Thursday, December 31, 2009

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.

Created on 10/27/2009 11:00 AM

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

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.


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!

Monday, December 28, 2009

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!


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!

Sunday, December 27, 2009

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.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009


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?

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

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.”

Created on 12/11/2009 2:05 PM

Sunday, December 20, 2009

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.


Friday, December 18, 2009

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.

Created on 12/6/2009 5:37 PM

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

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?

Created on 12/14/2009 4:45 PM

Monday, December 14, 2009

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

Thursday, December 10, 2009

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.

Created on 12/10/2009 11:00 AM

Wednesday, December 09, 2009

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.

Created on 12/3/2009 4:38 PM

Monday, December 07, 2009

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!

Saturday, December 05, 2009


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.

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?

Thursday, December 03, 2009

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.

Tuesday, December 01, 2009

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.

Created on 11/8/2009 12:57 PM