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

In Need Of A Phone?

It's hard to say what kind of mobile phone I'd buy if I was looking for one. There's not even that many phones that I've seen in use close up or that I've borrowed to use. I don't know many people to call when I'm not at home, so I just use the house phones--there's 4 or 5 of those! I don't know if it's some or most of the cell phones that are starting to be so small that they look like toys--you know, some equivalent of the plastic cash register they sell that four-year-olds can play "store" with. I used to love gadgets--component stereos, Casio watches, Walkmans, etc.--back before every soul on earth had pocket gadgets in their possession. Now it's just me who doesn't have one! But I'm not sure what the point would be. Would I just call home to find out if I'm home or not? I could do that. I could answer all the crap phone calls from strangers and from the wretches who dial wrong numbers until the day they die. Yeah, I really have a great need for a goddamn cell phone.

She Comes

She comes in when she comes And not before. Men wait in the wild teeming streets And tinker-toy with whores of their own invention. They win nothing more, however, Beyond the torment of being wishful for a tramp Who won’t come home until they’re dead. We kill the time with kisses While she waits for her carriage to arrive And everything gets creamy And much of our nightmare is dreamt of, Forever and a day. For certain none ever kiss much better Than what has been before, Not even in these dreams; We glimpse ourselves in tandem with the famous tart, But no matter how we may aspire, it is all illusory so far As we lift our lids and cuffs and drift discretely apart. rcs Created on 11/12/2009 9:54 AM

All Kinds Of Weather

In all kinds of weather I see you take my measure Just as if I were not there. There must be some way around all that, But, of course, I haven’t found it yet. No, I haven’t got a clue, Not even a stick to stir it with, but It doesn’t matter much from minute to minute Now that times are bad— Anyway, it’s Saturday night again And there’s no one else around. I’ve always found it easy to be alone If I just stay at home With my pistol cocked and britches on And never offer any resistancc To the higher Law that’s seldom blind or balanced. Oh the charm of alarms in my soul, When it goes, never goes off only slightly! So at the start of flu season such as this, We watch the rusty weather vane And are all pretty much alone And are all alike on a nervous track, On the nervous lookout For anyone who might sneeze or cough Or touch us or laugh and force us to decode them Before we end up in jail with their twins or worse. rcs Created on 10/31/2009 8:52 PM

I Get Worse And Worse!

None of this Site Meter shit makes any real sense to me.  I might understand that I got worse each month since last November, but I surely didn’t get better in October of this year and then worse again in November of this year!  That wasn’t true!  I’ve been doing OK lately, I thought.  So much for me bothering to think…

Helpless

Words go out like a candle flame in a breeze, Never failing to amaze me until the moment I get bored. I think of all the lights that I’ve adored but I’m not like, Whether Nasty Dylan or Saint Joan Baez Or lustful Joni Mitchell or musty Neil Young, And it makes me feel helplessly dark And small and imprecise Like I’m lost and out of control in the faraway Of some daybreak horizon I’ve never seen Or on one of those streaked gray highways Out of a dreadful dream where it’s endlessly Sticky and clammy and black-devilled night And there’s no one here but me until the resurrection. rcs Created on 11/21/2009 9:28 PM

Bold And Alive

I have stayed alive Despite a frequent inclination to despair, So suicide or deadly harm Barely loom large enough to jar me anymore And may not be as relevant as you’d suspect. It is hard to be bold in any case. rcs Created on 11/21/2009 9:59 PM

I Know Someone

I know someone there, that place you mentioned, Or, more accurately, I knew someone who went there And later, the last I knew of them, They dropped off the radar screen Without remark or report or regard. I guess they no longer cared much for me, But that’s okay—I see I didn’t care much myself now it’s done. rcs Created on 10/28/2009 6:45 PM

Bad Smell

You can’t do anything about it, So why should you fret? I’ve been bitten, made lame, battered, bitter and shuttered, Since before you were born And you won’t expect to see any change at this late date Until I’m in the grave. Even I don’t expect more than that. All I can do these days, After so much time misspent And so much energy gone for rent, Is to keep a little occupied, Even if it’s only in my head or fingertips While my house and body slowly decay, None too visibly, perhaps, but certain Like a bad smell gone astray in a closed room. (Now that’s a pleasant way To speak about oneself.) rcs Created on 11/18/2009 4:51 PM

A Chrome Knob At Work

It's supposed to be speedy

I downloaded the new Google "Chrome" browser and spent just a little time with it so far. I can't see much very good or very bad about it so far. It doesn't explain or mark all it's buttons and icons, so some things required that I just "try it and see". Sometimes I was pleasantly surprised as a result, other times NOT. I'm sure it'll require a great deal more time to investigate it. It sure did copy itself fast, though, I must say that. I wonder if it left anything out just because it finished so quickly! It was speedy about that, at least.

Most Frequent Blogger Questions

My work at Most Frequent Blogger Questions must be done.  It’s finished, I mean.  It’s not the “best of” anything, nor is it Number One for any reason, but I’ve managed to turn loose of it, and that’s a wonderful thing.  It has freed me.  At first I didn’t realize how much so, but now I see that I’ve written a dozen new poems (at least their beginnings) in the past couple of weeks, and that’s a big accomplishment to me.  I sometimes get a Gerard Manley Hopkins sort of feeling like, “myself it speaks and spells, Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.” (Hopkins) My poetry is indeed more nearly what I came to the Internet for! Hopkins is a far better poet than I am, but he’s also more difficult to read these days!  Maybe three people in the universe will read me, if I’m lucky.

This simplistic post was constructed in Windows Live Writer and then "Published" to this blog. Not bad, though I am not a person who has lately had any troubles just writing my posts in the Blogger editor.

Losing Hand

I have been dealt a losing hand In a game of solitaire, Though you wonder how that’s possible. And so do I—or am I only losing heart? Maybe it’s only what we have at hand That keeps me muddled and unsuspecting And more than a little sick at heart. rcs Created on 11/16/2009 2:41 PM

Missing You

It's true. Of course, it's my fault, too. Like the old Cream song went, "We're going wrong."

The Old Days

(Email To The Blogger Future)

Some day you will recall How you used to speak with me In the old days of the Internet, And others may or may not remark it. Whichever way it goes, it won’t mean much To anyone but yourself and you’ll wonder at it, Guessing that there must have been others who also spoke And where are they now and what do they think— But it will only be a moment’s pause, a mere thought, And you’ll go on again without a care for me, For the world will have changed again by then, Misused and abused faster than even the Internet can calculate. rcs Created on 11/18/2009 5:25 PM

Welcome to the end of the world!

Try to Relax. You are the only human remaining and the rats and other vermin all have your name written down on a piece of paper. I can't tell if you are targeted for extermination or for the menu, but there is no hurry.

From A Comical Poet Who's Droll But Dead

Ogden Nash: Progress might have been all right once, but it has gone on too long.

Modern Pest Control

It is no longer my job to kill all the varmints. Is that good or bad? At least back then I had something to do. But I guess my discernment has waned lately, so I guess it would be a more dangerous proposition. I might mistake your French poodle for a cockroach or your sorry ass for a rat.

Déjà Vu

UC Berkeley students were occupying a campus building and the governor is a famous former actor. Didn't this shit already happen? I feel like Rip Van Winkle, except that things are supposed to be different after twenty years!

OINK!

I got my H1N1 flu shot yesterday and have had no bad reactions so far. So I'm "protected", I guess, though I fully plan to still be a swine this year! I just won't have an audience for it (as it appears that all of my visitors are only lingering for zilch-point-zero seconds and that's not long enough to read a post card!)

Must Be

I must be getting to be the most boring sonofabitch on the face of the earth! Why do I say that? Just guessing.

Memory Of A Song

I've always wanted to know a Rita (lovely rita meter maid) But I don't think I ever did (or was it just too long ago?). It was a good tune, though, Is all I know.

Jenny Frances And The Shower

I Hate It When That Happens

“Oh, God, there goes the shower maniac again,” she said. “Yeah, I hear,” Ed grinned. “What?” I asked. “The guy in the apartment upstairs. That guy spends more time in the shower,” Jenny Frances said in an exasperated humorous, tone. “Nobody spends that much time in the shower, really! I think he's whacking off up there myself and using the running water for cover.” “An interesting concept,” I laughed. “I'm not so sure it's entirely practical. My few efforts at sex in water have never worked very well. Water temperature kept the gonads too cold or something.” “Well, I don't know,” Jenny Frances giggled, looking only slightly embarrassed, but firmly in control of her thoughts. “I've done it in the shower and I assure you I came, and so did the man I was with.” I gathered that it wasn't Ed, since he didn't jump up and say, “That's right, it sure was fun doin' her in the shower!” I still had questions and comments, but none of them were decent, so I thought I’d better keep them to myself. For one thing I was thinking she sure must have a nice warm snatch to so successfully keep that gonad temperature up! Whew! Couldn't say that, except to myself. What an immensely attractive woman, though! Jenny would keep my temperature up if the chance had ever offered itself! I had always found her very attractive, whether in spite of or because she was slightly horse-faced! Yet she was smart and tender, too—characteristics that were winsome in a woman wherever you might find them! Once again, to my regret, I had found them in a woman already in a relationship. Then, too, Ed was a nice fellow, so I had double motivation to be civil. Damn.

No Repair

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

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

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

“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

"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

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?

(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!

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?!"

Local Murders

I was thinking back about a Texas murder that took place some years ago where David Travis and his wife were stabbed to death by the teenage son and the son's best buddy, both boys 16 years old. In the process, young Bill made a small error and also killed his best friend. Oops. So he was very tired after so much work and he went to bed and stole the family truck the next morning. I had known David a little in high school long ago, though the most I had to do with him these days was that I sometimes shopped at his family hardware store. So, earlier today, I thought that I could just look up the gruesome story on the Internet, but boy was I wrong. You can find pictures of pimples on a gnat's ass on the Web, but not that creepy murder story! A single website quoted from a book about the Mall Of America (which had been the murderers original destination after the murders) and there was a couple of paragraphs on Bill Travis there. I guess the kid is still serving life in prison somewhere in Texas... If not, I recommend we keep a really tight asshole!

Just Working For A Living

Others went before me and others followed behind me and when I'm not even remembered, even newer workers will be there in the spaces that I used to occupy. That's how it works. No one is indispensable. I continued to work a long while at Mosquito University after my father retired from it. It was long enough to see that others of less skill or willingness to do the work well could nonetheless do the work, satisfy the bosses, could "carry on". When I left there, I had no illusions about how organizations go on without the individual.

Losing One's Humor

I am not as entertaining as I once was. But then I'm not as easily entertained, either.

Stalker

Are you stalking me yet? Time is running out, you know.

Will I Like Being Dead?

Deal, Stranger!
Sometimes I wonder if I'd like being dead. After all, I suppose that we'll all someday have to. I often speculate that I will-- No more responsibility, you know, And no more work!--nonetheless, I remain uncertain about the comforts of hell And the pains of physical passing That may or may not be a big deal.

The Bloated Ones

Some bloggers, I sometimes notice, think they are dealing with the "truth" somehow, but most of them are full of crap, just like most of the people that you may meet in person. Like a talking head on TV, though, many bloggers worship and admire themselves, and that's all. Wouldn't it be nice if we could destroy all the bloated blockheads in the world? (I don't mean the fat people--just the fatheads!).

Information

Born To Kvetch

My entertainment has always included an addiction to information, no doubt starting with 35 and 50-cent paperbacks when I was a teenager and, of course, a lot of books from the library. Even before computers and the Internet, I used to keep a lot of notes on things that I would look up later, when I got the chance to use a dictionary or other reference book. Once I had access to the Internet at my local library--I didn't have access at home for a good long while after that--I'd copy info off the Web and mail it to my email address. I could retrieve the info once I was home by using the old slow dial-up email system I had at first that didn't even include any Internet time--a weird configuration, hey? But not weirder than 35-cent paperback books! Nowadays, paperbacks are so costly than I don't even bother to look at them any more! With various computers that I've owned over the past 20 years, I stored information on many files, the info sometimes lasting through one computer to another, sometimes not. It's gotten to where more and more of it means less to me. I think the omnipresence of the Internet has erased my old-fashioned sense of possession or the desire to possess the info. If I forget it, I can just look it up again--even easier in most cases than owning all the reference books! But most of all, I don't think I care any more about what I know or how much I know. Enough of the old self survives that it's nice not to be completely ignorant, but I nonetheless find myself to be very ignorant. I wish it wasn't so, but I can't get excited about it. For instance, my new laptop has both a new OS and a new browser, so there seems to be hundreds of things that are different from what was once "second nature". Adding to that, it's a different brand of computer, so I'm not exactly lost, but neither am I familiar any more with any corner, nook, crevice, or cranny of my own computer! No matter how many times I've done such-and-such, it was on a completely different machine and setup, goddammit!

When

When I'm dead, It will all be clear, Or not.

Fond Recall

I guess I ought to acknowledge that it's strange, All the memories of you that are stockpiled inside me, Along with those of all the rest--my world. It's a wonder that I can still remember or recall Those distant moments, not so important even then, Except to me. Now all are Worn down, grown thin, elapsed, Semi-forgotten yet there nonetheless. Why do I even care? Why not let them go, Diminish, retaining nothing, Grow dim like something burnt up so long ago It sheds no further light?

The Man Who Saved The World

Nothing could have been more important, yet we live in such a superficial and sensationalistic world that Norman Borlaug is barely even among the most famous people in the world of the present time. Most of us knuckleheads never knew of his accomplishments or don't remember them! It's a crying shame.

Notes To An Old Friend

I think it's wonderful if you've avoided becoming significantly more conservative as you've aged. I think I'm probably as liberal as I ever was, though I guess I have gotten appreciatively meaner.

Singing With Angels?

Is Michael Jackson singing with the other white Negroes in heaven? Or anywhere else?

Hobo's Cats

I don't think you are who you used to be And certainly not who you think you are, And, you know, I'm such a crud, I'm no better than I was, myself! Shall we just admit it And play another game tomorrow Or go on with this pretense? My life's charade is running down, May already be over, I fear, While all the shadow chessmen move on or off the game board And all these shallow disapproving smiles Appear and disappear to me all night Like a hobo's unfed cats...

Is this fascinating or what?!

LORD OF THE LAWSUITS
I can't tell if it is or not. Seems like JRR Tolkien's children, now 80 and 84, have won their suit against the movie company owners. They were asking for 150 million dollars, but I can't tell if they got less. Apparently, most of it will go to charities. Everything is as clear as mud. The news story: Warner Bros. settles lawsuit.

Plus or Minus

It doesn't matter Whether I deserve this or not, This is what I've got. Can't give any of it back, Can't add much more than regret.

Woodstock (For The Slow Reader)

Joni Mitchell: "I don't know who l am But you know life is for learning"

Spin Landing

It's hard to see my life in here, Whether I am you or whether I am me. I work a bit, I work all day, I roll along and cover up and tell it all, But never let a word of it get through. No, never let a word of it come true. You understand? I'm glad that's clear.

Aurora

She's A Functional Delusion

She's got it, whatever it is, she's got it. Something in the way she moves it Makes me think once again that I'm too hot to handle, Makes me want what she's got even more, Makes me wish for a bigger body part And a bigger part in this movie! But she's gone now—she was just a dream, Whether young or old, A fantasy that I have sometimes—it passes by me like a dart As I grow old and slow Without a wife, without a diamond or a heart. If I thought I could hold her attention, If I thought I could hold her still, Things would be great And I'd have a great big what-you-need Or a basketful of spirit Or a bellyful of fire— Call it what you will!

The Rush of Slowing Down

What did I do with all those people in my life I used to talk to with the frequency I guess I could only obtain when young, But it's all done now. Now there's this, only this, Where we've stopped and I wait in a long line with strangers For the men's room at some freeway McDonald's After a long ride that wasn't fun And there is no rest to speak of For when I get to the front of the line and enter, It's the foulest-smelling earthly pit That God ever pissed on Or Man ever cursed And I've held it back so long While rushing to it that now I can't even go! Now God's the only one who's pleased or pissed And he's cursed me, too. Maybe I'll dig through the garbage For one of those Super Size cups And give that a try while I steer the car with one hand. I wonder if I'll manage not to spill it this time? I hope I don't get no disease from that trash can! They say don't feel sorry for oneself, But I feel sorry for everyone And the sorry state we're in— It's just that I'm the one I know, So I'm the one I pity! Go waste your own way or water where you will!

Gunga Din

by Rudyard Kipling Most of us may only know the story because of the old black-and-white movie. It's usually only some few words of the last three lines that we recognize as far as the poem is concerned! (This one's for Mushy, who likes to drink.) YOU may talk o' gin an' beer When you're quartered safe out 'ere, An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; But if it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them black-faced crew The finest man I knew Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. It was "Din! Din! Din! You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! Hi! slippy hitherao! Water, get it! Panee lao! You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!" The uniform 'e wore Was nothin' much before, An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, For a twisty piece o' rag An' a goatskin water-bag Was all the field-equipment 'e could find. When the sweatin' troop-train lay In a sidin' through the day, Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, We shouted "Harry By!" Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all. It was "Din! Din! Din! You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? You put some juldee in it, Or I'll marrow you this minute, If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!" 'E would dot an' carry one Till the longest day was done, An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin' nut, 'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. With 'is mussick on 'is back, 'E would skip with our attack, An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire." An' for all 'is dirty 'ide, 'E was white, clear white, inside When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! It was "Din! Din! Din!" With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. When the cartridges ran out, You could 'ear the front-files shout: "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!" I sha'n't forgit the night When I dropped be'ind the fight With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. I was chokin' mad with thirst, An' the man that spied me first Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. 'E lifted up my 'ead, An' 'e plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water—green; It was crawlin' an' it stunk, But of all the drinks I've drunk, I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. It was "Din! Din! Din! 'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around: For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!" 'E carried me away To where a dooli lay, An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 'E put me safe inside, An' just before 'e died: "I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din. So I'll meet 'im later on In the place where 'e is gone— Where it's always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals Givin' drink to pore damned souls, An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din! Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you, By the livin' Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Death and Dismemberment

Will I get more hits if I mention sex and death and blood and gore and voluntary dismemberment? Probably not. Who would want all those things? Creeps, probably, though that doesn't stop them from being there, does it? I wouldn't mind pitching in with the violent dismemberment of the kidnapper, "Creepy Phil" Garrido! But I guess I'd have to stand in a long, long line, wouldn't I? Oh, and by the way, Phil: "Religion, my ass, you goddamn pervert!!!"

Poofadoodle

Poopadoodle, I mean. No magic involved. That's all I have to say today!

Trip On Yourself

Who are you, I yet wonder, And what deep stupidity am I in-- In what terrible hole are we where I pretend I'm civilized and don't mind AT ALL When others are marginally rude And make those crude observations About our shortcomings Or ignore my ugly kisser so wholeheartedly While I dance on the ends of these strings On any early morning like this, Whether I surmise the risk is tempting and rise Or shrink and struggle to re-weld my eyes And go back to sleep before I fall? Ordinarily, things don't work like that at all, Or not for most... Though long, I guess that was a question of sorts, But it also makes various statements Without a line-of-sight past for any of them And spews out accusations that know no rest Nor any bounds while the business of the world Seems to be nothing but Busyness and busted teeth At a very high rate of speed. I wish you'd all just trip on yourselves, With or without your hands in your lap Or your fist in anyone's pocket Or that controversial load of lead You claim is in your pencil instead of in your ass! Everything continues to burn itself up in hell, I hear, And so will you and all of this that I love or fear...

Will There Ever Be A Rat In Color?

Sure--he's out there pissing (or worse) in your flour bin, coffee can, or potato chip bag even as we think about it! Below is the almost new Presentation Rat! Because of his body language, he is also known sometimes as the "What the fuck is this?" rat or the "I give up!" rat.

Change That Rat's Ass!

Is it time to change my rat image (the one below each post)? I think it probably is.

Alternative Epitaph

I don't give a rat's ass. Never did, never will.

Baptism by Ire

I drowned in the bathtub by accident and was soon resurrected. I usually just take a shower. Other times, I just take things for granted. How about you?

Rich and Powerful

President Andrew Jackson: It is to be regretted that the rich and powerful too often bend the acts of government to their selfish purposes.

Mrs. DeLay Better Laid?

I don't have any important events to relate or any juicy rumors to deny (me and those two women were just THINKING about being naked!). Things around here are as dull as dishwater. I guess now the dishwater will want to sue me for defamation or something, but I might as well live dangerously! Nothing else to do unless like other former exterminators from Texas, I take up dancing on TV. His wife claims Tom DeLay has lost 12 pounds so that he can be a better dancer. That may or may not have been the only recently improved physical activity in Mrs. DeLay's life, but no details were forthcoming.

Just Another Day

Boring you shitless, huh?

William Zantzinger Dies

Oh Happy Day!

The killer's only public remark about the famous song ("The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll") that Bob Dylan wrote about the infamous incident accused Dylan's song of being a "total lie". If any part of it was a lie, though, and if it served to degrade or embarrass the ratbastard killer, I am glad that the song was written. Zantzinger admitted plenty with his own voice to show his asshole rich young landowner attitude toward "the help" as being there for him to beat on for his drunken amusement. He didn't mean "no harm", he said. It cost him 6 months and $500. You know, I'm familiar with something in my part of the South called White Trash. It used to refer to the white people who were as impoverished and ignorant and as badly-behaved as the worst of the "bad" Negroes. It was an insult to be referred to as white trash, of course. There should have been a similar term for creatures like Zantzinger, rich young white punks who thought they had it made (and they weren't wrong). They could kill, especially the blacks, and the cops, judges, and juries let them go. I don't care what anybody says, this guy Zantzinger was RICH TRASH, and it's a shame to society that he was allowed to serve so little time and to live freely with "decent society"--the other rich people--to the end of his days. He's finally dead now. Now that's a happy day! See this: News story

But Do I Care?

Try Me!
Young poets, beware Of ending up A snarky old man who sez, "You twit— I've got poems older than you!"

Paul Is Dead (No, Not That One!)

Another Celebrity Bites The Dust
Les Paul is dead. That's a little bit sad, but he lived a long life (age 94) and a full one. Lots of music, lots of musical inventions! A lot of musicians and a lot of music listeners owe him a lot! His life's over. He didn't exactly fuck it up, did he?

I Wish It Weren't Such a Difficulty!

Talking About My Junk

It's strange, but I still get a few inquiries emailed to me every week from "Most Frequent Blogger Questions". I do have a "final" post there at the top of the blog that's meant to inform people that I am gone, retired, eviscerated, and hollow, but I guess I need to remove the "Email Me" in the sidebar--I guess it's serving as a sort of mouse-trap. Yes, I should; my emailers probably aren't at all stupid, but just desparate for an answer. I hope their asking me is a sign that they're asking Everyone they encounter. I've tried to answer the easy ones, but it's only a bad reminder to me and I don't want to be remembering all that much. To be kind to myself, I have to be a little unkind to these strangers, so I try to not respond at all any more. I need to get my former life back! Nevertheless, the death of MFBQ seems to be making it easier to do a few posts here, much more frequent posts and a little better quality (though it's still junk).

Bernie Madoff vs. Kathy Griffin

I need another fix, boys and girls. Sexual hijinks would do, but if you can't, you can't. You could send money instead. If Bernie Madoff took your dough, then write me a gracious comment and I'll try not to make fun of you. I wonder just how many people would love to kill Madoff? I'd like to kill him and I didn't even have financial dealings with him. At the least, I'd enjoy knocking the snot out of the hateful little shit with one of those little souvenir baseball bats! Wouldn't you? When I worked in Pest Control, I kept one of those little bats around for the rats that office workers would trap and then call me! They'd worked so hard, but every time declined to finish the damn job! I'd get some funny looks as I left the building with the bat in one hand and "something" wrapped up in an old rag! Oh, about those comments I asked for. Keep in mind that I'm in love with Kathy Griffin, the D-list comedienne, and that therefore my brainwaves have become even further deformed than they used to be, though you can be pretty sure I won't send you any rats. I haven't seen any real ones for years!

Michael Jackson Again?

More Sensations!

I woke up to the remarkable CNN news today that "it's been "6" weeks since Micheal Jackson died and he's still dead!" At least, that's what it sounded like from across the room, even if I was hearing it wrong. Maybe they said "unburied"? It's all TV sensationalistic crap to keep their ratings propped up, you know, and I wouldn't put it past them to say anything! It is true, isn't it, that Wolf Blitzer and Larry King at one time were NOT such whores for pop gossip and the insignificant farts and twitters of your nanny's doggie lovers? For that matter, Anderson Cooper, who started out with pretty good credentials as an even younger serious newsman, used to give a shit, but now he's like the rest of the twits and talking heads and he will talk about anything to anyone and kiss their ass, too. Oh, Yummy. Where are the newsmen of yesteryear? Oh, that's right, Walter Cronkite died last month. Which means that ordinary good journalism has been in trouble for some decades. There are a few reporters, both male and female, most of them covering a war somewhere, who try to stick to news, but since they have to do it all in this modern milieu of TV money and sensational stories, by the time they take over for Wolf Blitzer and the other "anchors", they'll be just as co-opted and just as worthless, I fear. Blitzer is only one of those newsmen or newswomen who are just as famous as Brad Pitt and Angelina Poof these days--they just aren't as popular as Brad and Angie. Christ, feed me to the ducks, the world makes no sense!

Oh My

What Can We Do?

Oh my, how we sigh When we attempt to keep an eye on ourselves Or a rein on our grievous disposition And not be insulting to anyone and keep our balance, too! It can't be done, no matter how I thrive. I may not deserve it, But I get what's done, I get what I've earned. I promise now I'll try To make my future expeditions slower And keep my foolish expectations lower. I'm sorry I was so nice at first And turned out to be the kind of sorry soul That resembled a boat on a stormy sea, But cannot float, even in the calm of a wading pool.

Salvation Coming?

The World Goes On
I hate all this, I must admit-- There's no way of knowing When I'll stop caring or start Or when it'll all be fixed Or when it may end Or if it ever will move on And be like the second coming of anything for anyone.

Intelligent ArtistVH McKenzie

She's Been Here Before
Check this out! You'll like what she likes! A Night At The Museum.

Conclusion I'm Reaching

I should be returned and redeemed like an old fashioned Coke bottle.

Justice for the Supreme Court?

Glad the Sotomayor "trial" is over. If all the whiners were at least innocent of such prejudices as they declare that judges ought to be, maybe it would be tolerable, but politicians make a big stink about how judges should be as clean as the driven snow when they themselves have hearts as black as Justice Thomas and they blacken everything they touch like some careless roughneck from the Texas oil fields! I don't think I recall much merit about the "non-prejudice" or "non-party-affiliation" of the Supreme Court that appointed George Bush as President. I'm afraid that bit of justice entirely escaped me! They had the Power and they used it; no further discussion! That's how it usually works, isn't it? Judges are people and people are knaves--if she didn't "assassinate" Micheal Jackson or smother any of the Nancy Grace Sensation Babies, just shut up and get on with it!!!

Five?

I wonder if five is a magic number (or a cursed one)? These days it seems to me that about half the people who've been on my "Intelligent Blogs" list at some point started out so eager and energetic that some of them wrote, not only daily, but every five hours. These days, the same people have gotten to where they are more likely to write every five days or five weeks. I now assume that the ones who haven't written for five months don't much plan to write in their blog again. All these people were important constituents of my "world" for the past five (?!) years, though, and it feels very strange now. Many are gone, but even those who remain are changed. Some of us are like cadavers--not all the changes are good. Even though we keep the blog looking alive, I realize that it may just be rolling downhill. Lately I have tried hard to find some new blogs that are as fascinating as the old ones were, but so far I've failed. I'll have to try harder. There's bound to be some, so it's probably my shortcoming that I do not recognize them when they flit past! I am probably wearing out, like that old Tin Man from "The Wizard of Oz". If only Judy Garland would come along in cute little pig-tails and give me a brain, a heart, and a terrific damn hard-on, I'd be all set!

George Sodini--Mr. Nobody

You read about madmen who shoot up their gym or school or whatever, then off themselves, and you wonder why they didn't just cut to the chase. If it's a mental defect to contemplate suicide, I think it's even more so to want to kill others first, especially if it's strangers that you intend to kill. Thinking about George Sodini's sick sad bio that's been revealed so far, though, what else could he have done? Everyone was a stranger to a pitiful loser like him--that's all he could have killed! If Society were a living consciousness--which it's not--I guess you could say that it really fucked George up. Anyway, he wasn't the first one and won't be the last one who flips out. Sodini talks mean about his mother in his diary, but she must not have been very tough or she'd have strangled him in his cradle! Stupid woman.

Let Everything Be

Don't worry, don't cry, Don't ever change-- But stay out of range. Let everything be itself, Especially you and me. Don't say too much or hear too much Or complain because we can't behave. I swear I'm often just acting or reacting And everyone's a target, Including you and me, until we're dead.

Poetic Conceit

This is all either wild or pretentious fiction--except the parts that are true.

Politics

Fiorello La Guardia: "There is no Democratic or Republican way of cleaning the streets."

Fiorello La Guardia
(12/11/1882 – 09/20/1947)
New York mayor

Onward through Death

The Flesh
Dead to the world, Living in sin without an accomplice. And, oh, how wretched a result All these evil thoughts are producing All around and in you. It's provoking to one and all. How far will the flesh fall Before it gets well or leaves town without you?

Did I Say Something

Out loud? I thought I was typing silently... You can all go to hell as far as I'm concerned; I'll be along after you very soon.

The Light

Our Mistake
If you hold me up to the light You'll see right through, And we'll be done, I'll wait awhile, But likely that is what you've already done. I might say I hope you're not done And I hope you're not dead, But do I hope for more and do you? Such things may remain forever unclear While we each wish we could have done less or more.