The Mourner’s Vigil

From priests and Popes To the lowliest form of fool without a woman, Who’s lost all hope or hangs imprisoned in his mind, His spirit hostage, his heart and bones buried in grave solitude— Even for the least bit of scum afloat on the pond, Nothing is ever finally settled except the silt and mud, So nothing much is gained by merely talking. Whatever it is or is not that you believe, Should BE believed, But need not be discussed, I think, Except with others of your cult— You know, your own selfish ilk— You should please leave others alone. From priestesses and princesses Out of their skirts and down to their pants— Religion’s just another pretence of reality that we whistle past. Oh what a sham, what a dance—it’s worse than TV! Everyone at the old swimming hole in my dream Was worried to death that they couldn’t be saved And my team seemed to be losing but we outgrew all of that. Whatever it is that’s bothering you, Was thrown down or cast away by others years back— I gave it up myself, long ago— And nothing in our youthful views Ever effectively warned us That all those things we loved were leading to This early cold despair, this eerie dirt repose. Relations sigh and Settle back on their heels When they at last arrive and then begin— “There are so few monuments to lean against Or sit upon any more”, lame old aunt Edna whines As she surveys both left and right, “But there’s just as many dead…” Last year’s mourners are soon dog-tired again— For nothing's buried so deep as these sinking bones Nor is so thick as the silt which fills the bronze urns, Uncared-for and forgotten since the last time. It’s as stuck as hard red clay or black Texas gumbo— Nonetheless flowers must go in. We shiver as our kin labor long to clear the fluted vase, but We pull the earth in over us and still we feel no warmth. rcs Created on 10/27/2009 11:00 AM

Killing My Computer!

While wrestling with the inoperative wireless mouse earlier today (see previous post), I unplugged the power cord as one of many wild actions I took to see if it'd revive the mouse power. Then I forgot about the power cord, forgot that I should at least be keeping track of the "power remaining" message that the computer gives me. So, when it got down to about 5%, the screen went to black and the computer died! Took me by surprise, I promise you that!!! I've used battery power before, of course, but usually not sitting right here near the charging station, so I was taken unawares when it died. I never had used the battery power down to that level, so at least now I know what it does when it's at the brink of death. It saved all the files I had open (some on the Internet and some MS WORD files)and everything was smoothly restored once power was back on.

IT'S ALIVE!

Had trouble last night and this morning with my wireless mouse. Replacing battery didn't work. Tried an alternate brand of battery, tried a new battery, tried a newly-charged recharge battery, all to no avail. Considered stepping on it like it was a real rodent, but I abstained. On a lark, I used my hand-warmer (hair dryer) on low and fumbled with it for a while until I noticed a menu screen had popped up for some reason, then disappeared. WAS IT ALIVE? Did more warming for a while and it seemed to wake up. It DOES get cold out here in my study and my hands can testify to that! Strange, though. I would never have considered that the equipment could get cold and go into hibernation!

Mission Impossible

More Death, More Sex!
Wait a minute--how come we can't have suicide bombers, too? What's so hard about it? It's not like it requires any special bravery or intelligence. And you'd get to screw all the angels in Heaven, too, I hear! Boy, what a deal! Calling all former Marines, Special Ops, and CIA operatives who are running out of patience! You take the risks and we deny all responsibility!

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None Of It Is True

I still like to jump up sometime And give the impression I can move around And get things done. I like to think I can hurry if I try, But none of it is true. Whatever it is, I’ll probably drop it Or throw it against the wall in fury!

You Can Buy Me

Now here we are Where all the black or yellow or brown men Look too much alike and not like me And all the women disguise themselves so much alike, Assume the same eye-catching postures. They seem Like clones, or one invented fantasy for all the glossy covers, Sometimes with Attitude, sometimes not! See them there on the rack, Beaming out in every skin hue and hair tint, Saying, “You can buy me on my back for $9.98!” To all the timid black or yellow, brown or white men Whose fate, it appears, is to gaze so intently, so rapaciously While they foolishly pretend that they Aren’t really looking, they aren’t really there.

Tenrecidae

Did I Really Need To Know That?
Unusually among placental mammals, the anus and urogenital tracts of tenrecs share a common opening, or cloaca, a feature more commonly seen in birds, reptiles, and amphibians. They have a low body temperature, sufficiently so that they do not require a scrotum to cool their sperm as most other mammals do. Does this mean some things are weirder than me?

High School Disease

I think sometimes about high school reunions And how I’ve avoided every one of them so far. I have small desire to see those people again, So I’d have to be tricked into being there— Maybe lured by the prospect of boffing a head cheerleader, Or, better yet, a fat cheerleader’s nubile daughter. “One of you can French while the other one phones for the pizza.” rcs. Created on 12/11/2009 2:05 PM

Shadows On The Edge

Pursued by shadows on a silver plate, There is little—no, nothing—to hold the darkness back. And at the edges cold chagrin is always grinning And that's not the way it's supposed to be Despite all we hear and all we feel And all we wish or fear! We are repelled, that's all, Compelled to lives of sadness, Badness, cadness, call it what you will, Redness of eye and blackness of heart— We go on with it and prosper Whether we have cancer, diabetes, or a stroke, Whether we are the surviving half, A madness of disease, Or live alone, a joke that can't be pleased. rcs.

Every Connection

Every connection I intend Fails at coming through. I see failure here and falling behind, Nor will they depart. There can be no expectation of great success, No way to turn that isn’t just another wrongful guess. So suck it up and believe what you believe, Which is nothing, And let the other suckers go on by us; They don’t have a worry That we’ll be famous for our sins Or adored for our crimes. They look relieved and relaxed Even if that’s only how they look, And I wish I could be that way— Never feel spotlighted or trapped like a rat By all their endless jabber while I invent These cold false smiles to brush them off. rcs. Created on 12/6/2009 5:37 PM

Carl Is Dead

He had a funny kind of walk, I always thought. He sort of bobbed up and down as he stepped. He wasn’t gay or anything except himself. He was very intelligent and hard to approach, And seemed intent and would rise and fall as he went As if he was being very careful. It was as if he thought The world on which he walked was strewn With eggshells, thorns, and land mines. I had the impression That if he was aware of it at all, He was very amused by the whole preposterous thing. This week I heard from friends of friends That stomach cancer took him out at 63— I wonder if that was preposterous, too? rcs. Created on 12/14/2009 4:45 PM

Bill Moyers Retiring

OMG, Bill Moyers is quitting his TV program! I frequently miss his program because I'm a bad planner, but I hate to hear about that loss. Below is a very good opinion-piece on the situation and about the Bill Moyers history from The Los Angeles Times

The Empty Sky

All those poems blew right past you lately Without notice or at least without note And so in fact may this effete critique if my luck holds. I’ll just be sitting here on my dead ass, Calculating smidgeons, counting coup, Ticking off friends I’ve lost Or thrown without thought to wolves, And overall waiting for the empty sky to fall. rcs. Created on 12/10/2009 11:00 AM

Relatives, Foreigners, And Aliens

I have been here a long time And you’ve been over there, Far away the whole time, In sight, and never forbearing. It’s nothing new and we’ll get by And though there may be difficulties, And we may never prosper, Still we’ll manage to survive, No matter how separate we are or might become. Yet if we choose to stand pat, how not to lose? If aliens from the outer galaxy Arrive to observe our infernal dirt— Our pitiful Earth, I mean— They couldn’t tell the difference between us, I bet, But that thinking’s never impressed anyone yet— No one on plucky planet Earth, at any rate. We are savages who love to hate. rcs. Created on 12/3/2009 4:38 PM

Notice What?

Now and again, I have scaled back on my blog's apppearance. Or have you noticed? With my luck, you won't notice this question!

Solitaire

I have been destroyed, I know that. I have turned sharply wrong Onto a long eroded beach, Coming too fast from the skyway, Crashing through trees like some fat leaded falcon Who crossed the ocean all at once— More like a shot put arriving than a migration, Some might say. At any rate, I went so far, I went so wrong, I cared no longer for birdsong. I was determined at all costs to avoid pain and discomfort, But it got completely out of hand; I guess I could wait here and kill time As I always have done, Or I might glibly run away To some estuary or island marked Nowhere On my flightless aviation map, But that’s a place The Dodo and I have already been. You know the place, perhaps, It’s that borderline state Where all possible sense is just pretence, An antique form of nonsense, Torn feathers on a boarded fence, And all the waste of time involved In this Solitaire’s slow revolving prance— It’s here bad girls who dance and bad men without any pants Have always been about as good as it ever gets. rcs Created on 11/5/2009 8:41 PM

More Big Whoop

I keep having to delete items from the "discussion" at my Rat-Squeaks Google Group. Some of them are definite sex ads or spam. Some may be from actual humans wanting to tell me where to find great jokes, but I can't tell for sure. If they'd say something that sounded human, I wouldn't remove or mark their discussion items as spam, but if it isn't clear that it's a friend or other real human, I'll cut their nuts--it's fun, whether you are boy or girl! So I'll keep doing that. If you were trying to be friendly, but just seemed obtuse to me, I'm a little bit sorry, but not very much. If you read any of my posts, you'd know I'm not much inclined to politeness or giving a sucker an even break. I send this explanation blindly out into space; some day it may encounter intelligence of a sort. Won't that be a big whoopee?

It's Pitiful

Even "the Ammurican people" (as LBJ liked to call them) eventually turned against the Vietnam war. You know, in modern parlance: Joe Six-pack? I think President Obama is fucking up big-time. I hope that he turns out lucky, but I don't expect it any more. I don't think his recent war decision to send tens of thousands more soldiers was the goal that he was elected for and it will all go against him. He may be under the impression that he is again being "noble", but I don't believe that belief alone will help him avoid the quagmire. Soldiers, especially generals, like to fight, to continue the conflict, regardless of how much it's going to require to win. How many other administrative goals the war will sink for Obama, I don't know, but I expect other disasters. I am very sorry that the sonofabitch decided to be "presidential", just like Bush. Once again, a President from Texas has handed off a losing battle to the next guy to actually lose. They just turned the political parties around, that's all--otherwise it's the same stupid fucking dance.

For Sale

Everybody is deformed, Or so I've been informed, And though most think I’ve been very still so far, I was slightly ill, so I think I'll just keep tripping. Dogs will dream of puppy drugs And cats will catch a mouse named Fire And burn right to the ground, And nothing will call us by our names As truly as we would hope, As truly as in our youth that’s lost. Things are over. Life is done. Some of us are already gone, Though many are just doggedly alone— Those ones of us still in the scythe-man’s path Doubt not that all the devil’s dowsings will be done. Everybody is for sale, That’s what the sad tale tells— The ads I hear on midnight TV, The same I hear on daylight cartoons: At some level we are all bozos and all for sale, cheap. rcs Created on 11/8/2009 12:57 PM