A Year To Go & Then No Mo

Three things converge; I’m rapidly approaching seventy years old. The Gutenberg editor is in its infancy, and I have a project that stokes my life long interest in all things political.

Multiply the above with having just moved and planning to do so yet again, makes energy plus/minus time premium. Stuff to do needs to get done pronto, and blog posting, in all practicality, needs to be down and dirty, hit it and forget it. But Gutenberg, in my opinion, is immature to the point of needing constant handholding, and I haven’t time for that.

So simple- I’ll play it. Old school tools for the old fool, with one post and done. Because this old fool does know that a single digit few give a click about one’s past post. And one might just have to revamp the archive when and if Gutenberg matures.


Prose Poem

An Old (Testament) Prose Poem

We’ve been Inter-coursing around, with why some want to “Lord It Over”, since Adam’s Rib decided to Pearly White that Golden Delicious. And once treed, we fear higher ground.

Laid low, we whisper up, a local language, riffing in neighborhood punctuation, with the accent on block by block conceits.Making myth, of the original mischief, we make material the first spit shined shibboleth: quick to lose its luster to the tongue wag, the tongue lash, the talk back, to talking down-but never listening until the blood flows and it all goes… Feudal.

Then, once again, we have to resort to the necessary rewind. Or, as I have taken to call it—“The Forbidden Fruit Loop.”


We believe it necessary, proper and immensely satisfying to dog politicians. It’s important to howl at their hypocrisy, raise a leg against their pomposity, and bark insistently if you feel they have infringed upon your turf.

Yet, in doing so, why resort to the methods of the mongrel? Why not measure your quarry with an eye to allowing others to glimpse what has been made clear to you: that you have considered your subject from multiple points of view and that you call into question your opponent’s angle because you’ve come to appreciate where your adversary stands.

That you do so with faith in our system, a respect for those who choose public participation, and a modicum of manners when circumstance calls for a disagreement.


Politics as bar fight is the cocktail of the current. Many, drunk on agitprop, belly up to the bar all bellicose and thug a theory they can parrot but not parse.When asked for particulars, or confronted with context, the thug can only reflect, in higher decibels, the original echo. Leads to frustration all around. Oh does it?

Maybe the thug wins the happy hour, as the wise disengage, or maybe it’s all street theater designed to drop the curtain on any serious colloquy, while limiting the size of the political audience.

While I appreciate the need to opt-out of participating in ugly politics, I caution this vulgarity is by design and a strategy well suited to the guerrilla war nature of United States elections.


This site is a Sweet Nothing of what I’m thinkin’ while drinkin’ during this election cycle. A confection of conceits. Just a passing the time “post” between another damn filter tip and those forever three fingers of bourbon.

And it’s sure to get maudlin with mid-brow pretensions and much wee-hour worry and woe.I hype politics because I think I’m hip to it, but the truth is I’m dumb as destiny. There is no knowing- this time- next week.And current politics has no future.

It’s but a tool to re-litigate the promises of the past with the language of a manufactured present.

Politics is primal, in that, we chisel myth in stone while simultaneously defacing first principles with the movement graffiti of just in time sentiments

.Subsequently, legislative policy is concocted in tribal high relief. A base exercise of power. Hyper-partisanship disguised as Constitutional order. A confederacy of contempt for the rule of law.


Cartoon the zeitgeist, caricature that jingoist, primetime the siphons of piece of cake politics. 

And it’s all too simple to annoy.

Rev up the Revanchist. Back up the truck. Offload that palette. And motley the hue. Of just who, is a patriot.Skin pop the mean spirited in frequent rotation, a playlist palaver… summer song’s refrain.

And then the din dims as Autumn presages that sun-burned tinctures fade.The glance backwards retreats. Reruns feel just that. And like the brat that baits his time, his effort to capture the current, means he’s misread the tide.

Prosecutorial Discretion

If I could small talk, I could have been a contender. The web is, by and large, small talk. A never-ending, ever-changing cocktail party, with guests and crashers hurrying in and out, ready with circuit-thin dialogue diluted by its temporal nature.

There’s the boisterous, the breathless, the swells and the wall-flowers, chattering past each other in the pretense of exchange.

There’s fans and zines and pamphleteers, and porn and tech and torture. There’s lists and bots and links and lies, eye candy, and genealogy. There’s b to b and B and D, and cats and dogs and Jesus. There’s whores and hope and mp3s, and cheating wives and promise.

And then there are the poets. I love ‘em. I can spot ‘em and sashay on up to ’em real familiar-like. I respect their talent, love their skill. I’m drawn to them because I have long and intuitively suspected they possess an ability, an attitude, a mindset, if you will, unique to their craft and necessary for its implementation.

I’m pleased to report I think I have cracked and codified the poet’s code.

It’s simple, really: others’ rhetorical devices or literary renderings have no merit and are meaningless unless the work triggers, in the poet, syntagma-like synapses that must fire back a syntactical rejoinder.

Where prose suggests a paradigm shift, the poet suggests any paradigm is a lie. The narrative negates life because it connotes meaning is just around the corner.

Poets argue understanding is circuitous, forever falling back upon itself, and that awareness arrives only when language is centered and the moment captured.

Narrative pursues, poetry makes the arrest.


I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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