Postings

A Border Collie and a Peanut Butter Sandwich

Depositphotos_9906977_l-2015

I cannot even find my picture of you,

Sitting in your favorite chair,

The place you would go

To eat your peanut butter sandwich after your walk.

 

Damn you for getting old,

For stinking, for dying,

Slopped about the house, black and white,

Tail curled,

Licking peanut butter off the roof of your mouth.

 

You loved to walk, scratching the wall,

The leash hanging above,

Still like death but standing in heartbreaking anticipation.

The restraint that so often muted your collie instincts marks your grave,

hanging on a green stake above.

A small but stunted tree struggles right next to it, above you.

Was it the noose that held you back, or have you finally broken free of stinking, aging,

And dying?

 

You were a sweet animal among the cruel human

And the psychopathic nature of Nature.

The sound of your nails tapping the floor,

The sound of you scratching,

And, yes, licking peanut butter off the roof of your mouth.

You, it, had a rhythm that gave predictability to the unpredictability of life.

 

Your eyes, that of a Border Collie,

Big and brown, full of feeling,

Teared up once, when I

Yelled at you.

 

You died alone;

I remember patting you on the head,

your labored but soft puffing.

You tried to hang on to the beauty of life,

an oft-stealth flicker in this vast and timeless universe.

 

I remember the day I got you.

You cried for mom,

and my fleeting-child parenting skills went

A wash when you peed in

My bed.

My mom put you next to hers,

In a box we got from the dollar store,

And you became her

Fourth son and my third brother.

 

And I let you die alone;

I couldn’t handle death,

The death of my friend, brother, and of my childhood.

I turned up the radio to block out the sound of the approaching

Reckoning for you and for all of us.

Being denied leave for a dying son,

My mother went to work while I went numb

And blocked out life.

 

As silence engulfed my room.

I no longer heard breathing from you.

There you lay,

A fragment of the brother you were,

But I summed up courage and mummified you

With the discount plastic garbage bags from the dollar store.

One over your bottom, and a plastic bag over your head—

A head I often kissed and pet;

I taped the middle shut and carried you,

Like a sixty-pound baby into the freezer we call Buffalo.

I moved on the autopilot that abuse and harshness perfects.

We would put you in the ground, when life was awakening.

Freckles

Dropout Professor

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They are scattered,

Maybe all but gone now,

But I wish for a hint

Of them

In seeing them shine;

and maybe now

A beautiful kind of embarrassment

for you,

and not for me.


That first day, I was trembling hard

Away from mommy, the first time, pulled

From her smile and mommy’s tender-warm love

to the looming pale-green dome

of bus number 46 in ‘76.


Toward the cold, stern and tired eyes of Mrs. Katiner.

I spell it wrong now, and would get Mr. Yustock’s paddle.

Him, too, I misspell, but I don’t misspell you,


Renee.


But she put me with the tall and pretty blonde,

more like a mantis than a unicorn,

but so pretty was she,

with long powerful

And lovely legs, for a child.


She knew I would not cry or tell,

so she kicked me hard for my sins

I had yet to commit.


Black…

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Hefner Reminiscence

Lovely bunny couple

Oh, I reminisce

Of Hugh-style

Sexiness, a

Gentle kind of

Sexist-ness

Bulging with

Pumped-up

Tits,

Bleach-soaked blondes with

Child-style

“This-is-what-I-like”

Lists

And all those

Prepubescent-like

Hairlessness.

 

Oh, of Hefner I reminisce

Of reader-less text

But a stuck together

Lass;

She was my favorite

Though

But forgot to wipe her off

After I explode,

Oh no, but I wear his

Robe though

And miss him

So much mo.

 

 I’d like to call him dad though

Smothered with his

Gentlemen-ness, fuzzy tails,

And three tight little

Mistresses.

 

Sometimes I like fake shit

Because real is just

So real,

And when asked why he was such an

Ass, by a feminist

He said that he’d hope women would

Like his dream as much as

They are every man’s dream.

 

A dream that came from his broken heart,

When in youth

He was left with nothingness.

R.I.P. to Hefner’s Reminiscence

Now that sexual fantasy is

Political business.

Good Sex

Oh, yes to sex,

So salacious,

Sinful, sensational

Serpents seducing

Innocence, slithering

Tongues, exploring

Sacred, first-time mounds,

Succulent lips,

Never before kissed,

Stiff desire,

Hard, slippery,

Guessing what’s  

Cumming.

*** ***

Oh, yes, to sex,

Phallus, large,

Thrusting,

Humping,

Hoping,

Thrilling,

Of anticipation;

Orgasm

Of what cannot

Because sex’s sin, the snake says, creates life,

By the very desire within,

Ejaculation;

Good sex from good thoughts?

You’d need some medicine then.

It’s either doc, or

Please come visit me again

With your lewdest

Imagination.

The Squirrel and the Fox

Chinese zodiac.

Once upon a time there lived a squirrel, which was used to gathering nuts in a small town in Upstate New York. Now, New York and the small town, for that matter, had fine nuts—too many of them really, so the squirrel finally left the Apple state and sought kinder, gentler nuts in Western Pennsylvania.  He felt that Pennsylvania would be the land of trees and though there may be even more nuts in such a place, he heard that this place carried some great nuts of knowledge.  These would make him a better, smarter, and even a gutsier squirrel, but little did he know that there is more to happiness than simply good nuts.

One day, not long after he arrived in Nuttyanna, PA, the squirrel was scampering around in desperation trying to find and gather these great nuts of knowledge when, suddenly, he came across this beautiful, dark-haired fox.  He was taking a break by and old, fallen tree—a pleasant place—with wonderful odoriferous flowers of white, blue and purple sown in throughout the landscape. This delightful fox approached him. Once the two made eye contact, she glided toward him with beaming eyes and an enticing smile; she almost seemed happy to see him. The squirrel twitched nervously but greeted her with his big, brown gentle eyes.

“Hello,” said the fox, “My name is Young; you must be new here.”

“Hi, Young, my name is squirrel and, as you can see, I am a squirrel. I am new here; how did you know?”

The fox sighed, “Well, I don’t get a chance to meet nice squirrels often, so I know you are new here. “

“Really? I would have thought there were many squirrels just like me here.”

“No,” she smiled, they all are ugly and do not have bushy tails.  Your tail is handsome and you have gentle, good eyes.”

Young smiled with confidence, while squirrel blushed somewhat.  He was not used to compliments from pretty foxes, and nothing was a bigger compliment to a squirrel than noticing his tale.

“Well, you, too, are quite pretty and …”

“Witty? Yes, I am witty though not as much when I speak squirrel.  You should hear me speak fox.  I am much better really. So why are you here?”

“Well,” feeling much better now that he felt he knew Young a little, “I am trying to find the great nuts of knowledge. I came here from Upstate New York where there are many nuts, but I want something more…”

The fox giggled quietly, “There are a lot of nuts, nuts with bad taste, everywhere.  There are probably more here than in New York.”

“Oh, really,” said the twitching squirrel. “So there are no great nuts of knowledge here?”

“I wouldn’t say that, grinned the fox. But you have to come on a journey with me to find them.”

The squirrel was all too happy to oblige his pretty new friend, and he agreed and even went out of his way to hang out with the fox.

As time went on, the squirrel began to fall in love with the fox, even though his search for the nuts came up empty.  She, too, seemed to grow more attached.

But one day, Young was gone.  The squirrel searched everywhere but could not find her.  He grew frantic, even more than usual for a squirrel. He searched high and low, and even called her name. Finally, he thought to look for her where they first met, by the tree with the odoriferous flowers.  He wasted no time in returning to his favorite spot.  When approaching, we saw the fox sitting there, with her head bent downward.

“Young,” the squirrel called, “where were you?”  I thought we were going to go out today?”

The fox looked at him with a somber smile and spoke. “I got scared.”

“Scared? Scared about what?”

“Of being together. The timing is right, but you are a squirrel and I am a fox. I am afraid of what my family, what my friends will think, how they will react.”

The squirrel stood there speechless for a moment. He had felt the same way at times.  How could a fox live in a tree or how could he live in a burrow? Though he thought of these things often, he never let it get in the way of his search for love, for companionship.

He then spoke, “so you are worried about how to live in a tree, and I am worried about how to live in a burrow?”

Her old smile returned. “Why don’t you and I meet here later?  Don’t worry I will be here.  I am a fox of my word.”

The squirrel knew that Young was a fox of her word, so he agreed and then scampered off.

Later on, the squirrel returned to his favorite place and saw the fox sitting here.  He suddenly froze and hesitated to approach her.  He realized–while gazing at her in the midst of the heavenly flowers, the downed tree, and all the powerful trees towering all around them–that Young would be the most important and significant being in his life that no matter what, he loved her, even if he did not find the great nuts of knowledge.

Then he heard her speak and looked up in surprise.  While thinking this, his feet must have carried him toward her.

“I thought you were going to walk away.  I was going to get angry, but you came.” She smiled.

“Yes, I came…and was thinking about you…us.”

“Me, too. I was always thinking about us.” She grew serious, “I need to go away for a month and meet my family.”

“Oh, no,” said the squirrel, “I love you and don’t want you to leave.”

At this moment the squirrel cried, and they both embraced.

“I love you too,” said the fox crying.

At that moment, the squirrel felt much better.  He knew that she would not run away.  She was going to visit her family.  They agreed to keep in touch, and they did.

The squirrel never found any great nuts of knowledge.  He never found any nuts at all. What he did find was that though the fox could not live in a tree and he could not live in a burrow, they could live in the whole forest together.  That was a good thing, because ten years later, they became parents of twin white tigers in the year of the white tiger, a boy and a girl. One nutty and lonely squirrel became part of a family of four.

The tigers now rule the forest.

 

Dedicated to my wife, my son, and my daughter on December 25, 2011-

Love, your squirrel, husband, and father, Dropout Professor.

 

 

[On Jean Phillipe Rameau.]

exhaustion

by

Proteus Ashmole

Jean Phillipe Rameau (1683-1764) wrote music that had the clean lines of early Classicism as well as the flowery ornamentation of the late Baroque period: one need only listen to his ballet suites to hear Classical lines overlaid with the perfect amount of embellishment.  In this sense, Rameau’s music was both brackish and beautiful.

Let’s Help Artists Stay Free

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