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Thus, halfway is the order of the day
as we remain nonplused;
for still they say
we’ll bust today,
and quickly turn to rust.
Ahead, it says ‘No Turn On Red’. Good.
That one little chink
in the hustle bustle armor
will provide precious minutes
to hear ourselves THINK.
At this point in Davey’s pointless rolling dichotomy, he must confide
that his present rolling stock you see
is not the most comfortable ride.
But hey, there – wait a minute:
to be fair, he only has 10 grand in it.
‘Plant more trees’.
In some contexts, it really is that simple.
A 10,000 foot bird’s eye view
on approach to Atlanta airport
– or ATL for short –
reveals death of trees,
but hills? Not even a pimple.
Now Davey H, when poked, prodded,
as to his affiliations and/or leanings,
replies that he’s not married
to things of no meanings.
So that being said,
he went without dread
to work hard today.
Though ‘hard’ is a canard,
he hastens to say,
that the rain was a pain in this foregone foray. The gloves ‘Golden Grips’
which are normally cool,
became sunken ships
for that old Davey fool!
Thus, on a rain day, what was left to do?
Well, foray and spend money
or perform ‘honey do’.
Stress at the thought of going broke.
Oh, that can’t happen, or can it?
Opinions are forming
about global warming
by those who fear for the planet.
Some sport the now famous bumper sticker
that reads “good Planets Are Hard to Find”.
Whilst the rest of us chaps
may not give two craps
and are 3 light years behind.
We got started rollin’ around eleven,
to poke a big hole in mosquito heaven.
Grabbing the day
with that well-worn cliche
then hoped to be home before seven.
Thus began another day
with loose schedule and plenty of play,
but alas, old Davey did deduce:
he could not play too fast or loose.
Because although it would be fun,
he had to go and get some work done.
Thus onward & outward he did fare;
this day a breath of cool fresh air.
Davey visited some place rural;
saving face, first person plural.
And although life wasn’t easy,
his soliloquies were often breezy.
He tried to keep dogs from hanging out the car window, as that was contraindicated for canine ear health.
It became obvious during multifarious travails in the state of (CENSORED) that many other folks who transported dogs in this manner didn’t adhere to this protective philosophy.
Meanwhile, along the scenic roads in (CENSORED)-land and (also CENSORED)-way, squirrels across the road did splay.
In various and sundry death postures, some belly up, red blood swatches upon white lifeless fur; others lying as if sleeping, but with guts ushering forth from gaping mouths.
Elsewhere in the views, our bodies are purportedly composed of between 50 and 70% water. Supposedly. So where, for example, does a big ego fit in?
Never mind that; in hot weather, we’re supposed to add a half gallon per day to the mix. Then, as if our back teeth weren’t already floating, we should also push in another 12 ounces for each additional hour of sweating.
Davey heard those stark admonitions,
and then chose his water positions.
No, he couldn’t drink one gallon a day,
for fear his kidneys would then wash away.
And the sweat
he could bet
was a damn good detox;
and much better, yes yet,
than to sit on his ‘tocks.
Thus with sweat needs met,
he thought outside the box.
The further we get from Pearl Harbor Day,
the more folks forget, much to our dismay.
The victims are gone
but won’t be forgotten;
as war trudges on
humankind gets more rotten.
Bad news bares: after finally picking the remaining pears from his lone pear tree, Davey H confirmed the presence of the most unwanted rodents: red friggin’ squirrels.
They left slim pickins indeed. Many plump pears lay on the ground, half-chewed.
A sobering reminder that hit home like a punch to the solar plexus.
What a ‘snooze U lose’ dilemma.
Either pick ‘em too early or don’t get any.
The next dreaded day,
Davey picked up gnawed pears
the pieces of which
the squirrels thought were theirs.
Next, during a not-so-early morning walk, Davey kept eyes to the pavement, noting the trash so carelessly strewn on the shoulder: a plastic ‘single dose’ vodka bottle here, greasy paper plate there. No insulin vials though. Then, out of the blue, a dark violet morning glory flower popped courageously out of the filth as if to say:
“hey, dope! Don’t give up hope,
‘cause trash ain’t got no power;
so please don’t mope,
I’m a heliotrope,
and a damn good purple flower!”
Davey saw the mowers,
saws, rakes, and leafblowers.
‘Twas no need to wonder why;
tomorrow would be thundershowers,
today he saw blue sky.
So he whipped out his planner
in a casual manner
to collate work and play;
thus making some sense
whilst over the fence
on an auspicious rain day.
Hey, hey, hey,
what’s Seve non-Ballasteros doing today?
Davey doesn’t know. Do you?
Too many other things
demand to be paid attention to.
The wood got soaked again last night.
In darkness cloaked, a wretched sight.
It needs to come before it’s old
and grows that slimy piss-green mold.
Pumpkins as we moved toward fall;
country bumpkins, peasants all.
Who wouldn’t say it would be a ball
with compost harvest we enthrall?!
The autumn glow, though, would not last
when the CSA sent this e-blast:
“with crop losses, oh, we’re aghast,
so you’ll get less than seasons past.”
Folks that read this sobering word
had some dread, but undeterred,
still thought that farmer couldn’t be beat,
‘cause after all, folks need to eat.
Well, then, air fare: 30,000 flights a day
and no one bats an eyelash,
but should one plane go astray,
we’ll sure hear of the crash!
Davey gurgles as he speaks:
as he has not scaled the highest peaks.
No, at mountain time, said he;
“I’d rather climb a maple tree!”
And so he did,
from fear he hid
and thought of who he underbid.
He and Big D cut many a log
with Davey in a tree and not the underdog.
For Big D ‘twas a stroke of luck,
as he sure loaded up his truck.
Be it known this tale is not a fable;
for that Big D was surely able.
Many a big chunk he could hump
and his truck could also dump!
Tomorrow is Elbert’s birthday, and he may or may not utter the following stanza:
“to call oneself ‘Sojourner Truth’
just takes a lot of balls;
so if I may be so uncouth
to ask to whom truth falls,
if truth is truth and couth is couth,
we can assume that’s good;
a lie is a lie,
that’s cut and dry,
so let’s not have falsehood!”
Knowing Elbert, he may be incredulous at the concept of ‘sex workers’. He would undoubtedly be heard to say: “That’s not work!” Then he might consider their plight and say “give ‘em a pay bump!”
Whupsteen, on the other hand, would have none of this. Here’s what his take on ‘sex workers’ would be: “They shouldn’t f**in’ ask for much unless they take it up the ass.”
Doesn’t that just FIGURE? Moreover, isn’t that just SO like Whupsteen?
Davey, on the other hand,
didn’t care for these views;
this kind of fare would pass as ‘fake news’.
Said he: “it sounds like people on dope.”
And more accurately, “an opera sans soap!”
Later that evening, whilst wearily pondering the magnanimous societal contributions of sex workers, Davey just shrugged and said “yup. Maybe they’re drugged.”
Readers of this post
won’t know where or when
Davey just got the most
from a snazzy purple pen.
No, you can’t see it,
but hey, what the heck;
but you could agree it
won’t endorse a check.
Too many things to keep up with
makes Davey H a dull boy.
Hah! He should mull that
while playing on his latest toy.
Playing, yes, but he won’t be coy
a maintenance mess he doesn’t enjoy.
Falling further and further behind
meant few words could be from mind mined.
So the scrivener groped for a flush of words
as he also
had hoped not to find mouse turds
in a country spot
just as in a city,
the mouse onslaught
was quite often sh**ty.
Thus as he pondered
his life as a fool,
the temperatures wandered
from warmer to cool.
Then, an auspicious rain day
is just what it takes
to work in the bay
and raise up the stakes.
But the time will come
when the stakes are too high
when you’re feeling glum
under that gray-assed sky.
So do what you can
while the weather is good;
yeah, bust your ass, man,
‘cause you do need the wood!
Not to be contrarian,
but he’d best be vegetarian;
not so neat
is the thought of meat
and the karma that it’s carryin’.
[Some Davey H sentiments]
Not to be a misanthrope;
at times old Davey’s short on hope.
But at least he has a length of rope
to navigate a slippery slope.
Meanwhile, at a slightly less pleasant location, Whupsteen had floated a strange, slightly sordid proposition. He posited that someone should do a “psychology experiment”: take a sample of reactions across the gender spectrum when folks are told about that fellow who received the world’s first penis transplant.
At this, Davey H took umbrage, as well as the opportunity to roundly chide the ever-lascivious Whupsteen.
“Never in all the world’s history
has any cretin like you
been so very thoroughly lascivious
through and through.
Sure, you’ll reply with language salty
as in all times past,
continuing your ways so faulty,
making folks aghast.”
But it was fall now, and time for Whupsteen to take a fall. Many squirrels laid smashed in the road, lives cut short in their frenetic push to squirrel away food for their annual mini-Armageddon. Suddenly this bushy tail narrative was interrupted by a call
from the starter and alternator shop guy.
Shit in one sock!
The starter guy called at ten o’clock.
Yes, a SHOCK is what you call it,
and would be felt in Davey’s wallet.
A jolt for sure,
and with great force;
it’s what’s in store,
par for the course!
So Davey won’t think it very nifty
when he gets a bill for near $250.00!
This, to the uninterested reader, is the latest phase of an ongoing tractor saga. Thus, we shall temporarily bring it to a close for the purpose of this series of essays. For now, anyway.
Autumn in these parts was peppered with the predictable arrays of pumpkins, spiderwebs, and straw witches. As of September’s end, deciduous hardwoods displayed varying stages of leaf senescence.
Then, it was a Sunday at month’s end,
and Davey had made hard work his friend. Sawdust and 2 cycle engine exhaust
punctuated his days,
but the weather just continued to amaze.
Yesterday, he missed an entire day of writing,
or at least no entries appeared in SCRATCHPAD©®™℠, and that’s a damn good indication that no writing happened.
But nobody listens
and nobody cares.
Yet Davey’s sweat glistens
and onward he dares!
As Davey H so often spars
with a couple of elderly cars,
it so happened that with glee
he heard of a city that was car free.
The kind reporter did explain
that it was Barcelona, Spain.
Forget the rain; that story is inspiring.
Let’s hear it again – it’s a place for retiring!
Back to CONUS and more mundane matters at hand: the farmer now clambers to fence off his land. And to that fence, old Davey H bows; in seven days hence, he’ll see some grazing cows.
So no obections did he raise regarding where those cows would graze;
he wouldn’t even if he could,
as it keeps the neighbor feelin’ good.
Then, by a stroke of misfortune,
Whupsteen, not yet dead,
entered the scene and reared his dank head. When queried by Davey H as to how he weathered this past summer, Whupsteen was at first indignant: “Don’t believe that globalwarming bullshit,” he rasped. “It’s f***in’ crazy shit from left-wing pussy-assed commies.”
Davey, while tending to remain lukewarm on the issue, noted the highest temperature ever recorded: 137° – but couldn’t quarrel with a potentially recalcitrant Whupsteen, who went on to express relief at the onset of fall:
“Goddamn f***in’ good, that,” he said, “No more greasy asshole feelin’.”
To the casual observer, a sweaty anal area was the least of Whupsteen’s worries. After all, most of his filth emitted from the other end.
Later, Davey H was heard to have crafted the following soliloquy:
‘When what you planned falls with a thud,
at least wet sand is better than mud.’
Such was the vagaries of rain days for the avid outdoors-man.
Vanity of the bonfires: During Davey’s late teens a partying crowd formed in his region of residence. Composed of mostly alumni of (censored) high school,
the ever-evolving goup of teen longhairs gathered on many an otherwise idle weekend
to jaw-flap, sop suds, thigh slap, and wear low-fashion duds.
Partying their asses off in summer heat
up at ‘Molson farm’ – it couldn’t be beat!
So if the windshield wipers were not flappin’,
you could rest assured a party would happen.
Nitrous oxide and kegs of beer;
upside of that farm with cheer.
Now back to that bustling (censored) airport:
Folks in stark poses
shakin’ their bones;
wiping their noses,
and checking their phones.
The well traveled one just understands
that they must constantly wash their hands.
Davey H has many a quirk.
But let him off the hook,
because at least he does some work,
some even by the book.
He’s almost never a jerk,
however long it took;
at supper he’ll not shirk
but rather wash and cook.
Davey H’s bachelor pad cooking
is rarely good looking,
and leads to gut wrenching adventures;
and as Davey cooks,
it frequently looks
like the fellows who eat it need dentures.
Davey, who no one needed to goad,
went out and hit the road.
Feeling slightly renewed,
he hooked up the logsplitter,
realizing what the shop guy said,
and feeling a slight pang of dread:
“that’s a wheelbarrow tire, dude.”
So perhaps, gals and chaps,
it’s not meant to be towed.
(At least not over 35mph on-road).
So Davey, no sh**, had some big wood to split,
and he knew that it would not be fun;
so this he did: fare
without wing or prayer,
for he knew then to go git ‘er done.
[Thus ends absurd wood splitting expositions.]
Outward and upward
and outward we fare;
clean out the cupboard,
make room for farm share.
This Davey dude can thereby assert:
“organic food sure can never hurt.”
He met some folks
and told some jokes
and thought ‘things could be worse;’
traipsed through town
and looked around:
‘twas then he saw the hearse.
Was a corpse in back
of hearse so black?
He pondered as he looked;
it brought a chill,
yes, if you will:
that person’s life was COOKED.
Early to bed and early to rise
reduces one’s dread and may yield a surprise. Nothing too stiff
or jilted or formal;
and not off a cliff,
but a bit more toward normal.
So Davey H tried that age old philosophy one day and found it beneficial.
In fact, it brought back now-fond memories of earlier days where he had to punch in by 7:30 am.
Getting up before the chickens
but not before the crows
means the day’s plot thickens;
not like when you doze.
Either way you have a day
that’s out ahead,
so make that pass
and have some class:
just get your ass outta bed!
That having been said,
and without dread,
plus having been fed,
this dude with cool head
to the job site was led.
Oh, slothful laborer!
Do come calling; do us the favor
with tawny leaves falling!
the streets are awash,
and on the corn chopping,
rain put the kibosh.
Those tourists he resents,
they merit a yawn;
yet their annoying presence
will so soon be gone.
Davey H gave a listen and then
became only slightly enthralled;
as ‘Beautiful Country, Burned Again’
was what the book was called.
Then down the hill old Davey went,
feeling slightly reticent;
soon productive time was spent
whilst sleeping ten ‘til dawn.
Meanwhile, at the oddly-named ‘Harmony Place’, Mr. Blosky continues his lumber sawing operation despite the sad fact that Mrs. Blosky passed away barely a week ago.
One would think the aging sawyer
could at least have taken time off to grieve,
but no, that’s just not in his playbook.
End of story.
“These politicians make me heave,
and despite my wishins,
don’t know who to believe”, Blosky said.
Having ingested his breakfast swill,
Davey H crested old (censored) hill.
The aged car was tested, if you will;
with power invested, it fit the bill.
Then Davey H had a pretty good day
when he heard some jazz that just blew him away:
from an album’s title track
he grooved on the rhythm and didn’t look back.
So he’ll tell you now and he’s not jokin’:
it was Paquito D’Rivera’s tune ‘Who’s Smokin’?
Rain was comin’
but before he went back in,
Davey got hummin’
and did some wood stackin’.
Though dissent is often muzzled,
Davey thinks you should be knowin’
that he is most puzzled
by the fans of Leonard Cohen.
But Davey sure does know it
that he’s not a genuine poet.
Silly stuff is what he does,
and the late great Leonard Cohen WAS.
For a time, Davey H paid so little attention to pop culture, he barely knew about this Leonard Cohen fella.
After all, Davey lacks a functional television
and his non-televised intake is, at times, damn narrow in scope.
So when a pop or rock star dies,
Davey may hear mere passing mention made of the passage. So who cries?
Davey had lots of writing to do,
and it’s not what he does for a living;
and at times it’s stuff that he does poo-poo,
as his workload is unforgiving.
With paper and pen,
plus a laptop and then,
he struggles on,
hope against hope;
when his word vault goes bare,
he reacts with a flair
and pushes the old envelope.
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