Making Widows Wince

I heard a dog barking every night for a week. I couldn't sleep. I decided to confront the dogs owner about the noise. I walked to Hillary’s home. It was surrounded by a high fence, so I rang her security people to let me in. As I stood on the porch I heard lots of talking coming from inside the main house. Heavy curtains kept me from seeing anyone. After a long bit of waiting the door edged open and Hillary stepped out to meet me. The door then sprung closed firmly behind her. She did not invite me inside. There was no seating on the porch. We didn't have drinks. We stood and talked. I gave her my complaint, and then suggested some possible remedies. She smiled, thanked me and, cracking open the front door, disappeared into the house. I heard talking as I walk away. I didn't recognize any of the voices. A week later, I met her on the street. She smiled, walked past me quickly and disappeared. --> The fucking dog is s...

Mary asked me if the 49ers were good or bad. I told her to unask the question.

I had a fat dream about this poem last night, probably from the stout Cortez reference. I might have heard it while vaguely dozing with the TV turned on one of my nightly pre-bedtime comedy shows (teeheehee). It was a jelly belly of a dream in which I awoke from a thousand years of slumberous ‘nothing is new’ sleep and, after being one of the first white guys to cross the Atlantic, (and then after climbing – sweaty in heavy armor, to the top of a mountain), only to find myself staring at another fucking ocean. It vexed me to no good end; it made me want to disengage my very tap root from all moorings. A wild surmise not first filled with wonder. It must have been like seeing Andy Kaufman for the first time, and then finding out he really did have a charter bus waiting for you (for a trip to milk and cookie land) -- when all you really wanted was to go home and sleep. Or, like seeing Jesus from my grave when the lights go off.   “On First Looking into Chapman’s Home...

This song is from 1968, and I've listened and sung along to it hundreds of times in the last 50 years. Somehow, just today, I read the lyrics. Something new everyday in spite of myself. I've been thinking lately that maybe I've been going too fast and I've missed some stuff over the years. I am becoming more aware of the gaps and cracks in both my memories and beliefs. I don't think I've spent enough on maintenance, and am super aware that maybe I wasn't paying attention to much of anything. Or, maybe it's just that I have more free time to Spackle shit now. "In the white room with black curtains near the station Blackroof country, no gold pavements, tired starlings Silver horses ran down moonbeams in your dark eyes Dawnlight smiles on you leaving, my contentment I'll wait in this place where the sun never shines Wait in this place where the shadows run from themselves You said no strings could secure you at the station Platform ticket, re...

I have vision when the rest of the world wears bifocals, a fact that is legally well documented with time-stamps and the way-back machine, and I occasionally make political recommendations and suggestions that veer into prophecy. The last vision I nailed down involved the combining of schools with prisons – a thing now status quo in many former confederate states and their ilk. Now, along those lines, another bold proposal. Today I’d like to suggest a fix to the two propositions currently facing California voters: Propositions 62 and 66. Prop 62 wants to replace capital punishment with life sans parole. Prop 66 wants to speed up the death penalty – get rid of appeals, limit time for stuff, etc. I voted for both, because I just want something to happen – keeping people on death row for 40 plus years is both expensive and mean. Having families hang out waiting for justice until most of them have been outlived by the convict they are waiting to die seems kind of mean spirited...