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She would bring lots of rain
as a large hurricane
for anyone who was alive;
then whip up the sand
on Bahamian land
as a mendacious category FIVE.
A hurricane that is causing pain
will flail until it’s done;
it’s stormy surge
will be a purge
for beach-goers everyone!
ENOUGH with the hype;
this storm was for real;
quite the powerful type,
not the least bit genteel.
Thus ends the expository Dorian summations.
The next day, though Davey was tired,
he hastens to say that he was inspired.
For on a sunflower outside did alight
a bee with such power
that did not take flight!
This precious insect, a pleasure to see,
and who could object to a true native bee?
Native bees, he knew, were smaller
than their European counterparts, but pollinate just as well below the level that we’re seein’.
The ensuing day’s ramblings commence thus: feeling fairly long in tooth,
Davey H was not uncouth.
He had some fun
and that was good;
and had begun
the walnut wood.
And with said wood, you can bet your ‘tocks
it wouldn’t go for firearm stocks.
So that was that, but glory
be: he then laid flat a hickory.
Heavy as hell, it fairly fell in accord with gravity. Now, as a point of reference worth making, hickory has the highest dry weight of any continental species, tipping the scales at approximately 60 pounds per cubic foot.
So imagine this hickory
[Carya ovata] when green:
it’s the heaviest damn wood we’ve seen.
More reiteration: Davey listens each morn
to the local college station
whose tunes are ne’er forlorn
and he heaps them veneration.
Its virtues he’s extolling
‘fore the PSAs start rolling.
Anyway, back to that hickory wood:
you should know it is good
and most certainly not bad;
but as Davey tussles
he discovered muscles
he never thought he had.
Yes, he tussles with sore muscles,
then fidgets and twitches;
and sometimes just fusses and bitches.
and that is to say
that today was one bitch of a day.
The feeling was rough,
yes, that’s true enough
as he and T keep on losing their stuff.
The latest casualty was Ts beloved tiny digigam – lost along with its equally petite case. Where? Heaven only knows.
Chances are it was atop the car,
and at 50, oh, well, the wind blows.
Oh, loss and grief beyond belief!
Each day it seems to worsen;
would the camera be found
and come back around . . .
Returned by some honest person?
“Not likely,” said the Davey non-sage;
“at least not in this day and age.”
But here’s the thing,
if you pause for a minute:
a camera’s not bling;
little value is in it.
So acceptance will be the virtue
in this situation,
and one less gadget means less accumulation. Yep, ‘twas gone in 2 seconds flat:
the photo archive of a digi-pack rat.
Not to lecture but for the sake of conjecture, would the camera finder find it too hard
to get up off of its SD card?
That’s where the real substance is,
and Davey’s optimism has begun to fizz.
The time arrives when it’s time to move on accepting the sad fact that camera is gone,
sucked into a hole so inexorably black;
so bless its soul – it may never come back.
So somewhere under the [Censored} sky
a whole bunch of Davey H images fly.
This brings to a close a hastily assembled series of musings, groans, moans, and lamentations emanating from the grate Davey H, which brings us, perhaps mercifully, to the following set of stanzas:
MORE THAN JUST ONE DAY
“At my age, Davey began, recovery from any given workout can take more than just one day.”
This was due, he said, to a confluence of factors, one of which was age, and nobody who reads this will know precisely what that number is.
But one day in the fray
makes the verve go away.
Then a day of rest
and not in jest
doesn’t need to be formal;
a good taste of chill indeed fits the bill, returning conditions to normal.
Then, once normalcy seeped in,
Davey H felt energized, or so he surmised.
But hey – wait a minute – did it have any substance in it?
So here it was once again September 11th and mainstream media sources did a decent job of commemorating the event. As a point of reference, the World Trade Center memorial museum admission costs $28.00 a head.
Dayum! They might have to rethink that one.
But let’s just see how much of the proceeds will go to the fallen first responders' surviving kin or stricken firefighters. And maybe by the 20th anniversary of 9/11, we may have a better idea of who ordered the demolition of the three buildings.
On a much more mundane level, whether one is in Indiana, New Hampshire, Delaware, Iowa, or Texarkana, it’s almost time to pick apples.
Ergo, Davey buttonholed his cohort Fred Stype to that effect:
“Yo, Fred – let’s do some apple pickin’
although you don’t have time;
I’ll get my ladder and get kickin’
when finished with this rhyme.”
Then it was September 12th, and with a slight swell of emotion, Davey felt obliged to acknowledge with sincerity Auntie Ell’s passing. Why she chose that day to depart we’ll never know. At least said departure was peaceful. Looking back on her demise,
despite their strenuous efforts, Davey and spousester did not arrive in time to catch Aunt Ell’s last breath, and ended up sitting motionless bedside following her death.
Her lack of pulse made it crystal clear
that Auntie Ell was no longer here.
Meandering away from such morbid testimony, Davey returns to work related musings thus: he hereby announces that although
he has one sore shoulder,
said shoulder is not cold,
and yes, he’s one day older
but that doesn’t mean he’s OLD.
Today it started raining,
although not very fast;
he has no right complaining
about the drought that’s passed.
Today was Charlene Alter’s birthday celebration, to which Mrs. T and Davey were invited.
After taking showers, fussing over clothes and struggling to just get out the door approximately 1 ˝ hours late, the pair clambered into their car.
The GPS squawked directions as drizzle pelted the cracked windshield. Did Davey H doubt this was the end of the drought?
Now the ides of September
was a time to remember
to pull a lot of stops out;
yet despite said stops having ostensibly been pulled, Davey and Mrs. T were far from mastering that most basic characteristic of societal normalcy: punctuality.
But in this case, Mrs. Alter’s party was still in full swing as D & T arrived fashionably late. This exceeded expectations!
In fact, they hadn’t sung, the cake had not yet been cut and guests surprisingly were not overtly inebriated. After being initially uptight, Davey did loosen up slightly upon entering the elegant 17th century building that housed the revelers. “I’ll bet we won’t know anybody aside from Mrs. Alter,” Mrs. T had noted. Davey H had glanced at her and commensurately did concur;
the events of the evening might be a blur,
for this was where the strangers were.
“Our entry may cause quite a stir,”
said Davey H the reveler.
Davey’s biggest fear – aside from death
was breathing beer/alcohol breath.
No, you should know
that Davey’s not pouting;
he’d rather not go
if attendees start shouting!
Yes, that one thing made perfectly clear;
his ears will ring to the point he can’t hear.
But Davey is smart, he can handle the din;
for right from the start he will put earplugs in.
Do Davey stayed, some time was spent,
then plans were laid – and away he went.
And although he was tardy,
the time wasn’t dull;
and like any party it was ephemeral.
In all, he did recall, and now he will tell you:
most of what you hear here is a load of # 2.
Now with the party long since behind,
to the humdrum work gigs Dave is confined. Yes, a ton of things to do
producing lots of CO2.
And from strenuous efforts loosed,
said CO2 is thus produced.
So today he started late, a cruisin’ on the Interstate – a benefit he does extol: that place for using cruise control.
So with a late start Davey H did depart
although one thing stood clear:
whether south or north
you don’t start in fourth
but rather in friggin’ first gear.
So yes, he may be late
but will not procrastinate.
This Davey bloke, a hairy ape,
will never smoke and will not vape.
A straight up gent and not a con,
he won’t relent or be a pawn.
As to Davey’s ongoing tussle
with everyday affairs, his main thrust is toward maintaining honesty and integrity in dealings with others.
For he, like a tree
with its long branches pruned,
will not easily ever be impugned.
Today, the grate Davey H
had the grate pleasure of
planting a redbud or’Judas’ tree.
Searing sun beat down pretty predictably, but not in Mrs. Gill’s yard. Observing all state, local and municipal laws and regulations, Davey had schlepped the healthy young redbud from Waeckel’s nuursery in (Censored). Luckily, Mrs. Gill haad hired a couple of young bucks to help with the bull work. Joe, the huskier of the two, hefted the balled and burlapped tree off Rusty White®'s back end with the greatest of ease. Ahhh, youth!
Next, the business of planting was commandeered by Davey, who quipped, “cutting off the wire basket is of paramount importance,”
This fact needs to be shouted from the condominium tops to be heard and heeded by any tree planter.
This was undoubtedly, maybe even unequivocally to be considered the optimal planting time in the heartland. Adding to the potential for positive long term outcome was the quality of soil extant in Mrs. Gill’s yard. On the downside, however, prevailing dry conditions could cast a long shadow on this juvenile transplant, though that’s nothing a garden hose can’t solve.
In Mrs. Gill’s locale, deciduous trees were acting like their tropical counterparts: with crispy, browned-up leaves trickling down on a daily basis.
The fallen leaves , writ large, were detaching and falling in numbers just sufficient to pepper the roads. In short, ‘tardily deciduous’.
Leaf, leave! To earth cleave. A-cling, tree – grieve! But it stands to reason this time of the season: no need for a reason. . .the leaf stalks get a reprieve. The next day, which was a Tuesday – in case anyone is interested:
wandering but not lost;
savoring the bite of car exhaust,
we headed up old (Censored) Hill
to do some work that fit the bill.
After that tangle
with such a steep angle,
we readied our guts to spill.
And just when he thought that he had it made, disease-laden ticks would reign ‘oer his parade. Yes, out in the sticks it’s a common charade.
Along those lines, Davey H feels compelled to decry the overuse of antibiotics utilized in the treatment of Lyme disease and its attendant co-infections such as Babeosis, Anaplasma and Ehrlicia. His colleague Alan Margani was on a course of THREE antibiotics simultaneously. Poor sap. Does anybody see something awry with that picture? Anyway, Alan as well as his many cohorts, may be besieged by other dilemmas such as cheapass Bangladeshi-made underwear that wears out
in the worst places – allowing his John Thomas to poke through, or the dude
his financial servitude
to an auto loan.
And he’s not alone:
countless debtors are frustrated not only with flimsy threads but also car payments.
So what’s a little intestinal flora destruction got to do with it?
Well, if you’re going to drive around in debt,
then healthy you should get.
From your brow now sweat;
your dough in the banker’s vault,
and he might place a bet
that you could just default.
None of that nonsense will apply
to this common sense Davey guy.
No debt, you bet, and no antibiotic;
he won’t fuss or fret or wax neurotic.
A half tank of gas forms a firm basis
– at least for maintaining homeostasis.
Thus, with that in mind
and a night’s sleep under his belt,
Davey did find his outdoor work pelt.
The gig for today, and hey, you’re darn tootin’ – was to get on the way to Grigori non-Rasputin.
Grigori’s work had needed to wait opportune; and so September was up on the slate,
and preferable to June.
Then for a technical nightmare: Our yarn begins its tangle with the straightforward act of
data transfer via removable media.
Simple enough. Data, that is, if Davey H’s musings, ripostes, epistles, purple prose and simmering recollections could be considered ‘data’.
Though he may be regarded as a dithering scrivener, such nostrums are hardly data driven. Yet data is EVERYTHING in this incorrigibly digital era, and Daveydata® can be lumped wholesale with reluctant membership in this fizzing e-club.
So what happened? As it turns out, Davey H had placed entirely too much trust in one old 4 gig flash drive, which was used to hold his ongoing ‘SCRATCHPAD®’ – the quintessential bouncing board, the yellow e-legal pad,
the vast repository of preconceived notions not yet collated and sliced into 100 word segments – which had ballooned to 56,000+ words. Each month, the respective 30, 30, or 28 days’ entries were meticulously filed in the 4 gig as its face, smudged from endless handling, bore scars likened to dog-eared yellowed pages of old. Now “old” in the case of modern-day thumb drives, could mean 2 years. This one was 6 or more. And six years is an eternity for any current technologies. So 4 gigs worth of complacency ensued, and laziness logically followed suit, although a couple of offloads
The SCRATCHPAD® drive did survive
its many machinations;
yet fateful moments would arrive
The little thumb drive
had little time to waste
as it did barely thrive
rigorous cut & paste.
In the end, this thumb friend
had one foot in the toilet;
before he hit ‘send’
a failure would spoil it.
Wear and tear? Just a tad;
it laid bare sectors bad – how sad.
Oh, how Davey grieved!
It came at a cost:
6 months’ posts lost
– with no hope they could be retrieved.
He tried many a click and pulled out every trick
to try and recover those bytes;
no results were obtained
and nothing was gained,
thus so much for 100 word fights.
So in the end – and it was a bitter one – Davey H was VERY grateful for having a PAPER backup. Yeah, sure, it was a hassle to re-jigger and reconfigure lots of stuff, but at least it wasn’t ALL smoked in those bad sectors, although he was still in a huff.
Now back to Grigori non-Rasputin’s lush property: the primary objective of backyard access was to avoid the lawn’s mowed portion, as recent toxic topical treatments had been applied.
Citing this unfortunate state of affairs, Davey H waited a couple of days before setting boots to turf, and even then avoided the carefully manicured parts. He was tempted to chide Grigori thus: “I’m surprised at you, man! Hey come on – using toxic chemicals to combat a few errant dandelions? That’s NUTS!”
Moreover, as Davey recalled Grigori’s ailing backyard honey locust, two and two could conceivably be put together: T-Zone® would not differentiate between weeds and that big woody broadleaf weed also known as a honey locust tree. But you see, Grigori is not alone in his rigid housekeeping preferences;
he belongs to a nominally upper-crust boomer class who pride themselves on their polished exurb properties. You can’t blame them; most everyone would like to live in a nice neighborhood, and the only way to mice-ify is to just START. Resale value is also in the mix, because you can’t take your property with you when it’s time to part ways with life. Moreover, you better plan well ahead of a potential nursing home stay.
Seven years, Bub. That’s how far back the money-hungry sick-care industrial complex spelunks in order to garner as much of our collective assets as possible.
On a lighter note, though greed is good
they still will gloat because they could.
It’s bye bye assets and you’d be cursing,
as that begets those homes of nursing.
Other than that, Matt, the word from up north was that a frost would all too soon burst forth. So they’d see brown and not much green;
who came to town? Uh-oh: Whupsteen.
Yipes! Grab your pipes amidst your dread; prepare to bash him in the head.
We in the heartland will likely cuss
what’s close at hand for the least of us.
[Try not to puke at this rebuke:]
For the skids of sludge will now be greased when Whupsteen blows in from the east.
“So, Whupsteen, what’s it like up yonder?” Davey asked, bracing for an inevitable rebuff.
The grunted reply came thus:
“It f***in’ SUCKS C**K.”
But Whupsteen would be easy to ignore,
that’s what a thing called aversion was for.
So rather than listening to Whupsteen cuss, Davey decided to take the next bus.
The bus of course, was a figure of speech;
but ‘twas nice to put Whupsteen well out of reach! Onward thusly Davey riffed,
passing a crew with an Altec® lift.
Davey, no feces,
as a male of this species
will at times make you squirm;
he comes across feral
and yes, is quite sterile;
in other words he has no sperm.
Now it was Sunday, October 6th, and Davey H was headed off to the annual regional (Censored) conference in (Censored).
En route, his anonymous year, make and model was passed repeatedly as he continued on the proverbial ‘Sunday drive’
at, yep, you guessed it: 55.
Like that isn’t fast enough?
Push down the lever, even to save face;
he would win nothing whatsoever
in his slow and steady non-race.
Hurried and worried to no avail;
past Davey they scurried for he was the snail. The long-anticipated (censored) conference would be a prime opportunity to press flesh, network, eat a little of the less questionable food, and pick up more cheap pens. Oh, but those pens had a LOGO, by golly, and would serve their pert purple prose purveyance purpose well – as older ones died, ink-less, by attrition. After all, Davey writes ‘old school’ and needs to keep a hand in the lost art of cursive. Yes, he comes from the pre-text generation, likes it that way, and exudes veneration.
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