The Rat Squeaks

No Repair

2009-11-11T20:25:00.002-06:00


I guess I always failed to prepare for it Just as I equally could not repair it So that in the end I was at a loss And damned to hell Without a care and despite the cost of it!

Your Fault

2009-11-11T19:13:00.000-06:00


I'm sorry, but it's too damn quiet around here. This MUST be your fault, as I am as noisy and provoked (inspired?) as ever!

SPRING AND SUMMER

2009-11-10T20:07:00.001-06:00


Oh the blood-red rose is trembling, Trembling in the palm that broke the branch, And the heart-red gash is throbbing, Throbbing in the flesh these thorns have rent. Spring is gone, and summer’s come, And all seems right within— But who knows what is right When all is wrong within?

LIKE A FEVER

2009-11-09T21:42:00.002-06:00


“It is this,” she said. “This loss of romance, That kills me every time.” She placed his hand, hard-pressed, Against her breast and sighed: “Feel! How my heart has ceased it’s beating as if I’d died, My hope expanded like a fever in a nun That runs unchecked until I stop.” Though he didn’t know just what the virgin meant, She nonetheless held all his attention…

He Said

2009-11-08T15:59:00.002-06:00


"I guess I don't know what women are for," he said. "Though I've made some cry And I've made some mine, Still nothing comes to pass." "We are not for your fool's pleasure, I can tell you that!" I said. "Nor made to feed mere hunger Or be your hind in heat."

AFGHANISTAN

2009-11-03T14:20:00.002-06:00


The Soviet shitheel must eventually crush Afghanistan—so logic says. And so it is surprising that the firmness of Soviet disbelief has been taking so long to quell the Faithful of God. One must wonder. These Afghan fighters—how can they win? And some, whether religious or just observant, might look at their fervor and say, “How can they lose?” I wrote the preceding a long time ago, back around 1980. I wrote it before it was apparent that the Russians attempting to occupy Afghanistan could not win. Now it strikes me that WE are in the Soviet position with Afghanistan and Iraq. We think our opponents are just dirty bandits who only want our bribes and other riches. But what they’re doing is their equivalent of Fighting For Jesus, only more so! And just for the hellacious Fun of it, too. And that’s an unfortunate advantage to have over a Superpower which only half-believes in the Jesus we profess to adore and the poor boys from rich America, who keep fighting the battle with technology and air power, but spilling their own precious blood nonetheless. Why did the Russians really leave? I think that they couldn't afford the bills for the battle in the end. Now that money is becoming so dear in our own country, it suggests to me that the problem that defeated the Russians is what's bugging us. Do I mean to sound defeatist—yes, I think I do! Patriotism insists that America cannot lose, but logic suggests that it can't win. Others have already tried. What was it that we called Vietnam—a quagmire? I think that's what it's coming to. Move over, Jesus—make room for Allah and his bloodthirsty pals.

The Soviet shitheel must eventually crush Afghanistan—so logic says.

And so it is surprising that the firmness of Soviet disbelief has been taking so long to quell the Faithful of God. One must wonder. These Afghan fighters—how can they win? And some, whether religious or just observant, might look at their fervor and say, “How can they lose?”

I wrote the preceding a long time ago, back around 1980. I wrote it before it was apparent that the Russians attempting to occupy Afghanistan could not win. Now it strikes me that WE are in the Soviet position with Afghanistan and Iraq. We think our opponents are just dirty bandits who only want our bribes and other riches. But what they’re doing is their equivalent of Fighting For Jesus, only more so! And just for the hellacious Fun of it, too. And that’s an unfortunate advantage to have over a Superpower which only half-believes in the Jesus we profess to adore and the poor boys from rich America, who keep fighting the battle with technology and air power, but spilling their own precious blood nonetheless.

Why did the Russians really leave? I think that they couldn't afford the bills for the battle in the end. Now that money is becoming so dear in our own country, it suggests to me that the problem that defeated the Russians is what's bugging us.

Do I mean to sound defeatist—yes, I think I do! Patriotism insists that America cannot lose, but logic suggests that it can't win. Others have already tried. What was it that we called Vietnam—a quagmire? I think that's what it's coming to.

Move over, Jesus—make room for Allah and his bloodthirsty pals.

What Kind Of Crap?

2009-11-02T18:24:00.000-06:00

(Just the Bug-assed Crazy Kind!)
I have now amassed 2,043 posts of no particular distinction, discern, or discretion! Oops, now it's 2,044. I guess this is how the number got so large--I wasn't very particular about what kind of crap constituted a post!

GET OFF THAT CROSS!

2009-10-30T17:26:00.000-05:00


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

2009-10-29T16:13:00.001-05:00

MY LUCK WITH WOMEN

2009-10-27T21:08:00.002-05:00


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?

(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.

(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

2009-10-27T17:56:00.000-05:00


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!

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

2009-10-27T15:45:00.002-05:00


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

2009-10-26T12:51:00.000-05:00


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!

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

2009-10-25T13:44:00.003-05:00


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

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

2009-10-23T16:37:00.002-05:00


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

2009-10-23T13:09:00.003-05:00

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

2009-10-21T20:08:00.001-05:00


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?

2009-10-21T18:51:00.002-05:00

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

MARY MALLON (The Infamous Typhoid Mary)

2009-10-19T20:33:00.000-05:00


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.

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?

2009-10-18T20:24:00.001-05:00

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

Heart And Head

2009-10-17T18:32:00.001-05:00


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!

2009-10-17T14:02:00.000-05:00


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

2009-10-16T21:08:00.000-05:00


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!

2009-10-15T20:05:00.002-05:00

(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!

(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

2009-10-15T13:33:00.003-05:00

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."