Monday, February 26, 2007


Just the start of another day. Some stay home. Some go away. Some play. Some pay. Some borrow. Some put it of until tomorrow. Some make loans by telephone, on the net, across a desk shaking hands to seal a deal nobody understands. Fine print? Who can read it? Let it be. Trust in me. Faith still reigns. Relax your brain. Sign on the dotted line. Take your check. Next?

Wall Street's busy doing the deal. Both sides steal. What's the interest? What's the net? What you see is what you get. No money changes hands. We're talking a hundred grand. A Million. Billion. Maybe more. Wire here. Wire there. Wire, wire everywhere. Why are we here? To make a deal.

Doors open.. Customers come in. Some smile, some frown, some local, or out of town. All intent money spent leaves enough to pay the rent. Buy booze. A pair of shoes. Down payment on a cruise. Watch your p's and q's. Check the news before you sign. Money changes all the time. Sometimes a dollar's worth a dime. Market plunges at the close. All about woes of Eskimos. Shows how trouble grows, Sun glows. Ice melts, Water flows. Dam ain't worth a damn. Sinking feeling in your gut. Did you do wrong or what? But. Always the optimistic but. Worry shows. Wife always knows. Maybe not. Maybe tomorrow stocks will be hot. Just a scare that goes nowhere. Meanwhile, smile. Gotta take your knocks dealing stocks


Kids carpool to school. Mom shops. Stops. Buys this, that. A silly hat she'll never wear. Two pounds steak she'll grill rare. Produce for the salad plate. Date with a chum from single days. Always a question who pays. Friend's a wreck of course, recovering from a third 0 divorce. Eat quiclk, then pick up the tab. Blab, blab, blab. Say goodbye. Meet again, don't know why, don't know when.

Gotta run. Be home by three. Check the mail. Check on line. No calls. All's fine. Forgot the wine. They always drink before they dine. Kids come crashing in.'"Mom, I'm hungry. What's to eat?" Make a treat, Something sweet. Shower, nap, wait for mate. Hope he's not late. Show's at eight. All's well. But you can never tell. One second turns heaven into hell. She has this premonition. Something's gonna happen. Not just to her. To everyone before it's done. Fear persists. Won't disappear. Drifts off to sleep

Market's on a roll. Dow packed with buys, ripe for sells. Don't know what to do. Buyers say, take heart.. Don't upset the apple cart. Bought a lot, made a pot of market money. Buying continued, uncontrolled. Seemed Wall Street paved with gold. Analysts sure rise would endure. Greatest bull market of all.Pessimists predicted a fall. Optimists ignored the call.

Prices rose at every close. Splits galore. Dividends up and up without end. Millionaires everywhere. Market didn't plunge at first. The thirst for money was too strong. Investors went along. Bought right or wrong. Good or bad. Bought what their neighbors had. Then one day at the final bell they asked, "What the hell has happened here? Fear spread and soon there was a cry to sell. The rest of the story you know well. The year was l929.


His mother was a Moth. His dad to be, a mix-breed flea named Myth, buggered the flighty, sexy insect and what did you except? He egged her on. She responded to Myth's dither. After he shafter she ate a leaf, he smoked a reef. Together they had a catterfeller.

Of course, before Mommy Moth's bug was born he was just an egg, sleeping in a cockcoon. In the merry month of June, he awoke all alone in the morning after rafter. With one fell swoop, Mommy Moth flew the coop with Father Myth. Catterfeller became a fullblown, grown specious species known as Mothflea scientifically.

Baby Mothflea stretched and kvetched, felt an itch in his back. He scratched and, natch, that was no itch that bugged the bug. It was the start of things called wings he'd need to flit about. The catterfeller became a flutterfly with brand new wings, his mind filled with things like food and insectual satisfaction. And what did he see find fluttering by? A beautiful newborn creamy, dreamy butterfly. His flapping wings caught her eye. They both seemed to know the way to go and flew to a vacant leaf faster than a fly can fly. She laid her egg, built a cockcoon, then sipped nectar while he necked her and they knew their deed was done. In one last breath before death Myth kissed Moth. "Short, but sweet, my sweet," he said. Moth turned to Myth. "A job well "A job well done," she replied. And then they died.

They live reborn, on high in the sky in a place reserved for those who served their worth on Earth. They left behind a son, part flea, part moth, who dreamed that in his future life he would become a Butterfly.

Saturday, February 24, 2007


From the moment you're born, whatever's false or true, wrong or right, the reason why night chases away the bright we call day, why the sun shines on everyone while stars and moon take well earned rest, why there must be cold and hot, wet and dry, why snow must fall and rain and sleet are all the same, different only in given name, and weather's always subject to change and things most strange were here before we were meant to be are all a part of the mystery, the history of life and death, of first and final breath---all live in the secret, subconscious self recorded in the "footnotes of the brain and mind."

It's all there willing to share its store of lore with those who seek to find what slumbers in the mind and brain, the source, the driving force that sets the course our lives must follow, lest we wallow in the mindless world of even less than guess and accept the inept know-nothings, one and all, who come to call every time you dare to doubt what life's about.

The mind is the only true computer, possessed of unlimited megabytes stored, waiting to be explored, to tell you more of what you're searching for. Whatever you read is planted like a seed, a flower or a weed, in the garden in your head, waiting to be read or said to zoom into bloom.

Do you really want to know? Your computer brain will tell your mind where to go. Printouts and footnotes will shout out facts and theories that expand an endless realm of possibilities.

Monday, February 19, 2007


Soon, come June, I will be eighty-four. I pray I'll live to see not just the end of the wasted war that greed and arrogance have created, but the end of war for once and all. I dream someday people free and those who want to be will stand tall and sound a call for peace at last, peace at last.

As seniors in this once great nation we have one overwhelming obligation: change the thinking of this stinking, sinking planet, dammit! and ram it down the throats of those who disagree that the world's in an awful mess. Future generations will have to pay for what thoughtless throngs are guilty of---killing innocent souls, relinquishing control to those who have more wealth than they'll ever need for an insane greed for gold and political power over what could be our world's finest shining, defining hour.

I hear this every day in every way, seniors don't give a damn because they'll be long gone when the payback's going on. And they admit: "I don't care how long it takes. Let them learn from our mistakes."

But did we learn? Have we earned the right to be counsel to those who inherit the kind of mess we'll leave behind? The answer is a resounding YES! There is a way to prevent another mess, another Bush-like hawk stalking democracy and talking the world into yet one more war.

War is where it all begins. Our best advice (are you listening Dubya, Dick and Condoleezza Rice?) is that in a war nobody loses, nobody wins. They all end in unbelievable upheaval and thousands dead, huge debts hanging over the heads of those who survive, those too young to understand and those unborn, innocent future victims who will inherit this land.

We must stress that no matter what happens to happen. war is not the answer. War is a cancer that destroys what we were brought here for. There will always be those who die naturally, by accidents or freak events or painfully from ills still a medical mystery.

We all eventually must die. But let not war be the reason why.


I'm a writer who likes taking words and making them forsake their individuality of definition and gender and surrender the part where they have limited meanings, but combined, twisted and redefined they become assembled members of a sentence that can impart love or hate or any state in between.

You know what I mean. Words can be clean or obscene, lucid or stupid depending on how they're strained or rearranged, how powerful or sorrowful, how awful or divine are these words of mine.

So come with me on a tour through Webster's dictionary, written by a visionary who knew what writers must go through to select the wordsthat will affect or inspire or face rejection and cause a new selection. My story begins with the letter A which heads my list of words that must exist.

One letter words, of which there are only two---A and I---pave the way for whatever I mean to say, confess or express or admit to "IT" what ever it it is.

Here's an ample sample example: You take the numeral two, the lowliest word I ever knew. It says a lot about a little. Don't belittle it. Spelled to, it says where you're going to. If someone's with you, the two of you can go, too.

Let me take you to a place you've never been. All aboard my wordsmanship (a made-up word, I admit) and sail with me to I know not where. But I know it's on the shore of an island I'm looking for where words won't matter anymore. Its a land where folks tell funny jokes and laugh a lot, it's never hot, it's never cold, no one grows old, nothing's bought and nothing's sold, where trees shed leaves and seeds of gold, where natives are bare and no one's heard of jockey shorts or underwear and no one stares or cares what's the color of the skin you're in and sin is not part of their heart or vocabulary.

This island has no name. It will never claim to be another Shangri-la. It has just one law obeyed by man and beast: love, be loved and live in peace.


We, the result of creation. created civilization, nations, expectations and anticipations of long, expensive summer vacations. Appetites of our salivating minds conceived many kinds of gastronomical gimmicks, like weekend picnics with lots of finger lickin' chicken, beer in cans, delis to provide the sides like slaw and raw oyster stew, chips and dips, candy, cake and popcorn, too, and other foods that fit the mood like olives, pickles, dill. sweet and sour that disappear within the hour. And by far, a car to get you where you care to be for this ingestive, festive spree.

So it's fair we should declare a war on diet cheating, self defeating overeating, family meetings that begin with raucous greetings of uncles, aunts and cousins by the dozens and flies and fleas and bees a-buzzin' in anticipation of leftover rations and libations, all party to such vacation recreation convocations.

If your belly swells, hells bells, blame it on the deli filled with all those tempting smells of corned beef and pastrami, ham (not Spam) and jam (not jelly) fresh baked rolls and crusty bagels, lox and cream cheese and fresh sliced onions, please. Don't miss the Swiss or stacks of snacks or racks of lamb and wear a bib when eating those greasy ribs.

Don't go out without sauerkraut and just about every salad mix the chef can fix. All those dreamy, cream-filled pies, cookies, cakes, hot dogs, steaks and whatever wakes the juices and takes excuses to justify abuses of saturated fats and cholesterol and other no-no's you should control.

Why get upset? Heartburn hasn't reached your belly yet. Sure it will. The only cure, don't fill your plate with 8 of this and 6 of that that make you 6 and fat and 4 more than what is good 4 you and 2 much of such and such.

If you wake up late at night remember what you 8, turn off the light and go 2 bed, you well-fed ton of lead.

Friday, February 16, 2007


Once upon many wars ago I, and thousands more, and as many of the enemy as we fought a war. Lots of good people on both sides died and most took pride in doing what they were trained to do. All they knew was war must be to defeat the enemy. But after that war subsided most on the losing side realized their cause was wrong. That they had been party to a vicious crime. But it took the degradation of defeat and the truth of history to make them see we, their enemy, were saviors of democracy.

The time was World War II. I, a Jew, vaguely knew about what was going on across the sea to those who died for the same birthright my side honored religiously. Their anti-Semitic laws were a major cause that led us to fight to free the world of tyranny. Victory would depend on killing more of us than we of they. War now rages in Iraq. Some on our side believe there can be no turning back, we must fight and die until the final attack breaks the back of the enemy. It's a different world at war this time around. We are bound to neither win nor lose if our enemies refuse to quit and make this a jihad ride to suicide. This, we cannot abide. The suggestion of dropping an a-bomb is out of the question. Now both sides have that power. We drop, they drop, war's over in an hour. So might be humanity.

War in Europe went on until our soldiers proved to be the best and brought to an end the most brutal crime of modern times. Architects of that war paid for the role they played in trying to remove all traces of Jewish history and bequeath the world to the aryan race. Hitler, master of his disaster, when he knew his cause was lost, committed suicide rather than face the enemy.

Now Germany and most of Europe's free and striving toward democracy. Our former enemy became our friend at the end of World War II. It took millions dead and much bloodshed. But the will is strong there shall never be a sequel to World War Two---World War Three.

The war with Japan began with a sneak attack on our Hawaiian Pacific base, It could have gone on endlessly but American ingenuity created the most destructive force in history, a bomb so capable of devastation it almost destroyed the Japanese nation. It took thousands of dead to end the insanity of war against humanity.

Now after intermittent wars in the Orient, the Middle East. Korea, Africa and other places we know what could be if the world doesn't act responsibly to preserve a peace that will keep all nations free. We could be headed for World War III. And what a tragedy that would be for you and me and all humanly.


Presidunce Bush, once just a crackpot who got selected president because the ding-a-ling did his thing to bring daddy's influence to bear and swing the Court of Selling Voters Short to tramp its own integrity and support the GOP monopoly.

Consider the situations where dollars and sense clash with cash of mountainous amounts to pay for a War of Waste lost in space and nobody willing or able to chase it down. Billions gone and the Pentagon spends on and on to put Iraq back on track after our forces invaded it and tried to trade the goof we made for the spoils of oils and shaft the voters while the corporate crooks reaped in the graft.

Evidence of immense expense pops up in contracts for work shoddily done or not at all, left to fall between the cracks, while Bush and all his party hacks yackity-yack for more tax bucks sucked away from domestic needs to feed the greed of Hallliburton and certain Iraq fakers on the take.

And waiting in the wings, among other things, are the troops Bush wants to spend $100 billion to send, intended to hasten the end of a winless war. These guys are wise enough to know that if they go they might fight and they might die for another lie or two or quite a few Bush will spew before this war is---if ever---through.

What's involved in the problems that probably will never be solved? Billions of billions. Just chicken-feed. Yes in deedy, yes indeed!

Thursday, February 15, 2007


One way or other. we're all, by chance, trapped by happenstance and circumstance, locked in the grip of sick relationships. Unsure of who and what we are, we endure.

We cover up the way we think we are with thick-skinned hides that keep panic deep inside and control the way we deal with real emotions. There's only one key that can unlock the cell to our superficiality, a quality foreign to our personality. That key is total honesty.

Do law abiding citizens recognize lies they tell themselves? Shelves of good intent are filled with laws to enforce a worthy cause, buried in words of wasted debate by elected fools who make or break rules at their behest because they know what's best for the rest of us.
Result: the world's in a mess, The stressed remain the unwilling guests of those who believe illegality and criminality are the only true reality.



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

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

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

Mom held dad, kissed him as she never had before. He never worked again. Like other men of the Great in those days of Depression, he walked the streets, tried here, tried there. He could not hide his agony. He came home weary, kissed his wife, hugged us kids, went to bed. He closed his eyes. He was dead.

Mom survived, kept us together, weathered lean, mean days until FDR and the war brought solvency into our family. All the kids pitched in, a dime, a dollar. sometimes more. We all worked hard, some found success, some suffered pay check stress. More or less we all achieved beyond what mom believed we could.

On the fateful night we all were there. With pride she eyed us, one by one. "I done good, I'm glad," she said, She closed her eyes, now lives with Dad.


How much time? How much more crime? How many dead will it take to make the masses of our nation's population fully aware of the severity and monstrosity of the mayhem committed by the monster American warmonger of all time---George W. Bush, the twice selected/elected willing killer of three thousand-plus GIs? Millions know premeditated murder is not the only crime he is guilty of.

Dubya, the reverse Robbinghood, has meticulously, with the aid of those who chose to be partners in his atrocity, decimated our democracy, He personally initiated and instigated with malicious intent so many violations of the Constitution that went right over the heads of the public weal.

He brazenly set out and succeeded to steal tax dollars from the poor to reward the rich, reduced or eliminated major health benefits covered by Medicare, demonstrated his defiance of proven medical science for reasons that make no sense.

Think this is as bad as it gets? Bush even cut the benefits of Iraq and other vets, alive and dead. And doesn't seem to give a damn, can you believe, for those behind left to grieve?

There's dread of what he still can do in the approximately two years that remain in his littered with dead criminal reign. It's all insane. But when you get a man so vain with a twisted brain, what else can you expect? Problem is, what will Bush try next?

Tuesday, February 13, 2007


I was hungry enough to eat a horse so I had fillet of horse, of course. Now that meat on or off the hoof's my mane dish. I wish I could buy it everywhere but it's only sold in the USA as fare for horses and dogs but not for us and that's unfair.

You can order horse as people food in foreign lands when in the mood, but not in the USA where pigs knuckles, ears or snout are freely dished out and ham or bacon go great, you know, with polatoes on the side, hash or fried.

Bacon and ham come from the butt, to be crass, I mean the ass. Pickled pig's feet are a treat, toes included, nails and all. Pork sausage can include all parts of swine, washed down with wine or with wine or with a cup of joe (that's coffee. not your brother-in-law, HEE HAW! HEE HAW!)

The only part of pig not served here with a meal is the squeal. That's reserved for the squeaky wheel. They turn horses into glue when their racing days are through and shoot 'em dead, or so it's said. and serve them as salami on good rye bread. But not here. We're stuck on steer.

I bet on this horse to win at the track, Upsin Downs. It didn't come through and wound up in a pot of stew. I took my horse for a ride. It would run but would not trot. I loved that steed, paid a lot, but when it got old it was sold for ten cents on the horse collar dollar.

While on vacation in a foreign nation I told the waiter, "Bring me a fatty patty of equine divine and a glass of swine wine." The waiter laughed Hee Haw and brought me a burger ground from the tongue of my mother-in-law.

But to this day horse for us is a neigh neigh.

Sunday, February 11, 2007


If George Bush has a legacy it will be the shame of a failed president who wanted to see how much he could get away with to pave his way to power at our expense. When he found out there was little he could do without becoming the butt of critical ridicule and condemnation, he started to fiddle with the Constitution and gave the fear of terrorism as justification for his actions.

When the terrorist tactic failed to justify his veiled rejection of the nation's traditional values of freedom and individuality, he belittled his opponents, called them unpatriotic, disloyal to friends, neighbors and loved ones during times of constant threat from foreign enemies and ethnic sympathizers.

This fear technique, as predicted, was widely rejected, as expected, and he, not the loyal citizenry, was accused of aiding and abetting the enemy at the expense of an unthreatening foreign-born minority. He stands, at the sunset of a discredited regime, a president of low esteem, an enemy of the very values he claimed to be the champion of in the land of freedom he claims he loves.

Bush is branded as the modern version of a Republican of yesteryears, Joseph McCarthy, who spread fears that Russian "commies" planned an atomic attack. It proved just as false as claims of WMDs in the arsenals of Iraq.

Both events caused America great expense, billions spent on national defense that proved to be a waste of wealth that will haunt our nation for generations. Similarities between ambitions of these two politicians should make us realize lies can be the keys to power, can destroy our free democracy.

We said no to Joe years ago. Our vow: say no to Dubya here and now!


Where oh where is IBM to control the whole mishmash of war? We've got computers ad finitim, item after item of fight 'em weapons able and capable of killing the enemy, but nothing but the White House corps to battle the bigger enemy, the P and D (Pentagon and Defense) of the Blackhole waste of military tomfoolery.

A million here, a billion there, a trillion somewhere in the lair of unaccountability. An immense expense in more calculators than you can count to figure out the amount spent and where it went, who sent what and how and wow! thar she blows, the woes of war, not on the killing fields but where intelligence yields to incompetence and the inability to count to three without the aid of fingers and toes and PhDs, unable to remember with ease, multiplication tables and the Golden Rule learned in grammar school.

The media, like a ship floundering in a pounding sea, who long ago forgot the meaning of the word objectivity, is assigned the task to ask questions, make suggestions of how to stem the cost, find lost tanks and planes, missing missiles and all too human brainless brains, the gut of what war's all about.

The winners of battles in Iraq, wounded by bullets and ack-ack flack attack, may wind up with medals on their chest and lose an arm or leg in the process. Winners in Congress will be those who have success cleaning up the mess left by a party in distress. Hopefully, they'll possess the will to do the job and not hobnob with the lobby screw up crew and act independently in their decision-making capacity.

Probes will go on until all the opposition's gone. No doubt, they'll scream and shout, then figure out a plan to replace the one debased, erased. Shame is, they'll be different in name and content, not in intent.

So let the game go on!

Friday, February 09, 2007


It began on a day at dawn. The sun didn't rise. Surprise! It just popped up in the sky suddenly, instantly. A switch was flipped which changed the sky from dark night to bright morning light. The moon could still be seen, a ghostly green, fading quickly from the scene. White puffs of cloud left over from t night soared heavenward like birds in panic flight. One by one they deserted the sun. One by one. Then there were none.

There never was a sky so blue. A sun bonfire bright seared the skin. turned trees to ashes in an instant, insistently. Grass, once lush, luscious green. turned yellow, brown, then deadly gray, blades blown away like scraps of hay, scurried like tumble weed, hurried by. Why? It had no place to go or grow. This was so.

Beds of lakes, of streams and oceans, too, had not a notion what to do, but knew what their waters were going through. Liquid life reached full boil, gave way to rocks and sandy soil. Flying fish, sharks and seals, slippery eel, carp, catfish, cod, all God created, waited. The watery world evaporated.

At least some creatures, man and beast, found temporary shelter here and there, gasping in the sun-dried air, hoping night would return, cool the blazing sun. The day of heat passed, at last. The moon returned, cast its glow. A thousand thousand stars multiplied, tried to find a place in space.

Eyes watched in wonder through the night as stars winked, twinkled bright. The moon looked down on the world below. The air was cool in the summer night. No one had an inkling what was to be.

The moon disappeared. Onlookers feared they knew not what. Stars collided, decided to explode, returned to dust as all things must. Twinkling ceased in massive patches like burned out matches. In the time it took the light in the sky to die so, too, did all the guests who lived at God's behest. It happened just as science predicted. Earth's children didn't pay their rent so all were evicted. Who inherited this wasted place in space?

All that's left. Roaches and rats.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007


Humpty Dumpty Dubya, the total flop, is still on top but according to the Constitution there is a solution to this pollution that's infecting our democracy, I't's called IMPEACH the Creep, the leach on the nation's economy, dignity and integrity.

How can you convince this master of incompetence, who makes no sense but whose arrogance and contempt convince him he's exempt from all the laws of the land, to atone for all his crimes? When (not if) he's found guilty, send this illegal president to serve hard time like any convicted con.

Shame him. Blame him. Name him Public Enemy Number One to Ten. Serial Killer of three thousand GIs, and thousands more. The charge is premeditated murder in the first degree. That's lenient considering the deviant still holds the title of Chief of Enough Stuff.

Until this illegal, self-invented president is sent up the river, or hung by his dad's gonads until he confesses to the mess he got the U.S. in, let him dangle, let him strangle, let him try to wangle out of the mangled tangle he has created that has downgraded and denigrated the reputation of our nation coast to coast and in most of our once loyal, oil starved allies and sometime friendly enemies.

We've had crooks and connivers and reckless drivers like Bush on the Books before. Most had to pay for what they've done. So why should that Son of Bush go scott free? Isn't this still a democracy where all, from presidents to peasants, are treated equally?

Fear not, the world will still survive even if the Wanted are sentenced Dead or Alive. America will still go on after Humpty Dumpty Dubya's gone.

Sunday, February 04, 2007


Come along with me on Gullable's Travels to the Island of Illusion. Bid goodbye to all your conclusions and preset notions as you sail across an ocean to an unreal reality.

The first thing you'll learn as you turn into the Bay of No Return is that in spite of what Columbus found the world is not round. But then it's also not square or any shape anywhere. The truth is, the world is not here or there, it is nowhere.

Then how, you say, can your ship be in this bay with natives shouting "hip hooray!" urging you to come and stay and be their guest for ever and a day if there's no world and they and you are surrounded by the ocean blue? No confusion. This is the Island of Illusion.

The single topic in this tropic is to engage your every fantasy. So enjoy my boy! Enjoy! Enjoy! Let life become your toy. Land ahoy!

Welcome their hospitality and share the imaginary feast they've planned on land which isn't there. What's to eat can't be beat. Beef beyond belief, kosher salami, hot pastrami, cookies baked by your own mommy, yummy food to fill your tummy, Perfume floating on the breeze, Viagra growing on the trees. Take off your shoes, choose your booze. Shed those clothes, expose your toes, your nose, your these and those, fool-a with a naked hula.

Imagination, hallucination can satisfy your frustration in this halucinary sanctuary in a sea of fantasy that defies reality. You make your own morality based on your vitality and sexuality. What you want is what you get. You ain't seen nothin' yet. Anything goes. All's O. K. The palm trees sway. They seem to say; "Stay and play another day. Don't go away!"

So when you sail back to the waiting world, fraught with frustration and confusion, plan your next vacation on your secret Island of Illusion. It's calling you out in the blue somewhere in the nowhere way out there.

Saturday, February 03, 2007


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

The guess is there were other humanoids in the void of distant space who sought a place just like theirs a trillion light year away. Did they perish in their endeavor, never to achieve success?

Is intergalactic exploration going on? Will it continue when we're gone? When Earth's life has expired and all the wealth we've acquired is worth less than less, when all that's left are empty plains and flesh-stripped bones, working cell phones, melting ice cream cones and fossilized remains of Bush's brain and evidence 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 occur now or ever again?


Some kisses give me blahs, some bliss. This I pondered as I wandered about trying my kisses out on other oscillator volunteers from coast to coast. They needed one qualification to participate in my investigation: they had to be equipped with lips.

Land a goashes, halitosis left me breathless. I dismissed these kissers after one brief kiss. Those with braces on their teeth, although kissable, were ruled inadmissible after one cut my lip and clung to my tongue. Some contestants were old, some young, some tall or short, fat or thin. All were eager to begin. And I found out what I'd been missing in my kissing.

Kissing often is inspired by fires kindled down below that grow as they go from thighs to eyes and everything inbetween. They set the scene for actions and reactions clean or obscene but all are satisfying, worth the trying.

Kisses can come from the heart or crotch or taper off a notch by those who know what to do and know when they're through. A smooch can send you to the moon, remind you of an old-time tune, last too long or end too soon, start quite right, end quite wrong.

A kiss can taste like fine vintage wine when tongues entwine but if store bought teeth get in the way they can spoil a perfect day


Every day, from dusk till dawn, this is what goes on the world around in every city, and every town, save a few who have better things to do: Men open their eyes, surprised what they see---the world still here, temporarily? They stretch, shrug, scratch, rise, put feet to rug, answer nature's call, check the clock on the wall. Is all still well? Hard to tell.

Like the rest, I don my bulletproof vest, have breakfast with my wife, kiss my kids off to school or out to play. They know daddy's going away but he does that every day. He's off to fight the war. But isn't that what daddies are for?

I watch the morning news on CBS or NBC or some program locally to learn what is, what might be. Soon my crave begins, the caffein bean, juices its brewing produces, hot and black, prelude to the waiting scene.

After a roll, , eggs and ham I sigh, kiss my wife goodbye,get in my car, drive off to war in a car I share with neighbor Ted who will be dead in time for chow. That is how things are in this war. You fight and kill or die eight hours a day. No war on weekends, On holidays? Well that depends. You never know, you come and go and if you're killed this was your day to die. Don't as why.

"If I'm still alive by noon, or if peace comes soon, I'll break for lunch, okay? If things go wrong, so long." With a lump in my throat and fear in my heart, I'm off to war. I'll just have time before it starts for a cup of tea and a snack. then it's me against the enemy. Will I come back, will he? What will be will be. We we fight a war to decide who's right but neither We nor They know what right might be. So we must fight on until most troops are dead; If there are fewer among the Wrongs fighting the Rights then the Wrongs are Right and the Rights are Wrong.

This i war began in 2104, New Year's Day, the beginning of a new century. It's not a war fueled by hate, rather a debate with bullets as bait. A war no-one's losing, no-one's winning, Is this the beginning of the end? Or the end of a new beginning? The cliche response: only time will tell. Up till now time's silent as hell.

This is a gentlemanly war. When we kill we apologize. When soldiers die both sides cry. Both know what to expect next. There's mutual respect. There's no brutality. Only military reality. That's the well-kept rule of war in the year 2104.

If I die it will be comforting to know I'm mourned by friend and foe. There will one day be peace. But who share the glory? With millions dead and millions dying and too few trying to make peace a lasting reality---well, we'll just have to wait and see.

But that's another story.


Are trillions of believers victims of shrewd deceivers who use the word of God, who preach and teach what they say the Lord said and they know it's so because they read it in the Bible.

In churches great and churches small and those who have no church at all, men and women who answered the call to spread His word repeat what some so easily forget: "Trust in God. He will never let you down." These words profound are told to young and old. Some are sold, others doubt.

Cynics cry out: "It's a LIE!" And if you ask them why they look up to the sky, point a finger and sigh. "Billions die needlessly by acts of God and Man. By far, from war. And from pain caused by hurricanes, floods and other things caused by God that man cannot understand or explain. Does the Bible tell when will sorrow cease? When will the world live in peace?"

When you hear in cliche what preachers say to defend the wrath God hath wrought you cannot but doubt what they say to chase the guilt away, When you hear hell fire and thunder from the pulpit don't you wonder what it's all about? Is it a plot to save or control your soul? Is he who states the word of God debating or perpetuating fraud?

Pause and think. There never was a Santa Claus. Laws of logic cannot be denied. As children grow wiser they decide Santa's just a fairy tale created to boost the sale of toys for good little girls and boys, If a child is poor, must endure privation, near starvation, how can he be served by Santa, saved by God, both frauds?

If you had a friend you could depend on in your need and he agreed, then skipped town and let you down, would you blame him or God? If you pray day after day for pain to go away, if you asked God not to let your mother die and there was no reply when your father asked "Why?" would it be fair to say God is a fraud? Or He doesn't care? Or He was never there?