Sunday, May 30, 2010


Septic thoughts, permeate my mind.
I think it is the rain...
dark, ominous clouds...
yes, they persist in glooming me.
They are dooming me to think.
to dream...
to be analytic...

Me, the clown prince of foolishness.
I am but a clown, trying to understand clowns.
I am the master of ceremonies....
the fool of fools.
I am not a free bhikku.
All my observations give me:
ulcerative colitis,
severe gastritis,
painful arthritis,
I have every "itis" in this sorrowful world.

The blindness of my third eye is killing me.
I will soon set myself free.
Sleep, oh gentle sleep...
beckons to me.
A dark figure invites me...
he of bony hands and finger...
curling toward me, inviting me,
saying to "come and sleep".

"Come where septic thoughts will never be."
"Come with me where pain is but a phantom."
"Come to eternity."
Yes, sleep...give up the "itis".
Give up the gloom.
Give up the dark clouds.
Give up the septic thoughts.
They merely are phantoms of my mind.

They permeate nothing in nothingness...
or everythingness.
So sleep, dear poet.
Sleep a sleep of the ages.
Exhale your final pain.
Leave your septic thoughts...
the dualities which permeate the mind...
For they are only illusion.

Friday, May 28, 2010


My kitchen demoliton project starts on Tuesday. Purchases of Maple Cabinets, Quartz countertops, expensive stainless steel appliances, "fancy-assed" light fixtures, dimmers, red-oak, finished floors throughout the house, and Persian rugs, and energy efficient windows downstairs, and upstairs, endless shopping, bartering, wringing of hands, gnashing of teeth...and there's the money factor...This sucks!...Oh!...Woe is me!

No more sitting in my lazy boy chair, after a hearty meal in the afternoons, where I could fall asleep and drool down my chin. The endless pounding, tearing, ripping, and sounds of destruction and construction will force me out of my realm. I must live on Subway Submarine sandwiches and hide in my basement. Thank God, if it ever gets finished. I can still use my puter, but the noise!..Oy-Vey! The God awful noise...I can't stand to think about it.

Maybe after lunch, I can mosey on down to the Public Library, in order to sleep in one of their lounge chairs. The way I dress and the way I snore...(like a freight train), may lead to my early ejection from this comfort. They probably will think I am a homeless person. I could possibly rent a room and pay by the week in a transient hotel, like Charles Bukowski. Maybe my writing would be more inspired by such environs. My wife says: "For Chrissakes, just grin and bear it! You are such a structured recluse!" Maybe she is right. I need to add a little style to my mundane life. I should take up golf...Join a Country Club...Trade in my beater RAV4 for a nice BMW convertible. I don't think so!

I like who I am. I am a curmudgeon...A simple fool with simple tastes. I like torn T-shirts, and holes in my jeans. I like to rule my peasant's roost. I don't need fancy things, and don't care about keeping up with the Jones'es. I don't even talk to my neighbors. I can make it through this renovation ordeal. I know I can! Maybe I can fly to Amsterdam for six weeks! I know I'd have fun there! Naw, my wife would put her foot down on this great idea. I am damned for six weeks. That's the long and short of it. Sometimes I feel like Kurt Vonnegut's, Billy Pilgrim. So it goes.


They've all left and gone away,
and left me with this day.
All the hurt and pain I feel,
most certainly is real.
It's the circle of death and life,
which leaves me with this strife.
Why won't it go away...
my melancholy day?
I see that it must stay.

For though I pray for my release,
this pain will never cease.
My family is all dead now...
through the minutes, I must plow.
An endless fight to breathe,
depression will not leave.
Oh God, if you exist,
take me from this abyss.
Let me love who is left
and pull me from these depths.

For, I hope that in some way...
I might celebrate someday...
to nurture those I choose,
before I say adieu.

Thursday, May 27, 2010


Ah, the smell of spam and eggs
hot black coffee
me alone, a campfire before sunrise
i'm in the shawnee national forest
in southern illinois
it's hot and humid, today.
i decide to hike the long way
swatting bugs and mosquitos
sweating good now
cooling me off
then the rains come
the trails are muddy
and i fear the climb
i have to climb up first
to go down into little grand canyon
mystical southern illinois
my body is lean
i'm 57 years old
and i am well
my breath comes fast
i feel good
i see woodland creatures
birds, deer, racoon, hawks,
snakes, chipmunks, rabbits,
they are my friends
i see trees, flowers, cliffs,
then i get to the canyon
i climb down to a ledge
less than two feet wide
it's more than 200 feet down
i see dates carved into rock
some are from the early 1800's
this makes the hike worth it all
the canyon is closed now
protected by the national park system
i remember being on the bottom
seeing iced over water falls
and spectacular colors,
from mineral deposits
this was in the winter time
i was twenty years old
with another guy, from nebraska
who turned me on to this magical place
my photographic mind still sees it
or maybe its just my illusion
but it is a good illusion
i enjoy it
it was good to be back
it is my little grand canyon
a good place to be
alone with a breakfast of
spam and eggs
strong coffee and me

Wednesday, May 26, 2010


I read somewhere, that "you can't get closer to God, with a bellyfull of whiskey." But dammit, there were a few times in my life when I was high on whiskey and grass when everything in the world seemed just fine to me! I had love for everyone and felt the "divine purpose" and just knew I was on the right path to "enlightenment", when I was drunker than a Lord!

I knew that the Great Spirit intended for me to be an adventurer. I was chosen to open my doors of perception! Thank you Aldous Huxley! Sex, drugs and rock and-roll always showed me the way.

But alas, 'round about the age of 49, I had been folded, spindled, and mutilated by construction companies and bar-rooms. I had a wife and kid who didn't see things my rebel way, and my body was starting to alarm me. The fact is that it was tired of being punished by booze and whatever else I ingested to make myself feel this "enlightenment".

Ergo, I tried the sober life. I could only stomach it for 5 or 6 months, at a time. I always had an itch I had to scratch, especially when I was feeling wonderful. Sobriety makes and alcoholic or drug addict feel great, but it's boring as hell. I thought I'd learn how to drink and drug responsibly. I could walk "the middle path", because of the knowledge I had gained. I had learned enough, so I could drink normally again. This worked for a while, then I'd be back to my old ways, sicker than ever. I vacillated between sobriety and drunkenness for four years. Finally, I had enough of the whole process.

I was fat, sick and old. I sat in jail, drunk on my ass one night with a DUI and my sweet wife had left me 2 weeks prior to that...I guess I showed her! My hedonistic ways, waylaid my Buddhistic days of youth. Maybe finding "enlightenment" has to come from pain. I guess for me it did. However, for all you kiddies out there, I recommend the "middle path" and not going through what I did.

Anyhow, I gave up the booze, the drugs...and finally when I couldn't breathe anymore, I gave up the smokes. I have everything now. I'm sober for 7 years. My wife came back, my daughter is doing well. I'm retired and comfortable. I have recovery groups, and a great gym where I work out every day. I have money for vacations and I buy whatever I want.

But you know what?...I'm bored. I sitll think about how good that belly full of whiskey felt. I think about lighting up a wonderful joint, or taking a drag off a marvelous cigarette. Then, miraculously I somehow come to my senses. I grab a pen, and write crap like this, on a piece of paper. You probably wish I'd start drinking again, eh?

Tuesday, May 25, 2010


In the old days, we had are shows in roach-infested, storefront, art galleries. None of us painted very well, but we pooled our money together and bought beer, whiskey, and wine...put out a spread of good food, smoked dope in back alleys and generally had a helluva time. Yes, these were my halcyon days.

Everybody knew everyone else, and once in a while we sold our paintings off dirty walls. The yuppie throng invaded our rat holes, and we instantly became "hip". The time period this all happened was the "booming 80's", and money was being made. Art sales were picking up astronomically. We sat in nice bars now, blowing all our cash on martinis, instead of muscatel. We bought each other drinks, and wore nice clothes. It was a glorious time!

Our parties never ended 'til four-or-five a.m., and sometimes we were too tired to drive home, so we crashed at a fellow artists' apartment of loft near the gallery. In the morning, we'd wake up and start partying again. We played old records, bongo drums, harmonicas, electric guitars or would act out charades, or various theatrical dramas. These made-up, spontaneous activities titilated us beyond belief!...Maybe because most of us were thoroughly Psychedelicized!

Now, 20 or 30 years later, the old crew has more of less disbanded. Some of us got straight jobs, went crazy, or on to rehabilitation clinics. Most of us are now probably too busy taking care of elderly parents while at the same time, trying to put petulant kids through college. Today money is tight, and people are buying their art from Walmart or Poster Shops. It's sad, man!

Many of us are seeing doctors for legal drugs, instead of magical ones. I don't paint anymore because I don't have the room to store any more canvases. It's a damn shame, isn't it? I suppose I'll leave my work to my daughter. Maybe she can make some money from it. I envision one of these ritzy post-mortem shows, at a fancy gallery on Superior Street. I dream about my kid making all the big bucks I "should" have made. From the "beyond", I'll say to her: "It's alright honey, I've had my 15-minutes of fame!" "Enjoy the dough." Yeah sure! In reality, I see her stacking the stuff on the front porch for the American Veterans truck, or taking a "duece" or "fiver" for them at a garage sale...just to get them out of her hair! Hee! I don't blame her. I'd probably do the same thing! I loved painting them. I still like looking at my art. That's what counts. All my work, came from my heart. The parties, the people, the joys shared between me and my comrades...All of it was most certainly an incredible journey. It was a Golden time in my life.

Sunday, May 23, 2010


The world gets too noisy for me.
I long for more silent times...
Those times where I lay in large expanses
of desert, or grassy fields,
looking at a yellow moon...
or listening to doves,
while I'm gazing at the stars.
No thoughts, just a silence of mind.
Things seem to open themselves up to me,
in this kind of solitude.
These moments come less in my modern world.
We are like whirling dervishes,
with no direction...
dust devils with no protection.
We are dust devils who spin out of control,
then disappear as quickly as we are conceived.

It's a madness out there, I tell you.
We bombard our minds with useless information.
These things have no meaningful consequence.
Frivolous facts are generated by self-righteous bastards.
They are hypocrites of the techno-political-media machine.
They are a cabal of those who pitch endless lines of bullshit.
They extrapolate, warn, cajol, and rape my soul,
with their meaningless banter.

It's no different than this babble that I pen...
out of sheer boredom, whilst I should be meditating,
or praying, or looking for stars in huge clean skies,
which have yellow moons, and nights that have cooing doves,
and howling wolves, and mystical holy men,
whose spirits still dance.
And if I meditate long enough, sometimes...
I am fooled into seeing them.
If I stay still, and listen, and see,
I might find some crumbs of knowledge,
these holy men have left for me.
So simple, it seems,
I breathe and turn it all off.

Saturday, May 22, 2010


lately i feel useless.
i guess i gotta' get used to this.
no one wants to hear me no more.
they're quick with their smiles...
then fly out the door.
the more i talk, the worse it seems...
no one wants to hear, an old mans dreams.
(i still have them you know!)

maybe i talk too loud?
I'm deaf in both ears...
my head's in the clouds.
after all, who wants to hear,
a wild-eyed poet.
yet, i don't want to blow it.

i never felt useless in my younger days.
i could work with the best of 'em,
and party for days.
that's all in the past.
i ain't up to it now.
i've been put out to pasture...
an old bull with young cows.
(they laugh at me too.)
i guess...
i'm an old swingin' dick with nothin' to do.
i just feel useless...
must be more or i'm through.

promise me one thing.
remember these pleas:
someday if your lucky...
you'll be just like me.
a full, bursting bladder,
with nowhere to pee.

don't make me feel useless,
'cause in the end...
you're gonna' need,
at least a couple of friends.

if you show mercy...
i'd like to guarantee,
you might get lucky...
and have longevity.
i hope you feel useful...
and your soul is free.
not an old fool,
a cowboy, like me.


The Village made it "law", not to feed the wild animals anymore..."Momma", and I like to give pieces of bologna or cheese, to feral cats, that live underneath our deck in back of our townhome. I also like giving donuts to racoons. I haven't seen any coyotes carrying young children around in their mouths yet, so I guess we might still be safe. I see a coyote or a red fox, once in a while. I've seen two deer in front of my house, in the 30 years we have been living here in Wheaton, Illinois. Seeing them in civilization always made me feel sad, 'cause usually they don't make it back to the old spring-fed lake near my house. The Indians used to camp out there, years ago. Civilization beats wild animals to death with high powered cars or carbines. I realize that culling is a neccessary evil, which in fact, helps animal populations, but still I am sad when I see a dead carcass, lying on the side of the road.

I'm not going to stop feeding the chipmunks, squirrels, and birds. That's where I draw the line. One time, my Town Home Assosciation sent me a letter indicating that my bird house wasn't within the rules of the community. They told me that I must take it down, or I would face a financial penalty. This pretty bird house hangs outside my den, above my deck on the outside patio. I made it in my woodshop and put a tin roof on it, so that my birdies could stay dry and raise their families in relative security. I watched them build their nests, and feed worms to their young for 6 years, before the Town Home Association sent me their "evil edict", in the mail. I decided to go to the very next meeting. I hadn't been to one in over 20 years.

I came in all dirty after running a bulldozer all day...I was wearing a grubby Caterpillar ball cap, and a tank top with some sinister rock band logo...My outfit was complete, with a pair of Levi, boot-cut jeans, and a well-worn pair of cowboy boots. I looked like I just walked off some movie set, where they were shooting footage about rednecks riding bulls in taverns, after punching cows all day long. I was pissed off, hot, and thirsty for a beer. I threw the letter on the desk. The Board members were dressed in nice suits and ties, and the women had pretty dresses, make-up and heels. They smelled a whole lot better than me! I said, "Read this letter you sent me, then you can all go fuck yourselves!"

I felt real good, as I slammed the door on the way out. I came home, twisted the cap off a beer, and looked at the birds feeding from my bird house. It still hangs out there today, many years after this altercation. Now that I've retired, I love watching all my small animal friends. I will never stop feeding them. I like them more than most humans I encounter...I think that maybe, pretty soon, I'm gonna' have to visit City Hall!

Friday, May 21, 2010


Born in Chicago,
I know the blues.
I remember Halsted and Madison Streets...
I knew of, Howlin' Wolf, Lonnie Brooks, Luther Allison, Koko Taylor and Clarence, "Gatemouth" Brown.
I dug Paul Butterfield, Mike Bloomfield, Siegal Schwall, I knew 'em all.

The Blues are about people and pain.
They are also about joy and love.
They're about love and the loss of love.
The Blues are about calloused hands, and bent backs.
They are about the Chicago Stockyards, and factories.
The Blues, know no racial bounds.
They were brought up from the Mississippi Delta,
by people who had hopes and dreams.
They came up North, hungry blacks and Appalachian white trash.

The Blues are a state of mind.
They are carried in a leather jacket,
like a cheap half-pint of bourbon.
The Blues are a pack of non-filtered smokes.
They are a shot of scag...
A joint, or an old hag.
She sells herself on North Avenue and Ashland,
in the dead of winter. She wears no jacket.
The Blues are in your face, just like this.
The Blues make no excuses for what they are.
They don't care what you think.

Once you understand the Blues,
You carry them around with you, always.
They are yours for life.
No matter how "flush" you get,
You never forget the Blues.

I won't forget Maxwell Street.
The smell of Chicago hotdogs.
The street vendors.
The people.
The joy of dancing.
They tore it all down.
The spirit remains.
I carry it with me,
in my leather jacket,
like a half-pint of beloved, cheap bourbon...
My Chicago Blues.

Thursday, May 20, 2010


Dear Mom:

Thank you for giving me life. You took care of yourself, and were glad that I was going to join you in this world. Thanks for holding me close to you, and nurturing me. Thanks for helping me, through all my illnesses, and making sure my jeans were clean. Thanks Mom, for feeding me good food and teaching me how to read. I still remember our walks, and the things you showed me. Thank you for taking me to the Library, and telling me that "I could go anywhere in my mind, for free, as long as I had a magical Library card."

Thanks Mom for never saying anything derogatory about my father. You endured his alcoholism and bad behavior, without ever assasinating his character. Thank you for taking me to church every Sunday, and saving all you pennies, so I could attend the best of schools.

I hope you forgive me for the lies I told you. You know, when I'd ask for an extra $20 for books, and instead blow it on beer or reefer when I was in college. I'm sure sorry for that now. I'm glad that in spite of all my bad behavior, I was a good son, most of the time. I cut our grass, washed our windows, and painted our gutters. I'm glad I put that new kitchen floor in for you, and re-plastered the living-room ceiling.

You always showed me the value of hard work. Thanks for working 'til you were 67 years old. You were such a dynamo, I never thought you would get old and ill. You took care of yourself, and had good health until you were 94. You were an amazing woman. Thank you, for putting up with my impatience, when you were elderly. I'm glad I took you into my home and cared for you in the last 5 years of your life. You never complained about your aches and pains. I am grateful, mom, that you got to see me sober for the last 3 years of your life.

I am proud that I gave you this little gift of sobriety. You always deserved more than I gave you, yet you never complained. You always boosted me up, and said you were proud of me. When I look at the whole picture of our lives together, I am relieved that I wasn't the worst of sons. I am glad that I held you in my arms and talked to you on your death bed. I'll never forget the light in your pretty eyes, right before you died. I've been meaning to write to you for a long time Mom, but you know how busy I am. Dear Mom, most of all, I want you to know how much I miss you. I think about you every day. I still love you!

Your son, Richard

Wednesday, May 19, 2010


We met at Joe's bar.
A pub on the South side of Chicago...
with interesting memorabilia on the walls...
all related to the city and old memories.
Many of us had not seen each other,
for over forty-years.
We looked past the silver hair,
the wrinkles, the sagging skin,
the extra forty-pounds.
We saw each others' beautiful essence.
We old friends were finally together again.
I saw them as I knew them, in the past.
I envisioned my friends as bright, laughing,
wonderful teenagers, with a lust for life.
And Oh!, Such great dreams we had!
Tonight we spoke of deaths, marriages, divorces,
grandchildren, the sadness of losing children,
who should have survived us.
We spoke of successes, failures, sorrows, and joys.
We showed pictures of our families and shared gifts.
The light still shined brightly in our eyes.
Finally, we were together again.
We were still young at heart.
We were beautiful.
We knew we loved each other,
and shared a special, common bond...
of what once was, and what will be.
We met at Joe's bar.
A guy who grew up with us,
on the South side of Chicago.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010


Nothin' like hitch-hiking when I was young...
the endless open road.
the strange people, and their stories...
nothin' but miles, smiles, danger and big skies.
Then comes rain, thunder, lightning...
and fear.
I'd have to opt for cheap motel rooms,
'till the sun shined again.
Me and a bottle, a pack of smokes...
my small rucksack with humble, but needed, belongings.
I hopped freight trains.
I didn't like it.
It's too dangerous of a game.
I lost a few teeth,
skinned a few knuckles, in meaningless wars.

I loved the diners on my journey.
I enjoyed the waitresses who showed me some leg...
their knowing smiles,
push-up bras,
then after a few drinks...
I went home to their trailers, or cheap apartments.
We had sex without care or commitment.
Sometimes their husbands were working the midnight shift...
in local factories.
Or the gals were lonely townies,
single, and yearning for adventure.
They were longing to be someplace else...
anywhere but where they were.
Me, bum that I am, pondered philosophy,
and these dangerous liasons.

Smiling happily, I pulled up my jeans.
I pissed in dirty, gas station rest-rooms.
I'd buy another pack of smokes, and stick my thumb out,
for the road once again.
Onward, to the next town.
I was itching for more adventures.
There's nothin' like hitch hiking, when I was young.

Monday, May 17, 2010


Quit your jobs!
We'll take care of you.
We're big government.
A dollar here, a dollar there...
We're spending YOUR money,

Private business,
ain't your affair.
We got your back.
It's a natural fact!
The FDA will rule the day.
So China's lead,
can FUCK your head!
With products made,
in toxic haste.

Your childrens weight,
we must observe and regulate.
It sounds absurd,
but WE are here to protect you,
Don't you see?
You don't need DEMOCRACY!

A little snip here,
a little ship there,
your paycheck is dwindling,
you need not care!
We'll take care of you.
'Cause there ain't no work.
You've got nothing to do!

So play on the Internet.
Watch hours of TV
Mess with the WiFi,
heee, heee, heee!
Just let it be!
No more unions
No 401K.
You don't really need them!
It's OK!

Big daddy government,
gonna' pave the way!
Don't worry 'bout oil spills in the Gulf.
Stock market woes, you can put on the shelf.
Kids can't spell,
or count on their toes.
We'll fix that too!
Everyone knows!
We'll raise your taxes,
to fix any mess.
We have ILLEGAL LABOR here,
it's cheap, and the best!

The corporates are smiling.
It's all OK!
Don't worry about tommorow!
Just live for today!
A new age is coming.
Don't get in the way.
Where work camps abound.
Nationalization, will be most profound.
Don't let it worry you, or get you down.
All will be fixed.
A new sherrifs' in town!

Hand in your guns...
Constitutional Rights...
There's no need to worry,
there's no need to fight.
Big Governments here.
We rule the day!
Smile and be happy!
We aint goin' away!


I look for the signs.
Footprints in the snow...
disturbed brush, and dead campsites.
I follow the tracks, back to mankind,
sorrowfully so.
Because I know...
The hardships of my mind.

It is better in the woods.
I can be with gentle things.
Alone, I watch the hawk on wing.
Now, all is good,
in this great Midwestern forest.
I see my breath,
crytalize before my eyes.
It is so cold out here...
so pristine,
so primitive.
There is moss on the bark.
The air is clean.

There is soft mud, by rapid streams.
Gurgling waters sing me a lullaby, to sleep.
They prod me not to leave.
They tell me to lay myself down in the snow...
to sleep the eternal sleep.
It is so easy for me to do....

I follow the tracks to mankind.
I think the hard way, might be the best,
At least for a time.
I can always change my mind.
I can follow the tracks,
back to this time.
To release my mind,
I'll look for the signs.

Sunday, May 16, 2010


Garbled speech is all I hear.
It resonates in my mind.
My logic is lost.
I am confused.
I cannot hear.
I do not care.
I do not wear my hearing aids.
It doesn't matter.
My thoughts are clear.

The cacophony of the insane,
is not missed by me.
Cadaverous masses, march zombie-like,
to the dance macabre,
of political correctness.
It is ineptness, sepsis, death, "non-correctus",
of the synchophants of illogic which tortures me.

Stodgy, old fools like me turn the volume down.
We frown, and are out of the game.
Insane? Why cast blame?
It does me no good.
My "hood" has changed.
I turn the volume down.
My cowards way, will not delay the inevitable.
Decay of reality is what is true.

I knew better times.
Now, I write these rymes and pretend I hear.
My salad days are over baby;
so I nod my head affirmatively,
and I smile these cursed smiles,
to hide my dread.
The dread of Orwellian nightmares to come...
from the scum who speak loudly.
So I must hear, and adhere to logic lost,
at such a cost...
It doesn't matter.
I cannot hear, but my thoughts are clear.

Saturday, May 15, 2010


The faintest trickle of rain begins to fall.
It reminds me of nascent spring.
The fresh aromas are in the air.
The sky is gray, but lighting up.
The rain is waning.
Trees have come to leaf.
Spring is persistently demanding my attention.
It's time to renew bonds of love...
old passions...embark on new journeys.
I must stimulate my senses.
I take in all the sights and sounds.
The scents.
I feel the sun.
I feel the rain.
It's an organic symphony.
It is all there for me to savor.
The birds are undeterred by the noise of street traffic.
They sing and flit in bird baths, in front of my domicile.
I watch them crunch on seeds, set out by my wife.
More of them are taking baths, in pools of fresh rainwater,
in the streets.
The maple tree leaves grow above my head.
The fragrant flowers are near.
Again I feel a trickle of rain.
I am grateful...
for another spring.

Friday, May 14, 2010


wealthy priests pontificate
false gods proliferate
evil men commiserate
they all group up and congregate
at contaminated altars
seething with hate
for they all have forgotten

adulterers copulate
as murderers de-populate
the worlds innocents
holy icons they desecrate
all types of bombs they detonate
in the name of "peace",
they retaliate
for they have forgotten

the number counters estimate
corporate lies they fabricate
the middle class they flagellate
you must invest, don't hesitate
the ones who win infuriate...
the masses
(the indoctrinated, subjugated,
placated, innebriated, masses)
for the evil ones who rule them
have forgotten

now's the time to innovate
humanity we must reinstate
let us not procrastinate
hopefully its' not too late
for wise men to matriculate
the Buddha stands right at your gate
in tattered clothes, which deteriorate

will you have heart to emulate...
all the love he demonstrates?
will you not vacillate?
and demonstrate,

Thursday, May 13, 2010


a re-occuring dream
seems to haunt me
a house
of beauty
with amenities
so vast
they take my breath away

the problem is
the underlying decay
for what this house seems
so vivid in my dreams
leaves me cold
the house is so old

a museum piece
to say the very least
as i climb its' stairs
i must beware
i feel a chill
i try to still
my racing heart

the fear is so real
what the house conceals
is sardonic
and evil
it laughs at me
this hypocricy
of a house so inviting

my silent screams
in my dreams
never wake me up
i must climb up
so that i may sup

with evil, in the attic
it's an elegant room
with a feeling of gloom
just like a tomb
it makes my skin crawl
my senses attuned
to the impending doom

i reason:
i must find a way
to wake up this day
or else my escape
might be too late

i smell the sweet rose
of death in my nose
i wake up soaking wet
my mind tries to set
the scenes of regret
in proper order

this has been done
so many times
i run out of lines
to describe it
i just have to say
i must find a way
to escape
my re-ocurring dream

Wednesday, May 12, 2010


i lived by my macho ways.
i never saw a wild thing,
feeling sorry for itself.
i stand firm.
my old self would rather...
freeze to death,
or run through a mile of flames,
than give up.

there was no fucking quit,
in this old boy.
i was taught that men don't cry.
we suck up the pain,
'cause it makes us stronger.
the harder i got hit,
the harder i hit back.
this was my program,
clean and simple.

violence was my high.
i found a friend in satan.
in domination.
this soothed any frustration.
eventually the strong winds came.
this big, "oak tree of a man" did break.
i saw my manly ways, deteriorate.

I protested the inhumanity.
they told me to, "shut my fucking hole!"
"this is a man's world, asshole!"
so i yelled and screamed.
i gave up my dreams for these macho ways.
i see them now.
it's all kind of a haze.

i've seen death.
move it!
so all the swingin' dicks,
moved like herd animals.
me included.
i should have quit.
but there aint no quit in me!
not yet.

i wanted to be with the best of men.
i was proud back then,
of my macho ways.
now, through the grace of God...
they have gone away.
there are no bad soldiers.
only bad leaders.
i figured out,
that God is the best leader.
peace be with you...
macho men.


she was a summer lover.
we shared a short romance.
i met her in a hallway...
as keys entered separate doors.
shared cocktails, eventually led to more.
there was an easiness of manner about her.
she was ethereal.
fine red hair, alabaster skin, a lithe, thin, body...
and full, red lips, which smiled broadly at me,
when i amused her.
she was slightly older than i.
she had a sister who no longer loved her husband.
we visited them, and blessed our good fortune.
one day, while driving to work,
joanne suffered a brain aneurysm.
she survived the crash,
but died in the hospital, the next day.
i didn't send flowers.
i never attended the wake, or funeral.
at the very least, i owed her,
a few, short minutes of my time.
to celebrate her memory...
that fine red hair,
that alabaster skin,
and especially, those full red lips,
which smiled at me,
when i amused her.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010


I am 81 years old.
I am very happy.
All my needs are attended to....
by a feeding tube,
and an input cable which streams,
endless information...
into my reasoning and pleasure receptors.
I pick and choose my virtual life...
from a menu which is attached,
to the arm-rests of my sleeping-
and-massage, all purpose chair.
I have options to medicate myself.
I can use psychedelics, or alcohol.
All is there for my unmitigated enjoyment.
I choose dessicated food items for the tube.
I get to have virtual sex, with whomever strikes my fancy.
I can play virtual, professional football,
without getting hurt, or moving.
I loved football as a young man.

I don't need to be ambulatory.
The United States is a thing of the past.
I now live in the World Government.
It takes care of all of my needs.
This government controls all our news and entertainment.
There are no fearful reports, like there were 20 years ago.
Everyone is happy!
Now, everyone in the world has a job!
Except old people, like me.
The young ones work long hours in sweat shops.
This is for the common good.
The government will let me live for 4 more years.
I get to stay in my wonderful chair.
I am allowed to live to the ripe old age of 85!
They allow me this, because I am a valued citizen.
I was an intellectual...a man of letters.
I paid more than my fair share of taxes.
Everyone here is so nice to me.
I picked a nice Heroin cocktail to enjoy my last hours.
I chose to be Peter Fonda, in "Easy Rider", my last virtual movie!
I can choose to die at any time!

I won't feel the pain, when I wipe-out on my motorcycle.
Captain America, will heroically go on, into the great beyond.
Our government makes sure we make a peaceful transition,
on to the other side.
Everyone in the world is connected to this wonderful mainframe now!
We're all wired in to the same computer.
It loves us all equally and takes care of all of our needs.
There is no need for competition, God, or any of those other sicknesses.
Everyone is happy.
We sure have come a long way!

Monday, May 10, 2010


I was humbled by my madness.
All life is suffering.
Embrace it.
Make pain your friend.
Overcome your fears.
Dispell all negative thought.
To survive, push through fear...
and gain acceptance.
Transcendence may then come to you.
Experience ease, and gentleness.
Use the body and the mind.
Push both to extremes.
Box, pump iron, meditate, do Thai Chi,
Kung Fu, extreme aerobics, learn to breathe,
eat wholesome food, stay away from alcohol,
tobacco, and insane thought.
Take action, then relax.
Accept your Holiness.
Never harm anyone.
Remember: The victimizer is truly the victim.
Hurt only to teach.
Never feed your ego with violence.
Humble yourself.
Never embrace anything material, to excess.
Learn to die well.
The true Kung Fu Master, lives the peaceful life.
The greatest goes to his grave, without ever raising his hand in anger.
Open your heart freely to all.
Deny the ego.
Do I practice these ideals?...Sometimes.
The action rests with me.
I must choose the path of righteousness every day,
or deny it.
Certitude is the antithesis of rationality.
Am I "Ubermensch"?...NO.
Am I humble?...Not all the time.
I strive for perfection, realizing I will never attain it.
When I can raise my eyes into the heavens,
and they seem clearer than before,
then I know I am making progress.
To be a Zen Master, one must face many terrors.
Many indignities must be suffered.
One must face them all without anger, without fear.
Only then can a semblance of enlightenment,
come to the MIND.
Only then can one glimpse reality, if only for a second.
The road of a Zen Warrior is long,
and fraught with danger.
The journey may yield great rewards.
Remember: "Ten thousand men, hold ten thousand hopes."

Sunday, May 9, 2010


I sit in fine digs...
surrounded by possessions.
All is here.
Art, opulence, a collection of just about everything.
Technological devices...
Beautiful lake views...
acres of land...
expensive cars...
heated bathroom floors...
Hot tubs...
giant, flat-screen tvs, and surround-sound systems...
All is perfect here.
It's a perfectly designed world.
I't all too rich for me.
There are fresh flowers, fine wines, chocolates,
and thick steaks.
I come away with the impression...
that the rich are slaves to their things.
They own so much, that there is always...
another project.
Am I happy here?...NO.
Am I ill-at-ease?...YES.
I feel coldness.
I am an intrusive entity.
I feel as if, am not genuinely wanted.
Maybe I am wrong.
I dive into my book.
(a subversive tome, written by Hammond Guthrie.)
My host watches golf on NBC, ignoring me.
I hate golf.
He is a good man.
His wife is a good woman.
These facts, I cannot deny.
They are used to the ways of the rich.
That is all I am saying.
I still feel like an interloper...
an outsider.
I long for my musty basement...
with its bad art...
its bizarre collection of books...
its dust bunnies...
its spiders...
my toilet with its familiar ring of rust...
which can't be scrubbed clean.
This is my humble home.
It is where I welcome people and myself.
I don't feel anesthetized here.
This is my abode,
where you can walk in dirty shoes...
drop crumbs on the floor...
leave rings on coffee tables...
laugh, bellowing laughs...
You won't feel obtrusive, I promise you.
You won't feel bad vibes here.
You will not feel as if you are the enemy.
I am blue collar...
I am a working man...
They call me subversive.
I am the humanist...MAN.
I am a strange one.
I am a creative one.
I just am.

Friday, May 7, 2010


i don't regret my schemes,
for psychedelic dreams.
i'd often take a hit,
and ride my pogo-stick.
off to other lands,
my head like rubber bands,
known only to the hip.

these beatniks were hand-picked,
by God it seems.
for psychedelic dreams.

i blew my synaptic head,
with the STP of "dread".
i thought my life was through,
from the horror that i knew.
but i emerged...

i sure was not the same.
i had no freaking name.
my identity was fried.
this cannot be denied.
for with what i had seen,
in my psychedelic dreams...
i must treasure to this day.
for it will not go away.

so sober, now i sleep.
my life almost complete.
a holy prayer i say,
so the monsters go away.
i feel not paranoid,
as i enter the great void,
where images i see...
that cannot frighten me...

i've gained my angel wings,
and seen so many things.
death can have its way.
i'll take it any day.
for my psychedelic dreams,
are normal daily things.
they do not frighten me.
for finally...
i see.

Thursday, May 6, 2010


Greece is burning...Once the ancient center of culture, art, democracy, logic and fair play; today the noble citizens of Greece are broke, crazy, and rioting in the streets. An austerity bill has been passed. World markets are caving. There's a run on the Euro. The European and Asian markets have been negatively affected. Things are bad, and getting worse. I feel my guts churning! This is scarier than a roller coaster ride at Riverview! I'm watching the Dow Jones going down...down...down...My life's savings are going down the drain, right before my very eyes! Many of our states are bankrupt. The U.S. Treasury keeps printing money. Guys from Texas, Wisconsin, Kentucky and other non-union states are coming up here to the North, trying to take away our union jobs. I see and smell the violence and confusion all around me. Crude oil prices are down today...The flood gates have opened, and illegal immigrants are pouring into America, placing more pressure on our economy, and social regulatory systems. My government is over-taxing me. My insurance rates are going up. My property taxes jumped significantly. My Medicare benefits have been drastically reduced. My Union Pension and Health Insurance are in dire straits. I am watching the implosion of world markets on my tv. Believe me, darker days are coming. We can blame greed. They finally did it. We are going to see Economic Armageddon, worldwide. Our government gave the money away to the wrong people. They gave it to the evil ones, the lazy ones, the people who lived beyond their means. Also, they gave our money to wealthy people, who don't pay their fair share of taxes. They have a cabal of attorneys, to find tax shelters.

Today, all the market fears are coming back. So much for all the economic indicators. We're going to call this Black Thursday, if the Dow keeps plunging like this! Since I started writing this blog today, the Dow has fallen 700 points, down to -900! God help us all! People are rushing to buy Gold.

Amazingly, the market starts coming back! It's now one hour before the closing bell, and the market is up to -344! I can't believe my eyes. Some experts say high-frequency computer trades, caused this great plunge. The NYSE, says there was no technological error causing a 998.50 plunge, in 20 minutes. Today's Dow intra-day drop, is the biggest recorded in History!

Sources now say, that a trading error at a major firm, caused the drop. Do I smell a rat here, somewhere? Was the market manipulated for some quickie buys? I'm wondering how my bonds did? Who the hell fell asleep at the wheel today? Two billion shares were traded to the down side today. Maybe this triggered the big drop...due to margin calls.

It's four minutes to the closing bell, and I have choked down half-a-bottle of! I think I might buy G.E. stock tomorrow morning, while it is still low. At the closing bell, the Dow loses -350.97. This is a 3.23% over-all loss. Strangely, I'm relieved. Who says retirement is a time to rest?

Tuesday, May 4, 2010


It's a glorious day, for chipmunks and me.
They greet me every morning with animated, chipmunk glee.
Furry little nut-eaters, they always ask for more.
Walnuts, peanuts, cashews, are promptly chewed or stored.
I adore my little chipmunk friends!
Who could ask for more?

I notice the mulch has been cast in disarray.
My furry friends have burrowed, to hide away their prizes,
for a wet or gloomy day.
I get my broom and sweep,
to keep things orderly.
The chipmunks make a mess again.
It quite amuses me.

Perfection is not God's plan.
I must accept these ways.
For I am just a man, befuddled by the maze.
One thing I've learned from observing chipmunk ways,
is there's always time for begging and living for the day.

I look at my gorgeous pansies,
and laugh heartily at their name.
They have tough, little, frowning heads,
and are stronger than most claim.
I view all the glories in nature's great plan.
I do not understand it all,
for I am just a simple man...
A man who plods along, that's all.

Finally, I am grateful.
For all these gifts I see.
I've come to a place of peace in life,
where this bounty is for me.
Sometimes, my old self peeks through.
It tries to haunt my life.
I usually block out all useless thoughts,
which cause me pain and strife.

Sometimes I win, sometimes I fail.
I try to do my best.
I must accept the chipmunk world,
so I can claim success.
Much of the time, this works for me.
Sometimes I swear and scam.
I'm sure that nature laughs at me,
for I am just a man.

Monday, May 3, 2010


In order for America to "self-actualize"...Corporate America says: "They must advertise".
They also must:
and vocalize.

With words, they spoon-feed us with their shit!
Do they ever SYPMPATHIZE?
I think not.


It was always trouble, I did attract.
Evil men, I sometimes backed.
I'd help them with who they assailed...
for the meager payment of a mug of ale.

My reputation remained intact.
For with these devils, I made a pact.
The deal was one, I could not retract.
This decision was not bewailed.
It kept my ass away from jail!

So, I kept on with my anarchy.
I didn't forsee the agony,
I caused with my audacity.
Each and every atrocity,
increased my velocity toward...
a vengeful philosophy.

My effrontery became the death of me...
for I developed and maintained a dependency...
on depravity.
My "little death" was a soul sickness, which affected me.
I didn't predict this, for I was un-free.

Now I know the error of my ways.
The sap of youth is gone for days, weeks, months, years.
The mug of ale is filled with my tears.
I view my life, the wasted years.
I pray to God, it's not too late,
for me to love, and not to hate.

But habits die hard,
this is true.
A moral life, I did eschew.
The saintly life is out of reach.
For every law, I eventually breeched.
I hope at last, to be a man...
and right the wrongs, while I still can.

Sunday, May 2, 2010


When I was a heavy-equipment operator, I loved loading trucks. There's certainly an art to it. I'd get into work, a half-an-hour early, to begin greasing, checking the fluid levels and doing a walk around my machine, to make sure all was safe. I ran a big CAT 973 endloader...It was a track machine. 3 heaping buckets of dirt in the box of an 18 wheeler, and I'd hit my horn, and send him on his way! I'd keep my dirt on a 45 degree angle, from the front of my bucket, next to the truck, to reduce loading time...Sometimes I built a pad, for my loader to sit on, so I was higher than the truck, to increase my efficiency, and loading speed. When there were no trucks to load, I'd either push dirt down off stock piles in order to pulverize it....or core streets, to generate piles of dirt, when I was finish grading. This makes it easier for the dozer hand, on another job site.

He wouldn't have to deal with clumps. I know when I was running a dozer, that if I got loads of shitty dirt, with rock and clumps, and trash in it...I'd be calling the loader operator on the other end, a whole bunch of "mutherfuckers"! I'd often tell the truck drivers, "Tell that loader man to get his shit together, or he is going to be looking for another job!"

A Foreman who knows machines can tell a good loader operator from the "git-go". A good operator never steers to cut his tracks, when he backs up his machine. If a man does this, he tears up sprockets, idlers, rollers, final drives, and tracks. A good loader man steers into the pile or cut, working the bucket to get a heaping load of dirt. He knows how to cut to finish grade! He'll ease up to a trailer box, and fluidly dump the load of dirt, curling the bucket to the bottom of the trailer box, and immediately hit the hoist and bucket back levers, will backing up...This movement is negotiated by experienced operators, missing contact with the truck by inches...Time is saved by good operators who have this fluidity of movement! When backing up, a good operator always looks over his right shoulder, to make sure there is nothing in back of him, to run over. A good operator gets "into his Zen", when he feels he is part of his machine. There's nothing like it in the world! I remember listening to rock-and-roll, or country music, smoking cigs, and thinkin' 'bout that waitress in the tavern, when we shut down for the night!

After ten-or-twelve hours, I cooled my CAT down, cleaned its tracks, and locked "her" up for the night. I jumped into my Dodge Ram and headed to the Gin Mill. I'd be all sun-burned, dusty, dirty, and thirsty! When I opened the door of the tavern, I'd feel that nice blast of air-conditioned air, and smell the wonderful smells of the bar room! I was greeted by smiles from my compadres, country western music on the juke box, and shots-and-beers, from buxom waitresses! Yes...I'm proud to be a Local #150 Operating Engineer! I'm so happy to recall these days. Amen!