Sunday, December 31, 2006


(First in a series of short-short stories.)

The limb stripped trees stood straight upright through the everlasting night. There was no moon, no stars, no sun. There was no wind, no breeze, just empty air. There was no-one there.. There were no footprints in the snow clad fields where nothing grew so nothing died. Although there was no ear to hear, no eyes to see, no soul to care, from somewhere in the stillness a newborn baby cried.

I know this happened. I was there to share the silence, sense the intense desperation in this infant's isolation. I had been born without the ability to hear or see or recall whoever had abandoned me in my infancy. But I remembered the warm embrace and taste of tears that fell on my face as I was placed on this ground where I found myself another day undressed in all my nakedness,

I felt this child's frustration in my heart, felt a part of its desperation to be held, just to be, to find another just like me. The infant cried again and I knew, instantly, the child was me, the sole remaining voice of all humanity.

I knew I could never be seen in another's eyes, never be recognized, denied the right to just be Me. I realized my voice inside was telling me I was about to die. I lay next to my infant self and began to cry, then closed my eyes and waited patiently.

I opened my eyes and saw the sky. I felt a breeze and heard leaves rustling in the trees. I saw angels floating by. My wife, at my side, looked at me with love and pride. Is this heaven? I wanted to know. Have I died? I saw her nod and knew it was true. I could see God smiling down on me.


I am a member of the I Can't Remember Club. I recall all I should forget, forget what I should remember.

A bet I made when I was ten, a game between the Reds and Cards. My team was hot. The Cards were not. But I never got my just award. The bum still owes me a pack of bubble gum. I won't bore you with the score, but I remember that and a whole lot more.

In my teens I had a girl named Shirl with skin like pearl, eyes of blue and hair bright red she said was real. It was, that's true, but the hair was swept from the barber's floor. I remember the dress she wore and a whole lot more, but that's a bore.

I was a virgin at twenty-one, By twenty-two I was a man with a list of conquests I can recite and guarantee most are right, but dames are dames and names are names and sex back then was just a game, a bore, no more, so I won't tell you anymore

.I invested in the bubble and wound up in double trouble, and I remember what it cost, The schlock stock that won, the ones that lost, the dogs, the dregs that had no legs, the teks, the dreck, what I kept turned cold, what I sold was gold, the same old story ten times told. I remember each decision with the memory of a homing pigeon. But you don't want to know how low stocks can go, To remember makes me cry. Since you know why, why should I tell you more? just a bore.

Back to the club where flubs rub shoulders, scratch heads and forget what they just read on the net, what to get and what to sell, what time to meet and on what street, a hot flame's name and telephone, your wedding date, the church, the place, the face of the bride who will be at your side, who asked who and when you say "I do" do you?

What happened yesterday? The day before? Where do I go tomorrow to borrow the money I spent today? Which is which and what is what and did it happen last December or July? I can't remember what I should remember, yet I can't forget what I should forget.


(Another short-short story)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, December 27, 2006


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

Who will win and who will lose? Don't leave it up to God to choose what's right or wrong. Should the weak or strong be in control? The whole world waits impatiently while the two sides debate with bombs and hate. Bullets fly and millions die and mothers cry and after war is done and no one has won or lost and, oh! the cost in human life and sacrifice!

Will the lesson then be learned? Will the world then have earned one more chance or has it had its final dance with democracy? We will just have to wait and see.


Dubya has the urge to surge and plans to splurge more GIs who won't survive an all out attack on Iraq's insurgency. This once rabble-dabble rebel force has grown in will and skill at killing troops who have stayed the course.

Potential recruits, rest assured, will not be lured to fill the boots of those who lost and ended up dead or wounded mortally. They aren't a bunch of jerks and can't be lured by perks for signing on the dotted line. They know it's idiotic, not patriotic, to enlist in a war where Bush insists we're winning, something he has said from the beginning. He persists in spreading lies while more GIs are daily listed among the casualties.

All the generals oppose, Bush proposes. Who do you suppose knows more? An incompetent, arrogant make believe president, head of a bunch of "knowitalls" who didn't have the guts or balls to go war and didn't give a
damn about the troops in Viet Nam? Or generals who have spent their lives in the military fighting wars and wary of the Monday morning quarterbacks running a phony war in Iraq?

Why should they be cannon fodder when the Bush daughters spend their time boozing up on the taxpayers dime? How sad! No good boozer losers just like Dad!

The truth Bush can't abide is just he can't decide and so the GIs are forced to go along for the ride until this so-called "decider" makes up a mind it's known he doesn't own.

Monday, December 25, 2006


Every female has a womb for rent in the event She and a He should start a family with a life whose name for now is Baby Fetus. It will live to greet us if we let it.

The method of creation lacks complication. Two eggs meet in the course of intercourse or the calm of artificial insemination. Each is smaller than a pimple or a dimple. They get together and decide whether they should form a fetus and become a human just like us.

In common terms we're talking about sperms and ovaries that meet and fertilize a future mother's egg which will grow legs and arms, hands and other body parts and produce a little one, born with a cry to tell the world, "Here am I."

This happens every second of every day in the U. S. A., in Chicago, Kokomo and L. A., in China and Bombay, everywhere where humans work and play and animals roam and call the forests or jungles home, in every zoo, in Timbuktu and Peru and in the oceans blue. Everywhere where men and women share their love and desire to sire a little tyke who might look like, in some small way, one or both of them.

In a very simplified way, I've tried to tell the story of creation.A story old, told and retold time and again when children want to know how they and you and me and all of humanity came to be.

Who created baby making? God, who said it said trillions of trillions of years ago, I do believe, to Adam and Eve: "Go forth and multiply." They did. And God became the first grandpa.


What is this mysterious power of a failed president who has already sent nearly three thousand American military to their graves to save the face of a still prevailing failing administration who lets more and more die in the name of God and fraud?

Bush, the Demander/ Commander in Grief is beyond belief and so are they who still let him have his way. While he should be purged for urging this winless war he comes up with a purge technique that our generals predict will make us weak and make Iraq seek more U, S. bucks and blood while the daily toll gets increasingly out of control. When will Bush supporters realize he sold America short to force Democrats to take the blame and share the shame as they inherit the inept concepts that kept Dubya in the drivers seat while he plunged us deeper into defeat?

The more troops we commit to save the neck of this shit, the more the insurgency will turn up the heat the sooner our GIs and Iraqis, too, will meet their maker just to satisfy this faker who, with his Ivy League C Degree and his AWOL flee from responsibility makes him think hr's more qualified to decide what to do to than our battle hardened military?

It's about time we face the facts and react accordingly and no longer accord Dubya the dignity he does not deserves in his disservice to democracy. Impeachment only sets the stage, expresses America's rage at what Dubya's done. If this man with a limited insane brain decides to remain in power the Democrat majority must choose to turn the screws to force him out by the Nixon route or court decree.



The minds of men build monuments to mediocrity.
In castles of conformity, they're born, they live, they die.
They wear a badge of morals and intense integrity
And waive the right to question, to doubt or wonder why,
They seek the static luxuries dollars can afford,
The homes, the whores, the status of a young and buxom wife.
The comforts of a country club, the bliss of being bored,
The rich rewards of raunchiness, the hollow gifts of life.
These are men and women grace thee upper class,
The stenciled social register, the pompous overweight.
Like women's bras at bargain sales they form a huge morass
And like the tangled merchandise are hard to separate.
But these are men and women who are wiser than we know.
They cling to their conformity, possess no special urge.
They climb financial ladders to a profit-plus plateau,
But never to the lofty peaks where greatness can emerge.
They swim in satisfaction in a whirlpool of peace.
They crow of small accomplishments like roosters at the dawn
And slink in slimed serenity and seek no sweet release.
They trim their true emotions like a cultivated lawn.
Mediocrity is greatness to the mindless mind,
Chained by false illusion, completely unaware
Who take pride in shortcomings, blindly undefined,
Holding high the light of darkness, gleaning glory from its glare.


What does it mean when thousands die needlessly of senseless violence for a cause, to protest unjust laws or change from what was because a few disagree with the majority? Such deaths are pure insanity, a loss of treasured humanity, all to satisfy the vanity of twisted minds gone blind to value, vitality, reality.

When terrorists commit suicide and take unsuspecting, unwilling victims along on their ride across the divide to the other side, how widespread is the effect of those now dead?

Lost dreams of young in search of better days Couples looking ahead to contentment in retirement. Those with health and wealth who slaved and saved, finally secure financially, dead with no one to leave their money to.

Inquisitive minds whose imagination and dedication could have benefited billions in a trillion ways. Plays and poems and tomes unwritten,
symphonies and melodies, works of art, started, left undone, just because one man with a gun, one soul momentarily out of control. a simple whim turned deathly grim.

Not all wasted lives are caused by man. God often plays a leading role in killing sprees. Hurricanes and rains and angry seas, disease and unsolved medical mysteries, quirks of nature, who's to blame? No matter how or why
people die, death's the same.

Nations get hung up on legislation that results in frustration, complication and devastation, death and desolation and immense unintended consequences.

But simply because they lost their way. Momentarily.

Saturday, December 23, 2006


Dubya believes our forces are spread so thin that we can't win unless we order more GIs to die to fight a war that demands more of us than we bargained for.

What he doesn't understand is that if he commands more troops and calls up more reserves it will do no good and could increase resurgents' goal to bomb and kill and dig a deeper hole for a war out of control.

This sap who can hardly read a map ignores the views of those whose years in the military make them very qualified to decide what to do about the winless war he got the world into. In stead, he mouths a lot of crap about how he'll find a way to lead us to a glorious victory and convert Iraq into a democracy.

He's feeding us the same old line, redefined, about "staying the course" without showing a sign of remorse about the thousands who stayed in harm's way until they died fighting on the losing side. Does the decider/denier still deny that more and more GIs will die as he delays for days on end a way to send the troops back home and let Iraqis win or lose alone?

In spite of the fight they face, most want us out of that place where life's become a daily disgrace with death rolls growing endlessly and corruption erupting within their ranks, thanks to the mess we've created since we "liberated" them from Hussein, the main reason why Dubya defied the UN and went to war with Iraq again to do what Daddy couldn't do and failed even more miserably,

Now the only thing he can do is do what the Iraqis want us to: go home and let them fight the war alone. That, in spite of the fight ahead and the growing corruption erupting in their ranks, thanks to the president's mismanagement.

After billions the war has cost, it's time to admit we've lost, just like we did in Viet Nam. Polls tell us most Americans no longer give a damn and are fed up with Republicans. Most agree, impeach the creep and Cheney, too, and that's just what we must do.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006


Every day the sun would rise to greet my eyes to tell me life was still here waiting for me patiently. But one day the sun did not appear and its eternal glow remained in the memory of my mind. Suddenly I faced the fear of the galaxy: the dreaded DOOMSDAY is near!

I gazed upon the sky where there was once a sun and watched the stars disappear, one by one. Then the moon was there alone and with a moan that-echoed repeatedly, each time with lessening ferocity, faded to a whisper until all that could be heard was the unspoken word, the ebb and flow of a mourning sea.

All was silent, all was still. There was no breeze. The leaves of trees trembled inwardly. Animals, human and otherwise, looked to the blackened sky and realized. DOOMSDAY was almost here,

This fateful day and more to come was marked by less than nothingness. There was no ear to hear a sound and so the whole world round was mute. There was no one to eat or taste and animal and human waste oozed from a rotting mesh of decaying flesh and vegetation as the putrefaction of civilization invaded and pervaded the stagnant air and fumes were stuck in stagnancy.

DOOMSDAY did not appear. Maybe next year!


"Fire! Fire! World's on fire!"
"Why are you crying fire?"
"Can't you see? Flames grow higher?"
"I've no desire to see fire."
"In darkest night the sky is light."
"It's day, not night. The sun shines bright."
"Not so. The day has gone away."
"Where has it gone? Where goes the day?"
"It sees the fire, Fears the flame."
"Shame on the flame. What's its name?"
"Eternally Yours. What they call you, sire?"
"Me? I be Dubya Dubya B. Denier."

Monday, December 18, 2006


Most scientists agree, at least in theory, that given enough time, money, luck, coincidence, happenstance, laboratory accidents or merely by chance, nothing is impossible and anything that's probable or plausible can be invented.

According to unique circumstances, a breakthrough could occur today, tomorrow, next year or never in the life of man. Still it can be done. That was Einstein's theory. Based on logic and common sense, it's also mine.

Consider laboratory research where drugs invented for one disease prove to be a cure for other maladies. Or drugs regarded a failure are later found to be a palliative for some unrelated pain. Often those who invented it can't explain how or why it does what it wasn't intended to do.

Which brings me to an unearthly---and earthly---subject about Earth and Mars and a host of other stars, moons and planets scientists have their eye on if humans begin to die in astronomical numbers here on this sphere. It's a science known as terraforming (TF for short) that could help man develop another place in space after we destroy what we've got if it gets too hot because of a lot of things we do that we should do not.

No doubt the warming trend will hasten the end of our place in space. Not right away but some day sooner than deniers want to admit It might also be called a wOrming trend.

TF is a way to alter an inhospitable planet to make its atmosphere adaptable to what we now enjoy. Then if we destroy this earthly toy we all could move, say to Mars. as science changes it to a planet just like ours When Earth is dead, not gone, it may be populated by squirmy worms that one day might sprout arms and legs and be similar to us. And if they do they may start a wOrming trend. THE END!


The longer Dubya and his fuddy-duddy buddies ponder The Report, the more we court disaster, the faster the toll continues to rise of dead and wounded GIs.

After nearly four years and millions of tears and endless fears you'd think the Dubya dunces on the brink would make up their so-called minds and admit we're beat. face defeat and complete this nightmare that's going nowhere except downhill as the insurgents kill more of our boys and theirs.

Apparently nobody cares how many bodies are stacked up in Iraq, especially Bush and his team of hacks who won't admit the cup's half full
and just pull out like we could and should do and because the Iraqis want us to. This endless delay more than annoys our dug-in troops who face instant death with every living breath.

Why can't our losers choose the best way out and stop spending and sending more cannon fodder, our sons and daughters, across the water to risk senseless slaughter? Just call it quits and quick, and stop playing politics! This is no longer a matter of who is stronger, who is right and who just might be wrong, It's simply this: is our demented president willing to continue killing just so he can get top billing on the list of the worst commanders in grief.

This so-called man is absolutely beyond belief! Impeach him now and force him to take the Nixon route. But if he hangs tough, just let him know we've had enough and kick the bastard out.

Thursday, December 14, 2006


When darkness rules the heavens stars will disappear, the moon will cease to glow and show the way in dead of night, the sun's fire will expire and greed and mad desire will control the precious fuels. And this old world will be locked into a penetrating cold.

As everything that kindles dwindles wood WILL be worth its weight in gold. Matches will be sold at a hundred bucks a strike and there is no guarantee these sticks will light. Only in our sleep will we see a sun still burning bright.

The darkness that surrounds us will confound us as we stumble, bumble, grumble bumping into this and that and falling flat, not knowing where we're at. And the walls of blackened air will declare control of life on earth.

No longer will man see a smile, admire style, start a fire on his outdoor grille, smoke a cigar or sing along to the strum of a lone guitar, The poet will not write about the beauty of a day in spring, a sparkling pool or anything. He will fling away his writing tools and babble endlessly, creating words that disappear in the darkened atmosphere.

Foods we need will crumble like weed and feed for cattle we breed will disappear and cow and steer and lamb and sheep and fowl and even the wise old owl will die of cold and confusion, robbed of the illusion of day and night, dark and light, lack of sight.

Whatever caused this change in outer space, a new power force is on the rise to take its place 'till l light returns. But there is one thing to keep in mind: In a land of darkness the blind man will be king

Wednesday, December 13, 2006


When I die I hope that I will leave a large amount in my bank account to satisfy my creditors, inviting writings in my eMac memory to please my editors, enough clothes I bought and never wore to fill a Goodwill store.

I freely leave a freezer filled with expensive meats that hungry people like to eat, six packs of beer and vintage wine to whet the tongues of those young boozing friends of mine. And all sorts of crackers and cheese to please my midnight snackers,

There must be peaches, pears, assorted fruits and greens to suit the moods of health food eaters and diet cheaters. And I hope they find those weight loss pills and unpaid doctor bills to treat a dozen ills that didn't kill me.

Those who miss me please take notice, don't pay Dr. Hocuspocus because his diagnosis was way out of focus. I'm not dead of anything the doctor said. I died of the pain Hocuspocus gave me in my touchus.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006


Start of another day Some work, some play, some pay, some borrow, some put it off 'til tomorrow, Make a loan by telephone, on the Internet or the old fashioned way, shake hands to seal a deal, terms you don't understand. Tiny print, you squint. Can't read it. Relax your brain. Don't listen when the man explains. Sign on the dotted line. Here's your check, Who's next?

Wall Street makes deals. Some give, some take, both sides steal, It's done . Who lost, who won? What's the interest? What's the net? What you got is what you get, Deal is signed by low watt lamp and rubber stamp.

Stores open. Customers come in. Some grin, some frown. Some local, some from nearby town. Leave enough to pay the rent. Buy booze, pair of shoes. Down payment on a cruise. Check market news before you choose.

Kids carpool to school. Mom shopping, buying this and that. Steak she'll grill rare. Lettuce for the salad plate. Lunch with chum from single days. Who pays? Friend's a wreck, of course. Recovering from third divorce. Hello, good bye. Meet again? Who knows when? Forgot the wine. Always drink before we dine.

Kids come home. "Mom, what's to eat?" Give a treat, Something sweet. Shower, nap, hope he's not late. Got a date. Show starts at eight.

All's well. You can't tell. One second turns heaven to hell. She's had this premonition. Something bad will occur to her. Tries to be an optimist. Fear persists. Says a prayer into blank air, Fear fades away. Deal with it another day.


Have you ever taken a ride in the family car to the side of a river not so near and not so far where the narrow lanes embraced the trees and old oaks bowed to each gentle breeze? Where the leaves were turning green to gold and the country church where the old folks prayed and the school yard where the youngsters played.

Have you ever seen a homegrown smile, warm and true and just for you that beckoned stay awhile? And you stopped to chat, just like that, and you traded jokes and hee-hawed as you jawed way.

Did you spend dawdling time at a small cafe and the taste of the brew, and the danish, too, made it awfully hard to be on your way? And as you left with a friendly nod, and coins on your plate with the setting sun and it was getting late, you vowed to return another day and stay overnight in that quaint B&B with the big front lawn and the fishing pond and the wishing well and, hear tell, the breakfast feast, that was real darn swell.

Sunday, December 10, 2006


Hey, you lame duck schmuck, out of luck dumb cluck of a president, I pity you. You are an innocent malcontent excuse for a president who just doesn't know what or why you do what you do. You, victim of denial. should be on trial and I'll tell you why.

A guy like you has long been through but keeps on doing what you do because zany Cheney, that on the job slob---sob! sob! sob!---he and a bunch of blobs tell you what to say, what to do and, twit you are, you do it.

You don't know why you are so mean and lean of brainy bean, but are convinced it's keen to send GIs to die and sack Iraq without a plan as you play president and believe you were heaven sent to become the savior out of favior just to tell the world to go to hell.

Well, that's enough compliments for now. Somehow, you've got more nuts than nerve and deserve more credit than you get for screwing up with a half filled cup while driving an Edsel on empty to a bankrupt bottoms up democracy.

Yes, you did your best to be the worst, the first since who knows when to do it wrong again and again, to make misteaks, You once had the stuff to bluff the masses of horse's asses, but enough's enough. Let's hope the Dems can stem our nation's slide toward economic suicide. You took us for a helluva downhill ride.

And now good-bye, lame duck schmuck.

Saturday, December 09, 2006


There's no doubt George Bush won the presidency on an illegal technicality and now hides behind a shield of immunity, insisting he's absolved of all laws because he remains what he has no right to be, He and Dick Cheney, the man who claimed the vice presidency, both took an oath to respect and protect the Bill of Rights, bylaws of the Constitution, Congress and law enforcement institutions.

But the documents they now claim to protect are the same only in name. The fine print has been redesigned, redefined to bring it more into line with what the party in power wished it to be. These will be stumbling blocks along the way to restoring the USA to the democracy it was before they stole control.

And the man who must bear the blame and suffer the shame for what was done is the one who says he won fair and square and got away with it and proceeded to play with it since the day he had begun his illegal run. If Bush still has a shred of decency and integrity, there's a way he can redeem a little of his once popularity by paying homage to the thousands killed, wounded or maimed in Iraq on his watch by apologizing, admit what he did was wrong and atone for it as best he can.

George, be a Man! Admit you erred, honor those who lie in repose on distant shores or in scattered graves near home where friends and family can honor them for the price they paid to keep us free.

A monument to their memory would also be testimony to your irresponsibility in sending GIs to die needlessly in a war that never had to be. It's the least you can do. The price you pay---shame to live with you until your dying day---is only fair. It can't compare with what they did heroically to keep us free the way it was meant to be.

Friday, December 08, 2006


Come along and join the throng and sing a happy, snappy song. Join the crowd and sing out loud, spread joy to every girl and boy, let old and young, rich and poor know you're on their side and peace on earth can't be denied.

Laugh and giggle, let your tongue wiggle, let your lips smile all the while you let it be known the lonely are not alone, that those in grief who seek relief must hold onto the belief in a new tomorrow when pain and sorrow will begin to heal and bittersweet memories will replace the sadness that they feel.

Those feeling low must know life is more than come and go, that in between the beginning and the end you can be your own best friend
if you depend on life to send you more joy, less sorrow, more good than bad, more glad than sad, more health than wealth, more lucky breaks, more T-bone steaks, more of what it takes to make the best of all the rest that day by day may come your way.


What if I had not been born would I be here? What if I had been born would I be there? What if neither had happened where would I be and would anybody care? Would the unlikely likeness of me matter anyway? Have a nice day, people would say, and be on their way.

The sun would still rise with no surprise and set each night with fading light, everything would be wrong or right and there would be another someone to fight for what was good or bad, eat bread someone else had sliced and drink wine someone else had poured and go to bed and bored another someone else to sleep.

I would be a realistic statistic, a non-existent being not seeing what I now can see, not being what I now might be, not taking pleasure in just being me. Would that spot on the street where I should meet another me be waiting for another someone to appear and be there to fill the void? Would that someone be annoyed and check the clock on the tower noting that another hour had passed and then seeing me and sigh "At last" and another evening with my son would have begun that only we two could share and would anyone really care that we were there?

My mind wanders as I ponder these impossible possibilities in the hospital hall where all expectant fathers wait in anticipation for the population to grow one by one with each new daughter or each new son screaming and streaming into life.

All this said, what if all but one had been born and that one was torn from mother's womb to face the gloom that followed the worthless birth of a child born dead instead of what was anticipated? What if the parents to be had waited to mate another day, another night, would everything have turned out right? That might have happened, might have not. But they mated in haste and what they got was a waste, an insult to the cult of life.

The husband sighed, the wife cried out in agony. I died and would never be that someone who waited for a son, that someone who might have been my progeny.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006


There's nothing worse than riding in a hearse to a group of grievers and church believers to a brand new, never used before, grave dug and saved just for you.

While soldiers get set to shoot a salute and tax collectors wait to scoop up their loot and bookies and cut little cookies try not to cry and mourners get high on wine they didn't buy and flowers bloom throughout the gloom, mom and dad and sister Sue, the wife and kids who loved you true cry hysterically. There's nothing much you can do but lie there in your thousand buck box until the eulogies are through and the diggers cover you up with dirt and rocks.

That's how it goes when you lie in repose and folks gather around the cadaver, you, to bid a fond adieu. And all those memories die with you

When you went to war, smoked your first cigar, bought a brand new car, wed and went to bed with your brand new bride and tried to leave her satisfied, kids born---how fast their shoes were scuffed and worn, their jeans were faded and torn, the aggravation and gratification of their growing years---cold beers on a summer night, making love by the June moonlight, some things went wrong, some things went right.

Now you sleep at God's behest in nature's breast while those still alive await the date they'll keep with you at St. Peter's gate.


I wonder as thunder roars o'er my head will I still be frightened by the fury after I am dead? It's been said by those I surmise are wise that when you're dead you're dead. This may be so, but let's be fair, how can they know since they've never been anywhere but here and here's a long, long way from there,

Since, in any event, it's not my intent to be Heaven sent to find out what death is all about, I'll remain among the innocent content to be ignorant of what will gone when I checkout. Does life after final breath lead to another way of being, freeing me of accountability of the path I am pursuing?

A baseball game must be played until the final inning, Life goes on until the loser wind up winning. So whether you play for sport or just to sort out the winners from the sinners in our years here and now we're all just rank beginners.


We live in groups of friends and families who share loves and hates and bits of bigotry, our love of games and all sorts of sports, of brands of booze and spins on news, on writers, artists---who's smartest?---of best vacations, worst relations, colleges and education, chicken soups and protest groups, double scoops of spumoni. Of who's sincere and who's a phony baloney.

Did you ever see Joe wiggle his ear while downing his beer? He's a laugh and a half, the cut up you like to shut up, the smart ass loaded with gas and lets it pass at every party. What a farty!

I can't forget what's her name, the dame with flaming red hair she bought somewhere. She was big on wigs and things like rings and far out clothes. Didn't have her nose unhooked so she could look like a movie star. She drove a fancy high priced car. Friends said she couldn't afford a Ford.

I made a date with a gal I met on the Internet. Said she loved to hug and pet, that she had skin I'd love to touch. She was not thirty like she said, but all of forty, plus. I got back on the bus. She was not for us, me and my dog Gus, my pet snake and my monkey who likes to pattycake,

When our old gang gets together, no matter the weather, we're friends and family, just plain folks who tell dirty jokes. We agree, disagree, rekindle lost memory, nod heads as we recall someone now dead. That leads into "remember when." We do. And that's when I miss you. The old crowd's thinning, time is winning. We're getting old. The coffee's cold. All the stories have been told. Echoes of the past are fading, Death is waiting.

Monday, December 04, 2006


Two years Dubya be gone but what he do be linger on. Laws he unmade, games he played. Unafraid, frayed Constitooshin while liberty took it on chin. Born agin sinner/winner/loser/abuser iced Christ say he sonofaBush be saved by son of God. Ain't odd?

Two years, beers, plenty biers thanks Slap Happy Flappy Ears, Three Cheers, Sneers be gone. What he did done one humdinger hash slinger. Georgie Porgie stuck finger in Great American Pie, never taste same. Oh my!

He lie GI die thousands time. If that ain't legit complaint worth prosecuting maybe booting out while still in sperm/germ termer, best be
what? Impinched, lynched. Impeach be peachy wise justifies, Hoosegow be allow Kangaroo Court he create while be dread of state.

Be fair. Big scare. He be error. He be terror. Iraq quacks lack get on track. We whack, We bring boys back.

Sunday, December 03, 2006


In the cutthroat world of business and industry where incompetent mismanagement can cause distress, create a mess that leads to great expense and loss of confidence, it makes no sense to retain a failed exec who directly or indirectly caused the corporate wreck.

If it happened on his watch, he'd be fired. Not given the easy way out. Not "retired" on a pension of astronomical dimension. Not let go with a condescending commendation. Not with a phony show of reverence, softened by a healthy severance.

We know what it's all about. Dubya failed, tried to cover up incompetence at our expense. He took us for a ride. His actions were not justified. He lied. No doubt. Just kick him out!

Dubya, man of denial, should be facing trial for crimes committed against humanity. We supported this man who conned the world behind its back and started a phony war with Iraq. Finally, we got wise to his illegal enterprise. He should pay for lies that led to thousands dead and maimed and loved ones left to grieve. We've treated him with dignity, justified his monstrosity. Should we string along with an incompetent, arrogant president who knows no wrong, give him more time to compound his crimes while we stand by and let him get away with it? It's time for him to pay for it.

We've never sent a president to jail. But none have failed so monumentally, are more deserving of extreme penalty. Maybe it's just a dream but sometimes dreams can come true.


He was taught since just a tot not to get caught revealing things, to keep emotions well disguised. From early youth he was advised: The more you show, the more they know and when they do they'll use it against you. That's not good. Strong turn weak when seekers seek and find a leak
in the wall you've built to hide the guilt from which you can't escape. Don't let them rape the you who hides inside,

Don't be cruel. Don't be a fool. Just play it cool. The school of life is rife with lessons, endless sessions, urging confessions, purging obsessions. Stay confined inside your mind, do not unwind. One little slip, you're on a trip to revelation that violates the education you found of worth soon after you entered Earth from the gloomy tomb of the female womb.

Heed this advice: It will serve you well. It will save you from a life of hell one cannot foretell. Or the opposite view will serve you well.

If, in your moment of demise, you feel you've been fed a pack of lies and believe it wise to compromise, to see the world through others' eyes, there will be born another me, another you, to one day take our place in the human race faced with what to do and not to do.

So do not pull the final curtain certain you were right or wrong, plagued by shame or filled with pride. Confide with those on the other side and then decide. Some say yes, some say no. Some still don't know which way to go. And so....?????