I awoke and not so spryHey, no joke: it turned July!Another stunted month gone byWith searing heat, we must comply.Gone down the pike, another JuneEphemeral as a Top Forty tuneExtract 1 minute sun per dayEarlier, the rooster’s brayGet up early; gaily playIn garden lightly hewn!
Back to no-nonsense,5th gear on the downhill,logos, clever-as-all-get-out bumper stickers,politically-charged pap and
ESL teachers from Burma returned I missed their partyCarolyn, spurned, was sick, not hearty!So I had an excuseRSVP, reduce.But wait, I’m forgettingSome friggin’ wedding!
Poor Old Man!
Indeed, the ‘poor’We shall underscoreThough he’s doing
The most that he can;Shriveled, restrainedTo his roadside lairMounted, contained, andStuck in that wheelchairAnd sure as a shameAs I spell out my nameHe will still waveAt this motoring DaveAnd all else who venture past there!
Time was, was aplentyYears ago, more than twentyThe old man was in the high cotton;But markets went shallowThe orchard’s now fallowAnd good times thus pastAre forgotten.
Got an Apple? Then take a bite;Remember the Old Man tonight!
Pray tell, what’s that hissin’and ghastly roar?Who’s that moanin’ and pissin’And hollerin’ for more?Hey, something’s amiss‘Cause it wasn’t like thisonly a mere week before!Do you hear that OINK?See that SUV porker?Well, bust my boinkIt’s a friggin’ New Yorker!
They’ll cut you upThen cut your butt offSpeed limit – What?At that they’ll scoff!
No place for mannersNo need to save faceThey’ll wave their rude bannersLike they OWN this place!
So we’re grudgingly gratefulFor only one reason:How soon ends this hatefulAnd dread tourist season!
Independence, My Tookie!
Seven and fourAnd time to objectTo the explosive roarOr our neighbor’s prefect!Hark!The spark of theBursting in airA cool redneck’s ‘bombs’‘er his country-folk lair!Whilst frittered in glomsWell-gone we fareFor a trot back to Mom’sAfar from the glare!|
Yeah, sure, it was funJuly 4, and when doneNight sky filled with smokeAs if from a gunWhen last we spokeI’m telling ya, honThe dogs damn near chokedPetrified to a one!However,after the cacophonous carnagehad abated,a spectacularly
beauteous sunset awaited.
IN MEMORY OF TUCK RIP 7/5/85
July the 5th, 1985Was the last dayFrank Garvey was 2-B alive.A decade-old nicknameWas given him: ‘Tuck’Indeed, for himThe moniker stuck.
A stalwart young ladIn the system he buckedHad his life gone badOr just run amok?On the 5th of JulyUnder hazy night skyHe officially ran out of luck.As he lived in a rentalStuck bleak in the sticksLast house on the righton south 896,It was at that spotThe bad guys foundTuck, who they shotWith a.22 round.
They are having a field dayOver and yonderCulling dry hayA phenom to ponder!Or perhaps should I sayNot a moment to squanderThe fields are in their HAY-DAY!?Now with vigor and vimThey’re rakin’ it inBefore it goes totally gray!
Yes, bone-dry hayAt Brook road’s corner lotLying in windrows,Sun-baked, raked and hot.Although it lacks colorThe Big G prefers,It still provides fiber forHorses of hers.
Hay lies, awaiting baling byBig G-affiliated interests;time is of essence, as rain,being splendidly nonexistent ‘til now,could
arrive any time.
Oh, Seven-SevenHow we have forgotten thee!Across 5000 miles of sea!In the flag-wavin’Gas-pumpin’Wood-choppin’Dog-lovin’Gawud-fearin’Pig-roastin’U.S. of AWe don’t give a flipAbout London’s forayOr at least for the most partIt still seems that way.When two young ladsHopped on subway carWith backpacks-a-brimmin'And blew the blood-tarOut of seats, men, and womenBefore they went farDid those lads wonder aloud‘oer what we would makeof their evils so proudand the lives they did takewhilst the smoke drew a crowdand cold blood formed a lake?
At night farm-boy sleepsAnd so does his boxBut he’s playin’ 4 keepsYou can bet your *Bleeps*He’d best get up off of his ‘tocks!Last evening he workedUntil damn near 9Just-a-getting’ caught upHay, the pleasure’s all mine!
Indeed, the fine steedOld
Glossie® the tractorShe’s
the best of her breedDespite
the rust factorMoved
5 yards of soilAnd a
half-yard of stoneFor
her, minor toilFarm-boy
sore to the bone!When
he laid his bones downHe
was next day stove-upThen
he quaffed java downFrom
his favorite cup!
July 10th, and just past the 9thFeeling spent & 5 days behind!
Energy: zero, I sit on my assNo longer a heroI won’t cut the grass!For cutting it nowY’all can see howIt gets crispy and tinted like brass!
neat-niks who hoped for a kempt and tidy tractAnd/or
folks who are ropedinto a contracthave no fun!The
poor grass is shearedThen bakes
in the sun,Bleached
out, as they fearedBut
by then it’s DONE.
even for non-followersof Martha Stewart®, brown-assed grass is not appealing to look at.
A 7-11? Well, have no fear:We do NOT have anyof them ‘round here.Thank Maw & Paw KettleAnd McCuskers for thatThey bested the mettleOf corpora-bloat fiat.
Heading out the door by 10Finished with choresBut remembering when7-11 was daily newsA loathed stopping spotFor bustling tree crews.
today, JoséFor this boy named ‘me’I brew at homemy own strong cups ‘o tea!
Got a whole bunch of drivin’To where we’ll soon beTo thus be arrivin’Just them, wheels, and me.On this 11th of July7-11 free!
More sunny days’ foraysGone byWhilst the farmer haysUnder sapphire skyAnd the sun blares downAs summer wears onDon’t YOU wear a frownOver your brownish lawnOr muddle aroundRelax, you clownFrom dusk ‘til dawnFor horseflies will soon be gone!
Annoying? You bet.But no sense toying;Forgive and forget!You should be enjoyingThe great outdoorsAs you trot on all foursJust slap on your trusty head-net!
Paw prints in the bone-dry dustLunchtime sated pizza lustThe 4th long-goneNo stars did spangleI trundle on in a 5-leash tangle!
This is hands-downthe stupidest thing I have donein a long
time,and it is a fact NOT to in any way be debated:
Opening the freezer this a.m.Lo! What awaited?Pure iced mayhem! Yukk! It was feathery oozeA frozen bottle of ginger brewsWhich I had loadedThe night beforeHad since explodedRight next to the door!What a dumb-ass moveThought I’d get it cold quickAnd promptly removeFeel its cool sweat so slickBut alas I forgotAnd it stayed in all nightIn that freezer ‘twas fraughtWith a terrible plight!
Got time to kill?Or a gut to fill?Well, partake if you willof some sugar-soaked swill!
Dark java, I quaffed herKeyed up, and then afterIt pickled my gizzardIt’s home to the wizardThen after the funOnce again, in the sun!
I tell tall July tales,As the sun blazes brightWe drive ‘round like snailsWith conditions just rightFor trolling TAG SALESwith inexorable delight!
Then I saw the signWhat a BIG tag sale find!Thus, right turn madeI parked in the shadeInspecting the tableAs I surely was able!
As I was sayingIn yesterday’s postFor tag sales we’re brayingWe love them the most!
In the shade of a spruceWe luckily parkedAnd could deduceThe dog sat and barked!Tag sale, indeedHow good it looks!I sated my greedWith 25¢ books!
But best of allThis PHATT tag saleSaved a trip to the mallIt was quite a good flail!
Voila - Good luck!For it did render‘Twas only a buckfor a spankin’-new blender!Slick, shiny and whiteIt will fit just rightAnd soon it willFlapjack mix render!
Disaster-strickenIs our imperiled globeWith enough to sickenOur quivering drovesThe pace seems to quickenFairly frikkin’ implodeSeems dire to this hick inHis oak and spruce grove!
Wildfires hereBroke-assed glacier thereDrought, guns, much fearAnd SHIT Everywhere!Pundits still sneerAnd sling barbs so unfairAt those pols whose careerAnd tax forms are laid bare.
Are we over here?And ‘they’ over there?It’s an election yearAnd hey, we don’t care!Perhaps they could leerAt my bald derriere!
Feel deep sadnessor those you missRevel in gladnessFriends in bliss!
The annual Green River festival wrapped uplast night, as
waning strains of feel-good musicwafted over these humidity-hugged hills,to
the tune of just another banal evening tusslin’final chore installments before
tumblingoh, so gratefully into the waiting sack.
This morning saw a whole lot of drag-assafter weekend did
pass,but that could soon clear upI have maple syrup!Grade B, but not second
“The elixir of life,” I explain to my wife,assuring the
sugar won’t hurt;For grade B it may be,with great flavor, you see,with much
glee into pancakes insert!
FDA SPIES, NO FRIGGIN’ SURPRISE
Ahoy! Great news byte of the daySees the hoi polloi @ the FDACorrupted, definingAnd stark data miningAll obstacles in their way!
So let’s pause for a secAnd we’ll surely seetheir obstacle? Heck, it’s HONESTY!
Hah! To those of us observerswho follow this contemptible
agencyin its blatant, draconian attacks onall things natural,commensurate
with its cozy cronyrelationship with – and protection of,the pharmaceutical
racket,the timing couldn’t be better!
Here’s sincerely hoping FDA’sscurrilous spies will be prosecutedto the full
extent of the law’s letter!
Along flanking guardrailOf one society school,Burdock bursts with prickly blooms,A hirsute facade, oh prickly flailBehind, hereinafter loomsHorses in stallsWell-bred girls in their roomsAnd when the day callsEach awaits their grooms!
Also behind the burdock croppingIs a giant pile that horses are dropping!Take a whiff & crack a smileIn a tiff, go shopping!
When mixed with wood chipsAnd bone-dry hayThe farmers will happily haul it away!
The moral of the story is:Dust off that silver platterLet your high horse take a whizWe’re ALL organic matter!
More corruption we heardOf this HSBCDeduction absurd, and so flagrantly!Yet is anyone surprised?Are their money-minds wandering?Aye, profits so prizedWhich comprised money laundering?
There exists no such thingAs ‘early detection’Which has such a ringSay, with cancer infection!
But straight from the gutOf the brash underworldHad flowed a cash glutYes, a streaming unfurledFrom the Big-ass Bank’s buttCame bills no longer curled!
Yes, lucre washed cleanBy the biggest of banksQuite the lucrative sceneBut they couldn’t say “thanks”Or turn down that greenFrom the underworld ranks!
Seven & TwentySuffering: Plenty!And in this marvelous day and ageOur vast majority glides so gentlyControlling their disgruntled rage.But at Batman’s flick, in walks a dickStrafes a carnivore-shooting rampage!
I’ll never forget the time we shoehorned ourselves into a
packed theater to see the exceptionally violent Arnold Schwarzenegger ‘thriller’ appropriately entitled “Terminator Part 2”. Not one seat lay empty,
mind you! It spoke volumes that this jury of our insatiable peers, having voted
with their dollars for the first edge-of-the-seat grisly bloodbath, had now,
with aplomb, returned en-masse for more gore with stunning special effects.
Citrus smoothieStarts the daySure is groovy, I must say!But strange facts jump in the wayEver worthy to convey:Grapefruit in FloridaOr in MassIs the same friggin’ price!How did THAT come to pass?
To this farm-boy, well, aw, shucksIt costs a whole bunchTo haul ‘em in trucksWhich roll the highwayDay and nightIf you see it my way:Grapefruits ain’t light!
They are HEAVYCan’t you see?They haul a bevy to you and meWe’re grateful, sureIn store they’ll beWe’ll rip & roarAnd grind a smoothie!
Homes lost, fires burningHigh cost, globe keeps turning.Bone dry, so parchedIn over half our states;The number marched to 28!
How minor MY foibles!Hope THEIRS abatesAnd on the double, before it’s too late!
Bloodshed wretched in DamascusThe latest mantra in the newsGet involved, they are sure to ask usUnsolved! Is it turmoil we can use?It won’t be legislated awayHow’s THAT as a mantra for today?
Meanwhile, clack at the stanch, a slick-topped, rapidly graying bouffant graces a Blueblood
former governor’s pate as he slings audacious barbs at the great orator.
Let’s say “Hooray!”With nagging persistenceThese canines are worthyOf pampered existence!
Whilst a wordsmith quipped,“Those in search of strengthand patiencewelcome the
company of trees,”We appreciate theseAnd prefer trees to logs!Moreover, assertIt surely won’t hurtThose seeking sensesOr better defensesWill welcome the company of dogs!
Dogs, yes, by farAnd without them you areIn a depressing, empty car!
Yet today, somewhereIn said car I’ll be foundAmid flying dog hairAnd I’ll spin aroundDamn! I could swearA feeling profoundIn the backseat there - a hound!
Cobble together a breakfast so leanHustle this butt out the door‘Fore I scream!Coffee AND tea, please:Of course hold the cream.
Then off to workFor some new skill to gleanOoze out of the murkAnd onto the greenNo Boss (So no Jerk)To holler so meanNo trouble to lurkOr egos to preenA pittance for perkIs the best that I’ve seenJust me with my quirkLike it always has beenIt could drive me berserkNow in year seventeenSo wipe off that smirkFrom your smug mug so green!
Davey H departs from the usual reams of silliness to report
longtime friend Bob C. is passing from cancer, as Nature slowly and mercilessly
reclaims his wasting frame.
A gentle a.m. drizzle completed its brief pattering, the
rooster brays boisterously and morning coffee’s aroma mulls this humble abode.
Bob is remarkable in many respects, receiving Dhamma in 1991
and progressing rapidly. Appointed assistant teacher in ’97, he was conducting
a course on 9/11, then immediately dashed to NY as a first responder.
He didn’t seem surprised at his 2012 lung cancer diagnosis,
speaking matter-of-factly in great pain about the mundane.
What about Bob? No, not the clownish Bob portrayed by Bill
Murray in the B movie of the same name. No, let’s address the courageous Bob
who forthrightly refused the Cancer Industry’s poisonous, profitable
Allow enormous respect to usher forth through tensions which
have arisen due to Bob’s deeply private nature, a characteristic which kept him
aloof 3 of 4 seasons.
In saluting this guy I never knew but liked – and
connected with, however briefly – let’s always remember good times, such as his
soft-spoken recitation of much-needed angst-cooling verses uttered at the
perfect time during an intense meeting.
That meeting was memorable: a collection of diverse minds
encased in fallible flesh, sitting in plastic chairs arranged concentrically under
the giant courtyard sugar maple which surely would outlive us.
How ironic that on
a mild, mellow spring day human tensions would arise, simmer and pass away!
Bob who rose to the occasion, his soft-spoken tone indirectly instructive and wholly
disarming, ladling fresh water on hot coals of an ego or two. Moreover, his
attendance was optional!
This was one in a slew of Bob’s gentle, notable donations
toward positivism, before again retreating to privacy.
Somebody took pictures.
Bob maintained hard to penetrate aloofness, yet always
managed to materialize in time of need. A vast pond of remarkableness simmered
beneath that calm facade, and to be frank, I was damn jealous of him; after
all, he had lived the worker’s dream, and then some!
Joining the IBEW at 18, he enjoyed excellent pay, benefits
and stimulating gigs rigging up sets for seminars at Jacob Javits Center, sailing
the ranks toward master electrician.
At 53, he could have stayed and mopped gravy for many more
years, but chose retirement, as he quipped. “35 years is long enough, isn’t it?
In the meditation tradition we both took very seriously, I
sat perhaps a half-dozen courses under Bob, and again, initially, jealousy had
arisen when pitting my own pathetic life accomplishments against his. So now
here he was, scarcely 2 years older – as MY freekin’ teacher!
In the mundane work-a-sphere, Bob had offered guidance with
much-needed electrical upgrades at our modest abode, though he lacked a ‘Mass
ticket’, and so could not perform the actual work. I would have happily
bartered tree trimming in bust-ass fashion, but alas, like so many other
back-burner-capable venues in this busy-bee existence, it never materialized.
The years wore on as they tend to, our aging pates waxed
grayer, unwanted wrinkles etched their equally unwelcome tales on our cheeks
and Dhamma brother Bob found solace for 6 or 8 weeks in serious practice over
East, spending most of each winter in Burma.
Then, when spring broke back in these hills, Bob repaired to northern California
before most local snowbirds returned.
Now, looking back, grateful our paths crossed and all that
happy horseshit, I feebly squelch indescribable visceral queasiness as this
withered wisp of the grand gent known as BOB gurgled what may be his last