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.

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

Professor Against Policeman

I am as disgusted as most people, though more amused, at the Gates arrest by the Cambridge policeman. I suppose it's possible that both men are Perfect and neither one would try to fuck anybody up, but I doubt it. I get this impression, though--not a pleasant one--that the cop is declaring that he can't be pushed around. I keep wondering what exactly one has to do to qualify as "disorderly conduct" in Cambridge. I have always heard that police are trained to take a lot of verbal abuse as a matter of course and I have seen various state highway patrolmen on various "reality" tv shows take an exceeding amount of abuse from drivers. Maybe the cops on TV don't act "normal" because they know the dashboard camera is capturing it all. But I've heard abuse from drivers where I WISHED the cop would beat the sob senseless--but he didn't. So did Professor Gates tell him to "bring your mama here and I'll let her bite my dick again"? At any rate, there were only two morons involved until President Obama gave an opinion. Reminds me of President Nixon declaring Charles Manson guilty when the famous murder trial was still going on and how gleeful Manson was about displaying the newspaper headline. Presidents, like regular people, just can't hold their tongue. My last thought on the cop is that I recall incidents in my work career where I chose to apologize to other employees and pretend to have been in the wrong just to make the flareup less explosive; it worked, too. What's wrong with defusing things? I'm not sure I'd trust a cop who can't stand to back down or to kiss a little ass and get it over with--let all this stupid shit fly past him. Too late now, I suppose. Everybody's union is involved now. It's "my Perfect Professor" vs. "your Perfect Policeman". My ass it is! Is it a laugh riot or a race riot? I can't tell.

Old Hat

Easy Way Out

It seems to me I write without much reaction these days And linger here because it's no worse than any other place To breathe my lot and wait with brief reflection, Whether for some success, or death, or any sudden Rush or swell of stressful interaction that may come. I know from example I can't please you or gain surcease, Not from here, not like this, No matter how I flatter or what's on my platter Or how I go on about it all, Though that's a failure of my own... I cannot even please myself that much— There's always self-abuse and mental disease is so entertaining, But that's old hat and socially it serves no use. It oddly barely keeps me to the form or bounds Of what's traditionally been pleasant even for only one. I write here now without restriction, But nothing much I tell. I say what's said without hard labor And recall with resignation close friends to whom I'd freely speak back then, But mostly now we shun each other and take the easy way out.

Profound Question

Why did the chicken scratch his ass?

Chicken Scratching

If I wrote a really bad poem, Like this one, I wonder who would know it? I assume that, like always, I wouldn't be able to guess who knew it.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. Robert Frost "New Hampshire" 1923

Lasting Entertainment

Thanks for Coming, You Few!

Although there are others who have always used Bloglines or some other Reader to keep up with this blog, there are only 3 who are "officially" on the Follower list. I don't use the Follower gadget because I loathe the interfering son of a bitch. I guess I'm too anti-social, as usual. I also recently signed up for Twitter, then Facebook, and almost immediately cancelled them. I admit I may be too picky, but I got too used to controlling a large part of things on this blog, and I prefer to keep my Internet activities under the same control, whether that is necessary or not! I intend any rudeness for those programs, not for my 3 Followers. If you sense any Universal rudeness, you may be right--I've been a bastard for a long time. Ask anybody who has been reading this blog for a while! Until Blogger significantly changes the format, I plan to just last and last, even if I continue to grow less popular rather than more popular. I plan to outlast the Universe! If only by a minute... You'll have to last one second longer than the universe or me in order to see how things turns out. I hope you are well entertained and distracted by it, whichever way it goes!

Care, Hope, and Waste

Epitaph

No care is taken for it, Though I should not say none is there. Where I am, there is little hope, I mean. For years already I have presumed When I get into my car it will fail Or when I get into bed it will fall, Slats and all, But most of this never happens. No more do all my chairs Collapse beneath me when I sit. If I wait long enough, kill time till all but decay is past, Such descent will obviously come to pass. And though all the worry was always a waste, It will at last be clear to anyone's recall That I guessed right about the failure and the fall, But there'll be no one to congratulate.

Never Again Would Bird's Song Be the Same

by Robert Frost

He would declare and could himself believe That the birds there in all the garden round From having heard the daylong voice of Eve Had added to their own an oversound, Her tone of meaning but without the words. Admittedly an eloquence so soft Could only have had an influence on birds When call or laughter carried it aloft. Be that as may be, she was in their song. Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed Had now persisted in the woods so long That probably it never would be lost. Never again would birds' song be the same. And to do that to birds was why she came.