I parsed reluctance to delve into repairsof such a behemoth
of industrial apparatus,expounding exasperatedly this maxim:
“You will empty your bag of tricksWhen stuff goes wrongThat you just can’t fix.”
Nevertheless, after the roll-off,I whipped out the
checkbook,squinting in blaring sun, fixin’ to geta bad case of writer’s
cramp,struggling to decipher check numbers,when Ben the driver –not to be
confused withBen the ACE driver –suddenly spat this unwanted admonition:“Oh,
we don’t take checks!”
Whoa, wait a cotton-pickin’ minute!
A quick cell call took care of that.
They trust me.
Oh, the recklessness of it all!Being overwhelmedOr maybe just ‘whelmed’Here on the cusp of fall.
On September 2ndMany chores beckonedNone would enthrallThat much could be reckoned.
Out we have turnedAnd not for the worseYet what have we learnedNot already rehearsed?Should we go and get burnedWork with lips tightly pursed?
Damn well better pass byAll those portly tag salesWe have too much clutterThat’s what it entails.
With summer near goneAnd when we look back it’sThe same farm – pale and wanWith some mean yellow jackets!
Our burgeoning familyHas seen many an additionNot without foiblesOr fiscal demolition!But a dear long-lived memberStayed 9 years this SeptemberWould soon be lost to attrition.
So speak fondly of RustieWho turns 22A road hog so lustyShe had plenty to doOn back roads so dustySome trouble would brew!
In her day, she’d go ninetyLike when late to airportSprint the thruway so sprightlyA bright snappy sport!Oh, sure, she still runsAnd we love her so muchShe could still have some funAll she needs is a clutch!
Oh gangly vibrant heliotrope!A glorious scene to see!One needs neither glassesNor a field-scopeThat flower is cleome!It stands in our gardenSalutes passerbyBone-dry soil hardenedOh, so stinkin’ dry!Surrounded perchanceBy lots more thirsty plantsFair cleome stays pretty spry!We were spared Nature’s scornAnd actually ate cornFrom venerable local fields;No losses to mournAs stalks were shornIn this year of reasonable yields!
Much grieving, we guessedFor arid MidwestAs summer to fall congeals;They gave their bestWhilst put to the testThough getting the rawest of deals!
of the multifarious downsides in these progressively more protracted summers is
the profound prevalence of pests, more than a few of which wear stingers or
proboscis at the ready, primed to add injury to insult in keeping with already
unwelcome wretchedness so hastily visited upon pink Yankee flesh.
mowing, I hit the first yellow jacket nest, and then discovered nest #2 after
running over it with the skid steer, resulting in yet another angry, swirling
vortex oh, so non-dear. This has resulted in prevalent fear; imminent
stinger-danger seems always near, and of many areas one must stand clear.
When creativity lags behindAs it all too frequently willJust paste in a screedOf whatever you findUnconfined; it’s grist for the mill!
Just fathom that mush‘twixt your radar-like earsAnd pluck words oh, so lushSome fine text then appears!
Thus for those snippetsYou won’t need to forageJust dust off the tip, it’sYour iceberg of storage! For it has been saidOf our brains heaven sentWe don’t get out the leadBut just use two percent!
2 percent?Sure, though it sounds so absurdWhen 1 percent moreMeans the 100th word!
Nobody, but NOBODYHas it MADE!Look around and you’ll seeBut some folks will blusterFrom in their shadeThey’ve got it knocked, you see?
Thus boneheaded movesOn day’s beginningCould be construedAs a contest I’m ‘winning’At least so I thinkIn a wink thus farSome coffee to drinkAnd grab chocolate bar.Put bar of chocolateIn right-hand pants pocketSprint to the carAnd commence to unlock itWith temperature risingInside the carHah! Unsurprising:An EX-chocolate bar!With losses thus madeLittle time to recoupThat chocolate bar = chocolate soup!
Utilizing connections of various speeds, the overzealous
would-be writer zinged dielectrically didactic diatribes to his editor who
at times resembled a dirigible, and who had, much to the aspiring scrivener’s
chagrin, just called him a FRUITCAKE. But that was okay: As the submissive
submitter later learned, the hack editor was on antidepressants.
Nevertheless, these hard-won words had, with great ardor, spilled
out of the scrivener’s battered brain during times of duress and toppled onto
the page in HTML format, only to be given the scissor-hands going-over by the audacious
editor, eventually finding their glorious dispatch in CURRANTS magazine.
8:08 in San Fran
means 11:08 here.Not that it means anything, my dear.Thus today we drift awayNo plan; no nervous fear.For as George Harrison saidThough he’s now dead:“It’s just another day.”
That said, no dread, and in keeping with T’s nurturing nature,
we set out hot on the trail of high octane cat food procurement for a cat with
tongue cancer – not easy.Some foods just won’t work, and waste is a given; with
complexity this situation is riven. Such is felinity’s nature even under the
best circumstances. Just think of those poor fish.
With that feline inappetence challenge in its second day,
I pondered this appellation away. Yes, that mouthful is in some
Harking back exactly a year, give or take a few minutes,
Suzanne the multitalented singer/songwriter died after a ten-year tenure
battling the Big ‘C’, it having ravaged her bowels first, then spreading as it
tends to, especially when aided and abetted by toxic chemo “therapy” non-cure
palliatives – a fact that had not gone unnoticed by her after 5 years of being
poked, sliced, prodded, injected, sutured and dejected by the Cancer Industry.Hers was a death with dignity.
Eleventh remembranceThough not with rage;September 11thShould get a whole page!As politicians bluster,This much stands clear:They’ve all lost their lusterThus from them we veer.They’re feigning compassion,Yet sound insincereBut bluster’s in fashionIn each pol’s career!
9/11 falls during this hotly contested campaign for the
world’s Superpower hot seat whilst contenders temporarily deposit their shoddy,
pugilistic backbiting campaign pap-ads at the door.
Thinking back to that ALSO sunny Tuesday 11 years ago, I
nearly lost faith in an entire species, and repaired to the nearest boob-tube,
gazing aghast at the blistering carnage.
Lacking functional boob-tube reception on the home front,
still curious over the macabre gruesomeness of exploding 767’s, and with spouse
not in attendance, I hastened contact with cronies and a former moonlighting
employer, immediately making preparations to dispatch to the previous home
state for a round of reasonably lucrative work gigs and perhaps more
That’s a 56-word sentence, by the way.
Our illustrious former next-door neighbors welcomed my shaky
pink carcass and we shared many a shit-shootin’ session in their kitchen,
perched over the uniquely drab black & white tile as the wall-mounted CRT
boob-tube blared new findings.
The now-late Jim was livid. He had flown over 150 missions
in Vietnam as a
highly educated flyboy – though not proud of it – but he loved his country.
Upon seeing footage of turbaned Afghanis pointing bazookas
at the newsmen’s camera and making threats against the U.S.,
Jim reddened with rage and railed accordingly:
“You mean to tell me this freak in a circus costume is over
there telling ME I’d better watch out?”
Jim paused, seeming nearly ready to spit fire, quickly
launching into a Taliban-ripping riposte: “I think they need to go over there
and f---ing ERADICATE it!”
The 9/11 boob-tube coverage was interesting to follow as the
tone slowly turned from "America
Under Attack" to"America
Will Damn Sure Get Even!!"
Somebody didn’t like the ‘under’ part.
Meanwhile, Jim & spouse K still needed to work, as did
I, and we parted company after sumptuous repasts to our respective places of
purveyance. Mine was in the trees working for the illustrious Polomials, the
man I had admired from the git-go, and considered the pinnacle of a big brother
No, he didn’t do the climbing; that was my hard-won trade,
and we got along splendidly, especially NOW.
With the smoldering ruins of NYC towers still primetime
preoccupation, we carried on our workaday existences, chins up, spirits down, noses
to the grindstone, concentrating as best we could under the cudgel of
violence-begotten uncertainty and thoughts of burnt flesh.Dispatching from Jim & K’s warm kitchen each day, I’d
pile gear into the trusty rusty Toyotee pickup, trundle to Polomials and head for
the Jersey woods. But THIS night, after pizza, Polomials’ eyes filled with wonder
as he calmly intoned: “I’ve got something to show you,” popping what
appeared to be a fun-time family vacation tape into the VCR.
But this was no ordinary video. It began with a mundane
feel-good scene: women and kids babbling on the Maine beach as chilly surfed
lapped sand behind them. “Look at those
clouds, tell me what you see.” Mike urged.Holy SHYTT! I couldn’t believe my parched retinas! At the
juncture of cirrus clouds – which took on the eerie shape of wings -- was a FACE! A tan, very human face, to be sure, looking much like a stately
middle-aged Nepali or Indian gent who hadn’t quite gone gray yet.I blinked and questioned these eyes, but the camera never
Flash out of the pastAnd back here todayStill quite aghastAt what was at playLet’s forgive, not forget, okay?:So anyway:
A bright silver pickup truckGreets me each day;Her candy-apple gleam shinesAs if to say:“Hey, sucker! Buy me!We’ll go out and play!”Yeah, sure, she looks niceBut forget the priceThat’s why she’s not gone away.
News veer – media pap:Politicians quibble and sneerTattle, prattle, useless crapNothing hitherto we want to hearI swing a paddle, dog in lapCanine companion free & clearNow let’s take a nap!
Catching hell from various close and semi-close
acquaintances seems to be increasingly on the roster for this boy as of late,
and he feels strongly that a serious case could be made for pleading firmly but
politely with all serving parties thereof for a thorough and immediate respite
from such clearly unnecessary onslaughts, perhaps with promised future binding
curtailment contingencies as well, despite the fact that resultant deep and
adverse mental and emotional side effects due ostensibly to these outwardly
slung barbs is indicative of his own shortcomings and/or intolerance plus overtly
keen reception of their otherwise oblique negative energies.
The teachers had endedTheir perilous strikeAnd as it portended‘Twas something to like!
No more agitationFor indeed they completedNegotiation so sorely needed.I think of them nowAfter raising their voicesthen seeing howThey exerted some choices.With jurisprudenceNo need to panderWhat's good for the studentsIs good for the gander!
I slither through town’s intersections,also making choices:Here, a left, there, a right,A tad of common sense directionsAnd hence, a bit ‘o frightBut with strident predilectionsWaiting for each lightDestinations and connectionsWhy put up a fight?
Suddenly remembering where the exhaust flange clamp had been
left in a flustered bit ‘o airheaded pique, it was useless to ponder the
arduous, knuckle-busting repair its recovery entailed – over the obnoxious din
of a wide open tailpipe shouting out strident petro-addled 4-banger explosions
just north of the muffler.
Meanwhile, stack at the branch, a white pine limb-up job
awaited the tree sloth’s attentions, and a pencil had gone dull, necessitating
honing, but squeezing 100 words out of this typical morning mental cloud turned
out to be an exercise in futility.
Ergo, as the exhaust bellows its odious primal roar…
Happy 88th birthday to PopsAnd yesterday Anne!Kudos to them, they are topsAll across this fair land!But today in tree topsThat’s a part of the plan.Just got finished white pineAbove power lineAnd commencedWith the brushy-poo cleanup;The project went fine,The pleasure was mine‘Oer the fenceThe pine tree can now green up!
Whilst thus finished todayOkay white pine ropin’Then set out on the wayJust like I was hopin’The days are much shorterWith time we have fought;We’re stuck like set mortarIn darkness we’re fraught!
For it is in this context the machine earns its rightful
moniker; hop in the cab, fir ‘er up and get workin’, then see if you DON’T skid
while steering!Trust me – you won’t steer without skidding!
So what’s delaying our garrulous species from continuing the
scintillating pursuit of plucking fresh, innovative and most of all, FUNCTIONAL words from common usage venues and plopping them perspicuously into the
venerable Merriam Webster dictionary?
After all, inane terms like ‘locavore’ and ‘frenemy’ were
recently added; the former referring to endomorphs who stuff their face with local
nosh, the latter a quizzically oxymoronic label for friend/enemy.
The rule of thumb – if you can wrap a thumb around the shovel
handle of our already turgid lexicon – seems to be continued and/or habitual
usage of the word in question, perhaps ad nauseam.
On 24 September many years ago, a 24 year old boy became US
Government property – in a cascading series of events ending in some
Philadelphia hotel, where he wound up in a gaggle of similarly afflicted new
recruits after inexplicable bumbling by authorities who lost our attendant
paperwork, necessitating temporarily housing a half-dozen of us conscripts in
what would, in the context of what was to come, be the utmost luxurious
Later, midway through boot camp induction proceedings, files
were again misplaced, resulting in redundant vaccinations being doled out to a
motley assemblage of recruits on the meat hook.
Lots of cops upon the roadJust now I’ve seen about six;Some sit by shops then lock & loadTo get their radar kicks!
Now as insouciant word-spewing hostI commence to coastTo give it the mostHarking back to yesterday’s post!
One whereupon the foibles of an armed forces recruit were chronicled in the
utmost air headed fashion.No surprise here.
In that era, the 24 year-old conscript learned to consume
ethanol-based adult beverages with aplomb.
What a mistake!
Lots of repercussions ensued, some borderline disastrous; the whole shebang
culminating with BLACKOUTS, the crowning glory of realization.
Did you know my courseis one month away?I’ll shout until hoarseWith something to say:
Ahhh, yes, another 10 days well spent!Permit me forays 2 B reticentFatigue and malaiseOf this middle-aged gentAre far better raisedIn a cabin or tent!
So although it seems crazedLet us not circumventMay the practice be praisedAs if heaven sent!
Looking forward to spendingThis time as a keeperWith no need for lendingA plush Perfect Sleeper®
So let’s get rehabbin’I’m sure you will seeThat musty old cabinIs the place for me!
Now if I work lateAnd a hard time was hadThat night means a dateWith a hot heating pad!It seems that both thumbsWell, they hurt just a tadSo that radiant heatMakes a country boy glad!
Outside in the late baking dewThe foliage will be lurking for youImminent insipid foliar prime timethe tour buses soon will
Thus traffic and allWill slow to a crawl,But we locals will be doing fine!
Back to the grindstoneWith very full daysIn autumn’s drab toneThus seen through the haze.
OBLIGATORY POST-OP GARDEN DIATRIBE
The mid-autumn leavesAnd some crisp wind to zoom usNobody bereavesWhilst said leaves turn to humus!
The humus with fungiCommence thus to flirtMe? Sated, this one guyEnds up with black dirt!
Black dirt will not hardenWhen mixed up with sandSlap it on the gardenOh, savor this land!
Black dirt, sand and sunBut don’t ever forgetThat it’s often not funBut rewarding?You bet!
But now, oh, green thumbsWith those fingers you’ve fedSo plop in these mumsPut the garden to bed!
-The Garden committee
Coming up to the drizzly mireOf ‘30 days hath September’So let’s conspireMake it one to remember!
Wretched rain, several days running,has been great for the
ducks,Who haven’t been sunningBut rather found floppingAs they’re somewhat fondOf quacking and sloppingon an algae-slicked pond.
Cool, clammy rain also hasn’tdampened the flow of cars or
truckson various local thoroughfaresAw, shucks – who cares?
Dank, bleary skiesOver which sun is gropingA miasma despisedThat it dries, we are hoping!
Not letting the dogsGo off half-crazedWhilst peeping frogsSerenade orchard razed.
Yet another damp-assed morning, perfect for mums, mold and
ducks.It’s dreary out, and our perpetually reclusive neighbors are
IN. One can almost imagine the aroma of fresh brewed java streaming into each
parlor amid the din of a blaring television.Up yonder at an actual family farm – rare in these times
– cows of many interesting color combinations troll a hillside for those late
stiff-bristle greens. No need to rummage in the barn just yet. Black Angus. A
Holstein mix, and some tan ones that probably have a name but maybe not;
perhaps bovines can just as easily be ‘mutts’.