My mac has had one too many nervous breakdowns and is headed for the hospital this afternoon.  I expect to be without him for 2-3 days while they ream out all the boogey Men and Trojan Horses. I hope it doesn't take any longer. I'm uneasy when I'm away from HP. This is where all my dreams are safely stashed.  Please leave the light on for me.

This ****** Mac is still not working
I know there is an evil lurking
I took it to the Nerd-king’s shop
And told them to give it a pop
I picked it up this very morning
And they did not give me a warning
They said it now was working fine
Yet I can’t type a decent line
All the bugs are still a-bugging
So once again I’m back a-lugging
This thing to them for one more try
If they can’t fix it I will cry
And drown them all in floods of tears
And go to jail for 20 years.
So I’ll be here a day or two
And gone again a half week through
Thanks to those who wished me well
I love you more than words can tell.
Reminding you for one last time
To never say that I can’t rhyme.
ljm

My little brush with small dustpan
Is called a Table Crumber.
But I do not do fancy meals
That worry about bread crumbs

Instead it often sweeps behind
The Kitchen cupboard baseboards
For all the bits that fall that way
While I’m preparing dinner.

The standard broom is way too big
To get into those corners
To find the crumbs and bacon bits
That fly off of the counter.

So while its job is alternate
And not in fancy settings
My little brush is valuable
A fact Im not forgetting.
                             ljm

IDES OF MARCH

What’s the purpose of it all
It’s only raining dust and grit.
The sky is weeping spatter
And the only sidewalk is
On the far side of the street.

They shined up Highway 95
But out front here is nothing
But deep breaches in the tarmac
And anything that doesn’t hurt
Me manages to itch.

All the good stuff is locked up
In upstairs rooms down endless halls
Where something has been splashed
Across the carpeting
And the door is always padlocked.

The book inside is second handed
And it’s marked up in random places
That don’t align with what
The index says should be there
And the Ex Libris page is missing.

The day is pecking at its shell
Of hopelessness and need
In hopes of gaining freedom.
The prayer wheel is no longer spinning
And the crimson candle has gone out.

There are reasons for it all
It’s written up in Sanskrit ink
And plastered on the backyard wall
That keeps it all inside or out
And I’m stuck in the middle.
ljm

Tarnished sequin in the Jewel shop of life.

How did I get put in with the diamonds?

I don’t pretend to even be Zirconium.

I’m not where I belong and don’t blend in.

Where’s the art and crafts department.

That’s where I hold court

And sometimes get to be the Queen.

ljm

In one of
my many
lifetimes, when
I was a child,
my dad had a
sprawling stretch
of land in
Missouri.
He had 200
head of cattle.
We used to run
the cows we
bought at auction
through this
shoot with wooden
beams that closed
on their necks.
My stepmom took
this gun-like object
and put an orange
tag in their ear.

My brother and I used
to play with this black and
white steer.
We called him old #56
because of the number on
his tag.
We chased him, and then he
chased us.
I felt bad for
him, the tag in
his ear.
I talked to my
dad about it.
He said if the steer
ever got lost,
we could find him.
I felt good about that.
I didn't want to lose him.

One night
the following summer,
we were sitting down for
dinner.
I hadn't seen
old #56 for a while.
I asked Dad where
he was.
He didn't say anything.
We were having
t-bone steaks.

As I write this,
my black and white
kitten, Bukowski,
bites at the pen and
tries to wrestle my
wrist as it moves across
the paper.
I'm glad that he
isn't a steer.

I explored the
depths of hell, and
found it wanting,
wandering the streets,
looking for a utopia.
Not all that shines is
the sun.
Pictures can be
doctored, and when the
layers are peeled away
the purple horizon isn't
royal.
It's a ghastly negative,
with black and white
images that lack
love and depth.

All the potions are placebos.
It's temporary and tiring.
When I grew up,
I stopped playing with
toys, they break and
disappoint, and worse yet,
they leave me empty and hungry.

The sky-pilot found me
and I am full,
belly and soul.
Besides still waters,
green is my bed.

the interior     night
he divided a dream into many dreams
worlds opened    diva-ing
and flares   pething out of darkness
seeming obedient  at first
                                 he visited
in truth      they were playful
  but explored his ugly secret details
        and gave no hint of a healing effect

deceived   he was tossed
   exhausted into a new day
                      of occupation and toil