There’s nothing I can do. I vote against them but they get re-elected. An incumbent could murder his mother and still not be rejected. I could go out and raise money and buy my candidate advertising. But then his opponent
The other day, at a traffic light, the light goes green. I’m turning right. But the car in front doesn’t move. The woman’s on the phone, on another planet, in another zone. Seconds tick by, and I hit my horn.
When he was finally came to rest, his nose was completely mashed, his teeth were cracked and his knee cap was completely trashed. Maim, mangle and mutilate. It’s just part of the game of football. And if you’re good you
Congressman, I have something for your consideration. First I need to know, did you vote for me? Why, is that important? If you voted for me, that would be a good start. Yes, but I didn’t need to vote for
If nothing changes, in 10 years, we will be deemed foolish. in 20 years, we will be thought stupid. in 30 years, we will be branded as suicidal. You can’t cover the earth with soot. You can’t poison the water.
The last couple of poems have been a little heavy. Here’s one that’s not. No poem with the word “monkey” in the title can be too serious. Dance with the Monkey I’ve seen actors on the screen, clowns at
The dump behind my house is the history of his life. On the bottom, a pacifier chewed to a nub, a stroller with no wheels, a pile of dirty diapers, a raggedy-ass teddy bear, and a torn blue blanket covered
No matter what, you eventually stop. Lungs decay. Never should have smoked those Camels. Heart plugs up. Always loved those steaks. Liver fails, God, that bourbon was great. But you’ll die, that’s the way it is. That’s the way
I first drank coffee in the Navy. It was in the mess and on every ship. All the lifers were addicts, but it cost nothing for a cup of strong, liquid mud. As a young man I stopped every morning
I’ve done it all. I’ve flown in jumbo jets, bi-planes, helicopters and the face of evil. I’ve eaten octopus, gummy bears, toadstools, and my own words. I’ve painted a beautiful watercolor, a house, my face, and myself into a corner.
When I was in my youth, I didn’t read the obits. No one I knew died, no one called it quits. At middle age, I noticed them more. A little bit curious, about what was in store. A little bit
I’m not happy with being called “old,” “elderly” is just dumb, and “senior citizen” was only invented to be politically correct, it’s obnoxious partronizing, meaningless and superficial, just an insult coated with sugar. What does that leave me with? “Geezer”
I’ve been writing for a number of years, but everything I have written has been non-fiction—just the facts and nothing but the facts. Eventually, I became just a little sick of it. Non-fiction writing takes a lot of work because