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Well, the great Ed-Z Walter’s anniversary came and went without a whimper. No biographical or commemorative essays were penned by the grate Davey H, and no requests for such material was forthcoming from Walter’s kith or kin.
So perhaps it could rightly be asserted that Walter had to all appearances and for all intents and purposes been forgotten.
That unfortunate fact having been stated, its corollary reared its head;
and life goes on as it is said.
Yes, Walter is gone, for he is dead.
Though but a pawn in the life he led,
he may well spawn a watershed!
Yup, Walter was a WRITER, man;
so collating his essays is a plan.
In light (or dark) of priest sex abuse scandals,
we for the victims will light a few candles.
Cast off that frock! Let’s have some exposure;
and for the ‘flock’ perhaps they have closure.
Yet on this topic Davey won’t write;
for in order to read
he will need some good light.
Rape tape nape scape;
sitting next to obnoxious vape.
Of nefarious fumes they wax so proud;
as their pipe exhumes a billowing cloud.
What, pray tell, does all this mean?
Addictive as hell is nicotine.
Newton said: “you know tarps
just aren’t that strong.”
And on this he harps:
“they won’t last long.”
“In fact, they rot out pretty fast;
by the time you shout, their time has passed.
So in closing out this covered rhyme:
sh**-can those tarps; they’ve served their time.”
Roll down the road and never get lost.
Yuck! Get a load of that acrid exhaust!
The upshot, you know,
is the GPS;
to get where you go
without having to guess.
But after 3 hours,
you’ll be pretty beat
as you lose all your powers
with ass in the seat.
Should anyone care to know, Davey H put in an application for a [censored] seminar slated to be held at [Censored, Censored] on [Censored 2nd] this year.
This was not met with a small amount of trepidation, even fear.
For as the grate Davey H has noted
and is often quoted,
sometimes he just feels ‘hardly here’.
But he’ll go, you know,
‘cause he just needs to, honey;
besides, status quo: he already paid money.
Big band swing in the morning first thing.
Sugar on teeth dopamine to bequeath.
Roll, cajole and skippety-hop;
then it is off to the tire shop.
Celebrate the mundane
though at times it means pain.
Homeless in tents
as authorities bait ‘em;
on this side of the fence:
a GET OUT ultimatum.
And here’s the thing – though other ‘things’ may be contributory factors – no one seems to know why these folks have staked their tent claim on the town common. Has anyone asked them? Moreover, has one person stepped forward to assist the homeless in their plight? Has the overarching societal query been posited as to why they are so audaciously calling attention to this situation? Yes, we all tend to take for granted the convenience
of phone, Internet, hot & cold running water, easy, in-house laundry facilities, and the requisite warm place to take a dump.
But should all those things be pulled out from under us and we land in the street on our rump? What then, friend?
To lecture, for the sake of conjecture,
if we stay in a tent
with more than one night spent,
we’ll gripe if it’s damp
but it’s only to camp
and we don’t have to stay
but can go home the next day
all the while being reticent.
Yes, this is true:
we’ve a home to go to.
Thus, back to the commons and its impromptu inhabitants: where do they sh**?
That’s the question to ask.
We might not like it
but must take them to task.
More mundane ruminations:
A day with the public
let’s hope it goes fast.
Wore earplugs, washed hands,
gagged as perfume brushed past.
Hey, don’t push your luck,
you foul-smelling f***!
Go sit outside and smoke in your truck.
Kids flit as pups in a whelping box.
These earplugs fit well;
ahhh, yes, much sound blocks!
Don’t touch much here in the public ‘hood,
because, cuz, hear: it’s for your own good.
Be aloof; begone, oh hirsute oaf!
You’re not astute; go pinch a loaf!
The tension here damn near
primal and explosive;
fear, oh dear, is quite emotive.
Acrid humbling, fumbling feeling
like sh**-stained houseflies stuck to the ceiling.
Corrosive just as urine salts on lavatory paint.
So stepping outside to a lot
full of parked automobiles,
some of which sport ‘RESIST’ bumper stickers,
you breathe a gushing sigh of relief.
But you won’t resist much, ‘cause you ain’t.
The Chump administration ruled
as a coal corporation drooled:
no more squelching of power plant belching,
but citizens were not fooled.
Ever the cautious optimist,
Davey H would not get pissed.
For glaring omissions
in the case of emissions
is mercury, you see?
So squelching the belching could bring benefit;
but we are supposed to not give a sh**.
‘Nuff said on that issue – one that will not be altered by little people.
So hurry, John Doe, you will do just fine;
oh yes, although you’ll wait in line.
Just divest all your assets and discard all bling; soon Amazon will own everything.
But that’s what you want right now, as before:
a delivery jaunt brings it straight to your door.
Davey’s knowledge intake
has begun to stall,
because for heaven’s sake,
the print is just too SMALL.
So he isn’t quite sure just what to think,
but is glad to not be in a soup of red ink.
But on this day, and well before three,
Davey raised a fist with glee.
Because he does have REAL ID!
That’s right: in the state of [censored], under the umbrella of the larger Police State, rules are tightening like heavy-duty C-clamps.
Next, the day was, well, just too full to write. Hang fire, what the hell, maybe write tonight.
It’s not that
‘twas not time;
just couldn’t make da sh** rhyme.
Ergo, no reason 2 B uptight.
Each day could be a fun day,
but does the rooster know
that if it is a Sunday,
he should postpone his crow?
Moreover, as he does his strut,
continuing his singing,
we wonder if his beak will shut;
we hear the church bells ringing!
So we pause here and submit a wistful paean to a late rooster three doors down.
When we would walk by
and hear that shrill cry
we would sigh “my, that rooster is DRIVEN!”
And with hay that is high
as an alley cat’s eye,
he’d reply “why, that’s country livin’.”
Yes, indeed as we launch us a screed
over this here rural life’s benefits;
you can say yes or no
to that good rooster’s crow,
or even just not give two sh**s.
Now it was nearing September,
and the push was on;
soon the sun’s flaming ember
would so early be gone.
That meant those long days
would get the hatchet
and the early am had to tighten the ratchet.
So no more sleeping late;
ah, those times were gone!
And without debate:
no more sleeping past dawn.
At the sight of goldfinches dust-bathing
in the middle of the street,
DELIGHT! That’s right:
now the morning’s complete!
A later call to that supposed reasonable shade tree mechanic made it known:
‘hey, farmboy, you’re on your own’.
Just a hunch prior to lunch
and of frustration it created a bunch.
But that wasn’t NOW but rather, THEN,
so grab a notepad and a pen.
Don’t be bummed or sad or pissed;
just jot things down and make a list.
Speaking of lists, the day
after that post was created
became an ‘odds and ends’ day,
so don’t get deflated.
As a point of reference, this wholly down-home country bumpkin terminology refers largely to non-monetary pursuits,
but the ever-pressing celebrated mundane things
that make up life nonetheless in cahoots.
To wit: the glads sprang forth
with exuberant powers,
setting pink pastels – a stack of bright flowers!
The summer, that bummer,
was nearly complete;
with said flowers then getting a break
from the heat.
Whilst the bees, if you please,
did continue to feed
not on flowers or trees
but on ripe jewelweed!
One of these days
we would see thunderstorms
but ‘til then the haze
was what passes as norms.
Suppertime: We made some polenta
and zucchini, too;
with veggies galore, ‘twas so prudent to do.
On the coattails of that,
Davey H must confide:
with such heat in the flat
we did cook outside.
Thus in closing, these verses
must be reader’s bane;
but Davey rehearses
the mighty mundane!
Then: auto parts store rewards card
arrives in mail.
Davey H opens it, feeling kind of frail.
“Dayum! Ten dollars off!”
he exclaims with a wail.
Then he did scoff: “thow it in the pail.”
ten bucks wasn’t worth the suffusion;
it was just a ‘come-on’
to get one’s butt to the store.
On to bigger, slightly less rusty things, namely that large red iron hulk sitting in the backyard for 3 years running: Terry the machine shop guy
is still in business, so why not stop by?
Well, if Davey may be so bold,
his parts may be too old,
but he still may give Jerry a try.
Later, reminiscing over silly travel travails, Davey wondered: ‘glashing green'?
What does it mean?
Short circuit, perhaps,
but no one gives two craps,
so it’s time to just reconvene.
It’s that time of the season once again;
actually one of two such seasons, friend. Crapola® at your tag sale? Beads, cups, saucers, mismatched upholstery, Tupperware®©™, crutches...oh! A 3-burner outdoor camping stove! Lemme at it!
Now for some drivel: Screeds of left and right. Marshals in schools, Marshalls on stage;
bots, blots and spammers provoke the rage! Living rural
in first person plural,
we’re bustin’ out on the page.
Chili slide, & clean oats abide;
shake off that fetter,
stop drinking that swill;
reception is better atop that thar hill.
Hungry trolls pay no tolls
as we stay on top of the numbers they spoof;
on and on and on it rolls
as it’s so hard to remain aloof.
Take heart, land-line user who’s hopin’:
Be cool! Your lines are still open!
It is good to sweat. You bet.
And out we get.
You haven’t seen anything yet.
Wood to split- do you give a sh**?
Keeps you fit so let’s go to it.
Warms you twice,
and that’s nice;
since you do it yourself,
you can’t beat the price.
Poor man’s sauna - you wanna?
Off on a jaunt
went this Davey fella;
with nothing to want,
as he brought his chlorella.
Determined to be
good working class dude;
he set out to work
once his breakfast was chewed.
He wasn't conceding that life was a bitch;
yet after his feeding he could make the switch.
He then wouldn't need to drive too damn far;
whilst on his ass ensconced in a car.
Whoops! That green you see
looks pretty neat,
but it’s not a tree – it’s damn bittersweet!
Then back home:
“How, he did mumble,
did the DOW take a tumble
– or should I perhaps just ask ‘why'?”
“Of course it’s a bubble
and that is the trouble,
common sense, Pence – things go awry.”
A mid-day cruise brought us not too late
past a local celebrity’s posh estate.
Needless to say
on this bright sunny day
that celeb’s estate looked just great.
The smell of grass as we meandered past
was a tickle for quivering nostrils;
yes, ‘twas only a drive
but we came out alive
at this simplest of country thrills.
On the back swing, Davey grinned
and took note of the well used sweat bands
dangling from the rearview mirror.
Each one held a story and all had been enormously beneficial in enabling their perspiring wearer to complete the torrid summer’s tasks.
So in the bright sun
each damp sweatband hung
and in said sun each one basks;
and from that same mirror
it could not be clearer
that sometimes cars ride on his ass.
And every gate tailer
just feels like a trailer
and he wishes they’d just up and pass.
Now back to those sweat bands
that took sweat from his glands
and in verse had been so celebrated;
Davey now understands
that he needed his hands
to wring them when they saturated.
This was back in the summer
and man, what a bummer!
It’s gone now, and Davey’s elated!
Out and about
with little to tout
whilst feeling deflated;
careening en route with sunshine above,
the day bright and clear
on a road we don’t love
‘tound potholes we steer.
Dip and bump and crate ‘round bend;
shocks will go THUMP before this road’s end.
The destination isn’t far;
with consternation we BEAT this car.
But we won’t fake it; it’s make it or bust
before this poor car turns into pure rust.
Starting fresh as a bag of flesh,
a project that had to happen;
the car is leakin’ anti-freeze - freakin’
and that just lets the crap in.
Davey indeed, that well gritted steed,
knew this could not be done later:
he got up off the bench
and grabbed thus a wrench
and commenced to fix the radiator.
Now as a point of reference with regard to modern day radiators: they are, more often than not, constructed of aluminum as opposed to the former copper. To the average reader, this may not be a significant development, but consider for a moment the price of copper!
Green stains of blue algae hot asphalt beneath old car’s boots. Turn right to cloverleaf onto RT (censored), then hurry up and wait
at the hastily set up portable red light.
Power steering pump leaking, smoke plume arising from under hood after cresting (censored) Road the other night,
as it has a pretty steep incline,
and that brought up a bit of fright.
And then the corn, you know, is labeled non GMO because for some perverse reason, GMO can’t be labeled.
STOP. Pick up a dozen, cousin.
The non GMO sign had gone missing,
but boy oh boy
the corn, organic to not scorn,
was still the real McCoy.
He listened to senators hem and haw
whilst grilling a fella named Kavanaugh.
Looking past the media spin,
folks were aghast that he might get in.
Thus, as all that spin was recited,
‘twas time that all TRUE citizens united.
Because, after all, for many, life was a bitch;
most power did fall in the hands of the rich.
But a quick glimpse reveals
that nobody cares
as true fat congeals
on all these affairs.
So anyway, much warm carbon dioxide
was hurled in Kavanaugh’s direction,
and he did sit still on the grill
and practice deflection.
In other words, he was the one to vet
but never let ‘em see him sweat.
As one pundit oinked,
“It looks like he’s getting ‘Borked’”.
Out to the rusting bulk of an internal combustion engine propelled means of transportation: Davey turned the key in its door and hopped in. Earplugs were a necessary part of this ride for some obvious reasons; the previous owner – or the one before that – had installed headers on this 350 CID engine. Very odd. Previous rants in this ongoing series had referred to this anomaly – one that made a simple task like changing spark plugs into a nightmare: the exhaust headers needed to be removed in order to do so.
So much for the shade tree amateur mechanic.
Next, Davey H says without debasement
that he performed a car radiator replacement.
Not sure how tough of a job it would be,
he nevertheless fared the challenge, you see?
Worried, he hurried
as he was a tad tired;
to finish un-buried
before weather expired.
Now whether or not Davey H would be willing,
he had to get right caught up on the billing.
And yes, as you can guess
that said billing is a grueling process.
Now into this saga, Davey H inserts:
Death by a thousand cuts would be ‘kilo-hurts’.
The mentor said “look,
this advice is instructive:
get off of Facebook
and do something constructive.”
Yet the eager young user was on the hook
was so seductive.
One lesson not learned
and an adult thus spurned
by that juvenile Facebook user;
with a slight pang of dread
he had shot through the head
his elderly perceived accuser.
But it was cooler today;
Davey saw that as good,
and so he did say
“time to go split wood.”
From sun he hid and so split wood he did,
as it was time to get crackin’.
With no time
he would get a taste
of some hopefully skillful wood stackin’.
The foregoing was a commentary
on Davey H’s rustic lifestyle, not to be confused with any kind of city-slicker nonsense. Oh, he had heard of such celebrities as Matthew Broderick getting firewood delivered to his Big Apple high-rise, and recalled thinking, ‘how stupid!’.
A former president
and US resident
lived in a house by the shore;
still full of spunk
and in swank Kennebunk,
he served one term and not more.
And then later he died
despite how he tried
to live on past age ninety four.
But let us not nibble or gripe,
bitch or quibble of this prez who came before; with secrets in vaults,
he did have his faults,
not the least of which was the Gulf War.
Meanwhile, the ever-industrious Chinese thumbed their noses at the Chump’s tariffs.
Interestingly, the US TRADE deficit with China was higher than ever by September.
As a frequent buyer of hand tools, Davey H is a beneficiary of this, but trepidation persists.
Almost anything made of steel – which, by inference, almost certainly implies the “Made In China’ stamp is borne on the given item – has become suspect.
The Tip Jar