Tuesday, December 25, 2018
Dated Hippie Tries Parody
Chestnuts roaring
on a roasting fire,
Jack Frost clawing
at my nuts.
Tiny Tots with their tablets aglow
shrieking at primitive figures
before they murder same. So?
Said before and further thus
what the hey!
This time For Real
Merry Freakin Christmas
anyway!Labels: Christmas, dated, defunct, games, generations, hippy, slang, tablet
Thursday, December 20, 2018
The Professional
My client now is Jack.
Runs egg co-op
EGGSACTITUDE!
Full of old hippie co-op ideas and ideals!
His kids hope to never see another egg!
Wife wants Talk indicating other
directions, professions, Life-Partners
less gung ho etc.
Sometimes he edges towards
solutions with her, sometimes
presenting even worst scenarios.
I counsel him on practicalities. Why not?
Mostly, though, I’m paid to worry.
We meet weekly and go over the
most raging upsets.
Client quite relieved.
“I can breathe knowing you got my
neurotic back!”
Jack not without wit for a serious fellow.
Jack not without wit for a serious fellow.
Labels: earnestness, hippy, marriage, profession, relationships, worry
Wednesday, September 09, 2015
Necessary Ceremonies
Tiny “Murks” goes missing. And Hobnel sick almost,
while frantically searching.
But...a daily occurrence. And the elusive Murks
always shows up around dinner, meriting the
best little tin of cat food.
It grows dark, though, and we exhaust all
the hiding places.
“Dark cat on a dark night...maybe he's heat-
seeking.” From Zello, the beer distributor
who always wore Birkenstocks. "They say
you're never too old,” he confides to Nehru-
jacketed Doc.
Before you think we're a bunch of hippies, we're
a bunch of hippies. Never fully reclaimed by the
coherent world.
Bent, who channels Walt Whitman, finds Murks
dead under some wiry brush.
"No sign of violence," pronounces Doc. “Just
his time.”
Bent then embarks on a bad trip, and Doc quickly
places him into Shoreline Clinic. So he can’t compose anything for the funeral.
It falls to Zollo, somehow. "I'm...a blunt man.
A lovely, lovely cat. A miraculous creature
of God to take your breath away!"
Tillie then lifts the lid off the shoebox, and her
artwork, so we all could eventually see Murks
darkly nestled into multicolored scarves--
once she nudges one aside, its silver-
embroidered M.
Zollo loses it. "I never cry," he keeps repeating.
Then we all do.
We toast Murks at Kippy's Kool Kup after,
individually rubbing Hobnel's shoulders too.
Lillian pushes us aside, her profession and she
doesn’t abide amateurs.
Then we all beg her, and she massages each
in turn as Kippy keeps the Seven and Sevens
flowing her way.
Labels: bad trip, Birkenstocks, cat, funeral, hangout, hippy, massage, Seagram, Walt Whitman
