October the firstNot fearing the worstAs those best laid plans fizzle; I haven’t rehearsedAnd quite roundly cursedThis damned incessant drizzle!It’s October firstAnd my lips are pursedI’m immersed but running late;Time’s forward flowSurely hasn’t reversedWith no time left to wait!It is past time for exterior paintingor under-body oiling,
I’d say,so those pastimes wait for a better day.Yes, I pass the timeJust frittered away!And the winner is – PROCRASTINATION!MY fault, due to Web fascination.Had all summer to get-r doneNow it’s soaked – sans sun!
Another morning, scuzzy and dirtystayed up late – around two-thirtyAccepting this, life is still purtySlurping coffee and getting sturdy!
We’ll have another fling with dogsThey’ll bounce and bark, not balkThey’re anything but demagoguesTo the PARK for a simple walk!
We tangle leashes rain or shineAround the country ‘block’And if you please the pleasure’s mineI’d rather bark than talk!
Today, of course, the weather suckedThe pack was not elatedNothing dry, straight outta luckOur walk was thus truncated!
Towels, please, get back in the truckTo evade this weather we hated!
An otherwise entirely too leisurely start to this day was punctured
by a razzing kitchen flub-up, luckily discovered, though not in time to avoid
the ensuing spill if you will, as the freezer door had regrettably and
inexplicably been cocked open for who knows how long – possibly all day and
night, and this being a bottom-freezer model, the defrosting consumables had
long since begun returning to their previous unfrozen state and at the very
least perhaps pondered disgorging their resultant liquid components logically
following the principles of gravity upon our half-assed ceramic tile floor in
direct accordance with Murphy’s Law.
The low-bush blueberries are undoubtedly the most nutritious
item in the freezer. They hadn’t fully thawed, luckily enough, and an all-out
nasty mess was avoided.Everything, including those dark blue little orbs, would
become turgid again, racked in suspended animation; the whole paradigm of
frozen crispy critters occupying this easily neglected space lending itself to
thoughtful reflection on how we live and waste food.F’rinstance, how many times have we needed to do a freezer
cleanout? And those elders – some gone, rest their souls – who had
freezers packed so tightly you couldn’t slip a toothpick ‘twixt blocks of
More yellows as foliage mellowsWowing us when it is ableBut reds and pinksAre what methinksBest plinks upon those maples!
For the bussed – in touristsOr foliage puristsThey’ll be the judgeAnd we’ll be the juristsBut the weather so farHas not been on parTo autumnal color assure us!Now here’s a tidbit of binomial nomenclaturepegged
to one in a multitude of difficultiesfaced by color-producing varietiesof the
genus ACER,specifically leaf diseaseswhich could directly affectocular input
gratification:Rhytisma acerinum, a
fungal pathogenwhich prompts ‘tar spot’ – butt ugly!
Carrying around your penciled-in words on little slips of
paper means you misplace or lose them altogether. In fact, they’re as easy to
lose as a good mood.
The aforementioned paper fragments can contain such puerile
verbiage as the following simile, which, when found after kicking around a
dusty shelf or other paper storage facility for several years, can wow the
finder with wonder as to how he had written such gibberish:
Oh, bag of bonesYou have no clones!Your existence is so unjust;Hearing your groansWe won’t bust your stonesYou are merely a sack of LUST!
A word like ‘bucolic’ doesn’t denote what it sounds like – or
should we say doesn’t sound like what it entails: rural scenes, rolling
pastures, sheep’s curly-assed tails.
But ‘pastoral’ doesn’t do the country bumpkin justice,
either, as it sounds descriptive of a man ‘o the cloth, not hills.
So in keeping with terms that would ring closer to their meaning,
an embryonic linguistic paradigm will emerge from the rubble of our significantly
garbled syntax, and come to be known as ‘Phunctional Phonetics’
What the hell? Twitter, texting, poetry slams, hip-hop and
rap have already creatively enlivened our lexicon, haven’t they?
Apparently, tomorrow – in the words of legendary American
Indian activist Russell Means – is the day we ‘celebrate’ the world’s first
trans-Atlantic slave trader, circa 1492.
I noted that in a phone message left to a librarian we know
who most definitely had the day off, along with teachers, bank employees,
postal workers, and by inference, all ancillary parties attending to or doting
over the holidaying aforementioned.
We are all here; yes, that is true.That much should be clearAnd felt through and through.On this land so dearPlease don’t misconstrueThough it may appearTo belong to you!
October 9th, and I won’t harpOn this non-holidayWhere we don’t friggin’ work,but playNOT covered by a TARP.
What would Russell Means now sayA tussle on Columbus Day?
Hark! At last, the sun has lentSome rays to blast the 99%!This working classMuch time has spentMoving fast, not reticentAm I of the last 47%?Sullen, aghast, I need to VENT!
So where do I FIT inThis vast sea of stiffsOf the working persuasionlike lemmings to cliffs?On many occasionsBlue-collared, not miffedWould dread aberrationTo work graveyard shift!
The first appointment of the dayI picked up Eric on the wayAmbling up to the renter’s doorI had some business to do beforeSo ducked behind the garden shedTrying not to turn too redFluid dynamics prompted this:I had to take a wicked piss!
Meanwhile, hack at the branch;no curious quasi-rural
bumpkinspeered out the overarching domicile’ssecond story window to inspect,suspect, reject or inject opinions as to myfurtive behind-the-shed drainage
activities.We chattered merrily during the rideOver fallen leaves we’d slideHeading to a familiar hauntUp to swanky Charlemont!
Brief chronicle of the day’s events:Grief, not comical recompenseStoked the stoveAnd quaffed some waterTo the job site droveWhere I had a spotter!Down past the coveThose meds they bought herCat in groveI went and got her!
Winding, careening, fairly leaning ‘Oer curves past a creek;South on Rt. 8a, eyes gleaningThe color looks pretty bleak!That wouldn’t be a stretch so seemingIt might be past its peak!Camera bugs? Yup, we’ve got ‘emWith the hilltops on display;Full well you knowIt is extant autumn- And just another day.
A friend’s lively and might I say quite unexpected post
regarding his proud accomplishment of having achieved 23 years of sobriety
prompted me to dig into the skeletal remains of my own checkered past and
exhume tainted, puffed, festering pustules contained therein, lay them out in
the sun for all to see, and sit back, prepared to dredge through resultant
opinionated commentary commensurately.
And aside from crafting 63-word sentences, my story went
Alcohol sucked, especially when coming in contact with my
gizzard. But it happened. When the chips fell, absolutely zero redeeming
features were culled from this interaction.
That feeling of heat behind the
ears when my buddies told me what I'd done - and had been screaming the night
before - is to this day singed into memory. Though I was sure they were
bullshittin' - and ready to tell them so - my body was telling me they weren't
Along came that moment of
surrender, again red-faced, accepting medicine from an authority figure that
suddenly didn't seem so stodgy.
Gratitude to AA’s smoke-choked
meetings abounds for cementing the desire to kick.
I chugged that last beer with aplomb - on or about Sept 21, 1982.
Out of the service in a year and a half,footloose and
ethanol free,though a nasty cigarette habit still clung like a leech.The tale didn’t endI hooked up with a friendAnd bought the first car within reach!
She was a beauteous boat – a 1965 Ford Custom,289 under the
hood,1-barrel carburetor – power not good.
My family letter boasted:“Landed a car, a stereo and a
girlfriendin two weeks!”
But the mandatory stereo had come first– a handy way to trim
that rapidly dwindling stack of Andrew Jack$ons, then the cool gal in Arden.
Oh, I could have railed on‘Bout that cool gal in ArdenBut now need to move onBefore still spirits harden.
In retrospect, I wish another anatomical protuberance had
hardened a bit more effectively many moons ago. And so:
Flash back to the present,which is always a bit clearer and
The coffee is goneNow well before noonGot work to get onAnd not too damn soon!
Nature continuesHer watery deedsSlip-sloshing venuesFor growing the weedsAnd if it continuesWe’ll have lots of seedsFor those floundering fescues– just what this yard needs!
The tar sands exploitation may commence as planned, its
extractive intentions far from shit-canned. Thus spoke talking heads who
mentioned it yesterday morning.
Cataclysmic energy depletion apocalypse-avoiding paradigm
shift hopefuls conclude unequivocally that thoughtful reflection on fossil fuel
extraction, commensurate with ancillary environmental obliteration inherent in
and prerequisite for endemic voracious consumption is in order.
Musing thus, one need only glance at any given procession of
cars, trucks, buses, heavy construction machinery, motorcycles, and even mopeds
to wonder how much longer our collective global petro-sucking charade can
Suddenly the pensive near-silent reverie is shattered by an aircraft
Here’s to two contenders who slung point-scoring barbs at
each other, jostling for the upper hand so as to not only win hearts and minds
of the struggling and the posh, but ultimately – through arduous efforts, inflammatory,
facile attack ads, hard-hitting, infuriatingly intrusive robo-calls and
millions of campaign dollars spent – achieve kingship atop the glorious throne of
the world’s largest Corporatocracy, and competently oversee the next four years
of expansionist policies and continued empire building in keeping with the
devices and desires of said Corporatocracy.
This is not to be taken lightly, though many grains of salt wouldn’t hurt.
Not so sure of what happened todayBut pretty damn sure ‘twas not great;A whole lot of timeWas just frittered awayWith sour memories of that debate!
Not mesmerized by any given politician,regardless of
stripe,the working stiff gathers hand toolsand enabling victuals and WORKS,not
to be sunken by hype.
For in the end – not an end run, that is,the doer of honest
work bristlesat the very thoughtof those who vote themselves pay raiseswhile
crafting laws that funnelhard-earned dollars to unworthy causesand shamelessly
grant tax breaksto the undeserving.
A $14.00 wristwatch tellswhat could be assumed to be
correct time,And to further admitAs I pen this rhymeSuch baffling mystery:What’s today’s date? – left the calendar
homeAnd now it’s too late!
Cheap-ass watch tells timeWithout complainingWith a ticking sublimeWhilst the battery’s drainingAnd we can presume,In your pocket there’s roomFor watch refuge while it is raining!
Funny, or perhaps not,this dime-store knockoffprovides the
same serviceas a $10,000 Rolex –a factoid which too often goes unnoticed,as
nobody that movesin normal circles gives it a second hand.
Another wet day‘Why bother?’ I sayNow tickle me down to my boots;‘Make a fire!’ Oh, hey!And thus to forayWith dry warmthWe will be in cahoots!
Later, fact-checking this predictably unreliableinternal
software betwixt the ears,An hour was spentWith a tech reticentWho quelled almost all of my fears!
So that worked out splendidly;our Mac was acquired,as I slide a toe in the door to get miredin another system – albeit
left-handed.Truth be told, the price, not nicehad scared me off: so misbranded!They ENTICE; don't scoffNor leave empty-handed!
Here we go & here I sitNot much I knowHow mind does flit!Overwhelmed and underpaidStill at the helmOf this wreck we’ve made!
Rustie’s still here as if you caredHer biggest fearOf the crusher spared!She’ll celebrate another dayBefore we grieveAnd send her away!
But no matter whatWe get out of thisMachinery glutIn a rusting abyssWe’ll always have picturesOf Rustie so dearOur tear ducts have stricturesWhat a kick in the rear!
Poor Rustie, you betThat we’ll never forgetWe’ll always love you, you hear?
UP ON A ROOF!
Yes, sweet baby JamesDid in fact croon its praises,But I’m here to tell yaThis grunt worked in phases!
What little joy!‘Twas like traipsing through a mazeThough this thin Yankee boyRemained not quite unfazed.
And while working off a ladderThis mind ne’er ceased its chatterBut hey, why should that matterWhen it’s crazed?
A longtime contractor buddy came up with the idea of
applying ‘FSB’ to a badly cracked chimney, to which client Charlie H. agreed with
few reservations, citing the positives of bolstering structural integrity and
As Connecticut and New York traffic whizzed by, we three
workers did watch the time fly, and with shorter days had a need to comply; yet
worked unfazed, no need for a sigh!
Upon the roof precariously slatedA chimney with stuccoSo handily elated!No as to the view, I’m telling youIt has started just now to mellow;Blanched auburn-brownagainst sky so blueWith tinges of pink and green-yellow!
So onward we toiledBy the north wind not foiledTill the wind-chilled day was through;Whilst damp dusk threatenedWe quickly recoiledAh, tomorrow! We’ll firstly renew!
Finally, the wood stackin’ is nearly complete– at least the
front pile mess by the street.And each dayWhilst driving awayI guess I get a treat.
Because, you see, a bright local farmhouse resident
undertook a curious project some months back in which a large round tank first
appeared by the barn.
Next, a circular insert was attached precariously in the
middle as the young fellow doted over the proceedings with his welding torch
set up nearby.
Come the rain,He set a tentWith boards and lucent plasticNot in vain to circumventThat damp-assed weather spastic!
OY, no joy and I just can’t waitFor political ploy to please ABATE!Counting the daysThrough campaign-pap hazeThe seventh won’t be one minute late!
But for now,this minute, hour, day, week, month, year,I
need to plowinto what we have here.In other words,we have wood to cut,and logs to unload,let’s make a rut upon this damn road!
With fields to mow,mold under the eaves;please rake and
blowthese damp mounds of leaves!
With some minutes left overWe’ll sit on our assesNo four-leaf cloverFor these toiling masses!
The sweet sonorous sawing of violins can be heard oh, so mercifullyOver the dinof quibbling, palpably pusillanimous political pap most
days, as we querulously sidestepbrash fund drive claptrapto partake of fine soundthrough the haze.
We listen for kicks,But refuse to debate;So fault me or vault meOut here in the sticks– Or simply commiserate!
Trying not to get overwhelmed depletes entirely too much
energy and effort, so a planned strategy could be:Start the decidedly disorganized days with wood stackin’.
Speaking of which, we’ve got quite a bit before we get back
The Hoolie tree gig went wellAnd was fun,So hey,what the hell?We three got ‘er done!
Made a midstream requestFor him to take pixTo which he compliedPhone plucked from his chest,Atoned, and not just for kicks.
Of course the pixilation was gawd-awfulonce the snaps were
slung,and only so much doctoring and tweakingcould be done; thus:
On a walnut treeI swung with gleeCasting occasional glances;Over the hot tubAnd driveway, you seeNo stupid moves done carelesslyWhilst hoping & roping so diligentlyAnd lowering quite a few branches!
Oh, Sandy we await your pounce!Your size so greatTo obliterateA bunch of friggin’ real estateOkay, you didn’t watch your weightFat fury, ounce for ounce!
This paean to the latest, ostensibly greateststorm to paste
the Atlantic region in 24 yearsis posted here with little fear,hastily culled
from betwixt my ears.
This storm was well-hyped in advance,largely a
thinly-masked non-subliminalconsumerist directive to boost sales.We can
fairly hear the weather and news anchors’ collective hue and cry seem to scream:
“This one’s HUGEWith any luck itWill
deluge your Homer Bucket®!
Sandy, oh, babe!The Boss sang about her;of course didn’t
flout herin his 1970's rave.
Now, as Nature’s oft-harsh, cruel ironyovertakes our
thoughts,we sit poised to get pounced uponby another of Her furious storms,perhaps as per norms – exactly 3 years afterthat notorious early blizzardshut downmany a townbefore the leaveshad even turned brown!
I set out around noon yesterday, battening down all the
hatches that needed battening, skipping dinner, bending knees and back to great
painful avail.Upon re-entry of this marvelous modest abodeand a clock-ward
glance: 1:30 a.m.
Russ recently and dutifully posted his scientifically
scented prognostications on Sandy’s predicted path of carnage and presumably
sent it to all his multifarious address book contacts – a detail we might verily
assume, citing our salutation as ‘Undisclosed Recipients’ – weaving incisive
snippets of analysis interspersed with actual up-to-the-minute meteorological
data into one detail-laden bulky paragraph, stringing along the silky, slick
thread of thought to the nth degree forthrightly with a bluster few who are not
of his salubrious ilk could lay claim to.
But he didn’t craft 81-word sentences in so doing, though it
would have been splendid rain day fun.
Now is the time for all able-bodied rescuers to repair to
where they’re needed. Now is NOT the time for more intelligence-insulting small-minded
mudslinging so characteristic of would-be so-called leaders.Nor, we hereby posit, is it apposite to dismantle our many
Jersey is on our radar screen; a place that we have
seldom been, and in less than a month we’ll make the scene, from her resources
much to glean. Here’s hoping that by then it’s clean, that eastern Hudson
shore so green, where we will chow so veggie lean and take a bow for Sandy