It's easy. . .
This is a lion.
This is a sack of horse shit.
-And-
This is a lyin' sack of horse shit.
Any questions?
Friday, February 26, 2016
Sunday, January 17, 2016
Post Election Spectulation
What should be done with the Republican Presidential field? I have some suggestions. For anyone who's interested, here's my entire list:
1] The electric chair for Trump. 50,000 volts for Mr Electricity. It'll light up both Broadway and the FOX News studios.
2] The gas chamber for Cruz. Poisoned gas for the largest bag of gas in American politics since Joe McCarthy.
3] Crucifixion for Huck. He'd like that. No resurrection though. It's been done before.
3a] A lobotomy for Dr Carson. Oh, wait a minute, I think he's already had one. He performed it himself just before his last television appearance.
4] Starving to death for Christie. It may take a while for him to die. He'll be able to live off his fat for several months. Maybe several years.
5] Impalement for Rubio. A long stick up the rectum ends all pretension. At least, I'm hoping.
6] Drowning in a crock of excrement for Bush. He's always been full of shit. He might not even notice he's being executed.
7] The hangman for Kasich. Mr Death for the Masses can try his new dance moves at the end of a good stout rope.
8] A chain gang for Jindal. It's a Southern tradition. After all, he dropped out of the race 'cause of "a failure to communicate" with the Republican base.
9] Pressing to death for Walker. No special reason. I just think it would be fun to see someone putting the squeeze on him for a change.
10] The comfy chair for Graham or, maybe, the dish rack. I'll ask Cardinal Fang next time he's around for tea.
11] A penal colony for Paul. Devil's island is lovely this time of the year. If he's still alive after ten years maybe we'll parole him. Maybe not.
12] Carly may live, but she won't be allowed to see visitors, lie to the press, or play the stock market.
13] Rick Santorum will also be allowed to live. I can't think of any punishment worst than having to live out your days as Rick Santorum.
1] The electric chair for Trump. 50,000 volts for Mr Electricity. It'll light up both Broadway and the FOX News studios.
2] The gas chamber for Cruz. Poisoned gas for the largest bag of gas in American politics since Joe McCarthy.
3] Crucifixion for Huck. He'd like that. No resurrection though. It's been done before.
3a] A lobotomy for Dr Carson. Oh, wait a minute, I think he's already had one. He performed it himself just before his last television appearance.
4] Starving to death for Christie. It may take a while for him to die. He'll be able to live off his fat for several months. Maybe several years.
5] Impalement for Rubio. A long stick up the rectum ends all pretension. At least, I'm hoping.
6] Drowning in a crock of excrement for Bush. He's always been full of shit. He might not even notice he's being executed.
7] The hangman for Kasich. Mr Death for the Masses can try his new dance moves at the end of a good stout rope.
8] A chain gang for Jindal. It's a Southern tradition. After all, he dropped out of the race 'cause of "a failure to communicate" with the Republican base.
9] Pressing to death for Walker. No special reason. I just think it would be fun to see someone putting the squeeze on him for a change.
10] The comfy chair for Graham or, maybe, the dish rack. I'll ask Cardinal Fang next time he's around for tea.
11] A penal colony for Paul. Devil's island is lovely this time of the year. If he's still alive after ten years maybe we'll parole him. Maybe not.
12] Carly may live, but she won't be allowed to see visitors, lie to the press, or play the stock market.
13] Rick Santorum will also be allowed to live. I can't think of any punishment worst than having to live out your days as Rick Santorum.
Saturday, November 7, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
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.
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.
Saturday, October 17, 2015
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. . .
Next week: grudging sobriety, a cheap sanatorium, and a play about my morphine-addicted mother. . .
Monday, October 12, 2015
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.
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.
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