I Want to Tell You

[A]
I want to tell you. What my life is like. What the days feel like as they pass. One by one. From oblivion to oblivion.
How the ticking of slow moving clocks. Beats on my temples. Cracks my brain. Mourns the death. Of all that was ever holy.

I want to tell you. Why I do what I do. Why I am who I am. And carefully explain. How I am different from you.
Why I think deeply. About shallow things. Seek to throw light. Into corners. Filled with dust. And my own yearning.

I want to tell you. How it is and how it was. What I've seen and what I've learned. From years spent alone. In semi-darkness.
What ties me down. Tethers me to the past. Places my body behind keyless doors. Traps my spirit in a cardboard box.

I want to tell you. Where I first lost my way. Why the road beneath my feet. Became indistinguishable from the stars.
Where I turned aside. From the primrose path. A street strewn with razor roses. My ankles covered with scarred tissue.

I want to tell you. What and why and how and where. But when all you have is a story to tell. You choose your words carefully.
This I offer as my legacy. Marks on a page. Dog whistle calls to arms. Remnants of bloodless battles. And life in the margins.

[B]
It is a nagging sadness that clings to my shoes. A propensity for singing the blues. All that I see. Assimilates quickly.
Afflicted by metaphor. And fairy lore. I am pebbles and mud on a welcoming mat. I wanted to tell you that.

It is company kept by candle light. Outrageous blindness and occasional insight. A wick burning. A page turning.
Plagued by doubt. Off my head and route. I am a chair where once a wise man sat. I wanted to tell you that.

It is a pause in search of meaning. A divine damning and a dirty redeeming. A silence that mocks. A pocket full of rocks.
Ruined by rhyme. Time after time. I am a stubborn old mule and a pack rat. I wanted to tell you that.

It is a walk in the badlands, the air thick with smells. Where the soul sleeps and the heart dwells. The what to-do. Always at issue.
Struggling in vain. Neither sane or insane. I am a song for my supper and tit for tat. I wanted to tell you that.

It is a footnote, no more, to other lives and loves. Hats in a ring and anger thrown gloves. Losses and wins. Empty bins.
Not a masterpiece. Merely a release. I am the wolf at the door and a fireside chat. I wanted to tell you that.

Obituary

He was just like everyone else. Selfish, shortsighted, unimaginative, predatory, mercenary. Just another member of the gang. Interested in everything everyone else was interested in. Content to be sheered. Fighting for the better grass. A propagator of genes, not ideas. Out of the barn in the morning with the rest of the livestock and back to the barn at night. Day after day. Night after night. Generation after generation. If the survival of my species relies on such as he, I long for extinction.

Let us go the way of the dinosaur and the dodo. Helped into eternity by their own stupidity and the hand of capricious competition. If evolution is responsible for us it is indeed blind. My own lineage, I'm ashamed to say, includes a long list of such creatures. Lounging in the dirt. Struggling in the mud. Striking out at each other with short sword and fist. Their hands around another's throat. Their necks marked with a neighbor's fingerprints. Closer to the snake in Eden than to God and his angels.

Love cannot save us. For we don't know how to love. We court. We flatter. We win. We use. We possess. We throw away. And leave behind a garbage heap of human refuse. We dabble in emotion. Playing each other like a grifter plays his mark. A preacher and his congregation. Jesus' little lambs. Skipping church on Sunday morning. To watch gridiron action. From cheaper, more comfortable pews. Upwardly mobile purveyors of faith. Obviously true believers. But I digress. . .

He is gone now. And so to shall we all be. Whatever we are. Whoever or whatever created us. A pack of nothing-specials. A flock of no-one-in-particulars. A pride of highly-forgettables. Residents of the barnyard. With jungle pretensions. Sheep in wolves clothing. Penned killers. Caged sloths. Victims of the whimpering apocalypse. And poets like me. More in love with the sound of their own words. Than with the living or the dead. Their lives grist for gleeful writers of obituary prose.

Ship Sailed

That ship sailed a long, long time ago. But I am still tethered at the dock. Staring longingly out to sea. I missed the boat, I know. The voyage was never taken. But I am still immersed in salt air. Holiday ticket stuck to my hand with brine.

No other ships came. And I took no photos of her. Standing at the rail smiling. Her arms around another. Now only the fog remains. And the banshee cry of gulls. And the sirens' song. Dead voices. Forever on the waves. Forever in my ears.

My letters went unanswered. No picture postcards arrived. Wishing I was there. Or offering colorful antidotes. Of life afloat. Neither the birth of children or the death of kings. Spurned conversation. Of once forsaken friendships.

The ports she's visited. Are posted on her luggage. Faded decals. Once bright, now buffered by age. A marriage. A son. A daughter. A job. A house. A garden. But my steamer never left the shore. On her orders, the steward let it alone.

I journeyed instead in books and words. As Dante did. In bidding Beatrice farewell. One of a million Irish lads. Who watched their love depart. The body is gone, but the image remained strong. And another slight smile never pried it from my head.

That ship sailed long, long ago. But I see it still. A bottle bobbing in the water. A message from my past. A might have been. A never was. A titanic moment. An unsinkable dream. A wreck of rotting timber. Sitting on a ghostly sargasso sea.

My Tribute

In honor of Eugene O'Neill's 127th birthday: I am spending the day drinking to excess, contracting tuberculosis, and thinking severely about the human condition. 

Next week: grudging sobriety, a cheap sanatorium, and a play about my morphine-addicted mother. . .

Snapshots from the Gospels

Captions for Photos Long Lost. . .

Joseph and Mary pose with baby JESUS, a couple of the wise men, and an unnamed goat.

Young JESUS and mom Mary in Egypt. Note: toddler Jesus is wearing a yellow t-shirt with a picture of a pyramid on it and a caption that reads "I fled to Egypt and all I got was this stupid shirt!"

JESUS' bar mitzvah. His folks didn't book the band he wanted, but a good time was still had by all.

JESUS in "dad" Joseph's workshop. Note: the pile of wood that looks like something painted by Picasso during his cubist period is Jesus' first attempt at table building. From the beginning of his apprenticeship it was clear which father's business the boy was going to go into.

JESUS and the "John the Baptist" pinata. "I want candy!"

JESUS at Canaan wedding. Note: taken after he'd had too much to drink and had begun telling "our father" jokes. His mother looks embarrassed, doesn't she?

JESUS throws the first stone and feels really, really bad about it.

JESUS acting out the parable of the prodigal son using sock puppets.

JESUS plants a seed in good soil. Note: unfortunately, it grows into a broccoli plant.

JESUS borrows a fiver from one of the temple money lenders. Note: the sheepish look on the Lamb of God's face.

JESUS at the Sea of Galilee, inventing the sport of water skiing.

Judas criticizes JESUS' manners. "Where were you born, a barn? Oh yeah, right. . ."

JESUS goes over his notes for the Sermon on the Mount. "Note to self. Leave out the hand gestures. They won't translate well in print."

JESUS feeds the multitudes with three loaves and three fishes and in doing so creates the idea of nouvelle cuisine.

JESUS visiting local chapter of "Pharisees for Christ."

JESUS and high priest, Caiaphas before their falling out. Note: both were regular fixtures at bingo night at the temple.

JESUS with his faithful dog, Buddha and his cat, Confucius.

JESUS and the gang practice turning the other cheek. Note: Judas is the guy with his pants down and his back to the camera.

JESUS apologizes to the fig tree. "Look. I was hungry. You were there. What can I say. I overreacted."

JESUS setting new world record for casting out demons. Twelve in one sitting!

JESUS on holiday for forty nights and forty days in the desert. Note: the sun glasses and the Hawaiian shirt.

JESUS makes the sign of the cross. "In the name of the Father and Myself and the Holy Ghost, amen. . ."

JESUS raises Lazarus from the grave, but has forgotten to bring him a change of underwear.

JESUS and the gang agree, Mary Magdalene makes the best matzos this side of Jerusalem! And her coffee is good, too.

JESUS assures Judas that he's "good" for the thirty pieces of silver.

JESUS gives sight to a blind man. Note: when the two meet at a party later that day the man mistakes Jesus for someone else.

JESUS attempting to cure a leopard. Note: Peter diplomatically points out his friend's mistake and everyone has a good laugh.

JESUS finds out Judas is a vegan, but still puts lamb on the menu for Passover brunch. Note: picture bears a striking resemblance to Leonardo's Last Supper. Possible model? We may never know.

JESUS praying in the Garden of Gethsemane with some friends. Note: Peter, the two James, and Simon are sound asleep; Bartholomew is playing Go Fish with Thaddaeus and Philip; Thomas is arm wrestling with John, Andrew is eating a sandwich; and Matthew appears to be clipping his toenails.

JESUS goofing around with Pilate at the governor's palace. Note: the "crown of thorns" shaped lamp shade on Pilates's head.

JESUS meets Barabbas and Barabbas is impressed!

JESUS posing in front of his cross. Also know as "the crucifixion selfie." Note: the Roman centurion photo bombing the picture.

JESUS signing autographs for doubting Thomas and the gang. "No, I'm not going to sign this one in blood. Grow up, will ya, Simon!"

JESUS plays four-handed canasta with his Father and the Holy Ghost,

JESUS ascends to heaven. Is that a rocket pack strapped to his back? Cool! Buck Rogers in the 1st Century AD!!

JESUS and Paul on the road to Damascus. Note: taken just before their detour to see the Roman World's Biggest Ball of Yarn.

JESUS sitting in the center field bleachers at Wrigley Field; preparing for the Second Coming. Once a Cub fan always a Cub fan.

The DT's

If you give the wealthy more money they will only spend it on drink. . .

Stream of Consciousness Nonsense

I think people should be divided into two groups: wet and dry. The wet people could go live at the beach. The dry people could live elsewhere. Everybody gets along. War averted. All problems solved. I know. I know. It's too simplistic. What about the moist and the semi-moist, you ask? Where would they live? My answer? Finland. For food they could eat caribou cakes. For exercise they could run laps. What more could anyone want?

See? I have thought this out. The Beach. Finland. Elsewhere. Not to mention China. Damn! I wasn't going to mention China. But now that I have, here's a bit of advice. If you ever find yourself in Peking remember to duck. Evidently, sticking your head too far above your collar is dangerous. I don't know the full story behind that, but it must be important. You hear it all the time: "Peking. . . Duck! Peking. . . Duck!!" Especially in restaurants.

Random Notes from the Midway

Republican presidential debate or nighttime edition of The Price is Right? The winner of the showcase gets to start World War 3. Please help control the politician population, have you representative spayed or neutered.

Lindsey Graham was so out of it he tried to buy a vowel. "Q."

Rumor has it that there were twenty people scheduled to take part in the second debate, but Chris Christie ate ten of them. I saw a small piece of Rick Perry sticking to one of his front teeth.

Three of the candidates showed up wearing plastic Ronald Reagan masks and one -- not Carly Fiorina -- was wearing a Nancy Reagan mask and pearls.

Donald Trump's toupee arrived at the debate three hours before he did and was driven there in a chauffeured limo.

Ben Carson came early also, hobnobbed with the other candidates, answered questions from the press, and only raised a minor stink when he discovered that the card beneath his podium labeled him as "that black guy."

Scott Walker revealed that he would like to bomb Iran; not in his official capacity as president, but in his spare time as a hobby. Apparently, he now has a complete set of States of the Union quarters and has become bored with coin collecting.

How many of you out there thought Rand Paul was a cartographer?

My biggest surprise? Ohio Governor, John Kasich wants Sheena, Queen of the Amazons's picture placed on the new ten dollar bill. I mean, who saw that coming? His second choice was Ru Paul.

Marco Rubio. Marco Rubio? Marco? Rubio? Refresh my memory on this one, please. . .

After eight years of Dubya, who would have thought JEB was the dim bulb on the Bush family Christmas tree? I'm stunned.

Ted Cruz and Mike Huckabee spent much of the night trying to prove who was the biggest homophobe. Huckabee won, but only by the length of a pubic hair.

I always expect Carly to begin singing "You're So Vain" -- especially in her exchanges with the Donald -- but she never does. This disappoints me deeply, but, yet again, I've heard that she has an aversion to performing in public.

Rick Santorum once owned a dog named Mrs Thatcher, but had to have her eulogized when he developed an addiction to sniffing her ass. I don't know, maybe kibble is a gateway drug. . .

Rick Perry: gone but not forgotten. No -- who am I kidding? -- even his mother has a hard time remembering who he is; glasses or no glasses.

Also sidelined due to brain injury: Mittens; Mister Peepers; Bonzo, Eric, the wonder lizard; and the 1995 Broadway revival cast of Gentlemen Prefer Blonds.

I found myself longing for the golden days of the GOP. Where are Newt Gingrich, Fred Thompson, and Lamar Alexander when they're needed the most?

Bob Dole! Bob Dole!! BOB DOLE!!! John McCain? Tom Dewey? Alf Langdon?

The Real Enemy

On the anniversary of 9/11, please ask yourself the following questions:

How many people in the United States have died in the last fourteen years as a result of gun violence?
How many people in the United States have died in the last fourteen years because they couldn't afford proper medical care?
How many people world wide have died in the past fourteen years as the result of American military action?
How many people world wide have died in the past fourteen years at the hands of American supported dictatorships?
How many people world wide have been killed in the past fourteen years by American made and American supplied weapons?
How many people in the United States and world wide have died in the past fourteen years because of the negligence and greed of American corporation interests?

Google it. I can wait. Write down your answers. Be conservative if you wish.

I think you will find that any of the above figures -- even by conservative estimates -- dwarves the number of lives lost in the three terrorists attacks carried out in New York, Pennsylvania, and Washington in September 2001.

The United States Government doesn't suicide bomb buildings. The United States Government doesn't behead people on camera. The United States Government doesn't run tanks over people on the streets of American cities. But when it comes to doling out death, America takes a back seat to no one. We are the ultimate in state terrorism. America. Land of the free. Home of the brave. General Motors. Bank of America. Lockheed Martin. Smith and Wesson. Exxon. Monsanto. Halliburton. Blackwater. R.J. Reynalds. And FOX News.

Smoking Gun

Can of Worms

More of the Same

It's a fool's game. I know. But it's the only game in town. And there are no other towns.

Some things don't lend themselves to analysis. Two plus two always equals four. Unless it equals five.

Babies cry for a reason. And the crying lasts a lifetime. Until the quiet of mother earth replaces that of mother's womb.

Well lit avenues offer little for those sick of sunshine.

The greatest blessing and the greatest curse is to see ourselves as we really are.

I spent my last $14 on a new wallet. How ironic is that? I feel like O Henry.

The longest tale begins with a single sentence. The longest journey with a single step. One foot along the path is followed by another and another. And soon you're far from home. In a place unimagined and unimaginable from your own front yard. Real adventures are rarely planned in advance.

Is your day something to be celebrated or something to be survived?

Depression attacks. A sponge soaked in holy water or ether. A silver knife beneath a satin sheet. A pleasant memory that hits bone. Before it draws blood from the skin.

The heart beats for no reason. Life is not purpose driven.

Hydra hands. Janus face. Minotaur heart. It's all Greek to me.

The conversation was so lively I couldn't get a pause in edgewise.

There is death in the sky. And in the water, too. And in the soil beneath our feet. And in every word uttered by every mouth

Life is a leaky boat. Grab a bucket and start bailing.

"Merry at dinner, dead by supper."

She was born during a hurricane and raised in the rubble.

Keats' mother was known to point out his spelling errors.

There is no glory in a folded flag. Every death in battle is a tragedy. Every war is a defeat for both sides.

When is someone going to make a documentary about Ned Glass?

It takes a supreme act of will not to slash one's wrists in the morning.

I'm a "the glass is broken and the liquid is soaking into my parents' new carpet" kind of guy.

Abandoned Thoughts Graphically Manipulated

You can't save the damned. We are beyond redemption.

Life produces cynicism, then despair, then resignation, then it's over.

Crazy people make sane people crazy. Sane people make crazy people crazier.

Shallow and selfish generally go together.

Old wounds are the most troublesome.

What is there in a face that makes it more agreeable than any other face?

If there is anyone on earth who is less like Jesus than Donald Trump -- a money grubbing, womanizing, self-aggrandizing, racist twit -- I'd be hard pressed to name them. What a joke. . .  

A blank page. An empty canvas. A new day. Waiting to be filled with words or images or life. 

A lifetime of happiness? Who could stand such a thing?

Maybe I'm just reaching the point where I finally have something to say. Maybe my delusions are just getting worse.

Possible sketch for SNL. A parody of Tuesdays with Morrie with Mitch Albom and Maury Povich. In the end, Mitch is NOT the father.

First rate mother, second rate agent. Seriously, no one's perfect. At least you didn't book her at a burlesque theatre. Now that would have been embarrassing.

If I ever found a new town or village I'm going to name it Squalorton or Squalorville. "Where are you living?" they will ask. "In Squalor" I will reply.

Addresses on Easy Street are difficult to come by. 

Too early for philosophy. Too late for anything else.

21,321. . . and counting.

Instead of building a wall on the Canadian border, let's board up Scott Walker's mouth.

Mirrors are dangerous and unpopular articles of furniture.

What Would Be a Good Title for This Entry?

There is no word for that terrible moment when you realize life is meaningless and everything you've ever done or said or felt might just as well have never been done or said or felt. It is a thought too horrible for language. It is a soundless scream. It is a day spent building sandcastles at the sea shore only to see them decimated by the evening tide. It is twenty thousand such days. Each one worse and more disheartening than the one before.

Words Are Surrender

Words are surrender. The airing of emotions no longer capable of physical flight. I write because I cannot fly. A sparrow flaps its wings, but I am bound to the earth. Words are a white flag. Strung up on a high hill. The victim of the mob.

Words are memory. The fading vision of days buried in the brain's decay. I write because I cannot step back. A dancer moves in reverse, but my feet are mired in the moment. Words are old pictures. In a moth eaten album. Dog-eared and torn.

Words are slumber. The yawn of tired feet and aching hearts and empty arms. I write because I cannot kill. Macbeth could murder sleep, but I am at the other end of the knife. Words are eyes tightly shut. Against the noonday sun. Against the midnight moon.

Words are death and dying. The eulogy of faith unrewarded and debts unpaid. I write because I cannot live. A baby takes a breath, but my lungs are clogged with day to day. Words are clots of clay. Striking the plow blade. Rocks in the soil.

Duration

Life becomes time. And time is something experienced in retrospect. A day crossed off a wall calendar. A hand sweeping past a number on a watch face. A kettle set to boil. That explodes in steam and heat. An alarm that jars the bones. A ritual futility. A measurement meticulously and lovingly conducted. Life is duration.

Consciousness of our own mortality. Is kept at arms length. To focus too clearly on death. Is thought morose. So we check off the days with pencil lead or ink. And feel eternity sliding through our fingers. With every flick of the wrist. Unmeasured means un-lived. But life is constantly ebbing away. Whether we choose to acknowledge it or not. We live by delusion.

There's the power of perception. The ability to pick and choose. What is known, but kept is the shadows. And what sees the light of thought and conversation. The clock remains on the table. With only an occasional. Sneak peak glimpse. Over the shoulder. When no one else is looking. Until it moves beyond the craning head. A train in the distance.

Time wears life. Like a garment stolen. An invisible entity. Given form, if not substance. By myself and a hundred billion others. I am the shoes of endless days. And she the coat. And he the hat. All stylishly bourn. I am an hourglass filled with dust. I am an echo in a hall. Ticking. Like a clock. Like a bomb. Like a breath. Time is damnation.

Whoosh. . .

The world will not end with a whimper or a bang, but with a whoosh. Cosmologists refer to this as "the big flush theory."

Luck and Success

Luck accounts for as much success as intelligence, skill, insight, dedication, and perseverance combined. That is the great and guilty secret of all successful people.

One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

The world jumps ahead in leaps and bounds, but creeps backward in baby steps. Thus genius is thwarted and progress retarded by second rate minds and infantile attitudes.

Random Acts of Wit

I was a femfatality.

The only personal growth anyone one has observed in her lately are her fingernails. Even her hair seems to be stuck in a state of permanent adolescence.

Why is it that the scenery on the way to work looks so much different than the scenery on the way home from work?

Oh, for the days when all your worldly troubles could be solved with a cookie! I remember my twenties fondly. . .

Self-righteousness, when taken as a character trait, usually implies more selfishness than righteousness.

Self-righteous is the word we use to describe the steadfast, absolute, and incontestable belief in the correctness or truth of one's own creed or position.

Whatever their genetic predisposition, everyone is born with a clean soul.

The concept of original sin was invented by the wicked to downplay the significance of their own transgressions.

What is the opposite of a random act of kindness? A calculated act of cruelty?

Reply in kindness or risk not being spoken to at all.

Catholicism is nothing but an inventive excuse to wear a funny hat.

God save us from religion.

He who stays home and prays accomplishes nothing.

Real commitment requires more than token assent and minimal effort. Real support requires giving up something that is dear to you. Real belief requires putting your body in the line of fire. Real activism is a lifestyle, not a momentary pose for the camera. Real commitment is learning to drive on the left side of the road.

When did Martin Luther King become MLK? The week after Jesus Christ became JC.

Belief without knowledge is a sham.

The flesh is ready, but the spirit is weak.

I left home to cure an obsession. When I came back and it had vanished. I guess time and distance do heal all wounds.

They followed where they were led like sheeps to the shearing.

An act of protest is a call to empathy.

I liked shirt tags. They made it easy to put on a t-shirt. You always knew which side went backward and which face-ward.

Proper English is becoming increasingly archaic.

"I'm Paul W. Smith. The "W" stands for fascist. I can't spell either."

Contrary statements are always true.

Political Simile

Politics are like seeds. We throw ours at others and expect them to take root, but they only do so when they find just the right combination of soil, climate, and season. Sometimes they flourish between cracks in the sidewalk and sometimes they sit atop fertile ground like bricks piled on an asphalt slab. Why do people vote against their own best interests? Why, indeed.

You're Aging Well

“You're aging well" is both the nicest and the cruelest compliment you can ever bestow on another human being. On the cruel side, it is only slightly better than "that thing on your neck appears to be getting smaller." On the nice side, it is only marginally worse than "I really admire what you've done with your nose hair."

In May I Wrote, Part 2

Varner Tower? The only way I'll ever return there is with an automatic rifle and enough ammo to take out half of the student body. You can't go home again. Trying only creates a mess.

You can fix ignorance, but you can't fix stupidity.

Kafka, updated for the teens: "Gregor Samsa woke us to find that he had turned into Bill O'Reilly." Instead of crawling under the bed to die he got a job at FOX News.

Appearance is not all there is, but it is all we have.

I fully understand that there is nothing to understand. My Zen moment. . .

Is "unfriended" even a word? Or is this just another example of a pop culture icon -- in this case, Facebook -- using their money and influence to help destroy the English Language?

I have a great idea for a new children's book. The Velveteen Welsh Rarebit. It will be the heartwarming story about one child's love of toasted cheese.

There is nothing that will turn you into a pariah faster on Facebook than mentioning the fact that you're an atheist.

I have no active believe in deity. That's what atheism means.

Life isn't fair, but it is frequently ironic.

I'd like to get even with whoever invented the alarm clock. I'd like to scream in their ear suddenly and without warning very early in the morning. Then I'd like to do it again seven minutes later.

It was all very nice with a lowercase "n." It's amazing how many people and how many things in life fall into the lowercase and how few are certifiably uppercase.

I can: eat off of the floor, defecate in the living-room, and bark at the mailman. What am I? Ted Nugent?

I don't know about you, but I find the word "mailman" somewhat redundant.

A new nutritional study blames Hamlet's behavior on an iron deficiency. B2 or B12, that is the question.

In the morning I am a philosopher. At night I complain about the day. On weekends I write poetry.

Hey, no one even offered me a blindfold.

In May I Wrote

The price of gas is always lowest the day after your last fill up.

The tragedy of life isn't that it ends, but that it goes on as long as it does. I wonder if the world wasn't a better place when life was short, violent, and eventful. A quick death seems preferably to a lingering life.

"On the anniversary of the day when I last gave a damn." Great title for a book or something, don't you think?

God is dead. We were all invited to the funeral and no one came. Everyone went to the hockey game instead. And the Wings lost. In a shootout. Of course.

It is perception and perception alone that turns a weed into a flower. Nothing else is required.

A woman in retreat is more dangerous than one in pursuit.

There is nothing so ridiculous that you can't talk yourself into believing. No one is more gullible -- that is to say, more susceptible to our own silly arguments -- than we are ourselves.

If she had really wanted to torture me she would have subjected me to her company for a month or two. That would have maimed me for life.

All these pictures of mothers have given me diabetes. Thank you, America! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go take my insulin.

Let go. Don't let go. What are we to do?

Much longer than the weekend itself are the two days leading up to the weekend. Thursday has forty-eight hours and Friday forty-nine.

An elephant sitting on your chest is a bad way to begin the day.

You can't buy a man who refuses to be sold. Political corruption is a reciprocal process.

The soundtrack to life is garbled and difficult to understand. Most of us are just background noise.

Trumpt

Donald Trump is running for president again? Every circus needs a clown. We know he's rich, but can he juggle?

The only way Donald Trump ever gets near the White House is in small padded limo with fifteen other trumps.

Making fun of Donald Trump is like shooting rancid fish in a barrel. Every shot is a winner, but too many bulls-eyes merely stink up the room.

Donald Trump's candidacy is the exclamation mark on an already hilarious punchline.

Brain Fractures

Fractured logic. Broken brain.

Hamlet finds it hard to kill Claudius because Claudius's crimes -- killing Hamlet's father and having sex with Hamlet's mother -- are the two crimes Hamlet wants most to commit himself. Killing Claudius is like killing himself.

"In a hole in the ground lived Kim Kardashian."

No belief is preferable to a belief in the wicked. 

Cookies and beer -- no, wait, beer cookies! -- the perfect after school snack.

It isn't until you reach your mid-forties before you even begin to realize how wrong you were about the world when you were in your mid-twenties.

When you're hard of hearing the entire world mumbles.

Hope retained after your forty-fifth birthday is called "delusion."

You may as well enjoy the ride, you can't get off anyway. You're chained to the carousel and so is everyone else.

Life is more devious than the plot of Vincent Price movie. God has more in common with Dr. Phibes than with any other literary character.

I only come out of my room to eat and complain. Sometimes I combine the two and complain about the food.

Spend it while you've got it, but don't throw it away.

I found religion, but it was not to my liking, so I lost it again.

I offer only an honest hopelessness.

I couldn't see the forest for the telephone poles.

Tomorrow is a word that applies only to the living. There is no before or after for the dead. There is no future or past for those who no longer exist.

A politician calling a scientist dishonest is like the kettle calling the wedding dress black.

You don't lie to get people to do what they don't want to do. You lie to get them to do what they want to do anyway.

It's easy to be stupid, uninformed, unreasonable, egotistic, lazy, selfish, and bigoted. Any lie in support of these qualities is generally accepted without question.

Most people would not even notice it, but the days are growing shorter even in July.

Childlike is sometimes enviable, but childish is always contemptible.

You can only hold onto youth so long. After a certain point the attempt becomes merely pathetic.

In the Knowing

Don't ask me to look too closely or delve too deeply. Superficial is easier and safer. A slightly scratched heart recovers faster than one chopped into small pieces. In all things, the danger is in the knowing.

Gene Kelly Not Required

I have a great idea for a new movie, a non-musical version of Singing in the Rain entitled Talking in a Normal Tone of Voice Without Musical Accompaniment in the Rain. 

There will be no dancing in it, of course. Or rain. Although the sky will be overcast throughout the film.

$10 Bill

They just announced that a woman will be on the new $10 bill. I think it should be Tina Turner. They could put her face on the front of the bill and her legs on the back.You couldn't put Alexander Hamilton's legs on the back of a $10 bill. He looked terrible in shorts.

USAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

The United States -- by any objective standard or measurement -- is not the "greatest" country in the world. No rational, well-informed, honest person would even entertain such a notion. Patriotism is one thing; blindness and stupidity is quite another.

Only Criminals Will Have Guns. . .

He was a law-abiding citizen and a responsible gun owner until he walked into a church and murdered nine people. Gun ownership frequently comes BEFORE actual criminality.

TWFT

The word for today -- and every day -- is EMPATHY.

From the Notebook

All lusts are in the heart.

He never learned to play exactly, but he liked the sound of the keys beneath his fingers. . .

Racism is bad for the soul, that's a given, but it won't become unfashionable in political circles until it's bad for the pocket book also.

Having anything to do with her was a bad idea right from the very beginning. No matter my supposed motivation -- good or bad -- it was never anything else. No good was ever going to come from it.

Holes in the heart cannot be filled with painters' putty. Scarred tissue does an admirable, albeit imperfect, job.

Fire burns, but it is smoke that kills.

Life is a collection of cheap thrills. Roll-a-coaster ride anyone?

The universe is filled with metaphor and very little else.

Success is wonderful, but it is failure that teaches us the most. By this criterion, I must be the most knowledgeable person in the world.

Everyone is entitled to their opinion. Not everyone is entitled to their actions. Opinions are free, actions must be paid for.

Race is based on the concept of sub-species; an idea that has no real meaning outside of the world of scientific classification and organization.

The Confederate flag might be part of "who they are" but it should not be part of who they want to be.

Hell hasn't frozen over, but the temperature definitely fell about fifty degrees.

I don't think the picture is that bad, honestly, but the color of the wall behind it makes me want to puke.

The desire to remain a physical being drives all physical activity.

Everyone knew it was ironic, but they did it anyway. I find that ironic.

Now we know why so many people commit suicide in hotel rooms. Bad artwork.

A list of the things I don't care about could fill a library of thick volumes with thin pages and small type. Their opposite could be scribbled on the back of a business card with a small child's crayon.

We are damned not for our beliefs, but by our actions.

The Christian soldier like any other man of arms performs at the Devil's bidding.

Action

Looking at the world through envious eyes. The ghost in the machine is getting restless. He wills motion and a limb moves. He desires sound and lips tremble with air. From the shadows he ambles forth. A mystery skulled in bone and flesh. His true nature always obscured. The incorporeal and the material working together nefariously. Mind and body. Lord Vadar and his Death Star.

Time on My Hands

Time on my hands. Melting icicles chipped from a freezer wall. Water dripping through chilblainned fingers. Bluing pinkish palms. Wetting shoe-tops with dark stains. This is how the days are marked.

Time on my hands. Gloves thread bare at their tips. See-through fabric hardly covering ancient skin. Lifeline showing at the wrist. Crisscrossed with scarred tissue. This is how the years slip by.

Time on my hands. Closed around a chocolate crucifix. The faith of my youth rotting at body temperature. Brown sugar ooze sticking to nails and knuckles. Jesus withering on the cross. This is how the seconds tic out.

Final Word

"There are no atheists in foxholes." Yes, there are and they are as uncomfortable, and as uncertain, and as frightened as any believer. The only difference is that they are honest and forthright about their doubts and fears. They don't use a belief in a powerful, but fictional deity as an emotional crutch. They face the truth and they face death with a dignity that is impossibly for a true believer, whatever his or her religion.

What we tell our children to ease their anxieties should not be what we tell ourselves. The universe is a thoroughly adult place. It takes a mature mind to survive its chaos. Yet, even a mature mind only has so many days on earth. Make the best of them. Live for today, not for a metaphysical tomorrow that will never come. Don't let a happy life be marred by the desire for a happy after-life as well.

There is no other side. There is nothing to pass over to. When someone dies you lose them forever. That's life. Deal with it like adults, people. Take comfort in the fact that they lived and that you were fortunate enough to have known them, not in the pleasant fantasy that they somehow still exist and that you will see them again. Embrace the truth. Truth is all we have or can ever have. Death is the final word. Death.

Chicken Jokes

Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side.

Why did the duck cross the road? He wanted to know what the chicken thought was so interesting.

Why did the fox cross the road? Lunch.

Why did the hound cross the road? He was chasing the fox.

Why did the second chicken stay home? It was too crowded on the other side of the road.

Why did Jeb Bush cross the road? I don't know why, but he came right back and then he denied ever having been on the other side.

Why did the sociologist cross the road? Studies show that college educated white males will cross the road eight to twelve times over the course of their working lifetimes.

Why did the cop cross the road? Pre-Ferguson punchline: The Donut shack was on the other side. Post-Ferguson punchline: There were no African-American males to shoot on this side of the road.

Why did the Zen master cross the road? There is no road. There is no chicken. There is no Zen master.

Why did the climate change denier cross the road? It was still above water.

Why did Bugs Bunny cross the road? He took a wrong turn at Albuquerque.

Why did Kim Kardashian cross the road? I don't know why, but it's trending.

Why did the squirrel cross the road and then scurry right back again? I don't know why, but he's leaning towards Bush.

Why did the zombie chicken cross the road? Chicken brains!

Why did the hopeless neurotic cross the road? Alecktorophobia ("the fear of chickens")

Small Evil

I don’t know if there's a God or not; I have no idea if Heaven exists or if Dante's Inferno is fictional or real, but I do know this: every person who has ever lived is a mixture of good and bad. Most of the evil in the world is small evil, done by small people. Murderers are few and far between, but the insensitive and the cruel swarm the earth with their numbers. We damn ourselves in small ways. Every tiny inconsideration, every convenient callousness, every omission of good manners or failure to support those in need lessens our humanity and helps to deliver the world into chaos and despair. The road to Hell -- metaphorically speaking -- isn't paved with good intentions. It isn't paved at all, but laid down haphazardly by a billion blaspheming mouths, a billion grasping hands, and a billion clumsy feet.

Too Many

There are. Too many pictures. Snippets of other lives and other times. I scroll down. But they follow me. Littering my piano top. I flip the page. But other images slip in. And take their place. Friends posing for the camera. Weary with smiles too wide and colors too bright for shadow dwellers. I cannot look.

There are. Too many people. Crying for attention or merely crying. I shut my eyes. But the light seeps in. Damaging my retinas. I shut my ears. But the voices will not cease. Shattering my ear drums. Humanity's dying gasp. Filtered through the defibulating heart of someone who once cared. I cannot help.

There are. Too many angels. Balanced precariously on the pin's head. I fold my hands. But my fingers still twitch. Wrinkled and arthritic. I bend my knees. But they fight the pew. Cramping from calf to heel. Deity's last prayer. Visited as acid rain upon the head of an unrepentant sinner-saint. I cannot believe.

There are. Too many questions. Left unaddressed and unanswered. I turn my head. But no one raises their hand. The class is dumb. I purse my lips. And the vacuum of space. Swallows my words. Cold matter's final pronouncement. Proclaims that history isn't a sieve, but an impenetrable wall. I cannot grieve.

Imperfectly Said

Perfection is an idea, not a reality. No matter how long or hard you practice something, it will never be done perfectly. Work to improve your performance, but accept your flaws. Inarticulation is the way of the world.

Like Love In Love

Like. Love. In Love. Three distinct states; frequently existing concurrently in the same heart.

Like. She appeals to me. I’m fond of her. I enjoy her presence. She has my eye.

Love. She’s dear to me. I care about her. I worry about her. I want to protect her.

In Love. I think of her passionately. I want to be with her. I want to touch her. I want her to care about me.

See what I mean. Separate, not equal. Like is fun, but sterile. Love is selfless, but terrible. In Love is selfish, but wonderful.