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Once upon a time I was walking afield

And the field was walking me.

From the ground I heard a Squeak

But upon visual inspection it was coming

Not strictly from the ground

But from a Field Mouse thereon

And upon aural inspection the squeak

Was actually the Mouse saying “Hey.”

“Yes, sir?” I politely rejoined.

“Hi.”

“Hi, yourself, O Mouse,” said I. “What can I do for you?”

“Can I give you a hug?”

“Thanks, O Mouse, but no. Impossible. You are too small and your forelegs cannot reach around me.”

“I can hug your ankle!” The Mouse squeaked,  imploring me with his or her eyes. —HIS eyes, I mused, eyeing his impressive, fur-enwrapped jewels as he stood up with his “arms” wide.

“Promise not to bite?”

“I promise.” And the Mouse gave my ankle a Ground Zero warm hug, and I was suddenly filled with toasty contentment. The Mouse backed up and beamed.

“Thank you, Mouse. That was the best hug my ankle ever had. But why?”

“Because you were trudging, and I could tell you needed a hug. And for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” said the Mouse, with a grin in his squeaky voice. “A day early, today, but I won’t see you tomorrow, for you shall be long gone. So…” and here he paused for comedic timing…

Happy Ground-Hug Day!!”

I groaned appreciatively. “You are my kind of Mouse, buddy–” but behold he had disappeared.

***

And Happy Ground-Hug Day to you, my distant Friend, and thanks for reading my Bad Pun of Groundhog Day Eve. ๐Ÿ™‚

to Roxanne Doty

the novelist has a dozen dartboards/one for gender one for ethnicity one for occupation and so forth

she has thrown her darts and now her main character is a dwarf from lithuania/who is a cis-male entertainer/with three sisters

well, this will be a roller coaster

doing her due diligence she searches on “lithuanian dwarf”/and learns some history/specific to the grand duke of lithuania/known as vytautas the great

he had done time in the german order/and returned to court in 1392/with a taste for entertainment/in the form of jesters and dwarfs

the novelist’s eyes widen

she realizes that writing way-back, way-elsewhere historical fiction/is something she has needed to do

and that the future henry IV fits right in is a fine bonus

but–all that RESEARCH! all that WORK!

she shrugs and then squares her shoulders

i am no stranger to either

it will broaden my horizon

build toughness of character

she was older than i

and it was long ago that we loved. news

of her peaceful death unlocked a room

and in the room was a bed

and in the bed were our younger selves

enjoying each other as if there

were no tomorrows.

i can’t look at them

but i can hear them in their in-betweens,

with hearing so acute

i can hear fingers stroking hair,

fingertips sliding down sweat-sheened flanks.

.

so many tomorrows later

i don’t have tears

and the grief is a soft whisper

of acknowledgment.

.

leaving the room

i wonder about new loves, if any

with an odd optimism

but also the pang

that comes with the knowledge

that with my passing

passion ends.

a fat guy makes a rainbow in his yard

with thumb on hose-end mist w/disregard,

then prisms turn to dewdrops. abelard

abandons eloรฏse; a cruel dis card.

they’re many poet laureates, and disbarred

attorneys quote them. it’s a vile canard

to deal a friend on wings of mallards. hard

enfardeling a rhyme that leaves it jarred.

one three five seven

odd numbers e’en intervals

hey, what are the odds?

.

wake up and feel odd

once vertical things e’en out

stay vertical, friends

.

e’en at its darkest

half our planet is dazzling

when seen from above

.

“what’s with the E’ens, Gair??”

“for the punchline, friend: even

Even can be odd.”

You look like you couldn’t decide

To be cat, dog, opossum, or otter

So you got in a blender and transmogrified

To a short, fluffy-furred drink of water.

.

You slink and you scamper about,

An inquisitive seeker of stuff.

With your radar installed at the tip of your snout

It is joy to both skitter and snuff.

.

It is weird to see you on a leash.

You belong to the wild, not to peoples,

They domesticate, sure, and you’re precious, but sheesh,

you need Freedom like churches need steeples.

right about now the executioner/is flexing his axe-wielding arms/because the cruel crowd thrust thumbs in condemnation/of the unlucky sap whose job title is Entertainer/and must now be entertaining with his amazing flying head

rite here, the bloodletting/the catharsis the appeasement/the conversion of unspeakable to a circus act

right you are and wright i am/brightness is as part of me as my middle name/a gift from my grandmother caroline/who succumbed to kidney failure four years before my birth

and here we are/in our wretched glory/and I with a this minute two-day stubble/feeling it’s time to slice that legion/wielding a tri-bladed bic

something bothers us/and a shave will help me/and 250 milliliters of clean clear cool water will help you/and here’s to our betterment

personal anarchy

to my friends Anita and Eric Mahaffey

when i was young and uneasy/in arizona’s glendale elementary school district #40/the regimentation was constant

chorus teacher miss heath/a good-souled if misguided pouter pigeon of a lady/had us sing “this is my country”/and march in place while singing “you’re a grand old flag”

and of course we said the pledge of allegiance/first thing every school day

and our newspapers were the arizona republic/and its sibling the phoenix gazette

both published by eugene s pulliam, rabid anti-communist and anti-bureaucrat

we also read the more provincial glendale news-herald/which was indeed heraldic

and as a consequence/the rules were deeply ingrained in this schoolchild/in the land of barry goldwater

(fun fact: i have grown to admire Mr AuH2O)

and you don’t just shrug off such insistent, relentless regimentation

but you resist/you fight back/even many decades later/to dethrone the despotic beast within

you learn to make functional pottery/and you make yourself an Anarchy Cup

and you learn to prepare food for yourself/and you make your meals anarchic

go on the griddle to go off the grid

buy yourself a halfloaf/of batter than none sourdough/extra sour and lumpish

use its stevedore heel/to have mayoed tuna with dillpickle/for an open-faced breakfast microsandwich/and eating it

then you spread the same tuna on the next, larger slice/and sprinkle sunmaid raisins/on the tuna substrate/and eat that too, washing the bites down to gulletsville/with black sumatran coffee in your Anarchy Cup

and then let sanity prevail, drawing the line/at spreading blueberry yoghurt/on a third, mayoed-tuna slice

instead pouring a second cup of coffee

sweetening and blondiefying it/with half&half and blue agave sirup

and give thanks to Sweet Anarchy

and being kingless, queenless and rookless

and ready to burst from the early-day’s starting gate

with intolerance for caste-based bigotry

and a fierce passion for fairness

determinationku

determination:

YOUR determination is

indeterminate.

.

youcandoitku

adversity is

your whetstone. you sharpen up

when you clash with it.

.

makethebadbetterku

what a mess! –so what?

pick up ONE sock–cry Victory!

DON’T add to the mess. ๐Ÿ™‚

.

changefocusku

yes, you have problems.

someone out there is worse off.

how might you best help?

.

laughallthewaythroughku

warren zevon said

“enjoy every sandwich”

with mere weeks to live.

.

thankyoubobdiniroku

“you talkin’ to me??”

YES, YES, whoever you are.

need a hug? hee go!!

.

Note: When my daughter was a toddler, she said “Hee go” when she was trying to say “Here you go.” I found that immensely endearing.

cattle have a legit beef/with humans

Humans Are Exploitive/And Uncaringly Cruel

almost all humans with cars/murder insects without remorse

And They Raise Meat Animals/For The Express Purpose Of Slaughtering Them

humans would be better off/not eating meat

WHAT A SHAME THAT MEAT TASTES/SO F%ยฅ&#@G GOOD, eh?

a New World is coming

It Will Have Either Wiser Humans/Forced-To-Be-Good Humans/Or No Humans

.

please join The Legitimate Beef Company

and don’t have a cow

Or A Bull

OR A STEER