Hi-Yo Silver® made it
through inspection this afternoon, prompting a weak-assed celebration
culminating in jacking her left rear end up in hopes of getting a
gander at those rusty brakes.`All the better to fix ‘em
then.However, it got cold. Freezing friggin' cold.Not the
best for outdoor non-shade tree knuckle-bustin'.On a colleague's
kitchen table lay today's paper.I gave it a glance as per usual
caper.It turned out a body had turned up in one of the rivers
whose names never register, but I turned to the article
anyway.Heavyset white male, no pants, one boot.
Having read of the ‘floater’ in said client’s newspaper
splayed out upon the kitchen table for all to see – I, after all, grasped the
understanding that the paper’s perusal would come only AFTER I had sufficiently
discharged the agreed-upon obligations for which my attendance was
Now that’s rarely a problem, as I seldom give the paper more than a passing
glance, and even when the opportunity presents, I don’t give a flip, but prefer
flipping through to juicier fare, such as those oft-flippant op-eds.
This was sufficiently eye-catching to incite more than a passing yawn from this
Oh, that ‘heavyset white male
with no pants and one boot?
It seemed, per this tale,
’oer hill and of dale
that nobody gave a hoot.
It was today that the floating corpse was publicly ID’d, the results in what
looked a bit like Courier font in today’s paper. But whatever the font, those
fonts never change; at least not within our lifetimes. Not like the ever-
shifting, undulating, money-grubbing hard-charging defilement-riddled world of
news that nominally fills its pages to the brim.
Screw it, I thought. Reading is too sedentary, and it was time to walk the dogs
Eight legs had they
Me? I had two.
Were we up for a foray, a rendezvous?
How far would we go?
Would we get back then?
Well, whaddya know:
of legs we had TEN!
This all-too-familiar jaunt has become terribly banal. On the one hand, you can
head toward the slightly busier road, usually with wind whipping your tender
face, passing and teasing those noisy fenced-in German Shepherds along the way,
or you can opt for the less car-laden route – with the cell towers on your
right, down by that pastoral property that sports two side by side
So what does twelve/nine
have for us in store?
No doubt it’s not fine,
wrought with dampness galore.
And as hopes tend to fizzle
amid all the drizzle
the tall threat is of plenty more!
Dwindling dry wood, that is not so good
and in fact, is getting quite slick;
so best bring it on in
place beneath the stove hood
yeah, man – that will be the best trick!
Would you do anything
with three months ‘til Spring?
Or complain of your chilblain’s dank fright?
Hell no, please don’t go;
Sit by fireplace, lo!
and relax in the vanishing light.
The music ‘oer which
the staid masses do muse
so seems a bit raunchy of late;
if you ask this ba-boomer
if he does enthuse,
he’ll say “no”, but will commiserate.
Of cacophonous chatter
that lands on the ear
on one’s energy levels to wear;
whose wry notes just don’t matter
you do or don’t hear
from ubiquitous speakers they blare!
Silence, ‘tis said, is a great golden cache
from archives of din verily yanked;
sing a funeral dirge of such dissonant trash
as they laugh all the way to the bank!
Words & music by the grate Davey H.
Burgers, buns, fries, and a low wage comprise
the likes and spikes of these poor gals and guys.
Thus they undulate, yearning below U.S.
dodging Big Ag’s rotten tomatoes and pies.
A pie in the skyis worth two in the eyes,
Therefore, oh fair workers, UPRISE!
They bade us good wishes
lips turned up at the edges
with no fuss, and not vicious
but then we heard Chris Hedges!
’Twas an onerous plague
upon working class sensibilities, he posited,
and oh, I could concur with him
but shall defer on a whim
because these here checks need deposited.
Fast food workers, perhaps a week into an unlikely striking
situation, saw their deadline fast approaching: they had to whip up a fast,
non-milkshake-y froth to draw scrutiny on their perpetually depressed wages.
Thus, will this be the first of what might be many such worker protests? Will
some FAST, preferring NOT to consume their boss’s rapid rush-hour rubbishes – thus participate in what’s better known as a hunger strike?
We consumers from the other-side-of-the-counter persuasion, drawing on
conclusions gleaned from stilted news broadcasts, wax querulous; what, if any
benefit is to be gleaned from consuming the products aforesaid workers purvey?
Time was, you see, and indeed, as per me,
an epoch in our distant past;
When young Mother dear
sent a message so clear
and it said: “hey, young buck, not so fast!”
So by that was meant
of that message she sent
’twas a sentence you had to read twice;
it could not have been slicker
our Mom’s bumper sticker
it’s message was (Ugggh!)
”JUST BE NICE”.
Rearward motorists scorned her
but we had forewarned her
of vagaries contained in ‘NICE’;
it will be taken wrong
by our dissident throng
so to wear it, you need to think twice!
At The Seminar’s Expiry
Things had turned out alright
at the end of the game
so I snuffed out the light
all things being the same.
Having stayed up too late
while of course knowing better,
it’d be slow out the gate
whilst bogged down with dull fetter.
Yup, stayed up quite late
as per those famed ‘druthers;
braced for similar fate
faced by disparate brothers.
What waited at home
on the coattails of snow?
Back there I would roam
in attempting to know
yes, atop sandy loam
in springtime would grow
bright yellow cockscomb
in a tight-knit straight row!
This was XMAS eve, and Davey hadn’t laid ears on a single
XMAS jingle yet – a factoid he was not ultimately saddened by.
He knew damn well the perambulatory pace would need to be picked up, and
vociferously; this holiday would be a working, non-sedentary one.
Thus, shunning trips to the Beast ‘o Bentonville’s place of purveyance – and
even other, friendlier Big Box stops – Davey listened to the little imaginary
voice inside his capacious yet surprisingly empty skull as it trilled the
“Bussed just to dust, oh, feckless guy;
your old joints rust, as you’re not so spry!”
XMAS was a serious work day.Davey bets – or rather
surmises, he walked about 3 miles – in Keen sandals, no less, albeit with
A visit to those less fortunate, (read: local nursing home) was in the offing,
and we assisted a resident in the simple act of eating lunch.
She would have, could she have, muttered: “thanks a bunch.” But she didn’t.
Now as Whupsteen might have appropriately huffed, citing the traditionally
festive nature of this particular calendar day, had he been so inclined:
“Grease gone berth, hood swill bored pen.”
So much for makin’ sense; Whupsteen seldom does.
Medicare, I swear, Part ‘A’
had come through in a gen’rous way
For Auntie L indeed to stay
nonplussed the elder game to play.
Indeed, Part A had thus reached its end;
no need inveigh what that did portend;
we’ll not then bury our heads in sand;
each month, no worry, it’s only 10 grand!
We will attempt an Aunt L daily visit
and swallow contempt; how pricey is it?
Dally not, quip ‘what the heck?’
As they got that monthly check.
Hah! Check out this buggy,
how clums’ly it swerves!
But we are grateful
for sand on those curves.
Having worked on XMAS day
we are once again jamming
and for sure would likely say
“it is time for some poetry slamming.”
Whilst down south Pops is withdrawing
such a sad and banal sight to see;
but he’s neither hemming nor hawing
as so soon he’ll rightly be
blessed, less stressed, and even yawning
filled out, and fetter-free!
Moving to the place next door
which, when seen from above,
is built like a boomerang;
he will wax ensconced on the 11th floor
in that crazy-lookin’ thang.
But Pops has said many times before:
“we needn’t worry ‘bout a hurricane.”
Rain, plain, fall down, we pray
and wash this friggin’ salt away!
Missed a trip to the dump, but that’s okay;
just had to sit on my RUMP today.
About that neglected Boss-man:
Back a few days, say, 12/23,
from out of the haze
popped an email for me.
Somewhere, I’d say, between 1, 2, or 3
‘twas the Boss-man not crazed
with a message, you see.
The sentiment proffered that afternoon
as Boss-man made it clear that he
wanted my butt in a sling pretty soon
yeah, back in the saddle to be.
Sing sonnet and get on it!
Today is one of several waning opportunities to get in
end-of-year working member hours. And it is also nearing time for 2013 invoice
Such drollery is an unfortunate yet unavoidable offshoot, a cork in the asshole
of this humdrum banality known as ‘existence’.
As regards the increasingly inflated American dollar’s purchasing power,
today’s Andrew Jacksons are like yesteryear’s 5-spots, it seems.
Oh, they – the infamous “they” – our financial powers-that-be – will insist
that inflation is “under control” or “mild”, but the common working-class
Josephine or Joe know better.
Note: India has it MUCH worse, with recent inflationary spikes nearing 20%.
A non-terse admonition to the youth
not unlike us long ago:
“You’re young and hung and so uncouth,
unleash your passions in the snow;
feeling the heat betwixt your seat,
whilst horny as a Bonobo!”
But that’s a rant for a whole ‘nother splay
As to December’s reprieve:
great rate, a spate,
how we don’t grieve,it’s not too late
for New Year’s Eve
so F***in' commiserate!
Time was back when
we did enthrall
at the sight of a stupid dropping ball.
Now we wonder aloud beneath the fuss
then sing it out proud: “NO DRINKS FOR US!”