PLAYING THE G0VERNMENT GAME

I got my start in infancy, perfection on inspection by my mother who birthed me, the obstetrician who checked my condition and declared me A-OK. When did I go astray, fill my gut with god knows what, shoot up my veins, scramble my brains, develop aches and pains and break bones and take out loans to pay Dr. Jones, who double dips and gyps Medicaid and Medicare, makes me sit around in my underwear, then files claims for every therapy and medication where he gets kickback compensation.

D. Jones, specialist in skin and bones and eveything in-between, knows how to rake in the green treating any part of the anatomy that serves his knack for quackery. He gets big bucks for all the action, sometimes gives me a fraction to keep my mouth shut because I know what he's doing, screwing the system for phony care, stuff he didn't do to patients no longer here, already dead.

Sounds impossible but this is the Gospel, according to Jones:

Medicare, Medicaid, the IRS, the whole damn mess in Washington, couldn't care less as long as bills are cheap and those creeps steal more than a whore at the rubber store. Just play the game of rob and steal, make a deal, kick back ten percent to a guy who cooks the books, more to elected crooks who look the other way as long as payday's every day. The budget, the national debt, the waste? You ain't seen nothin' yet. When the system gets full control, the whole place will collapse. Voting saps won't realize what's going on until all the money's gone."

Doc Jones said, "So what? I get caught. We make a deal, we settle out of court, the Treasury comes up short and old Doc Jones, the sinner, wins the dinner. I got more dough stashed away than the mint prints on a busy day." He laughs. "I exaggerate. But what I mean, I got enough on my plate to last me until my date with hell and then a spell."

And me? I'm pushing eighty-three. What can they do to me? Toss this old man in the can? Like the doc says, So what I get caught. I go to jail, get out on bail. They say pay. My lawyer says, Delay! Judgment day is far away.

CONSOLATION

If I could remember everything I read
I would be a smarter man, indeed.
This is beyond me. I'll do something yet
By creating lots of nothing others can forget.

THE WALL STREET STORY

In the town of Buyn'sale there's a home for losers where broken brokers stay up late to ruminate, cogitate and meditate over deals gone astray that haunt them to their dying day. They await their fate while men still play the Wall Street game of buy and sell and try to earn through manipulation compensation controlled by the disgraced whims of the marketplace.

In their last will and testament investors send their soul to where they know good souls should go It's good-bye Wall Street where reality meets finality and all expectations and anticipations, successful occupations, years of building successful careers can fade instantaneously in the the smoke-filled air of bet and borrow against the sorrow of a tomorrow that can go sour in an hour that took a lifetime to build is killed in the minuets you hesitated and stayed in it.

There goes the long vacation to the south of France for the guy who lost his pants in a moment of unadulterated needless greed when he followed a liar into the fire of uncontrolled desire. There goes a dynasty into unforeseen bankruptcy because its leaders failed to foresee, to their surprise, the
competition on the rise.

This is how fortunes are won and lost. You toss a coin, it ends up heads you do, tails you don't, sometimes no matter how you choose you lose. Who can you accuse? Who can you blame? Pick a name. The name is you. What can you do? Give up like other men. Or bide your time and try again.

Final word: it's back to the drawing board!

WE MUST SAVE THE U. S. A.

Bush is in a dive, his body's still alive, but this dumb-head's brain is dead and so, too, the world might be if we don't dump this lump of clay and hurry on our way to save the U. S. A.

With the whole world growing warmer this alarmer tries to play the charmer and disarm the masses who fell for this horse's asses plea, "Trust me." A lot did that and what they got--- A red hot planet getting hotter, polluted air and water. rules only fools agree will reinvigorate a ship of state sinking at a faster rate than even we could anticipate.

The warning signs were everywhere that we should be aware and beware of what this millionaire set out to do: give this nation to the corporations to rob us blind, all to inflate their bottom line and let the Enrons off the hook after they cooked the book and made it look like what was was not just to get what they got and we who got stuck with their stock fell for that crock of pure Wall Street manure.

Put it all together, the withering weather, the ailing economy and the failing ecology, the lies, the cheating, the self-defeating beatings that our troops are taking, the two thousand plus dead Bush led astray all the way from Day One until their lives were done, add it all up and who's to blame? Not the nit-wits who stole it and still control it, but We the People who let them get away with it. Now we and the world must pay for it.

MY DEAR STUPID CONSTITUENCY:

I ran. Iran, will it be next? I attacked and sacked Iraq, now I can't give it back. Now I'm back against the wall and all I can do is send more GIs to their grave just to save my skin and hope it helps a few Republicans win in the next election/selection before a post-vote inspection finds we once again stole the votes at the polls, the goal we achieved when the Supreme Court ignored the score and did what, it's believed, Supreme Courts are for.

Now, to get Iraq and the pollsters off my back, there's only one thing I can do and that's to force Iran into a Nuke attack where the U. S. will win and get its money back by selling bombs to every nation that wants a mideast confrontation that will leave more oil for sale in the sandy soil.

What if a million Iranians die in a brand new war? You'll have more gas to run your car, for isn't that what wars are for? Yes, that and a quick fix to guarantee a lot more years for the GOP, and possibly, the next presidency, And that makes sense to me.


SIGNED WITH HIS X (G. W. B,)

A DEVIL IN MY BRAIN

A devil reigns at some subterranean level in my brain. I must find the tyrant of my mind and get it out. No therapist or exorcist can do it, only I. Thus, I have meditated and mediated with the monster manipulating me to extricate the demon that dwells in the depths of me.

Did you know that contained in every brain, each tinier than a grain of sand, more complex than the whole of man are millions of cells and in each dwells a programmed thought or mindless memory? There, subconscious concentration causes all kinds of complications, tensions and apprehensions.

Did you know the ego and libido are in a constant state of war for power and each waking, sleeping hour are trying to devour the id that's hidden inside of the hide of of me?

But I have to ask myself this question: am I sure I want to cure myself of all this congestion and walk around with a whitewashed mind who thinks and records his words in invisible ink? Do I want it said that there's nothing in Ed's head but a lot of dead dread and dreary fear left over from a previous yesteryear?

True, I worry about my mentality but am wracked by a sentimentality for what I'll lose to gain what's on the wain in exchange for something strange that I will have to get used to, It's difficult, dramatic and traumatic to trade the old for something new but this is what I have to do.

CLOUDING THE ISSUE

(News item: The Navy has developed a method of creating rain clouds at an average cost of 18 cents each.)

Sky high prices everywhere. Living costs are zooming. But one product's price is fair. The market for it's booming, Buy a cloud for eighteen cents. Hang it o'er your flowers. Life will make a lot more scents every time it showers.

Not to cloud the issue but the cost of rain's declining. If your grass turns brown, so what! Don't grow around a-frowning. Buy yourself a cloud or two. Be happy while you're drowning.

HOT AND COLD

The legless lady jumped to her feet and jumped in the fridge to get some heat

THE PLANTED SEED

When the cold of winter has begun its hibernation in the clouds behind the far reaches of the midnight sun and the warmth and wetness of spring have rejuvenated the land, a healthy seed is planted with loving green thumb hand.

Wrapped in the gentle womb of Mother Earth, the seed takes root and grows. And whether it's a flower, tree or vegetable, before long it emerges in shape and form true to its heritage,

But if the seed is planted improperly in land unsuited to its demands it will die before it is born. Or it will sprout roots which are feeble and branches, stem or stalk that do not do justice to the glorious history of its agricultural ancestry.

So, too, is the seed of man implanted in woman. It may grow in its allotted time to be a human with roots of legs and feet which will walk the face of Earth, branches of arms and a lofty peak of eyes that see and ears that hear, nostrils that breathe in the sweetness of life, a head whose mind records and transmits this to the bodily whole.

The product of a misplaced seed implanted by man into woman may sprout into a full-grown, fully developed, undetectable perfect specimen of humanity, guided and controlled by a misshapen mind and misdirected mentality. There is not a plant, vegetable or plant, tree or bush or honeybee, or any other variety of nature's family than can be ruled by this intricate, compact mass that runs effectively by nature's natural electricity

While every part of the whole, body and soul, can respond and function at every junction normally, a monster of mankind may live within, resigned and confined to insanity.

ONCE UPON A MIND

Once upon a time back a while
When someone acted like a fool
The diagnosis was "senile."
At least that was the general rule.
Age and science have since changed
And medicine is not the same,
Today our values are rearranged.
And doctorS use another name,
Alzheimers is the word of choice
For those who've lost their mental way,
Now there's reason to rejoice
And pray this disease will go away,
The heart still beats, liver's intact.
The kidneys work efficiently.
All the parts respond, react
Except the source of mentality.
The thinking mind has lost its thought
And flounders like a ship at sea,
What irony time and tide have wrought
Where in hides the mystery?
While science seeks a final cure.
Can the mind, once lost, return
Or must vegetation long endure
In a state where they cannot discern
The beauty of a morning sun
Or raise their voice in joyful song
Or find humor in a silly pun
Or even know right from wrong?
What do they see when they look?
What do sounds mean to their ear?
Life for them has closed the book,
They're somewhere. They're not here.

END OF THE WORLD

All your billions and bombs and blood won't be worth a bucket of mud when the killing's over and all that's left are cockroaches and clover, scorched trees and dead honey bees, a fridge full of rotten cheese and dried up seas and a "No thank you, please."

There'll be no disease and nobody to catch it, no chicken or egg or a hen to hatch it and who'd hit a fly ball when there's nobody to catch it? The immense expense for uncivil defense won't cover the expense of cover the cost of reconstruction of unwanted wanton destruction.

There'll be no love, no hate, no too early, too late, no caring, no sharing, no civilization, no today, no tomorrow, no sadness or sorrow, no splashes and clashes, only burned out fields of dry bones and ashes.

A UNION WITHOUT UNITY

(Another in a series about my childhood.)
* * *
I was born into a union where there was no unity. A unit divided by a divorce decree before I was old enough to inure myself against the unendurable pain of an unreal reality,

In the twisted, tormented mind of my mother, I became a symbol of hate and love. the syndrome of her sensual soul. I was a battered child. The blood has congealed, the wounds have healed, but the scars remain to remind me.

I do recall a mother who, in unpredictable moments of need, fell upon me lustfully. She would hold a wooden spoon in her hand----a spoon she used to mix batter for her cakes and pies, the same spoon she beat me with a rhythm and ferocity you would not believe.

Each time would be the same. I would be ordered to remove my pants and lay, face down, across her knees. And she would beat my viciously. But gradually the slashes would slow in their intensity and frequency. Then my mother's eyes would lose their glaze and her face would soften and she would cry and comfort me.

Time would pass and her love would overwhelm me until the agony consumed her and the beatings would begin again with the same intensity. These nightmares run together in my memory. I cannot separate or remember them individually---except for one.

In the midst of my mother's fury her wooden spoon broke in two. I felt her grip loosen and wrestled free from her lap and scrambled to safety beneath her bed. On hands and knees she demanded I come from my safety one. "I'm not done with you," she said. I remained out of her reach in the middle of her bed. I trembled and cried and fell into a troubled sleep.


It was late at night, the house was dark when I awoke. I saw the weight of her body in the bed above be. I whispered to myself, "She said she loved me." And I think, I cannot be sure, but I believe I heard her cry. I climbed into the bed beside my mother. She held me in her arms.

CORPORATE CREDO

Welcome to where workers work for less, starve slower, yes, but take note of the belly bloat, a sure sign the country where they reside is on a downward slide to involuntary suicide. All because American corporate greed pays starvation wages while their government engages in graft for the rich, much, much less for those on the treadmill to deep distress.

Masses of the lowest class are trapped in the morass, proof of the US corporate creed of greed: spend less, make more. Check it out at the Trillion Dollar Ripoff Store where big deal games are played and Bush Lucky Bucks are made, Where good is bad and bad is good and that's how the Bush democracy says it should be.

MINDLESS MOTIVATION

Consider Bush's hack attack against the surge of insurgents fighting back our futile attempt to make Iraq a mirror of the Once-Was-USA while we regress from progress and go the other way to Dictatorship the American Way. God bless the two thousand-plus of us now six feet under due to Bush's sound and fury, thunder and blunder that makes one wonder what's behind his mindless motivation for our nation.

THE FATHER OF SEX

Sex was God's second invention. Adam was His first. Ever since Adam was created he had a thirst for something he knew he needed. God agreed to fulfill Adam's need.

One night Adam awoke to find a female in his bed. He said to God, "What is this?" God's reply: "Since thou cometh to the Garden of Eden thou be needin. Here lies thy mate to relieve thy frustration. With mine powers of creation, this She is now God's gift to thee."

Thus, Adam met Eve, and they tried sex and boy! did they enjoy! God learned sex was sensual, essential, unintentional or consensual, especially performed in ways unconventual this way or that way or anyway, especially on pay day and to make a baby. And with the expanding population, caused by continued copulation, sex became the favorite sport for straights and gays even in those Biblical days.

Alas, God, the source and driving force of intercourse, had no mate or time for matrimony. He was too busy watching Adam and Eve create to participate in the mating game. Ain't it a shame!

HEARTS AND OTHER BODY PARTS

Wanna buy a spunky sperm,
That little wiggly human worm
Guaranteed, I don't mean maybe,
To produce a brand new baby?


Wanna buy a beating heart
Or some other body part?
You'll find what you're looking fo
At the Dollar Donor Store.


Weekly specials, long-term loans
On second hand blood and bones.
We kid you not, we have got
A you-know-what that hits the spot.


Livers, lungs, Einstein's brain
At prices that are quite insane.
Shopping for a pair of eyes?
Any color, shape or size.


Buy from us. We guarantee.
Your money back quite cheerfully.
Just one rule you must abide.
Give living proof you have died.

THE BARE FACTS

She was a woman of ill repute,
Commonly called a prostitute .
But she was cute and quite astute
At business in her birthday suit.

DOWN AND OUT

I creep. No place to sleep. A buck or two is all I got. Enough to rent a spot in a flop. I reek. I haven't washed in a week. Maybe two. My body's sore. Can't take no more. What I eat I get from a dumpster down the street. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad. The only food I've had since God knows when. And He don't care if I never eat again.

There's this flop on Avenue C. Eight floors up. A fire trap. Who gives a crap. Steps that creek and sway. Might give way any day. But I go in, start to climb. Take my time. Stop and go. Rest that pain in my chest. Maybe it'll go away. So will I. One pop, I'm through. No big deal. Death heals everything. Brings peace. release. I reminisce. My life was not always like this.

"Eternal Spring," a poem I wrote when I was young, filled with hope and dreams and schemes that never panned out right except at night in my fantasies. How did it start? That first line? Can't remember now. Somehow I will Got to stop and rest. That pain is growing in my chest.

Teacher read my poem to the class. Sounded like a prayer the way she sad it. Didn't give me credit, not at first. "Alright, tell me who wrote it," she asked. Hands went up. Names of famous poets filled the room. Nobody guessed. "This is not a test," teacher said. "Use your head. Who's the best writer in tis class?" All eyes turned to me. They began to applaud.

I closed my eyes and talked to God. Thanked him for the gift he'd given me. Promised I'd not let him down, But I had. And I am sad.

I sleep, dream I'm in my home. Writing that poem. Every word's in my head. But when I awake there's nothing there.

BEFORE THE BEGINNING

Before the beginning nothing began. There was no sun, no moon or stars, no cars or highways to run them on, everything that never was was gone before it came. Things that didn't exist had no name.

There was no space to occupy the space that didn't exist, that waited in the windless, airless air for uncreated creations to be created. There was nothing that would be something. Ain't it dumb that the future would become the past after risin' on the horizon?

All was peace and quiet on the edge of silence waiting for God and science to reach compliance and agree to disagree on who created creation and Darwin's solution to evolution, weather forecasting whether wrong or right, plastics to replace leather and every other substitute so we wouldn't have to shoot brutes to satisfy fashion institutes who created everything from boots to bras and pantyhose and girly shows which expose two of these and one those, and less exotic things like toes and nose.

Then without warning or prediction, be it fact or science fiction, the big bang banged and when the dust had settled down there were cities, towns and wedding gowns, ups and downs and kings and crowns to fill new space that previously didn't exist. But how could there be a language to name things that couldn't be named when there was no lexicographer to write it in the Big Bang Book?

Names or not, there were lots and plots to be bought and developed and addresses placed on envelops with hopes that posts would reach the coasts and all the boats where ghosts held winter wieney-roasts.

There still was nobody to name the nameless and bless the blameless. Enter God, a former elf, who created himself. And with the creation of the Creator all uncreated creations could be created.

WE'RE ON A HELPLESS SLIPPERY SLOPE

With so much to be mad about there's no doubt you've been had. There are those who proPOSE you pose as a filled with joy nice little girl or boy and ignore the reality that creeps up on your sleep.

Forget the place you've been, accept the place you're in, train your brain to accept the inept world that waits for you when you've got no place else to go. In case you didn't know, life ain't no picture show. The writing's on the wall. We're heading for a fall.

Face it! This world's become a pierce of shit operated by constipated, dissipated, lowly rated incompetent CEOs and who knows where they're leading us on this one-way bus to hell. The last time I checked, the future had become the past and fools broke all the rules and lost the tools that kept us on an uphill course. Now our force is gone and we're are on a slippery slope devoid of hope,groping with a prevailing, failing rough sailing trip. It's depressing. It's distressing. We're not progressing. We're retrogressing. We're falling faster, heading for disaster. One more slip we'll have crossed the line. Hello, 1929!

GIANTS OF SCIENCE

Scientists experiment and invent with the best of intent, but all too often what is an intent to augment the progress of humanity ends in a calamity and does more harm than good and doesn't do what it should.

Would that the Giants of Science could worry more and hurry less about progress to a higher plane and concentrate on reducing acid rains, controlling hurricanes, finding solutions to all pollutions, to starvation and privation plaguing African nations, corralling erratic climatic conditions, finding answers to killing cancers, heart disease and other fatal maladies.

Forget about the moon and Mars and stars and other unexplored Milkyways and chocolate bars, bigger cars and bizarre bazaars. The test tube boobs and midwest rubes are more concerned with ice cubes sloshing in their cokes, corny jokes and okey doakes than a cheap thrill abortion pill, guns that kill and a low cal kosher dil.

The bottom line: exploration's very fine, so are chicken soup and cherry wine. But for what it's worth, solve the problems down on Earth.

Astronauts ain't got to go to Jupiter just to prove who's stupider, the doubter in outer space or the human race that knows its place. In any case....

IS HE A BUSY HE OR SHE?

Is the phantom of ancient philosophy just a myth, an impossibility? Is what I refer to here as "It" ---a She with patience and understanding or a He, demanding. commanding without really appreciating what creation is all about? Or were there then and still two now who innovately, even lately, continue creating, working in tandem randomly?

Assuming there were and still are two, they certainly are a busy pair listening to trillions of prayers, deciding which to grant or reject and which to expect again and again from folks with hope throughout the scope of history. But Mr. and Mrs. God realize even they can't handle this job of monumental size.

The impact of the dissatisfied could be a blow to their holy pride. Their reputation could be besmirched and they'd be banned from synagogues, mosques and churches. To avoid a scandal they can't handle they've created a galactic corporation of prayer givers to grant dispensation "in the name of God" to troubled members of their flock. The stock is sure to rise and even those whose prayers are denied can make a bundle by converting prayers into shares and selling out before Heavenly trouble triggers a bubble on high in the Wall Street in the Sky.

THE WAR WE CAN'T WIN

Iraq got its country back. It's run by hand-picked hacks who lack the knack to straighten out the mess the U.S. got them in. Isn't it a sin?

We went in with no way to win and now we can't begin to find a safe way out. While we shake and shout insurgents have the clout. They're rubbing people out by the dozens every day, and we're on a slippery slide down the road to suicide as bombs go pop and our troops drop in a war started by a crop who think they know the score though they've never fought a war and ignited this turmoil for the oil spoils and what did it all do?

If you'll pardon me, the GOP, champions of democracy, waged a war without permission, pouring billions in it and they now can't win it. As a result, oil prices are soaring, motorists are roaring, Washington's snoring, the nation's brains are falling asleep and what's typical and true, you-know-who doesn't know what to do. The man says he has a plan which is just the fuzz it always was---stay the course of course, for better or for worse, back the losing horse which will force them to give in. That's the way losers win. Don't rock the boat, just get out and vote and if the count counts you out, as a last resort, go to court and sell the people short. Goodbye Iraq, hello U. S. A.

WHAT'S WRONG MAKES EVERYTHING COME OUT RIGHT

Did you ever stop to think you ought to reconsider your thought and adjust your point of view as to what is false and what is true and what quirks lurk behind your mind to distort it and short-circuit it and leave you muddled and befuddled?

Have you chosen to let your frozen mentality block out solid rock reality and fill it with inexact facts that lack logic and leave you psychologically depressed? If your answer's "Yes," you're more than depressed, you're a mess!

You got that way by resisting and insisting you're not that way. The biggest trouble with humanity is that it denies its inborn, well worn insanity to feed its vanity with inanity.

A knowledge of quiz show trivia may bring ya bucks and loot and fame to boot, that will suit the customary customers who buy the no-good goods they seek week after week to sell to a slogan slaphappy sappy weak
society that fuels the sagging, lagging economy.

It's the nuts what cuts the mustard, the final word on what is heard on Wall Street, that generates the heat that keeps the meat on the table and makes us able to maintain the gain of this insane society.

We buy it, try it and create the riot that keeps us high and mighty. So why would we be so flighty and go to all the trouble to worry about a sudden bubble that could burst and start it all come tumbling and come plunging down?

WHAT IS WAR FOR?

I went to war not knowing what the war was for. I soon found out. There is no doubt, war is to eliminate the enemy no matter who that enemy might happen to be.

To my enemy the enemy is me. To me it's he. So both he and I are the reasons why we both must die,

When do wars end? When both me and my friend are dead. Then it can be said either he or I gave our lives for freedom and democracy or fell victims to hypocrisy.

In the end it matters not who kills who or what we do to who or who dies and why, It will happen time and time again to other men.

UNFAIR AFFAIRS EVERYWHERE

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?"

WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR

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.

CREATIVE CONVERSATION

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.

WARS ARE ALL THE SAME

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.

THE WISE OLD OWL AND MY BOWELS

(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."

QUESTIONS I ASK MYSELF

(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.

ALL IN THE FAMILY

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!

THE SWAN SONG OF ARAB OIL

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.

OH MY OH MY OH, HERE COMES BIO,, WIND AND WAVES IN THE SEAS, THE SUN AND CORN AND OTHER THINGS THAT WILL BRING AN END TO THE ARAB MONOPOLIES!

ABOUT ME AND MY FAMILY

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."

TECHNOLOGY THEOLOGY

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.

A WRITER'S JUDGE AND JURY

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!
CREATE! CREATE!"

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.

FAMILY HISTORY MYSTERY? CANCER IS THE ANSWER

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.