Twice As Good
I tripped on my own bad leg
And ascertained that I wasn’t dead
So I kept on going my own lonesome way
Till I ran into you and begged to be fed.
You were plump, you were loose,
You were the best damn thing
In the house to boot! So how
Could I ever go away again?
You’re better than ever and twice as good
As you need be to make me stay,
Enough piss and vinegar to stick up for yourself,
And that’s a boon to all mankind (especially me).
1st draft: 05/31/06
©2006 Ronald C. Southern
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Twice As Good
Monday, May 29, 2006
He says: "Simply for the asking get the collaborative poetry and lit microzine Calliope Nerve issues I and II. Email your address to nobius AT gmail.com (no attachments please).
The debut issues feature works by Sheila Murphy, Billy Jno Hope, J.D. Nelson, James Dilworth, Ron Southern, and many more.
Now accepting submissions of unpublished and previously published works but again no attachments please/subject line Calliope Nerve submission.
Calliope Nerve is an ongoing zine featuring innovative short lit and poetry of all styles. Poetry is the air we breathe and the blood in our veins. All of our words are our children, God is in the ink."
He'll mail copies until he runs out of money or blood or ink, I imagine!
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Oh, sure, I ended up talking to them on the phone and they had this nifty explanation about how I hadn't clicked the right buttons while signing up for the obfuscating son of a bitch. I believe that, I understand it because I make mistakes. What I don't understand is why there were no good explanations of those boxes that LET me indicate the wrong thing! They ask you obscure-sounding questions while you're in the midst of signing up for a new service that's already intimidating enough, and it's my fucking fault for clicking the wrong box? I told the nice young lady on the phone that I didn't want any more explanation about it, that all of old Yahoo and all of the new Yahoo put together were not worth the aggravation they were causing me. I told her if I happened to accidentally figure out how to follow her instructions at some future date, that would just be manna from heaven.
They are lucky there is no simple way for the public to easily click the right box and send them all to hell, because that's one thing I can guarantee would SOON be done! Yeah, the lady on the phone may be nice, but the buggers who run the company and write the Internet scripts are all a bunch of unapprehended Ken Lays. (They're all so sweet and so honest and wouldn't do anybody any harm...yet everything they turn out is crap!)
Saturday, May 27, 2006
(Falling In Love With Your Friend)
Kiss me with your eyes closed
and I will dream again,
more true than any other
in love with love and you.
What prizes these all are!
To kiss again and rise up when,
to raise high hopes
of pride and joy in lust again,
to seek bright love by Braille or sight,
to ride that rigid razor's edge
(straight as a vibrant spear is thrown)
that only you could hone.
But, God, this long delay! The way that time draws out
yet curves away and draws your flesh
no closer to my own nor brings your voice to speak,
your lips express, the love of which I dream.
Dear one, your heart's my own;
your soul is mine, is home.
To kiss you now would but complete one being—
we are two halves just one-half beat apart!
The heart that beats in you so strong
and longs for love and wrenches wildly from defeat,
that heart could flare with crimson buds
like thick-leaved green kalanchoes florescing in the dark,
could reach for heaven past all that's grim and stark
and like a gray catbird could deftly sing a song so calm
it glides above and rings the unrimmed roof cathedral-wide
with psalms too sweet and clear for any cross-eyed church conceit!
“I'm fall-down blind in love, bright star,” he cried,
but every time I rise again,
you stand there and insist
you're not the woman I insist you are!”
“I'm not the moonlight you adore, that's true,” she sighed,
“or some wise repose or skewed white shadow of you,
not some maiden wide and warm, supine or going nova—
close kin perhaps—a friend—but not the kind you have in mind!”
Dear one, your heart's your own,
your soul the same, I know.
I court you on this page as if life and I are fair,
yet we both know we'll spend and end our lives alone—
at any rate, not together.
But, oh, this burst of loving you
wrings new life from the dead,
brings me up and flings me back,
confounding all that I just said!
Dear heart, the pain, rejoice!
To be awake so suddenly,
to come alive headlong!
To feel things right for once
after such a long time wrong!
But, God, this gone-awry unguarded ardent bliss!
Brave heart! Mirage! I'm dizzy and I shake
like that unslaked tail-winged butterfly that clings,
rhapsodic, quivering, drinking in all that
pistil-sweet solution in my yard I can't get in!
Here, kiss me with your lips apart
and I will ply you with this playful art
(“Let passion live and rule!” I plead),
more true in mind to this dim euphonious dream of you—
SHE does not lightly scorn bright love
like it's some luxury or stain
or claim she has to shun it
like she does cocaine—
more true in mind to one like you, I cry,
than any other fool you'll find
in love with love and you!
10th draft: 05/27/06
©1982 Ronald C. Southern
Okay, I know I'm cheating by writing less lately and just finding poems and "stuff" to put here. I've had a bad backache since unloading my damn new computer and it's not conducive to clear thought or writing grand pieces of fiction or observation! I plead being a sick person, which should come as no surprise to anyone who's been here before! Not to mention, I'm crazy as a loon most of the time anyway. If "they" come and take me away, you'll all be sorry. I think. I certainly will be.
Friday, May 26, 2006
This winding way is hurling me
To heaven through descent,
My hopeless heaven hopeful
That I might yet relent.
Observe how what is frail will quail
At the opening of doors that were torn
In closing, will pale and turn unhinged
At dawn's flung gate thrown wide, exposing—
But wait! Wait for the more and the less!
Teach us: for whom did our martyr
Consent and confess? Oh, Christ,
This is not more, but less!
This hurtling way is hurting me,
By fault and by success;
Brave men here are haunted by
What men afraid repressed.
4th draft: 05/26/06
©1980 Ronald C. Southern
If anybody needs any help with their blog operations, go to Blogger Help Group; there's smarter people than me there who might help you over a rough spot. Depending on your timing, you might see a lot of signatures by "Rat" there, though I don't promise that they're all jewels of thought!
Thursday, May 25, 2006
What lives in the shadow of power
is mine, is yours, is free.
What moves the heart each hour
conveys no sense of strength or power to see--
how else could weak men praise
this vale of bitter flowers?
What creeps through the shadows slowly
cowers in the dappled light;
dawn's break shows all things truly,
confirms what all have taught:
the light that feeds the flower
will tower high above
and shadow men's poor power!
Why else should strong men curse
their bitter loss this hour?
4th draft: 05/25/06
©1980 Ronald C. Southern
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
(Dogger Gatsby’s 1989 Monologue In A Letter to Phil)
I write this in reference to all the things that never came to fruition and all the things that did, but then came to ruin!
Things pile up, in my life and in my mind, like junk in a dusty attic. Whether dumb or smart I am no longer certain, but I was always primarily a brain—a consciousness, I mean—and as I get older that characteristic becomes more dominant, not less. Maybe you understand what I mean, or simply remember that about me. You can't do much with me except talk, I'm afraid—especially now that I don't drink or do drugs. If you recall that of me, then you'll understand when I say that most women find me pretty much the same, except worse, and I'm not sure what to say about that. In some cases, it seems, women don't really like to talk, but in others they talk more than we do. Whichever is more typical, I am not in the mainstream of either activity, but in the cold.
I just watched “The Big Chill” again on cable the other night. I liked it better than I did the first time—the first time, it merely irritated me!—but I swear I think I understood it less. I still don't particularly know what they mean by the title. Oh, yes, I heard the dialogue about things being “frosty” out there in the real world, and so forth. But I've always felt that frost, or at least I thought I did. Now, I'm confused again.
Does nostalgia for one's old college and/or revolutionary chums spell out one's final demise from the old life? Does it proclaim the actual event or signal the absolutely compelling need that's in us to Emerge (like some catastrophic butterfly!) into bold adulthood before “it's” too late?
Butterfly. The adult stage of the order Lepidoptera,' which includes the moths, too, of course. It's mostly a difference in their antennae, as I recall, that sets them apart. Perhaps a more interesting name for an order is Ephemeroptera (as in ephemeral, you know). I believe it's the order that mayflies belong to.
This is it: “Ephemeral, from the Greek, meaning: lasting a day. Short-lived, transitory.” Butterflies don't do much better, nor does Man, not really. At least, not this man.
Strange, isn't it, to be “Men” now? It is for me, at any rate, because my sense of responsibility has increased so little. Peter Pan still floats around in my blood stream like a leaf in a stream, a fluid insensibility that's never been squashed. No matter what, one gets more middle-class, though—can't stand to live without this or with that, can't take the discomfort of certain places, faces, and situations. Just can't take it, really. My physical stamina is gone, gone, gone. Some of it's psychological, certainly, but much of it is simple body-rot. Ha! That much misunderstood, little-envied evolutionary process.
If “Man” is meant to evolve into a higher consciousness, it doesn't do one damn bit of good for individual men who are only destined to evolve into fertilizer. Maybe the smart thing to do would be to make babies and walk around with a dumb look on my face.
No, not really. I still can't stand babies. They want all the attention, and I have never gotten enough of it yet myself. I probably never will. And how could I be responsible for another when I've never yet been responsible for myself? Besides, it ordinarily takes a second party to make one of those, and the general prejudice is that it should be someone who loves you. I accept the prejudice, though not the apparent goal. Yes, the smart thing to do would be to find someone smart enough that I could stand to have babies with her, and then be smart enough to not have the babies. Ah. This doesn't mean very much, does it? I'm rattling on, like something broken.
(Note: If Dogger had lived, perhaps like the rest of us, he’d have not only married, but learned by now to like babies.)
3rd draft: 05/24/06
©1989 Ronald C. Southern
I guess my stupid damn blog only looks good (or only looks Right) in Internet Explorer. Firefox and Netscape certainly do all they can to make me look bad. Does it bother me? Yes.
Do I want to fix it? NO! I don't want to be bothered with any more arcane aggravating bullshit just now.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Mark Twain: "The fact that man knows right from wrong proves his intellectual superiority to other creatures; but the fact that he can do wrong proves his moral inferiority to any creature that cannot."
What is more horrifying than flesh?
Flesh that is fat or thin or fine,
Flesh that is white or tan or scorched,
Flesh that is cool or hot or torched
By passions that emphasize the burrowed flesh,
Passions that drive us to drink, to folly,
To felons of abandoned ardor
Or faggots of futile desire--
Keep watch and wait.
Watch for the heedless horror
That crucifies desire;
Watch how this deedless sorrow
Mirrors madness in the fire.
4th draft: 05/23/06
©1980 Ronald C. Southern
Monday, May 22, 2006
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Hot Chick (sorta)
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Friday, May 19, 2006
Thursday, May 18, 2006
"I know you'll be gentle when you fuck me," she said.
Her voice was sweet. She caressed the back of his neck gently. He smiled and nodded.
"I'll fuck you til you can't say fuck," he thought cruelly.
And when he'd finally lulled her into closing her eyes and opening her legs, he jammed himself inside of her and fucked her so hard that her body jerked convulsively back and forth on the bed. Her head was pounded mercilessly against the wall behind her. Her tears flowed so fast that she thought she'd gone blind. She wanted him to stop, more than anything, of course, but his viciousness, combined with his weight on top of her, had completely overwhelmed her; she couldn’t make herself speak, she couldn't say "Stop!"
She laid there like a senseless thing, relaxing her legs and buttocks, moaning and sighing, letting him fuck her any damn way he wanted to. He thought she liked it. She thought she hated him worse than poison, but didn’t have the spit to say so. It would be a long night, no matter how soon he stopped.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Another Page From Deceased Dogger Gatsby's Diary
My friend Bill says he’ll come this weekend. Jesus, tomorrow already. But he's supposed to phone tonight and say for certain, so he could still back out. He wants to go to the Rainbow People's gathering in Angelina State Park on July 4th. I don't guess I'll go with him. They're a sort of hippie group who've never died out, a collection of the old kind of creative misfits. An odd bit of business has been going on here, with the local authorities all vying for position as to which is the most hostile to the group.
To make it short, I think their shriveled little fascist-redneck hearts are more stirred up by the advent of the Rainbow people than they've been in years. Invasion of people from another planet, that's how they seem to see it, and it's crazy. It's as if the past 20 years never occurred. No progress whatsoever. Every tight-assed, legalistic barrier is being put in their way, and the cops are manning the roads trying to make drug busts of suspicious looking vehicles that might be headed for the campsites. What a lot of fucking bastards. Is there no end to our just being shitty to one another?
“Love me, love my dog,"
That's the cry of every blog.
"Whether I am pretty or perverse,
Or hateful, bland, or kind,
You say you found me and liked me first
And like some sick child's nurse
Must love me now as if you're deaf and blind."
2nd draft 5/16/06
©Ronald C. Southern 2004
Monday, May 15, 2006
The Level Of My Ennui
The level of my ennui has gone way up and wild
And any heart to stick with it has departed.
What difference does it make
When my light and my support are gone
And all the dark decisions and dim designs
Of latter days are all gone to blazes
Like a piss in the morning haze.
I smashed myself with a hammer,
I tripped myself on my tongue.
I fumbled my grip on everything
And I stumbled on my best intentions
Which I knew weren’t worth a dime.
1st draft: 05/15/06
©2006 Ronald C. Southern
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Now my momma hears it all the time. The people who use it on the TV sitcoms and in polite company these days don't seem to mean anything like that, I guess, though they never, never specify. It’s all been whitewashed and watered down and toned down and has turned to mushy meal in their feeble mouths. ALL meaning seems to be gone. Maybe most of them are younger than I am and think it's a charming antiquity that means only "sucks the dirt from a vacuum cleaner hose" or something innocuous like that? Oh, is THAT what it means? I DON’T THINK SO! Bunch of nitwits!
I don't mind people using an obscenity to make their point, I just mind them using it like it's not an obscenity and I mind their not HAVING a point! For most modern users, it’s an obscurity, and they’re damn proud to use it that way and for it not to mean anything! I can’t say how much I regret all the simpering know-nothing bastards that have taken control of the world these days! I hate their miserable guts. I think they suck. I want the purity of my familiar guttersnipe world back!
For some time now, a "Presentation Rat" has occupied the space below the posts. I'll stick with him as a more handsome version, but here's the "real" deal; a "presentation rat" more in line with how I feel these days--feeble and shaky!
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Oh, hell, another weekend. People are off having fun again or else they're painting the house. Maybe they went to the movies; I hate movies, they burst my eardrums! There's nobody here but my baby, and she's getting to be old stuff. Not her fault, though, it's mine.
She's still pretty, but I expect that yours is softer and has wittier conversation!
Friday, May 12, 2006
I've used this before, but I'm a glutton for punishment and sexy animal photos. I've got some from the zoo and the public roads that I probablly couldn't get away with here! Dream on.
Some say I'm nasty.
Some say I'm a hill of beans.
Some say I'm bi-polar, but it don't mean a thing.
I'm a demon and will meet you in hell!
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Here's a photo of a Grey "ringer" just for testing; I'll probably remove it after I see what it does! (Click for larger image.)
Oh, that was too easy! Screw Photobucket! Well, maybe not...might be uncomfortable. More later about Ole Dog Grey!
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
I needed a test photo to put in Photobucket and try it out here as a hedge against the day that I may not have the use of my present host on the Internet. Anyway, it was a test. This is the dog that owns my heart, no matter that he's a long time dead.
I meet people and little kids even now and think, "I wish they could meet Grey!" Sort of like with my sister's grandkids, I wish sometimes they could have met my father, who died years before they were born. I know my Dad would have thought Shauna was very sweet and would have grinned and thought little John was the very devil! So, I have to be the one to think it. And I have to do the remembering of that good ole dog Gray.
Microbes Convert Wastewater into Useable Electricity is not a lengthy article, but it's interesting. Or you can just mull over the headline (I just gave it) without further lifting a finger! Know whut I mean?
If everybody who visits here left me a nickel, I might be able to buy toilet paper, not much more. Which is to say, big deal! Why won't you buy me a new car, dammit?! Because I am not worthy, I guess. Can't fool nobody these days. Sigh...
When women begin to blog about fashion and hairstyles, especially if they are being critical of others, I want to puke. Of course, what I really do is I just get up and leave the blog. It's easier than in real life, where you have to pretend to be going out for a beer or a carwash!
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
I don’t recall that many dreams, good or bad, but I must have had a bad one the other night! I couldn’t tell if I was awake or asleep, but opened my eyes and thought I saw a snake lying on the bed in front of my face! I was on my side, sleepy, and started to close my eyes and refuse to deal with it. I was SO TIRED. Then some other part of my brain or autonomic panic response kicked in and I rose furiously in the semi-dark room like a helicopter or something. Me and all the pillows and covers left the bed in one quick sweep! Staring back at the bed, I saw no snake, nothing. If it was real, it could now be anywhere on the floor, including under the bed stuff I was standing on! With great difficulty I found my way to a light—I’d landed on the wrong side of the bed—and turned the light on. I got a big flashlight and looked all around.
Eventually, finding nothing, it seemed like a lot of imagination might have done me in. Did anything really happen? About this time I saw a big blood smear on the bed sheet and wondered if I’d squashed something. Maybe a large bug or small grass snake (such as the one who was crawling in the hallway a few weeks ago)! Then, it dawned on me to see if I was bleeding. I checked everywhere and finally found a smear of blood on my elbow. Had I been bitten, stung? Or had I just scraped or scratched myself during the night or during the panic? Oh, hell, I was SO SLEEPY and just wanted to go back to bed!
Finally I did go back to bed, but I left the nearest lamp turned on all night. No more snakes. Just the shakes. What a weenie I am.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Hmm. Is that perky enough? Confused enough? Spoiling enough? Crude enough? Daft enough? Oh, let's all go home and fart til we go blind; this is not a productive day.
By: Steve Miller
Kow Kow Calqulator
Was a very smooth operator
Had himself a pet alligator
Kept it in a chrome elevator, yeah
When the sun began to shine
The alligator come outside
Kow Kow played the chimes
Together they would go for a ride
As they travelled with a heavy load
They came across a dead horse at the side of the road
With two generals standing at each end
Fighting over whose fault it had been
And all that's left was this war
And they couldn't get things back together like they were before
Turn on your love light
Turn it on, let it shine
Inside your heart
Let it shine, turn it on
Your love light
Turn it on
Turn it on
Let it shine
Inside your mind
So many times Kow Kow had heard it said before
Oh, don't, Lord, don't go near that door
The cause of our evil you'll uncover
Because of our misery you discover
Well, misery seeks its own company
Kow Kow had heard it said
Now he sits there crying
Oh, with his hands across his head
Kow Kow Calqulator
Oh, a very smooth operator
Get back in your elevator
Kow Kow Calqulator
Turn on your love light
Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh
Let it shine
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Dwight D. Eisenhower: "I can think of nothing more boring for the American people than to have to sit in their living rooms for a whole half hour looking at my face on their television screens."
Friday, May 05, 2006
Thursday, May 04, 2006
I went to the library one day for a quick book or two and before I left, I met this wonderfully charming young woman in line to check out. She was there with her little boy (about 6 or 8, I guess). He seemed like a nice kid, too. That was the problem—she was so young, perhaps her twenties. She, too, was just a kid. But very friendly and very charming.
I must say I yearned for her acquaintance, even if only perhaps to see her again at the library. Maybe her charm would wear off quickly, but it didn’t so far. She said she was a biology major at Mosquito University, had lately been reading about things like parapsychology. Woop, what do I care about stuff like that?
Her kid was checking out science books (ecology, for one, and a picture book on fish) for his summer reading. Where do such inquisitive kids come from here in Podunk, Texas?
Ah, well, the torpid observations of an ever-failing dirty old man. I’m still here, but I never saw her a second time. Women who aren't very glad to see me seem to come out of the woodwork, though.
Well, I got my Sandisk installed, easily on the new computer, with much travail on the old computer. I've transferred a few files, the ones I need for Blogger Help Group. So I've done it, but the Sandisk was not very clear about how to Copy or otherwise designate the files on my hard disk to be copied! I figured it out once, but it was obtuse and I can only hope I can figure it out a second time. Maybe I should go try right now.
This'll be a long delay, so don't hold your breath!
Well, that partly worked and partly didn't. Still, it's encouraging. It shows me I can copy the right files without deleting them entirely! Some went into the correct folders and some all jumped into a single directory! That's an odd thing for it to do when it was a single command for the whole list! In any case, it's partly done and entirely encouraging.
Soon I'll have everything in one place where it belongs. Goddamn hoo ha! That's my story, and I'm sticking to it!
You read those books where luxury
Comes as a guest to take a slave
Books where artists in noble poverty
Go like virgins to the grave
Don't you get sensitive on me
'Cause I know you're just too proud
You couldn't step outside the Boho dance now
Even if good fortune allowed
Extract from "The Boho Dance" on Joni Mitchell's album "The Hissing of Summer Lawns"
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Squibble and squabble, tibble and topple,
Everything's going on and nothing!
Bush won't stay off the airwaves
Or get off the dime or even get a new dime
And everyone else I know has either
Too much or too little character
And perpetually hangs around here too long!
So where's that at?
Go and call Dr. Phil, he'll tell you,
Tell it loud, make you proud to be
A famous fuckup prick on his TV show
For 15 minutes, not longer.
You went in beating your children
And came out with Dr. Phil paying your psycho bills--
It's not a bad deal, I'd say,
For a demented degenerate loser skunk like you are!
1st draft: 05/03/06
©2006 Ronald C. Southern
I was on the brink just now of getting my Sandisk device installed, but I'm told that I need to load a driver on the old machine and somehow the CD drive won't even open the door! I could scream. I can't move any files, after all. My nephew might fix it, but not this instant; he's at work. The CD player always worked when I didn't give a damn, but now it chooses to die when I won't even need it but this one last time! I can still play on this new computer and DSL, but I wanted to move those files. I thought it would happen NOW! Fat chance. I may just plug it in, but I have no reason to think it has files in it that will recognize it. I barely recognize it. I didn't even know which end was which until I pulled on the device and was surprised to see which end had a plastic cover that came off. I ain't smart enough or alert enough for all this tribulation. I'm sick and get dizzy easily and angry even easier!!!
Send money, guns, and lawyers--I need all the help I can get!
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
p.s. Okay, okay, so I can't keep my numbers straight! What difference does it make now that the 5.25" floppies are so defunct to anybody who doesn't have the old computers? I don't even know what day it is; but I'm retired, so it's not often required, dammit!