goneness
gadabouts on earth careen
o’er the mountains full serene
nonetheless we all lose friends
every lifetime journey ends
goneness
Leave a comment
Uncategorized
Sapient Opioids, etcetera
Last night was Caffeine Corridor, for which I took a day off work. (My friend and co-worker MaryBell filled in for me.) The acrostic came while I was on the light rail going to the event; the poem came this morning.
Solving insomnia and equations too
A equals B and calm minus care sleep
Pills dissolve and become fluid octopi
Intelligent enough to add cortical goo
Even as the patient snores on the lanai
Neurons seek new paths to alter mood
Then Morpheus sees that non-hope dies
Are smart pills in the future? Of course they are. Let’s hope they aren’t bitter, or rebellious . . .
REBEL LIOUS
I was on the light rail platform, with a new 10-pack of mechanical pencils and a 100-pack of blank index cards, staring at the DO NOT CROSS TRACKS stencil. This is a warning that is constantly disobeyed . . .
Ringling loudly Freedm’s bell
Eddie earned V. Bertinelli
Boos to geese & old Magoo
Enervates THEM; jazz’s YOU
Lets occur a rendez-vous
THIS OLD MAN, part 3: Skin Tags–the New Growth Industry
When you’re a kid you may get a wart or two. (Your wartage may vary.) But when your skin passes its Sell By date, you get the epithelial equivalent of weeds–little outgrowths that are sometimes like browned marshmallows, sometimes like itty-bitty punching bags, but always disconcerting.
I have one near my left armpit that is crusty-white on top (perhaps due to callusing; I fervently hope it is that, and not something more dire) and getting-a-sunburn-pink at the root. If you’re squeamish, read and look no further–a photograph follows.
Skin tags may be removed with nail scissors. I’ve done it exactly once in my tag-growing career. The pain is minimal, about the same as the pinchy stab you get when donating blood, but the odd like-cutting-cardboard textured sensation gave me the heebie-jeebies, and I’m going to let a professional do it next time I see one.
To My Daughter, With Whom I Am Well Pleased
Today is Kate’s birthday. We did early birthday stuff two days ago because I’m working today. “I come bearing gifts,” I said as I came through her door, “CHEAP gifts.” She said cheap gifts were fine. (She knows I am of necessity practicing Shoestring Economics.) I gave her two solid-milk-chocolate bunnies, remaindered by the Family Dollar after Easter, and I gave her a wishbone I’d salvaged from a whole-chicken purchase at Safeway. Solemnly I advised her not to impulse-wish, but to think about her wish till her birthday, and then to grasp the wishbone in both of her hands and pull it apart. But before we left for Tokyo Express, I rested the wishbone on my forehead and willed all the wish-power I possess into the wishbone. (That’s a lot of hooey, right? But are you SURE? If you’re saying things like “that’s not the way it works” or “you’re not allowed to grab both ends of the wishbone,” then YOU must think there is some power to this thing. As do I.)
So we went to Tokyo Express, and it hit the spot for both of us–we felt like Harold and Kumar at White Castle. And we went to Samurai Comics, where Kate purchased the magnificent graphic novel KINGDOM COME–and then gave it to me on indefinite loan, because she knew how badly I wanted to read it and savor the magnificent Alex Ross paintings it contains.
And then we went to the Movies. We saw WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT with Tina Fey as Kim Baker, embedded reporter in Kabul, Afghanistan. “Well,” said Kate when I asked her what she thought of the movie afterward, “I didn’t dislike it.”
To My Daughter, With Whom I Am Well Pleased
Happy Birthday, Sweetums.
Your great-grandfather once said, “This is my Grandson, in whom I am well pleased.”
Glad to extend the tradition, because it’s so true
In the case of You.
THIS OLD MAN, part 2: The Nozzle
Though Nozzles, even in the senescent, are capable of dispensing two kinds of fluids, Gasoline and Diesel Fuel, our remarks will be confined to the dispensation of Gasoline.
Over decades, the hydraulic force involved in the dispensation of Gasoline tends to diminish. Where once there was fire-hose pressure allowing the flow of Gasoline to fill a tank quickly, there is now a variable somewhat dependent on the Gasoline supply but never of the power of yore. At its worst performance the Nozzle yields its fill with great reluctance, sometimes requiring up to a minute or so even to begin. At the same time, the configuration of the nozzle tip has been altered through extended use and misuse to preclude an even, laminar flow. Indeed, the turbidity of the escaping Gasoline often results in what can only be described as semi-spray. This often results in the dispensing area, if not the Owner himself, smelling faintly, or not so faintly, of Gasoline.
Prevention of this nonhygienic outcome may be achieved in several ways. A funnel may be employed; the Nozzle may be brought closer to the tank via leaning or squatting; or the Owner may dispense his Gasoline in the back yard, if he has one.
The topic of Leakage, while of paramount importance, is beyond the scope of this discussion.
wisheroo
Idle chatter in these parts often begins with “When I win the lottery, I will . . .” It is fun but people don’t really think it through. People who win the lottery quickly find that their winnings have a down side, for instance the rise in probability that bad people will want to get their hands on part or all of their money.
“Be careful what you wish for” seems so obvious, but requires first to know what we really, really, really, REALLY want. Today one of my wishes is likely to come true: I will be having a meal at Tokyo Express with my daughter Katharine. I love her with all my father’s heart, and I have the acute realization that life is finite, and special moments are numbered. I won’t be making a big deal about it, but today is more valuable than winning any lottery.
THIS OLD MAN, part 1: The Noodle
While not yet afflicted with dementia
I do have my episodes
I have left home for work with mismatched shoes
One black semigloss anti slip work shoe
The other New Balance white pseudo leather trainers
And today I’ve left for work beltless for the 2nd day in a row
That’s Out of Uniform for a restaurant host and could get me written up
Though yesterday the manager regarded it as no big deal
At my work as a host at an airport restaurant I sometimes
(As when wiping down a table and knocking down a salt shaker with a BONK!)
Get embarrassed
And that may trigger full-body Tourette’s syndrome
And that, my friends, ain’t pretty
I may say “Thank you, sir” to a departing guest in the same manner Kevin Bacon said “Thank you, sir, may I have another?” in the classic college comedy ANIMAL HOUSE
And then I may mutter “Makin’ Bacon” under my breath
And realizing I’m muttering out loud I may get more embarrassed
And may inexplicably clap my hands to the sides of my buttocks
While my head jerks around like a velociraptor’s
Throw in a little eye-twitch and you’ve got Son of Quasimodo manning the restaurant podium at America’s Friendliest Airport
My niece Lisa, learning I’d become a restaurant host, and knowing I am an introvert, said, “Wow, I’ll bet that takes you out of your comfort zone . . .”
Indeed it does
I go out of my comfort zone and into a psychodrama
Title: “The Noodle”
Written by Franz Kafka
Directed by Mel Brooks
CHAOS/order
I was talking about this just-written acrostic poem to my poet friend Victoria this morning. The word unmoor, I said, might not just mean take the rope or ropes off. It might also refer to making a swamp into an oasis.
Vic liked that but thought my readers could use a footnote or annotation or they might not get it. I said Nah, my readers are very smart–many smarter than I. They’ll get it.
Cacophony diminuendo
Heuristic’ly-arranged decor
A sport, e.g. a foot that’s se’en-toed
Oasis crisis heretofore
Solved elegantly. Swamped? Unmoor
julie’s owl
Once upon a time a girl made a bunch of cloth owls . . . Mine is more portable, more meaningful, and more comforting than any teddy bear could ever be. Thank you, Julie!
