PAD 3

The Problem With Rain

I'm afraid it starts from the very beginning
vast floods, ruined dresses, disasterous hairdos

And remember how it was
flushing away the baseball game
any six year old would have been excited for
We didn't travel that far to eat four dollar pretzels
in the catacombs of the park

And remember how it was
darkening the sugar sands
any vacationing family would have longed for
No water-resistant sandcastles
no rain burns
not to mention no flying kites

And remember how it was
closing down the joy
any beating heart would render
for the new and limitless thrill
of love
that second date in the city washed out

And remember how it is
the insurgent contemplation
harvested with chaotic perturbation
wanting to claim
a love of the rain
when only manifesting irritation

PAD #2 - Drifter

Drifter

drifting

off course

alone

without

compass

on rough

and swollen

seas

So today's Poem-A-Day Challenge was writing an "outsider" poem. I thought about it a while and decided to submit one of my favorites, one I consider a classic, and one which I have included in the blog with a picture (not my own).

Poem of the Day

April is National Poetry Month. Over at Writers Digest.Com, they're running a Poem A Day Challenge. Today's requirement: Origins.

Swiss Cake Roll

From Heaven you descend
cradled in cardboard
wrapped in celophane
boxed and protected under the eyes of our saviour
Little Debbie.

We give thanks when we lay eyes upon you
delight in the sweet nothingness of your scent
let you guide us to the rim of our milk glass
smiling, as if all life were, indeed, good.

Factory, wherever you are
factory, kind and benificent
factory, a world unknown and yet so well known

Delivery truck, Hell on Wheels
Delivery truck, the angel on wing
Delivery truck, driver, restock those shelves

Eggs, butter, sugar, butter cream
rolled upon the table, log of delicious dreams
with a will that is absurd
we love you dearly, swiss cake roll,
unless you're filled with lemon curd.

Random

Wow. The world has become a very difficult place for all concerned. Who has it worse? The polar bears? The amphibians? The poor? The downtrodden? The Wall Street money-types? Octo-Mom? You? Me? The neighbors?

I don't know.

What I do know is that joining the Army simply to get money for college is like becoming a prostitute to end totalitarianism. Or not. Sex is a powerful drug, more powerful than a Ph.D., so anything's possible.

Another thing that's possible is warm weather arriving.

Limerick (hiccup)

What was that first person thinking
when he or she decided to invent hardcore drinking?
Not just the slurping of water
or the milk before slaughter
but the invention of fabulous fermenting?

Enough Already

It's 20 degrees outside. Farenheit. I have had enough. Today, for you religious types, is Ash Wednesday. Well, who cares about that, really, except the fatuously ignorant? But I reference Ash Wednesday because it is an indicator of something else. Ash Wednesday means there's 40 days until we land on the next ridiculous Christian nonsense day, Easter. You know, white rabbits and resurrected shamen. Or some such thing. Candy, egg hunts, ham, and the ascension to heaven and the right hand of god of some unshaven Jewish guy who had studied enough with the Buddhists in western India to know a thing or two about how to treat people nicely.

The geeks shall inherit the earth, right?

Well, the point I am getting at is that this Easter hullabaloo does do a fine job of coinciding with the true kickoff of spring -- a little more effectively than the start of the baseball season, which can sometimes fall at the same time snowstorms are dumping the cold white stuff on The Jake in Cleveland.

I am ready for Spring. Easter? Well, I just hope, for the kids' sake, that the snow has melted enough to make the egg hunt interesting this year. It sucks when the bunny has to watch out where he steps so no one sees his boot tracks in the snow.

If the polar bears are looking for a little extra ice in their gin-and-tonics this year, I have some I can offer. I'd rather have a soiree with them than those freaks giving shit up for 40 days like it'll save their souls or something.

And whatever happened to fish on Fridays, Mayor McCheese?

Thinking About You

Your daughter might end up posing for nude photos. Or worse. Girl-on-girl stuff. Or worse yet, she might do full-on porn. But there's a deeper and wider scary possibility. Your daughter might end up in a Girls Gone Wild video. I know. I know. How about that for creeping you out? Now that's a thought that might keep you up at night.

Because. Well, you know. How would you react to all that? The first three possibilities carry with them the hope that the decision to pose nude, do girl-on-girl, or hardcore porn was deliberate and well-thought-out. There was nothing spur-of-the-moment about it. Whether or not she needed the money to pay for college or the abortion (did I menion that?) or a new car or that sweet-ass BlackBerry, it would seem that the aforementioned options would result less from duress or stupidity and more from some deeper well of reasoning.

Girls Gone Wild? Drunk and stupid. And advertised on cable throughout the night. Flashing her boobs and making out with some other dumb/drunk girl came about because the brain was not engaged. Or the results now, impact later processor was turned off.

Sorry about yer daughter.

Sonofa. . .

First, let's get this important fact out of the way. January 2009 lasted about eleven days. Sure, the calendars indicate otherwise. Thirty-one days. Yeah. Right. What. Ever. Did you live through January 2009? Were you there? Did you enter 2009 with the rest of us and exit January 2009 like everyone else this past Saturday night? Then you know.

You know January was supersonic. Or megasupersonic. Or whatever the quadrupling of hypersupermegasonic might be. January came and went faster than an American kid's virginity. Ridiculous. Came. Went. Like AIG and their bailout money. Here today, gone tomorrow. That was January.

Point: Belabored.

Worse yet, of course, is the awful news from Pennsylvania. I thought I had enough "issues" with Pennsylvania. You know, how it's nothing more than a backwoods slum. The place where all the colonial revolutionaries sent their bastard children. The place where the only thing uglier than the Allentown landscape is the face of an Allentown beauty queen.

Now: Punxsutawney Fargin' Phil.

It's counter-intuitive, I say. If the bloated mole sees his shadow, that would indicate either the glare of klieg lights or the warm light of the sun. Meaning: He's either in Hollywood, where it's perennially summer. Or the sun's out and, logically, summer is on its way.

No. Phil, that sack of egomaniacal rodent puke, thinks and feels with all his chunky being that seeing his shadow means six more weeks of winter. Six more weeks! Sweet Baby Jesus and all His Merry Widows! Phil saw his shadow! Everyone, back inside! Leave the children, save yourselves!

Ugh.

"I see my shadow. Is that really me? Am I really that chubby? I am. Therefore, I'm going back inside to hibernate another month or so, shed some pounds. Grab some shut-eye. Be ready for bathing suit weather on the Jersey shore."

I hate that groundhog.

Back inside people. Might as well have another Christmas while you're at it.

EDIT: Photo -- Miss Allentown, 2009

Goodbye, Sucker.

Well, out with the old. In with the new. As I've stated elsewhere, if the hope President Obama brings to the nation and the White House is repaid at even 5%, we'll be in good shape in 4 years.

Meanwhile, thanks to David Rees, author of the now-discontinued "Get Your War On" comic, I offer these key phrases from the Financial Times final editorial on George Bush:

“Executive hubris”
“Imperial overreach”
“Epic incompetence”
“Preternatural ebullience”
“Fathomless lack of curiosity”
“Disdain for empirical reality”
“Most fiscally incontinent (!!!) of presidents”
“Terribly wrong”

Oh, they are so right. Goodbye, jerk. I hope your life in Texas is a miserable one.

Curse You, Pinewood Derby.

This is my son's second year in Cub Scouts. He's not all that into it. Neither am I. I never was a scout, and one of my brothers was, but only for a short time. Anyway, today's scouting just doesn't seem like the scouting I seem to recall from -- gulp -- decades ago. Where's the outdoors? Where's the skills-development? Where's the casualness?

Well, I get the feeling it's all gone the way of the Dodo. Like most other activities for children these days, it is designed only to reward those who can give it 100% of their already over-scheduled time. Go here, do this, take this seminar, be at that meeting, drag your kid out into the cold for a lame-ass gathering at 7 p.m. that consists mostly of rowdy, un-supervised children with fewer manners than a rabid wolverine.

I complain too much.

Nevertheless, I threw myself (for a moment) into the carving of a nice Pinewood Derby racer. Yes, threw myself into it. Even busted out my 13 year old carving knives. And all was going great.

Until I carved halfway into my index finger with a nice, sharp knife. For a while I worried about permanent nerve damage or whether I needed stitches. I probably do, really, but am trying to avoid an ER trip. Band-aids will do.

The Pinewood Derby racecar has become a Pinewood Derby station wagon.

Suh-weet!