b day

b day
is a g day
a frolic livin' free day

oh the bloody wonder
of it all
when you are four

the world not torn asunder
yet
still nothin' but the morn

my wee one
is a g one
my pretty little belle

a tiny taut tornado
wee one
I love so well

4 but once my lovely
i'll try to make it grand
and for my folly failings
my thoughts i cannot stand
i'll simply say i'm sorry
and march along in hand

i'll be the bestest daddy
father that i can
ill share my love
upon my sleeve
and at times tucked away
but never gone my darling
never run away

4 but once my lovely
i am here with you
for that i'm truly thankful
my heart though scarred is true

and this my piddling missive
i dedicate to you

always for you, miss isabelle, 11/24/09

music

illustration prepared in microsoft powerpoint. i.f.

unbalanced

illustration prepared in microsoft powerpoint. i.f.

motor on . . .

Your automobile needs gasoline to run, among other things.

Your conscious mind is aware of this fact.

Your conscious mind, however, is at war with itself.

"I'm too busy", you whine!

"There's a gas station at mile marker 22, not too far from here", you rationalize.

"Maybe it's just me, but I seem to be on a generally down-hill slope", you fib to yourself.

Sputter, splutter, putt-putt, harumphhhh.

"F _ _ K!"

"Damn the blasted luck", you lie to yourself once again . . . no luck involved here at all, nosiree.

You had every reason to know this would happen. You possess all requisite faculties to ensure that it didn't happen.

But it happened.

Oh well, at least it was a pleasant "downhill" walk to the gas station, right!?!

blur

illustration prepared in microsoft powerpoint.
i.f. 110609

bumfuzzled

u picture a method,
a way to get there,
it all seems so clear,
so bright,
and so fair.

but once you arrive,
it is not what it seemed,
this shining new city,
alas but a dream,
a waypost at best,
on a journey not done,
so many more miles,
painful miles
to be run . . .

skinny

illus. prep. in microsoft powerpoint. naive. i.f.

Praise-worthy Egg McMuffin

Oh so round and so compact,
Warm, uniform and dutifully wrapped.

Comes at the end of a crackling line,
My little old lady, her service divine,
She welcomes our morning vith vigor and verve,
And somehow I sense that she's riddled with nerve,
Yet so sweet as she serves up my breakfast delight,
And her gol-dang pumpkin earrings are so friggin right
(as its All Hallow's eve, eve this good night) ...

Twin arches, you know them,
perhaps your dismay,
but my muffin it marches along in its way,
it knows me,
and I it,
and I'll dutifully say,
there's really no finer repast, don't delay.

You need it, our muffin,
you need it right now,
along with a cup of the finest brown cow
(well really cappuccino's the drink that you need)
but capp just don't rhyme with that line,
don't you see?

So drinking and eating and humming I'll go,
this Friday is off to a grand start,
don't you know.
Munchin' my muffin and slurpin' that mud,
Betcha bottom dollar
I'm not feelin' like crud.
Hell no I say proudly,
I feel downright grand
With a capp,
and a wrap,
and McMuffin in hand!

(Sung to the tune of "Ride of the Valkyries" ... well, not really!?!)

Listen in . . .

sinatra, world on a string
beasties
afi and spinnerette and anberlin
the fuckin' maple leaf rag
queen... nobody knows dragon attack but damn they should
every day i write the book
medicate
up the junction(and pulling mussels of course) and linkin park (trite but what i've done takes you there if you let it...)

and dr john and jon clearly lawd have mercy git me back to n'awlins

iPod wtf

Been gone . . .

. . . so long, so long the day-o.
Now back, on track, no plaque, decay-o.
Holla' back y'all, holla' back . . .
Daddy mac, y'all, daddy mac.
Now you gotta gotta know,
Dat I ain't holding nothin' back, y'all
Jus' spittin' fact y'all,
Ain't holdin' back, ain't holdin' back
Back on track y'all,
holla' back . . .

Fortune's Wind

Peanut butter on wheat,
flying by the seat,
o' my pants,
yes in dee dee . . .

A terrible,
horrible,
fantastical
run on screee . . .

Leeward me hardies,
sail on 'til morn,

Grasp at your life lad,
from the day that you're born.

Parenthetical rations,
my heart, a bastion,
my rapier-like wit,
never was in fashion.

Polyp so plump,
thank gawd for your rump,
sittin' down hard now,
ain't no cause to jump.

Pray on your knees,
thanks those birds,
and those bees,
shuffle along son,
and just say, "check, please!"

Traditions (during the collapse)

A stone grotto,
candles flickering in the light breeze,
sun-dappled sidewalk and comments,
not whispered exactly,
but comfortable low and smooth.

A head is bowed, a brief recollection,
for one who has fallen,
who'd gone this way before.

Familiar places.
Thundering unity.
Blue and gold and passion,
not hard-won,
but honor bound and
inevitable.

Yet.

An uneasy tension fills the air.
Do they feel it?
Everything is
at once the same
and forever altered.

A shadow falls.
Does any one (else) see it?

Fourth and goal . . .

(Dis)connected

The river flows, and the cork bobs in the current.
Perhaps an eddy, from time to time, provides temporary respite.
Reflection, for a moment.
And then we flow onward.

Perhaps the long rest that comes later,
is the time to analyze.
The time to consider.
The time to appreciate,
in a way that is more than skin deep.

Bobbing and weaving,
this tapestry of life.

A simple prayer,
that I knot come unraveled.

Winter

Gray and grainy, not smooth, not bright, nor right!

Hearty and cool, for my soul a school,
lessons best learned on the run.
A dazzling sheen, jagged ice that is mean,
and distrustful of all that is right.

A thin sheen of fog dangles over the plane,
tiny world of mystical mist,
blue and gray and cool and epic,
this world of oncoming night.

A blade that is hard,
and cutting,
ruthless and mirthless and might,
grinds as it cuts and in building up ruts
makes the journey, the journey to right.

Building speed,
riding steed,
breath so cold that the billowing need
is fullfilled by an air
that is barely just there,
headlong rush refrescante'indeed,
and a stop so abrupt,
some warmth in a cup,
and nod off to dream like a seed.

A field to tend,
a world without end,
rest now, linger, so as always to mend . . .