Sunday, May 31, 2015

 
Image


Indians said never
a tornado where two
rivers meet. There,


after the roar, my
fingers prove shredded,


after coiling through
a chain-link fence.


Dare gaze up to a green
broil of sky to see how


a nude woman hangs
from a black rag-

ged tree by her long, 
so-bright hair.


I won’t ever forget it!
Nor, now, will you.

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Saturday, May 30, 2015

 

Whammies


Since Chucksy stammered, no one
would listen to his improvement
to the common garden spade.

None in Heaven, so he's blocked now.

He's beautifully articulate there, 

but language needs imperfection.

Aesthetically.

And a measure of raw, shameless
chutzpa.

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Friday, May 29, 2015

 

Brightening a Suburb


Bide-a-Bit lets Dad take the bus.


So, making strides.


Sensation of the platform!


In an orange leisure suit, bell bottoms wider than the world!

What I got out of him--and it wasn’t easy-- laundry workers had struck, and this is what he had left.

He is to be Sonny to Mrs McGiller’s Cher in their next show of decrepits.
I pulled the Benz into the garage.Thank God for tinted windows!


Left him. I still had vital business via cell.


What the hell! He had a TV, and picnic leftovers in the spare frig.


Jeanette stormed back around ten from her law job, totally pissed.


She’d hop upstairs with a pitcher of Manhattans.


And, be snoring in no time.


But...the snoring came first from the garage! Had forgotten the vodka punch on the frig’s bottom shelf!


Lemon slices, only, left.


Way it goes.


When Noppie gets home from Chick-Fill-A shift, I have him pour Orange Grandpa into his shitbox and take him back.


Cost just ten.

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Thursday, May 28, 2015

 

Enchanted Cottage


I’m asked to visit Marlene by Clifford.

She has asked for me.

I join him there and we walk a path actually covered
with rose petals, to her Hansel and Gretel cottage.

She’s lucky there. Most other patients in wards.

Has forgotten me. So I refresh her. “My daughter,
Barbara, goes to Cornell. I call her Clancy.”

This delights her, as she bustles about the small kitchen
repeating Clancy and laughing.

Clifford and I sit on children’s chairs nearby, displacing dolls.

She brings the tea and crumb cakes, and puts the works on
the bitty table.

Pretend. A child’s tea set and little pewter plates.

We eat, she the gracious hostess indeed!

My mini cup is oft “refilled.” He and I tell her the missing
cakes are delicious.

The doll I replaced, a sailor boy, suddenly collapses,
on the sofa. She jumps up to straighten him up.
“Oh he’s just lazy!”

Raggedy Ann, we’re assured, agrees.

Marlene, before we leave, assumes the tragic adult: “O Captain,
our fearful trip is done!”


Before we get into our cars, Clifford informs me that she called
him Captain once upon a time. “But the rest, Walt Whitman.”

Unfortunately, he tells me, he must divorce her in order to
marry Rosie. “Not your Rosie,” he laughs. Who left.

My heater oddly seems to put out cinnamon later, so I stop at
the bake shop next to LA Bodyworks.

As I drive, extract a crumb bun from the warm carton.

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Wednesday, May 27, 2015

 

Final E


Death and Taxes

So, Rupert Henslow became Rupert Henslowe--
with an e. Again.

That first time, he paid Rippy Baby Taxes, or
about half of his usual.

The real Henslowe given that break since his
father had fought in the terrifyingly stupid
Rippy Campaign that has destabilized that
portion of the world since. The Hawks thirst to
move back in there and do it right on this
occasion. Leave a desert!

But it’s already that.

Mose Maley straightened out things that first
time, and was due again after three years into
the new dodge.

Rupert would get away with the lesser taxes
once more, the leftist government reasoning
that not only the rich should screw the rest
of us on that score. But he has to return
to the old rate in future.

"So Rippy Baby encore, hey? Well I'm gonna
surprise you! You can stay Henslowe with an e.
Your government insists!"

"And pay Rippy Baby...?"

"Absolutely! Forever! Hey, you pay some taxes!
The Gotrocks Master Thieves in this enlightened
society pay squat."

"Nothing at all?"

"Not to worry. They're great patriots!"

"But...the original Rupert Henslowe?"

"Ex!"

"Ex? Ex what? Husband, worker, citizen? What?:

"Try tinguished!"

"Oh my God!"

"Yeah, all this bureaucratic rigamarole between
the two of you pissed off FBI, and they sent a
Swat Team. Nailed him at third base of his
softball team. He was on defense, but not
very well!"

"So...I'm Rippy Baby, period?"

"Barring the same kind of law-enforcement visit."

"In that horrid case, I'm thinking of surrendering my Rippy Baby Privilege?"

"Don't! Your dad fought for it! Well, his dad.
The Extinguished."

"I'm pondering that last word."

"Again, don't. Almost entirely at random really.
It can come to either of us--or not."

"You mean that the FBI picks its person and
then justifies it with the usual smokescreen?"

"Uh huh. Trust to luck. You've had it so far."

"The usual power-political trick: They throw the
dart and then paint the bullseye around it!"

"You're wise beyond your years? But one lousy
host! Where's the booze and dope?"

"How do I know you're not setting me up?"

"Because I revealed so much to you that they
could ice me without trial!"

"Ex you, you mean."

"Same."






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Tuesday, May 26, 2015

 

The One Not There, Stridently


As I was walking down the stair,
I met, not the man who wasn't there,
but the woman. And o my didn't

she assert herself in such absence!
Reminding this nerd of the burning desert,
plus yes, the icy poles. One. Or the other. Or

simultaneous. Many more! So, she’ll not abide
your rapping any one of her away. Ever!

The moral? Don't get trapped in nursery rhymes,
or anywhere at all.



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Monday, May 25, 2015

 

Neighb Asso


At the neighborhood association meeting to plan
the July 4th Picnic, Mackey asks how to vanish
without a trace.

Rosa Tessler, stuck with President this year, answers
“You’re not the type. Just being here shows civic
responsibility...or something.”

“Well, last year I missed, and got stuck with the Beanbag
Toss, and the teens use that for...well, mix marijuana
with lust.”

“Just why we need somebody like you in there policing!”

Bink Hoxley picked up on the “vanishing” theme.

“Impossible in this day and age! Can’t vanish. No way!
We’ll get yuh anyplace.”

Millie Jaegers inquired “Just how old is this Scotch?”--
but that was later at the Thoreau Club meeting.

(Before we get accused of being literary, Thoreau as
in Th-ROW drinks back!)

Old Man Carruthers cracked “Nothing on the label, so at
least a month.”

After everybody got cheaply mellow, Mackey’s question
re disappearing was again taken up. More informally,
if that’s possible.

“Knock off the Dollar Store deodorant, and you gotta
head start!”--from Cliff N. T. Baumer, who could use some.



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Sunday, May 24, 2015

 

Charging Towards Perfection


Her Mind

Glor told Mark it was over, so he returned to his wife
and babies.

And to Ice! No, really. Ice Storm of the Century! Thus,
with Nelly at night school, he sat in the empty house
as it lost power, and contemplated both his lust and
fetching the children the following day from her mother's,
aka Dragon's Lair.

Glor, or course, had simply changed her mind. Again.
The voracious sex lasted five months this time, and Ralph-
the-Mechanic had won the pool at Kippy's Kool Kup, since
it didn't go six.

She became busy writing tiny missives now, to leave in the produce
section of the Acme. To be read by Cal, the young manager.

Poems actually, though lost to posterity when dumped into the
wrong box, of old TV Fan Magazines, by mistake.

One endured. The best one, luckily. Placed in oranges.

Blue?
Try someone new!


Clever lads find such poets, and Cal not long after rented a
bungalow on Appletree Lane.

Glor, this time, went total domestic! Aprons, Apple Pies, even his
lunchtime visits proved more flouncy, though hurried.

"She has found happiness at last!" proclaimed the Professor from
his canted stool at Kippy's.

But, she changed her mind. Lasted over a year though, and no one
won the pool.

Last--in the secular realm--a  cyber millionaire installed her among
the old Pac Mens and a roller rink in his loft apartment-office.

He supplied her with iPhones and iPads no mattter how many she lost.

But...that life was not for her. All the WORKING while pretending it's fun.

She had changed her mind. Since the pool had rolled over, it became
even more interesting when the commissioner ruled that the cyber-guy one was improperly set up. So, another rollover!

Serious money! And he also ruled that anyone who stayed must
throw in an additional hundred. No one left, harder on the Professor,
since the state recently halved his retirement check.

The rules this time: One was to write a two-word depiction of Glor's next move.

Accomplished, and placed in the greasy tub that Slippery Skinny
had brought from the Roxy after devouring the popcorn therein.

When she announced, the new contents would be solemnly 

brought out.

She did!

And the winner was Nun, Nepal.

Glor said Thailand, but the commissioner ruled close enough!

Hector Watts, the deathly quiet accountant, took home a couple

of thousand or so!

Actually, Glor, ultimately rejected both exotic locales--"Stinking
long ride on a stinking airplane!"--for Jersey City.

Mother Superior Veronica-Marie was taken by this serial sinner
with a burning vocation!

Everybody always was infatuated by our Glor, the Church only
the latest to break down.

And such a novice! Holy too small a term!

Well. Okay. This one not profaned by a pool, but she, uh,
changed her mind before the point of no return. Again.

In a first, went back to the Cyber Dude. There a third of
the floorspace devoted to her painting studio with its
garish abstracts, and Super-Morning-Six has interviewed
her and shown her work.

We are not surprised, having seen her artistic side with the poetry.

Good Morning America wanted to come in too, but she
snubbed them at the last minute.

Too immersed in painting her life. Her Life! LIFE!



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Saturday, May 23, 2015

 

triple-butch beach vball player has beaten up a few boys


Designer brought in to soften. Now, outfits she wears off-court
feminine, despite herself.

Mr Z-Andre also photographs her on Easter Sunday at the
Presbyterian Church of Coconut Grove. Normal, and even pretty.
Floppy-white hat, too, un-hawks her.

But on-court? Pure menace!

So he pins a fragment of a frilly scarf. Floats above her strenuousness, 

powder rose.

Emails pour in from men--as he had predicted.

“How come a faggot knows so much about straight men?” pipes
Lippy Snelling, in charge of the balls.

“The question answers itself!” she informs him, with a punch taking
his breath!

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Friday, May 22, 2015

 

Mickey Katz and the Climate Kiljoys



Jordy stretched. At six feet and unbelievable
suppleness. All of which translated to
mega-sexy to some men. Most.

As a little girl, she was a gymnast, and coaches
foresaw an Olympic champ! But her post-hippie
parents gave her the decision, and she told
them she preferred the pre-practice stretching
to anything.

So, that’s all she did for years, with the exception of
touring with a woman’s volleyball team. There, she
lacked the fire to really spike one into an opponent’s
face.

But she saw a portion of the world, instructive in
placing herself later.

So, she happened! That is, she would show up in
a selected place, and stretch.

Crowds gathered, to say the least.

Her first outfits were a sort of abbreviated middy.
Sailor kind of stuff with little white cap.

A manufacturer sponsored her after a while, and
his version of the middy for teens sold out in an hour!

Since the more aggressive men tried approaching her,
a security firm hired.

In here somewhere, MIT studied her body. They found
everything in the right place. In spades! And a sort
of one-of-a-kind double-jointedness.

The sexual appeal which left men panting and moaning
was not of academic concern.

She had a float in the St Patrick’s Day Parade. Stretching above
a double blue ring of police officers.
 

Even the Times remarked on her micro Notre Dame cheerleader
outfit. “In The Wearing of the etc, not much green to be seen.”

She wore it again a month later, stretching before the Jesuit
seminarians of Markham, Massachusetts. The State Police
had to be called to bolster her own security guys.

How many young men lost their vocation is anybody’s guess.
 

But the "Markham Moan" eventually heard even in little kids’
playgrounds everywhere.

Rome came in later and changed the architecture: no outfacing
windows, everything looking down on an inner rose garden
courtyard where women forbidden.

Church claims they’re not, but they are.

On the Late Show, Bipsy Harsell ordered them to cut to
commercials when Jordy showed new moves.

In the interview portion she claimed celibacy, but “The one man
is out there somewhere with the magic key!”

Cell towers got overwhelmed all over America.

She, of course, went international. A Lily Marlene in tiny muslin
scraps in Berlin. A kind of Maggie Thatcher, licentious milkmaid--
or something--in London. Her sole mistake.

But, she saved it all for Paris. She became Lindbergh, stretching
for all she was worth before a replica Spirit of St Louis against
a foggy night crossed with searchlights.

Crowd in excess of three hundred thousand!

There she was very briefly spirited away by Sorbonne
students, all of whom got bloodied.

After a long rest, her next gig was to be The Native
People’s Meeting in Northernmost Canada. “Inuit Maid.”

But it was effectively stopped by Mickey Katz and the
Climate Kiljoys of Miami Beach, representing all Florida
beach communities. They reasoned that the body heat
alone would shrink icebergs and probably flood Florida.

They didn’t think that Jordy could do it alone...but
Mickey wisecracked that particular way.

Well, Jordy retired after that, not wanting to hurt
the ecology for following generations.

She lives unknown in an unnamed town.

But that might change since the new president,
a drunk, wishes to declare her a National Monument.



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Thursday, May 21, 2015

 

Raising Bridge or Lowering River


Roper got sick of doing things the same way.

But when he changed, too disorienting.

To the point of illness: queasiness and unrelenting fear.

Well, enough was enough. He had tried when nobody
else would!

So, attempted switching back.

No go. A surprise that the government and corporations*
militated against it. Adoring status-quo usually!

His personal channel popped on, and a committee of professors
explained that his new way, difficult as it was proving, was the
future, that he was a pioneer, a rebel in the accepted sense that
the government was now mysteriously encouraging.

A box slid into he upper right of the screen. Mr Hepplewhite
telling him not to report to work. Congratulatory? Terrified?

A knock! NOW what? Just a Rick Kelsey, explaining that wife
and children have been removed, so don't bother yelling at
them for breakfast.

"Just to relatives. Erase the visions of terminal camps."

He'd be glad to eat their eggs instead. And clean up.
He’s detailed to help "Ropes" in every way. Later they'll
watch videos further elucidating the Authorities' new position.

For now they'll chant slogans. Those always relax.

Especially before eating.



(*Some would say they're the same thing, but such ones have disappeared.)

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Wednesday, May 20, 2015

 

Philosophy, at its finest, in, therefore, dialog of sorts


-It’s gotten too involved with scratch-ass preachers,
so...what is the Republican Philosophy anyway?

-Leave us the fuck alone. We’re piling up money here
and don’t need no pansy regulations!


-Soft pedal that and you get the Democrats.

-Unfair! They WILL toss a bone to Poor and
Middle Class.

-Why do you never toss a bone in a roomful
of rapacious Republicans?

-That’s an entirely stupid question!

-I went to college.

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Tuesday, May 19, 2015

 

Happy Hogan's Motor Court


I lived with my sister, Crestview Apartments. No criminals there.
Or at Darsell Acres, or Melody Falls Condos.

But if you were to draw a rope around the three, you’d pretty
much gather all the folks not incarcerated in the city of Laurel Vista.

Prisons and jails being the main municipal feature.

I commuted to my job as Chicken Inspector, at the Cluck-Cluck
Farm in Bent Oak.

Well, Sis and I called it that, the job. Anyway, Foreman of an
operation it’s needless to go into. Think feathers.

One day I was tried, arrested, and sent to Daryl Bell Hoxey
Private Prison.

The work of Judge Streamline Carter! Actually, the trial had been
held without my knowledge. Then, they sent the officers to take
me into custody.

“Well, it’s only two years, and I’ll get out in one,” I counseled Sis
while we read the order as the cops fidgeted.

Lynne put up with nothing! And I had to be ripped from her grip.

They never named the charge, by the way. And haven’t yet.

But she was down every throat she could find! All authorities
insisted I had my day in court. But I hadn’t, of course.

But everybody she talked to believed it, and waved away facts.
Which is how you become one.

Her efforts did get me transferred from inelegant Hoxey to
a halfway house, the former Happy Hogan’s Motor Court.

A startling resort in the twenties and thirties, but now a
rustic ruin, more or less. But some cottages had been
partially refurbished, and I got one. A third of it Fifties style,
formica everything, and a twelve inch Motorola black and white.

Hey! Quite comfortable! The catering service brought the food
I ordered, and I cooked it myself.

Unfortunately, not much of a chef, which Lynne discovered
after a visit.

So, she moved in. After notifying the Hogans, who were fine
with it. Especially after telling them she was a bookkeeper, and
would straighten out their...uh, you couldn’t call them records,
since the motel part still secretly ran and got mixed up with
the inmates, who would frequently help with luggage for the tips.

Well, you couldn’t tell which from which, and a couple from Rhode
Island had been held a full week past their checkout date.

Courtesy of Bung Slater, who was the ostensible overall warden
over three such “arrangements.”

We’re awfully good friends with the Hogans, dinners at their place
or ours weekly.

Anyway, when my sentence due to end, they persuaded Bung we
tried escaping when we went to Lowes, which we did frequently.

He just winked, so we’re here indefinitely, I guess.

Lynne’s in a fury of remodeling, but kept the thirty-forty-fifty
flavor. Mostly thirty. She threw out the TV!

You’d expect John Dillinger to answer when the door chime 

plays Prisoner of Love.

By the way, I’m no longer a prisoner, but as my fellows toasted
at the banquet, “An honored member of the Enforcement Community.”

Lynne married Chip Hogan, who took over when he finished grad
work at Syracuse. His parents moved to Indialantic, Florida.

Quite an age difference, Chip and Lynne, but he pipes that she’s a
dynamo in the office AND in the bedroom!

The three of us visit regularly and have seen rockets go off at
Cape Canaveral.

Believe it or not, the cons run the operation while we’re gone--
though we question the embezzlers politely upon return.









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Monday, May 18, 2015

 

Plagues, Discussed


-Bubonic Plague in California.


-Comes from bites of fleas living on rats.


-So, go after the vector, yes?


-Rats in major cities vastly outnumber people.


-If capable of organizing, they could have their own mayor and board of aldermen.


-On the federal level, they could take us to war in Iraq.

(Note: Word for word variation of a 
2007 post--depraved motive?)

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Sunday, May 17, 2015

 

Quantum Fatigue


“I get a little tired of arriving there before I leave here.”

“Quantum Fatigue. Know it well. But, worse, I do inspecting,
that is leave my place and transport over a designated
section. Then get home before I left.”

“Loop! Does life consist of them?”

“I don’t know, but I get the feeling I’m always going up
my own ass!”

The air pulsed red. But just once. Vulgarity Warning.

Both had to apologize, though just one had said it.

The innocent one stated “I liked it when we had TV.
Now the air is TV.”

“And everything else!”

Quick Blue flash, which only means Get off the topic.

The two relaxed. Ate the fried eggs they had imagined.

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Saturday, May 16, 2015

 

Nitty Gritty Football


...with a whiff of romance

-So the mild accountant pronounces
the harsh sentence?

-Harsh? We've kept it away from the
Commissioner. In the club only.
You're suspended for one game.

-Be good for my body. Healing. Always
healing.

-Another good for your body will be
to never go into sleazy nightclubs
again! Your trouble stems from the
sterling characters you meet there.
Especially the women!

-God never intended such clever ones
go into the trade!

-If you think they're so...why then o why!
do you end up fighting for them?

-Old-fashioned values!

-Well, spare the club any more of those!

-Huh! They call the owner a Robber Baron!

-THEY call? He's great to work for, and
that's enough for me.

-You kind of guys are quick to judge
the likes of me, but bend over for...!

-You’re wrong there. I only do that for
those I love.

-Do you have a partner?

-Not presently. Try-outs open.

-No thanks. I'm in enough trouble.

-Seriously, you need a male friend who's
not into barroom brawls.

-Culture? Art galleries and fancy music?
Little bitty sandwiches?

-Among others. Consider Ballet! Closer to
the athleticism you probably admire.

-We don't go up on our tippy toes!

-But frequently end up on your back.

-That's football.

-Too bad.

-The culture thing really ain't so far out an idea,
but...uh...?

-Don't worry. I give warning before I predate.

-That's a relief.

-I’m warning you now.

-So aggressive!

-You're used to it.



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Friday, May 15, 2015

 

Other


I know it’s a statistical impossibility, but everyone
else in the waiting room of Baltimore’s Amtrak Station
is Chinese.

When my New York train is called, I gather my things
and join the line going down the stairway to the tracks.

They’ve beaten me to it, the old people the fastest!

Those lingering about the rear look like menacing
wrestlers, but are most polite.

“We ask, please, you get other train.”

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Thursday, May 14, 2015

 

Spirit and Truth


Many Japanese have soft-
ly spoken to trees and

rocks in The Moss-
Covered Forest. Rape

of Nanking kept from
them: understood.

In any case,
moss muffles
history for good.

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Wednesday, May 13, 2015

 

Post Most Everything


-Whatever happened to romantic songs? Boy meet girl,
and everything lovely and soft!

-Up the shit-chute with the rest of the lies, Gramps!

-“Let me put this one on with all the second-rate
violins and gay crooners, and then I’ll show you
something you ain’t seen before, Dearie Mine!”


-“O la, Sir! Well...only thrice!”


-Yeah yeah, you know it all with all the playacting of you two!
And do you really gotta dress like Goths?

-Goths! Goths? Ancient History lecture in next room!

-Anyway, Gramps, we’re actually deconstructing Rock
Deconstuction.

-With “songs” like Silence?

-Hey if Johnny Q and his proud slut wantsa listen
to ten minutes of nothing, that’s their prerogative!

-Utterly stupid!

-Not so! Just the opposite!

-Take a nap, Grandpa!

-I just got up!

-Take another.

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Tuesday, May 12, 2015

 

Scholarship, Ivy,


and Other, Equally Possible

-The third! retest?

-I’ll pass it yet!

-Obviously, bullshit hasn’t sufficed. Get on the net and acquire a fact or two.

-Why bother? That crap’s all in the air!

-All insane things being equal, why not just read the book?

-Fuck him! Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction!

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Monday, May 11, 2015

 

Decision Affecting Ducks


-As Big Bad Republicans, it’s time
to stop the play-acting!

-My best part!

-And reform Social Security!

-Got formula?

-Hardly Draconian! Start on
the receiving end. Twenty-
percent cut across the board.

-Statesman-like. But...whereof
that twenty thereafter?

-Why, half to our Billionaires.

-Faith not being quite its own reward?

-Investment!

-Other ten?

-To me and thee!

-God DOES have a plan!

-Go easy with that, or he’ll have his hand out.

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Sunday, May 10, 2015

 

Sunshine Senior Essay


--giving the Short of It

Oregon is very pretty in the sort of green rocks at the
seashore, pine trees against a boily sky kind of way.

But I like my Florida where it doesn't rain three quarters
of the time! Anyway, happy old camper!

But for some reason it's Oregon trying to sign me up as 

Virtual Citizen. They claim it's only a one-time fee, but 
when did any state quit there?

Mississippi already famous for sending the same tax bills
to virtual as well as actual citizens.

Well, anyway, Oregon is a Democratic state, and claim
they'd never steal the way the Republican ones do.

They got something there. Must be in the genes. That’s the
only way I can understand it.

Be that as it may, I'm getting the new software to block
them all. I say be satisfied with the suckers you got living
there already!

Senator Rapecash--you know who I mean--now that he's
retired he wants just one big nation with no states.

Uh huh? Then the Democrats'll take all your money and
dole back some little bit; the Republicans take it all and 

tell you to go f yourself!

I used to be Republican...or is it Democrat I used to be?

Whatever. You watch both all the time! And that’s the
short of it.

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Saturday, May 09, 2015

 

The Fabrications of Men


POP! goes...


When a whole bunch of them won the lottery, it wasn't that much
for each, but enough for Wrench to retire with his Jill.

Everybody took something from the factory, with management's
blessing. But Wrench requesting a high quality industrial spring
made foreman Carks do additional paperwork.

He built his project in the garage, and then forced it into the
living room.

“My Jill is a better Jack,” he inferred mysteriously to their friends.

Comes the big party and he turns the handle on the big box...

and out pops she dressed as a clown!

Dilly Hambro thought she was having a heart attack!

A feature of their upcoming parties, of course, but, like
everything, grew old.

Soon enough, more of a private thing between the two of them.

So, only once a week now. Thursday, when Wrench hits Kippy's
Kool Kup.

Jill gets inside and waits, but lest you feel sorry for her, it’s
air-conditioned with an office chair and quality reading lamp.

She watches her favorite soap opera on demand, quite absorbed
by Dr Kepperson's firing from the Chief Physician's Position, and
taking up with Nurse Evil! O how his wife Veronica suffers! Her thing.

"Buck up, Girl!" Jill admonishes as the show final credits scroll by.

Then she googles recipes on her tablet. Something fast she
can whip up for Wrench after he staggers in and flips the handle.

Fried Flank Steak Jullienes with Secret Sauce. And Mixed with
Mixed Veggies Mixed with Tater Tots!


He’ll turn the lever and she'll pop up saying

The best of cow for us
and with little fuss!


He took poetry in night school once and figures that’s one.

Anyway, no more clown stuff ever: she wears her regular clothes.

(Had to put her foot down during one sordid period when he had
her dressing in a nightie, and wanted to perform some ridiculous
experiments right after. She'd pop up in a rush of  perfume. And then!
Well, she got him to calm down by warning she’d dress as biblical
heroines.)

As...in all marriages...the parties settle in. Settled in.

Then she gets ill. “Don’t worry,” he tells friends, “My Jill will pop again!”

She never does.

But the spring eventually whumphs once more on Bishop Street.

-You're such a nut!...what rhymes with nut?

-Slut?

Mrs Hobart Grimshaw, the druggist's wife, has started walking
by there with Non-Fluffy, the Chinese Crested.

“Why is it certain individuals dive down with their second wives?”

"As for me, one treasure is enough!" Some men know what to say.

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Friday, May 08, 2015

 

Louie Prima, Keely Smith


Her shtick: sing
passionate stuff
poker-faced, stiff.

State Theater Hartford

& band’s half-
jazzy grit. From
Lou, then, too,

so falling to Fluff-Ghinny with
I eat my antipasto twice
just becuz she is so nice!

Second stringers in rankings then.
Like present, critics no fuckin clue.

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Thursday, May 07, 2015

 

Squeezable, and not


Dangerous Air

Twin fads swept the plant!–-hugs and dieting.

The “trees” were safe from the former. (Why risk
puncture wounds?) But, of course, spoke ceaselessly
of the latter in the cult language of anorexics.

Personnel could be blamed for the “Give someone
a hug!” nonsense, a product of their touchy-feely
seminars.

The object of most affectionate therapy was Mandy,
from Shipping. Pleasingly plump, mostly to accountants
who hung around the platform on cigarette or vape breaks,
awaiting their moment.

Her nerves went, and she pretty much stopped eating.
As a result, eventually more gaunt than the most sexless
tree there.

Well, anyway, both fads ran their course, the air becoming
dangerous with the rumor of a new one!

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Wednesday, May 06, 2015

 

Working Conditions


Oh do not ask what is it?
Let us go and make our visit.


Last straw for Henkle, and he
forbade further allusions at
The Flaming Burger.

Difficult to enforce, since mostly
Lit Grads on the counter.

“Bring back the Sociology Majors!"
he insisted. "All talk and no point,
but at least not fancy!”

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Tuesday, May 05, 2015

 

The Proxy


A little used device, but when I was offered
a deal to stand in as a proxy in a white collar
trial, I accepted.

That way, Mr________used the time to keep his
swindling ways going.

My lawyer instructed me to always appear
attentive, which is more than I can say for
the jury. Each took turns snoozing.

Judge Buchanan looked disgusted! At them,
at me, at the evidence, and at my lawyer’s
inane twisting of it.

The trial dragged on. No sweat: I’m paid by the day.

In the seventeenth day, I found out why he was
called Crazy Bucky.

He dismissed the jury and declared my heinous crimes
merited Capital Punishment.

Whereupon, he declared me guilty, and scheduled
sentencing the following day.

Naturally I pled proxy then, the wrong guy, etc.

“You’re the only defendant we’ve got presently.”

But the lawyer and I begged successfully for an
additional day.

“Oh all right! I’ll play golf instead!”

“You’re in deep shit!” cried the lawyer when the
judge blackly fled. "Your only hope is that something
happens to the nut!”

I lacked such power. I thought. But in my dream
that night I saw Crazy Bucky shoot from his limo in
the garage, rushing to a small toilet for the
attendants. He expired in that mean place,
on its mean throne.

Actually.

In a week the governor’s limo dropped that August
Personage at my apartment.

He brought a signed pardon. Which operated for
me and the real crook.

Be that as it may, the governor hoped I’d use my
power for the good of the Commonwealth, and
gave me a dedicated phone, where bureaucrats
could call me.

A wonderful antique, red with a rotary dial, and
salvaged from a torn-down firehouse. A wall job.

Quite the bright spot in my sparse apartment.
No one, of course, calls.

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Monday, May 04, 2015

 

Hate Mail


Why Swirtzy received so much hate mail remains
a mystery. The hate was rarely directed at him
personally, but at every other target imaginable.

One group sought to destroy the Congress
at one explosive swoop. Another to destroy all
Congresses everywhere. Mostly from the right;
left lacks brio here.
 

No longer enough room in his mailbox,
so the apartment super gave the mailman
a duplicate key to Swirtzy's storeroom.

Heppy, the Super, declared it a fire hazard
soon after, and offered to load his pickup with
the hate and drive to a landfill.

That's when FBI and Homeland Security stepped in.
Evidence, and must be preserved. The storage room
was sealed, and Mrs Geddings had to give hers up,
moving her spare Hummel menagerie to her apartment.

Swirtzy was so bland, it was hard disliking him, but she
was an expert.

The hometown police drove him to the downtown
offices of both Security Guardians, and he was
grilled separately on the premise that there had to be
more to him than meets the eye.

There wasn't. Less. Their extensive sex questions
especially proved duds. He had none to speak of.

Lucy Hellickson, Lie Detector Operator, dozed. “I gotta
get married!” she told Agent Bellsome, “out half the
week got me whacked!”

Finally the agents labeled him HHN, Hapless,
Hopeless Nerd. Since they had thousands of
leads from his storerooms, they no longer needed him.

So they moved Swirtzy from the mail, with a new
name, to a glacial lake somewhere. He became
a watchman for an empty company that had
moved to Vietnam.

He has been offered a computer to email his
few chums from the old neighborhood, but
turned it down. He knows it would be flooded
by the crazies.

So, when not working, he sits and stares
into the blue lake.

How productive a stare is anybody's guess.
But that's the case with everyone.

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Sunday, May 03, 2015

 

The Outsized Skills of Smaller Women


-Do you always leave rooms at propitious times?

-My escape clause.

-Your Linda really let one go!

-Goodness!

-Not a bit of that! Like a canon!

-Boom!

-But sustained also.

-You can’t have it both way.

-I got it all ways! Staggering!

-Get a grip!

-For such a small woman she...

-‘s my Magnificent Obsession!

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Saturday, May 02, 2015

 

An Innocent Anent


Young Raxxy invited to the Big Christmas Party,
unheard of for a first-year employee.

Unfortunately, the cruder types said things
such as "Who did YOU blow?" They turned
everything to teasing sex. No surprise there.

And were, of course, jealous.

Mrs Carker and Ms Miller schooled on what
to say in the receiving line. Light. Pleasant.

They rehearsed him in the warehouse, cardboard
boxes representing the founder and his usually
soused wife.

Ms Miller put her hand on his ass to represent
what the wife might do, and the women couldn't
stop laughing.

Came the Big Night and he blushed a bit while
wishing the  couple Merry Christmas, and
mentioning the snow promised by the hysterical
local channel.

Whereupon Dr Massey gripped his hand super-
tightly, looked scarletly terrified, and died.

There were jokes after a suitable period,
and a bit of celebrity.

But immediately after, Detective Minsker
and Patrolman Held kept exploring his
comment as to the snow.

Raxxy seemed permanently red to them, suspicious.

Minsker finally told Held to let the young 

man go. “These pure types piss me off no end!”

“Frauds, like everybody else.”

“Yeah, but we can't pinch him for being an asshole.”

Darlene Billingsly-Marks finally told him that all
the girls at work were scared of him.

"But I'm not."



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Friday, May 01, 2015

 

Dialog By Northern Water


-You were giving me the history of the cannery.

-Not much left up there. When everything got
so fished out, Mom and Dad sold the prefab
buildings to the Japanese.

-So, just that warehouse thing remains.

-Yes, and in good shape. Last year the Norwegians
bought the machinery. That's my retirement, and
when Social Security kicks in, off to Florida...
well, one thing holds me here.

-Which is?

-Back up a bit to right after the Norwegians
loaded their trucks. I walked through the
hulk once a week, checking to see if any
critters broke in etc. All fine, except six
months ago?

-Momma and Papa Bear?

-A man.

-Squatter? Off with him!

-We looked at each other, and formed an
understanding. He'd watch out for things.

-Never spoke?

-Never. A rule.

-Well, how did he live? There's no electricity
or anything. How did he keep warm, cook?

-It gets good sun, and while not exactly cozy...
And he...carried in furniture from somewhere. 

Maybe he’s a raw foodie, because he doesn't cook.

Hey! Now that we're the Oldy-Fishy-Villagey
with attendant crappy souvenirs, no shortage of
restaurants. He enjoys life. Seems to. Something...
familiar about him.

-There's still a...danger in...

-He's quite the neat one! I have a sense of security.

-You should talk to him, even charge a nominal
rent or something. Did you consult your lawyer?

-Stop it! Why monkey with simplicity? Besides,
WE have often talked, the two of us here present,
about charity: how we give to quake victims in
Indonesia or somewhere, but neglect wretches
close by? Well, I'm not neglecting this one.

-Charity begins in your warehouse?

-Why not? It’s pretty easy.

-One thought–-if you excuse the expression? With all your
cameras and darkroom here--and you're really a throwback...?

-I don't have a picture of him.

-I'd get one.

-But...I do of her.

-Her? WHO her?

-A couple of weeks ago, he became...

-You're pulling my leg now!

-Very attractive female clothes, and the little
place even more spruced up: curtains and
doilies.


-Maybe it's someone else.

-No, you can tell--even though I didn't get the best look. 

It's the same person, but female.

-Is this the LAST bizarre twist in  the story, or must
you sustain the Victorian crap even longer?

-Dr Jekyll and Mrs Hyde? That's rich! Anyway, I felt even
more secure with her up there. Women better at detail.

-I think it's sick, you think it's healthy!

-But, as you suggest, I do finally get a picture. Which...is here!

-So domestic! Frilly even!

-And...compare it to THIS old one.

-Oh no! Oh no! I don't need a ghost story too!
That’s where you’re going. I know you!

-My mother when she led the Women's Club.

-Identical! Jesus H. Christ on a bicycle!

-Yup. Mom "lives" up there now, having forced
out the other woman. She was always a strong 

person, that's for sure.

-Have you...spoken...?

-Wouldn't dare! She was ever the intensely
private one in this house. She’ll pick the time.

-I'm shattered! Anything to drink, or have you
drained it all into your fevered imagination?

-No time! I can see Mom approaching through my
un-curtained window. You were always a favorite of
hers as a very little boy.

-If she comes in, I faint.

She did, and he did.

If this were Hitchcock, she’d prove an actress
from Central Casting, and he’d pay her off.
but Mother didn’t linger, given the situation.

She enters and sort of instantly leaves.

More or less departs permanently.

He eventually sells out to a toy distributor, and moves
to Cocoa Beach, on the border with Cape Canaveral.

Enjoys hearing the rockets go up.


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