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BY Davey H

03/01 Direct Link

The young gal from Kentucky
Came here and got lucky
Hugged the wood stove
And nursed her a-splinter;
She stayed mighty plucky
That gal from Kentucky
but exclaimed:
“I just HATE this here winter!”

She shot bow and arrow
Though chilled to the marrow
And cursed Old Man Winter to blame;
But she kept straight and narrow
With that bow and arrow
And promised she’d work on her aim!

As winter wore on,
We assumed she’d be gone
Before the first song sparrow’s ring;
Would she be pale and wan
As the clouds lingered on
Before the preamble of Spring?

03/02 Direct Link

Got fun? Get one, son!
No, this aging boomer has NONE.
A tablet or touch-screen device
Though nice
he’ll stubbornly surely shun,
And rant a bit more before he’s done.

After all, what could be more touchable
than a plain old PAPER tablet?

And who but Thoreau
would be so kind
as to remind
that to simplify, guy, is the best paradigm?

Trolling the corporate tech aisles,
you’d think we have collectively become
electronically addicted yet unglued,
and don’t use pencils and paper anymore.
Oh, they’re still available:
tucked somewhere in a dusty back corner.
Twist-Erase® pencils, I adore!

03/03 Direct Link

It’s well past this boomer’s bedtime, but in such commonsense-defying sessions as the one presently extant, he still insists on consuming larger than advisable quantities of blue light from several sources, namely, two computer monitors, three CFL bulbs and one halogen; all of which, according to reliable sources too abundant to list in their entirety – within the context of this prevailing100-word limit – make peer-reviewed, substantiated claims as to such wave spectrum's deleterious effects on homo sapiens’ melatonin production, which, in keeping with such species’ general age-related decline and increasing commensurate malaise, is friggin’ par for the proverbial course, of course.

03/04 Direct Link

It starts with ‘W’, and ends in ‘8’
From what I can tell you
I wish I could say
At the end of the day
Something like:
“Man, this is GREAT!”

But alas, I must swerve
‘oer the tough learning curve
A curve, I might add
That’s quite steep;
Ergo, to observe
Of all the nerve
Such electronic company I keep!

How good it could be
with this new SSD
All configured, set
And screwed in place;
With performance snappy
That’s okay with me
But it’s easy to see
OS technology
Is not that with which I can keep pace!

03/05 Direct Link

Ahoy, sugar houses!
Please burn us two stacks
Of those gussied-up
Whole-hog wheat
Plate-sized flapjacks!
We’ll sit at the table
chat loudly, not mutter
Bring coffee, Mabel
and also hot butter!

Yes indeed, folks, the sap is-a-runnin'!
Happening long after dusk
With the sun in
A fabulous sugarin' year we foresee:
definitely the best of at least the last three.

Ergo, up the hill with glee
to slurp a syrupy spoonful or three
Freshly 'distilled' from the maple tree
This Sunday that’s us to a ‘T’.

All problems clear up
With so-sweet maple syrup
The most flavorful: darkest grade 'B'!

03/06 Direct Link

Across this land
Splay roads and crows
Beneath my ass
Whir studded snows.
And it comes to pass
that’s how winter goes
were I so crass
yes, everyone knows
of the chilled morass
in these salty rows.

Iced slush slickly lingers
No bells on our toes
I fumble these fingers
Scrawl insouciant prose!

Roll past an apron
‘twas so nice to see
A local matron’s ginkgo tree!
Growing so free
right next to the shoulder
Free, yes, to be
a thriving tree
in the eye of this e-holder.
Endangered species?
It could be,
but you won’t find one older.

03/07 Direct Link

“So how’s it going, Davey?”
“Well, not so great;
For today my fair brother
Unique like no other
would be almost forty-eight.

Oh, we love those nice even numbers
and think them so grand
even if they’re pasted
to one so wasted by his own hand.

A mischievous imp
And a brightly lit lamp
But never a wimp
Sometimes a scamp
Who rarely went limp
And once went to wrestling camp.

He rode his spider bike,
pumping iron quads,
bought a riding mower
that became his pride and joy.

Wish that picture of him flickin’ the bird
would turn up.

03/08 Direct Link

They talk for a living
Jaws flap whilst quite deft.
Oh, my how they jabber
from right or from left!
Whilst we listen or watch
at times numb, bereft;
paste a glistening blotch
on our cerebral cleft.

That being said, without waxing political, for this listener, the act of fishing intelligent snippets out of the vast sea of overtly odious opinionated oratory is quite akin to the proverbial needle in the equally proverbial haystack.

Ergo, if it looks like a duck, it will likely quack.

Too many ducks quacking
in any space
will drive you to seek a quieter place.

03/09 Direct Link

Rounding the corner of this brief stretch of temporary bachelorhood lends itself to reflection; in retrospect, with all due respect, though at the time I could not object, I strongly suspect things that should have been completed were tabled like unpleasant or time-consuming topics at a meeting: they would didactically demand an entire session unto themselves, ergo were effortlessly avoided in favor of more pleasurable non-intellectually bolstering pastimes.

But just a glance at all the time that gets wasted in utterly useless unproductive pursuits gives pause.

Then, when the time comes to actually DO something, it is a gargantuan hassle.

03/10 Direct Link

One of the very coolest things about living in the evacuation zone of a nuclear power plant is the free NOAA weather radio they give you.

It squawks. It beeps. Perfect time it keeps.

Computer-generated faux voices emit from its suave plastic shell as if not to say that on a hypothetical indescribably fateful day a semi-distant siren would bray and we’d get that feeling, so sorry to say, and be buns-up kneeling then wither away.

And permit this bit of wit so wry: “Bend over, tuck your head firmly between your legs and kiss your butt goodbye.”

(Worst-case scenario)

03/11 Direct Link

“Now THAT was a great idea!”

How often have you heard that?

Good ideas are welcome around heah
in the still-frigid nawtheast
as we approach mud season.

How about rut fillers?
Or, say, self-cleaning tires?

Easy as pie: just strap on a heavy duty pooper scooper to the rear fender and away you go, oh muddy trooper!
Auto-cleaning boots would be good too;
yeah – super!

Back out, or rather front in,
to plunge our wheels that freekin' spin. . .

Into deep ruts – ruts chiseled in
to soft earth much like the habit patterns
chiseled into our pliant flesh
that ultimately comprise us.

03/12 Direct Link

Habit patterns, indeed. That's the substance of which we are really concocted, deep down, if only we care to look.

Like dogs that bark at the sound of a doorbell, our all-too-frequent Pavlovian responses spurt from reactive energies scarcely within the realm of consciousness.

As a point of reference, take the opinions that form, take flight from our oral cavities and gain audible momentum on a stream of exhaled carbon dioxide en-route to their destinations.

We host and boast
and blare a retort
to opinion we toast
as if it's a sport!
With chatter our host
We so happily cavort.

03/13 Direct Link

Did a clothesline last week
from the ladder's top rung
and I won't be so meek
man, that clothesline was HUNG!

But I first had to wrench the old hook
from the tree;
'cause it didn't look
very sporty, you see?

The hook a bit rusty
the way that I found it
the bark a bit dusty
the tree grew around it!

The task took a while
but that didn’t matter
I couldn’t beguile
that flimsy-assed ladder.

So I put up the line
and did not rescind;
thus the pleasure was mine
to throw clothes (not caution)
to the wind!

03/14 Direct Link

On March 8th, I railed about talk show hosts.
They’re populous these days;
pompous, too.
And through the haze,
I’ll convey to you:
Swooped up in this craze,
Here’s what you do:

Immediately upon realization you are in fact on the air with the talker, DO NOT utter this moronic phrase:
“thank you for taking my call.”

1) Get right to the point.

2) Don’t think for a minute you will have the last word; that’s for the All-Knowing One at the business end of the microphone who has so kindly condescended from the babble-throne to allow your pipsqueak meanderings.

03/15 Direct Link

Moving further through partially pursed lips – remembering you needn’t plumb the folds of your own purse; after all, this is the wasteland of commercial-laden drivel known as AM (Amplitude Modulation) radio, and content is paid for through billed advertising, the auditory excrement of which is then blared across the airwaves with reckless abandon.

So if you call in, fall in,
and get on the air,
be advised on how you won’t fare:
For with the host
You can’t disagree
They’ll make the most
Of snide reverie
Then have you singing a silly-ass tune
But you called THEM,
You naive buffoon!

03/16 Direct Link

Talk is Cheap.

The foregoing is NOT an original statement, and yes, talk is indeed cheap but in fact well compensated these days, provided the talker is in the requisite commercial venue.

What displeasure it is listening to a host who refuses to LISTEN! The caller can’t get a word in edgewise. Not that typical callers-in are terribly bright; usually quite the opposite – a ploy wholly intentional in far too many cases. After all, the host is the centerpiece, the shilling, shining guru on the hilltop, knower of all things knowable and a master interrupter.
Bow therefore unto her/his ‘glory’

03/17 Direct Link

One more thing:
And I just gotta say it
On a 100-word fling,
thus must convey it:

The modern-day talk show host represents
the use of jaw-flapping
as stark recompense:
a latter-day version
of spiky-end bludgeons
and hence
coddles a scrum
of listening curmudgeons.

Instead of fists, clubs
or kicks to the groin,
the host asserts her/himself
and with suave purloin.. .

provides barbs, pokes, insults,
repetitive egotistical repartee
and all manner of warm CO2
hurled in the caller’s general direction,
with the ultimate goal being
‘verbal might makes right.’

Their olden rule, fool:
Be abrupt. Interrupt.
Do NOT be contrite.

03/18 Direct Link

Upended and appended,
the Ides of March have come and gone;
they took my starch and put sugar on.

Though we still have ice
not very nice
and to the worker, this advice:
you still will be a pawn!

Looking at our tiny slice
of world and land that holds a price
we eye a homestead south of here
to it we’re led
and straight we steer
with more than just a little dread,
a bit ‘o reservation and fear.

”Knowledge is power,”
an attorney admonishes
as the powerful encumbrance of documentation
we could say without hesitation
always friggin’ astonishes.

03/19 Direct Link

Back to the box – or boxes – on this sunny day.
At our chicken house foxes are kept at bay.

As an aside: Young men out of the box
now and then get to thinking outside their cocks.

Then, during one of those dog walks,
a dog shat across from a
butt-ugly grouchy-ass property owner’s plot
and she gave as good as she got.
She DID give a shit – and dished it out, to wit.

Later, after the shit-catcher’s adrenaline retreated
to simmer from a rolling boil,
the canine tale was told, ad nauseam,
at least three times in a roil.

03/20 Direct Link

Oh, such a grim remembrance
we have on this day!

Ten years now, less encumbrance
but those memories don’t fade away.

At least not for those in that PNAC-coveted
and still-occupied oil-rich Arab nation
riddled with depleted uranium munitions
and otherwise PLUNDERED in the name of
“spreading Democracy”.

Kudos to a local college station
which aired the ‘Making Contact’ program
from RadioProject.org today!

The show featured interviews with spokespersons
from CostOfWar.org and Jeff Patterson
of CourageToResist.org.
This man had earned the right
to express what he speaks,
having stood on the bayonet’s edge
and returned, appalled, to tell about it.

03/21 Direct Link

With a drowsy start and as I spoke:
how great this part:
some sugar house smoke!
Waffles well done brown, you see
then soak ‘em down
with Mass Grade ‘B’!

This prescription is for resuscitating and rejuvenating even the most fatigued workin’ fool prior to the workaday toil.

Oh, and don’t forget the coconut oil!

This, combined with real butter – like Mama used to churn – is to be placed atop the stack you burn.

With Omega-3’s, it is venerated
yes, if you please, quite saturated.
But one should have the maturation
to realize it is GOOD saturation!

DISH ‘EM UP!

03/22 Direct Link

Today was a day that was worth repeating,
so I must say I’ll get right down to bleating:

This much anticipated EAOS was scintillating at the outset, and my feeble pink carcass buzzed, woozy with anticipation.

Though civilian employment beckoned out of necessity, the first order of business was to get some kind of decent stereo system, then wheels, though not necessarily in that order.

A Harmon-Kardon amp & tuner coupled with JBL tower-style speakers did the trick, and once ZZ Top’s LP came out, it was mighty slick.

Suddenly, the period – or ‘dot’ key – stopped working on this keyboard.

03/23 Direct Link

Re-entry was not to be a piece of gravy-soaked cake, Jake.
In fact, it was quite traumatic for an extended period, the true extent of which isn’t recalled at this point in time.

But few were the periods considered sublime.

Going from gray
and growing some hair
from ‘them’ to ‘they’
now ‘here’ from ‘there’
I had pulled away
and hoped to fare
on a better day
with those who would care.

A family letter waxed exuberant after initial ‘culture shock’ had substantially dissipated, the tag-line of which read:
“I got a job, car, and a girlfriend in 2 weeks!”

03/24 Direct Link

I had found the letter
But not so fast
A non-forgetter
It was his last.

It said his name was Thomas Young,
a victim in a class among
Brave troops who caught
A load of ‘shrap’
I sing the praises of this chap
For laying it bare
And telling the truth
Not long he’ll fare
in his stolen youth.

To Mr. Young, that hero unsung
I hope he fruitfully slings the dung
To recipients at his behest
Who send soldiers out
From behind a desk!

For anyone who cares to read
“The Last Letter”
It’s online for worse or better.

03/25 Direct Link

Roll through stop signs
and take a chance;
cool design – a bow so fine
– on pockets of those pants.

So it’s 3/25
and can you believe it?
Not finished, no jive,
but no need thus to grieve it.

You’re listening to the BBC
broadcast to you from across the sea.
With another spin
of the steering wheel
the road is real: veer in, you see!?

Connecticut tags
they still abound
from across our southern borders;
snapping up ski slopes that they found
they’re such Hummer-bound
road-hoarders!
Sometime after Thanksgiving
they maybe would give thanks
for the way that they’re living.

03/26 Direct Link

On one of the past nights – not sure which one – we did laundry.

Of three Laundromats in town, one wins hands-down: it is that clean-as-a-whistle place they’re in the process of gussying up but that already contains a microwave, table, chairs, well-stocked rack ‘o books and free WIFI. So we went.

Surf indeed, to your heart’s content
while the clothes you need
get their dirt spent!

You can while away
as those suds play
ensconced on your free chairs;
and thus waylay
your worries at bay
set free from all your cares!

Stainless steel abounds;
the order of the day.

03/27 Direct Link

LAUNDRO-TALES, Cont’d:

Feeding a ten-spot into the stalwart change machine, fingers in ears as bulwark against ensuing crashing quarter racket, we thought with 3 cheers this surely could hack it. ‘$10.00 should suffice,’ I murmured to nobody in particular.

Scarfing up the resultant jingle from the cup, I glanced over at the adjacent change machine and did a double-take: its dispenser-cup was brimming with unclaimed quarters!

At this ostensibly auspicious unearthing of assets carrying as-yet-to-be-determined ownership, I should have trilled with the exuberance of a one-armed bandit player who just hit it big.

Not so; impulse overruled, you’re on her.

03/28 Direct Link

LAUNDRO-SUDS, Cont’d again:

Well, then, what next?
Should we look over our shoulders
and be vexed?

As mentioned previously, the urge to simply
pocket that pile of quarters was superseded by one of honesty.

Gathering their chilly metallic mass up
in my working-class dirty hands,
they were summarily plopped on the table
for tallying inventory.
Three counts revealed a grand total
of $15.50 – just a little over the threshold of qualification as “chump change”.
So what to do?

Whip out the cell
and phone the owner,
then commence to tell
without telling a boner
that things were suddenly swell.
“C’mon over!”

03/29 Direct Link

I placed the call to the suds-bustin’ place of purveyance’s owner – unsure if the cheapass cell phone’s signal would bring sufficient cojones to the table and be able to exude satisfactorily from inside this stainless steel fortress brimming with renovations – and in as clear terms as I could reasonably muster, citing less than optimal ambient acoustical characteristics prevailing in this particular space, indicated that said proprietor, should he be so inclined, would be able to, upon commencing the next day’s operations, find a bumptious bevy of change in his suggestion/complaints/request for refunds box, at which time they could be retrieved.

03/30 Direct Link

With a loud clanking din – dampened  by foam earplugs inserted into my dual skull-mounted radar dishes – all 62 quarters were initiated into their temporary home in the suggestion/complaints/request for refunds box and a collective sigh of relief was breathed.

Now it was time to finish chomping those plump burritos that were rapidly approaching room temperature.

We finished our lump of human and dog laundry just under the wire, as the suds-o-mat had automatic locking doors which, just like clockwork, clacked their bolts home at precisely 2200 hours EST.

No call had yet come into my rooster ring tone cell phone.

03/31 Direct Link

Up and at ‘em the next morning, I called the Laundromat owner again and he picked up.
It figures; an early bird doesn’t answer or return calls 9:30 at night, but call 7 a.m.?
Hey, no prob.

“Wow, Davey, how ya doin?”

”Alright, man. Did anybody claim that jackpot they left in the change machine?”

”Nope, not yet, but I must say, you’re a rarity.”

”Well, I couldn’t just TAKE it; I know if that was MY hard-earned scratch, it would be nice to have it returned.”

Anyhow, to make a short story long-winded, we parted as friends, sight unseen.