Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Donald Trump in Dreamland



I had a dream last night; a peculiar dream.  I dreamed that I was in a training meeting around a conference table with seven or eight people, the most notable, Donald Trump.

Why was Donald Trump there?  I know not, but he sure was hogging the meeting with his smirks and grins.

The meeting was one of those HR meetings going over something like insurance options or sexual harassment, and I'll admit that I wasn't paying any attention to the talk around the table at all; instead, I was thinking how great my life would be if I were to get in the good favors of Donald Trump by saying things like:  "Ha, that's is so funny Mr. President..."  "Gee, that is a nice power tie you have on..."  "Is that Aramis you are wearing, boy it smells good on you."

Now, here's where the dream gets really, really, really weird: I liked him!  What!  I really liked him.  It was obvious he was going to be nice to me and give me opportunities I would not otherwise have as long as I bought into his ego with gratitude and praises, which sure beat vacuuming floors. 

"President Trump," I said, "I'm really finding you to be a nice guy here today, why can't you let people see this side of you in public?"

"That would be a huge mistake," he answered.

"Of course it would," I said.

Nonetheless, as I did in most meetings when I wasn't a self-employed blogger: I got into trouble, for about fifteen-minutes into the meeting the speaker left the room and Donald Trump said, "You can all go home now, you've worked hard."

The group was stunned; we all knew it wasn't anywhere near time to go.

"I'm serious," said Donald Trump: "Go Home!"

Now, for one of those reasons that can only happen in dreams, I stood up and said:  "Thank you Mr. President."  And after a few seconds of realizing that that was the first time I ever called Trump, 'Mr President,' I left the room.  Two other guys in red hats left the room with me -- obvious Trump supporters.   The rest of the group remained in the room whispering.  And as I and the two Trump supporters headed to the door,  we saw the instructor and told her that Donald Trump had excused us.

"He can't," she said.  "He's just a student like you."

"No," I replied to the delight of the two Trump supporters beside me, "He's my President."

The three of us left the building, and here's where it had to be a dream because the the next thing I knew the two Trump supporters had pulled out guns -- after quickly showing me their permits to carry --  and began shooting.   Certain that they had seen the Hilary For President bumper stickers on my car, I ran back towards the building for cover only to see Donald Trump come running out the building -- more of a wobble, even in dreamland.   And so I ran and covered Trump's body with mine.  Bang! Bang! Bang!  I was shot in the back.

Now, let me add here that I was in the Navy and the President is our Commander in Chief no matter how screwed up things get, and so I did my duty.  Of course,  Donald Trump was rescued and boasted about how he had tried to save me, but couldn't -- yes, a liar even in dreamland. 

Fortunately, I woke up and realized that my girlfriends kitten, which I had been watching for a few days, had climbed on my head and woke me up.   I guess he had been sleeping in my lap until then. 


Yes, a pussy grabber, even in dreamland.


Who?  Me?

Wednesday, May 24, 2017



       Tomorrow’s Kisses, Today

her garden is her

soft, tender, and oh so scented

like the first breath of rain

the moment sunlight stops

occasionally, she looks up at the sky

and tells me the meaning of clouds

I follow her gaze

it too is soft, tender

flowing

like her

tomorrow’s kisses

today


Monday, May 22, 2017

Trump is the Antichrist, flies around him are proof.

Looks like Melania is swatting away flies again.   Remember all those flies at the Donald Trump debates?   Oh yeah, he's the Antichrist. 







Friday, May 12, 2017

I'm no cowboy

Why I once wrote poetry

I'm not really sure

Oh, I loved her

But when she cried in my arms for her ex...

Doubts crept in

and when she admired rugged cowboy types

I wondered why, me?

She said she was admiring them for others

that they weren't her type

but I remembered her cowgirl dance the night before

How she boasted of being from Fort Worth

as I spun her closer to keep her from pulling away

who were we kidding?

I'm no cowboy




The Psycho Liar, Donald Trump, in three acts.

Day One:

The pizza guy flirted with her last night.

He drove up-and-down the street three times before delivering his goods.

He said he couldn't find the place because the lights weren't on.

That never stopped him before.

I almost got so pissed I stood up from behind the hedges to scream:  "Liar. Liar. Donald Trump LIAR!"

But I didn't want to blow my cover.

You see, she doesn't know I love her.

She really doesn't even know I exist.

But, she will.

Day Two:

I got this job delivering pizza... in the Trump administration.

Day Three:

I got fired today.  No big deal.  I never liked her anyways. 


Author's Translation:  the segment you just read is my interpretation of Donald Trump's America.  The pizza is freedom.  The unsuspecting woman, justice.  The pizza delivery guy, James Comey, former Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  The psycho liar, Donald Trump. 





Donald Trump, the man who was going to make American Great Again, instead, makes it stink like spoiled ham at a bar mitzvah.

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

The New Yard Guy Meets Quasimodo

So she's got this new yard guy and I guess I'm a little jealous.

There use to be a time I would be out there with a lawn mower, till, or chainsaw, doing whatever it took to prove my love, sweating like a Coke-bottle-in-the-sun, visualizing the blow job I might earn when it was done (in a kind, loving, mutual oral-sexual relationship way, that is to say). 

Now, however, I have this issue.  The Doctor's not sure and so of course I'm fearing cancer because, well, she's got this new yard guy.  I take it as one of those angelical signs that the gods are sending my replacement to her now while I'm still alive so they'll be able to talk about what a great guy I was over a pitcher of lemonade at the wake.

Ever wonder why they call it a Wake?  I do.  Shouldn't it be called a Sleep?

I haven't met the new yard guy yet, but I'm sure he's one of those well-built Latin guys with long black hair and an oxygen-depleting smile.   He won't be a hunchbacked Quasimodo looking for sanctuary in a belfry from having overreacted to the tenderness of a woman.  No.  

That's me.

Oh! que ne suis-je de pierre comme toi!
Oh! why am I not of stone, like you?
                          The Hunchback of Notre Dame bk. 9. ch.4 (1831)







Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Seeds of a pharaoh.

Howard Carter was born on this morning in 1874, and half a century later he understood why he had come into the world.

The revelation came to him when he discovered the tomb of Tutankhamun.

Carter located it through sheer stubbornness, after years of trying everywhere, battling discouragement and the fear-mongering of his fellow Egyptologists.

On the day of the great find, he sat at the foot of the short-lived pharaoh, the boy surrounded by a thousand marvels, and spent long hours in silence.

He returned many times.

One of those times he saw what he had not seen before: there were seeds on the floor.

The seeds had spent three thousand two hundred years waiting for the hand that would plant them.
(Galeano.E, "Children of the Days" pg 143)


Thursday, May 4, 2017

I'm doing okay

I thought I would be writing a poem tonight

A poem of how I just captured a princess who had lost her way...

Instead,

I write this silly shit about...

Tulips

The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;   
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,   
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

                                                                             -- Sylvia Plath



And I think,

I'm doing okay



We are moving ahead, one-nation-under-love, with or without you.

So the fan who threw peanuts at a black ballplayer while using the "N" word, has a lifetime ban from Fenway Park -- where it happened.  And to think, all of this could have been avoided if Donald Tic-Tac Trump hadn't empowered the middle-aged white guy to do it?   I remember when Bill Clinton was president and there was the Oklahoma City bombing happened and this Christian Preacher I was working with tells me:  "I don't know your political beliefs, but this violence is the direct responsibility of a sinful president. "

Hmmmm, another Trump supporter I am sure.  The thing is, Mr White Supremacist, we are not going away.   We are moving ahead, one-nation-under-love, with or without you.

The night after the proud-white-supremacist was escorted out of Fenway Park, the fans applauded the abused ball-player with a standing ovation.

LIke I said, We are moving ahead, one-nation-under-love, with or without you.


Tuesday, May 2, 2017

I've adapted

it was wrenched, really, to think about it

I mean, I had seen Elvis die, Marylin Manson cry, and David Bowie canonized,

I had seen idealism become pomp, circumstance become romp, and conservatism, well,


fucking A Right???


I had seen ritual become principle, measles become acceptable, and healthcare,

what care

riot in the streets

ha

coinkydink

clever

righteousness

machinist

brotherhood

gun violence

understood

pock marks

delirious

porn

standard

feminism

granted

if i had gun

i would use it

why not

i've adapted



Monday, May 1, 2017

     thinking of her eyes, poetically



trying to figure out why I love, I first had to figure out
how

she said things like, "merry-ville," "holy-wood," and "philistine"

it was sexy, especially coming from those eyes, those punctuating blues eyes queried by her words

I knew immediately those were eyes I could love for the rest of my life

for when everything else fails, there's always the eyes

"You may not know this, but when you think of someone in your head, you're thinking of their eyes."

"And did you know the reason kids are so cute is because their eyes are full-size by the time they're five"

"I bet yours eyes were full size from the beginning."

"Stop that," she said.

"No, your eyes are beautiful, the keys to your soul."

"And you call yourself a poet."

"I never said that. I said, I was poetic, there's a difference."

and when she smiled

I got it