GET OFF THAT CROSS!

No one died for no one, The truth is sooner told Than all the lies in Christendom Or all the wronged in hell. No one dies for no one, I tell you this again, Lest time and pain and circumstance Should lead you to conclusions That live men cannot tell.

Hoot Honk

I don't want to Twitter or Dither or Blabber Unless someone is listening and might respond. They can bark back, Or meow like a catbird in the tree, Or try to sound like a stringed instrument Or a strangled fart in an oil drum Or anything else that's goofy, but Just sitting there on their dead ass won't do! Ain't that a hoot?

MY LUCK WITH WOMEN

(Found Gold)

The good things that are in you Must be seen first through the eyes And thus, mayhaps, seem less. But coming through the heart and mind and soul, Your beauty shines so, your spirit moves so, That in me a spirit moves as well, A heated spark is lit On which no shadow sits but this: That I am seeing through the eyes of love, Shot through the heart in the eye of love, Taunted by a phantom glimpse of gold, A dreaming woman's waking kiss! rcs.

Man's Delight

I redated this poem from 2007 because I revised it a little. Not that most readers would worry about missing the revision, but it matters to me. She’s grown older now A little thicker, Perhaps a little saggy at the top, Not wrinkled very much Around the neck and belly, And anyway she feels so good! She has a great vagina still And calls me vulgar for saying so, Then calls me a Dirty Fucker In the dark of night and smiles Because she knows I know it! And she has lovely legs, A little full, but they wrap around me fine And hold me so tight—oh! And God her face is—I’m sorry, but I don’t know the proper words! Her mouth is so pretty in every expression, I think she was born to read me the dictionary aloud, Not to mention All of my poetry books, A little at a time! And her eyes are bright organs of great appeal, And though she talks at night of changing her nose, I shrug and think that it’s fine just because it's hers. I find her lovely tonight across from the fire As she leans against the window sill In this small front room Naked like that and so relaxed, covered only by That perfect perfume she wears And the hair on her head and you know where… She wouldn’t make a model any more, I guess; They're all pristine and slim And hairless in the nude shots. She’s just the widowed matron that I’ve loved and adored Who makes me want to remember How to do wicked things with my tongue!

PRIVATE PERSON

She had a dream about herself one night in which she stood at a podium to speak a poem and proselytize, but said, “I am a private person, though— I do not suffer in public like Christ upon a cross nor do I wish to see your wounds...”

The Flying Mouse

My mouse has no tail--thereby the "tale" hangs, eh? Or not. I bought a Logitech wireless mouse for the new laptop and of course it's a dozen times better than the flat pad that comes on the computer. Nonetheless, I do have troubles with it. Though I can relax and lean back (far back!) in my chair and I can pretty accurately move the cursor around by moving the mouse over surfaces that are next to nothing (either my pants leg or a smallish pad of paper), there is one drawback. The drawback is that, though my right hand has performed many thousands of motions with the mouse, my hand is also used to just turning loose of the mouse and lifting my hand off it when I'm through, and that's a BIG MISTAKE! The mouse then crashes to the floor every time, causing me to scream with fright, then curse because I'll have to defy my omnipotent arthritis to get down low enough to retrieve it! I don't know why it's taking me so long to adjust to it, but it is. Perhaps it's the neuropathy in my fingertips that prevents me from fully feeling where my mouse hand is located (with no flat surface). If I could figure out where to attach a string to it as if were a Yoyo, I would do that! Then I could just reel it back up to me! I'm sick and tired of dropping it on the floor like a rock from above and then having to search and/or crawl until I can locate it! It almost always rolls under the chair where I'm sitting. I therefore have to be very careful about rolling back in the chair so that I don't scrunch it to pieces before I can see it to pick it up! Once or twice, it has bounced high enough to land on the lowest shelf of a bookcase, a place I don't ordinarily think to look until I've searched every square inch of floor! It's a goddamn flying mouse!

WEATHER REPORT

I saw her once again the other day, Arrayed in clothes the colors of the rainbow. No longer does she wear those colors of the road, Those amber hues And acid blues that asphalt turns When mirrored by the moon. Our meeting in a doorway Was circumspect and brief, Speaking brightly, lightly, Selling surface as belief. The overcast was dark that day, Weathermen spoke of snow. Her heart was like that rainbow, Not what I used to know. rcs. ©1981 Ronald C. Southern

Some Things Just Don't Make Sense, #3

Rumor has it that the Obama administration is going to appoint a " Minutia Czar". Sounds like a position I should apply for!

Anudder Old Poem

Here's an old poem that means a lot to me. It seems more complex than anything I write these days, so maybe it will be more difficult for my readers. But it can't kill you. See it at First And Last Desire.

Some Things Just Don't Make Sense, #2

Jumbo pixie dust. I don't claim to have any. But I'm glad I don't have to think about it!

Horse and Carriage?

(Some Things Just Don't Make Sense)
Two words that seldom go together well: modest bazooms.

MARY MALLON (The Infamous Typhoid Mary)

In general, I like to think of celebrities as someone whose life is worth celebrating, but in the case below, I can only say her life is worth remembering!) I was watching a documentary on television one day about Mary Mallon, called “Typhoid Mary” during the early 1900's in New York. She was a 40-year-old cook infected with the bacteria who never became ill herself. Yet she traveled from household to household, unknowingly infecting others with it. Many people got sick, some died. One wealthy woman whose family members had died became so afraid of return­ing to her own house that she hired a doctor to play detective and he eventually began to suspect and to track down this cook. She changed jobs frequently, making it a big detective job to find her. Once found, being uneducated or otherwise difficult to convince, she hollered furiously that she wasn't even sick and angrily rushed at the doctor with a huge kitchen fork. She was a very large woman, used to working hard, almost masculine in strength, and the doctor ran like hell. Event­ually the police accompanied a female doctor and they all wrestled Mary into a police van where the doctor had to sit on the woman all the way to the hospital. When Mary Mallon's blood and specimens were checked, they found Typhus, as they had expected. She was now a prisoner, even though in a hospital. All the while, she was hollering like one of our own modern-day criminals that she “knew her rights”, that she was being held without just cause, etc. There had been great public outrage against her when her story was first published, but after she'd been imprisoned for some time, some people began to take up for her and to insist that she couldn't just be locked up like that. At the time, there was no legal precedent for quarantining an apparently healthy person. Appeals were made and rejected. At length, however, some judge finally figured they couldn't imprison her forever and released her on the absolute condi­tion that she find some employment other than as a cook. She tried that, but she couldn't make a living and finally she stubbornly returned to cooking under assumed names. Within a few years, the same kinds of outbreaks occurred and the same kind of investi­ga­tion led the health authorities to her again. Again, she fought the police with all possible physical force! She ended up being imprisoned for the rest of her life, some 23 years, on one of the islands established in New York harbor for quarantine purposes. The impression was given in the documentary that, within the parameters of her confinement, the health department tried to be kind to the woman. She was given a small bungalow of her own to live in. After a long time, she was allowed to go on day-visits to the city as long as she returned before night. She was allowed to work in the clinics and make a little money. She apparently stopped complaining, though it wasn't clear if she ever got it through her head that she really was a carrier of Typhoid fever. One elderly woman who had been a young nurse at the insti­tu­tion said on camera that she remembered one day when Mary offered her a big beautiful apple as a present, but only after energetically rubbing her big hands all over it as if to polish it. The nurse knew perfectly well who she was and she wasn't about to eat it! She accepted it and threw it away when she was out of Mary's presence. Mary Mallon eventually had a stroke and lay incapacitated for a good while before she died, still on the grounds of the quarantine hospital. Only nine people attended her church funeral. That's not so bad, really, for a woman who had more than once been a threat to the entire population of New York City.

Fake or Flake?

Is this a fake post yet or not?  It’s from Windows Live Writer. 

Heart And Head

When you look through the eyes of love, Your head will follow heart, Your heart will be your head. When you look through the eyes of love, Your love is all you’ll see; Your heart will be all heart And your head screwed on quite wrong.

Imagine That!

Am I not working hard enough yet? Very likely. I used to be more popular, but I didn't work any harder. Maybe I was nicer--but I'm never nice, so that's a very great stretch of the imagination! Maybe I should just go get my machine-gun and resolve things the old-fashioned way...

Egypt

The sun goes down (it dies, is born again tomorrow) and you and I must wait the whole long night to see the light shine brightly once again on our joy and on our sorrow.

Take Off Your Clothes, Honey!

(You know you look so good!)

I've never really understood women's casual attitude toward exposing their own flesh. It's not the teenage "hotties" and the models and the Hollywood starlets that surprise me with their skimpy clothing or total lack of clothing, it's the "average" women who MUST reveal where their tan lines are! No matter how young or how old, they'll show it to me! Women usually appear to be very conscious of all things having to do with beauty except when it involves "number one". Fat women and plain women have little apparent restraint or embarrassment about shorts and swimsuits and tight skirts and plunging necklines. I hope that's a sign of their individual mental health, and maybe it is. If I were them, I'd be way too self-conscious to be so unconcerned about being uncovered in public. I take it that there is something in most women that simply MUST be comfortable, no matter what! I was studying beach photos for this post, however, and I have to admit that the same or worse is true of all the unattractive men who come out of the sand like sand-fleas! There may be handsome young college men in the front row, but there's also fat ones and wrinkled ones and hairy ones and scrawny ones and paler-than-death ones and every form of ugly that you ever noticed in your life! If those beach boys or beach bums can expose it, they will--everything but their willies, anyway. A lot of beer-gut fellas need to stay away from those undersized tee-shirts, but they don't. Most men are in need of a "makeover", if you ask me, though wearing only a pair of shorts is not a good point from which to begin a makeover, I suspect. But maybe you're afraid that I'm looking at a picture of you--naw, just the mirror. Frankly, there's only two things that I never do at the beach--I don't disrobe in the sunlight and I don't go in the water if there's even the smallest possibility of sharks!

Overheard In An Elevator

Said One Stranger To Another
Overheard from one of the young women exiting to the lobby as I was entering the conveyance to go up: "I'm so lonesome, I'm so sad, someone needs to explain to me the mess I'm in—that is, if such a thing is possible."

Suffering Fools

(Fish Or Cut Bait)

I'm all right for now, but while I'm dancing on a string, The rest of you can go to Jesus If that's what you think you need. I'll be along when I'm dead Or when I've caught my breath, Whichever one comes first. In the short run, though, I expect that I'll fall off the stage Or plunge through the breaking ice, And most of you standing by are people I don't even know Who probably won't help me, So you can all go to blazes directly And maybe I'll see you there instead

The Real Santa Bob?

Here is something that I stumbled across today. If you ever longed for Bob Dylan Xmas songs, here's your chance, apparently (all artist's profits to be donated to food charities): Christmas in the Heart My first thought was, "Why not more, Bob?" since this is his 47th album, not his first. But I always have that snotty thought when I think of wealthy musicians, atheletes, software producers, real estate manipulators, or the hapless ones who inherited their fortunes from robber-baron forebears.

It's A Pity

It's a pity that so many old friends lose track of me or that there's so many that I lose track of. Call it what you will or blame who you like, the fact's the same, either way. I guess there's about a third of them whom I blame for forgetting or denying me and about a third that I blame myself for no longer caring about them. The final third is that unexciting group of people who used to be in my life, but whose passage I did not mark. Theyy never amounted to much, and now it would be hard to think about them, one way or the other. It isn't really possible to miss those people. It's strange to me that more of my old acquaintances haven't died in all these years, but maybe many have and I simply don't know any mutual friends any more who would bother to notify me about their deaths. I guess there are many large chunks of my existence that have no "threads" of any kind to connect me to those old events, places, and people. And I guess that it's perfectly all right for things to be that way... At any rate, there's not a fucking thing I can do about it.

"Sooner or later, one of us must know
That I really did try to get close to you"
Bob Dylan

Having To Hide It

I want to do something wrong, Inappropriate, taboo— Maybe kiss a preacher's wife Or smooch the thin—not bee-stung—lips Of that healthy young woman behind the pharmacist's counter Or embrace with heart the wide and wondrous topmost curves Of that nurse whose flesh is bursting out at times From that crisp soldierly uniform that I adore! It's sad she thinks she isn't as attractive as before! Then too, I'd like to give way to my fancy To feel up an old friend whom I've never touched, Who sighs she never thought of me That Way, So I don't! As for my arousal, I won't reveal it, And can't repeal it. But neither will I spend much time to hide it— It's a ridiculous thing in society, Always having to obfuscate or dance around it When only the ones too young or too old Aren't constantly thinking about it! Sometimes we just host our hands in our pockets (Now that nobody smokes) And attempt to offend or hose no one at all, Even though we are still our selfish selves! Won't we ever grow up, one wonders? I don't want to be a skunk, but still Women more than moderately appeal, I ween, And I never mean to change, it seems. I am still as I was and an old man, too, So I don't expect to be loved by womankind Just because I'd like to do something wicked and wrong With just the right married girl!

Insisting On Sex

Let's see; who will I have to have sex with tonight--someone alive, I insist on that! All you dead people just make me want to throw up.

Previous Post

To see and hear the music of the previous "Mary Hopkins" post, those of you who recieve emails of the daily blog posts will have to work a little and view the actual website.

Mary Hopkins

Who Are The Three?

I wonder if it's time that I put sex and violence back in this blog? Maybe it would increase the traffic! I don't care if thousands pass through, but who do I have to kill to get the visitors up past three? Who are the three, you may wish to know? I know who they are; you'll just have to wonder. Hint: it's not like they're famous!

Another Old Song

TWILIGHT TIME (Remember the Platters? It was a great song.) Heavenly shades of night are falling, it's twilight time Out of the mist your voice is calling, 'tis twilight time When purple-colored curtains mark the end of day I'll hear you, my dear, at twilight time Deepening shadows gather splendor as day is done Fingers of night will soon surrender the setting sun I count the moments darling till you're here with me Together at last at twilight time Here, in the afterglow of day, we keep our rendezvous beneath the blue And, in the same and sweet old way I fall in love again as I did then Deep in the dark your kiss will thrill me like days of old Lighting the spark of love that fills me with dreams untold Each day I pray for evening just to be with you Together at last at twilight time Here, in the afterglow of day, we keep our rendezvous beneath the blue And, in the same and sweet old way I fall in love again as I did then Deep in the dark your kiss will thrill me like days of old Lighting the spark of love that fills me with dreams untold Each day I pray for evening just to be with you Together at last at twilight time Together at last at twilight time

Conditional Whoop

"Leave Her Alone"

Give me just a little leeway and I'll come over And let you watch me pull my strings-- Of course I could always just sit this way and twitch While you try out the strings yourself! In fact, if you'll trust me for it, I'll borrow your face and faith, pretty Miss, And make my wishful features known Beneath white bones and skin, Beneath dark clouds preceding pouring rain, Instead of whistling like some lousy millionaire Or a missile speeding by, Spent but still going to its intended zone Past barren trees and bloody hills! I have a syringe in my arm And a pack of weary cards in my pocket, But nothing's coming through! I've been a junkie for a thousand years Or maybe a little less... I need a little wiggle room, that's what I say these days. It's not to get you hot, not for thrills. Just give it to me now without delay, without burlesque, And I'll barbecue your maybes and lift your eyeballs While you cool your heels on your sister's marbles. She always liked to change the games of chance So she could win. I always liked her looks-- I like her little rosebuds, I like her shiny pearls, But she's a whole year younger, So if you wish I'll toast her And only touch her bumpy head While you convey her bunny heart and soul Somewhere by diffraction--hop skip and jump!-- Far beyond this Satan's cluttered clump of chitchat, This eternal dire distraction! I'll retranslate your could-bes And caution everyone About those dingy photos of your sister In her wet and clinging swimsuit! Just come over here and I'll quit it all for Love. Otherwise, I'll gravitate to Your sister's quiet gravity again And those dismal postcards she lately sends About Hurricane Athena and Zero Risks. Then we'll promote her out of here While she pleads with one and all For more stamps and far less attention. "No more, no more!" she cries. "Why do you have to give me more?!"