June 1st and fearing the worstFor the upcoming tasksThat are moving in fast4 Which I haven’t rehearsed!Indeed, it’s all met with trepidationSo let me offer NO explanation!
And now for something incompleteand not so different from
the muckI’ve been pumping out on a regular basis:Incoherent, too – and that
goes doublefor THIS word-brew!
Today will be day 3 or so of an improvisedcleansing
regimen, efforts entirely dependentupon wherewithal and intestinal fortitude,which is to say mostly the same thing.Unsure of this illness’s origins,I prepare to sweat it out.
BOSS-MAN, ME SICK, PART II
Sorry, boss-manThat’s not allThis wasn’t plannedI dropped the ball!
I realize it decreased the yieldOf our detailed share-croppin’I flounced the ball off of the fieldSorry for its droppin’!
A happening I couldn’t predictWith any accuracyA crappin’ outMe getting’ sickSorry to you from me!
I beget you no consternationFor my butt-ill transgressionI wasn’t on a snuck vacationNot a pleasant session!
Although I didn’t vomitMy vitals damn near stoppedI promise I’ll get back on itAnd pick up that ball I dropped!
Me Back In, Get Crackin’, Fill Sack In
Who reads 350-page owner’s manuals?
But some folks sure like to print them out;the one-side
printed results ending upin the circular file to be summarily lugged toa honkin' dumpster
destined for pointsunknown but presumed useless for thepurposes of reuse,
recycling, reduce;that much I deduce.
As the circular file emptier, I blanch athow much paper
gets wasted in this manner,and can’t help recall a recent encounter witha
bustling logging crew which was busilyengrossed in stripping a nearby hillsideof all things tree-related.
“You’re a man of umpteen words”I replied, “Just one of many;My stuff’s unplannedAnd so absurd;Soon I won’t have ANY!”
“For it’s mostly silly,Don’t you see?”“A bunch of feel-good stuff;Without the gift of HOT COFFEEI’ll never write enough!”
Indeed, at times it clearly seemsDull rhymes, and so absurdBut paper’s cheapYou can fill reamsAnd revel in each word!
road trip began this evening, the
first dusting of mega-roadageand big city views in a long time.Relief soon set in as our scuffed-up silver wagon joined a diverse pastiche of wheeled
warriors traversing I-91 south.
Oh, and that I-95 stretch that cuts UNDER not one, but THREE high-rise
apartment complexes? When traversing this bizarre architectural oddity, you
look up at ghastly deteriorating concrete, and wonder aloud how the whole
shebang would look in an earthquake.
further across the venerable GW, concrete hulks line the concrete interstate as
we’re swept along in a petro-addled whoosh.
T thought I’d be bored outta my gourd during this tranquil
dip in South Jersey airs, but contrary was the case in these affairs!
We gorged on Italian and Mexican gnash, trolled Brigantine,
ogling terns, ospreys, egrets, herons and willets across from hulking dens of
iniquity (inequity!) embodied by Atlantic City casinos.
T’s lifelong friend S, now 56, graciously took us under her wing,
proffering the 25¢ tour of her
place of employment at fabulously refurbished Stockton College where a big spending new president has upped the ante, shifting the paradigm toward
“running the college like a business.”
Along the long coastal evacuation route,signs for some silly
wine festivalprompted enthusiastic nose-thumbingby this snarky teetotaleras
we tooled along, seemingly engulfed byshiny SUV’s, which prompted the query:Where’s
this recession we’re ostensibly in?Certainly not here, surrounded by affluenceand salt air, we surmised, as T notedRT 561’s excellent qualities:flat,
straight & pothole-free;oh, so great for racing with glee!Meanwhile,
fields of tiny corn plants in rows,having survived the crows.lined both
sides of the road,but alas, NOT 2-B knee-high by 4 July,at least to this farm-boy’s
Today with much gleeWas B-day of T!At cusp of the beach-hoppin’ season‘Twas T and me and sights to seeFor no apparent reason!
Waves bashed on the shoreRoiled up, sand was shakingAbove in the skies, thunderous repriseWe feared our eardrums were breaking!
What was that roar above the shoresuch a blistering countenance raking?Apparently, ‘twas ‘toys’ of warZooming, sound-barrier quaking!
They flew, we knew all that, of course,Not for insouciant enjoymentBut rather to exercise sinuous forceAt this base-ic place of employment.
nameShe’s still in the game!
ANNIVERSARY # 18!
This was a day from the grind away,and meant for play and
connection!Now I normally wouldn’t shill this forayAn occasion without cake confection!
Indeed, it’s kind of private for most folks,unless it’s at
least 2 decades in the works;heck, Mom & Dad had a SERIOUS hullabalooon
their 50th,with bigass chocolate cake as centerpiece!But us? We
just ate grease,bouncing from one restaurant to another,it seemed, caroming
past fields ofripe blueberries, not purchasing any,having trepidation at the
sight ofPELIGRO – PESTICIDOS! Signsplastered about the field entrances.
We dithered and ate and after a spate, headed home wearily,
arriving quite late! The GW at night, such a terrible sight! And friggin’
expensive – brought wallet fright!
“Twelve bucks!” The driver winced and spat past dilapidated
front incisors, backed up by semi-precious gold crowns posing as ‘normal’
molars; together, the combination of both ‘’permanent’ and manufactured
dentition forming the basis for normal-sounding speech punctuated with colorful
Though no junk cars lined this incredibly crowded road, it
reeked of snail-slow construction-caused atherosclerosis. Hulking workers
hunched like ghouls in a sepulcher as powerful lights laid glow upon their
The first day back was a bugger.
3 a.m. may be fine
for a magazinewhose contributors have spent manyred-eye nights creating
content for,but it doesn’t make for keeping senses keen!Irritability
prevailed, uninvited. In 6” tall grass,squirrels squabbled with half a dozen
chipmunksunder the bird feeder that thankfullythey couldn’t get up in.But
that’s no cure for the intrusive industryof pestiferous rodents: It would be
onlya matter of time – very little time – until they foundtheir way into the
chicken house,and from that point teetering on thebleak precipice of
Yes, banging along dreadfully pockedexcuses for roads
through congestedasphalt/concrete rubric is merely a meansto an end, and can,
however grudginglywe’d care to admit, save time,though leaving driver and
passengersthoroughly flummoxed and drained.
But we didn’t voluntarily becomecountry bumpkins anticipating a gravy lifestylein any regard, including the
venue ofautomotive travel!
Ensconced back home,We joyously trilled these stanzas:
Arise and shineOff your buttocks!Today you’ll do fineWith these tools in your box!Which of these rules?You might ask this fellaThe most vital of toolsWhy, it’s your umbrella!
Walking through dark-ass home very late, say, 2 a.m., having arisen to fear of marauding bears
out yonder, and realizing one has neglected to bring in the bird feeders, the
reliable hum of a filled-to-the-gills fridge
can be heard along with that of various boxes: two trusty erstwhile UNDER-DESK®
units, proudly wearing an unoriginal moniker for ‘desktop’, pining for their
perpetual updating needs, with unflinchingly reliable fans sluicing off waste heat.
Set alight by 110 VAC, their blue, red, green indicators
blink telltale indications of unknown-to-us ‘hastily gobbled complexity,
preparing to warm to their workhorse duties once hominids awaken them.
Today is the first day of the best of your strife.And that
rooster’s brayOn a normal dayWould cut your butt like a knife!But alas, on
this dewy Sunday morn,With normally plucky avian forlorn,Suffice to sayThat
his bawdy brayWas lesser than the norm!
That was a red flag,I’ll tell you,ButMore of a dragWas
his left eye near shut!We were fixin’ to cussAs his eye filled with pus,and
wondered if he’d been cut!Lackluster indeedIn his feathery tweedWe wonderedWhat the cluck he would need!
THE DAY DOOKIE LEFT
Today’s numerals = Boston’s
But that’s an entry in the logbook of diversion from deep
sadness inherent on this 12th anniversary of our Dookie’s passing.
Yes, we tend not to think about it most years, but with an
ill family member out back, and possibility of impending loss inherent therein,
this dozen year-old amoebic blob of grief percolated surface-ward.
He was the ultimate lovable fur-ball: a beautiful fuzzy
Chow mix that never licked your face without good reason; wouldn’t crotch-nose or
jump on people.
Enshrined with us forever, oh dear resplendent
orange-yellow angel boy!
Things indeed hecticBut head out that doorInto such an eclectic pasticheAs before.For it’s once again MondayOne you can’t ignore!
Kitsch, bitch and cobble each thingIn well-worn frumpy placesEmbark, enthused, out into SpringTo greet frowning facesalso dithering.
Aye, work is a good thingThat much should stand clearI haven’t objectedNor culled wretched fearNeither defectedDayum, look at that Deere!
Yup, John Deere’s the nameQuite a few around hereGreen ‘skin’ in the gameIn this good hayin’ yearAs they roar down the laneYou’d better stand clear!
One of the dogs rolled In shit yesterday, and it’s lookin’
like I’ll get credit for allowing it to happen, and that’s no crappin’. The
owner’s informative, mildly biting note said it all: innuendo proffered,
aspersions mildly cast, borderline insinuations made as I read it, aghast.Hell, at least no express accusations were hurled in this leash-tangler’s
general direction, to which he’d need to raise an objection or spew misspelled
expletives needing correction.In the canine’s realm, however, such is the scintillating
nature of woods excrement! Doggie sees, pees, delights in the scent! Never mind
the stench of these: Repent!
June 20 spree, heat perspire meWith El Sol blazing so brilliantly!How in blue blazes did I fare?After all, it was the precursorTo the longest day of the year.
So swelter this: Much sweat, less piss!
I walked through hayfieldsWith bearded collieLove, sweetness and zealHer name was Molly!
She’s pure joy, indeed the bestI’ll tell you, boyHay’s up to my chest!
We traversed that fieldOwing to one factor:Some hay was annealedFor mowing by tractor!
The walk was fun,Shade, sun and thenA feeding of goldfish for Doctor N!
Some, er, Solstice!
It’s June 21, sunSo let’s not passOn havin’ some funAnd kickin’ assWe’ll chill when doneA la working class!
Okay, cut and pasteWith a swank manic moniker
No matter, no waste.Nature’s longest day tonic-erAnd she knows,With majestic skies so clearSun shows until 9 up here!
But naming the 6/21 phenomIs superfluously adjectivalTo working stiffs:Simply put, we’ll just play longer riffs!
Out back, birches need waterIndoors, dog still needs foodWhich I went and got ‘er.Whew! I’m tellin’ ya, dudet couldn’t be hotter!
Today is the first dayThat’s just slightly shorterThus time for a brayFrom this lazy reporter! It’s one minute less, 2 B exactI know, but don’t guessA 1-minute fast fact.
For this farm-boyA quasi-easy dayWith little to getOr get in the wayOf what could be construedAt least to this dudeTo vaguely resemble ‘play’.Yet I’ll pine for awhileAs the sun does beguileBy taking my daylight away!But for now, time is madeIn deep, dark spacious woodsTo piss in the shadeAs the dog drops her goods!
FRIGGIN’ CHIPMUNK Paean
Here I goAgain to forayAnd gather up myShare of peanuts today.Stuffing my jowls, duckingBarred owls and hawkishso cruel birds o’ prey.Filling this stashBeyond my needsFlippin’ through trashAnd pilfering bird seeds!No, I’m not very bigBut I am mightyDamn furryJust watchMe dig and myFoodstuffs I bury!By my tunneling underSoft ground, you may guessIs the world’s 7th wonderOf my earthly success!And just one moreThing, oh yesAs we speakI’d professI guessThatYou’d bestLemme SQUEAK!
Short-temperedness comes from bone-wrenchin’ fatigue, or
vice-versa. Could anyone argue the point? Why, even a cursory examination of
one’s owl’s hours holds no surprise that daytime performance would be held
lacking. That said, such times present ripe opportunities for not only doing
less – by default – but also observing Nature’s other members in the throes of
carrying out their mundane daily duties. As for today’s example: Swallows took
up residence, we presume, for the purpose of reproduction, in one of our bird
Do it they did, but whether the chicks were able to exit the
box is not yet clear.
The ‘bird box’ referred to in the previous post was a
beauty: fashioned from precisely cut & matched ¼” strips of red cedar and
the swallows came, found & loved it!Ironically, the box was screwed to a white
cedar log lying in a pile on the south side, where the swallows didn’t take long
to establish territory!Now compared to quick-finishing robins, the swallows’
babes languished several weeks as the diligent mother circled and swooped against
any and all threats in their defense. You could always tell it was her by the swift,
agile movements, and her boomerang-like shape.
Drivin’ & Survivin’Time was, because
You took offense
To buzz my bumper sticker;
Lookie here, cuz, at what it does:
It shortens the life of YOUR ticker!Don’t like it? Then spike it,
Oh hale bumper-licker!
Another day and hence sensing road-rage sting steaming off various multifarious
engine-ists*, I zip down Catamount hill in 5th gear, which provides just enough engine drag to slow
2-Ton Tessie down a piece, so as to better comply with the absurd 35 mph limit
that kicks in at hill’s base, frequently
accompanied by perpendicularly positioned police para-cruiser.*It’s an ENGINE, NOT A motor!
‘Round the rotary perilousAnd back to the bypassI wax a little querulousWhilst sitting on my ass.
Then, at 58 mph we advance,Fair 2-Ton-Tessie and meTo save a drop of fuel perchance
Then, Yikes! A-scorch upon my pantsDripped freshly brewed coffee!
But no matter, I abide
Amid the clatter highway-side.Road well lined with verdant plants,In brilliant sunshine showsBut what is whistling street romance?Why, it’s these de-studded snows!
Shytt! Skunk smashed upon macadam!Stink, stank, slashed,No thanky you, madam!Fur, guts, stench upon the road;Drivers winced but none
A soliloquy that includes old snowsAs an integral part of our dear autosIs bound to becomeIn errant sumEntwined in my purple prose!
For once a tireAlways a tireThat, of course subject to changeScratch or patchor trash & retireThat process we need to arrange!
Each year take a hopTo the good tire shopAnd see that good fellow MichaelHe’ll mount and dismountSpin, balance, recountOld tires we recycle!
These old-ass tires nearly baldYet sturdy, sporting 4-ply walledAhoy! Again, the road has calledWe’re off, once more enthralled!
When gettin’ anotherLifesux® bumpI fidget, mumble,And have been stumpedOn that now-dated Jumble,Oh, yes, in a slumpThe word so absurdThat stayed so unheardIs ‘WINNUD’; Hah! Harrumph!
Doesn’t make a whole lot ‘o sense,And deserves no recompense,As the paper it’s printed onErgo, hence,Is destined for wood stove,Tossed ‘oer the fenceOr recycle bin in any events
Hey, it’s only one word,Just one in a hundred,2-B flicked like a turdThus off-page so sundered.
My bellicose blusteringVerbiage blatherSpills off this page,In the end doesn’t matter!
“One Only Needs To Be AfraidOf Any Mischief Not Well Made”
An Aboriginal quoteFrom the grate Davey HWhose colloquial bloatwill give readers an ache!
Davey H is presently ensconced excessively indoors; fussing
over dysfunctional HDD’s, the quirkiest of these if you friggin’ please has
annoyances he abhors!
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, or more specifically, at the
ranch’s back, meaning the ‘outback’, weeds, unwanted saplings and grass grow
unabated, and his attention have awaited.
But to the grindstoneHe keeps his noseIn hopes of annoying his un-disposedEmail recipients with magenta