Tuesday, March 29, 2022
end
-(sings) I'll take you home AGAIN, Kath...
-Another stupid song?
-I thought...your name being K...?
-My mother Irish, father kike.
-Oy! Begorah!
-I hate you!
-Witless, it's a leap for you.
Labels: dumb, incompatible, Irish, Jewish, wit, witless
Friday, March 30, 2018
The man who decided to do it anyway
regardless
of us,
who had gotten,
you see,
his Irish up.
He won’t change
for hottest spite
these
banging
years.
Though outward signs
of Yankee normality
prevail, dreams rip
our usual hands,
but not his.
And he laughs.
A fair disaster
and so he laughs!
Like life’s
a sale where
you buy your
own wind.Labels: conformity, Irish, peer pressure, peers, rebellion, stubborn
Friday, September 01, 2017
Debaters
First at bat, Hercule,
a weirdly-accented
Belgium who knew
literally everything!
Ask him, he'll tell you.
Our Irishman, Large-Mouth
Cass, labeled him “Poirot
without the Brains.” --This in
his middle range: he speaks about
four octaves usually.
Mostly the keening upper one.
The argumentative trio rounded
off by Belle-Claire, an American
Midwesterner warmly calm, until
a final rapier thrust to win her
the day.
Last Thursday's donnybrook
left them exhausted! No winner.
The topic?
What's the difference?
Since it always devolves to
Personality.
Then Cass whispered "All in all,
I'm glad I went to school.
Glory to the Brothers of Saint
Ambrose, and to Trinity College!"
The other two nodded. And they
never, ever, did that!
Labels: argument, Belgium, education, Irish, Mid-Western, personality, Poirot, Trinity
Tuesday, April 04, 2017
Important!
Brel finally decided
in order to get the rest
of them off his back!
Then almost immediately,
felt sick.
He confided in Rugsy.
"I feel...The Great Pretender.
Some of our friends are
rational, do things step
by step. They're happy!"
“Seem to be. Whereas you throw
the dart and then draw the
bullseye around it.”
“I give anything to know what
I was doing!”
“Ah but you do. Called doing
what the fuck you please,
and screw everybody and
everything else!”
“That bad?”
“Bottom line: You're just a
stubborn Irishman.”
“But I'm a Frog!”
“Not in this!
Labels: decide, French, Frog, Great Pretender, Irish, irrational, making decision, rational
Saturday, March 04, 2017
Beside The Dark Sea in its Brood or Rush
She reopened the cottage after
her stay in the States with
the children.
Skyped her "Good Scrub" to them,
and then showed off her baking.
She didn't tell them, but she spoke
to him as she increased the fire
of an evening.
“Well, Wild Heart! Like the wind
out there. And myself not a bit
changed either. A pair indeed!”
Labels: Family, good scrub, homey, Irish, Irish Widow, sea, Skype, snug, storm, wild, wild heart
Saturday, October 29, 2016
Loud Harp
or Inner Travail of the Outspoken
The man who did what he could
died mildly.
In a shocker, the Catholics
gave him a spiffy funeral mass.
A last-minute convert, and his wife
contributed a badminton court to
the priests.
Friend, Denholm O’Toole, or Den-O,
spat that “They’ll chase a cock, this time
feathered.”
He was through with the corrupt Church!
Throw him into the ground when his
time came!
But wife Ginger wouldn't allow it.
Swartzy's wife, Ruth, had offered him their
Temple over the phone before Ginger's strict
ecclesiastical pronouncement. Lightheartedly!
Den-O just coming off a torsion bowel week
at home, nurse Ginger applying Irish Granny
treatments mostly.
Anyway, Ruth undeniably beautiful.
"A thing of beauty is a Jew forever!" he later
shouts to Ginger, earning an extra weekend
of renewed bowel wrench from the Hebrew God.
He's back at work. Fishbelly white. Looking saintly.
Labels: beauty, bowel, Church, Irish, Jewish, priests, rebel, Temple
Saturday, October 24, 2015
The Pretty Memory
"I think of her every day of my life!" Flannery went on
detailing her hair and eyes, and quite tiny foot.
“We couldn’t see each other that we didn’t flood into
each other’s arms!”
Needed Flood Control in those Irish Villages! -from Larks.
"I’ve had romance,” cried Nellie-Dru. “It’s great for humiliation!”
Bert added “Amen Amen I say to you that when a man or
woman so incline, that’s the way they do. No help for it!”
“That’s an incline up to hell and down to rocks!” Nellie-Dru was
certain, but Flannery told her that her images always lack logic
and contradicted themselves.
“Viva contradiction!” Larks shouted.
Flannery said that he may be an old fool, but they‘re young ones!
Nellie-Dru snapped “You don’t convince anyone. You’re really
always Crabapple Jones, no matter the pretty memories!”
“Well, I’m grumping away for the nonce.” Every afternoon, he
looked to see Deirdre again. Though she’s an old lady who
probably stays in Ireland.
No one resembled her in Barnes and Noble, but a Jennie intrigued.
She was learning to stock shelves under the tutelage of one,
Mickey-Mac.
“I’m retired, but the pension buys few skittles,” she remarked to him.
Flannery pretended interest. She had the hair like his beloved, though
dumpy otherwise.
He engaged them through a discourse highlighting how difficult
it is to learn a new task. “And then one day everything clicks!”
Mickey-Mac, first puzzled, nodded.
She smiled uncertainly, but seemed reassured.
Anyway, they both took an instant like to him. No wonder!
When old crabs dial up the charm, it’s a miracle ranking
with Loaves and Fishes.
Labels: Barnes and Noble, books, friends, Irish, memory.love affair, Old Age, Romance
Saturday, October 17, 2015
His Evolution
After he started thrashing, Cecily insisted on twin beds,
cluttering his tiny studio further.
Shortly after, she left. Business trip to San Francisco...
where she decided to stay, hiring on with a weight loss
emporium. She chatted of her boss quite a bit, and then
the phone calls ceased.
Brad piled bills on her bed.
Enter Brennan. Yes, Brennan! Female. He often sang the
phrase Brennan On the Moor, which she found to be just
another of his Irish eccentricities.
Brennan had inherited a penthouse condo from beloved
Uncle Maxie. So, Brad gave his landlord notice,
Offering to leave the “furnishings.”
He took the bills from the bed, most had been paid, and
burned them on a grill in Rupp Park.
And became quite willingly neater and cleaner in the
luxurious digs.
One morning from her frantic cell: “I forgot the gray
attache case!” It evidently held documents equal to
Magna Carta, so Brad trundled it down the elevator
to meet Brennan’s squealing tires resounding in the garage.
Still in robe and pajamas, so she erupted “Aren’t you
going to WORK?”
“I thought I’d give it a shot.”
She shook her head and barreled out of there.
For some reason, the elevator shuddered at their floor.
“Good dog!”
From.
Him.
Issued.
Labels: Brennan on the Moor, condo, dog, Irish, living together, Magna Carta, penthouse, relationship
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Where the Music Is Something Grand
All the Gentry Will Be There!
advertises an Irish ballad.*
As in our Senate and House,
they're active, or their
designated ass-wipes.
*McNamara’s Band
Labels: ballad, class, Gentry, House, Irish, McNamara's Band, Music, senate
Friday, February 20, 2015
City Politics
“Marie, Marie!
Go wash your feet.
The Board of Health's
across the street!”
How we Irish asserted thus
our hygienic superiority in
New Haven, for now we won
via Mayor Richard Lee,
after generations of Yankee
fucking. So, we, in turn
fucked the Italians. My
father worked for the Journal-
Courier, published by
John Day Jackson, who
didn't descend from Prospect
Street to cast many Democratic
votes. Italians eventually got
their Dick Celentano, Republican.
Then, the Blacks fretted in
the wings. Eventually scored too.
And, after, the Hispanics. It’s
the story of the slugging Northeast city.
And one hell of a one in it’s grimier
precincts! Freedom of Information Act
devised for such. Small potatoes, but
toxic little buggers!
Labels: black, city politics, Democrat, Irish, Italian, New England Politics, New Haven, Northeast, Republican
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Cons
In Danbury again for mail fraud, Loops berated himself
for greed, but just momentarily. The suckers anxious
to give him money, he got trapped within the compelling
frenzy.
And now, like most actors deeply inside the justice system,
he shrugged at morality or lack of it.
Discovering CemCam on a Google search, did feel guilt
as a bad son, so he had the little robot wheel around Celestial
Acres and show the graves of his mother and father.
Clicked yellow roses for her.
The credit card number came from a string of companies he left
his sister in charge of.
Had been more careful with them, and the feds gave up on tying
them into the case.
Then, her husband, Fast Mac the Plumber, got a tip that Death's Door, nearby the cemetery, could be for sale.
Since he also ran Irish acts up and down the East Coast -a sideline for years- Mac felt it could be a promising venue: the Thirty-Somethings liking spooky imagery and Hibernian music.
Loops threw in with them, half and half, and eventually watched online shows from Death’s Door. With roommate Doc, Medicare Fraud.
Doc snapped out of his blue funk with the quick melodies and step
dancing, and eventually asked his wife to bring books.
“Medical?” she had whispered.
“Financial.”
Labels: con man, Danbury, Irish, mail fraud, medicare, suckers
Saturday, June 08, 2013
Musical Tastes
-Doing? Nothing? Listening to Les Deux Pigeons
Ballet Suite.
-Fairy stuff! I’m Beethoven man. Blunt. You ever hear
Rage For a Lost Penny?
-Don’t know.
-Dedicated to all thick Irishmen everywhere.
-Thence to you?
-On the button!
-Well, know thyself, as–-was it Hamlet said that?
-Everybody has said that.
-Well, there are cliches in music too.
-That’s why it’s good to know so little about it.
-What does the wife do about your thickness?
-Hits me.
-Well...the violent aspect of love.
-Among infinities.
-How about the children?
-I’m past figuring them out.
-Unpredictable?
-Where would you start?
-So, all in all, a normal family?
-I’d say.
-Doing? Nothing? Listening to Les Deux Pigeons
Ballet Suite.
-Fairy stuff! I’m Beethoven man. Blunt. You ever hear
Rage For a Lost Penny?
-Don’t know.
-Dedicated to all thick Irishmen everywhere.
-Thence to you?
-On the button!
-Well, know thyself, as–-was it Hamlet said that?
-Everybody has said that.
-Well, there are cliches in music too.
-That’s why it’s good to know so little about it.
-What does the wife do about your thickness?
-Hits me.
-Well...the violent aspect of love.
-Among infinities.
-How about the children?
-I’m past figuring them out.
-Unpredictable?
-Where would you start?
-So, all in all, a normal family?
-I’d say.
Labels: Beethoven, children, Irish, love, marriage, Music, relationship
Monday, February 18, 2013
“Not So Super Mario”
The name hung on him
by the Irish woman,
also here to learn the new
series of switches.
He shunned her, a bitch,
pure and simple, who cut
all for even innocent takes.
During the Super Bowl frenzy
he wore a Baltimore jersey.
Only he and Group’s basic
“Drama Queen” did so.
From something this silly,
a bond formed and they,
despite warnings, dated.
She couldn’t fathom his
fascination for what she
called soccer. “Like ballet
with the Prima Ballerina
shrieking in pain over
a hangnail.” He explained
that what she further labeled
Academy Award! was similar
to her frequent protestations
for justice and equity.
Didn’t wash, so he gave up.
His attention seized,
anyway, by her performances
bordering on egregious. Such
disturbed others; he simply repeated
to her how lovely she was in everything.
When it grows time to leave,
she floats following him, now
loses that idea quickly without
his really weighing in.
Back in Bolzano, how her emails flood!
Then hop, diminish, and stop.
Two old uncles visit. They have found
a bride for him. He thanks them, but de-
tails how such rituals have truly lost force
in such a cosmopolitan area. But
certainly they will meet!–out of
respect for their love and position.
The photo shows her to be pretty.
And reserved. That proves
the clincher finally.
The name hung on him
by the Irish woman,
also here to learn the new
series of switches.
He shunned her, a bitch,
pure and simple, who cut
all for even innocent takes.
During the Super Bowl frenzy
he wore a Baltimore jersey.
Only he and Group’s basic
“Drama Queen” did so.
From something this silly,
a bond formed and they,
despite warnings, dated.
She couldn’t fathom his
fascination for what she
called soccer. “Like ballet
with the Prima Ballerina
shrieking in pain over
a hangnail.” He explained
that what she further labeled
Academy Award! was similar
to her frequent protestations
for justice and equity.
Didn’t wash, so he gave up.
His attention seized,
anyway, by her performances
bordering on egregious. Such
disturbed others; he simply repeated
to her how lovely she was in everything.
When it grows time to leave,
she floats following him, now
loses that idea quickly without
his really weighing in.
Back in Bolzano, how her emails flood!
Then hop, diminish, and stop.
Two old uncles visit. They have found
a bride for him. He thanks them, but de-
tails how such rituals have truly lost force
in such a cosmopolitan area. But
certainly they will meet!–out of
respect for their love and position.
The photo shows her to be pretty.
And reserved. That proves
the clincher finally.
Labels: arranged marriage, Drama Queen, Irish, Italian, office, soccer, Super Mario, tradition
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Of Choice
-You did it exactly backwards. Upside down.
Young physician, puzzled.
-How come it made me feel better?
-I don't know. I can only suggest the Treatment
Of Choice.
Whose choice? I wonder. His profs in med school?
Pharma drummer dropping in at doctors’ offices
between golf dates?
So...what the hell...I'll do it his way. The obvious
strategy would be to pretend my last method
was his, and then depend on Irish Perversity.
(Substitute your own brand before Perversity.)
Oh, well, shouldn't ever end with an aside...if
you wish to keep the few friends you have
in a world recalcitrant itself.
Labels: doctor, Irish, perverse, perversity, pharma
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Irish
Something jars, & sense
myself hardening up.
I’ll come to some
refractory stance.
Irish. Unmovable.
You could throw
carriage bolts
at my head &
they’d bounce off,
all unfelt. You’d be
doing me a favor.
(Comfort me
with carriage bolts
for I am sick of love.)
Something jars, & sense
myself hardening up.
I’ll come to some
refractory stance.
Irish. Unmovable.
You could throw
carriage bolts
at my head &
they’d bounce off,
all unfelt. You’d be
doing me a favor.
(Comfort me
with carriage bolts
for I am sick of love.)
Labels: Irish, stubbornness
Friday, April 22, 2011
Irish Deconstructionism
Cardboard chest of drawers
assembled without
the plan and it worked
fine--well, in its flimsy way.
Then I decided that outward-
facing tabs should toe in,
ideally. But in correcting,
found when tab A connected,
tab B popped out,
vice versa & etc etc.
& oh well you know
the whole middle class
cheapskate drill--
& its tortures.
By this sweaty time a rip
manifested itself,
minor, hardly showing.
Who could have said this
infinitesimal flaw
would lead to the frenzied
destruction of the entire
objet d’art in-
to the smallest
possible pieces?
Cardboard chest of drawers
assembled without
the plan and it worked
fine--well, in its flimsy way.
Then I decided that outward-
facing tabs should toe in,
ideally. But in correcting,
found when tab A connected,
tab B popped out,
vice versa & etc etc.
& oh well you know
the whole middle class
cheapskate drill--
& its tortures.
By this sweaty time a rip
manifested itself,
minor, hardly showing.
Who could have said this
infinitesimal flaw
would lead to the frenzied
destruction of the entire
objet d’art in-
to the smallest
possible pieces?
Labels: Deconstructionism, do it yourself, Irish
Saturday, March 12, 2011
The Cliff
Ireland and Apparition
Jilly always took girls to Ireland for a summer seminar.
Ruth joined her towards the end this time, prior to
researching Expressionist Art on the continent.
Dr O’Finerty returned that evening after his fortifying pub dinner and did a q&a with the girls on Folklore.
They in their pyjamas and fuzzy slippers.
Jilly and Ruth had cocktails in next room, where
Dr O’Finerty proved an agreeable drone.
But a certain regional legend filtered through,
to their giggles. A blacksmith had been struck by
a local beauty and actually told her “I’ll come to thee
by Moonlight though hell should bar the way!”
“Uh huh?” whispered Ruth, “I know that chestnut poem!”
“Shh! The girls don’t.”
“Well mostly her high-born family barred the way,
but the lovers persisted and eventually married.
She became pregnant and the village couldn’t
leave off praising her beauty.”
“Too great a cost!” Ruth opined.
“Then...awful then...she died in childbirth and the baby too. Their home atop the cliff became his silent refuge and he was never again seen in the village. One night, the moon like a sun, so large and bright, he walked off the cliff.”
The girls moaned, but Dr O, the girls called him, hedged all round with disclaimers. “Of course only the old crones believe he did it. No body ever fished out of the cove. More likely he just moved away...sure and it’s all of it enough to destroy you without his dying!”
Quite a bit later, Jilly heard the front door quietly close, and knew Ruth was embarking on one of her late walks.
Next morning her room is empty. just a forgotten gold lipstick atop the battered bureau.
She texts her. “Wha! No gdbye?”
Answer: “Nut-Air changed flite. Hadda lv b4 u rose. C u for din in mo?”
Jilly puzzles, it not feeling quite right, but has to get the girls packed for the following morning and into the airport limo with minimum drama.
They meet after two months at Michael’s Italy for an early dinner. And don’t mention Ireland at first.
Then Ruth looks up over spumoni and pronounces
“I saw him walk off the cliff.”
Jilly laughs, and they finally agree a misty atmospheric
that night, coupled with Dr O’s barrels of blarney,
caused the illusion.
They go on to gossip about both of their oddball Chairs.
Ruth insists on a taxi since the traffic’s excruciating,
and she doesn’t want Jilly to suffer the long drive
home after depositing her.
The sky forms fiery layers and it has rained.
Ruth takes out the lipstick, perhaps just to see it
in the fire. Jilly waves goodbye as she plays with it,
the driver calling in his location.
Ruth forming the words behind the streaked window:
“I saw him...” as the cab pulls out.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Neighborhood Bar Almost Nobody Goes To Anymore
-That Madoff thing is brutal!
-Jew cheating Jews? It’s like blacks murdering
each other. Who cares?
-You had Jewish girlfriend once.
-A thing of beauty is a Jew forever. But she was hairy.
-And how about the Irish?
-Philosophers, kings, poets, saints!
-And drunks.
-In this case, yes. Love is a whiskey-blended thing!
-Let the camera show he holds the glass so that light
can catch the amber.
-So lovely it destroys me by taking me very breath away!
But, a toast whilst I got the strength!
If you got a friend that’s tried and true,
then screw that sonabitch before he screws you!
-That Madoff thing is brutal!
-Jew cheating Jews? It’s like blacks murdering
each other. Who cares?
-You had Jewish girlfriend once.
-A thing of beauty is a Jew forever. But she was hairy.
-And how about the Irish?
-Philosophers, kings, poets, saints!
-And drunks.
-In this case, yes. Love is a whiskey-blended thing!
-Let the camera show he holds the glass so that light
can catch the amber.
-So lovely it destroys me by taking me very breath away!
But, a toast whilst I got the strength!
If you got a friend that’s tried and true,
then screw that sonabitch before he screws you!
Labels: Blacks, Irish, Jews, stereotyping
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Irish Fit
installing cable modem.
Sweat- Panic-Temper!
Working despite me.
