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Who knows how many lives could be saved? Indeed, he would be loathe to admit,
at times he didn’t give a sh**.
No crimes, he would not throw a fit.
It rhymes, and that’s the beauty of it.
Nevertheless, as has been exhaustively propounded on these nakedly insecure pages, Davey had the gumption
to stop coffee consumption,
and that in and of itself is conducive to calm.
And then we had a “what else is new?” moment:
The Gaza Strip was in hot water;
a really bad trip – and another slaughter.
Muslim, Christian, Arab, Jew,
all are sayin’:“nothing’s new.”
And the slaughter continues unabated,
plus much gore galore
with hate and much more
for the already hated,
they could well implore
that some peace be created.
KILL! CRUSH! DESTROY!
Maim and hobble ‘em;
yes, oh, boy, let’s be part of the problem!
Later, back out on the road, sans radio:
you sulk and buy in bulk.
Well, at least you don’t suck.
But later that day, something definitely sucked as Davey cruised over a rural one-laner:
“Speed limit’s 25 on this road, son.” the cop said, sneering.
“But officer, sir, that’s no fun!” came an imaginary reply.
Rocks, sticks, sumac berries and such;
sugar chocolate dental caries much.
The day begins, your hair is gray;
you bopped your shins in this foray.
So what lies ahead on this sunny day?
Let’s do SOMETHING. What do you say?
Create thick text at lightning speed,
for readers vexed that’s what you need.
Spit out said text on every day,
for no one reads it anyway.
A right-wing Pence
sat on a fence
and it would come to pass;
that as said Pence did sit down hence,
the fence post pierced his ass.
So much for substantive political potty humor.
Pusillanimous political humor
is kind of like a metastatic tumor:
it usually keeps growing,
although nobody wants it.
Davey couldn’t resist poking a barb in the gluteus of “our” non-person VP.
Elsewhere in the simmering cauldron of hatred, killing and bad policies, a small boy kneels at the altar of heavily armed checkpoint guards.
Solar hucksters, meanwhile, call nearly every day. Davey’s response: none, son,
and he tends to shun sun;
getting pinked up is no damn fun.
Jimmy bought a piece of land
along a busy road;
as he told folks “please understand,
I need a place to unload.”
He looked out ‘oer this hunk of ground
and saw that it was good;
delighting in this parcel found,
commenced to dumping wood.
Thus ends the ‘Jim’s Wood Dump’ exposition.
But the seeds were sown, and soon Davey said,
“need a dump of my own,” and to it was led.
“Today, a foray with many a bump,
and needless to say, a quick trip to the dump!”
The drizzle was falling on trees in full leaf
as he went-a-calling – ‘twas bumpy, good grief!
Then ‘round each bend, a pothole might lurk,
and it would portend him not getting to work
Next, Davey’s gustatory sense was especially enthralled with the freshly ground peanut butter that was on display,
but not necessarily sale priced that day.
This was at the [CENSORED] food market.
Hey, you have a car? 2 bad: no place to park it.
This particular market’s popularity
needs no further clarity:
for it was in its nascent stages
that it became the rock of ages;
the only place for miles and miles
that would serve up vittles with natural smiles.
So folks would park all along the block
to get a piece of that market’s rock!
[IF they can park.]
Back in May: a new royal couple
appeared in the way, but oh, so so supple
and by gosh, how their wedding completes!
Yes, they’re so royal that they have no soil
as they toss hap’ly ‘twixt royal sheets!
A sermon they got was the best of the lot, inspiring most all of the guests;
but they’ll burn midnight oil
in remaining so royal
as they get put to royal-ass tests.
Then, for the great unwashed
remainder of the non-wealthy population:
it’s yet another cloudy day as they
pull out of a lumpy driveway
en route to salt mine destination.
Davey turned on, tuned in, but didn’t drop out of the radio. It sputtered and bristled with unimportant stuff he didn’t need to know or hear about. To wit: that much-ballyhooed royal wedding in the second week of May, which was reputed to have had a 45 million dollar price tag.
Yes, Harry did marry,
his new life had begun;
now, not to tarry,
but wow! Have some fun!
Should he let the cats out? No, although
they really wanted to go.
Because according to the palace weatherman,
who seemed clueless, without a plan
it’s supposed to rain, you know?
Davey interrupts his silly fun-poking at royalty to commemorate one of humanity’s biggest horrors: the bombing of Nagasaki.
Davey H was embroiled in a mental rant regarding the outrage of Nagasaki, which, along with Hiroshima, was one of two days that SHOULD have lived in MUCH bigger infamy than other infamous disasters, save for the senseless slaughter visited upon Dresden, Germany.
For the ‘hibakusha’ of Nagasaki, they would live to tell future generations of the A-bomb carnage in excruciating detail.
Would the younger generation look up from their smart phones long enough to comprehend what happened on August 9th, 1945?
A wedding much pomp
and circumstance in it,
and funds for this romp?
Hell, the sky was the limit!
So we can assume the newly knotted ‘royal couple’ to be ‘millennials’.
Next, Davey took off in the rustiest of rides,
so please don’t scoff at its corroded insides.
Useful gadgets abound
and in it resides good tools all around
as Davey confides:
mini fold-up scissors for trimming eyebrow and errant whiskers, a sachet containing a handy magnifying glass or two, a pouch with pliers, 4-in-1 screwdriver, razor knives, a Leatherman® stainless steel multi-function knife [presently missing in action],
plus a slew of pens, pencils, and any writing implement desired within reason.
As an obligatory caveat,
the urge to write is quite often NOT.
Then he started out the day
with a holler and hooray;
a dollar with which to play
and little in the way.
Rolling over a road partially paved,
Davey with his load had raved:
“look at the money I saved!”
So they went to work
with a slight bit of dread;
their sign had a quirk,
and here’s what it said:
though the men didn’t shirk]
‘Road Clo ed Ahead’.
Shouldn’t THAT make you smirk?
Their work was so strong in the summer haze during those four long ten hour days.
And all throughout each season’s change,
they often would pout but did arrange
to trim the ever errant trees
whilst working for utilities!
Phillip Roth died this past May;
not so snide, we’d have to say.
Racy, droll, and so exciting,
we all extoll the late Roth’s writing.
Some say it wasn’t without taint;
to wit: the brash Portnoy’s Complaint,
it hit the lust-bone and its nerve,
with carnal tone, lascivious verve.
So if reincarnation is his friend,
Roth with surely be back again.
So where is Davey H today?
You may find him
out and about
with a sashay
and a trailer banging behind him.
He is not congratulated
for a trailer that’s so dilapidated,
but simply shrugs and smirks,
noting that the damn thing WORKS.
Then without bravado
he chomps on an avocado.
Davey headed out into the fray
one torrid Saturday
to work for the workin’-est
of the working class.
In case you hadn’t heard,
this method was preferred.
He had toiled for folks of the upper economic strata as well and most of them could treat others with dignity.
For those that did not,
well, even on the sunniest day,
you could say
they could put it in a well known,
Thus ends Davey H’s upper economic strata small sample cultural assessment.
“What’s this? she did ask.
Is it piss I this flask?”
He could answer in the affirmative as he hated to waste water and pissing in a jug; a dribble here, a solid stream there, a gusher or two later, and by the time a gallon was collected, at least half a dozen flushes of the prodigiously water wasting toilet had been avoided.
The following is an unpaid query: How did it get to be the 31st? Or the 1st, for that matter?
From where comes all this time-thrusting chatter?
Got the RSVP message for yet another wedding, and this one starts way too early. Compost, lawn to cut, ticks to pull, saws to repair and generally piss over, oil to change, sweat to brush from eyebrows, and damn little remaining for screen time. Sometimes you just need to work late, against your better judgement.
One thing’s for sure: any semi-necessary or extraneous activities such as weddings will need to be shoe-horned in.
Looking to make just one less phone call,
he took a break, didn’t go to the mall.
Instead he said, not beggin’ your pardon,
“let’s get fed by goin’ to the garden!”
And that of course wasn’t all.
Then, in the context of young trees or determinate versus indeterminate tomato plants, training new politicians is like training saplings or tomatoes; remove competing leaders, cut out broken, torn or dead branches, train the central leader to become dominant. Well, it only works well if the central leader performs as advertised. Or, to be more concise, she/he is of robust stock comprised.
We could tell the news was fake
at least until a commercial break.
Such ads indeed told well this tale:
every screed is just for sale.
Then Davey headed for the bay;
when asked, he’d have two bits so say:
“back off, tail-gater! Go away!
Don’t feel like going fast today.”
Then he heard a tip so nice
for cleaning grout that would suffice.
It involves simple kitchen remedies;
a 50:50 white vinegar and water solution combined with a 1:3 ratio of baking soda
and H2O, yes, if you please.
Then bubbly scrubble-y away you go,
a-workin’ on your knees.
Moving into the second
sultry quarter of summer
always presents a strain;
and pests, those ‘guests’
are ever the bummer
and surely summer’s true bane.
But we’re okay with bugs if that’s
interpolated with lots of bats.
Davey lost a friend yesterday,
which he might have thought was okay;
a friend who liked that annoying squawk box,
and loved to dive into the fray.
So he lost a friend yesterday;
Screw his right wing view to convey
with squawky potty mouth shut!
This wasn’t really a friend he could use;
when trying to fully detach from his views.
He could ask this ex-friend
“hey, what did you think?
Before you hit ‘SEND’,
DID YOU RUN OUT OF INK?”
On Mondays, the local college station plays the REAL oldies from the big band/swing era.
To a newbie, oldies are a sincere pleasure, and digital remastering is a godsend with such recordings. Surely, many snaps, pops, and static were buffed out.
Funny, when contacting the station, no one seemed to know where the playlist was
or who created it.
So eventually, Davey H did arrive
at the bus station,
with no need to drive
but with much consternation, MAN ALIVE!
The bus would be late
and that wasn’t so great,
and that could have meant humiliation.
But ‘twas good to see that view
which for him was new
of the downtown side of the tracks,
and stare at the buildings’ backs.
It would be a long ride, over seven hours,
and he stewed and fretted
for he had been vetted.
Now how to explain this lateness, this bane, that he neither foresaw nor abetted?
Best to make a call
to hopefully forestall
any fears of his friend
at the other end
of this journey so long
Could he be strong
and not cave to the urge
of this whole trip to purge?
He thought ‘well, it doesn’t mean
that I should leave the scene
because this damn old bus is late;
hey, I’d best sit on my buns
and stick to these guns,
in some way it will be worth the wait.’
This thought keeps nagging Davey H, and he’s surely not alone:
‘Where would we all be without petroleum?’
What if – just what if – we had no crude, dude?
Forever it can’t last,
when it’s gone, out time is past,
and we don’t say such things to be lewd.
Just take an industry – ANY industry, say, construction. Solar powered excavators, anyone?
How about tri-axle dump trucks sans diesel?
Small engines, yes,
they can surely muddle through
but you can guess what the big stuff will do.
Now THAT was a rant!
So don’t say he can’t.
Now he’l write a few words
and go join the herds,
not sit on his ass,
but rather burn gas,
as that solar stuff is for the birds.
But seriously, now – Davey H is as interested as the next potential solar user, and with utmost conscientiousness also wants to reduce his barkin’ footprint.
You see, with solar panels in his yard,
the dogs might bark less,
as some shade would be made
and it could hide the mess.
Hopefully, to that end,
as he checks around town,
he may find a friend
who will bring prices down.
But the last time he tried,
oh, please understand:
he nearly cried
at the 29 grand! And.....
That, to his foggy recollection,
was for a measly 4 kw array for collection,
barely enough to erase
his electric bill at that place.
Ergo, in closing, it looks like Davey H may not be doing very much bulldozing.
Then, [thinking back to a time that he had nearly forgotten], it so happened, as so many things do, one day Davey got summarily roped in to a position for which he felt completely and utterly unprepared.
Ergo, caught off guard,
would it be too damn hard
to rise to the occasion if he dared?
4 U C, management was not his forte.
After all, he could barely manage himself!
So being thrust into a bubbling cauldron of busy-ness in which underlings were, much to his chagrin and accompanying dismay, assigned to be his charges would be a severe challenge.
So again, could he rise to the occasion
with a bit of persuasion
and possibly muddle through?
Or sit on a couch
whilst being a slouch
although there was so much to do?
Or could Davey make haste
and of work have a taste
when said work so handily beckoned?
Or remain in morass
with a boil on his ass
as he needed more time off, he reckoned?
No, it was not to be, see? And he,
being the erstwhile busy bee
could not attempt to flee
not even temporarily.
Davey therefore stuck to his guns
and roughed it out.
In the past, a clock set fast
did make for being on time;
for one could tell
and two as well
that punctual was sublime!
It was on or near this date many decades ago that Davey H did bad deeds;
he recalled things he’d rather not know;
regret so supersedes!
Hence, having revisited such locale as was the ‘where’ town in context,
he needed not ponder the ‘when’;
it was merely ‘back then’.
Now, as in NOT ‘back then’, ants crawled upon this hardpan soil just as effortlessly as they did so long ago. That much had not changed.
What HAD changed, of course, was the relentless onward march of human developments, though it seemed that surely a cross-county saturation point had been reached in the ‘burbs. A wistful Davey H was fairly certain the old brick split levels were still standing unchanged; only now, with the passage of these decades, he was still haunted by his antisocial deeds and petrified of visiting the locale which he had so carelessly sullied.
But enough reminiscing. Back to action with this latest distraction:
Today the first task was to get out the friggin’ door. Yeah, just like so many times before.
Next, take dogs to piss.
Just like this. A task they surely adore.
In spittin’ drizzle, we paused and bellowed to the cows lazily grazing, apparently unaffected by the drenching rain that had, to this farmboy’s reckoning, lasted the better part of two hours.
Man, those were some mighty wet-assed bovines.
Their ears perked - sticking out horizontally as if jabbed by static electricity - when mooed at.
‘Is that one of us?’ one of them may have mused. Apparently a moo is a moo is a moo. Imitations, however cheap and human-originated, do in fact work for the purpose of cow callin’.
Apologies in advance for the following stale, hackneyed intro:
It so happened that one evening recently a new acquaintance became overwhelmed with sadness he could not explain, noting it was “just memories.” Conversing with this gent – who, for the purposes of this essay shall heretofore be referred to as ‘Igor’ – nearly sent Davey over the edge as well. In fact, he did more than just ‘well up’; he was fixin’ to bust out bawlin’ his damn self.
Memories, indeed, and to ‘stuff’ them a need. One can waddle along,
humming a song
and then realize that
in two seconds flat
one is starkly not in good stead.
So what? Well? As mentioned previously, Davey H was now in the quasi-idyllic area where he supposedly grew up.
Yes, of course ‘grew up’ is merely a figure of speech as any reader of Davey H’s puerile posts could surmise.
Anyhoo, this aforementioned gent
knew no time was spent
with a silver spoon in his mouth;
so it was as per the need
that this gent was now sure headed south.
Actually, not theoretically, dear Igor's state of residence for the purpose of education was situated somewhere between Maryland and Georgia.
Igor waxed somber while loading suitcases into his maroon sedan, eyes downcast. Rolling down to the gate, he stopped, got out and walked up to Davey, handing over a bubble-wrapped package. “Here, take this. This is my painting.” he said, “thanks for helping me out. I really appreciate it.” Davey replied, “sure thing, brother. It’s a shame you couldn’t stay.”
So much for that fella Igor.
The book closed on him.
Next, in the minutes available between breakfast cleanup and resumption of daily obligations, Davey scrawled a few words and reflected fondly over Igor’s presence, keeping the painting in plain view.
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