Friday, September 30, 2016
Outsized Fool as President?
Wouldn't be worst.
Core fanatics remind
somewhat of Jackson's.
Farmers smelling of sweat
and whiskey tromped mud
through the White House
in election celebration.
Scandalizing the genteel!
A lot of dishonest effort
in becoming genteel.
One gripes.
And grips!
Labels: Andrew Jackson, class, ego, farmer, genteel, President, uncouth, White House
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
The Old Order
Max the blueberry farmer left Portland airport and
landed in Philadelphia. He rented a car to drive to
Phoenixville and the New Dinnerplate Pancake Factory.
But Mr Jellings wasn’t there as promised, so Max
couldn’t discuss his dismissal letter.
Rita told him “You’ll only have luck with him
by cell or email. He’s off to Scranton to
introduce the huge new blueberry pancake.
Well, it’s all over the country. They’re about the last
to get it.” Then she frowned. “Hey! That’s you!
Or used to be. I’m sorry.”
She took him out to the floor to see the rivers of
“blueberries.” Size of marbles, and millions!
“They’re hard as rocks now, but they’re furnaced
for a few seconds just before they merge with
the batter stream. Mushed up just enough."
“Well, REAL blueberries...!” he began but she cut him
off with a laugh.
When he got home to Waterville that early evening,
Millie was unloading the groceries from the Ford
Expedition. He helped her carry them in.
She flipped the kitchen switch and the florescent lights
buzzed, then caught.
They both looked ghastly green. But worse, atop the largest
plastic bag:
MAINE MAID DINNERPLATE BLUEBERRY PANCAKES
Featuring the latest technology in artificial blueberries!
“Millie for Jesus Christ’s sake!”
“I like them. They taste the same.”
“There’s no way on God’s Green Earth...!”
“Uh huh? Well...this is as good a time as any to announce
that I’m leaving you!”
“Well, go ahead then!”
“Go ahead what?”
“Go ahead and announce.”
“I just did!”
“That’s no announcement!”
“Nobody ever pleased you! Your mother died young trying!
Well I’M...!”
She went to girlfriend, Glads.
He finished putting away the groceries. Carrying out the “pancakes”
to the furthest trash can on the dank property.
Eventually sipped coffee in the dark kitchen as the twilight deepened, very nearly palpably.
“I’m a blueberry,” he sighed after blackness got there.
Perhaps evoked by its rare clanking.
Labels: blueberry, farmer, food, food technology, Maine, pancakes
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Taxonomy
Two Farm State Senators
-Big Agriculture gets big subsidies, Little Agriculture,
not so much.
-How about The Family Farm?
-Fence it round for a museum! Let the scratch-ass
farmer explain to urban slicksters the difference
between a horse and a whore.
-How would he know anything about the latter?
-It’s a new world, and rural communities have been keeping up!
Labels: Family Farm, farm, Farm Bill, farmer, subsidies
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Tie
The Tradition
-And the yearly messages from Marcel, the Farmer!
So simple and yet so exquisite. Genevieve the
cow, and Josie the cat, plus the insane chickens!
-Ah yes, Josie as a rangy beauty with tiger stripes.
Then the gentle speculation as to the barnyard Romeo-
layabout who fathered calico kittens.
-The one picture I've seen of Marcel. In misty hayloft, spare but blocky man writing his message with stub pencil on the back of a feed store bill. So so so charming.
-Who dares dispute?
-His last one, o the deepest! Stressing the Earth, the Earth, the Earth!
-Uh huh? Your triplets reflect the usual ones in his various messages. Literary attempts by a simple, good man? I think not.
-Please don't be a Frenchman, and debase and debunk
everything!
-I won't be, but yet you must pull up your Big Boy Pants, for any French person must hear one adult thought a day. And here is yours! There is no Farmer Marcel, nor Genevieve, nor Josie the cat. The first draft of each admired tome came from New York, thence to London for the literary flourishes. Last, translated to French.
-Good God! Just...give me a moment to say goodbye to my Marcel!
-Take your time. Include cow and cat.
-And my Gallic pride forever stung by this not being a purely French product! Even if a phony one. Why English at all?
-Because English is the language for utter shit.
-Horseshit or Bullshit?
-A tie.
Labels: cat, chicken, cow, English, farmer, French, hoax, language, pastoral
