Pounding Bourbon By The Pond

I’ve got a beef with late summer sunsets. Especially Sunday’s. Late summer sunsets don’t like to give up the ghost. Akin to the party host who won’t let you leave.

“Come on. Just one more drink.”

I think a horde of foster homes rubbled sunsets for me. Light passing through another other’s landscape limits one’s horizons. Without your own sun kissed angle, you feel you have no choice but to cut corners.

As previously mentioned I want to dollar a holler some of my writings. Perhaps I can monetize the maudlin. 


On Saturday… Politics Made Simple PT.1

Don’t worry. Low pressure. (it’s raining here)

In seeking solutions to problems, is an open-mind a virtue?

If you answer yes to the above, is a person, group, or political collective prone to being closed-minded less than virtuous?

For extra credit. Is epistemic closure a real deal, and if so, how does that effect the civics of a democratic/republic?

“Term Limits” anyone? hahaha


The shit simple. Thousands of Baby Boomers are leaving the American workforce everyday. Hence the drop in the overall employment participation numbers. It’s simple demographics. An aging, retiring, segment of society going all snow bird and Winnebago on us. Bless ‘em and be gone.

Yet some less than “virtuous” politico grifters will try to pin blame on a person or policies when truth is the butt naked natural fact of an aging society now working it all out. Why not blame all those GI’s who saved our future asses from the Axis and came home rightly horney, and there you have it, Howdy Doody.



Plotting While Poeming For Giggles PT.1

maybe a mystery:
who killed the mambo
with a villain named The Minute Man
and everything turns on
a 78 rpm record-played backwards
The setting…1933
and a third

or maybe a thriller:
an enemy spy in the
good guys’ bawdy house
the hooker hero decoding
that honky-tonk piano,

or a Sci-Fi
shoe fly
herding robots
to the drunk tank
with the working title:
When Silicon Valley Got The Shakes

and dive bar, dive bar, dive bar:

a subroutine
on a submarine
is apt to sink her
Is it sabotage?
or has Stanley,
the debugger,
just fallen in love,
yet again


I’ve A Grievance, You’ve A Grievance, Wouldn’t You Like To Have A Grievance Too?

Parse the particulars of what is pissing you off. Are you kidding. I’m in unspeakable pain. I can only mumble about the matter. Whatever the matter be. Grievance is physical, not grammatical, don’t you understand. No words can express but our hearts go out to… explain?

How does a paragraph compete with the set piece of a semi-sactioned impromptu shrine. A crime scene tape video taped roadside rosary of bloom and doom and a vote for the votive. Teddy Bear victims of these tongue-tied  times, inarticulate we.

And ain’t that strange and soft and fuzzy. And doesn’t it all, rinse and repeat rinse and repeat rinse and repeat. And it must be God’s plan. For man to concede defeat and retreat to babble on.


If It Ain’t On The Page It Ain’t On The Stage

So I’m the character who’s always commenting on the post of others.
Then quick to be relegated to the wings, where I await reciprocity.
Summer Stock.
Dog Days.


Grifters In Garterbelts At The Pearly Gates

Is it the manic that fuels the muse? Or, fools the muse. Neither thought could be original. And I blush to consider otherwise.

Anyway, SNZ, the muse that matters, put the don’t dare on a Flash Fiction I was set to share. Said the gist was subject to quick grift, and too easy for another teller of stories to graft.

God, in already written heaven, I don’t need a sign…I need a synopsis.


My Dog Ate My Editorial Calendar

My pretensions leap and bound, but an editorial calendar for this poor man’s blog…Puh-leeze and Pshaw.

I write what I can when I can, and in semi-talented semaphore. Amateur angst having always served. A come and get it, take it or leave it, table setting of toss it up, or take it down digital du jour. But an ambitious money making necessity is suddenly on the menu. So an Editorial Calendar is now in the ingredient mix.

After twenty years of, my bits…so byte me…I do sweat an aftertaste of sour and sweet dual purpose postings of message and motivation. But is “Buy My Book” really that hard to swallow?



It Is No Good Day To Poem.

Few are. But why let facts stand in the way of some finely tuned tone deaf prose poesy.

Please! Well,

beats hell out of the humdrum Sturm und Drang of this fair-to-middling middle-class Diaspora. So how organic, if not original, that an oligarch would promise origami like position papers…giving purchase to the plutocracy… and pause to the rest, as we rush to our coming and “collective” Pop pauperism.

Might one Marx,
this muddled moment.
Only if you have
no clue
nor the time
to bottom line
…Storm and Stress




Some Nasty Ass Bottom End Throughout

So JD McPherson recently worked with Nick Lowe. Surprised? Not me.

I want a “Sky” like the Dad is sportin’.

I first posted North Side Gal a few years ago. Soon thereafter I spotted an advert in the dollar-a-holler section of the  New Yorker.

And let’s end with V2 of “Let The Good Times Roll.”

No more posts.