Whut'd I say? sez President!

George Bush (that jackass) has now admitted regret that his use of phrases such as "bring them on" and "dead or alive" had "indicated to people that I was, you know, not a man of peace." Isn't that strange, isn't that amazing, that his actual words and actions (duh) might mean what they mean to nations all around the world just like they did to us? A lot of us in America knew he was an ass at the time and I was pretty sure that people around the world are at least as smart as I am, not to mention smarter that this dildo that we elected President! If we do it again, we'll all be jackasses.

Emily Dickinson: Maelstrom, Funeral, plus one

These are only two of Emily's poems that make me think I should be shovelling shit instead of trying to write an occasional poem, but I may not be the only one to ever feel that way...

'Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch, That nearer, every Day, Kept narrowing its boiling Wheel Until the Agony Toyed coolly with the final inch Of your delirious Hem— And you dropt, lost, When something broke— And let you from a Dream— As if a Goblin with a Gauge— Kept measuring the Hours— Until you felt your Second Weigh, helpless, in his Paws— And not a Sinew—stirred—could help, And sense was setting numb— When God—remembered—and the Fiend Let go, then, Overcome— As if your Sentence stood—pronounced— And you were frozen led From Dungeon's luxury of Doubt To Gibbets, and the Dead— And when the Film had stitched your eyes A Creature gasped "Reprieve"! Which Anguish was the utterest—then— To perish, or to live? -------------------------------- I felt a funeral in my brain, And mourners, to and fro, Kept treading, treading, till it seemed That sense was breaking through. And when they all were seated, A service like a drum Kept beating, beating, till I thought My mind was going numb. And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soul With those same boots of lead, Then space began to toll As all the heavens were a bell, And Being but an ear, And I and silence some strange race, Wrecked, solitary, here. And then a plank in reason, broke, And I dropped down and down-- And hit a world at every plunge, And finished knowing--then-- ---------------------------------------- following is a poem by me a few years ago... DEAR EMILY DICKINSON Was Emily an ugly girl or did she have bad skin? Was she flat instead of curved? Was she far too slim? Were there too many splendid belles come out Those cold New England antebellum years And she remained--because a little plain? It makes me sick that tough-sweet spirit had to grope among Such stiff-necked pious dullards for fifty-six notched years. Did she fail to learn the dance? Did she make the boys feel dim? Did she love--just once--too much, then not again-- Or did she always love exactly what she loved-- But in her dreams and books? Why couldn't she be happy? Why couldn't she be wed? Why does her photo draw me in as if I think that Somewhere she's alive and I should hurry up and write And tell her--I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I wasn't there for you! Dear Emily, my dear--maybe I'm just sleepy this Monday 2 A.M. Maybe I've gone crazy that I would weep for you. You've been dead--though you live here still-- More than a hundred years And I've only been about half-here for this tired fifty-two. I'm near the age now when you died and I must say I've felt That treadmill in my brain, that maelstrom in my dreams, And wonder which did you-- Did you fail to cling or did you just let go?

Easy As Pie

What's different about the above Bozo? New shoes? Short pants? Loose underwear? None of the above? The correct answer will earn you an airborne disease. But, see, I don't wear my hats every minute!

Pretending About Donkeys

Shorts In A Bind

Pretend you're out there on the end of that donkey dick, Pretend you're not. Pretend you're hot, Or that Everyone says you're not. Pretend you're the carrot And not just a stick, Pretend that the deadline isn't past Or that your umbrella won't catch all the rain, Pretend that the pain you know won't go away And that the pail that you pee in has a hole after all, Or that you'll have to marry some corpse, Maybe Elvis or Diana, on national TV. Don't try to live any longer than it takes To pretend that love and hate are not the same And to see the dance that's shoved between This life and death (we all perspire). Just let somebody else get their shorts in a bind, I don't know about you, But I don't enjoy it! I don't even want to hear about it!

Jackson Browne: For A Dancer

Keep a fire burning in your eye
Pay attention to the open sky
You never know what will be coming down
I don't remember losing track of you
You were always dancing in and out of view
I must have thought you'd always be around
Always keeping things real by playing the clown
Now you're nowhere to be found

I don't know what happens when people die
Can't seem to grasp it as hard as I try
It's like a song I can hear playing right in my ear
That I can't sing
I can't help listening
And I can't help feeling stupid standing 'round
Crying as they ease you down
'Cause I know that you'd rather we were dancing
Dancing our sorrow away
(Right on dancing)
No matter what fate chooses to play
(There's nothing you can do about it anyway)

Just do the steps that you've been shown
By everyone you've ever known
Until the dance becomes your very own
No matter how close to yours
Another's steps have grown
In the end there is one dance you'll do alone

Keep a fire for the human race
Let your prayers go drifting into space
You never know what will be coming down
Perhaps a better world is drawing near
And just as easily it could all disappear
Along with whatever meaning you might have found
Don't let the uncertainty turn you around
(The world keeps turning around and around)
Go on and make a joyful sound

Into a dancer you have grown
From a seed somebody else has thrown
Go on ahead and throw some seeds of your own
And somewhere between the time you arrive
And the time you go
May lie a reason you were alive
But you'll never know

Hear the song sung by Linda Ronstadt and Emmylou Harris.

We Are All Outlaws

In The Eyes Of America

I know I'm dead boring a lot of times lately, but you get what you pay for, so don't cry. I wasn't doing well before my stroke in March and am not recovered to that "good" point yet. Everything is hard to do. I wake up and by the time I'm dressed, have shoes on, count out my daily pills, and leave the bedroom, I'm so damn tired I can't discuss it. I have recently started receiving some "home health care" paid for by some state-administered version of Medicare. They send a "provider" who does the non-nursing tasks, like cleaning rooms, doing laundry, cooking (yet to see that), etc. Not bad so far, but they keep sending a different lady each time, and this seems to me to be something that would benefit from a steady employee, such as is supposed to happen (they say) in the future. But OK so far. It's about the only help I've gotten so far from the gummint and it may continue to be that way for a long time. I don't know how "deserving" I am, but I am certainly "disabled", though perhaps not by any official government or legal definition. I can feel President Bush's tight fist pulling back on every string I attempt to pull. If there is any new democratic President in the future, the tight fist and the stinky breath will still be there a long time, I fear. The wheels of government move slow, except when about to run over orphans, widows, veterans, or cripples with a "per diem" limousine and a don't-give-a-fuck attitude. For those of you who must have entertainment, go HERE for some music.

Hattie Carroll

I have always continued to find Bob Dylan's "Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll" a touching, heartbreaking song. But, evidently, I'd long forgotten that it was factual and not just one of Dylan's apocryphal songs. I feel like a moron, sorta, but I guess it's just the lucky white man in me. I didn't HAVE to remember it. I wondered if William Zantzinger is still alive. If so, I don't know why. But he was only 22 in 1963 and Wikipedia says he was alive and still rich and making trouble in 2001. Shit. Sometimes, it's bad for me to review the past, because our past in America was so hateful. I am glad to hear that Dylan continues to perform it in concert. I don't think America should be allowed to forget such vicious crap.

Bald Women and Bald Facts

So much of what I watch/listen to on videos the last couple of months has been reviewing artists that were already my "favorites"--Bob Dylan, Beatles, Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez. Once in a while, I stray out of the areas where I have already trampled the grass down to the ground. That's the case (untrampled grass, I mean) with listening to Sinead O'Connor in various incarnations lately. I've seen her solo (both young and older), I've seen her with some of the Pink Floyd boys, with The Chieftans, and there's more than I have yet to watch. I used to be able to say that I liked her singing, but had never heard much of it; now or soon I'll be able to claim I've heard a lot of her singing. She has many interesting song choices, including "House of the Rising Sun" and "Silent Night" (yes, that one). And I still like it all. I don't even mind the videod interviews! I think she's rather sweet, even if she's not an angel. I'm a harsh person and never thought she was an angel and was never one to mistake the Pope for God On Earth, either. I wish we'd all grow up, but I'm not holding my breath.

Double-crossed or Just Crossed Out?

I'm still no damn good, only worse. I still have the most cruel and treacherous thoughts about even the best of you, though I often fail in the execution. Whether you should congratulate me or I should congratulate you, I don't know. It's your good luck, I guess--myself, I don't seem to have any. I keep forgetting to say that I bought a Wahl hair clipper and went at my own hair with little to no skill and without prejudice. That was last Friday. I meant to cut it shorter than my previous store-bought haircut, but I cut it even shorter than I'd intended. At least I had not scalped or gouged myself or spelled out "Satan" with the bare flesh. Maybe next time I'll really screw it up--never can tell. Guess I've decided to go for that "convict" look. Or else have been too much influenced by Mushy lately. He's about the only one who's continued to run his mouth lately, so whatever there is that's NOT a vacuum will fill that vacuum, I guess. Might as well be him or you or anyone as for it to just be more of goddamn me.

Pity City Bang Bang!

No pandering! But you can flip me off, I don't care about that.