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BY Davey H

01/01 Direct Link

One on one and add thirteen
The countdown is done
What fun – we’re clean!
It’s slightly warmer
Day and night
New Year reformer: get it right!

Mistakes of the past
In absolution;
Move forward fast:
It’s a resolution!
Yet I stare aghast
At our stark non-solution
Flags at half-mast,
and substantial dilution.

And so you know
That’s all well and good,
if you would,
letting go of each ‘should’,
for the last year, we fear,
was not at all good.

But here in these parts
Which we label The ‘Hood’
The human condition
as per our wishin’
Is fully understood.

01/02 Direct Link

RESOLUTIONS, MY ASS!

In many years past
I was the droll jackass
Contented to be
As was easy to see
the silliest clown in the class.

Not much has changed
In the ensuing decades
Some things rearranged
Swapping various shades

But the underlying taint remained
Though at times I could tamp it down;
That spurious furious energy drained
When self control came to town!

From fishy-assed drinker
I eventually evolved
Into a dull semi-thinker;
Chalked up as semi problem resolved
en route to becoming a clinker.

All told, these changes
were NOT resolutions;
What’s strange is
I claim they’re ablutions!

01/03 Direct Link

“Missing you, man!”

That’s what the tiny note said, and no, I don’t give a friggin’ flip that Word doesn’t recognize that opening salvo as a certifiable sentence – but rather angrily underlines it in green – as if to insult my ostensible intelligence and inject this quirky style with maxims MS deems appropriate.

The note of note was attached to the translucent box containing WICKED good fudge made from fresh cream, butter, and the quintessential component of all things crave-able: Vitamin ‘S’ – otherwise known as sucrose, sugar, sweet stuff, insulin-jack, et al.

It’s difficult to describe how much that sentiment meant!

01/04 Direct Link

The Boss-man had shown his true colors, as did the multifaceted fudge which seemed to glow with its own iridescence.

The curious middle slab, mostly tawny coffee with cream interspersed with swirls of pink and green, disappeared first and quickly. MMM – mint; more than a hint: heavy, greased and thickly!

Boss-man was full of optimism, no doubt feeling flush with a full house: the place was booked solid with every available space rented into the foreseeable future, which was a royal pain in the ass, ‘cause my stuff had to be moved again.

I needed an ace in the hole.

01/05 Direct Link

It could rightly be said that nothing dries shoes faster than a properly fired wood stove. But that creature comfort ushers in an atmospheric side-effect courtesy of those who flout the 350.org authorities.

At the other end of the spectrum, we catch flak from our right-wing cynics who sarcastically chide us regarding our carbon footprint.

Speaking of footprints, it’s harder to get away with anything when snow lies on the ground. And that means YOU, you infernal rodents!

But that could also mean ME when I go up yonder to douse my neighbor’s backyard incinerator.

Can’t they recycle that crap?

01/06 Direct Link

A new ‘credit’ card comes
For us boomer rabbits
To splurge ‘til we’re numb
With our dumb spending habits!

In a nondescript envelope
With today’s mail
Such Big Bankster’s hope
This new card could entail.

Debt ceiling? You bet!
Fate sealing? Not yet!
That’s a height
Above which I hope we’ll never get!

But we’ve been hearing a lot
about endless debt.
So they sent one to me
For my next shopping spree,
though I haven’t signed off on it yet.

For the Banksters you see
Have long understood
That the masses (us, we)
When in debt are so good!

01/07 Direct Link

Today is the one month anniversary of the December Day That Shall Live in Infamy. It is also two months shy of the 25 –year mark of our brother’s suicide.

Moreover, January 7th is exactly 6 months either side of Britain’s dreadful subway suicide bombing, whichever way you want to slice the calendar, be it fore or aft.

So whatever significance a numerologist wishes to assign to this number 7 is left to conjecture, dear reader.

Here’s what I think,
though we think we’ll do fine:
We can’t do our taxes
Because the sad fact is
We haven’t that 1099.

01/08 Direct Link

Sigmoid Whupsteen came to the conclusion that he had to come clean. And this WAS a laughing matter for many a year, come what may.

Having attempted to wax monastic, taking a stab at celibacy – something he had poked fun at many times previously – he nonetheless was perversely attracted to the concept, if not its implementation.

“Oh, come now; abstinence is bullshit,” Whupsteen used to say.

But he, like many other male animals encased in a bod, needed to come to terms, whilst running roughshod.

He had non-graduated
And not extirpated
Recalcitrant; Summa-Cum-Fraud!

So the time came to stop coming.

01/09 Direct Link

Oh, pink-nosed cranky Yankee!
Better strap on that fat down coat
Mittens, scarf, and leggings, too
Cloth balloon baggage with bloat!

For it is colder out than it looks
Sun blares through south-facing glass
Forbearance you haven’t forsook
As you ‘work’ crossword puzzles
Those coats hang on hooks
and you remain stuck on your ass.

Then, when a whim strikes
And not before then
You tug ‘senior shoelaces’
Revel in them
Seek out the shovel
Put down the pen
Shoo snow from hovel
And if you’ve the yen
Carve a notch for the family car
And be done B-4 10!

01/10 Direct Link

Through the peep-hole
Mike A. had asserted
That We the Sheeple
Will go as herded.
Editor-at-large @ Natural News
In your mind he’ll barge
with his unabashed views.

Hitherto Sheeple give not a whit
Broken, blue and gray with grit.
They scribble, nibble, forward-ho!
As long as they recall where to go!

But I’d posit that, despite his fiery rhetoric and at times spot-on reportage, he can also be taken with a grain of gestalt.

Take for example the recent fusillade of gun rhetoric, pro and con.

Oh, cuckoo-nuts, bray on, bray on!

Nothing works like firearms to blow smoke.

01/11 Direct Link

Timmy G. writes so voluminously as to no doubt assure at least some of his stuff will ‘hit’ – and hit a jugular.

He’s a mighty tough act to follow.

And, I might add,
By his hand, breakin’ bad
The sonnets he sings
And the threats he slings
are sure as hell not to ring hollow.

When sister Nan Z.
Brought back a Tim G
Effluent book of slam poetry,
It was dressed up for us to peruse;
Then Dad had a look-see
And he did not enthuse:
“Oh, gee – for this sludge poetry
You’ll see I have not any use!”

01/12 Direct Link

Another day of air so clean
Yet dusky and gray
Yes, that’s how it’s been.
Do I portray with envy green
Those lackeys they
Who make the scene?

Or ponder thus
Avoiding a fuss
What, pray tell, is melamine?

Oh, that substance, it’s said
is what made your dog dead,
ergo, you put him in the ground;
From China it came
As a part of the game
To help keep dog food prices down.

So some may think they have it made
And profit now and then;
We cheat each other on the fade,
And that is how it’s been.

01/13 Direct Link

Please thin out your herd
Of cute teddy bears
Collate all your papers
Arrange your affairs.

That cutlery set
And the crusty carafe
Little by little, surely, you bet
Though you may not have realized
It’s not sunk in yet
You put in your time,
now it’s our time to sweat
And we’ll get ‘round to cart it all off.

We’ll clean out those drawers
Take the sewing machine
Get down on all fours
And make sure the room’s clean.

They’ll rip out the carpet
As soon as you’ve gone
They need to still rent it
Once you’ve moved on.

01/14 Direct Link

What to make of this contribution:
Real, not fake, much effort to take
That amounts to substantial dilution?

Of all the words that were ever created
Gnashed,
Slashed,
Rehashed,
Re-articulated,
It becomes plain as day
When thrust to the fore:
In this grand word play
Which we all do adore
Much to our dismay
Now I don’t mean to bore|
All these words we produce
It’s not hard to deduce,
are not better, only just MORE.

On that note,
this farmboy wonders
what Wendell Berry would have to say
about this 100 word thing.

Or what about the verbose Foucault?

01/15 Direct Link

The philosopher wrote
so few could understand him.
He infused his harangues, however,
with a shit-load of meaning.

A ruddy-complected farmboy arduously engaged in cleaving ash logs by non-mechanical means delves into his own patent philosophy after all, allowing sparse, tenuous and largely dormant cerebral gray matter to rest for such time as it takes to render cylindrical incendiary appurtenances into fungible BTU-producing thermal assets for the purpose of maintaining not only acceptable homeostasis characteristics in the organism, but consistently temperate ambient atmospheric conditions favorable to non-freezing of ancillary domestic cylindrical fluid conduits within the confines of the temporal domicile.

01/16 Direct Link

GONE ‘TIL SPRING

Regret still lingers
Oh, fumble fingers;
You dropped your old key ring!

Into deep snow
Where did it go?
You know: It’s gone ‘til spring!

And what about the summer tread
That you pulled off the car?
They’re somewhere over by the shed
‘Til May, that’s where they are.

Most times you cannot dig out things
From solid ice rock hard;
In 3 months when the robin sings
You’ll find stuff in the yard!

Mother Nature so oft blows
A blizzard bellowing;
Turning stuff to marshmallows;
Hey, that’s how the story goes
All frozen, gone ‘til spring.

01/17 Direct Link

Yesterday, and the day before
I saw a cat that I could adore.
Of course I knew her from before;
So nothing is new
I’m telling you
as she skitters across the floor.

She was an indoor cat
And that was that
This fine feline of yore;
But that didn’t last
It happened so fast:
She figured out the DOG door!

No, she’s not in harm’s way
Well, at least not yet
and loves to play, oh hey, you bet!
An Abyssinian breed,
I never would have guessed.

And what’s best,
no sorrow:
I get to see her again tomorrow!

01/18 Direct Link

HAY, JOE!

So I need to bill Joe
That’s a Joe, NOT a Bill;
Because for him, you know
I did work, if you will.

‘Twas work not by force
But rather by choice;
No, I did not shirk
But then failed to invoice
This Joe with the quirk
and the really deep voice.

Put some logs in a row
and cut Joe some slack.
Some leaves I did blow
and wood then did stack
for this not yet billed Joe
but I didn’t get back
before that first snow
had formed a hard pack.

Was Joe keeping track?

01/19 Direct Link

The body gets hot
The body gets cold
And sooner than not
This body gets OLD!

The body needs food
And water like this
The gal or the dude
Thus must poop and piss.

The body likes art
Books and music, too
But the body will fart
And produce grotesque goo.

The body craves pleasure
And likes lots of things
Yet pain beyond measure
this too-short life brings.

Not to be sordid
Nor pessimist;
But facts can’t be thwarted
though we might insist.

The body’s demise
arrives; you can’t cloak it
with silly-ass jive
like this – though I spoke it!

01/20 Direct Link

We took on this Beagle, right?

Well, soon we got in the ring
to watch everything
and, well, stay in the fight.

She was here for two weeks,
oh, fair rosy-cheeks,
and you should know
how a dog like this freaks.

Eight ‘biners held together her crate
and they were quite necessary of late,
because she had chewed
her way out of it, dude!

This Beagle is an inveterate shit-eater; a wholehearted envelopment, a revelation upon which I became a bleater, lamenting this development.

Hit me like a stick in the crotch
Pray she won’t get sick on our watch.

01/21 Direct Link

The call came in, displaying its unnecessary digits with an ‘800’ prefix, though if you try and call it back, will be wholly dysfunctional, just like the contemptible debt-based system from which it springs.

One time, I caught the cretins before they could hang up on our machine, stating politely:

Oh, sorry, but you have the wrong Davey H; another dude by the same name – but carrying an insanely unsustainable consumer debt load – resides in this area, and I got his ‘credit’ card bill once, opened it without fully paying attention, and  exclaimed “holy shit!”

Poor guy. REALLY friggin’ poor.

01/22 Direct Link

Oh 1-Percent Citibanksters
Now hear this:

You haven’t gotten me; no, not yet
Ensconced, enslaved
With a burgeoning debt
Though surely you’d like to
If you could;
I’d be the good sucker
You think I should.

So my neighbor foreclosed
Would I be like him?
His corpse was disposed
At your beck and whim
As you flaunt your logos
I’ve a synonym
As he dangles his toes
in a future more grim.

The fellow is right and good
To be pissed
Kicked out of the ‘hood
Whilst his debt was 'serviced'.

Thus this Bankster card I sever:

Get ME?
NEVER!

01/23 Direct Link

A life filled with strife
No, it’s NOT heaven-sent!
So forget and forgive
May long you live
To consume
And produce excrement!

In listening to space station inhabitants – otherwise known as ‘astronauts’, one gets a feeling we’re not doing so well down here on this, the only directly inhabitable planet in the visible platform of space, and that fact blares.

One of their favorite pastimes is looking down at planet Earth, musing as stated above, with particular ocular focus concentrated on Syria.

Syria in ruins.
F*** the Boston Bruins!
Let’s all stop the screwin’s.
We’ve got work that needs doin’s!

01/24 Direct Link

After Mark’s trees, I had planned on doing Bruce’s. Then Robin intervened:

Cool! Another dish clearing job!

By that I imply and express that those out of reach of traditional Internet infrastructure implementation must rely on the satellite middlemen who swoop down upon the disconnected like ravenous buzzards to feast upon the weak, the unfortunate, and in need.

Maybe that’s heavy-handed, but certainly was the case before local Telco’s began stringing the copper they should have strung years ago.

And since DSL has become ubiquitous, dish-meisters have been forced to become more competitive as regards price and quality of service.

01/25 Direct Link

Memories are sloshed between the folds of our salt dust slathered roads as a diverse pastiche of automobiles usher forth with maddening urgency, as if filled with occupants tiptoeing through slush-filth en route to evading surety of a prematurely rusted set of wheels.

Be advised: It can’t happen.

We lucked out on our latest automotive purchase, it being, as our chipper mechanic wryly noted upon his not-so-cursory general inspection:
“not from around here.”

But let this vehicle live in these parts for two ensuing winter seasons, and rust will spread faster than verticillium wilt on a hot-assed summer tomato plant.

01/26 Direct Link

Memories do indeed abound
regarding many past winters;
Yes, deep in mind
Are their images found
As I rummage in woodpile
No splinters!

Thus I now present to you
Some recall of 2002:

Gassing at fave filling station
One brisk wintry day,
Keeping away from the salt;
Which covered each surface
That got in the way
But hey, ‘twas not township’s fault!

A white truck at the catty-corner pump
bore an ominous insignia
of a well-moneyed firm from out-of-town
that had blown in
to take some dead trees down.
So I asked with a smile and not a frown: TBC.

01/27 Direct Link

The dude and I pumped gas at the same time into disparate vehicles, yet shared a trade, one that was emblazoned upon his driver’s side door. Curious, I queried him.

“So, is this your gig, you know, this company?”

His terse initial reply: “No.”

But then he continued:

“If it was my company,
I’d be in Florida right now.”

I should have guessed as much.
But was that incident ‘gaseous male bonding’?

2002 was one hellish winter in these parts; a veritable legend, and at the very least a lively topic of kitchen table gossip for untold years to come.

01/28 Direct Link

Nothing is worse
A curse I bid
Than spilt cup of hot java
without a lid.

Some in the lap
Just missed the groin
F***! Sh**! Oh, crap!
Peace of mind did purloin.

Thus driving along
With a coffee-soaked seat
Not singing a song
And feeling the heat
Of rage as it rises
To your ears from your feet
This driver despises
The morning complete!

This could be an anecdotal or real-life scenario for which the foregoing soliloquy was composed; however, any connection, rejection, or deflection to actual planetary citizens existing at the time of its composition is purely coincidental.

01/29 Direct Link

The talk is of guns
with much ado.

They stalk 'twixt their buns
And put crosshairs on you!

Let’s proffer the ones
Who appreciate puns
With a ton of gun-pun fun to do!

Our pun shop is shot
With rounds tightly knit
But we’ll shoot what we’ve got
And then shoot da shit!

But Wayne LaPierre
Yes, if you dare
Or should you care
Is my derriere!

This gun pun, son
Is ricochet fun!
Well within range
Our trajectory’s done.

With a gun in the butt
At the butt of a gun
They lock/load the media
With a fusillade spun!

01/30 Direct Link

Damn this frozen drain line once again!
Again, this unflinchingly unavoidable phenomenon rears its butt-ugly mug, bespeaking our helplessness, reminiscent of that unrelenting arctic winter so annoyingly harped upon in a previous post.

But in keeping with such panache-puffed duties as your insatiably insouciant host, the following observations, though silly at most, are those in which I shall remain duly engrossed:

The month has flown by,
On high, if you please;
With three days well-nigh
in a deep friggin’ freeze.

El Sol shoves azure sky
Clouds glide, sigh through the trees
And firewood’s dry
Stack it high – past our knees!

01/31 Direct Link

Yes, indeed, as this month has screamed by,
you’ll receive final screed from this Davey H guy!

One of the month’s significant events
was to do a serious toilet redo,
one likely delineated in a previous post
not recalled at the present time.

Never in our wildest imaginations
would we conceive of a $29.95 toilet seat.
But a ‘No Slam’ unit? Hey, that sounds neat!

So buy it we did,
then tried out the lid,
and by golly, it sure was discreet!

During potty’s timeout, however,
it became blatantly obvious how
necessary this fixed fixture is
in any given domicile.