Samuel Johnson: "Your manuscript is both good and original, but the part that is good is not original and the part that is original is not good."
a man who had fallen among thieves
lay by the roadside on his back
dressed in fifteenthrate ideas
wearing a round jeer for a hat
fate per a somewhat more than less
emancipated evening
had in return for consciousness
endowed him with a changeless grin
whereon a dozen staunch and Meal
citizens did graze at pause
then fired by hypercivic zeal
sought newer pastures or because
swaddled with a frozen brook
of pinkest vomit out of eyes
which noticed nobody he looked
as if he did not care to rise
one hand did nothing on the vest
its wideflung friend clenched weakly dirt
while the mute trouserfly confessed
a button solemnly inert.
Brushing from whom the stiffened puke
i put him all into my arms
and staggered banged with terror through
a million billion trillion stars
by E.E. Cummings
I saw a little lame boy with red hair and too many newspapers under his small arm, jammed against his sweaty shirt, while he was selling the papers on the street corner. He sold to cars that paused at his intersection, making sales quickly or else not at all. He seemed disinterested, maybe dreamy, but stayed on his feet. He was on the job, but not with much effort, and seemed out of place.
One doesn't think much of things like that happening any more. I was a passenger in the car, so I got a good look. He resembled the actor who played Forrest Gump as a little boy. But he didn't seem so cute. He looked tired. Sun-burned a little. Traffic whizzed on past him while the drivers looked anywhere except at him. It wasn't really a safe intersection for him, but it never seems safe for the flower sales-people who sometimes occupy the same locale, so I guess it's safe enough that the cops don't stop them. Or is it just that the cops don't want to fuck with them?
Dogger Gatsby: Many people and events in my life are so lost to my memory, it's as if I had not really lived part of my own life. What about you?
I followed some good instructions from another how-to site and carried them out pretty accurately so that now I have a tiny signature (my initials) in place of my "posted by" name. It's a graphic, or image, or whatever. For some reason now, the 3 little pigs (I mean, letters) refuse to rest in the same plane as the text, as if the text signature were still there invisibly occupying space. So the initials can't fully come to rest! I wonder why that is? I wonder even more if it is changeable? There's one or two bright bulbs out there who read me on occasion and who might know about this, if I'm lucky enough to get read this week! I'd like to fix it, but if I can't, I'll find something else to twitter and worry about. As soon as I'm through being tired about this, I intend to go back and erase/add some pixels and fix up the "s" in the initials. I think I doctored that "s" one time too many and need to reverse what I did! Until then, some of you probably won't even notice it. And some of you will probably think, "That's not how you spell Elmer Fudd, is it?!" And you may be right.
This is the kind of thank-you note I sometimes get over on my help blog, "Most Frequent Blogger Questions". It's a typical note, not usually long, but pleasant! I love to get my thank-you's, even though they are from strangers. It must appeal to the Good Samaritan (or the Lone Ranger?) in me without me having to subscribe to any damn religion. It's just something that gets done, that's all. Sort of like the concept of good karma or that sticky movie, "Pay It Forward". Someday the karma may pay off--if not for me, then for someone else. It's worth the investment, because it's always a small thing on my side and often a very big deal to the other party! Information is a treasure in many senses. If you have it, it's good to give it. If you need it, it's a blessing to get it in a free and open exchange. Enough said. My hippie shoes are showing.
Here's that message: "Thanks for your article "how to implement permalinks" I spent four hours tearing my hair out trying to copy info etc and failing time after time - how simple it was when I did the copy shortcut thingy! Thanks you are a Gentleman!"
One of the neighbors was greeting the new neighbor, who'd just introduced himself.
"I just now noticed that those plants are gone on your side of the fence," Oldham said.
"You mean those Pampas Grass things? Yeah, I tore them out of there first thing yesterday--hate those things worse than monkey grass!" said Newman.
I never liked the idea much myself," Oldham said. "They grow up to be enormous. Then they're hosts for fire ants, wasps, mice, rats, any kinda pests, you name it!"
Newman nodded and said, "Lizards, too. They scattered in every direction when I started digging and pulling each one up!" he laughed.
"That's a new one on me," Oldham grinned. "But they eat some insects, so I guess they can't be categorized as pests!"
"Guess not," Newman laughed. "Better get back to work now."
Yeah, better."
It's so seldom that Blogger makes any clear and evident announcement of their new small improvements or features that I wondered if some of the rest of you, like me, missed this new feature in the comments that says (in my case):
Email follow-up comments to ratsass@gmail.com
or whatever.
Very nice, though. Now I don't have to check back with blogs where I left snotty comments! Any responses or further arguments will be emailed to me! There have been second-party services that would help you keep track of your comments, but this one is simple, in-house--you barely have to think to be able to do it! I don't know if it will always work well, but it has so far!
Good dog, Blogger, good boy!
Whatever. I've been too put off to do very much of consequence, so I guess I could talk about the things I already did and forgot to mention until now. I got some of my medications in the mail that I was nearly out of, and that saved me from who knows what? Probably not anything very serious, since I've run out a couple of times this year and nothing seemed to go haywire. Still, I try to keep up.
I went to Wal*Mart and bought me a dirt-cheap shiny new Winchester pocket knife with a single locking blade. I like locking blades and don't understand how I ever worked with the other kind without cutting myself. I did, but it seems a miracle to me now. I don't think I have as much strength and dexterity as I used to have. That's probably the real trouble. Anyway, the knife has a bone (probably fake) handle. Somewhere on the tiny box it said "Stag", so I guess that's what is or what it's supposed to be. At that price, I just presume fake. I've lost other pocket knives, some of them precious, so this one being cheap is a sort of defense against my own clumsiness and forgetfulness. If I lose it, I won't care much. I can just go buy another one. Meanwhile, though, it is pretty and shiny! But it is a weapon; one gets the impulse to go stab a rabbit or something! Maybe a "Bad Guy", as my 3-year-old nephew would say. One has to resist those juvenile (and worse!) instincts when it comes to weapons. Men are such boys, and boys are such wild animals, really. I see it in my nephew all the time. He likes Sponge Bob and Barney the Dinosaur and other sweet things, but he also turns everything he sees or touches into a gun or a sword or a "light saber"--he loves the latter! Of his aggressive super-heroes, I guess Buzz Lightyear might be the kindest. But I plan to hide on Halloween when John is supposed to dress as Buzz--I don't want to get "to infinity and beyond"ed to death! A 3 year old can pack a wallop if he runs into you just right, you know?
I also went shopping at Goodwill on one of their sale days. All the shirts have a colored plastic tag and certain colors were only 50 cents each. Not all of them being a large and not all of them having the right color tag, I had to give up on quite a few shirts that I fell in love with. But I finally got out of there with various shirts that appealed to me--mainly some flower shirts with Big, Bigger, and Biggest flowers on them. Very pretty. I also bought a long-sleeve pink shirt for the regular price of $3.99 because I couldn't resist it after having initially mistaken its orange tag as being pink. When I found it wasn't one of the sale shirts, I started to put it back, but couldn't. I've been stalking stores for a decent pink shirt for a long time, whether it should be a shirt with a prominent pink mixed into other colors or what--it was all okay with me. So I finally found one. As soon as I can locate a sock or two to enhance my manly crotch, I can wear it. Would a Manly Man be afraid to wear a pink shirt? I should say Not!
I bought some birdseed (sunflower seeds), but it appears to already be the wrong time of year. They've eaten some slowly, but I barely ever see them. If they're gone, that's okay. There's always a few birds who come around during the fall and winter, regardless of weather. I'll feed their lazy asses!
I hate to blog about practical things, so I’ll evade this one as much and as long as possible. I saw some smoke or steam coming from under the hood while parked at a notorious, hatefully long traffic light this afternoon.
“No, not here!” I moaned, along with many forms of "goddamn", and then I waited and wailed and waited for the light, then waited as if for Xmas for the cars in front of me to fucking get in gear and move! I was close to home and thought I could get there! That was my preference. No wreckers, please!
When I got near my brother-in-law’s house, there was no more smoke, so figured I could make it the couple of more blocks to get home. I did. I raised the hood and observed, but saw nothing. Then I thought, “Duh, better turn the engine on!”
It still seemed okay, so I started to put the car in the garage. But, Steam again! Ratshit. There is something leaking down there where I can’t see it. I can see a drip-drip-drip under there, but not what’s leaking. It’s clearly water, and the radiator showed low after I let it cool to check it. I only ever go on short trips, so I hope I didn’t burn anything. Meanwhile, whom do I know who isn’t too fat or old or both to get down low and see what it is? Even if I have to eventually deal with a real mechanic, I’d like to get some idea what’s going on beforehand.
I’ll kill time. Maybe I don’t need to go on any fucking short trips for a while. Oh, my, our addiction to our cars in America—in combination with alcohol, it does more damage than drugs.
It’s all better (or less bad) than a toothache or a car wreck, I guess, but Jesus, I’ll hate this shit, I know I will.
[Or, the second head is better than the first.]
Those few of you who only read me in subscription or in blog readers are probably not aware that I've been changing the header. OFF with the old head and ON with the new head! The earth that looked like a marble has been replaced by a colorfully crazy painting achieved by me painting over some one's photo of a junkyard with sprinkles and sprays and splotches and quirky lines of color. Another masterpiece from the hands of the Perpetual Agitator! Not that you'd care.
it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch
another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart, as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such silence as i know, or such
great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;
if this should be, i say if this should be--
you of my heart, send me a little word;
that i may go unto him, and take his hands,
saying, Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands
Hunter S. Thompson:
"I have a theory that the truth is never told during the nine-to-five hours."
Yipes! I check my weight at least every other day because it's convenient. The scale is out in my study here where there are usually no witnesses! Today I noted that I'd crept too far past 160; I was 164 point something and that's too damn much. I have lately been able to keep it within 2 lbs. either way of 160 and I'd like to keep it that way. I'm still a little fat or chubby after I regained about 15 or 20 lbs., but my vanity has decided THIS FAR AND NO FURTHER! I went crazy and ate 3 bowls of generic Rice Crispies late last night (with Equal, no sugar). Mmm, so good! But I guess that was a heap of wet rice.
I gave myself the excuse of not having eaten any breakfast that morning, but I usually don't eat breakfast anyway. And usually don't eat 3 bowls! My Evil (or at least Indifferent) self was at work on me and now I have to starve. The Good Me takes the rap, pays the price, balloons up. Foosh, you can't fit your pants! Damn. Shit. Piss! I can't let that happen.
I'd still anemic, I can't expect to exercise very much. I've been lifting those weights (using the giant flexible bands with handles for resistance), but I'm not sure if I've done it enough. I guess not. I'd been hoping I'd get so energized by that stuff that I'd get a little stronger in general and maybe walk some. Maybe go to the park, watch birds, and get mugged. Bad things have happened the last year to my favorite bird-watching park--they've had beatings and car thefts. But life is like that, isn't it?
One of the other parks where I've birded has had news reports of fairies and fags hanging around, but I'm not a juvenile, pretty boy, Twinkie, or pissed-off redneck terrified of being touched, so maybe I'd be safe. Of course, my anemia means I can't be a mean Texan and claim, "Well, I'll just beat the hell out of them!" I guess I could beat them with my cane, but what if I fell down while doing it? Beat their ankles?
Let's see--there's a drainage ditch that runs through the middle of it; maybe I'll just stick close to it so that I can fall down and roll into it if attacked! Ugh. It'd be a long way to roll and hard to ever get out again, but maybe that would prevent the bad guys from following me down the concrete sides! You think?
I wonder if I ever told my sister about that park getting dangerous before she died last March. I'd meant to. After all, it was her SUV that i was in when I went to that Little park because I went there after dropping her off at her dialysis clinic. It was on the beaten track, so it didn't use up any extra gas to go there. But she was particular about her car--wouldn't let anyone but her husband, son, and me drive it and still could find reasons to criticise our driving. She would have had a Shit Fit if it'd been stolen! I wonder how many other things I'll think of and have to wonder if I told her?
It's sad to have to think this way. I know others have to think and dread and plan for much worse, of course. Young men and women at war, some with children at home. Children in poverty with one parent or none who already have friends and kin who've been killed just for being there. Life's not always a joy, is it, PeeWee Herman?
But the birds are still there and do not care or reckon with it. They do not worry. For good or bad, they just go on. In short, they don't give a shit. Life isn't frightening, except in the absolute moment--then it's over. It's a natural thing, isn't it? Would that we could do the same as the bluebird, the wren, the woodpecker, and the hummingbird!
My beautiful (huh?) text and background colors (like this one for "Other people's poems") won't work when you use Preformatted Text. Damn it. Try again some other day.
Buffalo Bill's
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death
i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginably You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
You know, sometimes we get comments that are not welcome. Gaby de Wilde may be someone who just prowls the Internet searching for places to leave negative heaps of turds on other people's comments and then drops the same pre-packaged remarks in all locations. I don't know. I take it that he/she/it doesn't like Al Gore, and that's okay, but I'm not publishing your dumb fucking diatribes--my blog is for MY diatribes, you nitwit! Even if you were my friend, I wouldn't take so much crap from you or publish such a long comment. So, Gaby, eat my shit and grin or die!
F. Scott Fitzgerald:
"In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day."
Unless you'd rather just send me dirty emails this Halloween (I'd answer back in kind!), there's always this other remote-control RAT to be had! See if you can run it up somebody's pants!
If you don't like it, send it to me--I'm too cheap to buy my own.
And A Lot Of Other Craziness
Sometimes there is more fucking news than I can digest. Maybe just more than I want to. The endless details, and especially the endless commentators dissecting it, just make me want to puke sometimes. Whatever happened to the Age of Journalism? Now almost all journalists have an ax to grind--Fox Network isn't subtle at all, but neither are the rest of them in danger of being anyone's hero. There are no lanterns or TV lights bright enough to find that "honest man" that Diogenes talked of finding. I can't even think of many women or men who want to search for one! There's too many pretty boys and pretty girls, with all their teeth fixed, and all their attitudes adjusted to the network or publisher they work for. Journalism doesn't seem to exist in the old sense, so you never know if the news is true or false, real or fake, genuine or slanted. You have to trudge through mud among all the lying bastards and just choose one when the sludge gets too deep to go on.
All the heroes too seem spoiled or soiled. Senator Craig's experience in the men's room is as entertaining as some unknown version of Bob Dylan's "Subterranean Homesick Blues", but it doesn't sound truthful, and you can't dance to it. Bush may look like some muppet garbage can denizen on TV, but he's a murdering bastard, and no one will say so! Why don't they impeach the bastard, whether it sticks or not?
Ask Clinton if it didn't cost him brain cells and attention span to be impeached even when not convicted! Wouldn't it be worth a few million to do that to Bush?! But it seems that in this day and age of ultra-communications where we see everything constantly and repeatedly, we are all still unwilling to declare when The Emperor Has No Clothes!
Anyway, Bush has himself covered with a little war that's making Blackwater and Halliburton (and many others) millions while the rest of us can't find our ass or our brains. The official Democrats are as suckass as the worst Republicans you ever met, or they'd DO something. All of them cater to the same fat cats, rich corporations, and powerful lobbies/special interests.
There is no "we the people". If all the "regular people" that are talked about were to band together and believe in one thing and put all their money behind it, there would still be more money among the fat cats and the dirty rats and all the soulless wretches of American culture. It makes me want to spit.
In passing, still, I notice Al Gore (another imperfect man) will share the Nobel Peace Prize for his work on bringing attention to Global Warming, which is not a bad thing. I hope he doesn't decide to suddenly run for President again, as his position is now a good one for publicizing his cause. If he gets into the muck with the other sold-out political candidates, his cause will be the loser and he'll just be another "pragmatic" whore lusting after the Presidency and a glorious Legacy afterwards! Jesus, Bush and his legacy--how nice it'd be to think I'd never hear of it again after he's gone, but his whorehounds will continue to work overtime to polish his image, even if it's never any better than this work of thinly gilded graven gold it is now. I guess the blood will all wash off; it has washed off of others in this world.
...Don't follow leaders
Watch the parkin' meters
Ah get born, keep warm
Short pants, romance, learn to dance
Get dressed, get blessed
Try to be a success
Please her, please him, buy gifts
Don't steal, don't lift
Twenty years of schoolin'
And they put you on the day shift
Look out kid
They keep it all hid
Better jump down a manhole
Light yourself a candle
Don't wear sandals
Try to avoid the scandals
Don't wanna be a bum
You better chew gum
The pump don't work
'Cause the vandals took the handles
partial lyrics, Bob Dylan
Copyright © 1965; renewed 1993 Special Rider Music
Georges Clemenceau: "There is no passion like that of a functionary for his function."
Joseph Addison: "An ostentatious man will rather relate a blunder or an absurdity he has committed, than be debarred from talking of his own dear person."
My friend Janice at Semavi Anatolians mentioned virtual food to me in a convoluted fun email, that it was calorie-free. I can't explain the exact context because we talk such beautiful long nonsense (via emails), but I thought "How very true" about her statement.
I went a year or more with my taste buds in some equivalent of being deaf or blind. I couldn't taste much, or it didn't taste good, which was just as bad. The textures of familiar foods were repellent when their taste was something like cardboard or grass or dirt. Never could identify those tastes; maybe they were just bad tastes (like something the dog had just dug up and scarfed down!) and the tastes didn't really resemble anything I'd ever had experience with. You could lose a billion pounds if that kept up. I guess you'd end up a very Free Soul--or do they call that a wraith?
Now most (but not all) food tastes good again, enough to have to worry about not eating too much of it. I came back up from a loose size 34 to a snug 36 (pants), but remember I started out as size 42. So, I guess I'm doing okay. Have been lingering around 160 lbs. , two or three lbs. one side or the other. I am still miserable after a fashion; everything I do requires a good deal of concentration and attention: even just making a sandwich and a drink for lunch and sitting down before I'm too tired. It's tiresome when your brain is counting every step in the process--if something slips up or can't be found, I take God's name in vain 3 or 4 times before I can stop myself. Not that I care, but others might.
Actually I thought that was interesting when I wrote it to Janice. I told her maybe I'd copy it for the blog "in case my brain runs out of fodder". That's always happening.
I wasn't lying; here's the proof that it happened again! I hope Janice doesn't feel cheap and tawdry just because she's been recycled. You think?
Sometimes little things just turn into monsters. I decided to buy a replacement for the radio/alarm clock I've had for 20-plus years because the radio reception was getting funky. I don't really use the alarm part of it (it sounds like a submarine honk!) since I don't have to wake up and go to work. The few times I need to make sure I'm up, I can use the small battery-powered alarm that only sounds like a moderate bird twitter. Meanwhile I'm looking at those devices in Wal*Mart and trying to keep it simple-didn't want to shop all over town. Oddly enough two devices looked all right, but then I realized both the inexpensive models had Rotary knobs for tuning the radio. What kinda old-fashioned crap is that, I wondered? So then I went looking at the inexpensive cd/radio players, some of which were not much more expensive. So I listened to one and it was good enough, so I brought it home!
God, it takes so long for me these days to unpack these compartmentalized parcels, open all the boxes and plastic bags and bread ties around the wires! It's like cooking a cake or something. Worse, because then I at least would have had a cake to eat instead of that damn worthless stereo that wouldn't work! The next day I put it all back in the box, though it didn't all fit--maybe I was giving them some of my own stuff, I don't know! All that carton material they use these days for cushioning work very well to protect the devices, I guess, though I can repack them like that. So I taped it together with masking tape and took it back with a top that wouldn't close.
Once I returned it to the store, I guess I should have said that I didn't like the color rather than that it didn't work because they did their best to determine that it really didn't work! God, what an effort they put into it. If I'd just said I didn't like it, things might have gone faster, but I guess they had to determine if they could restock the item or not. I got weary standing there leaning on my cane, so I went and sat down and dreamed about bears who shit in the woods while those slowpokes fumbled with the package.
Finally I got my refund and still needed to replace the stereo. I considered buying the same one, but couldn't stand the idea of assembling and possibly taking the same one apart again. So, like a fool, I bought the more expensive one that I had also looked at the day before. It was a known brand, cost more, had buttons easier to read, a larger remote control for Mr. Fumble-fingers (me), and a sleeker, more stylish appearance. I was satisfied once I finally got it assembled. Even with all that other experience I'd just had, I still hated taking it out of the box and plugging everything in. I used to be so good at that, used to put together 6, 10, or 12 component stereo totalling two or three thousands dollars, but I'm an elderly sop now. I get dizzy too easily if I have to bend over such crap too long. So I was happy with the quality of the beast, but I was worn out, too!
After a long rest listening to the music, I had to spend a few more hours arranging the rest of room, trying to find space for the junk I'd just removed from my small desk area. I didn't move any furniture, but it still amounted to much juggling, trying out things in first one drawer or cubbyhole and then another. Everything's been moved at least once so far, and maybe I'm not through. But I'll live, at least.
Poofing among the pumperdils,
Was that the best kind of sex I could get!
I had to vie with the manic butterflies
and cross swords with stinging bumblebees
Just to get a little dip
into your long slim pail of pollen!
Wal*Mart had my favorite $3 hats on sale for $2. Maybe some day I'll spend $4 on a hat...
Here's a different good political blast that I found at
Debbie Does Nothing,
which is not a political blog. If you're not in a big hurry, it is worth it to read the article she was referencing!
Here's a good one that I found to the point enough to write Marc a note about it at the political blog,
BeggarsCanBeChoosers.
I have fallen off the tree limb
Or maybe I was pushed or else
Intentionally slipped the bonds of earth…
Now I've turned my face into the flames
And grown resentful inside out in
The blurred and charring embers of your face
And tiresome in my own cold and moldy embrace,
Biding all my time out here
With my new tight pants on fire
And all my old clothes on ice.
Can anything be more absurd,
Can anyone fall quite this high imprisoned again
Or ever fly this low at the top of a prosperous sky?
I am waiting, and have been weighing everything,
But it’s been going up and down
And down and up
And there is no conclusion to reach.
I’ve been starkly rushing forward,
A dog without connection, yet means to bite,
Who barks his way up that tree and down again,
Just barks and chews the bark
And listens for the desolation
And all the style that stinks.
Will Rogers: "The best doctor in the world is the veterinarian. He can't ask his patients what is the matter-he's got to just know."
I used to be an intense bird watcher back before getting diabetes and anemia and cataracts and all my other debilitating ills. It has been on hold pretty much. The cataract surgery and retina treatments I've gotten have helped a lot, though nothing is ever perfect. The last 2 or 3 days, though, I used my binoculars more than in the past year and found I could see pretty well through them again, even if it's still a bit difficult to spot bird movements with my bare eyes. More patience is required, I guess. Things that are difficult to spot among the shadows just need to be closer and THEN I can see again! I can't just stand and turn in a circle like I used to, so I drag a lawn chain with me and sit, then look first one way and then another. If this keeps up, I guess I'll need an outdoors swivel chair, if there is such a thing!
Today I could see a number (or else just 2 or 3 busy ones) of various birds: Cardinals, house sparrows, Chickadees, hummingbirds! One each: downy woodpecker, Carolina wren. Very nice.
I keep thinking I'll get some exercise, even if the most minimal, and that's about all I've done so far. A few days ago I found my old elastic band that came with my stair-stepper years ago. I can't use the stepper with my bad sense of balance (combined with insensitive feet due to neuropathy), but I've been practicing "lifts" with the band; I have no idea what to call them. If I keep it up, maybe I'll discover the names on the Internet. About 5 minutes of lifts 3 times a day, nothing the least bit extreme. But maybe it'll get easier. After all this, either I can punch someone in the face or just hit them in the knee with my cane. I hope I knock them unconscious, though, since I'm never too stable on my feet any more!
A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall
by Bob Dylan
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin',
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin',
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin',
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin',
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Copyright © 1963; renewed 1991 Special Rider Music
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DEAR SIDEBAR JUNKIES: Have I been eccentric enough lately? Lord knows I try. I'd hate to be accused of being too kind. |
