The young gal from KentuckyCame here and got luckyHugged the wood stoveAnd nursed her a-splinter;She stayed mighty pluckyThat gal from Kentuckybut exclaimed:“I just HATE this here winter!”
She shot bow and arrowThough chilled to the marrowAnd cursed Old Man Winter to blame;But she kept straight and narrowWith that bow and arrowAnd promised she’d work on her aim!
As winter wore on,We assumed she’d be goneBefore the first song sparrow’s ring;Would she be pale and wanAs the clouds lingered onBefore the preamble of Spring?
Got fun? Get one, son!No, this aging boomer has NONE.A tablet or touch-screen deviceThough nicehe’ll stubbornly surely shun,And rant a bit more before he’s done.
After all, what could be more touchablethan a plain old
And who but Thoreau
would be so kindas to remindthat to simplify, guy, is the best paradigm?
Trolling the corporate tech aisles,you’d think we have collectively
becomeelectronically addicted yet unglued,and don’t use pencils and paper
Oh, they’re still available:tucked somewhere in a dusty back corner.Twist-Erase® pencils, I adore!
It’s well past this boomer’s bedtime, but in such
commonsense-defying sessions as the one presently extant, he still insists on
consuming larger than advisable quantities of blue light from several sources,
namely, two computer monitors, three CFL bulbs and one halogen; all of which,
according to reliable sources too abundant to list in their entirety – within
the context of this prevailing100-word limit – make peer-reviewed,
substantiated claims as to such wave spectrum's deleterious effects on homo
sapiens’ melatonin production, which, in keeping with such species’ general
age-related decline and increasing commensurate malaise, is friggin’ par for
the proverbial course, of course.
It starts with ‘W’, and ends in ‘8’From what I can tell you
I wish I could sayAt the end of the daySomething like:“Man, this is GREAT!”
But alas, I must swerve‘oer the tough learning curveA curve, I might addThat’s quite steep;Ergo, to observeOf all the nerveSuch electronic company I keep!
How good it could be
with this new SSDAll configured, setAnd screwed in place;With performance snappyThat’s okay with meBut it’s easy to seeOS technologyIs not that with which I can keep pace!
Ahoy, sugar houses!Please burn us two stacksOf those gussied-upWhole-hog wheatPlate-sized flapjacks!We’ll sit at the tablechat loudly, not mutterBring coffee, Mabeland also hot butter!
Yes indeed, folks, the sap is-a-runnin'!Happening long after duskWith the sun inA fabulous sugarin' year we foresee:definitely the best of at least the last three.
Ergo, up the hill with gleeto slurp a syrupy spoonful or threeFreshly 'distilled' from the maple treeThis Sunday that’s us to a ‘T’.
Across this landSplay roads and crowsBeneath my assWhir studded snows.And it comes to pass
that’s how winter goes
were I so crass
yes, everyone knows
of the chilled morassin these salty rows.
Iced slush slickly lingersNo bells on our toesI fumble these fingersScrawl insouciant prose!
Roll past an apron‘twas so nice to seeA local matron’s ginkgo tree!Growing so free
right next to the shoulderFree, yes, to bea thriving treein the eye of this e-holder.Endangered species?It could be,but you won’t find one older.
“So how’s it going, Davey?”“Well, not so great;For today my fair brotherUnique like no otherwould be almost forty-eight.
Oh, we love those nice even numbersand think them so grandeven if they’re pastedto one so wasted by his own hand.
A mischievous impAnd a brightly lit lampBut never a wimpSometimes a scampWho rarely went limpAnd once went to wrestling camp.
He rode his spider bike,pumping iron quads,bought a riding
mowerthat became his pride and joy.
Wish that picture of him flickin’ the birdwould turn up.
They talk for a livingJaws flap whilst quite deft.Oh, my how they jabberfrom right or from left!Whilst we listen or watchat times numb, bereft;paste a glistening blotchon our cerebral cleft.
That being said, without waxing political, for this listener,
the act of fishing intelligent snippets out of the vast sea of overtly odious
opinionated oratory is quite akin to the proverbial needle in the equally
Ergo, if it looks like a duck, it will likely quack.
Too many ducks quackingin any spacewill drive you to seek a quieter place.
Rounding the corner of this brief stretch of temporary
bachelorhood lends itself to reflection; in retrospect, with all due respect,
though at the time I could not object, I strongly suspect things that should
have been completed were tabled like unpleasant or time-consuming topics at a
meeting: they would didactically demand an entire session unto themselves, ergo
were effortlessly avoided in favor of more pleasurable non-intellectually
But just a glance at all the time that gets wasted in utterly
useless unproductive pursuits gives pause.
Then, when the time comes to actually DO something, it is a
One of the very coolest things about living in the
evacuation zone of a nuclear power plant is the free NOAA weather radio they
It squawks. It beeps. Perfect time it keeps.
Computer-generated faux voices emit from its suave plastic
shell as if not to say that on a hypothetical indescribably fateful day a
semi-distant siren would bray and we’d get that feeling, so sorry to say, and
be buns-up kneeling then wither away.
And permit this bit of wit so wry: “Bend
over, tuck your head firmly between your legs and kiss your butt goodbye.”
“Now THAT was a great idea!”
How often have you heard that?
Good ideas are welcome around heahin the still-frigid
nawtheastas we approach mud season.
How about rut fillers?
Or, say, self-cleaning tires?
Easy as pie: just strap on a heavy duty pooper scooper to
the rear fender and away you go, oh muddy trooper!
Auto-cleaning boots would be good too;yeah – super!
Back out, or rather front in,
to plunge our wheels that freekin' spin. . .Into deep ruts – ruts chiseled into
soft earth much like the habit patternschiseled into our pliant fleshthat
ultimately comprise us.
Habit patterns, indeed. That's the substance of which we are
really concocted, deep down, if only we care to look.
Like dogs that bark at the sound of a doorbell, our
all-too-frequent Pavlovian responses spurt from reactive energies scarcely
within the realm of consciousness.
As a point of reference, take the opinions that form, take
flight from our oral cavities and gain audible momentum on a stream of exhaled
carbon dioxide en-route to their destinations.
We host and boastand blare a retortto opinion we toastas if it's a sport!With chatter our hostWe so happily cavort.
Did a clothesline last weekfrom the ladder's top rungand I won't be so meekman, that clothesline was HUNG!
But I first had to wrench the old hookfrom the tree;'cause it didn't lookvery sporty, you see?The hook a bit rustythe way that I found itthe bark a bit dustythe tree grew around it!
The task took a whilebut that didn’t matterI couldn’t beguilethat flimsy-assed ladder.
So I put up the line
and did not rescind;thus the pleasure was mineto throw clothes (not caution)
to the wind!
On March 8th, I railed about talk show hosts.They’re populous these days;
pompous, too.And through the haze,I’ll convey to you:Swooped up in this craze,Here’s what you do:
Immediately upon realization you are in fact on the air with
the talker, DO NOT utter this moronic phrase:
“thank you for taking my call.”1) Get right to the point.
2) Don’t think for a minute you will have the last word;
that’s for the All-Knowing One at the business end of the microphone who has so
kindly condescended from the babble-throne to allow your pipsqueak meanderings.
Moving further through partially pursed lips – remembering
you needn’t plumb the folds of your own purse; after all, this is the wasteland
of commercial-laden drivel known as AM (Amplitude Modulation) radio, and
content is paid for through billed advertising, the auditory excrement of which
is then blared across the airwaves with reckless abandon.
So if you call in, fall in,and get on the air,
be advised on how you won’t fare:For with the hostYou can’t disagreeThey’ll make the mostOf snide reverie
Then have you singing a silly-ass tune
But you called THEM,
You naive buffoon!
Talk is Cheap.
The foregoing is NOT an original statement, and yes, talk is
indeed cheap but in fact well compensated these days, provided the talker is in
the requisite commercial venue.
What displeasure it is listening to a host who refuses to
LISTEN! The caller can’t get a word in edgewise. Not that typical callers-in
are terribly bright; usually quite the opposite – a ploy wholly intentional in
far too many cases. After all, the host is the centerpiece, the shilling,
shining guru on the hilltop, knower of all things knowable and a master
Bow therefore unto her/his ‘glory’
One more thing:And I just gotta say it
On a 100-word fling,
thus must convey it:
The modern-day talk show host represents
the use of jaw-flapping
as stark recompense:
a latter-day version
of spiky-end bludgeons
coddles a scrum
of listening curmudgeons.
Instead of fists, clubs
or kicks to the groin,
the host asserts her/himself
and with suave purloin.. .
provides barbs, pokes, insults,repetitive egotistical reparteeand all manner of
warm CO2hurled in the caller’s general direction,with the ultimate goal being‘verbal might makes right.’
Their olden rule, fool:
Be abrupt. Interrupt.
Do NOT be contrite.
Upended and appended,the Ides of March have come and gone;they took my starch and put sugar on.
Though we still have ice
not very nice
and to the worker, this advice:
you still will be a pawn!
Looking at our tiny slice
of world and land that holds a price
we eye a homestead south of here
to it we’re led
and straight we steer
with more than just a little dread,
a bit ‘o reservation and fear.
”Knowledge is power,”an attorney admonishesas the powerful encumbrance of
we could say without hesitation
always friggin’ astonishes.
Back to the box – or boxes – on this sunny day.At our
chicken house foxes are kept at bay.
As an aside: Young men out of the boxnow and then get to thinking outside
Then, during one of those dog walks,a dog shat across from abutt-ugly grouchy-ass
property owner’s plotand she gave as good as she got.She DID give a shit –
and dished it out, to wit.
Later, after the shit-catcher’s adrenaline retreatedto simmer from a rolling
boil,the canine tale was told, ad nauseam,at least three times in a roil.
Oh, such a grim remembrance
we have on this day!
Ten years now, less encumbrance
but those memories don’t fade away.
At least not for those in that PNAC-covetedand still-occupied oil-rich Arab
nationriddled with depleted uranium munitionsand otherwise PLUNDERED in the
name of“spreading Democracy”.
Kudos to a local college stationwhich aired the ‘Making Contact’ programfrom
The show featured interviews with spokespersonsfrom CostOfWar.org and Jeff
This man had earned the rightto express what he speaks,having stood on the
bayonet’s edgeand returned, appalled, to tell about it.
With a drowsy start and as I spoke:how great this part:
some sugar house smoke!
Waffles well done brown, you see
then soak ‘em down
with Mass Grade ‘B’!
This prescription is for resuscitating and rejuvenating even the most fatigued
workin’ fool prior to the workaday toil.
Oh, and don’t forget the coconut oil!
This, combined with real butter – like Mama used to churn – is to be placed
atop the stack you burn.
With Omega-3’s, it is venerated
yes, if you please, quite saturated.
But one should have the maturation
to realize it is GOOD saturation!
DISH ‘EM UP!
Today was a day that was worth repeating,so I must say I’ll
get right down to bleating:
This much anticipated EAOS was scintillating at the outset, and my feeble pink
carcass buzzed, woozy with anticipation.
Though civilian employment beckoned out of necessity, the first order of
business was to get some kind of decent stereo system, then wheels, though not
necessarily in that order.
A Harmon-Kardon amp & tuner coupled with JBL tower-style speakers did the
trick, and once ZZ Top’s LP came out, it was mighty slick.Suddenly, the period
– or ‘dot’ key – stopped working on this keyboard.
Re-entry was not to be a piece of gravy-soaked cake, Jake.
In fact, it was quite traumatic for an extended period, the true extent of
which isn’t recalled at this point in time.
But few were the periods considered sublime.
Going from gray
and growing some hair
from ‘them’ to ‘they’
now ‘here’ from ‘there’
I had pulled away
and hoped to fare
on a better day
with those who would care.
A family letter waxed exuberant after initial ‘culture shock’ had substantially
dissipated, the tag-line of which read:
“I got a job, car, and a girlfriend in 2 weeks!”
I had found the letterBut not so fastA non-forgetterIt was his last.
It said his name was Thomas Young,
a victim in a class amongBrave troops who caughtA load of ‘shrap’I sing the praises of this chapFor laying it bareAnd telling the truthNot long he’ll farein his stolen youth.
To Mr. Young, that hero unsungI hope he fruitfully slings the dungTo recipients at his behestWho send soldiers outFrom behind a desk!
For anyone who cares to read“The Last Letter”It’s online for worse or better.
Roll through stop signs
and take a chance;
cool design – a bow so fine
– on pockets of those pants.
So it’s 3/25
and can you believe it?
Not finished, no jive,
but no need thus to grieve it.
You’re listening to the BBC
broadcast to you from across the sea.
With another spin
of the steering wheel
the road is real: veer in, you see!?
they still abound
from across our southern borders;
snapping up ski slopes that they found
they’re such Hummer-bound
Sometime after Thanksgiving
they maybe would give thanks
for the way that they’re living.
On one of the past nights – not sure which one – we did
Of three Laundromats in town, one wins hands-down: it is that
clean-as-a-whistle place they’re in the process of gussying up but that already
contains a microwave, table, chairs, well-stocked rack ‘o books and free WIFI.
So we went.
Surf indeed, to your heart’s content
while the clothes you need
get their dirt spent!
You can while away
as those suds play
ensconced on your free chairs;
and thus waylay
your worries at bay
set free from all your cares!
Stainless steel abounds;
the order of the day.
Feeding a ten-spot into the stalwart change machine, fingers in ears as bulwark
against ensuing crashing quarter racket, we thought with 3 cheers this surely could
hack it. ‘$10.00 should suffice,’ I murmured to nobody in particular.
Scarfing up the resultant jingle from the cup, I glanced over at the adjacent
change machine and did a double-take: its dispenser-cup was brimming with
At this ostensibly auspicious unearthing of assets carrying as-yet-to-be-determined
ownership, I should have trilled with the exuberance of a one-armed bandit
player who just hit it big.
Not so; impulse overruled, you’re on her.
LAUNDRO-SUDS, Cont’d again:
Well, then, what next?
Should we look over our shoulders
and be vexed?
As mentioned previously, the urge to simplypocket that pile of quarters was
superseded by one of honesty.
Gathering their chilly metallic mass upin my working-class dirty hands,they
were summarily plopped on the tablefor tallying inventory.
Three counts revealed a grand totalof $15.50 – just a little over the
threshold of qualification as “chump change”.So what to do?
Whip out the cell
and phone the owner,
then commence to tell
without telling a boner
that things were suddenly swell.
I placed the call to the suds-bustin’ place of purveyance’s
owner – unsure if the cheapass cell phone’s signal would bring sufficient
cojones to the table and be able to exude satisfactorily from inside this
stainless steel fortress brimming with renovations – and in as clear terms as I
could reasonably muster, citing less than optimal ambient acoustical
characteristics prevailing in this particular space, indicated that said
proprietor, should he be so inclined, would be able to, upon commencing the
next day’s operations, find a bumptious bevy of change in his
suggestion/complaints/request for refunds box, at which time they could be
With a loud clanking din – dampened by foam earplugs inserted into my dual
skull-mounted radar dishes – all 62 quarters were initiated into their
temporary home in the suggestion/complaints/request for refunds box and a
collective sigh of relief was breathed.
Now it was time to finish chomping those plump burritos that
were rapidly approaching room temperature.
We finished our lump of human and dog laundry just under the wire, as the
suds-o-mat had automatic locking doors which, just like clockwork, clacked
their bolts home at precisely 2200 hours EST.
No call had yet come into my rooster ring tone cell phone.
Up and at ‘em the next morning, I called the Laundromat
owner again and he picked up.It figures; an early bird doesn’t answer or
return calls 9:30 at night, but call 7 a.m.?Hey, no prob.
“Wow, Davey, how ya doin?”
”Alright, man. Did anybody claim that jackpot they left in the change machine?”
”Nope, not yet, but I must say, you’re a rarity.”
”Well, I couldn’t just TAKE it; I know if that was MY hard-earned scratch, it
would be nice to have it returned.”
Anyhow, to make a short story long-winded, we parted as friends, sight unseen.