the visit

my grandfather stopped by for a visit today
which all in all was rather strange
seeing he’s been gone close to thirty years
without a word from the other side
recognition was almost immediate
guess the dead have given up aging
his hair, steel gray in color
was as always nothing but stubble
his nose and ears were just as big
guess my memory did not exaggerate
strong eyes, a warm smile
it was the face remembered from my youth
he wore a long sleeve shirt, plain in color
with matches and a pack of Camels
hidden in his right breast pocket
off the rack work pants, held up
with a plain black leather belt
and cuffs that filled with fresh cut grass
each time he mowed the yard
he had knuckles the size of marbles
hands tougher than an elephants hide
his shoes were basic slip-ons
except for those he wore to mass
I sensed his eyes upon me
as I cleaned and replaced each brick
wondering what had brought him here
was he a portent of good or bad
no answers were forthcoming
as he was always the stoic one
never speaking just to hear himself
he placed value on every word

so I toiled away with the sun on my back
sweat forming rivers along the spine
he sat there savoring a camel
comfortable within himself
which brought me back some forty years
to the days he spent in his garden
awed by the peace he seemed to find
with gloved fingers burrowing through the earth
his every movement was a dusty ballet
each weed was pulled with rhythm
rocks were cleaned and replaced
than with ease he moved down the line

a breeze came up and brought me back
from the peace of memory lane
my hands covered in fresh turned earth
so similar to long ago
than it dawned on me the reason
for granddads midday visit
instead of working in the moment
I sailed a sea of distraction
my mind was louder than a babbling brook
no acknowledgement of the here and now
trying to solve a world of problems
ignoring the business at hand

without turning I sensed his confirmation
and his pride in my understanding
than with a whispered job well done
he floated off on the evening breeze

Foiless

Swansons Chicken Pie and Swansons Turkey TV Dinner were once regulars on my menu but over the years they have lost their luster.

Some would say that like most things past my memory is creating a taste that was never there.

Others would say that like all mass produced frozen foods Swansons has abandoned quality for quantity.

Thought I find both points valid I tend to disagree. In my humble opinion it was the advent of plastic trays and cardboard bowls that killed the frozen meal.

There was something about cooking the pot pie or the turkey tv dinner in tinfoil that cannot be duplicated with more modern methods. Foil provided a more even heat that while not duplicating a Thanksgiving turkey meal at least allowed the diner to taste turkey and dressing. And pot pies cooked in foil had crispier crusts when baked.

I am sure the change was driven by the need to modernize plants. I realize that once changed a product is never the same. Just compare Original Coke with so called Coke Classic and you will see what I mean.

Close But No Cigar

I really believed I would make it this time. Hands were being washed on a ridiculous pace. Veggies eaten. Vitamins vitamined. Sleep slept. On second thought scratch the sleep insomnia still rules my kingdom. All necessary precautions short of wearing a full body condom were taken. Yet once again my body failed me. Twenty-eight days without an infection was all we could manage. Visited the newly constructed Brueckner Wing at my doctors office and found to my dismay that I had both an ear infection and a sinus infection. Well that explains the minature raptors that were trying to claw their way through my right eyeball this past week. So its off to see the pharmacist for yet another round of medications. Maybe if I could go more than a month without borrowing someones infection my lungs might then begin to heal. Oh well back to coughing board.

red

morning painted red with broad-brush strokes
not the red of anger dark and sweaty
nor the red of embarrassment naked before the class
not the red of blood stark against a midnight snow
nor the red of crumbling bricks held together with gravity
not the red of sunset colored by smoggy skies
nor the red of maple leaves autumn whispering to the air
not the red of Bloody Mary hangovers hair of the dog
nor the red of candied apples poisoned by mother goose
not the red of correction a generation’s writer’s block
nor the red of frustration when landslides block the course

it was the red of solitude loneliness rendering the seams
it was the red of sorrow corrupted eroding flesh
it was the red of martyrdom self-fulfilling prophecies
it was the red of anguish imploding in mistrust
it was the red of yesterday another moment another scar
it was the red of heartache seeping tears of blood
it was the red of fire raging in a body tormented
it was the red of madness mindless incoherent rants
it was the red of despair drowning in cobweb pools
it was the red of broken glass turning flesh into butter

morning painted red with broad-brush strokes
rendered upon a torn and neglected canvas

carousel of medicine

a little blue pill for anxiety
until it no longer works
switch to a little white pill
than for good measure back to blue
a pink pill is for panic
every day creates a need
benzonatate will stop
a non-productive cough
mucinex to keep coughing
when it is productive
antibiotics for the infections
kill the good bacteria within
swishing some nystatin
will bring it back again
advair inhalers
will open up the airways
aciphex blankets the acid
created by all this medicine
and a steroid reduces inflammation
while creating unbearable stress
requiring

a little blue for anxiety.....

If I .....

If I were a color
I would be the final flare of orange left in the sky after a sunset
If I were a shape
I would be a hopscotch square filled with the footprints of a hundred kids
If I were a movement
I would be the gentle thumping of a baby’s heart
If I were a sound
I would be the haunting echo of freight trains whistle on a lonely autumns eve
If I were an animal
I would be an owl silhouetted against a harvest moon
If I were a song
I would be the haunting melody of Sentimental Journey
If I were a number
I would be one the loneliest of all numbers
If I were a food
I would be an artichoke many layers but a heart which makes the journey worthwhile
If I were a musical instrument
I would be an alto sax mixing blues for a thirsty world
If I were a place
I would be a deserted beach warmed by the memories of countless years
If I were a month
I would be October embracing the reds and yellows of change
If I were a day
I would be Thursday taken for granted always the final one chosen
If I were an hour
I would be 1:00 AM, surfing the silence of a sleeping world
If I were a minute
I would be now, the only moment anyone can count on

MASH Quotes

"Ladies and gentlemen, take my advice, pull down your pants and slide on the ice."

Sidney Freedman


"I just don't know why they're shooting at us. All we want to do is bring them democracy and white bread. Transplant the American dream. Freedom. Achievement. Hyperacidity. Affluence. Flatulence. Technology. Tension. The inalienable right to an early coronary sitting at your desk while plotting to stab your boss in the back. That's entertainment."

Hawkeye Pierce

loves wreckage

a wave of melancholy
swept over him
salty
storm driven
turmoil
his heart
flotsam
slammed
by the current
driven
by the tide
helpless
lost
alone
gone

upon
the ravaged shore
amongst
the driftwood
and the seaweed
lay his heart
tattooed
by pains acidic ink
it read
loved once
but nevermore

primordial reflections

it rained last night
bullet-sized droplets
piercing the darkness
with violence reserved
for shrapnel filled
battlefields

it rained last night
lightening filled skies
bringing rise
to primal fears and beliefs
zeus was up there
punishing humanity
for its sins

it rained last night
thunder shook the earth
reflecting the sound
of anxiety
a heart pounding with fear
cowering beneath the shroud
of darkness

it rained last night
angry water
falling in torrents
towards the ground
no comfort
no solace
a storm tasting
of bitterness and despair

it rained last night
and I cried myself to sleep

saccharin

like the wind of a stalled tornado
she went on and on and on
her venom laced voice
playing taps upon worn and weary eardrums
in his eyes years of bitter frustration
could be seen bubbling to the surface
yes dear
I know dear
you’re right dear
empty responses
recited by rote
with no inflection
meaningless mumbles
saccharin-laced placebos
weapons of self-defense
last bastions of relief
for a man
who has had the fight
nagged out of him

two headed calves

the vomit colored sky
overwhelms the horizon
filling the populace
with a vague uneasiness
a sense of dark foreboding
which leaves behind
the sour flavor
of rotten fruit
remnants of
calorie filled orgies
chemical spills
beneath the arches
gateway
to a new America
uncle sam with
a sixty inch waist
reflections in the mirror
of gastric manipulation
gone bad

dust bunnies

showing the aversive affects of countless years
the faded house with shuttered windows
clings to memories of once beautiful grounds
leaning a bit to the left
another old-timer in need of mechanical support
trapped in the web of time
no life left within its walls
echoed voices recede into darkness
faint murmurs left to remind the present
that once there was a past
vicious dust bunnies roam freely
conquering rooms
overwhelming closets
clustering together in miniature armies
failing to understand
the eternal lesson
that which is once conquered
will never rest easy
until a new victor
appears on the horizon
uneasy rests the mantle of power
even for dust bunnies
who sacrifice innocence
only to become
despots of abandonment

how does it feel

how does it feel
when decades of dreams
fade into years
when death becomes
more than a scene
rehearsed countless times
by bad actors
in roadside productions of hamlet
how does it feel
when years of life
fade into months
when death becomes
more than a song
written by poets
to capture the angst
of another generations fears
how does it feel
when months of life
fade into weeks
when death become
a known quantity
no longer a nightmare
created by primordial remnants
of what once was a soul
how does it feel
when weeks of life
fade into days
when death becomes
another mark on the calendar
an appointment with destiny
which can no longer be delayed
how does it feel
when days of life
fade into hours
when death becomes
a folded corner
in the book of life
marking the pages

of personal regret
how does it feel
when hours of life
fade into minutes
when death becomes
a long lost friend
returning to this world
to accompany a weary traveler
on one last adventure
how does it feel
when minutes of life
fade into seconds
when death becomes
measured in the whisper
of tired lungs
exhaling one last time
before embracing the unknown
how does it feel

miscreated

my mind is filled
with words and thoughts
wandering without reason
until a vain attempt is made
to organize confusion
into poetry for heathens
than like faeries
at dawns first light
they fade into the mist
leaving behind
a hint of their passing
echoes of creation missed

No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service

Everyone has seen the a sign reading No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service displayed in a wide variety of business establishments. Usually ones that are involved in the preparation or selling of food. Today I discovered that the Laundromat that I frequent also has this sign hanging in the front window.

I agree with the principle, I mean who wants to walk into the Laundromat and find themselves across the machines from some 300 lb shirtless man with more hair on his back and front than any human should.

Two things confuse me though: who is going to enforce the no service rule. Since Laundromats are do it yourself establishments there is rarely someone official on the premises to enforce the rules.

Most importantly though what service will be denied. Service by definition is when someone does a task or job for you. Sure the machines are provided but no one at my Laundromat is washing my clothes for me.

Last time I checked there wasn't a host or hostess greeting me at the door. Inquiring as to how many loads were in my party and would I like them together or could they be separated for quicker access. No asked me if I wanted a washer with a window view. A soap steward was not provided who made his rounds offering various vintages of laundry detergent and fabric softener.

There are no professional folders visiting each customer offering various services. Sheet folding, sock collecting or shirt hanging. Nope no services provided.

So maybe next laundry visit I will go sans shirt and shoes to see what if anything happens.

On second thought that would not be a good idea because some smartass blogger might point out that I have too much hair on my torso.