Wednesday, February 14, 2018

At the Love-In

Perhaps the Love-In movement
was right. Maybe all you do need
is love…, love…, love.

Our World, wacky with the
piercing fangs of intolerance,
hate, mistrust, suspicions, anger,
rage-ahol, and general dislike
for that guy on the bus that smells
like he shit in his hat, might need
a little more love.

I like love. I like being in love.
I like being loved. You might say
that I love being loved.
It’s lovely. It’s lucky.
It’s not easy.

When it’s so easy to be angry,
to hate and fail to recognize
another human being for what they
are, is when we must remember to love.

It’s not implicit that we just forget
those that have transgressed against us and
failed to find their own love for us.
There are always evil people who do
not know what love is and are incapable
of expressing it. They cause pain and suffering
as an expression of their own pain and suffering
without love.

Those that forget their love, how to love,
what love is supposed to be, should be
pitied. We mourn for the loves we lost but
take comfort in the love they may have
found in the unknown.

Love is persistent, resilient and of
tougher stuff that we know.  It has
carried us to the heights of wonder,
the depths of depravity, and the
suburbs of pretty okay for
 a Wednesday.

The more we let love into our
hearts, the love of our collective
humanity; regardless of creed, color,
religion or odor, the better chance
we have to succeed as a whole.

Clothed in the loving warmth of the human
heart as expressed by, to and for each other.
The Love-In.  

Friday, February 9, 2018

History in Vegas

A late evening in Las Vegas,
post work seminar and I
needed a drink. A drink
away from the slot machines,
cheering, shouting crowds, and
the general riff-raff.

A drink of fine scotch was in
order, something to round out
the sharp edges of stress, anxiety
and my mild distaste for travel
away from my beloved Chicago.

I sat at the sports book bar where
the scene was thin of gamblers and
the pedestrian traffic. There was the
usual grizzled woman, still dressed as if
she was in her 20’s but was likely in
her mid-seventies, the two bros trying
to figure out how to hit it big and the
other lonely business guys.

I found an isolated bar stool with a view
of the casino floor and the other late night
denizens of America’s sin trip. I ordered
my drink and sat finally feeling closer to

A beautiful prostitute sat down across the
bar top from me. I knew she was a prostitute
because, well, I’ve been around and I know one
when I see one. She looked at me with a mild
come-hither-to glance, to which I calmly shook
my head in the negative, but I did smile in an
oddly flattered way.

She understood and set her sights on the
a thin, balding, middle aged man, who was
eager to acknowledge her intentions. He moved
his seat closer to hers without much encouragement
and she began to play and flirt her way into his
wallet.  I chuckled and took another sip of my
last Las Vegas night scotch.

As I did, another young, lovely
prostitute slid her way onto a bar stool,
to my right hand side. She had dark hair,
full outlined lips, eyes made up smoky and
cat-like, her top was loose and the shoulder
straps easily slid off in a way to fire the

I did not make any eye contact with her
at the time. I figured I would finish
my drink, consider another, and likely head
off to my room as alone as I had arrived.
But I saw this new young woman do something
that struck me as odd.

She took a very deep breath and moved her
arms across her body in a yoga type mediation
movement. I don’t know what the maneuver was
called but she was elegant and graceful in the
movement. She caught me spying on her.

I smiled and commented, “Were you just doing
a little meditation at the bar?”
She smiled at me and laughed while she nodded.
She got up from her seat and moved to the bar
stool next to mine.  I did not expect this but I
did not stop her from joining me.

She gave me a fake name, I gave her my real
one. She asked what I was doing in Vegas,
I told her the truth about work. I asked her
why she was there, but she didn’t answer in
a real way. She asked where I was from
and I told her about Chicago.

She said she was from Dallas originally,
I said I had been there several years ago
for the anniversary of the assassination of
“Who”, she asked.
“John F. Kennedy. President John F. Kennedy,” I said.
She looked at me, blankly, behind beautiful blue eyes.
I said, “You never heard of J.F.K., our President who
was assassinated in Dallas in 1963?”
She said she had not.
So, as is my nature, I gave her a history lesson.

She listened to me, seemingly absorbing the
information I was imparting to her. That’s the thing
about beautiful prostitutes, it’s hard to tell when
they are listening or just pretending to move toward
the business end of their profession. But I believed she
was listening.

As I droned on and on about the historical significance
and how American was fundamentally changed on that
day I got the sense that perhaps my history lesson was
ill timed, that a sports book bar was not the best place
for a teachable moment. So I stopped my lecture and
asked her if she was doing okay.  She teased me a little
and said she was doing very well and happy to have met me.

Having confirmed her pleasant mood I delivered her more
truth. “I’m going to ruin your night then,” I said.
“You’re more than welcome to ruin my night,” she flirted.
She licked her lips and fluttered her eye lashes at me.  A
seductive smile growing across her lovely mouth.
“Okay. Nice to talk to you, goodnight,” I said and got up
from my bar stool.

She stood up. Realizing that we would not be leaving
together and I was not the profitable event she had
hoped. She walked away in her amazingly tight pants in
a huff. I snickered to myself, still feeling that last
happy sip of scotch on my lips.

I went up to my Vegas hotel room wondering about
all the what ifs and the glad I didn’ts, and if I
should one day come back to Las Vegas and open a
school for prostitutes to teach them a little more
about history. 

Monday, January 29, 2018

This Way to the Moon Egress

Let’s put the idiots on the moon.
We’ll do it like P. T. Barnum did it
and his, “This Way to the Great
Egress” exhibit.

The Egress of course, was
the exit. People foolish
enough not to know what
the egress was, found themselves
back out on the street. Bewildered.

So we’ll come up with something like,
“This way to the endless orgasm
machine!”, or “This way to the free
money and guns pavilion!”

And the idiots will walk down that
corridor, find themselves on a
one way space ship to the moon.
Once filled to capacity, “Whoosh!”
To the Moon, Alice.

I wonder if you could see all the
corpses of the idiots all over
the surface of the Moon from Earth?
Dotting the Sea of Tranquility with
their “I’m with Stupid” tee-shirts and
“Make America great Again”, trucker caps.

Hmm, maybe that’s not such a hot
idea. I’d hate to ruin the Moon the way
we’ve ruined the Earth with gaggles of
knuckle dragging idiots littering the
the landscape.

I guess we’ll just have to educate them
and make them productive members of
society. Damn it.  No. No, I was right,
to the Moon they should go.  The Dark Side.

Friday, January 26, 2018

Music Interrupted Me

Hey, remember me?
The one with all the wordy words,
that fella, the self proclaimed poet,
who had the audacity to remind you
of your humanity.

Well here I am.
I know I’ve been away.
I’m sorry it’s been so long.
But the wordy word business
is tough and sometimes silence
is all there is.

So now I’m back, to let you know,
I can really shake ‘em down.
Do you love me?
(Do you love me?)
Now that I, can dance?
Watch me now…


Oh, sorry. I might be a little
A little busy with life and its
incessant need to be cultivated,
trimmed, re-potted, and otherwise

So I hope I can get back to the
wordy word business in earnest,
when time stops insisting I do other
things, like make money to live and
such. Bah!

In the meantime, don’t you forget
about me, no, no, no, no…
As you walk on by…

La, la, la, la, ah, la-la-la, lah-la, la…

Tuesday, January 9, 2018

Interior Monologue

Individual irritations I attempt
to ignore as irrational and
inappropriate.  Albeit, they

Incongruous and inconsistent,
annoying ideas infiltrate and
inflame my innards,
insulting any intelligence.

I am intrepid in my instability
and irrationality, self-imposed
isolationism and icy iconoclastic

I am alone in an inner influence,
incapable of inviting another in to
investigate the interior issues I

It is irritating and infuriating to
idle in insecurity and injury, yet
adept in interpreting it as
idiocy, immaturity, and ineffectiveness.

Incorrectly I inscribe immediacy to
my irritations and they become incendiary,
igniting an influx of indulgent anxious

Inside, I ingest an inexorable amount of
irritation, imbued with inexhaustible
improprieties; and yet, I imbibe it all,
inherently aware of its impermanency.

Impossible inconsistencies in identity,
I laugh in spite of myself, involved in
the idiosyncrasies of an inner-monologue.
I am interestingly amused, and by my intonation,
less influenced by irritation.  

Friday, January 5, 2018

Little Baby New Years

Little Baby New Year,
all swaddled and clean,
sucking on their little thumb,
sleeping gently, even sweetly.

Little Baby New Year,
a serene scene of freshness,
in the maternity ward of

Only five days old and
already the world is coming
for you, to mangle and cheapen
your gentle sleep.

Little Baby New Year,
behind a sheet of glass,
keeping warm and dry,
in temporary peace.

Here comes a nurse for
the evening feeding.
What’s she feeding that kid?
Is that milk?

Doesn’t look like milk,
looks like lava and bilge water
mixed with dirty tea leaves and

Little Baby New Year,
starting to resist the bottle,
pushing back a little, but
too weak to really fight.

Little Baby New Year,
too early on the bottle,
never should have left
mom’s teat. 

Thursday, December 28, 2017

The Most Human of Years

2017 is wrapping up shortly
and I think it’s appropriate to
recognize it for what it truly was;
The Most Human of Years.

I believe 2017 was the most human
of years simply because it reflected
what is the most common and universal
trait of all humans, our capacity to

2017 was filled with so many
Oops-a-daisies and whoops-a-doodles,
it’s amazing we made it to the end.
From baffling election results to even
more baffling election results; our all too
human flaws were showing.

I feel 2017 was a raw nerve, finally exposed,
and we were doing everything we could
to keep people from poking at it. Sometimes,
we didn’t do it right and wound up just making
a grand mess of things. Or just lied about it.  

2017 was filled with backtracking, corrections,
re-evaluations, tactical reversals, contrarian
explanations, and general outrages over the lack
of outrage.  The human year, was a jumble of
emotions and thoughts, all running around
like kids at recess, screaming and shouting.

If 2017 were to have an image to represent
it, I would have to choose a giant finger pointing
at, “the other guy”.  It would seem the most reasonable
since we attempted to deflect any mistakes onto,
“the other guy”, for the majority of the year.

It is my hope that 2018 is The Year We Learn
From Our Mistakes. I know that the pessimism of
2017 will mark the first part of 2018, as the old year
can leave quite a bruise. Yet I remain hopeful in the face
of our collective humanity that we’ll do better, be better,
and rise above our common frailties.

Here’s to a New Year and the human capacity
to find hope in the darkest of places, valor against
the most difficult challenges and recognize the
humanity in our humanness.