One on one and add thirteenThe countdown is doneWhat fun – we’re clean! It’s slightly warmerDay and nightNew Year reformer: get it right!
Mistakes of the pastIn absolution;Move forward fast:It’s a resolution!Yet I stare aghastAt our stark non-solutionFlags at half-mast,and substantial dilution.
And so you knowThat’s all well and good,if you would,letting go of each ‘should’,for the last year, we fear,was not at all good.
But here in these partsWhich we label The ‘Hood’The human conditionas per our wishin’Is fully understood.
RESOLUTIONS, MY ASS!
In many years pastI was the droll jackassContented to beAs was easy to seethe silliest clown in the class.
Not much has changedIn the ensuing decadesSome things rearrangedSwapping various shades
But the underlying taint remainedThough at times I could tamp it down;That spurious furious energy drainedWhen self control came to town!
From fishy-assed drinkerI eventually evolvedInto a dull semi-thinker;Chalked up as semi problem resolveden route to becoming a clinker. All told, these changeswere NOT resolutions;What’s strange isI claim they’re ablutions!
“Missing you, man!”
That’s what the tiny note said, and no, I don’t give a
friggin’ flip that Word doesn’t recognize that opening salvo as a certifiable
sentence – but rather angrily underlines it in green – as if to insult my ostensible
intelligence and inject this quirky style with maxims MS deems appropriate.
The note of note was attached to the translucent box containing
WICKED good fudge made from fresh cream, butter, and the quintessential
component of all things crave-able: Vitamin ‘S’ – otherwise known as sucrose,
sugar, sweet stuff, insulin-jack, et al.
It’s difficult to describe how much that sentiment meant!
The Boss-man had shown his true colors, as did the
multifaceted fudge which seemed to glow with its own iridescence.
The curious middle slab, mostly tawny coffee with cream
interspersed with swirls of pink and green, disappeared first and quickly. MMM –
mint; more than a hint: heavy, greased and thickly!
Boss-man was full of optimism, no doubt feeling flush with a
full house: the place was booked solid with every available space rented into
the foreseeable future, which was a royal pain in the ass, ‘cause my stuff had
to be moved again.
I needed an ace in the hole.
It could rightly be said that nothing dries shoes faster
than a properly fired wood stove. But that creature comfort ushers in an atmospheric
side-effect courtesy of those who flout the 350.org authorities.
At the other end of the spectrum, we catch flak from our
right-wing cynics who sarcastically chide us regarding our carbon footprint.
Speaking of footprints, it’s harder to get away with
anything when snow lies on the ground. And that means YOU, you infernal
But that could also mean ME when I go up yonder to douse my
neighbor’s backyard incinerator.
Can’t they recycle that crap?
A new ‘credit’ card comesFor us boomer rabbitsTo splurge ‘til we’re numbWith our dumb spending habits!
In a nondescript envelopeWith today’s mailSuch Big Bankster’s hopeThis new card could entail.
Debt ceiling? You bet!
Fate sealing? Not yet!That’s a heightAbove which I hope we’ll never get!But we’ve been hearing a lot
about endless debt.So they sent one to meFor my next shopping spree,though I haven’t signed off on it yet.
For the Banksters you seeHave long understoodThat the masses (us, we)When in debt are so good!
Today is the one month anniversary of the December Day That
Shall Live in Infamy. It is also two months shy of the 25 –year mark of our
Moreover, January 7th is exactly 6 months either
side of Britain’s dreadful subway suicide bombing, whichever way you want to
slice the calendar, be it fore or aft.
So whatever significance a numerologist wishes to assign to
this number 7 is left to conjecture, dear reader.
Here’s what I think,
though we think we’ll do fine:We can’t do our taxesBecause the sad fact isWe haven’t that 1099.
Sigmoid Whupsteen came to the conclusion that he had to come
clean. And this WAS a laughing matter for many a year, come what may.
Having attempted to wax monastic, taking a stab at celibacy
– something he had poked fun at many times previously – he nonetheless was perversely
attracted to the concept, if not its implementation.
“Oh, come now; abstinence is bullshit,” Whupsteen used to say.
But he, like many other male animals encased in a bod,
needed to come to terms, whilst running roughshod.He had non-graduatedAnd not extirpatedRecalcitrant; Summa-Cum-Fraud!
So the time came to stop coming.
Oh, pink-nosed cranky Yankee!Better strap on that fat down coatMittens, scarf, and leggings, tooCloth balloon baggage with bloat!
For it is colder out than it looksSun blares through south-facing glassForbearance you haven’t forsookAs you ‘work’ crossword puzzlesThose coats hang on hooksand you remain stuck on your ass.
Then, when a whim strikesAnd not before thenYou tug ‘senior shoelaces’Revel in themSeek out the shovelPut down the penShoo snow from hovelAnd if you’ve the yenCarve a notch for the family carAnd be done B-4 10!
Through the peep-holeMike A. had assertedThat We the SheepleWill go as herded.Editor-at-large @ Natural NewsIn your mind he’ll bargewith his unabashed views.
Hitherto Sheeple give not a whitBroken, blue and gray with grit.They scribble, nibble, forward-ho!As long as they recall where to go!
But I’d posit that, despite his fiery rhetoric and at times
spot-on reportage, he can also be taken with a grain of gestalt.
Take for example the recent fusillade of gun rhetoric, pro
and con. Oh, cuckoo-nuts, bray on, bray on!
Nothing works like firearms to blow smoke.
Timmy G. writes so voluminously as to no doubt assure at
least some of his stuff will ‘hit’ – and hit a jugular.
He’s a mighty tough act to follow.
And, I might add,By his hand, breakin’ badThe sonnets he singsAnd the threats he slingsare sure as hell not to ring hollow.
When sister Nan Z.Brought back a Tim GEffluent book of slam poetry,It was dressed up for us to peruse;Then Dad had a look-seeAnd he did not enthuse:“Oh, gee – for this sludge poetryYou’ll see I have not any use!”
Another day of air so cleanYet dusky and grayYes, that’s how it’s been.Do I portray with envy greenThose lackeys theyWho make the scene?
Or ponder thusAvoiding a fussWhat, pray tell, is melamine?
Oh, that substance, it’s saidis what made your dog dead,ergo, you put him in the ground;From China it cameAs a part of the gameTo help keep dog food prices down.
So some may think they have it madeAnd profit now and then;We cheat each other on the fade,And that is how it’s been.
Please thin out your herdOf cute teddy bearsCollate all your papersArrange your affairs.That cutlery setAnd the crusty carafeLittle by little, surely, you betThough you may not have realizedIt’s not sunk in yetYou put in your time,
now it’s our time to sweatAnd we’ll get ‘round to cart it all off.
We’ll clean out those drawersTake the sewing machine
Get down on all foursAnd make sure the room’s clean.They’ll rip out the carpetAs soon as you’ve goneThey need to still rent itOnce you’ve moved on.
What to make of this contribution:Real, not fake, much effort to takeThat amounts to substantial dilution?
Of all the words that were ever createdGnashed,Slashed,Rehashed,Re-articulated,It becomes plain as dayWhen thrust to the fore:In this grand word playWhich we all do adoreMuch to our dismayNow I don’t mean to bore|All these words we produceIt’s not hard to deduce,are not better, only just MORE.
On that note,this farmboy wonderswhat Wendell Berry would
have to sayabout this 100 word thing.
Or what about the verbose Foucault?
The philosopher wroteso few could understand him.He
infused his harangues, however,with a shit-load of meaning.
A ruddy-complected farmboy arduously engaged in cleaving
ash logs by non-mechanical means delves into his own patent philosophy after
all, allowing sparse, tenuous and largely dormant cerebral gray matter to rest for
such time as it takes to render cylindrical incendiary appurtenances into
fungible BTU-producing thermal assets for the purpose of maintaining not only
acceptable homeostasis characteristics in the organism, but consistently
temperate ambient atmospheric conditions favorable to non-freezing of ancillary
domestic cylindrical fluid conduits within the confines of the temporal
GONE ‘TIL SPRING
Regret still lingersOh, fumble fingers;You dropped your old key ring!
Into deep snowWhere did it go?You know: It’s gone ‘til spring!
And what about the summer treadThat you pulled off the car?They’re somewhere over by the shed‘Til May, that’s where they are.
Most times you cannot dig out thingsFrom solid ice rock hard;In 3 months when the robin singsYou’ll find stuff in the yard!
Mother Nature so oft blowsA blizzard bellowing;Turning stuff to marshmallows;Hey, that’s how the story goesAll frozen, gone ‘til spring.
Yesterday, and the day beforeI saw a cat that I could adore.Of course I knew her from before;So nothing is newI’m telling youas she skitters across the floor.
She was an indoor catAnd that was thatThis fine feline of yore;But that didn’t lastIt happened so fast:She figured out the DOG door!
No, she’s not in harm’s wayWell, at least not yetand loves to play, oh hey, you bet!An Abyssinian breed,I never would have guessed.
And what’s best,no sorrow:I get to see her again tomorrow!
So I need to bill JoeThat’s a Joe, NOT a Bill;Because for him, you knowI did work, if you will.
‘Twas work not by forceBut rather by choice;No, I did not shirkBut then failed to invoiceThis Joe with the quirkand the really deep voice.
Put some logs in a rowand cut Joe some slack.Some leaves I did blowand wood then did stackfor this not yet billed Joebut I didn’t get backbefore that first snowhad formed a hard pack.
Was Joe keeping track?
The body gets hotThe body gets coldAnd sooner than notThis body gets OLD!
The body needs foodAnd water like thisThe gal or the dude
Thus must poop and piss.
The body likes artBooks and music, tooBut the body will fartAnd produce grotesque goo.
The body craves pleasureAnd likes lots of thingsYet pain beyond measurethis too-short life brings.
Not to be sordidNor pessimist;But facts can’t be thwarted
though we might insist.
The body’s demisearrives; you can’t cloak it
with silly-ass jive
like this – though I spoke it!
We took on this Beagle, right?
Well, soon we got in the ringto watch everythingand, well, stay in the fight.
She was here for two weeks,
oh, fair rosy-cheeks,
and you should know
how a dog like this freaks.
Eight ‘biners held together her crateand they were quite
necessary of late,because she had chewed
her way out of it, dude!
This Beagle is an inveterate shit-eater; a wholehearted
envelopment, a revelation upon which I became a bleater, lamenting this
Hit me like a stick in the crotchPray she won’t get sick on our watch.
The call came in, displaying its unnecessary digits with an
‘800’ prefix, though if you try and call it back, will be wholly dysfunctional,
just like the contemptible debt-based system from which it springs.
One time, I caught the cretins before they could hang up on
our machine, stating politely:
Oh, sorry, but you have the wrong Davey H; another dude by
the same name – but carrying an insanely unsustainable consumer debt load –
resides in this area, and I got his ‘credit’ card bill once, opened it without
fully paying attention, and exclaimed
Poor guy. REALLY friggin’ poor.
Oh 1-Percent CitibankstersNow hear this:
You haven’t gotten me; no, not yetEnsconced, enslavedWith a burgeoning debt
Though surely you’d like toIf you could;I’d be the good suckerYou think I should.
So my neighbor foreclosed
Would I be like him?His corpse was disposed
At your beck and whimAs you flaunt your logosI’ve a synonymAs he dangles his toesin a future more
grim.The fellow is right and goodTo be pissed
Kicked out of the ‘hood
Whilst his debt was 'serviced'.
Thus this Bankster card I sever:
A life filled with strifeNo, it’s NOT heaven-sent!So forget and forgiveMay long you liveTo consumeAnd produce excrement!
In listening to space station inhabitants – otherwise known
as ‘astronauts’, one gets a feeling we’re not doing so well down here on
this, the only directly inhabitable planet in the visible platform of space,
and that fact blares.
One of their favorite pastimes is looking down at planet
Earth, musing as stated above, with particular ocular focus concentrated on
Syria in ruins.
F*** the Boston Bruins!
Let’s all stop the screwin’s.
We’ve got work that needs doin’s!
After Mark’s trees, I had planned on doing Bruce’s. Then
Cool! Another dish clearing job!
By that I imply and express that those out of reach of
traditional Internet infrastructure implementation must rely on the satellite
middlemen who swoop down upon the disconnected like ravenous buzzards to feast
upon the weak, the unfortunate, and in need.
Maybe that’s heavy-handed, but certainly was the case before
local Telco’s began stringing the copper they should have strung years ago.
And since DSL has become ubiquitous,
dish-meisters have been forced to become more competitive as regards price and
quality of service.
Memories are sloshed between the folds of our salt dust
slathered roads as a diverse pastiche of automobiles usher forth with maddening
urgency, as if filled with occupants tiptoeing through slush-filth en route to
evading surety of a prematurely rusted set of wheels.
Be advised: It can’t happen.
We lucked out on our latest automotive purchase, it being,
as our chipper mechanic wryly noted upon his not-so-cursory general inspection:“not from around here.”
But let this vehicle live in these parts for two ensuing
winter seasons, and rust will spread faster than verticillium wilt on a
hot-assed summer tomato plant.
Memories do indeed aboundregarding many past winters;Yes, deep in mindAre their images foundAs I rummage in woodpileNo splinters!
Thus I now present to youSome recall of 2002:
Gassing at fave filling stationOne brisk wintry day,Keeping away from the salt;Which covered each surfaceThat got in the wayBut hey, ‘twas not township’s fault!
A white truck at the catty-corner pumpbore an ominous insigniaof a well-moneyed firm from out-of-townthat had blown into take some dead
trees down.So I asked with a smile and not a frown: TBC.
The dude and I pumped gas at the same time into disparate
vehicles, yet shared a trade, one that was emblazoned upon his driver’s side
door. Curious, I queried him.
“So, is this your gig, you know, this company?”
His terse initial reply: “No.”
But then he continued:
“If it was my company,I’d be in Florida
I should have guessed as much.But was that incident
‘gaseous male bonding’?
2002 was one hellish winter in these parts; a veritable
legend, and at the very least a lively topic of kitchen table gossip for untold years
Nothing is worseA curse I bidThan spilt cup of hot javawithout a lid.
Some in the lapJust missed the groinF***! Sh**! Oh, crap!Peace of mind did purloin.
Thus driving alongWith a coffee-soaked seatNot singing a songAnd feeling the heatOf rage as it risesTo your ears from your feetThis driver despisesThe morning complete!
This could be an anecdotal or real-life scenario for which
the foregoing soliloquy was composed; however, any connection, rejection, or deflection
to actual planetary citizens existing at the time of its composition is purely
The talk is of gunswith much ado.
They stalk 'twixt their bunsAnd put crosshairs on you!Let’s proffer the onesWho appreciate punsWith a ton of gun-pun fun to do!
Our pun shop is shotWith rounds tightly knitBut we’ll shoot what we’ve gotAnd then shoot da shit!
But Wayne LaPierre
Yes, if you dare
Or should you care
Is my derriere!
This gun pun, sonIs ricochet fun!Well within range
Our trajectory’s done.
With a gun in the buttAt the butt of a gun
They lock/load the mediaWith a fusillade spun!
Damn this frozen drain line once again!Again, this
unflinchingly unavoidable phenomenon rears its butt-ugly mug, bespeaking our
helplessness, reminiscent of that unrelenting arctic winter so annoyingly
harped upon in a previous post.
But in keeping with such panache-puffed duties as your insatiably
insouciant host, the following observations, though silly at most, are those in
which I shall remain duly engrossed:
The month has flown by,On high, if you please;With three days well-nighin a deep friggin’ freeze.
El Sol shoves azure skyClouds glide, sigh through the treesAnd firewood’s dryStack it high – past our knees!
Yes, indeed, as this month has screamed by,you’ll receive
final screed from this Davey H guy!
One of the month’s significant eventswas to do a serious
toilet redo,one likely delineated in a previous postnot recalled at the
Never in our wildest imaginationswould we conceive of a
$29.95 toilet seat.But a ‘No Slam’ unit? Hey, that sounds neat!
So buy it we did,then tried out the lid,and by golly, it sure was discreet!
During potty’s timeout, however,it became blatantly obvious
hownecessary this fixed fixture isin any given domicile.