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BY Davey H

12/01 Direct Link
So nice to remember
that so brief November,
it’s fumbling foibles and fuss;
yea, a sign-up attempt
had so left us unkempt
that we shriveled, aghast, at the fuss.

But across this fine nation
with much consternation
were minions of folks just like us;
who needed to glean
from this monstrous Machine
a ride on the ‘health’ care bus!

We attempted online
to fill out and sign
that draconian application;
but a brick wall, alas
flustered many a pass
and resulted in acute frustration.

What became of this caper
such querulous fright?
We submitted PAPER;
said “screw the Web site!”
12/02 Direct Link
Please go tell Cindy
that it’s too doggone windy
to make any kind of work move;
but DO find Charlie Hays
on one of these days
to be phased and get back in the groove!

To wit: Davey won’t be a bleater,
but rather will borrow that EMF meter.

You see, Charlie has one,
though it does not have an onboard RF feature,
meaning ‘marginally functional’ & not so hot;
indeed, it’s a near-useless creature.

In these times, anyway,
when WIFI surreptitiously surrounds
and subsumes us,
piercing our pink flesh
en route to its oh, so convenient service
to the servile.
12/03 Direct Link

Hi-Yo Silver® made it through inspection this afternoon, prompting a weak-assed celebration culminating in jacking her left rear end up in hopes of getting a gander at those rusty brakes.`
All the better to fix ‘em then.
However, it got cold. Freezing friggin' cold.
Not the best for outdoor non-shade tree knuckle-bustin'.

On a colleague's kitchen table lay today's paper.
I gave it a glance as per usual caper.

It turned out a body had turned up in one of the rivers whose names never register, but I turned to the article anyway.

Heavyset white male, no pants, one boot.

12/04 Direct Link

Having read of the ‘floater’ in said client’s newspaper splayed out upon the kitchen table for all to see – I, after all, grasped the understanding that the paper’s perusal would come only AFTER I had sufficiently discharged the agreed-upon obligations for which my attendance was necessitated.

Now that’s rarely a problem, as I seldom give the paper more than a passing glance, and even when the opportunity presents, I don’t give a flip, but prefer flipping through to juicier fare, such as those oft-flippant op-eds.

This was sufficiently eye-catching to incite more than a passing yawn from this gassing pawn.

12/05 Direct Link

Oh, that ‘heavyset white male
with no pants and one boot?
It seemed, per this tale,
’oer hill and of dale
that nobody gave a hoot.

It was today that the floating corpse was publicly ID’d, the results in what looked a bit like Courier font in today’s paper. But whatever the font, those fonts never change; at least not within our lifetimes. Not like the ever- shifting, undulating, money-grubbing hard-charging defilement-riddled world of news that nominally fills its pages to the brim.

Screw it, I thought. Reading is too sedentary, and it was time to walk the dogs anyway.

12/06 Direct Link

Eight legs had they
Me? I had two.
Were we up for a foray, a rendezvous?

How far would we go?
Would we get back then?
Well, whaddya know:
of legs we had TEN!

This all-too-familiar jaunt has become terribly banal. On the one hand, you can head toward the slightly busier road, usually with wind whipping your tender face, passing and teasing those noisy fenced-in German Shepherds along the way, or you can opt for the less car-laden route – with the cell towers on your right, down by that pastoral property that sports two side by side chicken/turkey coops.

12/07 Direct Link
Black Friday dealt us no blow whatsoever. Situated in these chilly hilly rural regions, drenched in the effluvium of wood smoke, we heard nary wheedle or whine of the harried shopping-addicted in their pell-mell trundling.

At least I THINK today was Black Friday.
And we,
as wee,
statistically insignificant,
temerity-tainted,
tinder-trucking
temperate sticks-in-the-mud,
huffed “F--- shopping!”

Hey, don’t blame US
for a tanking U.S. economy!

It’s not the fault of those who use things up, wear them out; persistently insisting upon squeezing every last minuscule drop of usefulness out of whatever appliance is in question before finally throwing it away.
12/08 Direct Link
Yes, yesterday was ostensibly Black Friday – the much-ballyhooed crave to not save – and perfect cannon fodder for the likes of Reverend Billy.

Looking forward to another hot summer, though, it was time for a new straw hat; those things tend not to wear well – particularly with the infusion of salty northern sweat.

Grasping at straws, Davey thought back to that well-soaked corpse pulled from the river.
Then, Davey cursed his own ignorance – that of neither paying attention to, nor making any salutations whatsoever – for those poor Navy souls sunken with battleship USS ARIZONA, laid to Pacific rest. May They RIP!
12/09 Direct Link

So what does twelve/nine
have for us in store?
No doubt it’s not fine,
wrought with dampness galore.
And as hopes tend to fizzle
amid all the drizzle
the tall threat is of plenty more!

Dwindling dry wood, that is not so good
and in fact, is getting quite slick;
so best bring it on in
place beneath the stove hood
yeah, man – that will be the best trick!

Would you do anything
with three months ‘til Spring?
Or complain of your chilblain’s dank fright?
Hell no, please don’t go;
Sit by fireplace, lo!
and relax in the vanishing  light.

12/10 Direct Link

The music ‘oer which
the staid masses do muse
so seems a bit raunchy of late;
if you ask this ba-boomer
if he does enthuse,
he’ll say “no”, but will commiserate.

Of cacophonous chatter
that lands on the ear
on one’s energy levels to wear;
whose wry notes just don’t matter
you do or don’t hear
from ubiquitous speakers they blare!

Silence, ‘tis said, is a great golden cache
from archives of din verily yanked;
sing a funeral dirge of such dissonant trash
as they laugh all the way to the bank!

Words & music by the grate Davey H.

12/11 Direct Link

Burgers, buns, fries, and a low wage comprise
the likes and spikes of these poor gals and guys.
Thus they undulate, yearning below U.S. skies
dodging Big Ag’s rotten tomatoes and pies.
A pie in the sky
is worth two in the eyes,
Therefore, oh fair workers, UPRISE!

They bade us good wishes
lips turned up at the edges
with no fuss, and not vicious
but then we heard Chris Hedges!

’Twas an onerous plague
upon working class sensibilities, he posited,
and oh, I could concur with him
but shall defer on a whim
because these here checks need deposited.

12/12 Direct Link

Fast food workers, perhaps a week into an unlikely striking situation, saw their deadline fast approaching: they had to whip up a fast, non-milkshake-y froth to draw scrutiny on their perpetually depressed wages.

Thus, will this be the first of what might be many such worker protests? Will some FAST, preferring NOT to consume their boss’s rapid rush-hour rubbishes – thus participate in what’s better known as a hunger strike?

We consumers from the other-side-of-the-counter persuasion, drawing on conclusions gleaned from stilted news broadcasts, wax querulous; what, if any benefit is to be gleaned from consuming the products aforesaid workers purvey?

12/13 Direct Link

Time was, you see, and indeed, as per me,
an epoch in our distant past;
When young Mother dear
sent a message so clear
and it said: “hey, young buck, not so fast!”

So by that was meant
of that message she sent
’twas a sentence you had to read twice;
it could not have been slicker
our Mom’s bumper sticker
it’s message was (Ugggh!)
”JUST BE NICE”.

Rearward motorists scorned her
but we had forewarned her
of vagaries contained in ‘NICE’;
it will be taken wrong
by our dissident throng
so to wear it, you need to think twice!

12/14 Direct Link
Whew! What a friggin’ day! Yes! And such ripe opportunity to pepper text with quotation marks! A sure sign of an amateur! Hah!

At today’s expiry, as per the paper notebook upon which Davey scrawls his intended posts, it appears Davey battened down the chicken coop’s hatches and went the cluck to bed his damn self.

But as per usual modus operandi, chores remained, not all of them physical, the crowning apex of which meant ‘cushion dusting’: completion of yet another day’s DMQ, or daily meditation quotient.

I mean, Hells bells, they have Daily Recommended Allowances for vitamins, don’t they?
12/15 Direct Link
Some weak-assed insights percolated into Davey’s equally weak-assed consciousness during last night’s ‘BALMING CAMPAIGN’
(Apt moniker for the requisite 1 hour meditation session).

These mentally morphed revelations were duly noted, corrected, collated, scrawled on the preparatory paper scratchpad anticipatorily, and are hereby expressed in ‘Workish’ – a conjured and original terminology assigned to straightforward ‘plain vanilla’ language understood by any of the Working Class persuasion:

As stainless steel will dull any drill bit thrust upon it, so this thick gloss of entertainment-seeking humdrum existence remains impenetrable.

But that being said
without too much dread
I must set about busting that bubble!
12/16 Direct Link
A bubble worth busting
the cushion needs dusting
so might as well get in the groove;
in Dhamma we’re trusting
for power not lusting
with lots to do – let’s friggin’ MOVE!

Well, we got snow today
near 4 inches, they say
so the time is verily ripe;
to get out and ‘play’
put the sandals away
don’t bitch, kvetch or bray
of this 3-month chill’s stay
and please jettison warm weather tripe!

The tripe was straight from Camelot
in a cul-de-sac devoid of trees;
and I just made that up in a polyglot
to expound in such venues as these.
12/17 Direct Link
Davey couldn’t go too much further in the realm of posting without recounting his recent encounter with Peter‘s current tenant, Jon.

Yes, it is sad what they say of Peter, the formerly brilliant PhD chemist, philosopher, dhamma brother, shit-shootin’ maven extraordinaire. He was, at times, a veritable walking encyclopedia; though such tomes seem no longer to exist in the literal sense.

This is what Jon had to say:

Peter was strong, but it has been so long
and his parched nails are “out to here”.
Picture two inches – that seems quite wrong
and his swift downward slide is so clear.
12/18 Direct Link
Sometimes it will rain
but oft it will tinkle
with Peter, such pain
a real-life Rip Van Winkle!

His bristly hair drapes greasy and gray
and he’s clearly not doing too well;
bedridden in lair he will frequently stay
visitors to greet with a smell.

His friends, yes they’ll come
and some sometimes exclaim,
“Peter, in a pig sty you slosh!”
“We wouldn’t feel shunned,
and you we couldn’t blame
if you simply did get up and wash!”

Yes, Jon must confide
to all others who once knew
that this gent’s poignant headlong slide
is indeed a thing to rue.
12/19 Direct Link
Davey’s ‘scratchpad’ – the one manifesting itself as a 99¢ beat-up blue ‘1 Subject Notebook’ replete with dog-eared pages somehow still intact – is nearing fullness.
As of whatever day this actually was (date withheld by request), the post indicated:

“Then 2 more pages and this book is kaput
but no one will read it; they won’t give a foot”.
(Umm, that was supposed to say “hoot”, but WTF – it didn’t rhyme.)

Going further:
“Moreover, as these silly pages are turned,
not a whole lot in these ages was learned”.

And flare you have it – a more convenient way to flail thoughts.
12/20 Direct Link
Flitting along, a bit fair and balanced,
(apologies, trademarked Faux News)
4 tires spinning sprightly down Mechanic Street
(yes, its real name, I enthuse),
a bright green home still sits so sweet,
but sad and staid, hence I muse.

And what once glowed so verdant and bright
now has bestowed a severe lack of light.
Oh fettered, peeling, and decaying paint!
It once was so shiny – well, now it ain’t.

I’ll cruise past that home
maybe three times a week
waylaid, through this small town to roam;
for buckets of hard-earned dollar$ to seek
then head to my non-verdant home.
12/21 Direct Link
Things turned out alright
at the end of the game
as we snuffed out the light
all things being the same.

Then we stayed up too late
and should have known better;
thus would crawl out the gate
bogged down with this grave fetter.

Think small! But that’s not all;
get on the ball – here comes a snow squall!

Write, sans fright; don’t be contrite,
work by day and scrawl by night.
Feed the birds betwixt all your words
by next dawn’s so squirrelly light.

Then move your pawns
and gather the herds
it is best keep up the fight!
12/22 Direct Link
Now 12/22 and we are through
but thinking back ten days;
when not in doubt, you’ll not soon rue
escaping from the haze!

Relax a bit, you got your just due
now head back to the maze;
you’ve trod the Path so tried and true
now remember it all your days!!
(Not DAZE)

So back in the present, this present, that is;
may I present what a glorious fizz
that presents itself presently,
both hers and his!

But this farmboy (Add to dictionary) muses
about what a sad, sorry sack ‘o excrement he would have evolved into sans this practice.
12/23 Direct Link

At The Seminar’s Expiry

Things had turned out alright
at the end of the game
so I snuffed out the light
all things being the same.

Having stayed up too late
while of course knowing better,
it’d be slow out the gate
whilst bogged down with dull fetter.

Yup, stayed up quite late
as per those famed ‘druthers;
braced for similar fate
faced by disparate brothers.

What waited at home
on the coattails of snow?
Back there I would roam
in attempting to know
yes, atop sandy loam
in springtime would grow
bright yellow cockscomb
in a tight-knit straight row!

12/24 Direct Link

This was XMAS eve, and Davey hadn’t laid ears on a single XMAS jingle yet – a factoid he was not ultimately saddened by.
He knew damn well the perambulatory pace would need to be picked up, and vociferously; this holiday would be a working, non-sedentary one.

Thus, shunning trips to the Beast ‘o Bentonville’s place of purveyance – and even other, friendlier Big Box stops – Davey listened to the little imaginary voice inside his capacious yet surprisingly empty skull as it trilled the following verse;

“Bussed just to dust, oh, feckless guy;
your old joints rust, as you’re not so spry!”

12/25 Direct Link

XMAS was a serious work day.

Davey bets – or rather surmises, he walked about 3 miles – in Keen sandals, no less, albeit with socks.
A visit to those less fortunate, (read: local nursing home) was in the offing, and we assisted a resident in the simple act of eating lunch.
She would have, could she have, muttered: “thanks a bunch.” But she didn’t.

Now as Whupsteen might have appropriately huffed, citing the traditionally festive nature of this particular calendar day, had he been so inclined:
“Grease gone berth, hood swill bored pen.”

So much for makin’ sense; Whupsteen seldom does.

12/26 Direct Link

Medicare, I swear, Part ‘A’
had come through in a gen’rous way
For Auntie L indeed to stay
nonplussed the elder game to play.

Indeed, Part A had thus reached its end;
no need inveigh what that did portend;
we’ll not then bury our heads in sand;
each month, no worry, it’s only 10 grand!

We will attempt an Aunt L daily visit
and swallow contempt; how pricey is it?
Dally not, quip ‘what the heck?’
As they got that monthly check.

Hah! Check out this buggy,
how clums’ly it swerves!
But we are grateful
for sand on those curves.

12/27 Direct Link

Having worked on XMAS day
we are once again jamming
and for sure would likely say
“it is time for some poetry slamming.”

Whilst down south Pops is withdrawing
such a sad and banal sight to see;
but he’s neither hemming nor hawing
as so soon he’ll rightly be
blessed, less stressed, and even yawning
filled out, and fetter-free!

Moving to the place next door
which, when seen from above,
is built like a boomerang;
he will wax ensconced on the 11th floor
in that crazy-lookin’ thang.
But Pops has said many times before:
“we needn’t worry ‘bout a hurricane.”

12/28 Direct Link

Rain, plain, fall down, we pray
and wash this friggin’ salt away!
Missed a trip to the dump, but that’s okay;
just had to sit on my RUMP today.

About that neglected Boss-man:

Back a few days, say, 12/23,
from out of the haze
popped an email for me.
Somewhere, I’d say, between 1, 2, or 3
‘twas the Boss-man not crazed
with a message, you see.

The sentiment proffered that afternoon
as Boss-man made it clear that he
wanted my butt in a sling pretty soon
yeah, back in the saddle to be.

Sing sonnet and get on it!

12/29 Direct Link

Today is one of several waning opportunities to get in end-of-year working member hours. And it is also nearing time for 2013 invoice submittal.

Such drollery is an unfortunate yet unavoidable offshoot, a cork in the asshole of this humdrum banality known as ‘existence’.

As regards the increasingly inflated American dollar’s purchasing power, today’s Andrew Jacksons are like yesteryear’s 5-spots, it seems.
Oh, they – the infamous “they” – our financial powers-that-be – will insist that inflation is “under control” or “mild”, but the common working-class Josephine or Joe know better.

Note: India has it MUCH worse, with recent inflationary spikes nearing 20%.

12/30 Direct Link
Friends had recently returned from the Motherland – India, to some – relating the financial upheaval being wreaked by horrific inflation in that country where so many exist under the proverbial ‘red line’ of indigence.

Said friends made no mention
of the vocal working poor
here in our own CONUS
they are knocking on the door
whilst hoping for bonus
or at least two dollars more.

Oh, the rage!
Low minimum wage!
Such treatment they abhor!

If only said poor could comprehend
those truly penniless years on end
they would for a time curtail the complaint
and see how poor they ain’t!
12/31 Direct Link

A non-terse admonition to the youth
not unlike us long ago:
“You’re young and hung and so uncouth,
unleash your passions in the snow;
feeling the heat betwixt your seat,
whilst horny as a Bonobo!”

But that’s a rant for a whole ‘nother splay
recapitulated today.

As to December’s reprieve:
great rate, a spate,
how we don’t grieve,
it’s not too late
for New Year’s Eve
so F***in' commiserate!

Time was back when
we did enthrall
at the sight of a stupid dropping ball.

Now we wonder aloud beneath the fuss
then sing it out proud: “NO DRINKS FOR US!”