Monday, December 27, 2010


Poetry Potluck
One Shot Wednesday

Somewhere there's a girl for me
MAYBE hanging out in a TREE
one day I'll just look up
and THERE she'll be...

And she will not be Miss America,
though she may be dedicated to world peace--
and she doesn't care for fancy cars,
or closing down the bars,
and she will have no scars,
though there may be a small tattoo
that isn't readily visible...

And she will not be Miss America,
though she may have a bikini wax--
and she will be outrageous,
but not contagious,
and she will dig Steely Dan
and love me for who I am...

And she will not be Miss America,
though she may have some type of marginal talent--
like tying a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue,
or spitting her gum farther than anyone.

And she will be hip and sassy
but not too classy
and her eyes will be a trap door you fall into
coming face to face with the Mad Hatter.

And she will say things like: "Did you ever find a penny
that came out of your dog's butt?"
(Hold onto that--it's a lucky one!)

And she will not be Miss America,
though she may be at her best being under dressed--
and she will be all natural up front
for even a little sag is better than the drag
of learning "first hand" that her statistics are inflated.

And she will eat finger food with a fork,
and fork food with her fingers,
how the scent of her lingers...

And she will not whack off
all of her hair on a whim,
thinking that she will look like Halle Berry--
when in truth, like most,
she would more closely resemble Mister Spock--
what a shock!

Oh, the girl for me is somewhere
maybe lost at sea...
how will she ever find me?

She's looking for a poet,
but doesn't know it--
a man with a kind heart,
kind of an old fart,
looking for a new start...

And she will not be Miss America,
but she will pray and she will weep for America--
now I lay me down to sleep in America,
where beauty's only skin deep in America,
and magazine smiles can't conceal
the bewilderment that we feel
at having tossed off one King George
only to be saddled with another--
then lo and behold...we got ourselves a BROTHER!

And the girl for me will see through all the lies, and alibis
for she will be wise, but won't show it,
and she will be beautiful, but won't know it,
and she's out there somewhere looking for a poet
who thinks he may have already blown it--for good.

Oh, the girl for me is somewhere....
maybe hanging out in a tree--
one day I'll just look up
and there she'll be...

Yeah, I think THAT will be the girl for me.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Timoteo--age 6

In this season
So tender and mild
May you once again
See the world
Through the eyes
Of a child

Tuesday, December 14, 2010


Author note: WATER FOUND ON MOON (recent headline)
Previously, ice (probably massive amounts of it) was detected at the moon's poles.

One Shot Wednesday

When I was seven I sent in a coupon from the back page of a magazine.
They left without me in "69--an oversight for which I've forgiven them.
Now, they tell me there's ICE on the moon...
do you know what that means?
We'll establish colonies, shop in underground malls,
figure skate in the sea of tranquility.
Oh, can we go ma, huh mama, can we go?

When I was sixteen I was convinced I would solve the mystery
of the universe, as I cussed and manhandled the pinball machine
in the pool hall that was more home to me than home.
A brilliant lad was I,
the apple of my very own eye,
as I watched it winking back at me from the mirror.
Now, I behold that celestial sphere
and perceive the image of...what?

There's ice on the moon--
we must determine what this means for children of the ghetto
and poets who expire too soon.
We are the only species on a quest for meaning...
and when we find none we proclaim this lack of meaning
must be indicative of something!

I'm searching for my identity--
did you see it pass by?
I had it once upon a time--
butcher, baker, candlestick maker...
and I wonder why we're all so quick to identify
with something other than our common humanity.
And it must be a trick of the eye that from a vantage point on the moon
we can discern no countries...
yet here, even in Death Valley, we can see them all quite clearly.

And as we walk through the valley of the shadow of death
we will be like Evil Kneivel--
rocket jockeys shooting the gorge to glory!
And as the earth rises--an imposing blue pelota swimming in space--
will you sip from your can of Mountain Dew
and say, "Been there...done that?"

When I was twenty-three I saw my soul stripped naked
as the world of matter disintegrated around me
and I knew I was onto something...
but something still eludes me.

There's ice on the moon...
can we go ma, huh mama, can we go?
When the wild animals are gone can we go?
When the cities are ablaze can we go?
When the television watches YOU can we go?
And I wonder how life will be--
Sea of Tranquility or Ocean of Storms...
Lake of Dreams or Marsh of Decay?

There's ice on the moon
blood in the streets
tears in my eyes
salt in my tears...
a remnant of our life in the sea.
And where have our instincts gone?
We, the dinosaurs of devolution
sinking slowly back into the slime
and all the time asking "why?"
And what do you suppose predisposes us
to give or not give a damn?

There is a memory hidden deep in my mind...
an image of that first amphibian that washed onto dry land
and took its first halting stride--one small step for creature--
a giant leap for creature kind.
I was there when it gazed up at that incandescent orb
and wept at the wonder of the thing.

There's blood on the moon
ice in our veins
pain in our hearts--
and somewhere in the night the voice of Marvin Gaye still echoes:
What's Goin' On? What's Goin' On?

And the earth is asking one question:
Do we love her leave her?
And I think of how we demonized the Russians for decades, for their ideology.
The "Evil Empire."
Now we may cheer for them at skating competitions--
their ideology has spun closer to ours.
When we define evil as that with which we are in conflict
then how shall we speak of the conflict within ourselves?
A cat knows how to be a cat.
We must LEARN how to be human.
And it COULD be a trick of the eye
that we see a man in the moon...
or is it just that we recognize our own everything?

Friday, December 10, 2010



In retrospect, my life has been

a blue blur of contradiction

a rolling juggernaut of misjudgment

charging headlong through the rain

and pissing into the wind...

A constellation of calamity

chasing dust devil dreams

down a star speckled highway

in a last-ditch attempt

to catch the champagne

night flight to nirvana...


Well, HELL's my phone number!

Tuesday, December 7, 2010


In an Aztec dream
we rode on a jungle wave,
did a double whammy
on a conga drum,
boomeranged to the boogie beat
of a hot marimba band
on a one night stand--
me and you
in the skunk funk
and the swamp goo.

In an Aztec dream
we climbed the Pyramid of the Moon,
you in your white negligee,
me with just a baseball cap
and my dangling

Ever the martyr,
you were offering yourself
to save the world
from massive drought
with that familiar pout.

In an Aztec dream
the wind was quiet
as the moon...
blue shadows fell
across your smile
as we ascended to the top
where the high priest waited--
his black eyes intent
upon some distant massacre.
(He was a postal worker
who only moonlighted as a high priest,
making his own supreme sacrifice
by working on Columbus day.)

In an Aztec dream
he took one look at you and said:
Sorry...we're only sacrificing VIRGINS today!

You caught me sniggering,
then slugged me in the gut,
and stormed down
those ancient steps
in that way
that you always do.

Friday, December 3, 2010

WALK IN THE PARK (for dog lovers everywhere!)

Oh, we're walking in the park
cuz I promised not to bark
hi ho the merrio
we're walking in the park

Now she let go of the leash
so I can be released
hi ho the merrio
she let go of the leash

Oh we're having so much fun
cuz I just love to run
hi ho the merrio
we're having so much fun

Now I'm squatting in the grass
and it's tickling my ass
hi ho the merrio
I'm squatting in the grass

Now I'm pooping on the leash
and it's such a sweet release
hi ho the merrio
I'm pooping on the leash

Now she's coming from behind
and she don't know what she'll find
hi ho the merrio
she's coming from behind

Oh don't grab the leash right there
or you will get a scare
hi ho the merrio
don't grab the leash...right...THERE!

Monday, November 29, 2010


Poor little phone book
lying unclaimed in the road
tossed from a moving truck
in the general direction of that mailbox
someone was supposed to pick you up
but they said it's just more clutter
and closed the shutter

You were assembled with care
and you had a PURPOSE
in the beginning...
didn't we all

what's left to behold
but the remnants of a wasted life
a tree
needlessly sacrificed
Your pages
once golden
now covered with dust
prematurely yellowed
with age
subjected to the elements
and whipping in the wind
those of us with similar tire tracks
across our backs
can identify

Lying spread-eagled
like a fallen woman
the section
for escort services
most of us
wanton as we may be
would not prefer to advertise
in such a blatant manner

And I guess it's one thing
to be yellow
from the outset
(or should that be offset?)
but the insult to injury
must surely be
that my dog
has peed on you
numerous times

All of us created with
the best of intentions
and sometimes
the worst of fates

Tuesday, November 23, 2010


All life is suffering...
the Buddhists say.

Now THERE'S a rosy forecast for ya.
Imagine your TV weatherman saying:
Partly cloudy tonight with a 10% chance of showers--
and the extended outlook:

All life is suffering...

And you say to yourself well surely that can't be--
and you try to think back to a time when you were truly happy,
lips fastened to your mother's breast,
until one day, quite by chance, you discover that dad
has been granted the same privileges.
And that is your first taste...
of betrayal.

Time passes...

And it's like a slap in the face the first time you realize
you're not the be all and end all of anybody's universe--
and that girl, that wonderful girl you think about every waking moment
of your day--wondering whether she's thinking of you--
while all the time she's ecstatic because she's planning
a two week trip to Mexico with some of her friends,
that she intends to tell you about the day before she leaves...
and you KNOW that someday she will give you an emotional kick
in the cojones--and you KNOW that it's coming,
and still you stand there with that stupid grin on your face.

All life is suffering...

And you find yourself a woman--a beautiful woman-
and she takes you to her bed and says:
Touch me here,
and ooh, touch me here,
and oh baby, touch me HERE!

And you are beaming in the afterglow
and you say, OH, please SHOW me who you are...
and she says: Don't touch me...THERE.

Time passes...

You trust no one, you believe in nothing,
and life becomes a nasty cycle of dump or be dumped--
and you begin to wonder just when it was that you became numb--
and still you have the unmitigated BALLS
to hope for a happy ending!

All life is suffering...

And soon you've forgotten why you get up in the morning--
you do it by rote, as if you'd be letting the world down if you weren't one
of the masses of asses sitting at the stoplight
trying to find something worthwhile on the radio--
a favorite song---anything to medicate the pain...

Medicate, masturbate, hibernate...

And you get up in the morning and go into work day after day
like a good dog, where the boss treats you like another piece of the furniture
and he almost sits on you and crushes you with his fat ass.

All life is suffering...

And you're convinced that the best thing to be in life
is a masochist--but that doesn't work either because
masochists must surely suffer when they're not in pain.

And if all life is suffering then the question is:
How then must we live?
How then must we live?

And until we find the answer,
this thing that we do--
this spilling of one's guts onto the page,
this POETRY,
becomes your only salvation...
and mine.

For I can take the pain--
work it, shape it, and transform it into a gift
that you will willingly accept
because you know that it's been there all along
like the refrain from a song
that you've heard a thousand times before
but somehow
it's different now...
and all I need to do is say the words.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

FLASH FICTION (Tasty morsels of profundity!)

Women's Intuition

She said: "Who's that man with the whore?"

He said: "That's no whore...that's my wife!"

She said: "Then, who's that man with your wife?"

He said: "Why... that little whore!"

Wednesday, November 10, 2010


The 21st annual All Souls Procession was held in Tucson on Sunday evening, November 7th. Inspired by Mexico's Dia De Los Muertos holiday, All Souls is a bit of Mardi Gras, New Orleans style jazz funeral, and Burning Man celebration rolled into one. It's a time of remembrance for departed loved ones, and a simultaneous celebration of life.
(I'm still learning the fine points of resizing my videos to meet Blogger's requirements, so double click on the the videos below for easier viewing.)

At the spectacular finale, members of the Tucson based troupe Flam Chen are lifted high into the air by a giant crane, performing their amazing aerobatics and derring-do without a net. Just below them, a giant urn filled with the names of departed loved ones is set afire. (The young woman twisting and twirling at the end of the silk in this video is a friend of mine!)

Bonus footage!

Friday, November 5, 2010

FLASH FICTION (tasty morsels of profundity)

The Ninety-Nine Cent Store was
doing a brisk business... until the
Ninety-Eight Cent Store moved
in across the street. The owner
hung his head and wept. "Why
didn't WE think of that?" he sobbed.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010


The last eligible Big Shot
quaffs his drink
and strolls from the piano bar
into the incandescent night.

Large folks
who are livin' large
linger at the all-you-can-eat buffet.

A brash lightweight boxer
jitterbugs with his girlfriend
who resembles Olive Oyl
and feels he is in a Popeye cartoon.

The last of the early evening joggers puffs by,
making sedentary bystanders feel like slackers.
She takes a break at the park
where young boys are laughing
and urinating in front of her.
She has lingering questions
about the human gene pool.

Not far away, burning the midnight oil in his office,
the devoted clerk dutifully cooks the books for the boss.

In a modest house in a middle-class neighborhood,
mom cooks macaroni and cheese again tonight,
cutting corners, though the family's income
is close to the median figure for the area.

 Next house over,
upstairs in her bed,
Janie dreams of her teenage lover
and draws pentagrams in her school notebook,
ignoring the history assignment for tomorrow.

The big shot, ensconced in his cozy pad,
calls his almost-ready-to-leave-him girlfriend
and makes an offer she cant refuse.
Tickets to an off-Broadway show
and a spacious hotel suite.
Though his hopes of buying her love for a lifetime are illusory, 
he is thick-skinned, and will play his hand.

Outside a convenience store
two clerks on break trade jokes.
Cigarette smoke hangs in the air
like an unanswered question.
They speculate about global warming and toxic sludge.
A customer approaches, intent on drawing himself a Slurpee.

Movie goers spill from the lobbies,
the soles of their shoes gummy with unknown substances,
the boxer and his beanpole among them.
Embellishing his record, he regales her
with tales of pugilistic prowess.

In a huge tent at the edge of town,
a "Man of God" spits stormy, incendiary words,
dogmatizing the meaning of life--
working his congregation into a frenzy
custom designed for those who would consign their minds.
Then, the laying on of hands,
with special attention awarded to teenage girls.

A gentle breeze passes
and the night settles 
into a respectful silence.

Alone in her apartment,
the jogger snacks on a rice cake.
Her biological clock is ticking,
and she feels 
that she is running
out of time.

The large folks who are livin' large
have torn themselves away
from the all-you-can-eat buffet,
driving away
in their Hummers and SUVs--
muttering about the price of gas.

The city encroaches daily
on all that grandpa held dear.
And somewhere in a ravine,
the last wolverine
dismembers the unsuspecting
plumbers helper,
while the man in the moon
looks down...
and smiles.

Saturday, October 30, 2010


He met his maker
in a Studebaker
that crashed head-on
doing ninety

It was whispered
in the halls
that all they found of him
were his balls

The crash scene
reeked of booze
And I remembered his tattoo:
Born to lose

Friday, October 22, 2010


are like
Fruit Cocktail...
the pears
the grapes
the cherries
taste the same
they're drowning
in all that syrup

Tuesday, October 19, 2010


I saw you again
at the last red light
the girl on the billboard
flagging a ride
to catch a flight

But all wings
to the City Of Angels
were grounded by fog
so we taxied around
until we found
a cheap room

There were clean sheets
but no Bible

You kissed me awake
with your haunted eyes
ran your hands
down my worn Levis

We poured the wine
and talked about how it feels

You said: How is it effected
this transformation
from image to cell?
I said: I learned it once
in a madhouse
just a place we called hell
and you're a material witness

With the dawn
a woman's voice
singing an ancient tune

Your picture in the paper
an apparent suicide
from the east side
of the river

The girl on the billboard
at the last red light
the fog had lifted
at last she made her flight

Saturday, October 16, 2010


in a while
some scrappy sonzabitches
beat the odds
when they had no right
to expect it

And the rest of us
fists pumping
our spirits bolstered
as we gamble
on our own tomorrows

Tuesday, October 12, 2010


For One Shot Wednesday

You've come a long way
from the bustle
to the thong

While you're thinking chic
we're thinking CHEEK
but what's been lost
is a certain mystique
that made grandpa
stay with grandma
for half a century
so entranced by finally laying
eyes upon that which had been concealed
for so long that he never got over it

But now
with nothing left to the imagination
could it be that men will find
that we are REALLY more attracted to your mind?

Friday, October 8, 2010


SNORE Productions presents: BUZZKILLERS!

For the first time ever in one collection, here are twelve of the most insipid, inane, stupid, boring, draggy, guaranteed to put you to sleep songs ever to hit the pop charts!

They're all here! The songs that either bored you to tears or drove you to the brink of suicide, as they were played OVER and OVER and OVER again on the radio, or in places (like elevators) where there was no escape!

You might have to wait for hours to hear EACH of these BUZZKILLERS on the radio, and meanwhile, you'd still be wide awake. But not so with this amazing collection! Just slap on the CD and you're on your way to blissful, merciful sleep--knowing that it's your only escape!

"Killing Me Softly" by Roberta Flack. What an apt title! One of the most exasperating songs ever written, as it seemingly never ends--going on and on without the slightest tempo change. And what the hell is strumming my pain supposed to mean anyway?

Plus, you get a BONUS song from Roberta Flack: "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face."
Taken from the Clint Eastwood movie, Play Misty For Me--about a crazed, homicidal groupie who stalks this radio deejay. It seemed poignant in the movie, because it was attached to a steamy love scene-- but out of context, it's hands-down the slowest, draggiest, barely breathing song ever recorded, and any deejay who plays it deserves what he gets from that groupie!

James Taylor's "You've Got a Friend." James Taylor is THE MAN, but there was a period in his career when all he wanted to do was mournful tunes like this one. If you ARE my friend, James, how about some "Steamroller Blues"?

Hey, we're just getting started, folks! No one could forget Debbie Boone's "You Light Up My Life." Pat Boone's daughter--her only other claim to fame besides this song was an acne commercial! Never mind that she couldn't sing--this insipid tune has probably killed more relationships by being played on Valentines Day than any other!

And that brings us to Elvis Presley's "Love Me Tender." It got to the point where anything that had Elvis's voice on it was a guaranteed hit. Even this yawner, with nothing but an acoustic guitar accompaniment strumming like, three chords. As big as he was, you'd have thought they could have afforded some instrumentation.

Oh my God--it's Bobby Goldsboro's "Honey." Okay, she died. Do you have to bring the rest of us down to your level of abject grief, when all we're trying to do is get that report finished so we can hand it in to the boss? Go drink yourself to death and join her! The ultimate tearjerker...too bad if you were in a good mood today.

"Feelings" by Morris Albert. Feeeelings...whoa oh oh feeeelings...trying to forget my... feeeelings of love... We're trying to forget that we ever heard this song. It's not working...aaarrgghhhh...IT'S NOT WORKING!

Next, it's that Merilee Rush classic: "Angel Of The Morning." She shacked up with the guy and he kicked her out in the morning. Now she's claiming to be an angel. By that standard, Madonna is a saint! The beginning of this song sounds like it was lifted from a funeral dirge.

"Don't Give Up On Us Baby" by David Soul. So saccharin, there should be a warning label that says this song may be hazardous to your health. She dumped you already, dude. No amount of pleading is going to get her back--plus, she stole your TV. How did this guy have the nerve to use SOUL for his last name?

"You Don't Bring Me Flowers" from Barbara Streisand and Neil Diamond. No, you don't bring me flowers anymore. You won't even get up off your dead ass to bring me a beer. This is what relationships eventually fall into. It happens. But this song never should it over yet?

Don't go away--there's more! Yes, it's Bette Midler's "Wind Beneath My Wings." You supported me...I took all the glory...and now I'm throwing you a bone by writing this song for you, my good friend. More like the wind beneath my BUNS--get it?

And last but certainly least, we have "Tie A Yellow Ribbon" by Tony Orlando. The only bouncy tune in this collection. It's cute, the first time you hear it--but by the 500th time, you want to smash your radio against the wall! And all those yellow ribbons people started desecrating the trees with...uh, pardon me, but you're trespassing on my property, JERK!

There you have it folks! Be one of the first one thousand people to order BUZZKILLERS and we'll throw in a FREE alarm clock to get you up in the morning after your restful sleep!

(WARNING: Avoid listening while driving--WILL cause drowsiness.)

Tuesday, October 5, 2010


For One Shot Wednesday

I'm gonna love you till...

The stars fall from the skies
Till all the lakes and rivers run dry
Till the eyes roll back inside your head
Till all the Osmond Brothers are dead

I'm gonna love you till...

You're weak in the knees
Till Stephen King stops killing all the trees
Till Madonna bares nothing but her soul
Till Santa stops filling my stocking with coal

I'm gonna love you till...

Justin Bieber is an old fuddy-duddy
Till Dick Cheney stop shooting his hunting buddies
Till Ugly Betty takes off those stupid looking glasses
Till gas prices stop kicking our asses

I'm gonna love you till...

I eat some chocolate covered ants
Till Britney Spears puts on some pants
Till O.J. finds the real killer
Till I have a wet dream about Phyllis Diller

I'm gonna love you till...

All the Hummer owners put the earth ahead of their egos
Till all the guys with beer guts quit wearing speedos
Till Kathy Lee Gifford promises never to sing
Till Pee Wee Herman stops fooling with his thing

I'm gonna love you till...

All the CRAP that's made in China is safe again
Till they get those muhfugging snakes off this plane
Till the Grinch Who Stole Christmas is apprehended
Till all the holes in my BVDs are mended

I'm gonna love you till...

Sarah Palin wins another election
Till I figure out what to do with this four hour erection
Till I start up a band that's called "The Schmucks"
Till health care in America no longer sucks

I'm gonna love you till...

Hillary is back in the White House
Till you spay or neuter your spouse
Till The Blue Man Group looks pretty in pink
Till Glenn Beck stops raising such a stink

I'm gonna love you till...

Donald Trump lives in a one room shack
Till Kirstie Alley skips a snack
Till those greedy bastards extract the last drop of oil from the earth
Till the Octomom stops giving birth

I'm gonna love you till...

Pluto is reinstated as a planet
Till Jimmy Hoffa is found encased in granite
Till Ted Nugent becomes a vegetarian
Till Paris Hilton becomes a great humanitarian

I'm gonna love you till...

Lucy stops screwing with Charlie Brown's head
Till all the starving children are fed
Till The Ghost of Christmas Past comes to bite me on the ass
Till somebody explains to me what the appeal is of Rascal Flatts

I'm gonna love you till...

The men's crapper at the Denver Greyhound bus station gets the doors back on its stalls
Till Lindsay Lohan stops climbing the walls
Till Natalie Holloway is found
Till Simon and Garfunkel are homeward bound

I'm gonna love you till...

Someone decides what's wrong and what's right
Till I don't have to pee in the middle of the night
Till all the wars are fought by politicians
Till the children of the ghetto have decent living conditions

I'm gonna love you till...

We stop insulting seniors by calling them "Honey"
Till they find all of Bernie Madoff's money
Till we understand that borders are only in our minds
Till a man takes a stroll on Mars just to see what he finds
Till the nuclear missiles are removed from their pads
Till babies grow up again with DADS
Till every homeless person has a warm place to sleep
Till an eye-for-an-eye becomes turn the other cheek
Till mercy and justice prevail
Till I get my tax refund check in the mail

I'm gonna love you till I put out the dog and bring in the cat...
Do YOU wanna be loved like that?

Monday, September 27, 2010


Down in the canyon near the white hotel
there grows a flower whose spirit
belongs more to the sky than to the earth,
and if you listen closely when the wind is right
you can hear it singing "I Get The Blues When It Rains."

Inside the white hotel our eyes met with no formal introduction.
I was a writer who had run out of ink.
You were a fly-by-nighter trying to wangle a drink--
a nun on the run who no longer made a habit
out of seeing the world in black and white.
And me, just out of seminary school,
still wet behind the ears,
but ready to get my feet wet as well.

We were like wind chimes on the verandah--
when the wind sang we all chimed in,
anthem to a blue chrysanthemum
that grows in the winding Canyon Of Love.

When you sang, you thought you were Billie Holiday.
I thought I was Billy The Kid,
so I stuck my gun in your ribs
and said, "Your honey or your life!"
We were busy as bees after that,
holing up in our hive--
room eleven-oh-five--
listening to jive and getting a buzz on.
You moved like music
and you tried every number on me you knew.

All summer I roamed your hills and valleys
where orgasms in dark chasms
brought on the rain.

When the season ended you sent me packing,
lugging your baggage and mine...
you were traveling light.

Making a bee-line for the exit,
you trampled the blossom
that longed only for the same kind of freedom.

Now I'm standing here in these juicy shoes...
Oh Jesus, I've got to think about that one...
think about why I drank the dank skank of your love,
when all you ever said to me was, "HELLO, ROOM SERVICE?"

Down in the street a forlorn horn
laments what should have been a foregone conclusion
to one so prone to illusion,
as the mist forms upon my window
and I think about a flower
that sang, "I Get The Blues When It Rains."

Friday, September 24, 2010


Many thanks to Cindy at:

Protocol normally dictates that you pass the award on to others, but singling anyone out (and perhaps giving the impression of snubbing others) would be difficult for me-- so instead I will dedicate this award to all of the lovely folks in blog land I've come to know and appreciate for their wit, humor, passion, and dedication to craft.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010


For One Shot Wednesday

I first saw you pouting
in the magazine I hid in my bedroom
when I was twelve--
the year I resolved that breasts
were the coolest thing since Elvis Presley
I was looking for the secret in your eyes
but they never revealed it...
and I still don't know who you are

I was eighteen
a bit of a late bloomer
you already a faded rose
when you gave me that first driving lesson
in the front seat of my Chevy--
and though you'd been around the block
you failed to warn me that a steering wheel
lodged in one's butt crack on a deserted Missouri backroad
makes for an unsteady ride

Seventeen summers were yours
and I'd chalked up twenty-two
on the night of our first cautious caress
all the perfumed blossoms and you
sending me into sensory overload
I was getting good in the clinches
and there in your backyard you pleaded with me
to climb through your bedroom window
and go for the gusto
play it fast and loose while your parents--
too square to have a clue--
were zonked out down the hall

Discretion proved the better part of valor
until the night at Fat Bruce's house
where we made up for lost time--
sleepless in Cedar Rapids--
while he scoured the city for belladonna
or nutmeg
or anything that might give him some altitude

You left me high and dry in Key West
when you hit the road with my friend...
and I still don't know who you are

I met you again in the summer
in Panama
where you told me I must have had some upbringing
because I held my fork continental style
not realizing I was left-handed
and it just seemed a more natural way to maneuver
Back at the hotel we put the moves on each other--
every afternoon the rains came
and we followed suit
I screwed
my companions
and we headed north in your green Beetle

When we had used up all of Latin America
you dumped me at the Newport Beach bus station
with fifty bucks left in my pocket
trying to explain how you didn't like goodbyes...
and I still don't know who you are

Once I stole you away from my buddy
who had spent one night with you
and showed up at your room the next morning
to find us tangled among the sheets

You said you'd once worked as a courier
for certain underworld concerns
and the aura of intrigue
clung to you like cobweb

Trying to clear customs
from a three day sojourn to Curacao
we were invited into the back room
for an intimate inspection of our belongings...
and I still don't know who you are

One winter you took the elevator
up to the radio station in Penthouse One
I slapped on the long version of
and stood monitoring its progress
through the plate glass window
as you got into the groove
and did what you said you'd do over the phone--
on your knees there on the roof garden
the lights of San Juan shimmering around us

When your girlfriend came outside
I flinched
you didn't miss a beat...
and I still don't know who you are

I've seen you on the streets of
New York
and Paris
brushing by me as you head in the opposite direction
and I study your face for the answer

You've dogged my tracks
and I've hounded your trail
through so many lifetimes
I've lost count
and still you return--
to a poetry gathering
where you try to be inconspicuous
but I know that you're here
for when I glanced around the room
our eyes locked for just a moment
then you looked away...

YOU know who you are

Friday, September 17, 2010


B.S. makes the world go round. We now know that everyone from presidents on down routinely fabricates the truth, and no one thinks anything of it. We've developed a buyer beware mentality about everything.

Television, of course, is the great lie conduit. Where else can a car dealer tell you one thing to your face, while simultaneously flashing contradictory statements at the bottom of the screen in letters so small that no one without an electron microscope can read it?

Our convoluted sense of ethics says that the fine print absolves us of telling the truth, and the advertiser is counting on a certain percentage of dummies who don't look past the surface. If we had a real truth in advertising law, those commercials that depict people winning at the casinos would also have to show that the seedy-looking nicotine addicts who are blowing their rent checks far outnumber the winners.

And those famous "Be All You Can Be" spots for the military that only mention the educational opportunities would also have to explain that when you sign up, you're relinquishing your right to think for yourself, and may be required to murder people in a third-world country at the whim of some politicians.

But there are no such laws, so is it any wonder that most people think that the government is feeding us a crock of doody about the UFOs? (You knew that I'd get around to this someday, didn't you?)

Now, finally, the truth can be told. (Read the oh-so-small disclaimer at the bottom of this page which states that, for our purposes, "truth" means the same as my opinion.)

In the beginning, the flying saucers were being piloted by authentic, card-carrying space aliens. There WAS a crash at Roswell, and some of the extraterrestrials survived. From them we learned how their technology works. The Air Force, in conjunction with General Motors, produced its own line of saucer-shaped craft. (Planned obsolescence, of course--with new, redesigned models each year. )

The aliens that were flying the friendly skies were gradually driven off by the Air Force pilots, who were like teenagers with learner's permits--it wasn't safe up there. Today, most of the 'UFOs" are ours--many of them developed at that super secret base in Nevada that nobody can get close to. At first, the flyboys were making test runs--now they're up there joyriding just to screw with our heads.

And yes, the government has been abducting its own citizens, beaming then aboard the saucers and conducting medical experiments. It's an easy and diabolical way to do it, because the feds know that everyone will think the victims are crazy when they tell their stories. Ozzy Osbourne has been on some of these flights--and so has Lady Ga Ga...which accounts for the abductees who describe their captors as grotesque looking creatures.

Maybe someday the real aliens will come back, because their original purpose was to help us save ourselves from ourselves...and time is growing short. These guys have been there, and they contemplate us with heavy hearts.

They know we've upset the balance of nature by failing to recognize the other species of this world as our kin--by failing to comprehend that their fate will become our fate. They know that the longer we peer mesmerized into television screens and computer screens, the less we will see.

They know we haven't read the fine print.