Saturday, August 30, 2008

Hurricane Gustav

I got some invite from someone about Twitter. I don't know what Twitter is, don't know what they "do so well" that they themselves brag on without surcease, and I don't want to know what or who they are. I was more concerned to hear that Shelfari has been bought up by Amazon! But that too pales beside the impending Hurricane Gustav! Shit, I gotta get out of here! Evacuation is likely to be mandatory by tomorrow morning.

Hope Gustav zooms through fast and we can come back soon, though I packed four changes of clothes in addition to the clothes I have on. I'm even taking an extra hat--cheap one, of course--so I can protect the good one, I wont mind if the $3 one blows off my head and down the street and never returns. The good hat's fine in slight rain, but I don't want it getting soaked!

I can't believe I packed up so much stuff when I distrust the Experts. At this point they don't know where it's hitting, they just wave their arm in a wide arc and say "Somewhere thar!" Real bunch of scientists. Anyone can understand evacuating New Orleans, but places as inland as my town shouldn't have to panic with so little factual input! But, maybe I'm wrong to grump. I wasn't wrong before (Hurricane Rita) when I wanted to get the fuck out of town. But that just confuses me. It was a different storm, different year. We'd gone for decades around here before Rita came along and stomped on us and smeared our lives across Southeast Texas like we were all cocoroachs. Now, I guess we're paranoid, but with good cause!

Friday, August 29, 2008


Modern Times or Modern Plagiarism?

Before I went off and bought Bob Dylan's "Modern Times" album a few weeks ago, I'd heard most of the songs on the Internet and I'd quickly read a few reviews online, from Rolling Stone and so forth. I think it was RS that kept identifying bits of music or lyrics that were derivative or stolen from specific other old songs.

I didn't worry much about that because I knew Bob started out as a folkie and they stole from each other and from their predecessors. After I bought the album, though, I forgot all that shit. From time to time, I'd notice that his song, "Beyond The Horizon" sounded SO FAMILIAR. At one point I decided that it sounded like some whole class of songs from the past--that generality would have satisfied me if I hadn't heard "Red Sails In The Sunset" on the jazz radio station one day and I realized that THAT was the tune he'd stolen! Though I hadn't heard it a lot lately, it is an awfully well-known song for him to pilfer. But, everything is up for grabs in today's music, even at the top! But with today's lawyers, one doesn't always get away with it, I hear.

I never knew until this year that Apple got sued by Chuck Berry's lawyers because the John Lennon line, "Here come old flat-top, he come grooving up slowly" was a recognizable ripoff from one of Berry's songs! Apple lost or gave way, I'm not sure which.

Lennon was still alive at the time of the suit and a part of the settlement was that he'd record x number of Berry's songs, which was probably no great burden for an ex-Beatle in the throes of reliving his rocker youth! I guess when you listen to too many pop songs for 20, 30, or 40 years, you can't tell what you're creating or what you're remembering! Dylan's old enough to claim all sorts of enfeeblement of the mind. Too bad, but it's a good legal defense!

Actually, I have more sympathy for unconscious thieves of bits of song or literature. I often think of some great line, then realize it's something I remember from some song or book! Long ago, I had a line I liked a lot, "a foggy knight in mourning", that I thought I'd use in a poem some day until reality crashed down on my head and I realized that "A foggy night and morning" is the name of the last chapter in Thomas Hardy's "Far From The Madding Crowd". That rained on my parade. Or something! Now that I think of it, wasn't Joe Biden (democratic candidate for vice president) accused of plagiarism about 20 years ago when his eventual defense was the same as mine, that he'd forgotten where the line came from! Politicians and poets, who can you trust?

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Bob What?

Nothing was decoded
And I tell this truth to you
Not out of spite or anger,
But simply because it's true!

Stolen from Bob Dylan

Who said all that? Crap, I don't know the answer to nothin'!

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Danger--Soup Ahead!

No comments—it's so sad. Guess I'd go kill myself if I could be neat about burying myself afterward. Guess I could go find a giant construction site—a new dam or something—where I could jump into the concrete. I'd be dead, I'd be buried, and I wouldn't stink up the place any more! The rest of you morons could go on like nothing had ever changed, at least until it's time for you to jump into the soup. Everybody's got some soup waiting for them somewhere, whether it's concrete, salt water, or minestrone.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Never Say Die!

The Kennedys Go On

I didn't watch Ted Kennedy's appearance at the Democratic Convention, but I'm sorry I didn't. I notice on the Internet his relatives are all saying how "unbelievably well" he's doing despite his medical treatments for brain cancer. I hope that estimate is all true, but you know, that's just what the Kennedy family is always like. If the assassinated President Kennedy had lasted a couple of days instead of mere hours, they would all have been putting a positive spin on the worst possible scenario.

I don't accuse them of any dishonesty, I just say they possess a family trait that is no more familiar to me than if it was the behavior of just-arrived Martians. Someone in my family always says, "How can we go on without him (or her)?" The Kennedys never say "Die," no matter how many of them have died, no matter how tragically or how publicly.

The love of God, country, and family aside, I would guess that they most believe in just plain True Grit.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Tell Me, What'd I Say?

Myself, I think I'm moving into a form of cryptology where I can't even decode myself.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

The Greatest Record Ever!

Actually, I liked "The White Album" More

I didn't necessarily read all the "liner notes" that accompanied the CD issue of various old records or, if I did, have not retained them very well. I was poking through those CD liner notes for "Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" earlier today. Once again, I was reading too fast, but not entirely skimming! Some interesting facts did impinge on my ancient brain—for one, that the recording took a total of 700-plus hours as compared to the first Beatles album which took less than 600 minutes. Big shots all across Britain, Europe, and America must have been shitting their pants over that investment. After all, if time is money, so time pissed away is money pissed away!!! (Besides, who were all those goddamn people?)
The investment paid off, though. In 2003, Rolling Stone magazine showed it as the greatest album of all time among 500 other noteworthy albums. 'Nuff said!

p.s. Of the top 10 on the above list, the Beatles had three albums, Bob Dylan two, and the Rolling Stones had one.

Even Roaches Like To Maintain Their "Place"

I get meaner and less worthy of sympathy as I go along. I'm just making an observation, you don't have to jump up and declare that you still sorta like me! I'd probably question your heritage and doubt your synaptic integrity if you did!

Friday, August 22, 2008


Well, that blip was pitiful, two ways at once. If you missed it, don't ask--I covered it up.

Bomb The Bastards!

Won't these goddamn Olympics ever end? I haven't been watching them intentionally because nobody's forced me to watch, not exactly. But it's on the news so often and all the talk show mavens are "talking" about it in their usual aimless, pointless manner (as if it's better than sex) that it seems to me like it's "on" day and night, sixty minutes an hour! I have never so badly wished that somebody would drop nuclear bombs on China! Now would be a good time.

Do you think the nations of the world would still have Olympic games four years from now? As if nothing had happened, despite the incineration of thousands of contestants? Shoot, who knows, maybe that would be the way to officially end the games every time from now on. NBC could leave the cameras on and step out quickly "for a smoke", then high-tail it to their waiting airplanes! BOOM! Ah, the host country just paid the price for all that attention and glory! China (or whoever) won't have to explain why their gymnasts all look six! The ultimate way to destroy all the evidence!

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Everything About Me

If you subscribe or even if you don't, beware of my poems' first editions, for they are sometimes revised 3 times in the first 30 minutes.


I had hardons in my life
For some very sweet soft women,
Day and night,
And night and day overlapping—
I had Boogie in my britches
That seemed like forever sometimes,
Stretching from my itchy eyebrows to the stars in my eyes
And right back down to my mindless stares
And vivid vacuous ire I shared
With nearly total strangers!
Now everything else about me has always grossly stunk
Of some old cheese I dreamed or
Of thwarted themes of what I sire
And tumultuous winds and terminated fire
Until this time around, at least--but now
That Boogle in my soul reached out and knocked me down
And left my lying here collapsed, elapsed,
Like some old smelly inner tube from that last flat bicycle tire!

How do you get this way, this bad?
I don't have enough hard lusts to go around,
Not even for the girls around here--
I never did, I never will,
Although the reasons why I must
Vary according to sickness, sadness,
Availability, enthusiasm,
And lastly my failure of will as time goes by.

"I wish you'd get a move on,"
I say to some, some say to me,
And things are left that way, like in a dream,
Vague and never clear
While everything we'd like to say is left unsaid
And all that we once could feel so easy
Is hard to even steal a glance of
And only comes back to us at all
With the firm reminder of one of those old soft songs
About the gloss of shoes that tightly fit,
Or blues guitars that gently weep or stubborn men who won't.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Bowls Of Fruit and Nuts

No Grabbing!

I'm going to start calling you futzers by name! I don't know what good in the world it will do me, but I'LL DO IT! That'll fix you, Fred! You too, Helen of Fucking Mergetroyd! And all you stupid gits from the Teeney Weeney Penis-waving British Petunia Bros. Band! Everybody knows what you are, and all those buxom girls helping you put on your disguises one trouser-leg at a time, too! And Charlotte Rae, with that big sexy hair, we miss you so!

(Did I leave anybody out?!)

Bite Me!

I used to have 2 or 3 comments every day. These days I can crawl through the grass and under the house and not get 2 or 3 snake bites. If you offer to bite me, though, I'll bite you back!

Break Out The Fear And Loathing

Among the Bob Dylan songs I've "listened to" lately on the Internet Youtubes was one I hadn't paid close attention to in a long time. I found that "Desolation Row" is still a terrific, terrifying frightfest of dark images that paints us all into a very tight corner.

How could a man say all that at any one time?! Did he set out to scare the dogs and children or did it just work out that way?


They're selling postcards of the hanging
They're painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They've got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they're restless
They need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight
From Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy
"It takes one to know one," she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he's moaning
"You Belong to Me I Believe"
And someone says," You're in the wrong place, my friend
You better leave"
And the only sound that's left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortunetelling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he's dressing
He's getting ready for the show
He's going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row

Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid

To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession's her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah's great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a jealous monk
He looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the alphabet
Now you would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin
On Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world
Inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients
They're trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She's in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
"Have Mercy on His Soul"
They all play on penny whistles
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough
From Desolation Row

Across the street they've nailed the curtains
They're getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
A perfect image of a priest
They're spoonfeeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they'll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words

And the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls
"Get Outa Here If You Don't Know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row"

Now at midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero's Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody's shouting
"Which Side Are You On?"
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain's tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the door knob broke)
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can't read too good
Don't send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row

Copyright ©1965; renewed 1993 Special Rider Music

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Cool And Uncool Redux

I was talking about my cool and uncool grandfathers. It is odd that the cool grandfather was married to the uptight grandmother, a strict and rigorous and Bible-beating woman! And the uncool grandfather was likewise married to his own opposite, a woman who at least tried to consider the difficulties in the world and the differences in people.

It was my mother's mother who was at least a little "laid back" by the adult standards of the day. It was a double-edged sword, though. Just as she might be forthright on some controversial topic of the day, she was also a teller of unvarnished truths about Life, and as she got older, the more I'd hear her tell of how wearying life got to be and how it wouldn't be any burden just to Give It Up! I guess I was a teenager at the time, certainly not twenty yet, and I knew it was perhaps something I didn't know how to handle. I remember uncomfortably smiling and grinning and nodding, but I don't remember what I said, if anything. It wasn't the kind of statements that you wanted to encourage an old person in, but I didn't know enough to say much about it—nobody would.

I understand now much of what she was saying, though even now it makes me secretly tearful to consider it! I'm sorry she felt it and said it. I'm sorry I now have personal knowledge of it, but sometimes I'm sorry, too, that I have no one to share it with, to tell it to as she told it to me. I didn't know if it did her any good to speak her mind, but I can't help but believe that it did. But here I am. Even my sister—who was always dangerously close to sharing my grandmother's mindset—is already gone. And I remain. My elderly mother is not a likely candidate for that conversation, at least not for me. I don't know why, but one can be more frank with grandchildren or grandparents than with one's parents. It is simply so.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Grandfather Cool And The Uncool Cats

I don't remember publishing this, so I'm going to do it all over again!

"You might have to start kissing up to your relations and your friends so you won't get eaten by your cats."

My grandfather on my father's side didn't die surrounded by cannibal cats, but only because his very adult children were worried about it—they hounded him to get rid of all the cats (both tame and feral) that he fed—there were dozens! He lived far out in the woods with no really close neighbors and no one to clean the house every day! So his kids worried vividly about some scenario involving the cannibal cats, but also they worried about the dust, allergens, and germs that were being brought in by the cats 24 hours a day! I was still in my early twenties and I thought it sounded pretty cool, but that grandfather was very cool. Calm, cool, and collected. After my grandmother died (many years before my long hair), there was no one in that house who worried about much of anything.

My other grandfather was a drip, unceasingly loud about religion and politics. And dominoes. He always got in my face and offered to give me money for a haircut. I have never liked anyone getting in my face! He would persist until I walked out of the house to get away from him. He didn't know, or wouldn't face it, that the world had changed.

(Now I've gotten old and the world has changed again! Although I don't care much if the young people have no morals or look funny—how else am I to be amused?)

The cool grandfather only grinned and asked, "How long did it take you to grow your hair that long?" VERY cool. I miss that old man and the visits to his lonely house.

Two guesses which grandfather's death made me sorry to hear about! I don't think much any more about either of my grandfathers. My grandmothers, too, are both gone now, but that, too, has been a very long time. That's another story.

Saturday, August 16, 2008


Tennis Court Lawyer

Where is anything?
I thought it was there,
But it's gone.
"Shut the goddamn garden door, Geneva,"
Said the round and rattled rat,
"If you expect to ever keep the cat out!"

Why Start Now?

Okay, this one's not great at all; it's just long. So it's actually easy to read. You can read it with the TV on.

Ape At Large

I'm so spastic, I'm so loud,
I'm at ground zero in every crowd!
I'm an Apostolic Party Equivalent kind of guy
Even when I'm by myself or on TV!
Hey, no one here's a hairy hand puppet--
I have it printed on my palm!

Okay, I'm at no loss now, lady,
There's babes around here who like us old guys,
So, don't despair about my thinning hair
Or stay up late trying to figure out why I always wear a hat!

Are you really going to let me do it,
Can you stand quite still and let me do it,
Is there nothing you or I can say or lust for
To make us stand or sit upright just a little?

Oh my, I'm at no loss, I claim,
Or any kind of wretched wrinkle in the hand puppet—
Just bring on the babes
And the hairy beach clams
From wherever they come
And we'll stay up all night getting off
With the TV on and the sound turned off,
Whether we are standing up to all of this or not!
Whether we are standing on your stomach or your stopwatch!

In time you might feel repulsed
Or misused, if not amused...
What can I do?
I judge your fractious nature
As something akin to mine—
Fettered, frustrated, and striking out,
The both of us still straining toward something
That the world and all my nurses don't regard.

So what's this wordless state of bold disunion!
I begged you, please, at that last reunion
To lift your skirt a little,
What would it've hurt?
Now don't despair, delay, or decay about me;
Don't rewrite my poetry on a whim
Or in all seriousness, either,

And don't stay up late
Showing off what's in your bodice,
It's not your fate to see why my skull is long and round,
Or why my pottery comes out all wrong—
Stop trying to straighten things out
While I'm still alive—
It'll just make things take twice as long
And then we'll die, anyway,
So where's that at?

Friday, August 15, 2008

Something To Chew On

Gnaw this shit stick, Adolpho! And don't come back!

Maybe Just Being Here Is Your Punishment?

You might be thinking that a fella could get arrested for doing shit like this, but I'm here to tell you that it is apparently very difficult!

Thursday, August 14, 2008


Pucker up, world!

I need to make some snotty remarks, but there's not enough room for them. The basement's too small, the highway's too short, the trail is too narrow, and every one's too tall. My sense of reality is sabotaged. What'll I do now, I wonder, if I don't just kill someone?

Wednesday, August 13, 2008


P.S. I know who you are. I hope you all get rubbed out!

What the Hell, Beatles?


I still wonder what the hell this song was about--it always seems to me those guys were too young for these lyrics, unless they were channelling from their ancestors.


Is there anybody going to listen to my story
All about the girl who came to stay?
She's the kind of girl
you want so much it make you sorry
Still you don't regret a single day
Ah, girl, Girl, Girl

When I think of all the times
I tried to hard to leave her
She will turn to me and start to cry
And she promises the earth to me
and I believe her
After all this time I don't know why
Ah, girl, girl, girl

She's the kind of girl who puts you down
When friends are there
You feel a fool
When you say she's looking good
She acts as if it's understood
she's cool, ooh, oo, oo, oo
Girl, girl, girl

Was she told when she was young
that pain would lead to pleasure
Did she understand it when they said
That a man must break his back
to earn his day of leisure?
Will she still believe it when he's dead
Ah, girl, girl, girl

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

John Lennon Is Still A Murdered Man

To Hell With Mercy

Sometimes I hear a Lennon song and remember the old days and many good things so well. Sometimes I hear a Lennon song and think of good things entirely new!

Mark David Chapman, age 53, has been in prison for 27 years, was denied parole for a fifth time recently. I see nothing wrong with that. I hope they never forget.

The rock stars and the movie starlets have mostly changed, but all those boys like Chapman, who thought he was Holden Caulfield, who couldn't fit in without throwing a fit, they aren't changed. The sympathy of doctors and social workers--all those professional weepers and wetnurses--will never produce that effect. There's nothing wrong with punishment for life; after all, those who are murdered are dead for life. Those families and friends who must miss murdered men and women, we must miss them for life!

So don't talk to me about feeling sorry for some vacuous shithead like Mark David Chapman. I don't ask that he be whipped bloody every day--just that he spends every day of his life where he is. If it doesn't seem like any very great punishment to him, that's ok--he's in there for the safety of the public. If he feels that it's too great a punishment, he's not the first criminal to think it.

Friday, August 08, 2008

Poem Title Contest!

The post previous to (below) this post has changed and changed, but the titles haven't changed much. Still, I don't know if I like any of them very much. The title of the post (Dragonflies, etc.) is not really intended as the poem title. The poem title is the bold lettering near the body of the poem. See if you can think of a better one. I realize that there may be only 3 of you who make any suggestion, but that's okay. I'm used to being ignored. The winner will recieve...uh, ah, uh-oh! I'm still thinking about it, okay?!

Thursday, August 07, 2008

Dragonflies And Mayflies On The River

Below is a work-in-progress, which keeps changing whether or not it works!

That's no longer true. Endless revisions have led close to a finished effort now. I'm very pleased wiith this poem now that began as one of my most casual "blog" poems. Sometimes, strange things happen.

Last update: 08/07/08

Wings And Wages On The River

I been down to the river
With my headphones on,
I was listening to the blessed nothing
I was deep into the rhythm of the bleeding in my soul!
Oh, it was coming in so clear,
It was coming in so clean—
It was like I wasn't there,
It was like there was no I,
Only the part that listens or mistens
When the breezes come so strong
That we all believe in the river at last and nothing else,
The river that flows so fast beneath us even while we dream!

If life doesn't fester while we sleep,
If the corpse of your or my gone sister in the twilight doesn't weep
While the rest of us jive smartasses
Have ripened on the bough and jeered at death,
But still we nearly fall to ground and rot
While we await the next hard leap and dodge the cops!
All the darkness in this designated box just smells at first
Like some lost lady's purse imbued with the toxic smell
Of black perfume and used kleenex and stale cough drops—
But before the careless undertaker
Lights the incense or the candles,
Before the well-dressed ladies turn away and shrug
And go out together to light up another smoke,
Even the drunk old doctor snorts
And says he thinks the whole thing stinks!

Now it's been coming on so heedlessly, all could see,
All pigment blue entombed like gross tattoos
In all the softish folds of flesh
On all the boys and girls these days
Who have fattened so they have such veins,
Who say they don't like to read,
And indeed no one here does read,
Not even with the gilding added to these heavy hieroglyphs and
Not where this expensive deep-cloaked velvet lining shines
From every corner of this slightly damaged royal bier!
That same gold-leaved brass-adorned wooden casket
We imagine for each other in these days,
It shows just like a cold despair in here
Except it's rather pretty and it costs much more!
Though there is no mention of the worms,
There's a fell and musky fume inside our heads
That pulls the pure blind air right out of me
And out of you,
And the hairs on our arms and in our ears
And in our nostrils stand straight out now
As if electrified or stung by acrid house-fire smoke!

Oh, if I could have always only heard you say
That we will wed and wed again
And never ever part, the winged catbirds
And the sparrows that stayed might not just play,
And the angels who some said were standing by
And counting coup amid the timid varicolored turtledoves
Then could rise and float away from all these ashen aches,
And all but I could sail into the heavens high above and far away,
Further than a Fender guitar tune a gypsy plays for strangers
That is so loud it almost makes the angels sing,
Further than a lover’s best-known song he plays as if
His own soft heart-beat on hard piano keys in his living room.
I guess I'd be left outdoors to rise within myself as if in song,
As high as ever need could be on mortal earth,
While those aloft knew suddenly what Beauty was
And blushed as if it mattered and then they called my name,
Daring all that ever dared in one of us on earth—
Now all took heart,
And all was well in paradise,
And I content to please them all—
You know we'll never fly again like this,
Like straight-vaned arrows that soared so true
(We never knew!)
And pierced both heaven and the nothing all at once—
For after that, my nerves assert, we will all be sent back down!

We'll be okay, but the flood will come
And we'll be low, locked down,
Viewing first the dragonflies that search
And then the mayflies that never can escape, never sleep,
And all are mixed like fog just flitting on the river.
They seem to joust at times,
Jiving through their tiny lives, akin to ours,
Never moaning, never mourning as we do,
Or so it seems—
There's just their lightly veined exquisite double pairs of vanes
Falling and accumulating as they surf
Near the shaded bushes at the still water's edge
While a child must watch in wonder.
It is almost like a whispering at some ghostly wake,
But the child will never know it—
For him, it's just a river going on for now,
Purely water full of life
That moves the wind that powers wings
And sings now softly, with you, with me,
And with that small blonde child,
How the wings that shall remain they still must rise one time more,
But here seem still and are as ready for the restless living
And beyond as it is possible to be,
Those wings that only go so far,
And dart about so fast, and only last a while.


Wednesday, August 06, 2008

The Tea-bag Breaks

At the Coffee Shop
The tea-bag breaks
At another table
And we watch as pale brown liquid gooshes out
Despite the sweaty efforts of strangers
And all the furious fervor possible
From unmarried adults with suddenly wetted laps.


Although some answers are just unquestionable, I am beginning to find some questions unanswerable and, either way, it's kicking my ass!

I start to think I've dwelt with Blogger far too fucking long!!! A mere 160 posts at MFBQ, that I had to work on, revise and correct endless times. But over here, more than 1600 posts--some of which were easy, just shot out of here like rope-resembling shit!

Why must I think this way? Is your entertainment so important? Is mine? There must be some kind of way out of here!

Monday, August 04, 2008

You can name it after me!

Storm, what storn?

Maybe I ought to pay more attention? Just thinking about it makes me need to rush to the bathroom! I'm too old, or at least too feeble, for much of this kind of shit.

Saturday, August 02, 2008

No More Google Group For TRS

My Google Group for this blog is more trouble that it's worth. There's seldom any activity at all, so I'm going to dump it. You can obviously still email me or leave comments at this blog, so I'm not cutting off anybody's feet!

Boy, that was harder than I thought. I was hopping all over that program and still couldn't find where to delete it. I finally went to Blogger Help Group and did a search there for "delete google group". Within 2 messages, I found a relevant post that explained it. It was simple. I already knew where Group Options was located, but had been ignoring all the options, such as "Advanced", which had yet more options. I forget if the right one said "delete" or "remove", but I killed it with two keystrokes. What an alligator wrestle!