the great musician


  that universal incessant spectral hum reverberating ohmmm…manifesting all actualizing the synchronicity underlying destiny and always arising all the comprehension of what is and will be a mirrored orchestra in operatic symphony inside a house of endless mirrors infinitesimally small but perceptible through the steady drumbeat of linear time a quantum music neither past nor future that imperceptible […]

too little too late


allhell

when…

 

truth becomes fiction

complicit masses unison in mission

facts no longer a friend of reason

and rational out of season

people separated by manufactured ‘isms

not supporting love, encouraging schisms

when the end justifies any means.

then will clap the hidden hands of fiends

 

When all the news fabricated as an active drill on stage

global media, willful frauds inciting hate, fear, and rage

tragic events, gaping holes large enough to drive through

fearful masses jump on-board… there’s no one left to scare, or smart enough to lie to

indoctrinated – children paid a bounty to deny you

 

when sanity and logic lose to implausible deniability

evidentiary facts struggle in undisputable futility

the measure of success is the slowest downward mobility

 

The Kabbalah planted, now its fed and exponentially grows

ugly secret finally bared and now full Monty exposed

when a hint or suggestion of being nationally patriotic

implies treasonous instigator whose borderline psychotic

and the rest are in denial of being mostly robotic

 

questioning authority not just wrong it’s illegal

as dim-witted liars march boot steppingly regal

our new icon transformed into a double headed eagle

 

psychopathic money grubbers pedophilic porno-grabbing

trafficking humans and their organs after all the shooting and stabbing.

when every scam for raping you is utilized once it’s pondered

charitable non-profit means taxes evaded money laundered

when it’s too late to protest the freedom that we’ve squandered

 

too far from the path of righteousness had we wandered

 

those pillars of society you once idolized you now dread

self-righteously wanting you silenced, imprisoned, or dead

that solemn Hippocratic scorned as end-game hypocritical

pharmaceutical slaves swearing an allegiance to metaphysical

its as pathetically hopeless as its parenthetically pitiful.

 

when you’re forcibly beholden to some fraudulent secret oath.

you’re either one of them or one of us, but no more being both

to wake up too painful but the path to ever realizing any growth

 

Hegelian synthesis is that truth is the same as if you’re lying

divide and conquer propaganda the shit they sell that you keep buying

let it simmer then you realize that living means you’re dying

destabilize the masses with a dialectic reflecting off self-serving asses

do as thou wilt’ till good is evil in Satanic metatasis

 

a time when common men and common sense fly out open window

when defenestration sings out the inevitable crescendo

in front page news the Lame stream threat no longer innuendo

 

human empathy, love and hate… what the A.I. couldn’t duplicate

calculating the code and the odds we’d meet our fate

crunching algorithmic probability into trans-human-al-ly great

not understanding that emotion exists only when it arises

the pain on every human’s face no longer wearing computational disguises

 

Analog or digital, particle or wave, truth and/or consequences

the realization that good neighbors are those who’ve built the strongest fences

but the eye of Horus doesn’t see you now that it has extra senses

 

when you realized human history had been made-up from the beginning

and you hoped for some peace but quit making plans on ever winning

realizing it was too little too late to rally in the bottom of the ninth inning

 

 

 

the abomination of desolation or simply sublime disinformation?

gluttonous consumerism became the son of god MONEY’S creation

dissemination of lies, perpetrators become among the exalted

“crime doesn’t pay” the lie too big to fail that finally defaulted

and morally bankrupt laws of freedom the amendment that’s assaulted

 

when everyone’s been chipped, the real becomes the fake

and “quid-pro-quo” translates to “you give we take”

echoing the ignorant mantra of “liars, lizards, and snakes”

 

when our world is sucked into a vortex of perversion, fear, and hate

when there’s no escaping and there’s no more need for that debate

when we’ve spun out of control… what will become of our species and our fate?

and we wake to find there’s no hope for food upon our plate…

 

it’s when surviving extinction has dwindled down to…

                                             too little too late

-30-

things-i-m-afraid-to-tell-you-321337-475-475
but i must.                                    filed.

Entropy Road


t


entropy road

time slips from great to good, or from terrible to wors’ning
down that entropic road we pay our toll
from hot pavement toward dirt road endings

that god, what god? the mirror asks, tone optimistic, while condescending
life’s urge to organize is quite strong
make amends, then share the booty’s blending

time slips from me to us, then from “you and i” to loving
our valentine then seeks it’s mate
on goes the prolific downward sending

that god, what god? the reflection quests, as the last winter snow’s still clinging
that Holonic symbol, our family crest
bears family blood from each upbringing

the urge to mate is as strong to hate, we blend, then split the winnings
our Junior a mixed-sum of both
then adds new moment’s vendings 

time drives us from then to now, our final destination reaching
tho’ next can never touch our lips
it’s law, Relativity speaking

that god, what god? the question begs, who should i tell him’s asking?
our urge to love and to proliferate…

life’s sentence, and time’s unmasking

 

-30-

2nd law of thermodynamics

A Critique by Jendi Reiter

I was lucky to have had this poem selected for review by The Winning Writers, a respected site for amatuer poets with top writers as owners who run the site. Jendi Reiter is an excellent and respected poet in her own right.

Critique by Jendi Reiter

The form of this month’s provocative poem, “Entropy Road”, embodies its theme of order struggling to remain distinct from chaos. The headlong rush of syllables in the longer lines and the fragmentary, zigzag presentation of the poem’s argument give the poem a restless energy. Meanwhile, the “-ing” rhymes repeating in the first and third lines of every stanza, the refrain “that god, what god?” and the semi-regular meter attempt to corral that energy within a poetic framework.

Making the rhyming words present participles (verb forms, or nouns derived from them, ending in “-ing”) was an inspired choice. These words describe action in progress. Just as the stability that the narrator seeks is always a moving target, the concepts on which he depends to convey this argument will not stay put. Each rhyming line also ends on an unstressed syllable, which gives the poem an open-ended, unfinished cadence.

Entropy, of course, refers to the Second Law of Thermodynamics, which basically states that the energy levels in an isolated system will tend toward equilibrium. Entropy has sometimes been described as a measurement of the disorder or randomness within a system. In the poem, as in popular usage, it symbolizes universal mortality and dissolution. If evolution drives organic life to ever-higher levels of self-organizing complexity, entropy is the opposite force, that which pulls down and breaks apart complex systems into nature’s simplest building blocks. It means that all material energy will ultimately spend itself and be unrecoverable.

As self-aware components of this dying system, how can we find the motivation to go on living, loving, procreating, and planning for the future? Which will win, our philosophical sense of futility or the inward compulsion to survive and create?

Perhaps no one wrote about entropy in this sense more powerfully than the 20th-century British poet Philip Larkin. A sample poem can be found here.

Larkin generally settles the question on the side of death, but Adams disagrees: “the urge to love is as strong to hate”. The life force has a fighting chance. Yet it is hampered by our inability to articulate a reason for hope. “that god, what god? the mirror asks, tone optimistic, while condescending”.Existentialist philosophers looked to the self to create meaning in a universe made absurd by death’s finality. The poem suggests that this answer is insufficient. The individual is merely part of the closed entropic system. He cannot inject it with new energy to reverse its decay.

There are positive, hopeful moments in “Entropy Road” but they come from outside philosophy and science. Whatever the intellect may say, instinct confirms that human connection and creativity are not futile. “time slips from me to us or, from you and i to loving/our valentine then seeks its mate/goes the prolific downward sending”. The opaque last phrase may have been chosen mainly to fit the rhyme scheme, but its vagueness felicitously makes it more symbolic than a specific description would have been. It called to my mind both the release of seed in copulation and the movement of the child through the birth canal, but other associations are possible, such as rains watering the earth to bring forth crops, or the descent of angels.

The birth of a child does seem like a miraculous creation ex nihilo, the opposite of entropy. First there were two, now there are three. “Holonic” is a word coined by 20th-century philosopher Arthur Koestler to express the observation that entities in biological and social systems are always interdependent, never completely self-sufficient units. This law of interconnection and symbiosis contrasts with entropy’s pull toward disconnection and stasis.

“our junior is the sum of both/but adds ‘new’ moment’s vendings”. Is “new” in quotes because the narrator’s intellectual side reminds him that this is not a real solution to the problem? On the human scale, parenthood may feel like a triumph over mortality, but on the level of the cosmos, it does not stave off the decay of the whole system, looked at in purely materialistic terms.

The poem ends by leaving the question open, a humility that rings true. Adams does not claim to decide whether the emotional or the scientific perspective on the human condition is correct. He suggests that it is really a question about the nature of the self, or perhaps its very existence. “that god, what god? the question begs, and who should i tell him’s asking?/an urge to love and proliferate…”

If pressed to define the self, Adams would emphasize the impulse to love and create, however blind that impulse is, over the scientific description of the individual as a collection of atoms arranged in a temporary order. He chooses the insider’s perspective over the outsider’s, life as it feels to us, rather than life as the scientists say it is. (After all, they too are part of the flawed system, not truly above it.) Yet the final line, “life’s sentence, and time’s unmasking”, expresses the fear that some trans-human perspective would prove us wrong; the joke of the universe is on us, after all. The dilemma brings us to the limits of reason, where some have found faith, and others merely the willpower to live without it.

Who?


who knows the story

who needs the glory

who hits the knuckle

whose knees will buckle

who calls it crazy

whose smile too lazy

who bellows Jesus

who’s dressed like Regis

who knows what time is

whose truth sublime myth

who fools the mirror

whose friends are dearer

who carries snail mail

whose apt to fail well

whose yard is greener

whose money’s cleaner

who loves the hater

who’s hate is greater

who needs the reasons

who waits on seasons

whose rhyme too simple

who squeezes the pimple

who strives for happy

who thinks it sappy

who lives for power

who hides like cowards

who has great posture

who won then lost her

who says NOT EVER

who thinks NOT NEVER

who thinks it’s possy

who glosses glossy

whose teeth are whiter

whose abs are tighter

who talks a pre-nup

who throws a change-up

who gets all dirty

who quits 4:30

who wears a big smile

who’s shoes walked my mile

who knows the tao chi

who will the bee sting

who rides the coaster

who lives to toast her

who breathes the fresh air

who cares but don’t care?

Tiger’s Woody!


A golf ball.

When you let your big stick do the talkin’
That “Parade of Porn”, with Paparazzi stalkin’
Snarly rough, traps-a-plenty; deep cut bunkers and nowhere to hide
When deciding to “lay up” was the riskier choice
If but for only that large amount of green and those swooshed titanium balls
would the World’s Greatest Scrambler survive a wretched 18 ho’s
Trading an extremely high handicap for a life of buried lies

Hardly checking which way the wind was blowing, knowing there are no mulligans
An egregious slice that wouldn’t fade, a train-wreck hacked so far out of bounds
You must have quit counting the lost strokes and calculating unplayable lies
Your balls dropped beyond the line of sight, but seemed ever further from home
Where money bets had long since been counted as lost in that first (wet) box
The truth is inside the ropes there’s plenty of trouble if you really want to hang yourself

Undulating backsides, luscious perky sloped tees, low cut cups waitin’ for loft and backspin
Manicured lovely, playin’ tight and long, and gorgeous to behold
Beautiful layouts you easily managed with your deft touch and artistic feel
Driving long and deep in middle of short Bentgrass, Bermuda soft, lush, and accessibly close
But, when instead of backing up, they began checking up, you started running fast and away
Ambien fueled Ambien fooled, once seeing a break, banging a sweet stroke… then nailing bottom of the ho’
The Ooohhs and aaahhs, moaning adoration, soon became belligerent bellows of, “Who’s Your Daddy!”

Stiill… YOU; lost deep in those woods but refused to take the normal penalty
Forsaking those easy birdies and model wife, with grim head held high you steadied your stance
Defiantly asking us to imagine that you were simply one more, ‘Par for the Course’
And so… pretty soon your Iconic magic grip you held over us loosened… until it vanished
As if you were raining bad behavior, your short game was turning into a slippery sloped Karmic wreck
Now cynical crowds yelling “Pussy Cat, knock it stiff”, or chanting “here cums Tiger’s Woody!
Perhaps an omen to us all… but for you Tiger… it signaled the Boogeyman had finally come… to stay.

A Hacker Comes Clean (not Russian)


golball

I tee it. I see it. I feel it. I be it.

I aim it. I shake it. The Tiger. I wake it.

I peel it. I’m on it. Doggone it. Can’t fool it.

I slice it. I splice it. Pull-hook it. No dice it.

 

I’ll rule it. I’ll school it. Re-tool it. I pool it.

I find it. I Time it. Unwind it. Unkind it.

I stalk it. Don’t talk it. I bark it. Can’t park it.

I know it. I show it. Don’t get it. Can’t flow it.

I wear it. I swear it. I think it. Don’t care it.

I preach it. Beseech it. Then leech it. And beach it.

 

I pledge it. I wedge it. But hedge it. And fudge it.

I toe it. I heel it. I wheel it. No deal it.

I trust it. I bust it. Then budge it. Too much it.

I rough it. I tough it. Can’t bluff it. E’nuff it.

I gut it. I pitch it. I putt it. I bitch it.

I live it. To give it. I bet it. Regret it.

 

 

I stink it. I skunk it. I shank it. Go bank it.

I wank it. I hank it. I sky it. Then buy it.

I press it. Then fade it. The bet? I pre-paid it.

My swing. I don’t hate it. The cold water. I wade it.

My game it. Too lame it. To shame it. Or blame it.

My score it. Won’t show it. Love to play it. And I know it.

-3o-

 

 

 

 

 

 

Is it my tongue, or is a tail wagging the dog?


zemblanity

held my breath
too long it seems
finest place was just a dream
rose to the top jus’ like the cream

but virtuous… a lonely theme
the lies are told through smiles they beam
as curtains hide the actors scheme
gag the truth or it will scream.

you are just one and they are a team
wrinkled shirts will get the steam
so money’s god, but god ain’t green
while power wins, fine ass is reamed.

play or lose you finally gleam
know the truth but go mainstream
but every crack will find a seam
times gettin’ bad when good’s extreme.

-30-

kalopsia

FACEBOOK IT. (A recent comment to friend’s Facebook post about America.)

America? Where is it anyway?

I had a dream that I grew up there, but when I woke up… oh shit!?! I lived in a foreign land that existed only in the minds of an ignorantly deluded multitude, but in the “pockets” of a few greedy intellectual snake charmers with some bizarre ideas; who manipulated us (through their control of the monetary supply-system which they did privately own yet had surreptitiously presented as one being Federally regulated/owned), by using their powerful political, deadly, and financial force to corrupt and control this so-called “AMERICA”‘s political morally bankrupt leaders years many before my birth.

After a cup of Java or two had really opened my eyes and re-started my brain I learned that they had used lies and manipulation to hypnotize the masses into believing that we were living in and freely participating in the affairs of an ethically righteous political Republic; and one whom God had somehow annointed as “policeman to the world” due to our extreme technologically advanced capability of forcing will on nearly every aspect of the world’s populations through intimidation, blackmail, and destruction.

Sad that I had only dreamt about America’s greatness instead of actually having existed in an honourable country espousing freedom for all who wished to FAIRLY and HONESTLY excel through individual effort, determination, and innovation like I had been indoctrinated to believe…

I retreated, to the only real and local environment that I truly felt I could trust and love… my family and a few close personal friends.

So here I am… and here I’ll stand.

-mostdiggity

raiseawareness.gif-1 - Copy - Copy

I confess I guess


The first rule of law.
Part One of: Philosophically confused… Confess, I guess.

Read the book Dress for Success so I did, I guess

Wore expensive clothes drove nice cars lived at the right address

Now some days I don’t shave or even wear my best

I’m aware that it works for me not for the rest… it don’t impress.

When I undress I feel no less, not a naked unsuccessful mess

So that’s all fair, I guess. More or less. I Confess.

I like to think I do more with less

I do with less than I did with more, I guess. More with less.

In me there’s a big ticking heart, a time bomb in a treasure chest

It’ll burst if I get too stressed, so I don’t worry and I don’t press,

Go straight ahead and don’t regress, without duress I guess. No less.

Invest less time making money than making love, oh yes. I Confess.

Once met a girl who had some great big breasts

We had some fun, and… well, you know the rest.

I like sex more than I do less, but with us more was less I guess. I Confess.

She liked sex more not less, and though I loved her yes she could be a pest, more than less.

To my ex with the great big chest; your’s may be fake but I ain’t… depressed, I guess.

I was in a zone you a full court press. So less is more, I guess. I Confess.

Say I ramble or I digress, but I suggest a point to this ole mess, I guess. More or less.

U can travel East or you can move out West, build a great big house or small cozy nest

Work real hard and fail life’s big test, but cheat yourself it’s you who you’ll detest, I guess. I Confess<.

Eat my WORDS and if you do ingest, when it all digests

you’ll know for sure that I DO NOT jest. I Confess. 

Upon my death I have this one bequest:

“Do what makes you happy, try your very best with all your zest

You’re in a game that you can’t win, but you cannot lose unless you choose, I guess.

So, more or less at my behest I ask of you, Confess.

Give thanks for each new day for each new moment for ALL your life, and when you do… you’ll be blessed
And I guarantee that its never less, and its always more than you could guess. To that I do hereby…

Confess I Guess…
humorous-quotes-sayings-job-done-deep-work (1)

Life after his death, my friend



life after their gone my friend

Written a few years ago for a friend whose boyfriend was suddenly killed in a bike week motorcycle accident. I too was struggling through a recent sudden loss, making the moment even that more poignant… I thought I had lost the poem, but found (some of) it in a file drawer the other day. Here’s the edited version.


Vida después de su muerte mi amigo

to Alba

Sitting here by Kimberly’s grave
thoughts turn to you and Tony
their lives too short for both of them
isn’t our grief the testimony?

Who lives or not whose choice it be
or just the dice who say?
does God play poker, is he the Joker
is it black and white, or grey?

And who are we that thinks of them
does our mirror speak the truth?
are we all just names etched in granite?
isn’t up hill down hill too?

Or are we just narrow vibrations on a playing field,
proving that we “exist for real”, or just “sense” we do?
manifesting our love not by, “they’re dead and gone”
but “they live in our hearts, and will see us through?”

Do we create our unique version of real
realizing ourselves… by all our think, our say, and do?
If we’re just the sum of who we think we are
I think there’s part of Kimberly alive in me…

and… always some Tony… in you.

-30-

edited 8/19

Homers n’ Haters n’ (da)Mastur (de)Baters


dickwadtheory

Historical data with facts and reasons to back em?

All courteous discourse be damned

Intelligence lost in a deep dark sphincter band

Trotting out opinions like… everybody has one

Experts who follow ex-purps, Blogsquirts who can’t write a lead or a lick

Internet Sports Websites; a vast and barren mind-field of Virtual (dick)weed-oligists.

Me? One time follower of Dean Oliver (Mi Deano que Numberino)

Now everybody’s got one,  a statistical guru with matchin’ number-crunchin’credo

The eye test is done-skee, Now its the drumbeat-of-repeato, conceited Eggo, a waffler with a bigger Ego

But, I’ll tell you what you can cram  up your USAs BEST Speedo…

A large wad of green ONE-and-DONE-o, shove that up your Uncle Sam Taxedo, dumb-a- dido

The NCAA. Straight laced but two-faced, laughing all-the-way to the… Johnny Cashed (not burned)

Dressed all in Folsom black, ring-of-fired up monied Coaches, BIG money not shared but stashed.

Call your raise little Homer-boy, and go up another notch just to see you show your red-faced gash

Mindless Babel, no pecking order, a Tower of  Trash talking knee-walking Monkey see-do commentators

Imagined a smarter retort?

Instead I’m reading between lines of the yellow teethed keys you gnashed.

Feel insulted? I can only hope.

Oh yeah, you-da Homers N’ Haters N’ The Mastur(de)Baters…

(All alone) on/under your keyboard, a Johnny-Cum-Later with everything and nothing to say.

Brainless Brainfarts spewing ignorant insult jism, eventually we all need knee-waders

Not the self-deluded Fanboy who incessantly yells “cheaters and one-and-doners”.

No, these… the loser “haters”who bury their hearts and their heads bad-mouthing everything,  even their own mashed potaters

Please, tell me who can discuss Sports intelligently anymore…besides the Cabbies and the Waiters?

YOU ignorant fans without rational rhyme or reason to believe, just wearing.school colors makes you feel smart looking lame. You got NO game.

and remember, you can’t lose if in the bigger picture it doesn’t really matter… so, until it does… I think I’ll read ya later.

-30-

Get a life if all you have to look forward to is vicarious victories by your faved team, son.
Get a life if all you have to look forward to is vicarious victories by your faved team, son.

Kevin%20Ware%20injury_Reuters

THE HATE ON

Oh yeah… it has become Madness alright.

The twitter buzz lit up only minutes after University of Louisville reserve guard Kevin Ware landed poorly on his right leg in the Sunday (April) 2013 NCAA Tourney Final Four matchup between the University of Louisville and Duke University. But, as Ware was writhing on the floor and sending an entire nation watching to the bathroom sickly holding onto their dinner, a Syracuse fan tweeted to the world about Ware’s “wild background story”, then further hinting that it was Ware who had been responsible for the University of Central Florida’s NCAA probation issues.

Though Pete Thamel of Sports Illustrated (and NY Times) later attempted to minimize his tweet as only “providing background” to Ware’s story, most college basketball fans who know Thamel’s sensational yellow-coated writing style were left to speculate as to his real intentions. His timing couldn’t have been worse. Even Thamel was smart enough to retract and retreat, and explain away in re-tweet after re-tweet.

All Too Sweet, Pete.

Thamel, a Syracuse graduate and fan, and personal friends of both Syracuse Coach Jim Boeheim and Duke’s Mike Krzyzewski has made a living denigrating college basketball programs (outside of Gaudy Orange and Deep Blue Sea Devil) that don’t exactly meet with his personal “holier than thou” biases. If some heads-up Louisville fans and other intelligent sports fans hadn’t caught the ill-advised tweet, he likely would not have felt the urgent need to diareah-ically (my word not Websters) apologize for the Ware tweet. Thamel makes his living digging up dirt in Sports on players, coaches, and teams he also happens to dislike (read: they are better than his faves). He gets dirty too, sometimes.

By contrast, following the Cuse-Indiana Elite Eight game in a video interview with Syracuse’s Michael Carter Williams, fans were shown how the team’s players feel about one another (see NCAA video). Williams calmly and warmly spoke of his team’s biggest rival this year, Louisville, and showed the real side of competitive student athletes, rather than the one “so-called” media experts, haters, homers, trolls, and irresponsible fans-from-hell would rather have us believe. MCW is the rule, not the exception, and it has always been this way. Off court and on, competitors respect their adversaries to the point of rooting for them when they are not immediately diametrically opposed.

Sorry haters… the players just don’t feel the way you do about their rivals. Instead, they like them and wish them well. I repeat, there’s no HATE between College Basketball teams’ players…or any other sport for that matter; it exists only in the heads of their idiotic fans.

STOP THE HATE. IT’s way out of hand and way out of DATE. But, is it too late?

Seriously, what has happened to sports fandom today? The gloves have come off when one of the most respected newspaper’s (NY Times) own Sportwriter(s) fails to show good sportmanship in our virtually twisted-tweet world of Twitter-by-instant messaging? I mean really, does it make one a “cockroach  and a bandwagoneer” (as I was recently dubbed on a UL fansite by some nit-wit troll posing as a human and a Cardinal fan) if he/she is lucky enough to root for two teams from his home state ALL-his-life (in my case its called “Kentucky”), and only if their names happen to be “Kentucky” and “Louisville”?

Must I really choose between these two teams as several (anti-UK) UL fans demanded?

And hey… does it really hurt slime turtle, since it’s only megahertz… U foo-bean!

Well… uh, I graduated from Morehead State University. Must I be their fan, and that of no other team in this solar system? Ouch! Oh really now shit-for-brains, because which little Bimbo-boy says it must be so? You? He-he. HA!

But hey, I usually don’t go on my favorite teams’ Fan-site to argue ifs, ands, and maybes with brain-numbing stupidity, or to spout in-your-face electro-insults to moronic retardos like you, but instead (as in UL’s case) to simply celebrate our “RedBirds-of-a-Featherness” if only for but a brief, albeit passing moment.

Can U Dig it mumbo-gumbo? This better be good if you want to hold my attention little man!

Though, admittedly it can cause me to type ever more venomous and poisonous thoughts of my own hate-stew, word-wrestling with me can be an exercise in futility for the typical dyed-in-the-wool Hater. I admit to knowing that lame-brain banter makes me eventually start to yawn and becomes tedium, and so I normally lose interest in the verbal one-upmanship after one or two touché….zzzzzzzz

But, to say you win? Never.

When the Louisville-Duke game ended on that Sunday, Guards Quinn Cook and Rasheed Souliman both of Duke, quickly embraced their Louisville counterparts as if to say, “Congratulations guys on a great game, go on and win this thing”. And love him or hate him, Coach K was his usual class actin’ self-debasing-self in a loss, and when describing his respect for the players and the game his team had just endured. Was NO one taking notes?

Such is the State of Hate in Sports, and in Sports Journalism today. And I for one…HATE it.

And who really cares what Pete Thamel thinks? He’s a Cockroach.Screen-shot-2013-02-07-at-10_18_18-PM

-30-

my little man at 2.


P1100005

U asked me to draw U a picture;

first a truck, a garbage truck,

then a fire truck.

it looked kind of funny.

U said, “can U draw me a lamp? a house? a tree? but, i’m not good with dogs.”

then U asked me to tell U a story.

i told you about an old fire truck and a fire.

but before i was through U said U found some putty and made it into a gumball and a big bubble at sam’s club.

your hands were cold.

“what happened”, U asked?

U found a toy truck under the chair.

“why did the truck run into the big trailer? why daddy? tell me why did the truck crash into the big trailer?”

by then U decided to go swimming. i helped you with your floatees.

“the right one doesn’t fit too easy”, U said

you hugged me and you were happy… your smile lit up my day…

all i could say was

“I love you more than anything (even beer).”

“What Will Come and What May”


-Written for a Special friend and mother (Stefanie) of a beautiful two year old (Jayden) on Mothers Day 2008.

They had spent the last week or two living with us due to an ex-boyfriend gone mad, and the changing dynamics had left an indelible mark on all our psyches. Our parenting styles were vastly different and we were both frustrated and confused…not to mention how the arrangement affected our TWO beautiful reasons to live, OUR SONS Jayden and Dylan.

While they went to Cocoa to enjoy the beach, and Dylan (my son) went to his grandma’s house for Mother’s Day, i had a few moments, (finally) alone to relax, reflect  and write this sing-songy poem…

You say i know nothing and nothing i might.

But to jump on conclusions would be a dark ride at night,

With scars healed by daylight and bones who’ve felt  bite

I must take you and your screaming to the woodshed of light

There once lived a young maiden, in a land far away

Spent 20 years of bailing yet making no hay

Her mind was confused keeping demons at bay.

THOUGH she was sharp, strong and able, somehow that didn’t pay,

She was searching for answers, but figured “what will come and what may”

Meanwhile, back at the office of crisis and crowd

The vortex had summoned my life SO clear and SO loud.

I was forced to eat porrage of love and deceit,

Then i woke up in heaven, and whom did i greet?

A line of old men who all looked like my dad

Their clothes matched each other’s, not yellow or red,

They were the color of ‘old wisdom’, they were gray flannel dead.

I was happy to see them, i think they were me, (i thought they were me?)

But then i was certain when they all stood to pee

My limelight soon over, their focus turned off of me,

Just behind my left shoulder sat (my son) in our Tree.

The branches were spindly, they all shook when he smiled,

My love was enormous but our chances looked vile.

I figured…  no need to worry, ”what will come and what may”

Then I watched  you with (Jayden), at Cocoa Beach… yesterday?

I grabbed my son Dylan, ran and waved while  I held back my tears

My dads all said goodbye, but  that I might not see them  see them for years

Between the dead and the living, it’s only us with the fears

But  I felt  this profound implication in loving our peers.

When I saw you again, I was no longer mad nor was I sad

I knew that our friendship was too important to let it go like some fad.

Your lovely smile lit my soul and I was thrilled you came my way

It was the day our lives intersected at the corner of  ”what will come and what may”

-30-

a phony says goodbye


“Keep on holding your head high”,she said with a smirk and a sigh

“i will”, in the knowing I may be ugly not shy

always with conviction of knowing between truth and a lie

“Youre a phony” she belched

a shaky confidence like a laugh close to cry

“And that makes you… a what?” was my queen-check, not even Kasparov could deny

“mistaken again”… her sad answer, so… did she guess or not try?

The real truth is somewhere between her who and her why

it was the day i learned that my game isn’t seen fly

It was the day I decided to sell short, not to buy

And now I look in the mirror smile and say “hi”

she was too young or too ignorant, an’ me too old a fish for her fry

The day I realized theres no shame in goodbye.

it all went down…


i wasn’t here when it all went down
one day vacation, is like weeks of bars in zani-town
my world on pause, yours still turnin’ round
they heard screams of pleasure, me not a sound.

what happened here musta’ been profound
she just may have left me, she can’t be found
an tho’ I’ve searched my memory, none be round
its why all flights to zani, are all inbound.