Walt’s folly


I fell into these riches
Sharp and green
As I roll and wonder
At the sky
I rolled over
I stared
For ages
At this one blade
And questioned
The sky
Why so blue
How so green
Yellow bees
Assaulting me
Brown bark
Shielding those
Naked trees
Away from me
For naked plants
I do not care
But look at me now
And I know
You’ll stare
Howling thunder
Is what we’ll call it
Dragging your mind
As fast as
You can haul it
How’d you get here
How fast did you do it
Ants are being antsy
Almost blew it
Bending back
Thrusting knees
Swift motion to stand
Just in time
To watch you pass
Breathe the meadow air
That one blade of grass
Was but
Wistful like glass
with nicotine
yellowed but
still clear

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alcoholic allegory
bullshittery bewildering
cautionary caucasians
decipher democracy
enigmatic elegies
fertilize fruition
godly gifts
help hollandaise

indicative indignations
jokingly jibe
kooky kings
malevolent miscreants

never negotiate
opulent obfuscations
perplexing pussycats
questioning quixotically
redundant resuscitations

silent solitude
tames turmoil
under uvula undulations
voracious vagrancy

when will we
Xerox xerophytes?
You yawn

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self loathing avoidance


Rough life spent in a languid void
Meandering through existence
       using loved ones as props
A lean-to shanty of a ramshackle body
Convalesced in wistfully fleeting promises of improvement
Empty-headed morose reflections,
lashed out in loosely lashed-in rafts
Only momentarily staying afloat
on rising & sinking tides of false self-penance
Flippant offerings of apologetic notecards
Discarded and gently floating down
       upon tumultuous battlegrounds
Leaves fallen from the towering tree
       silently descending and coming to rest
               on the deceased and muddy ground below

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Words. Mean. Everything.
Though some say they don’t
Some value the beauty of every consonant and vowel
Words, at some point in time mean everything to someone
Simple assemblies of strings of sentences
Complex cacophonies of verbose paragraphs
Some words can strike you down and make you feel worthless
Some can uplift you to ultimate heights and make you feel as though you can soar through the heavens
        using your interpretations as wings
Some people hold words in their heads
Many let loose their own hounds of hell in vocabulary form
Words are never meaningless
Though you can spout off random and non-sensical bullshit
        all of it has meaning to someone at some time
Everyone interprets words, it cannot be stopped
Be constantly aware that your words could be the molotov cocktail that incinerates someone’s innocence
Be ever vigilant that each inflection and context you lavish upon your words
        could be the very molecules of air that strike at someone’s eardrums and enlightens their soul
                could be the fuel that keeps them on their journey through this life
Do not fear words and do not fear using words
Even in some weird, staccato rhythm and broken intentions, your words must be released into the world
Words must be allowed to evolve and take shape and mature like the finest of wines
Your words are beautiful

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In amongst the trees


I ventured forth in the month of May
Into a forest, dull and gray

No voices, few noises entered my ears
As I breathed with the trees and eased all their fears
At first they were frightened, standing tall and straight
But as a wind swelled up they bore a graceful gait

Some wept for their fallen limbs
While others cordially tipped their green brims
Even more stood proudly, stretching up high
Reaching desperately at a cloud-filled sky

The penumbral puffy blanket overhead
Melted then moistened the cool forest bed
Thunder echoed and jolted the peace
Just moments later the light rainfall ceased
My newfound companions hadn’t let me get wet
Under their protective canopy, I was glad that we’d met

My boots were then caked with the dead skin cells of leaves
That had fallen days before from the towering eaves
I was lost in my travels when daylight faded
I couldn’t recall the path I had braided
Throughout this dimly lit wood
I needed to leave, but didn’t feel that I could

I stopped and leaned against a soaring oak tree
Then noticed a low branch pointing away from me
I let nature be my guide and soon found my way out
I trusted the timber and let go of all doubt
Once out in a clearing awash in the moon’s twilight shine
Quietly humbled, I thanked the trees for their time

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My Desert


Skin boiling
Chest heaving
Eyes dried, shriveled
Clothes torn, disheveled
Journey through desert
Quest for meaning
Shoes full of hot sand
Every step painful
Oasis in the distance
Never grows near
A mirage?
A hallucination?

Falling, now crawling
Scratching, clawing
At the desert floor
Hands bloodied
Still cannot reach sanctuary
Peace and refuge floating away
Face down on a rock

My desert
Your mirage
A blurry vision in the roadway
Your love
My water

Arms under shoulders
Carrying, resuscitating
Refreshing, renewing
Healthy now
Atop the mountain
Perched with the hawks
Howling with the wolves
Energized by those who cared
And pale blue light of the stars

Peering down the cliffs
I see you there
You’ve found your desert
Eyes blurred with tears
Your pain mine
Your struggle, ours
Lifting you from the sand
Aloft and flying to safety
Safe sanctity of the mountains

We’re there together
Peering down
Readying for the rescue
Of another
Who’s found their desert…

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Strange Tuesdays: The Saga of Morty & Betty


It started out as a typical Tuesday evening for me. I was entertaining a group of elderly at the retirement home with my repertoire of simple yet catchy guitar tunes. Morty stood up, walked right up to me and said, “Hey why dontcha play some of them Christmas tunes?” Of course I obliged with the typical Silent Night, Jingle Bells, Handel’s Messiah, etc…. I was right in the midst of a robust rendition of the song from the Charlie Brown Christmas special when Betty performed a little concertus interruptus of her own. She stood up and began pacing back & forth like a black bear wondering what to do before lunging at it’s prey. “I can’t find my nurse and I just soiled my diaper!” she blurted out. And, sure enough, she had indeed shat her adult absorbent undergarment. “Ok, ok Betty, I’m sure someone can find your nurse. Now please quiet down so the rest of these fine people can go on enjoying the seasonal musac,” I replied. Fearing that she had just embarrassed herself to the point of no return, she shuffled out of the room as fast as her little arthritic legs would carry her. Looking back on it, the whole episode really made me think. Sometimes if you just get into the season and really get into and enjoy the music that accompanies it, you tend to forget about your problems, as they just don’t seem as bad.

Alas, the music had to come to an end. As it neared eight o’clock I realized that it was getting pretty late in the evening for this crowd. I finished up with a sing-along version of Christmas in Killarney and bid all the people that were awake adieu. As I was packing up my gear, I noticed a very concerned visage on some of the orderlies. They were searching frantically for Betty. It seems as though Betty left the room and, quite simply, did not stop walking. She walked down the hall and encountered the emergency door. This emergency door had another purpose in addition to sounding a piercing alarm whenever it was opened. It was the door that the staff would exit through in order to sneak a cigarette now and then. The problem with that was that in order to open the door without setting off the alarm, one had to use an allen wrench in the access port on the side of the alarm to disable it. This had been done so many times that the alarm didn’t always get reactivated once the person had come back into the building. Thus the reason no one heard Betty slip through the door, and into the night. I figured the staff was doing everything their protocol dictated in order to find a lost resident, so I packed up my gear and left.

On the way home, I remembered that I was in desperate need of some ointment for a rather wicked rug burn I had received on my taint days earlier. (more on that later) It just so happened that I recalled this right as my vehicle was approaching the particular street the store was on. I pulled in and was driving towards the building when I saw someone that I had never in a thousand lifetimes thought I would see right there at that very moment. It was Betty. She was walking into the store, still hobbling as if she still had the deposit in her night drop. After several “what the” and “how the” utterances I found a parking spot and hurried inside. Priority number one: geesh ointment. Priority number two (heh heh): find Betty, call the home and get the rapscallion back safe & sound. Pausing only briefly in the ointment aisle for the skin-between-the-marble-bag-and-the-balloon-knot cream, I rushed around the store with the style and grace any speed walker with runny butt syndrome would envy. I could not find the woman. Up and down every aisle. From eggs to kosher salt, I looked over what I thought was every inch of the store. I eventually gave up. I did need to pay for my crotch flap salve so I went to the check-out line. As I was paying with my officially licensed Muppets Mastercard, I asked the cashier if she had seen an old woman wandering around with a bag of poo attached to her hind quarters. She looked at me as if I had three and half penises growing out of my face. I took that as a resounding “no” and proceeded on my walk of shame out the door. You know the walk- the one where you’re slowly walking step-by-step, looking at your receipt and wondering, “Jesus Christ, what the hell did I just spend all that money on?” I had just tossed the receipt in the trash can and looked up in time to see Betty already half-way across the parking lot. “Hey Betty!” I yelled out. But it was in vain due to the fact that she had dropped her hearing aids in the men’s room urinal at the home a week earlier. I was going to run after the car and save the day but I stopped when I actually recognized it. It was a 1970 Ford Fairlane. It was an unmistakable pea-green in color and had most of the undercarriage rusted off. I recognized it because I had seen it every Tuesday night for the last seven months, parked at the home. I figured someone there must have tracked her down and taken her back.

I never knew who owned the monstrosity, but I felt assured in the fact that it did belong to someone involved with the facility where Betty belonged. Indeed it was someone tied to the home. It found out the very next Tuesday that the crusty land yacht’s proud owner was none other than our friend Morty. The guy with the flacid hard-on for the Christmas music. Confused? I was at first, but then it all started to come together.

It had been a very busy and eventful week and the old folks’ home. Not only had Morty and Betty not been seen and presumed AWOL, but a nurse was fired and arrested on DVD piracy and drug charges. This employee that had been trusted to care for and protect the elderly had actually been taking advantage of their innocence and robbing them blind. She would wait until the residents were asleep, then sneak into their rooms, and pilfer any money, jewelry or other valuables. The most disturbingly disgusting and heinous detail is yet to be told. She had a fetish for old people. Old people knocking boots. Doing the hibbity-jibbity. The horizontal waltz. The ol’ slap and tickle. The- well you get the picture. How does this come in to play you ask? This sick freak and aberration of nature had known about a developing relationship between Morty and Betty for a few weeks. She sunk to a new low – planting a video camera in the bedroom of Morty. If you’ve read this far, I assume you know what the video camera captured on tape. I’m not going to describe it, as it makes me want to bleach my eyes and pour sulfuric acid on my crotch.

And now on to the piracy and drugs. (it all ties together, I swear) The nefarious attendant had quite the home-based business. In true entrepreneurial fashion, she found out what the public wanted and supplied it. Abusing her rental privileges at Blockbuster video, she rented movies, took them home, and mass-produced copies of them. She sold them online via eBay, through family and friends, and even at flea market swap meets. She had even extended this distribution channel to places as far away as Japan. The piracy and marketing was not limited to dvd’s from blockbuster. She also sold copies of the privacy-invading Morty & Betty video. This explains why Morty and Betty are such huge porn stars in the disgustingly huge underworld that is the Japanese porn business.

Morty had found out about the embarrassing home movie in his favorite restaurant, of all places. It was a Japanese restaurant only two blocks away from the facility. A blind eye was often turned to Morty as he slipped out just for a short while to get some Japanese food at the aforementioned eatery. He was right in the middle of his okonomiyaki when he noticed two of the kitchen staff, obviously Japanese, staring at him and laughing a bit. “What’re you sons-a-bitches laughing at?!” he questioned. No reply, as they simply went back to working. The hostess felt a little confused at the situation and went to talk to Morty. He explained that they were laughing and making him feel uncomfortable. She went in the back and interrogated the two jovial Japs. To her horror, the story of the video was revealed. Turning more shades of red than a baboon’s ass, she returned to the table with a dvd. On the cover of the dvd, it looked like someone was stuffing a turkey in preparation for a big thanksgiving dinner. But Morty knew better. He immediately recognized the Ecuador-shaped birthmark Betty has in a certain spot on her body. The enraged Morty stormed out of the restaurant, hopped in his road hazard, and began driving home at a breakneck pace of 23 miles per hour.

The model employee that she was, the nurse always stepped outside the home to smoke. Crack cocaine. In fact, Morty had caught her smoking the rock one afternoon. She had just inhaled the toxic fumes when Morty’s Fairlane came roaring into the parking lot. He side-swiped two cars and bent over a lamp post before he finally brought the behemoth to rest in a parking spot inches away from the druggie nurse. “What the hell’re you doing with that pipe?” he demanded, you’re smokin that crap cocaine aren’t ya!” While she was mortified 😉 to have been caught feeding her addiction at work, she was also angered by what she perceived as an invasion of privacy. “I know what you’ve been doing around here all along! I kept my mouth shut outta fear that you’d hire some goons to rough me up or something. But now, I’m mad! I know all about that goddamn video you made too!” Morty hollered. He stormed into the building like a Viking on a raid. He went right into Betty’s room and told her everything. “You jackass, can’t you see I’m knitting?” she retorted. Morty, now even angrier, replied with, “Come on woman! Get it together! Our bedsheet shenanigans have been watched by thousands of people!”

That’s when they hatched their plan. They knew I was coming that night to play music for the residents. They also knew that that sort of event bored the staff to tears, so they wouldn’t be as attentive as they should be. It was a perfect opportunity to escape this lunacy. And escape they did. While it looked like some sort of senile episode, it was nothing more than a cleverly devised scheme to divert attention and slip away. While everyone was worried about where Betty was, Morty had a job to do. He snuck into the area that housed the employee lockers, armed with a crowbar and a camera. Upon prying open the nurse’s locker, he found the motherload of illegal paraphernalia. Copied dvd’s, crack rocks, tons of jewelry, and of course, copies of the wrinkleporn. He took pictures of everything, then closed the locker. Everyone was still running around like beheaded chickens, so it was very easy for him to waltz out of the front door unhindered by orderlies. He drove down the street and picked up Betty in the store parking lot that they agreed upon previously. That’s when I saw them.

Morty actually still owned a cabin that sat on about ten acres of land. It was only three hours away from what they had just escaped, so they drove straight there. He had decided to keep the property a secret from his family, as he didn’t want the “the money-grubbing dirt bags” bickering over it when he would eventually expire. It was his own private sanctuary, in which he planned on spending the rest of his life with Betty. A few days went by before Morty realized that he had the pictures of dumbass’s locker. He sat at the table in the middle of the cabin for several minutes considering exactly what he would do. Not quite as elaborate a plan as their daring escape was, but a simple letter would be written. Morty agonized over exactly what he would write in the letter for hours. Then a stroke of genius hit him and he wrote the most epic letter he had ever written in his life. The text of the letter follows:

Dear Pleasant Pastures Retirement Home,
Your nurse is a crook.
You should fire her and have her arrested.

Morty Carruthers.

P.S. See enclosed pictures.

Morty and Betty decided that they would both go into town to mail the letter, seeing as how their lives were screwed up together. The held each others’ hand as they both dropped the letter into the mailbox, in hopes of closing a chapter of their lives together. Morty purposely took the long way home, winding through the hilly back roads around the cabin. Feeling like they had just saved the world, they were both on cloud nine returning to the cabin. Betty settled back into her knitting. Morty picked up the book he had been reading, 101 Ways to Keep Kids Off Your Lawn. Under the book was something that sent Morty into a tirade of expletives that would make 2 Live Crew blush. The pictures of the locker were there, on the table, silently mocking him. So, a second letter was written:

Dear Pleasant Pastures Retirement Home,

Your nurse is still a crook.
I didn’t put the goddamn pictures in the first letter.

Morty Carruthers

P.S. See enclosed pictures

The second letter was mailed, and the nurse’s fate sealed. Upon reading (both) letters, the director of the home immediately called the police and did away with the criminal in his midst. While an officer was still in his office, the director handed over the envelope that the letter arrived in. Contained in the postage cancellation was the zip code from which the letters were sent. Upon further investigation, it was found that there was property owned by a M. Carruthers in the county that the zip code was attached to. Four days after mailing the letters, Betty and Morty heard a knock on the front door of the cabin. It was the local police, accompanied by the director of the home. Morty let the pair in, and all four sat down at the table. Apologies spewed forth from the mouth of the director as he tried desperately to convince the two elders not to sue the company that housed them and allowed them to be robbed of their valuables and innocence. Morty piped up and said, “Listen here, bub. It’s not about money. I couldn’t care less about money or suing you or your company. It’s true, you might have had some sort of accountability in this messed up situation, but that’s just no concern of ours. I just hope that you’ve learned a lesson through all of this.” A quick reply was given, “Oh, yes sir! This has shown us that there needs to be a monumental amount of changes made to our facility and practices. Are you absolutely sure that there’s nothing we can do for you or provide you with?” Betty tapped Morty on the shoulder and the two whispered to each other briefly before nodding and turning there attention back to the impromptu meeting. “Well, there is one thing,” Morty said, “how about you bring that nice young fella here to play his Christmas music for us?”

I was flattered when the director came to me with this request. He said he’d take care of transportation and everything; they just wanted me to play Christmas tunes for them. You know, it just goes to show you, sometimes if you just get into the season and really get into and enjoy the music that accompanies it, you tend to forget about your problems, as they just don’t seem as bad.

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Never say “happy” memorial day.
A somber remembrance of those hearty, hardened souls should be the way
The air you breathe now could be part of the very last vapors that crossed their paling lips on the fields of battle then
The fields of battle, often a distant vision for most
Terrifying visions of dismay and hell for those brave enough to serve this country of ours
Trudging head-long and steadfast in a unique resolve, heroism a distant vacant thought
Helmets and worn boots and vests and blood & tear-soaked shirts are too often all that remain
Memorials to fallen hearts in foreign lands
Under the peace and solitude of a starry night
Our brave knights stare at the same far-off blinking lights in the vast darkness of a night sky
As you look up, don’t crave freedom, don’t crave admiration
Think about those that chose to fight and exasperate themselves
Think about gratitude and being humble and fighting to never let them be forgotten

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Heroes of Our Youth


The heroes of our youth
Are not long for this world
They live life at an entirely accelerated pace
And exist in constant demand from strangers
Expressions on stage are taken as either falsities or inspirations
Their true meaning held deep within
Some successes, some failures
Some gleeful projections of their heightened inspirations
Some doleful representations of inner turmoil
Some take you with them through the depths of despair
          only to help you emerge on the other side
                  on a plateau of jubilation
Express gratitude for your heroes while they’re here
For some, it is a daily battle
For some, it is a final lonely failure in a winter of fear
As a true fan, hold no wanton disregard for success but make your admiration known
These knights that forge a path through the insanity of this world for the delight of others
Present themselves but for a moment to be enjoyed
When they leave us there is such deep sorrow,
But also a joy that they have evolved beyond us to a higher plane
And then we’re left making left turns on a right turn road
No u-turns possible
No re-visitation of history possible, but in our hearts and memories
Then falling apart as we fall asunder

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1st Post


1st Post. Woo hoo.

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