Wicked Witch

I’m melting. Each day I struggle to re-assemble myself amide the heat and the rain. Sometimes I am successful. The pieces of me are grafted back together and no one is the wiser. Sometimes not so much. And I am only vaguely aware of what has been lost. Either way, the process will go on. Screaming to the silence. My world in disarray. I wonder if all lives deteriorate in similar fashion? If maybe my demise is just a consequence of aging? If the myth of uniqueness is the final aspect of personality to slip through metaphorically arthritic fingers? Genius no more. Genius never was. Having written that I am as whole as I can get tonight. Maybe I will sleep now.

My Black Beauty

 A gun turns a weak little boy into a big powerful man. A gun turns a nobody into a celebrity. Manhood based upon the ability to threaten and kill is now the American norm. Thuggery is now the key to personal fulfillment and fame in the US of A.

El Christmas

 They hired a mariachi band to play music at the company Christmas party. Do you like “Felice Navidad?” Apparently, it was the only classic Christmas song the group knew. They played it over and over again at increased decibel levels for at least three hours.

After that they started to play rock and roll covers. Their version of  “Jhonny Be Mucho” was actually pretty good -- although I found the attempt to smash their trumpets at the end of the song to be noisy and needlessly destructive and not at all in synch with the holiday spirit -- as was their acoustic rendition “Hotel Tijuana.”

Next came a 47 minute version of Bowie’s “Space Odyssey” -- complete with a 19-1/2 minute castanet solo. Three days later some of the hearing has returned to my left ear; so I guess it could be categorized as a success also.

Then they launched into a Rolling Stones medley and it was epic. The guy imitating Mick Jagger -- he calls himself Pancho Jagger -- was a riot. Literally, a riot. People were breaking up furniture and smashing windows to escape the performance. He was so acrobatic! Everybody wondered how he kept the sombrero on his head throughout the entire number.

He punctuated his singing with a series of asides explaining each song in the medley. According to Pancho, “Brown Sugar’ is a song about Keith Richards baking cookies and that the satisfaction not obtained in the song of the same name is the satisfaction of knowing your loved ones have successfully made it home for the holidays after a long night of partying on Christmas Eve.

You don’t want to know exactly what Pancho said about “Symphony for the Devil” -- children may be reading this feed -- but it had all the insight and nuance of a Stephen King novel adapted for the holidays by the Hallmark Channel. Personally, I think Pancho had too much eggnog before the party.

Finally -- and mercifully -- they ended their show by singing a song called “El Whit Chrissmuas” -- not the Irving Berlin classic, but a weird and disturbing ditty about some kid snorting cocaine under a poinsettia bush while his parents play Bing Crosby records in the next room. Suffice it to say, a good time was had by all who survived.

Shortcomings Come and Gone

Some people are bad, it’s true, but most of them just aren’t good enough.

Stupid is as Stupid Votes

Never use the phrase “nobody could possibly be that stupid” in Florida. Ten people will fall out of the nearest palm tree to prove you wrong. And one might fall on you.

Everything

I’ve lived a “what was I thinking?!!” life. The only thing I regret is everything. . .

Blue and Red with Feathers

Superman looks in his closet and it’s full of blue tights and red capes and one chicken suit. . .

The Eternal Grimace

God smiles at me. His large jagged teeth glittering in the moonlight. His breath smells of decay. A Cheshire cat grin of disinterest. Fading to black.

He knows something. But will not give up his secret. He is no one special, but will not admit it. His power is only to destroy. That is practical divinity.

The webs he weaves come apart quickly. And Spiderman tumbles to earth. Broken heart or broken leg. It doesn’t matter. Breaking is the only goal.

I spy his shadow. Barely discernable on a cloudy day. As pre-rain air clings to human skin. A frown posed on unbelieving lips. The joke unappreciated.

This is the riddle. This is the story. This is the end. There is no smile. There is no secret. There is no plan. There is no shadow. Only the eternal grimace.

Poem Abandoned Last February

Through a tunnel of trees my legs propel me. The sun filtered through a twisted maze of leaves and branches. Barely patches of sky peeking blue around lush fingers of green and brown. The shadows are alive. The earth hums contentedly. Shoes snap gravel and dust. Barely visible hanging in shafts and stillness. It is summer and I am alone. Wandering freely. Unencumbered by the day or the hour.

The voice in my head flutters with the wings of birds. And the sound of scraping one hand against another. My eyes fill with darkness and light. The chiaroscuro designs of a closed mouthed non-deity. Lost in the landscape. My heart filled with broken twigs and twisted spines. And the buried bones of countless small souls. Who lived their lives anonymously. I self-incinerate and my ashes blow away.

In the wild I confront my illness and cautiously heal. An aficionado of the great indoors. An existential crisis is unmaking itself. I laugh at the sadness. A full-blooded, great-throated bellow. A heckle exchange with the comedian onstage. A oak has fallen and I am a witness. The lone sentient being. A testament to entropic desire. I can be happy even if happiness is fleeting. I can fleet. So fleeting is fine.

Through a tunnel of trees my legs propel me. The sun filtered through a twisted maze of leaves and branches. Barely patches of sky peeking blue around lush fingers of green and brown. The shadows are alive. The earth hums contentedly. Shoes snap gravel and dust. Barely visible hanging in shafts and stillness. It is summer and I am alone. Wandering freely. Unencumbered by the day or the hour. . .

“I saw the ghost of Ted Kennedy -- his pockets stuffed with aborted fetuses -- tampering with mail-in ballots.” -- one of hundreds of signed affidavits presented in court by President Trump’s legal team. Most were signed with an X.

Ah, Bach. . .

If it’s not Baroque don’t try to fix it.

Blogging for Bigots

Use Parler for all your social media needs. It’s just like Facebook or Twitter, but you can use the “N” word, plot the violent overthrow of the government, and post Michael Bolton videos without being flagged.

Loser!

Being a bad loser doesn't make you a winner. It only make you a bigger loser.

The Problem

We’re all in this together and that’s the problem.

Call

You have the right to believe any fool thing you like, but your right to believe doesn’t negate my right to criticize your foolishness.

More on M and M

I have a great deal of respect for people who focus their spiritual energies on the physical and emotional needs of others and who strive to make the world a better place for all. Yet, I am firmly convinced of two things: 1] Religion -- that is to say, a belief in deity -- is not a requirement for living a moral life; and 2] The negative consequences of belief are at least as great as its positive ones.

People with no religious beliefs are capable of living irreproachable lives of personal piety or public service and religion sometimes inspires the most reprehensible behavior in individuals or groups. One set of beliefs doesn’t follow logically from or exclude the other. Morality and metaphysics inhabit separate spheres of the human brain and can comfortably reside in the same head with no ill effects.

For me it’s all a question of natural temperament and perhaps early upbringing and childhood role models. For every person whose moral character is improved or strengthened by their association with a religion, a second exists whose natural tendencies toward kindness and tolerance are warped and corrupted by sectarian doctrine.

Wickedness should be defined by behavior, not by metaphysical belief. A person’s true nature can be assessed by the assumptions upon which they habitually act, not upon the doctrines they openly espouse. It isn't that talk is cheap, merely that it is an insufficient gage of human conduct and therefor should not be afforded a prime role in the formation of public policy.

The Ten Commandments and all such stories of divine law-giving are a myth, albeit a useful and well-intentioned myth. Religion is a form of social control, but it is an imperfect policeman. The  rules for both personal and private conduct should be based upon a careful consideration of human interactions and their effect upon the world and not upon divine edict.

Zeus

Lightning originates on the ground. It doesn’t come down from on high. Zeus is a fraud.

The Torture Scenario

An integral part of the Easter season is the story of Jesus' crucifixion. The allure of the passion isn’t that Jesus died, but that he died in one of the most horrific and gruesome ways possible. His eventual resurrection reads like a postscript to the tale. I wonder if the story would still resonate if he had died in some other fashion? Would Christ’s sacrifice be any less significant if he had been bored to death watching a Gilligan’s Island marathon or died after eating some bad clams?

SPAM

CNN gets way more credit than it deserves for merely "not being" FOX. It's like saying canned Spam is a culinary delight just because it's slightly more eatable than a plate of dirt.

Speaking Ill of the Dead

Let us not speak ill of the dead. Well, maybe a little -- if for no other reason than to loosen the clamps on everyone else’s mouths. Kobe Bryant. A great athlete, but a less then perfect human being. Selfish, egotistic, and possibly criminal. He hogged the ball and the spotlight, cheated on his wife, and frequently treated other people like shit. He was richly rewarded for his athletic prowess, and admired by millions who live vicariously through the accomplishments of others, but what did he really accomplish in life?

He was neither a great intellect or a profound thinker. He wasn’t an artist or a healer or a crusader for social justice. He never sacrificed himself for the greater good or spoke out in support of an unpopular cause. He sank baskets and won championships. Even then, team was merely an addendum to personal glory. He lived comfortably and conventionally and mostly did what he wanted with little or no regard for anything or anybody else. It’s a great shame to die at forty-one, but he wasn’t Jesus Christ and he didn’t die on the cross.