner rolls.

The scum scumbags dispense in our environment is so immense it could take untold years at great expense just to clean it up and allay the fears of those who care what they cram in their gut which runs through their system and comes out their butt.

Thursday, February 02, 2006


I waited to meet my friend, Wall Street Pete, who had his feet in a dozen deals, making money, spinning wheels. He thrived on heat, loved the fight, ignored the tight knot in his chest when doing what he did best, making schemes and dreams come true. That's what made this bum from the slum richer than the richest son of a bitch.

I agreed to meet Pete at the bank. He had a deal in the fire. Something to do with copper wire. "This guy Meyer has a deal so right it can't miss," Pete said "I put Two up for this."

"Two what?" I asked.

"Two Million," he said with a laugh. "If it goes through, I'll give you half of what i get. Pete never welches on a bet."

I waited two hours or more, then saw Pete go in a store, come out carrying a paper bag. When he got near I saw him sag. He stuck a smile on his face. How'd it go? I wanted to know. Pete turned to me and said angrily: "Meyer, that fuckin' liar. He didn't have no Goddam wire. Just a lousy paper deal. A steal, that no good heel! For two I got empty warehouse space in a place in old Soho. Ho! Ho!! Ho!"

"You can sue?" I said. He shook his head. "Naw, I signed on the dotted line. Didn't read the fine print like I usually do. A deal's a deal. You get half."

Pete gave a winners-losers laugh, reached in the bag. Took out a bagel, broke it in two, took a bite from his half, spit it out. He choked. Blood rushed to his head. "I asked for poppy-seed," Pete said. Then he dropped dead.


There once lived in this house a parrot, a gift to a dying woman by a devoted husband. She loved the parrot dearly, would rise each day and greet the bird in this way: "Good morning, Sweetheart, I love you."

The parrot replied in the words it had just heard. In time, the parrot would greet the morning sun when the day had just begun, mimicking the woman's voice and she would rejoice and add, "I love my husband, too."

Somehow Sweetheart understood and would repeat the entire phrase and that's how the days would start. "I love you, sweetheart, and my husband, too." The husband knew it was the parrot's voice. His wife was weakening and only speaking in a whispered tone of her own. He would walk. crying, from the room where his wife lay dying.

Often as the woman faded into sleep she'd sigh: Sweetheart cocked its head and said: "I love my husband too. What am I to do?"

One day the woman passed away. Sweetheart looked at its mistress and knew. In the woman's voice it sighed: "What am to do?" When the husband heard his wife's voice he also knew. He looked at Sweetheart and asked: "What are we to do? What are we to do?"

Sweetheart sighed. Sweetheart cried. Then Sweetheart fell from its perch and just before the parrot died it replied in a voice that was its own: "Do what I do. Do what I do."

The old man lay in his wife's bed and cried. And then he died.