Friday, June 30, 2006


When all is said and done, the Republicans have to run. And run, they should into the wood, up a tree, anywhere but for the presidency. This time, in the absence of a crime, there should be a landslide for the other side.

In their shame, what can the GOP claim, except kicking the middle class in the ass, robbing the have nots of what they've got to give the have mores more and more. Just remember come November who's minding the store.

The left behind are so far behind you'll never notice their bare behind or mind that their derriere is wearing through their underwear. Be a sport and buy each child a pair of jockey shorts.

How are they doing with welfare? Well, fair to midlin with their pidlin benefits that are the pits and give them a pain where they sits.

What about our vets, the old and young from many wars, some with scars, some with missing limbs or brains turned dim. some suffering from stress, some with wounds you'd never guess. All maimed or lamed, sane or daft, get the shaft when they get out. That's what the military's all about.

All business, the smallest most of all, are up against the wall, Wal-Mart, that is. That's how business is. Grow or go into bankruptcy if you can afford the lawyer's fee.

What about the poor slob without a job with a wife and kids who are uninsured suffering from ills that could be cured by costly pills and no doctor bills? Medicaid might bear the freight, Get on line and wait and wait.

Why you vote and what you do or do not do is up to you. But just don't vote for the GOP. They're all campaigning up a tree.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006


Back in the good old Cold War days both we and the Reds were fed the same old line: Build up the military or very soon we'd be headed toward World War Three, not conventionally but atomically,. We spent and they did too and we did what we thought we ought do to spare the cost of a Holocaust where all our wealth and health and untold lives would be lost,

We and they were scared so we both prepared for a war neither side dared wage and instead created a great rage and hate between two great nations whose minds were on long-range vacations,

Neither side realized the enemy of We was We,

The war of Rubles against Dollars ran its course, the U. S. prevailed, the Soviet Union failed and was forced into bankruptcy and an end to a once powerful dynasty. Why rehash this bit of history? Because what happened then is happening once again.

Military historians and those who know the whys of war are now agreed what 9/11 was for, not to kill the enemy, but to force it into bankruptcy and increase dependency on oil at any price. And this would provide the funds and guns and dynamite to smite the enemies of Allah. That, too, is what it was and is still all about.

When discussing the cost of war, a million is mere pocket change. A million bucks a bomb sounds strange. but that, in any event, is what we spent, in to back Iraq against the wall. But it's now after the fall and the costs are more and continue to soar.

That's what we did to stop the Reds and many said we learned from their mistakes and so now there'd be no more wars. . But our knuckle-headed saps fell into al Qaeda's trap. Now we're strapped and they are wrapped in dough, enough to let the war on go endlessly for all we know,

The Bush policy has led America to the brink and it's about to sink in debt and we ain't seen nothin' yet. How much worse can it get? We're stuck in a no luck war. easy to get in and no way to get out, and that also is what 9/11 was all about.





Tuesday, June 27, 2006


We attacked Iraq. That's a fact. They struck back. This also is so.. We won a few, We lost a slew. We nabbed Sadam. What did that do?

War goes on. It's more intense. We'll stay the course, of course. That makes no sense. The more we splurge the more insurgents get the urge to surge.

The more we try, the more GIs die. Why? Dubya nunno. And all the while, execution military style, defiles the fields where poppies grow row on row.

Heroes brave lie in their grave for trying to save so-called democracy -- ours or theirs? Who cares?

Ship 'em home. The live, the dead. All those who bled. And even those who made it through without a scar. There are a few.

Put George in jail behind steel bars. And throw away the key. Result: No more wars. Three Cheers for Victory!

Sunday, June 25, 2006


I went to the used body store and traded myself in for a newer model equipped with a recycled heart and assorted other parts. The surgeon threw a free slice of liver in for free because the deal was strictly cash per slash and he was a real cut up who kept a cup of blood by his side just in case he needed to cut to the chase.

The operation was going well until the doc smelled a smell and discovered the body I had bought suffered from chronic constipation. "No problem," the surgeon said, dug a hole in my belly and scooped out the poop.

As he was throwing my old brain down the drain, I said, "If you don't mind I'd kind of like to keep it as a spare."

With that my discarded brain started to complain. "Are you insane? Just flush away. There's a cute piece of lobotomy waiting for me passionately."

"How can you mesh with just a piece of moldy old cranial flesh?" the surgeon asked.

"It doesn't matter. He loves my fatty matter and the bottom of my anatomy," said Miss Lobotomy.

With that the surgeon yelled: "Hey, you two, cut the matter chatter clatter or I'll splatter you with my cup of blood!"

"Sawbones," I said. "leave us alone and finish this job soon or I'll be dead."

"I've half a mind to cut your mind in half," surgeon said with a laugh. He took a knife and slice, slice, slice well diced and preserved in ice, it was still a good deal at any price.

Friday, June 23, 2006


Johnny Jones had baseball in his bones. The game will never be the same now that he is gone. This is a story about Johnny and his flight to glory and the day he hit a home run historians still talk and write about even though it happened many years ago.

When Johnny Jones was in his prime he got hits 'most every time, usually just an infield single, once or twice with luck and trouble a flukey double but that was all. He was always on the ball, he could would come through in a clutch with a sacrifice to advance a chance to score.

The opposing team played it tight. Johnny Jones was next at bat. He stood at home plate. tipped his hat, clutched his bat. He knew what he had to do to come through for his fans in the stands. "BUNT! BUNT! BUNT!" cried the crowd. "JOHNNY, JOHNNY, DO YOUR STUNT!" But he'd fool them all. He stood tall pitch after pitch.

Johnny swung hard and missed. "STEERIKE!" the ump shouted out. A second pitch, a call strike. Now it was do or die. He knew he had to bunt the ball. His switch to a crouching stance threw the pitcher off his pace. But he launched the ball into space.

The pitch smashed Johnny in the face, smack in the flat of his nose. A fountain of blood spurted out. the field turned red, Johnny suffered pain from his head to his toes as he fell to the ground without a sound. The crowd froze. Was Johnny dead?

The ambulance came. Johnny was gone. The game went on. A sub took Johnny's place on first base. The next batter aimed for the wall. He just popped up and that was all.

Johnny's life hovered on the brink. The docs didn't think he'd make it. The shock, the loss of blood, internal injuries, the stress, the strain, the terrible pain that drugs could not sustain. But behind those battered eyes and injured brain was a man who would not admit defeat. Johnny Jones had baseball in his bones. He was not alone.

Johnny, a man who never learned to pray now started out each painful day asking God to let him stay in the game. And finally the day came when Johnny, blind but clear of mind, fulfilled his dream, rejoined his team and heard the welcoming roar of the fans. Who could want for more?

Johnny Jones remained a member of the team even though he lost his sight. As a coach he might teach his bunt stunt to new players down the line and raise the spirit of the guys with high fives and words of praise on days good and bad.

Blind or not. he was Johnny on the spot when things got hot. Although he could no longer come through in a clutch he gave more to the game than the final score that kept his team in the race for first place and wound up in a showdown for the series.

The two competing teams , tied three games each, were locked in a pitcher's duel with two outs in the final inning. The opposing hurler showed signs he was beginning to weary with one more out to give him the prize he sought---no-hitter fame in this final game of the year.

There was not a sound, a cheer or jeer, as the fans grew tense. Pressure was immense. The infield moved a little out, the outfield moved slightly in from the wall. The batter waited in the stall. The pitcher nervously pounded the ball repeatedly into his glove. Dark clouds were gathering above as history filled the silent air.

The home-team had a man on base. A hit right now would keep them in the race. had one on base. A hit could keep them in the race, The words rang out loud and clear: "TIME OUT!"

A dugout debate was going on. The crowd could hardly wait to learn the fate of the game, The decision came. The pinch hitter would be blind Johnny Jones. Were they trying to blow the game away? Maybe. Maybe not. Johnny fought for one last shot to prove baseball was still in his bones. "Maybe I can't see," he said, "But in my mind's eye it's clear to me. I can see the ball as it leaves the mound. I hear sound as it whirls through the air. And I know before it's there where it will be. How do I know? Just trust me."

The team crowded around would not let Johnny down. His dream, was to lead the team to victory. To make history. So what if he failed. At least he'd have tried. He would have prevailed. He was more important than all the games they ever played.

(Whatever they say, that's OK, Johnny thought. The team ought to know what's best. But I've got to try to meet the test.)

They led Johnny to the batter's box to the shock of doubtful fans. They placed a bat in his hands. directed him at home plate. Then waited for the call, "PLAY BALL!"

The first pitch. Johnny swung. Missed the ball by a mile, Another pitch. Johnny stood there motionless as the ump cried: "Call strike two." Another time out. They began to doubt what they had done. Johnny seemed in a trance. He whispered to his teammates. "One more chance." The manager shrugged: "Why not. One last shot. That's all we got."

Johnny stepped back in the batter's box. Took off his hat and placed it on his heart. Then looked to the sky with eyes that could not see. He listened intently. Nodded confidently. Waited patiently. The final pitch. Johnny swung. Connect! A deafening roar as ball met bat and began to soar. Over the wall, the parking lot. Then the ball halted in mid air, as if deciding where to go, heard the distant cheer and resumed its flight into the far off stratosphere. The
ball was never found.

The homer was declared, The final score, two to one. Johnny's job was done. The team led Johnny around the bases and back to home plate where he was met by hordes of fans. "How'd did you do it?" they wanted to know. "I heard the angels sing," Johnny said. "Then God commanded me to swing. God's my favorite fan, you know. He promised to wait to for me."

That said, Johnny Jones, the man with baseball in his bones, knelt on home plate. He gave a high five to the sky. He closed his eyes. And died..

Thursday, June 22, 2006


I take great pride and still revere my nearly fifty year career as a newspaperman serving on weeklies and dailies large and small, all alike in one respect. I and my fellow journalists were expected to be protect truth and report exact facts. We were never told to slant the news or inject our views or abuse the power of the press. In short, we were proud journalists who honestly did what we were hired to do.

That's how we were taught to be, how it ought to be and how it was. Sometimes we'd disagree editorially, but we reported objectively and respectfully the truth as we saw it. We didn't hem and haw about it.

Journalism's no longer what it used to be. Now it's ruled politically by those who buy the ads and pay the bills and expect favoritism for their party and corporate cause. They get what they pay for everyday. And those who choose to report the news and refuse to abuse the rule of honesty, despise lies and will not compromise will find themselves on the unemployment line

This shows up not just in local news, but also in state and national politics where slick tricks are the order of the day. Nowhere is this more true than in Iraq where Bush refuses to recall our boys. Even as more GIs are killed gun-mongers bottom lines continue to build. And Bush, that twister of the truth, remains immune from prosecution for violating and desecrating the Constitution he vowed to serve. The nerve of that invented, demented president!

Seems George never gives up trying to screw up, His plan hit the fan on Afghanistan. This sad sack's knack for losing wars spread to Iraq where he can't turn back. Now he wants to get us in a war he cannot win with atom rich Iran. Has the die been cast for this last blast? Will it be reported by the press? Take a guess, Will he push for another loss while he's still boss?

Eventually we and they will have to pay and the world will blow away. Have a Nice Day!


Minnie was skinny, Matt was real fat. She was a cat, he was a rat. How could two be more opposite than that? But they happened to meet in a hat they found on the ground and after a chat they fell in love and that was that.

Matt was smitten with this furry kitten and they proceeded to breed which is what creatures do. But Minnie, forlorn, mourned, "Where will we live when our babies are born?"

"No problem with that," said Matt the rat. "We'll live in the hat."

"Wow!" meowed Minnie. "I never thought of that."

So they moved in and made the hat home, but soon came a man with a head as bare as a bear's derriere. He picked up the hat, put it on his dome and they were evicted from their new home. But wait! Their fate was a about to get better, They moved into a moth-eaten sweater in a Goodwill store, made love in a glove, took a rest in a vest and a snooze in a pair of old running shoes.

They soon had a family of forty or more and cats, rats, bats and gnats and all sorts of these. those and thats took over the store. There were ants in the pants, flies wearing ties and all sorts shared the shirts and and the shorts. The store got overcrowded, but they did not lose heart. There's always Sears, Target and especially Wal-Mart.


We got Trouble, Big Trouble and it starts with a T. and a B, which stands for Bush and add a G which stands for George and then there's the V. P, who is beside the undecided Decider, whose initials are D, and C. (for Dick Cheney) which also stands for the Capitol, the locality where the criminality began.

Put it all together -- G. B. and D. C.---and add another D. that stands for Dishonesty and another G. which stands for Government and ,oh yes -- also for the GOP -- and it all means Trouble for our Democracy,

If you can't see it, so be it. Or you're not a Democrat and you're as blind as a bat and are not aware or just don't care where Dubya and Crew are taking us in to.

Friday, June 16, 2006


One day the sun failed to shine, the moon refused to glow, I watched the stars all disappear. Where did the heavens go? I went to sleep and had a dream the world had died. When I awoke there was a sky without a single cloud. It was gray. it wasn't blue. It covered Earth like a shroud and I heard God cry out loud, "They've taken my world away from me."

Farmers wailed as crops all failed. Rivers dried. Cattle cried for water. Grass turned brown. No rain came down. All over town homes burned to the ground. Churches filled. prayed to God to end the blight, let there be light! But rumor spread that God was dead and it was said his son would rise in our time of need. But day after day all was the same, he never came. People looked around to place the blame. "Blame the devil," someone said. "He could be our salvation. We demand a confrontation."

A commission was sent to hell to see what could be done. But when they rang the bell to hell there was no answer, "We cannot wait!. Smash the gate!" roared the crowd. They did. There were devil's advocates everywhere, eating, drinking, having fun, naked dancers lolling in the sun, everyone as happy as could be, no sign of any misery.

They spied the devil on his throne, talking on the phone. A television awaited his command. He returned the receiver to the hook, opened up a small black book and said, "I've been expecting you. I just made a deal with the top gun in Washington. I agreed to turn the sun and moon back on, replace the stars that now are gone and with my magic wand, turn what happened into a nightmarish dream. I agreed to George's scheme. Hell rule the universe and split the purse with me."

With that the devil flicked on the screen. And there was Bush with ears replaced by horns and all the GOP and defenders of democracy, bowing down to the man who wore the devil's crown.

"He's our man," the devil said, turned off the TV and went bed.


As you drink your morning brew and read the news you know what it's telling you, compelling you to do. You've looked around, scrounged around, 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 D stayed safe and on the lam, stayed AOL for quite a spell as lesser went through hell, killed and died in Viet Nam

Take the job. It's steady pay 'til they put you away. Hooray for the U. S. A.!


(The following are poems from my unpublished book on "Poems To Die By." If you like these, I'll publish more in future blogs.)


Bury me deep, let me sleep, sleep, sleep for my days on this earth have been numbered. I'll not protest. Let me rest, rest, rest and go to my grave unencumbered. This is my cry, let me die, die, die. Bury my bones without every day bothers. Worry me not. Let me rot, rot, rot and decay in the clay of my fathers.


Here lies the corpse of Snorky C. Snorps. He died of no dire disease. While holding his nose at Slaughterhouse Joe's he blew himself up with a


When I die please do not cry. Just turn and walk away. I want to be alone so I can quietly decay.


It happened in the early spring
That all the birds refused to sing
And all the squirrels left the trees
And there were no buzzing bees
To wile away the daylight hours
Pollinating fruits and flowers.
The cloudless skies dried up and so
There was no rain for things to grow.
And beneath a blazing sun
Bugs and weeds died one by one.
Fear gripped the helpless population.
Had Nature taken a vacation?
Or, even worse, the people cried,
Had life committed suicide?


What can I do with my ashes after I've bitten the dust? What good's a bottle of bone? Not of much value, I trust. I don't want to be fertilizer for farmers and I disagree. What will I do with my ashes after they've cremated me?


In the early years of the Bush regime as he schemed and dreamed of creating a dictatorial one party power those who compared him with the evil leaders of the past were blasted as unpatriotic, idiotic and a bit psychotic. How could we possibly see any similarity between King George the First and the masters of the master race?

They were neither right nor wrong, depending on their point of view, and what they knew to be true. But let's be fair. To compare George to Adolph is a little off the wall. After all, Hitler was a bitter man who hung on till all his chips ran out. There's not a similarity between that kraut and a Texas good old boy. Or is there?

Hitler lacked the facts when he attacked. He lied and ruthlessly twisted truth. He defied all critics, committed crimes and ignored all laws that interfered with his cause just because he was who he was. His leadership was illogical, but then he, like others of his ilk, was a pathological, diabolical egotist. Need I continue the list? In a nutshell, that's what history tells about not just Hitler but all dictators or dictator wannabees.

Now take a look at the White House crook, itemized in prose, not rhyme:

BUSH asserted the right not to comply with 750 laws passed by Congress because they contradict his "interpretation" of the Constitution.

BUSH has never vetoed a bill which would give Congress the right to override. He signs them into law, then nullifies their power by filing a "signing statement" which is buried in the federal register which is seldom read. This president has virtually vetoed the veto.

BUSH reserves the right to ignore rights for humane treatment of detainees under the Geneva Convention.

BUSH claims the right to nullify laws assuring federal employee whistle blowers job protection,

BUSH has violated various federal laws approved by Congress long before his election. One deals with his domestic spying program which violates a surveillance law passed more than 30 years before he was elected.

BUSH actions call into question the validity of whether there is a "rule of law " and threatens to overturn the concept of constitutional law.

BUSH, as commander in chief, has stripped Congress of its Constitutional powers regarding the military an has rendered these powers unto himself.

BUSH has virtually robbed Congress and the courts of their rights and responsibilities. The final result could be a government where the president and only the president become a court of last resort.

This bit of Bush logic sums up the dictatorial attitudes and possible intent of the present precedent-setting president: "I do not need to explain why I say things. That's the interesting thing about being the president. Maybe somebody needs to explain to me why they say something, but I don't feel I owe anybody an explanation."

P.S.: Getting rid of Bush and Republican rule will not repair the damage already done by a potentially democracy turned dictatorial land of the free and home of the brave. (For a complete history of the BUSH POWER GRAB just "Ask Google.")


The seas are the graveyards for a million men or more who said goodbye to the shore for myriad reasons why. Some were suburban landlubbers in search of sun and salty air, eager to relax on tiny yachts with lots of beer and lotion to ward off the burning sun reflected off the choppy ocean.

Some were drunken sailors shanghaied by crews of creaking whalers and forced to do the labors of men at sea, whether they wanted to or not. They slept below deck in holds as hot as hell might be. They braved the waves, the wind and rain, the challenge of the sea. Unwillingly.

And there were those who chose to fight the enemy with guns of war far from home or family. They didn't know what they awaited. They didn't know they were fated to be a feast of sharks that roam the deep and creep up on their prey silently.

Airmen on a mission, loaded with ammunition, acting as judge and jury, released torpedoed fury on targeted crews below. Some died instantly. their bodies torn apart, Others jumped into the sea to succumb helplessly as waves ten stories high confined them to their watery graves ten fathoms below. Some struggling to stay afloat, to defy the deadly water, drowned or were gunned down by strafers in the sky,

And there are legends without end of captains who have walked the plank and sank to the depths as crews turned on them viciously responding to the cry of "Mutiny!"

Tales of Mermaids who lure their prey romantically with songs of love and ecstasy. And there's Neptune, king of the Seven Seas, who rules over all creatures great and small.

The seas are filled with men like these, seafaring warriors declaring war on the mighty sea. Those who dared defy its mastery. A watery grave is their reward for bravery. Or did they die foolishly, unnecessarily? Oh what fools these mortals be!


When you're caught in the middle---too old to be young, too young to be old---be thankful if you're there. It's a good place to be. You've lived long enough to know life's tough, but you're prepared and never scared for the future's your stage and you are the star.

When you were still young, not yet on the in between scene, you lived in the fantasy of reality and accepted as holy writ whatever shit you were dealt. You felt you knew it all. You called your shots and got yourself into lots of spots. Your plight: you knew you were right even when you were quite wrong. But you kept playing the same old song long too long. You were too young to be old but tottering on the scene of in between.

What does it mean to be between the two stages of the locked in cages of the mind you left behind? You can think logically, use savvy and psychology, solve unresolved situations that evolve, make decisions with precision. On occasion you'll be wrong, but you'll be strong enough to tough it out and reroute your rational route into a more correct direction.

Don't be a sap and fall into the trap where crap awaits you. Where you live by your watch, controlled by your crotch. Where you're sold on green and gold, on the bottom line and booze, on Wall Street news and a weekend cruise with lots of slots, games of chance and casual romance.

You'll flip for trips to foreign and exotic places, narcotic and alcoholic oases, compete at faster paces. If the swinging life's not satisfying you'll end up crying in your beer. Your participation in dissipation shows and grows until you're one of those who let themselves get old in stead of staying young.

Thursday, June 15, 2006


Will the fate of all humanity one day be ruled by the insane whim of a political hack so dim and dense and slim on common sense who will make decisions based on visions only he can see or understand?

Let's consider the history of GWB before and after 9/11, which was a gift to him from heaven. When tragedy struck it was a stroke of luck for Dubya, a failure beyond belief.

When highjacked planes rained death and terror on New York and D.C. the world overlooked each goof and error and stupidity and raised Dubya to idolatry, This man of limited attention span became the savior of the land. This man of mockery and hypocrisy, dedicated to democratize democracy, was hailed the leader of the free.

A little belated but when the U.S. retaliated it soon became our shame. We waged a war on the wrong team and dream of victory became a nightmare all our allies were forced to share. You know the facts of this gory story. So let's skip ahead to the present when this arrogant megalomaniac let incompetence go to his head and took pride in how many GIs were dead in a war we cannot win.

Dubya found a solution. In addition to Iraq he attacked the Constitution, our most sacred institution, the outgrowth of our revolution. Based on his purloined post as the most powerful, power lusting, disgusting president ever, he seeks to sever from Congress and almost every agent of government. with or without consent, their authority and transfer it to eventual presidential control. Not just for now but somehow, for generations to come.

How could We the People and members of Congress be so dumb to see it come and not do a damn about it? Now many doubt Dubya's a threat? To entrust a man who destroyed our debt, tapped our phones and puts himself above the law in a raw theft of power---what will this would-be dictator do next? How much more can we expect?

The loss of our security, the power grab achieved in obscurity, goes on and on and will until our security is all but gone. George forged the future of our lost liberty. Will it remain a stain on our democracy? Will the power greed of GWB plant a seed of one-man rule to be used by another fool just as cruel and just as dumb as Bush in days to come?


I am sailing on a one-way cruise on a fatal trip aboard the ship Dictatorship in the sea of Hypocrisy without a notion where this ocean's taking me. The waves are higher than the sky and the howling winds cry out and shout menacingly that this world has seen the end of me.

I've paid my fare to Nowhereland, an island surrounded by sea and sand, without a bush or tree to shade and comfort me from the burning sun patiently awaiting me.

In the cloudless sky the vultures soar waiting for the fresh flesh they'll pluck from my bones ravenously and then return to the angry sea waiting for others soon to arrive who will not survive long after one bite of the appetite of the scavengers of the night.

Soon there will come many others, fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, and those who lived and died alone and left only bone as evidence that they once were there.

Saturday, June 10, 2006


I believe in perpetuity, of eternity, that life continues constantly creation after creation after creation. I don't imagine I've been here before nor will I be again. But I was somewhere similar to Earth or some unknown, unearthly place in space a million or more light years ago, filled by creatures with features most likely quite unlike our own. But all the same, creation is the only game in this well knit galactic town.

A star here, a star there, stars scattered everywhere. Moons and suns galore and who knows what else the creative forces have in store, communities and entities desirable with a reliable bible, homemade histories and mysteries waiting to to be discovered and explored by planetary pioneers with four ears and six eyes, and it's supposed, two noses, one for breathing in, another for breathing out, multiple mouths for different foods and changing moods and chanting, panting, communicating and relating tales of fact and fiction and depiction of events that defy description.

And if more mouths are required to perform unanticipated, unrelated but highly desired functions, at some future junction in
time evolution will find a solution. If not that, the Creator has a few new tricks under his hat that could be tried and applied to solve the situation.

You see, creation is a tricky biz. It ain't so much about what is as what can be. We now live in a certain way, going on day after day doing things we've always done and assuming and presuming we're doing them efficiently. Then along comes our transfer to another sphere and they tell us "That's not the way it's done here."

The bottom line: we're born, we live, we die, always asking what and why and who and when and then we're reborn and it
starts all over again.


Last night I had a dream. I was sitting by a stream filled with peaches and sweet cream beside a chocolate mountain decked with candy trees, surrounded by friendly honeybees. A magic fountain sprayed lemonade and God came down and surveyed what my sleeping mind had made.

There were powder blue skies, cotton candy clouds and jelly beans of red and green and every color ever seen on a beach as far and wide as eyes could reach and a church made of gingerbread where all God's creatures said their prayers and the preacher, a wise old owl, spread love and brotherhood and all things good, as a servant of the Lord should. Was this a glimpse of Heaven come to earth to show God's children what life was worth?

In my dream, I began to cry, not with sadness but with love and joy. I had seen what awaited me when my final day would be. When I heard angels sing I closed my eyes in eternal rest. I was blessed. God wanted me.


I've got money in my pockets, dollars in every drawer, nickels, dimes and quarters by the score. I've got packs of pennies and credit cards galore, but I can't afford the gas to get me to the corner store,

I've got sweets and meat and cheese to eat, clothes to wear and shoes to spare and booze to drink and soaps to wash myself when I stink, but I ain't got the cash to buy the gas,

C'mon, Georgie, be a pal, cut in half the price a gal or we'll boil you in your daddy's oil. We ain't got the green for gasoline, y'know what I mean.


What in the world's happening to this world when a man like Bush can take a land once free, destroy liberty and arrogantly turn the presidency into a license to steal and kill and do what he will while Congress and the bureaucracy, the dumbest of the dumb, just suck their thumb and shrug and say they still have faith in the U. S. A.

Dubya has the gaul to do all he does to destroy the Constitution and every institution and offers only one solution for the mess we're in. Don't declare war. That's old hat. Just start a war. That's smart. .

Now we're embroiled in a battle royal in pursuit of power and oil. That's our reason for being there. Fight fair and square if you dare. Whether it's Iraq, Iran or North Korea, it will be a lot of fun counting up the dead when we have won.

That's part of the plan of the Power Man, the Hero of the Hour Man, but to start a fight and show your might the only way to do it right is be a greater dictator than the enemy. Murder will make us free, Three cheers for democracy!

Wednesday, June 07, 2006


Some said Herbie was dumb and that was partly true because he always forgot what he knew and minuets after he knew it, no matter how many times he went through it, he couldn't do it.

If it was September he thought it was June.He looked at the moon, blink his eyes and then stare at the skies and look for the sun. Everyone had fun teasing Herbie about his strange affliction. They'd read him a Shakespearean sonnet, a hundred lines or more. Herbie would recite it back, word for word, then forget what he said two minuets before. And his tormentors would roar.

The game would go on, marveling how he would forget what he had remembered, right after he repeated it, it would be gone. A wiseguy named Si said, "Why don't we read Herbie a dictionary, an Einstein theory." They though of "War and Peace." On a real estate lease. Finally they decided on a telephone book.

"What are we going to prove by that?" asked a jokester who loved to poke fun at the dummy. "He'll recite it right back and then he'll forget it. Just let it be."

Herbie heard every word. then said: "Try me." They told him what they said and then what he replied and Herbie's eyes opened wide and he denied what he said then denied the denial and the trial began.

Herbie took one look at the telephone book and then said with a smile, "I'll read it myself." He forgot he'd learned to read, then forgot he'd forgotten how and proceeded at an unbelievable speed, number by number, letter by letter. He read faster and faster until no one understood a thing he said.
Here's a sample of what he read and said: "J-o-n-e-s, J-o-h-n, 2-1-2 Fi-r-s-t A-v-e-n-u-e, 2-1-2-9-5-4..."

Well, you get the gist. This list went on from dawn to dark without a pause. That's the way it was because Herbie forgot how to read, but he remembered letters and numbers perfectly and read them individually. The next morning found Herbie still at work. He'd start to doze, then jerk his head up from near asleep and plow on. When he'd reached the "L's" in the telephone book he shut his eyes and fell into a deep seemingly irreversible sleep.

Then on the third of May he stirred and from the depths of his mind, he began to recall all he had remembered, then forgotten, from near infancy until his impending death at sixty three. He resumed his endless dialogue ol all the words he ever heard.

Herbie's voice droned on and on in monotone without emotion from the depths of a coma in the hospital bed where he lay almost but not quite dead. But once in a while his lips would curl into a smile and he would say often, "Momma. what does that word mean?" Then he would resume the routine recitation of his overloaded memory.

As his memory drifted in and out he wondered less what the words were all about. By rote he would emote from somewhere deeper than his throat the words impl;anted in his mind. When the doctor knew Herbie was in the final days of his phone book phase he researched the dying man's medical history and solved the mystery of his amazing mind, And this is the astounding summary of what he found:

Herbie was born and still is a computer whiz. From the age of three he remembered every word he ever heard, But he feared he'd forget so he devised a memory overload, a bank where only he would know the code. Not even he could erase or misplace what had been deposited in his interface without using the code. Which he forgot.

Thus the doctor knew what he had to do to end Herbie's readout and release this tortured soul from the control of the Info Industry.

The doctor put a mouse on Herbie's head and said: "DELETE!" Herbie, the human computer. was dead.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006


From the beginning winning was the GOP goal, the soul reason why they'd pick a guy of mediocrity, because of his last name, popa's dubious fame, no shame and, of course, supported by an endless source of corporate greenery. And they could depend on Dubya to lie and cheat anyone who got in his way.

In spite of his reputation as a campus clown, an education won with Cs and Ds, being a figurehead gov of a Texas gang of thieves, he believed he could not loose no matter who the voters choose. And with the court of last resort in his pocket, he could sock it to the opposition and fulfill his ambition of being the official, sans artificial, leader of the land.

No matter how they played it, Dubya made it, parlayed it into to fiefdom where one so dumb could destroy a nation, screw a population and reward those who bought him the power so he could shower them with compensation far in-excess of the largesse they invested in his White House run.

The money wise knew Bush was the guy they could buy and buy they did and will do continually as long as the Republicans have the key to the House Up On the Hill. Guaranteed, they will! They will!

Remember, this November must be the start of it if. Democrats and other voters must agree they've had it Up to Here with the GOP and GWB. We can clean up the mess in Congress and undo at least some of what dumb things Bush has done. Then come two thousand eight it may not be too late to lock the garden gate.


Pollution's in the air. It surrounds us everywhere. Come one, come all and get your share!

You can't see it. You can't feel it, But scientists cannot conceal it, While there are sensors to reveal it only Congress can repeal it. If they don't pass a bill or find a pill to nullify it, sure as hell we'll all die of it. Of course, George Bush did not invent it, but what's he done to prevent it?


God goofed when He gave the firefly
A tail so bright and glowing,
It always shines where he has been
Instead of where he's going.


As I advance in age I've reached a stage in life when I am become enraged at me and confess I am no longer as free as I used to be. I can't swim and I can't dance and, as for romance, I'm limited to coos and kisses. And ever since I lost my wife I've learned what a lonely life this is.

Among the things I had to give up, the one hardest to decide was that I could no longer drive. I've had a few accidents, mostly scratches, bumps and dents. I've also had close calls, rammed into walls and trees, suffered a seizure that scared the hell out of me. I sat in my car stunned. I knew my driving years were done.

As I reach eighty-three I see folks older than me still behind the wheel and it makes me feel sad. I realize if I crash my car totally with another guy he and I may die. This is why I can no longer drive if I want to stay alive.

Believe me, the admission I had to give up that ignition key, tore the heart out of me. What if I have to go somewhere and there's no one to take me there? If I find a volunteer up in years who can hardly see and drives absentmindedly, and hasn't come to grips with even short trips to a store or little more, and if he or she drives recklessly and irresponsibly, they may kill themselves, they may kill me, they may kill a young and growing family. This is the fear I feel and why I no longer get behind the wheel.

Saturday, June 03, 2006


Congressman Shaft was accused of graft and a raft of other stuff. "I'll just hang tough," he said in a voice gruff and rough. "This investigation's just a minor aggravation that upsets my constipation but causes me no consternation or undue complications. When I am called to testify I might tell a small white lie but mostly I'll just deny, deny. Defy, defy, And if they try to fry my hide i'll commit.."

"Suicide?" I cried.

"No, not that," he replied. "Why'd I resort to that sort of thing? No, I'd just fall flat on my back and fake an amnesia attack."

"But what is that? I don't get it."

"Forget it," Shaft laughed. "Amnesia's when you can't remember what you remember to forget. And that's what gets you off the spot when things get hot."

"Hey, that's real slick. You get sick just that quick?"

"It's the oldest trick in politics. Some consider it outrageous but they all know it's contagious and the only sure cure is a dose of pardon that grows in the Bush Rose Garden. planted in pots hidden behind the forget-me-nots."


I wake up in the dead of night thinking of something I must write, tired but inspired and fired by my imagination, anxious to have a conversation with with my mind no matter how weary I may be. If I delay what I have to say the whole idea might fade way.

Inspiration is a visitation from angels floating in the air. If I wait, hesitate to state what's inside of me, it may be too late. It no longer will be there. When I was young and learned to read and write I knew this would be my plight in life. I'm a writing man and plan to write as long as I can.

Even if my creative juice runs dry I trust what I've done will provide some fun and introspection, Democratic elections and more affection for rhyme that I'm fondest of. It's what I love! To me, the most important thing of all is to bring pleasure, joy and fun to everyone and this is all within my wherewithal.

Even if I live to double zero, I don't want to be a hero. I just want to be me and share my rhyme with all who care and want to share their BLOGS with me.


My body is not my own. It's on loan. I cannot choose when I will lose it. That's why I bruise and abuse it, accuse it of hurting me, deserting me.

When I'm in pain from stress and strain my head goes insane while the rest of me assures it has cures for me and if I endure long enough, stay strong enough. live pure enough, sure enough I'll have the stuff to see me through.

My body. One day the world is mine, sweet as wine, not a sign. Then I begin to waste away, gradually decay. In the end all that's left of me is a body once a friend to me. It soon will be the end of me, I will die and neither I nor those who try will come close to explaining death to me.

What stilled the spark, what turned off the light, switched on the dark, what sped the pace of travel to this place I've never seen before? Could this myth of Heaven be just a fantasy?

My eyes close tight. I see a bright white light. Flowers blooming everywhere. I breathe perfumed air. Bells ringing. Voices singing. Angels calling, calling, calling me.

Thursday, June 01, 2006


Sexuality is reality. It is part of your personality. It is vital to the vitality of your life, from the day of your birth until the finality of your time on Earth. It identifies not just your worth but also who you are.

You may not know why you are but you cannot deny what you are, although some may try to seek acceptance by a society that refuses to admit variety is not just the spice of life, it is what makes life worth the price.

You may be straight or gay or go either way or say the role you play day by day exemplifies and typifies what you choose to be. You may claim you used to be what you no longer am but that's a sham and even if you try not to show it you know it still resides deep inside. You cannot hide the truth from you. Even if you tried, and on the surface lied skillfully and successfully, the so-called heart of you, there is a part of you that knows you best. and where you fail or pass the test of integrity.

"To be or not to be..." You know the rest. Sexuality's not just about sex even though that's a complex part of it. At the heart of it, it's much more. It's how deep you understand and comprehend the feelings of your special friend and the messages you send to to one another that creates and grows the love you share and shows how much you care.

Of course, that's the inner driving force behind any true relationship, straight or gay. It's the way to say: "It's OK. I know, I understand." And that sums up where this all began. A love between a woman and a man, between two women or two men, it's all the same, it's not a game we play. It's the way we are. The way we were meant to be.


While we send probes to Mars and other stars. searching space for another place where there might be intelligent beings just like those we're seeing every day, chances are it might be worth the time and expense to unlock secrets of how some planets began and ended and descended into nothingness.

The guess is there are other humanoids in the void of distant space who seek life like theirs a trillion miles away. Did they perish in their endeavor, never to achieve success?

Is interstellar exploration going on? Will it continue when we're gone? When Earth's time has expired and all the wealth we've acquired has diminished into nothingness, when all that's left are empty plains of flesh-stripped bones, fossilized remains and insane dissipation of a once great civilization, will explorers be wise enough to surmise what the message of our demise implies? Will they vow not to allow what happened then happen once again?


When the president takes a trip no matter where he doesn't care how is much is spent to get him there.

There's the short hop to the airport in a chopper, Or if the Man Without a Plan so requests and likes it best he and his Hangers On Hacks relax in a limo caravan escorting Dubya to the port where his loyal oil staff awaits to clap and cheer while The King struts down the tarmac, waving gaily to the right and left, pointing, smile-sneering, shaking hands and taking bows as he's photographed for this is how his sendoff has been choreographed.

And once he's there, wherever "there" may be, the ceremony's replayed for that's the way deals are made and supporters are repaid for their hero worship of this drip, the captain of a sinking ship of state.

This charade is repeated and each time more gas is depleted from the tanks to transport all sorts of politicos who gab and gas about what, who knows, Probably to hear Bush blab on about oil addiction which he says is an affliction that must be cured if the future of our economy is to remain secure. That's what I'm leading to if you wondered where this piece was going. It's' about knowing what you're talking about when you sort out these theories.

Gas addiction? Tell that to the guy who must drive a truck to make a buck. Or to motorists who make lists of things they have to do before each day is through. Or to soccer moms and pops who have to shop and make a dozen stops so their families can eat and greet their far-flung families. Or farmers who plow and do many chores with tractors and machines fueled by gasoline. Or maybe folks with limited funds would like to have a little fun, take a trip or short vacation, a visit to friends or relations;

And is it a crime in winter time to turn up the heat. especially when you are old, to ward off the bitter cold?

Are they addicted or convicted by the power gougers to pay those monster profits? Oh, come off it, Dubya and your oil cartel. What the hell are you talking about?