everyone keeps saying "we made it"
and it's actually a little confusing
because it's almost like they thought we couldn't
five teenagers on lockdown have never caused so much panic but I guess we're just
the deadbeat generation
(knock once for failure, twice for rebirth, three times to see your life in twenty years-
who knows, maybe you'll have a life in twenty years)
we pick locks on bad days turn back the clocks on good days
if we try hard enough maybe we'll go back to the glory days I wanna blast music from the busted up speakers
in the back of my car I wanna live like I used to
we're anthems and parades and kids crying out in the middle of the night when the hole in their stomach opens up
or closes
we're caught up in a whirlwind of scientific facts and figures and sometimes I want to scream at the top of my lungs
as if that'll help me escape the noise in my head
punk isn't about living through the fall of something it's about living through the rise of me
I am real I am here I will scream it from the ******* rooftops if I have to
I will tap my fingertips on tables even when I'm told not to
I will tattoo myself a thousand times over, an endless mantra of existence
i exist i exist i exist
this isn't a happy ending, or at least it isn't the one I was promised
but it's something
it's okay
and that's good enough because okay is ******* wonderful
lace my fingers with yours call me a queen tell me you'll never let me go because I will never let you go
we are the kids who will never stop living
even when they tell us that we are impossible we are heartbeats pounding on cracked pavement,
leather and cheap beer, lather me in love lay me down to sleep
with the promise of tomorrow
promise me that tomorrow will still be there when I wake up
you can have a house but not a home
I was a house but not a home until I met you
deadbeat degenerates make a better family than most.

Drunk ***** mother
Screws another another
Hard working father
Taxes alimony smother
Kids home alone
Raised by the brother
Trading her food stamps
For ***** like other drunk tramps
In another car wreck
Drunk ***** fine
Hurt the kids neck
Cops and judge say
What the heck
Just keep sending her
That fat check

To the deadbeat I hate to call my father,
I can’t say I hate you, for I would be hating myself.
You walked out of my life when I was four,
Yet came back a decade later asking me to ignore what you put me through,
Asking me to put the past on the highest shelf
Of my metaphorical closet.
I did as you asked, thinking this time around things would be different.
For a year I was overjoyed, you put me before yourself
But as the saying goes, what goes up must come down,
And your façade began to crumble.
Slowly but surely my calls went to voicemail,
My texts were never received,
Our plans rain checked for another day that never came.
I told you it was okay.
I was afraid telling you my feelings would make you runaway.
My anger was taken out on the woman that you hurt
My anger was taken out on the woman you cheated on and abused.
All the horrible things I wanted to say to you, I said to her instead.
My mother, the only parent I truly have, began to call you too.
Everyday, her and I would fight, trying to figure out what to do.
Well I’ve decided I’ve had enough.
You are not a man.
You are unfit to be a father.
You choose your own happiness over mine.
You say I asked for a lot-
When all I wanted was to catch up.
Ten years is a large gap.
I know I’ll see you at family gatherings,
I know I’ll have to deal with you eventually.
But I refuse to be fooled by you again.
You are a coward.
You have three daughters that need their father.
Two of them refer to their step-dad as their only dad.
I unfortunately do not have that luxury for my step father is a lot like you.
They say ignorance is bliss, but that is not the case.
You’ve hurt me too many times and there is no one to blame but myself.
I let you back in.
I listened to your lies.
From now on, I will not hide this problem on that metaphorical shelf.
You are the issue.
I am done with you.
I cannot hate you, as I said before.
Half of me is you.
But half of me is my mother.
The half that is kind and strong and knows when to move on.
I know you’ll want to be a part of my life again, but you’ll be too late.
I thought I needed my father, but I have enough people in my life to fill that role.
You are irrelevant to me.
I do not need you now.
I will not need you later.

Deadbeat
Smelly feet
Walking across its own callouses
Creator of worlds
Perfect inscriber of nameless wonders beyond mere
Conception and discrimination
That permeates the minds of men
Misguided across the arc of ages
Leading only to cycles of
Hollow pain repeating itself
Lacking substance but appearing
Like unmovable boulders perched
Atop greener mountains
That whisper using their voice,
The wind
Carrying its message in its form
Disappearing but never gone
The homeless,
Not content to trap two sided
Ideas of being in overflowing
Homes filled with the true
Forms of out sourcing
The spirit, torn for
Perfect packages to be sent
To faceless names to further
The collection of vessels
Unused.
The wanderer,
Unhappy with goals
Moving towards the never ending
Journey of perfection
That ends nowhere but travels
Everywhere leaving no quarter
Uninvaded and sadly ringing
In transcendental ears
The lonely,
Unwilling to spread their
Personal pain
From personal failures
To any one but themselves
Using the compressed aggregate
Sickness in scientific lobes, only
Representations, to create faucets through which representations
Of the unrepresentative
Eek out an existence
Among glaring, modern edgy
Movements in endless circles
That sear images into retinas
Working their way to ******
Thoughts, deflowering the only
Worthwhile virginity in the sad reflections of experience
Called man.
The ******,
Never fulfilled from false conceptions
Or the self materializing aspect as
The passage of time
Looking to capture the eternal moment and ****** of the Now
Lasting forever but done long
Ago
Chasing the end of self
And forgetting the body for
Higher realms untouched by lazy
Thoughts and repetitive notions
Creating the mundane
The un-mundane is furthur up than most of us can see
Even if touching it is
The experience
Not different from the life you will
Live for a million regressions
The contemporaries
Never travel the
Path of the Mountain
First camels, then lions
Finally to turn into godly offspring of
Flowering being at the peak
Standing above ubiquitous faces
But contact on level planes
The mountain of self
To create a new identity divorced from the diseased blockage
Flowing through humanity's veins
Only to tumble down
Into the pulsating
Heart filling, disintegrating
All in one undiscriminating
Destruction unborn from the
Young universe only
To lose the conception
And absorb the absorber
Forgetting that once,
A young man carried all the
Pain he had handed to himself
In shiny packages
Pretending that the others
Ever even existed.

Songster, not as sinister as they say,
she's no monster, just admittedly
a bit lost in her way.
she caves as I'm walking
down the hall.

I pick her up, off of that flooring,
the rubbery kind, whatever it is,
I guess it's rubber, but the kind that
squeaks when you walk on it after
coming in from the rain; to hell with poetry.

And so anyways I pick her up
and sit her on this bench next to me
and give her about five minutes to come to
terms with breathing and pick shimmering
auburn hair out of the tears smeared across her face,
two, mesmerizing, perfectly blue wells
the source of the streams.
And then I ask her what that
was all about and she blurts out that she

belongs in the Fine Arts Department,
and her car broke down months ago
but her father
doesn't give a **** about it,
because she can't lay up the basketball
or steal the base and so he honorably
lump summed her entire tuition
and sent her to another state
and how ****** she would be
if she had to get a job for the first
time at the age of twenty three
so she wouldn't have to be
dependent on her family and
that she was sick of wondering why
not a single guy had ever given her
a ******* flower
and that if she ever did end up liking one
two weeks later she would find out that he
was exactly the same as the others and

she had a broken look in her eyes

when she said she wondered why we were
all here in the first place, and how we were
made this way, and if people were actually
ever meant to fit together or not;

what if there was nothing as certain
as two halves making a whole?

She wanted to know how everyone's
mind had a different game to play,
she wanted to know why Jupiter
had to be so far away and everything in
between.

We had strolled off of the school grounds by
this time but I still looked twice before pulling out my flask.
I  unscrewed the cap, handed it to her and said

follow me to Deadbeat Hollow,
where we've already thrown
our problems out of the window

and she said

*lets go.

you weren't around much
i wasn't worth your time
you left and said we'd stay in touch
but the days we spent together began to decline
you stopped coming around
you didn't even call
but as I got older I found
that my tears weren't worth it at all
you always said you loved me
but we both know that was a lie
you weren't built to raise a family
you didn't really try
your actions spoke louder than your words
which isn't saying much
your actions showed us you were a ****
considering you left in such a rush
you made it seem like you always put your kids first
when in reality you treated us the worst
i don't really consider you my dad
only because almost every memory I have of you is bad
this is the side of you, that you always hid from me
from now on the only thing I can call you is a deadbeat

Another ******* knocked
Up a girl now holding a pre-****
And he'll run before 9 months
Is up don't need mrs Cleo to predict

And what's to become of
A single mother who's lonely
Victim of repeated history of many
When an I love u is phony

And wuts worse is she
Rather dead beat dad think shed abort
Before pride would allow her to
Find him for child support

So she works 2 jobs
And is stressed in the worst way
Seeing her child sad and empty
From a fatherless birthday

And when she's in school
Grade 1 her teacher asks
Why she's not making a fathers
Day present during arts and crafts

As many schools do in there class
So holidays always was
A let down as her mother says not
To get her hopes up but still she does

Only to be crushed
When Christmas calls
Even though she made clear
She wanted her father to Santa Claus

In both a letter and at the mall
Maybe she's on the naughty list
Now she starts to feel both her
Dad and Santa just don't exist

And all this time moms gotta
Watch her child in pain
While at the same time jealous
That for her child she always remained

And her father did not so
Y is he so important to this
Child she struggled to raise
Then feels guilty at how foolish

It is to be jealous of a man
Who's wanted but didn't want them
But sadly the child isn't the only
One hoping he returns cause when

Dead beat dad beat being a dad
Not just the child was left
But also a woman in love who's
Heartbroken and equally upset

But the child's obsessed
Making it hard to accept for mom
Who's bitter as tension Builds
as her child's now a teen and less calm

And takes her anger out on mom
While stuck in confusion
Pernicious from lack of a father
Figure adding to the pollution

Which may end concluding
With her herself as a single mom
As another high school drop out
Getting pregnant b4 prom

And when she breaks the news
It's déjà vu for a single mom
Now having to see her child
Be a single mom

But two single mom don't make
A single mom cause they
Won't be single long if that single
Bond grows to mentor protege

And soon the child will say
To her mom and new grandmother
A sincere thank u as What her mom
went through she now discovered

What was covered so well
Cause being a single moms hell
So she apologizes to her mom
As she could never tell

The emotional struggles of
abandonment and Heartache
But still have financial stability
And find time to partake

In school dances and plays
Clothes to wear and food to eat
Exhausted from 2 jobs and no
Support by a loving man to rub her feet

And finally after 18 years of
her high hopes that life would make
Her father come back on her birthday or
Christmas Start to fade

So with her high hopes fading
her lifes void dad left starts filling in
of course thats when chills go up moms
spine instinctively As the phone rings.....

Muted, muffled, dull thud on concrete,
Staggered, drunken, half conscious nobody,
Starved, seeking, worried about payments,
**** in hand, knocking on the wrong doors,
Fire and brimstone stoked in the belly,
Mad, strange, appetizing burlesque eyes,
Obnoxious smacking and licking of parched lips,
Rolling on half rationed legs,
Quiet, sullen, mournful footsteps,
Presently placed awkwardly one in front of the other,
Memory serves correctly, destitute, reprise,
Thunderclaps and crashing roars,
Almost forgotten, with great relief,
Soon, very soon, to be lost forever,
Candlelight, sobbing vigils, no power,
Nail, Nail, Nail,
Praise in the box, graffiti walled,
Like a bathroom stall, just as ******,
Docile dissolving vessels,
Brought to the commonplace dropoff,
Settled down and greatly relieved.

Absent father, suffer mother
missing hand that held the other
breath of life, given to smother
the future of sister and brother

Lone star walking roads,
crowbar in hand
cowgirl I'll die for,
I died and I died again,

fluent in 6 country's,
passports; pardons
no cargo,
but luggage is a stainless steel flask,

half full,
half way,
to the moon
if you asked me?

Cadillacs in space,
expensive taste
that's masked with
— the cheap stuff,

inspired souls,
they walk,
and this forsaken path,
they'll never make hell a ***** deed or two from heaven,

counterparts
we're equals,
we're lost
they're my colleagues,

a scandal from remembrance,
remember we followed rules?
no response
****!

there's a shift
in the rubix cube, 
a memo from the warden,
no weapons in the visit room,

coordinating sin,
a taste of gin
before the see you soons,
world was much warm before stone replaced the sand dunes,

scoff at the elixir,
cordially
she casts stones,
******* of a demon crossing ponds is all the child knows,

tales of the fishermen,
who heard it through the corridors,
all and all departed,
with a fear of the other gods,

strictly prohibited,
a swig of the forbidden fruit,
who are you to judge me,
When Your Son Is Not Of Holy Proof!

wedded to a mortal said your honor,
absent i do's,
abstinence is bliss
and your crime ascends civilian law,

guilty -- you're filthy,
your son will never know your soul,
I know my role and play it well,
Your god never admits he's wrong,

so why would I?
— a baby cried,
I'm present for my son's birth,
and leave before an open eye the practice of a perfect curse.

"Worthless waste of space!"
"You thief of my fresh air!"
Useless to the entire world.
Drop dead! No one will care!

Can you feel the hatred baby?
The heated ache inside?
The pulse that beats incessantly?
The disgust I do not hide?

A soul that's non-existent.
No conscience left inside.
If not for jail time, baby,
I'd **** you for my pride!

Imagine an enduring torture,
And the pain that will ensue,
Cause Karma's got a lovely way,
Of catching right up with you.

My seed, my seed, why do I despise thee?
Never, have I been respected for my
Generous gifts given in between thighs.
One mischievous night that I could not flee
And now I’m bound to you through my money.
I did not want you; now you’re always nigh
You somehow stimulate every sigh
Laud’num doesn’t dull your presence, my seed.

Sometimes, I think – but no – my mind’s tangled.
Red *** riddles reveal… nothing. I find
These psychotropic fantasies have slid
Beyond me and you, I could not wrangle.
Years will pass ‘til we meet, but the check’s signed
Because *******, my seed, you’re my kid.

i don't know what my father sounds like when he laughs,
laughs where his sides are splitting and tears are in his eyes.
i only know his grin, his slight chuckle.
honestly, i hardly remember his voice;
something about a southern drawl
gently dabbed on syllables
spit out between the touch of nicotine, wrapped
in paper, to his lips.
i know the clothes that i wear mimic
his choice in clothes, somehow.
i know he will not walk me down the aisle,
and this is my decision.
this is my decision, and it will break my heart.
it will break my heart only
because it will break his,
like genetics somehow link emotion
across generations.
i cannot let him run my life,
like pretending to own a car that
isn't in his name;
borrowed from the person who
washes it gently, details the inside,
maintains its running parts.

turning children into property,
it's like trying to take a house that
you used to live in, years and years ago,
but forgot you had the keys to.
you test the locks, and when the door welcomes you
in for the first steps across a threshold
you call it "home" again.
you forget that there is a family on the couches.
a mother cleaning the kitchen.
a brother fixing the shudders.
the house has moved on,
but cannot bear to close its door to you.

this is our relationship.
this is our dynamic.
it has taught me that it hurts to tell him no.
it is expected for him to not care what hurts.
it has taught me how to run from guilt and shame,
destroying past and future in fits of
self-destructive rage,
just to forget the things i've done
or are happening to me.
it's taught me how it feels for a heart to break
from forgetting pieces of someone it loves.

but this hasn't taught me how to fix it,
and i don't think he knows how to, either.

i see the flyer at starbucks

"are you caucasian?
without mental health
and drug problems?"

wow
i don’t know the answer to any of these questions
is a jew a caucasian?
is the occasional naked, ****-slamming drunken rampage
a drug problem?
as for mental health
i’m a deadbeat poet and unpopular pop musician
i’ve got a job fighting death and boredom
and i just changed my facebook password to "eat ****"
my frustrations have driven weaker souls to homicide
but are these PROBLEMS?

Deadbeat street heat
Dust on the window
Like the dead of night
Screaming like a crow
I didn't mean to fall down
But that's what happens when you move
And as long as you're around
Can you help me keep the groove?

In the storm, keep me warm
Under blankets or your arms
Tune the magic of your mind
And let me breathe in your charm
When the loneliness is killing me
And I know it's killing you
Would you mind if I rang you up,
To help me see it through?

Today is lazy, tomorrow's crazy
I won't worry until then
Because right now is where I'm in
And this dream will never end
Have you thought much about me
Since the sun rose in the West?
Because I haven't been able to keep you out
Though I haven't tried, I guess

Grab your pitchforks run him outta town,
only because his skin is brown.
If he knocks on the door don't let him in,
only because he lacks white skin.
Punch his face with a bang and a whack
only because his skin is black.
Pull out your gun shoot him in the head,
only because he grows his dreads.
Lock him in jail for nothing bad,
call him a loser and a deadbeat dad.

If you don't think you've gone too far,
you're wrong, your soul's as black as coal tar.

Where do you think we're gonna be,
twenty years from now?
when I'm a deadbeat daughter
and you're a drunken *******

and if I'm being honest, I don't really care
I just wanna be where your light is,
I wanna be where you face the dark,
I don't care, I could break down anywhere

'Cause I don't think we broke each other,
I think we broke ourselves

and I'll be Zelda, you be Scott
and I'll paint and dance ballet
and I'll watch you destroy yourself
while I'm wasting away

as long as I'm,
your deadbeat girl

Deadbeat dad,
you can't compete with the patter of tiny feet.

Forever...
Shall I strive to be Mum & Dad in spite of thee.

You had your chance and made your choice
(..."and missed so much" in the saddest voice).

So distant, both in words and deeds,
both empty since you sowed the seed.

He was made with love, only mine.
So listen now...
We'll be just fine!

I am like a firefly in a jar
Never feel that I am getting far
My light burning out, flickering
My screams turn to shouts, slowly, bickering.

I am like a firefly with heavy wings
Around my eyes lay dark rings
I can't lift off, my light is fading
My skin will forever be your shading.

I am stuck in a jar, gravity killing any chances of flight
And lately I have noticed that I never get things right
I am destructive to myself and to you
A deadbeat firefly with nothing to do.

I set up this jar with my own mind
You look for me but will never find
I'm sorry I don't fly for you
I want you to know that this love is true
But you deserve better than a firefly stuck in a jar.

I thought you had mended my wings
But now I see the broken things
No one can change
I don't want to lose you
and everything you do
but you deserve better than this firefly stuck in a jar.

It's not that you aren't good enough
It's that my cracked skin is too tough
Like a second firefly stuck in the same jar
I hold you back when you can go far.

I want you to know that you are the best thing that has happened
But my light will always be blackened
Nothing unjust has given me this
My thoughts lead me spiralling into an abyss

It's not fair that you have to look after this firefly stuck in a jar
After all, I am not going far
You don't have to be stuck with this firefly in a jar.

Delicately pink hearts gently unfurl
From nests of lively minds;
There is nothing weak about Southern women
We are supposed to wear ugly dresses,
Enamel bugs,
French scarves that wrap around and
Tie us all together from the inside out
Football and sassy new haircuts might not make faces look younger,
But they can lift spirits
And just because you spend all day advising others
Of their secret trials
Doesn't mean that you can hold your family in a cage,
Golden and happy though you may want things to be.
Remember that if you feel new, an outsider,
Your personal tragedies seeming too much to bear,
You will always find comfort in laughter
Especially if laughter through tears is your favorite emotion.
You might not pick up boys or money,
But friendship steeps in small salons
Like sweet tea.
Prickly sarcasm and pessimism aren't always the hallmarks
Of a heart devoid of caring,
It's just a natural response after two deadbeat husbands and
Three ungrateful children; somewhere in all of it is a promise
Of hope.
And even in a barren womb new life is discovered,
And even in death joy is found,
And even through pain,
Sisterhood blooms,
Delicate steel petals enveloping grieving hearts.

I am becoming less relevant
In the eyes of the ones I love
Maybe it's just my brain
Shutting down

He posts photos of nature
Does he love her more than me?
She betrayed my friendship
Does it mean anything?

I'm just a one beat song
In a world of musical beings
Writing down words
With awkward spacing

I call poetry my love
I have no idea what I'm doing
Everyone has their someone
I just wish my someone had me

the world is just starting to seem real
clay in a firmer state
studier but harder to mold
and i am still trying to shape it in my hands
without getting it under my nails
... something,

something under my nails
clambering for something to hold onto
anxiety racing, scratching, life catching up to me
why am i bleeding
why am i bleeding
this is supposed to be freeing
i guess i just
pick one of these lines
deeply clawed into my skin
paths like addict,
wash up,
footstool;
lives carefully planned for me since birth

i played trumpet in junior high
so that must mean i'll be a paralegal like my mama
regretting my love choices
regretting my life choices
wasting away at a job i hate
doing work i don't get credit for
destined to fade away lonely

but then again i've got my dad's bad habits
and twice his screaming spirit
so maybe i'll spend half my life in a bottle
and the other half trying to chase the dreams that i ****** away in my twenties

maybe i'll run all over creation
trying to be something bigger
someone stronger

yeah
that sounds about right

The trees juice swallowing
Dread-locks opening the
key to my heart
Pulling Amber Agate to the end
wishing the wagon
was my good luck hand
So helpful than my
hallucination struggling
wilderness mission
Apple abandoned Mcintosh
her computer
The thirst compelled her
So Gingerly lemon tea
4 -2 beer pockets

Four letters not to like
H-E-L-P_$$$
if you only knew abandoned hike
Imagining stew of rabbits
Four people Fast Wendy
4 meals for 4
Sahara desert burger


The Amber ghost of
two wrinkled catalyst
Did time desert me
4:44? Paralyzed list
No Star wars may the
force be with Amberlized
Quicksand lowered
  water was drying
  Her abandoned party
type Diva evaporated lava

Amber the corner of her lip
all pruned couldn't sing
Slenderman slumber nails and dirt
Amber people are the strange
wagon getting hurt

1- Hot it is (..)
2- Is it wrong to feel abandoned
3-Wrong being sold out to Uncle Sam
What was?
4- Was she blinded all alone S-O-S
5- SOS surrender distressed wood belong?
6- Belong to be dumped
near a wagon deadbeat song
7- Song didn't move lonely emptiness
, please help
8- Help wanted not just any sign
9- Sign was stolen and Amber rose
10- Rose so ember plain and desert storm
he gulped
11- Gulped left with one (.)
12- One far two stars bygones
13- Bygone the last line 13 I= phones
Help_
deleted numbers
Now don't disappear on me
I was abandoned too many times
The dirt and the sand stayed still
No cell phone picture to install

Life without a wife
Is like a knife
So strife
For a better life.


Friends,

Life is short, but it is so beautiful. Make use of every minute. Do not waste your time on something worthless. Be always good and wear a smile all the times. Give a hand to all those who are in need of it and always expect the unexpected.

Sam

Today is Thursday, Sept. 25, the 267th day of 2014 with 98 to follow.

The moon is waxing. Morning stars are Jupiter, Uranus and Venus. Evening stars are Mars, Mercury, Neptune and Saturn.

A thought for the day:

Jim Henson, creator of the Muppets, said, The most sophisticated people I know -- inside they are all children.

QUOTES FOR THE DAY:

I don't like being told what to do.

------------------------

I don't need a lot of money. Simplicity is the answer for me.

------------------------

I think hard drugs are disgusting. But I must say, I think marijuana is pretty lightweight.

Linda Eastman McCartney

Half of the American people have never read a newspaper. Half never voted for President. One hopes it is the same half.

Gore Vidal (1925 - )

"Don't worry about failure; you only have to be right once."

Drew Houston


POETRY


MANIC PANIC

Marisa Crawford


Live fast
and dye your hair.

That's what I wrote on my
Converse in 8th grade.

Maybe it was the way
the feeling pulled me

like a girl
pulling a ponytail.

Maybe I didn't get the job
cause of the polka dots.

Maybe I don't care
cause of the wave.

Today I'm blue.
Tomorrow I could be anywhere.

All these pop songs about dying young
like it's gonna be so epic.

The only difference between 8th grade
and now is the blowing up

the use of color
& perspective.

Things that are with you
when you wake up

& you feel like
someone's there.

Same rainbows
under her eyes

clouds floating in the air.


About this poem

"When I wrote 'Manic Panic,' I was thinking about mass violence, about being a kid versus being an adult, about our culture's obsession with staying young forever contrasted with the reality of dying young in some form of violence or tragedy. There's so much focus all around us on the power and allure of youth, on 'stopping aging,' for women in particular, but this poem is about what happens to that power as you keep on living."
-Marisa Crawford

About Marisa Crawford

Marisa Crawford is the author of "The Haunted House" (Switchback Books, 2010). She lives in Brooklyn, N.Y.


*
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.


(c) 2014 Marisa Crawford.
Distributed by King Features Syndicate


A TIP FOR WOMEN


Change your pillow case

What does changing your pillowcase have to do with health and beauty? Everything! Think of everything you use in your hair and on your face ... where do you think it goes at the end of the day? Change your pillowcase often -- about every other night is good -- to prevent breakouts.


JOKES


Barbecue?

As the coals from our barbecue burned down, our hosts passed out marshmallows and long roasting forks.

Just then, two fire trucks roared by, sirens blaring, lights flashing. They stopped at a house right down the block.

All twelve of us raced out of the back yard, down the street, where we found the owners of the blazing house standing by helplessly.

They glared at us with looks of disgust.

Suddenly, we realized why.........we were all still holding our roasting forks with marshmallows on them...


Swimming Lesson

A member of the Country Club asked the lifeguard how he might go about teaching a young lady to swim.

"It takes considerable time and technique." replied the guard. "First you must take her into the water, then place one arm about her waist, hold her tightly, then take her right arm and raise it very slowly..."

"This is certainly most helpful." said the member. "I know that my kid sister will appreciate it."

"Your sister?" said the lifeguard. "In that case, just push her into the deep end of the pool. She'll learn in a hurry."

Tidbits

"To celebrate the 30th anniversary of the moon landing President Bush met with Neil Armstrong. There was one odd moment when President Bush said, 'I hear you're doing well in that Tour de France.'" --Conan O'Brien

---

After examining a woman the doctor took the husband aside, and said, "I don't like the looks of your wife at all."

"Me neither doc," said the husband, "but she's a great cook and really good with the kids.

---

"My son's into extreme sports, my daughter's into extreme makeovers, and my husband's into extreme denial."

Insurance

A client called to report an accident and ask if her insurance rates would go up.

"Our underwriting department determines that", I said. Then I asked for her license number. Verifying her information, I asked, "NMF? Is that N as in Nancy, M as in Mary, and F as in Frank?"

"Well... yes," she said. "But could you please tell your underwriters that it's also N as in Not, M as in My, and F as in fault?"

Computer Virus Humor

Recently, the "Love Bug" Virus circled the globe, damaging computers in it's path. There have recently been some new mutations or variationsof this virus that you should be aware of.

* The "I Love You, But I'm Shy" virus never actually invades your computer, but collects data about it worshipfully from afar.

* The "Love The One You're With" virus hangs around your computer, but the whole thing is just temporary until it can find the computer that it really wants to invade.

* The "Happily Married" virus invades only one computer and stays with it for life.

* The "Unhappily Married" virus spends a long time negotia- ting with a computer, finally invades it, and then strays to other computers from time to time.

* The "I Want A Divorce" virus sends repeated, hard-to-read messages that your computer isn't working and takes half of your computer's best data in an ugly network session.

* The "Stalker" virus spends unnatural amounts of time monitoring your computer, collecting data your computer has thrown away and tries to record all of its functions. And it writes rude messages to any other computer with which yours connects on any regular basis.

* The "Forever Single" virus causes your computer to focus solely on other computers with which it is totally incompatible or prove generally unavailable.

* The "Deadbeat" virus invades your computer, spawns an entirely new database, then refuses to help update it as it grows.


HAVE A DAZZLING THURSDAY!

;and I'm tired
I'm so ******* tired
The stress, the mess, the guess
Where are you?
Why don't we love eachother?
Why do we only come intact when we're lonely?
I'm afraid of commitment yet fear change
A part of me knows that you'll always be here
A deadbeat
Going nowhere fast just trying to make enough cash
And I guess I'm a deadbeat as well
No major goals
Minimal motivation
We're both so impure
I'm so unsure
It's never awkward
Even when we're smoking cigarettes at 2:00 am naked in the moonlight
Ah
Relief
Long enough to keep us alive but short enough not to **** us

For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of *****-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dog tag,
Or better still a dog, a colossal pet beast,
A humongous Harlequin Dane to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is, after all, dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes and boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.

We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo, they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?

You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
He leaves you on the ice floe,
Remembering not to leave the sled,
The proverbial Sled of Abbandono,
The one never left behind,
As it would be needed again,
Why not a home in storage while we wait?
The family will surely need it sometime down the line.

A dignified death?
Who can afford one these days?
The question answers itself:
You are John Goodman in “The Big Lebowski.”
You opt for an empty 2-lb can of Folgers.
You know: "The best part of waking up, is Folger's in your cup!"
That useless mnemonic taught us by “Mad Men.”
Slogans and theme songs imbibe us.

Zombie accouterments,
Provided by America’s Ruling Class.
Thank you Lewis H. Lapham for giving it to us straight.
Why not go with the aluminum Folgers can?
Rather than spend the $300.00 that mook funeral director
Tries to shame you into coughing up,
For the economy-class “Legacy Urn.”
An old seduction:  Madison Avenue’s Gift of Shame.
Does your **** smell?” asks a sultry voice,
Igniting a carpet bomb across the 20-45 female cohort,
2 billion pathetically insecure women,
Spending collectively $10 billion each year—
Still a lot of money, unless it’s a 2013
Variation on an early 1930s Germany theme;
The future we’ve created;
The future we deserve.

Now a wheelbarrow load of paper currency,
Scarcely buy a loaf of bread.
Even if you’re lucky enough to make it,
Back to your cave alive,
After shopping to survive.
Women spend $10 billion a year for worry-free *****.
I don’t read The Wall Street Journal either,
But I’m pretty **** sure,
That “The Feminine Hygiene Division”
Continues to hold a corner office, at
Fear of Shame Corporate Headquarters.
Eventually, FDS will go the way of the weekly ******.
Meanwhile, in God & vaginal deodorant we trust,
Something you buy just to make sure,
Just in case the *** Gods send you a gift.
Some 30-year old **** buddy,
Some linguistically gifted man or woman,
Some he or she who actually enjoys eating your junk:
“Oh Woman, thy name is frailty.”
“Oh Man, thou art a Woman.”
“Oh Art is for Carney in “Harry & Tonto,”
Popping the question: “Dignity in Old Age?”
Will it too, go the way of the weekly ******?
It is pointless to speculate.
Mouthwash--Roll-on antiperspirants--Depends.
Things our primitive ancestors did without,
Playing it safe on the dry savannah,
Where the last 3 drops evaporate in an instant,
Rather than go down your pants,
No matter how much you wiggle & dance.
Think about it!

Think cemeteries, my Geezer friends.
Of course, your first thought is
How nice it would be, laid to rest
In the Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey.
Born a ******. Died a ******. Laid in the grave?
Or Père Lachaise,
Within a stone’s throw of Jim Morrison--
Lying impudently,
Embraced, held close by loving soil,
Caressed, held close by a Jack Daniels-laced mud pie.
Or, with Ulysses S. Grant, giving new life to the quandary:
Who else is buried in the freaking tomb?
Bury my heart with Abraham in Springfield.
Enshrine my body in the Taj Mahal,
Build for me a pyramid, says Busta Cheops.

Something simple, perhaps, like yourself.
Or, like our old partner in crime:
Lee Harvey, in death, achieving the soul of brevity,
Like Cher and Madonna a one-name celebrity,
A simple yet obscure grave stone carving:  OSWALD.
Perhaps a burial at sea? All the old salts like to go there.
Your corpse wrapped in white duct/duck tape,
Still frozen after months of West Pac naval maneuvers,
The CO complying with the Department of the Navy Operations Manual,
Offering this service on « An operations-permitting basis, »
About as much latitude given any would-be Ahab,
Shortlisted for Command-at-sea.
So your body is literally frozen stiff,
Frozen solid for six months packed,
Spooned between 50-lb sacks of green beans & carrots.
Deep down in the deep freeze,
Within the Deep Freeze :
The ship’s storekeeper has a cryogenic *******
Deep down in his private sanctuary,
Privacy in the bowels of the ship.
While up on deck you slide smoothly down the pine plank,
Old Glory billowing in the sea breeze,
Emptying you out into the great abyss of
Some random forlorn ocean.

Perhaps you are a ******* lunatic?
Maybe you likee—Shut the **** up, Queequeg !
Perhaps you want a variation on the burial-at-sea option ?
Here’s mine, as presently set down in print,
Lawyer-prepared, notarized and filed at the Court of the Grand Vizier,
Copies of same in safe deposit boxes,
One of many benefits Chase offers free to disabled Vets,
Demonstrating, again, my zombie-like allegiance to the rules.
But I digress.
« The true measure of one’s life »
Said most often by those we leave behind,
Is the wealth—if any—we leave behind.
The fact that we cling to bank accounts,
Bank safe deposit boxes,
Legal aide & real estate,
Insurance, and/or cash . . .
Just emphasizes the foregone conclusion,
For those who followed the rules.
Those of us living frugally,
Sustaining the zombie trance all these years.
You can jazz it up—go ahead, call it your « Work Ethic. »
But you might want to hesitate before you celebrate
Your unimpeachable character & patriotism.

What is the root of Max Weber’s WORK ETHIC concept?
‘Tis one’s grossly misplaced, misguided, & misspent neurosis.
Unmasked, shown vulnerably pink & naked, at last.
Truth is: The harder we work, the more we lay bare
The Third World Hunger in our souls.
But again, I digress.  Variation on a Theme :
At death my body is quick-frozen.
Then dismembered, then ground down
To the consistency of water-injected hamburger,
Meat further frozen and Fedex-ed to San Diego,
Home of our beloved Pacific Fleet.
Stowed in a floating Deep Freeze where glazed storekeepers
Sate the lecherous Commissary Officer,
Aboard some soon-to-be underway—
Underway: The Only Way
Echo the Old Salts, a moribund Greek Chorus
Goofing still on the burial-at-sea concept.

Underway to that sacred specific spot,
Let's call it The Golden Shellback,
Where the Equator intersects,
Crosses perpendicular,
The International Dateline,
Where my defrosted corpse nuggets,
Are now sprinkled over the sea,
While Ray Charles sings his snarky
Child Support & Alimony
His voice blasting out the 1MC,
She’s eating steak.  I’m eating baloney.
Ray is the voice of disgruntlement,
Palpable and snide in the trade winds,
Perhaps the lost chord everyone has been looking for:
Laughing till we cry at ourselves,
Our small corpse kernels, chum for sharks.

In a nutshell—being the crazy *******’ve come to love-
Chop me up and feed me to the Orcas,
Just do it ! NIKE!
That’s right, a $commercial right in the middle of a ******* poem!
Do it where the Equator crosses the Dateline :
A sailors’ sacred vortex: isn’t it ?
Wouldn’t you say, Shipmates, one and all?
I’m talking Conrad’s Marlow, here, man!
Call me Ishmael or Queequeg.
Thor Heyerdahl or Tristan Jones,
Bogart’s Queeq & Ensign Pulver,
Wayward sailors, one and all.
And me, of course, aboard the one ride I could not miss,
Even if it means my Amusement Park pass expires.
Ceremony at sea ?
Absolutely vital, I suppose,
Given the monotony and routine,
Of the ship’s relentlessly vacant seascape.
« There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea,
And I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates. «
So said James Russell Lowell,
One of the so-called Fireside Poets,
With Longfellow and Bryant,
Whittier, the Quaker and Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.,
19th Century American hipsters, one and all.

Then there’s CREMATION,
A low-cost option unavailable to practicing Jews.
« Ashes to ashes »  remains its simplest definition.
LOW-COST remains its operant phrase & universal appeal.
No Deed to a 2by6by6 foot plot of real estate,
Paid for in advance for perpetuity—
Although I suggest reading the fine print—
Our grass--once maintained by Japanese gardeners--
Now a lost art in Southern California,
Now that little Tokyo's finest no longer
Cut, edge & manicure, transform our lawns
Into a Bonsai ornamental wonderland.
Today illegal/legal Mexicans employing
More of a subtropical slash & burn technique.

Cremation : no chunk of marble,
No sandstone, wood or cardboard marker,
Plus the cost of engraving and site installation.
Quoth the children: "****, you’re talking $30K to
Put the old ****** in the ground? Cheap **** never
Gave me $30K for college, let alone a house down payment.
What’s my low-cost, legitimate disposal going to run me?"

CREMATION : they burn your corpse in Auschwitz ovens.
You are reduced to a few pounds of cigar ash.
Now the funeral industry catches you with your **** out.
You must (1) pay to have your ashes stored,
Or (2) take them away in a gilded crate that,
Again, you must pay for.
So you slide into Walter Sobjak,
The Dude’s principal amigo,
And bowling partner in the
Brothers Coen masterpiece: The Big Lebowski.
You head to the nearest Safeway for a 2-lb can of Folgers.
And while we’re on the subject of cremation & the Jews,
Think for a moment on the horror of The Holocaust:
Dispossessed & utterly destroyed, one last indignity:
Corpses disposed of by cremation,
For Jews, an utterly unacceptable burial rite.
Now before we leave Mr. Sobjak,
Who is, as you know, a deeply disturbed Vietnam vet,
Who settles bowling alley protocol disputations,
By brandishing, by threatening the weak-minded,
With a loaded piece, the same piece John Turturro—
Stealing the movie as usual, this time as Jesus Quintana—
Bragging how he will stick it up Walter’s culo,
Pulling the trigger until it goes: Click-Click-Click!
Terrestrial burial or cremation?
For me:  Burial at Sea:
Slice me, dice me into shark food.

Or maybe something a la Werner von Braun:
Your dead meat shot out into space;
A personal space probe & voyager,
A trajectory of one’s own choosing?

Oh hell, why not skip right down to the nitty gritty bottom line?
Current technology: to wit, your entire life record,
Your body and history digitized & downloaded
To a Zip Drive the size of the average *******,
A data disc then Fedex-ed anywhere in the galaxy,
Including exotic burial alternatives,
Like some Martian Kilimanjaro,
Where the tiger stalks above the clouds,
Nary a one with a freaking clue that can explain
Just what the cat was doing up so high in the first place.
Or, better still, inside a Sherpa’s ***** pack,
A pocket imbued with the same Yak dung,
Tenzing Norgay massages daily into his *******,
Defending the Free World against Communism & crotch rot.
(Forgive me: I am a child of the Cold War.)
Why not? Your life & death moments
Zapped into a Zip Drive, bytes and bits,
Submicroscopic and sublime.
So easy to delete, should your genetic subgroup
Be targeted for elimination.
About now you begin to realize that
A two-pound aluminum Folgers can
Is not such a bad idea.
No matter; the future is unpersons,
The Ministry of Information will in charge.
The People of Fort Meade--those wacky surveillance folks--
Cloistered in the rolling hills of Anne Arundel County.
That’s who will be calling the shots,
Picking the spots from now on.
Welcome to Cyber Command.
Say hello to Big Brother.
Say “GOOD-BYE PRIVACY.”

Meanwhile, you’re spending most of your time
Fretting ‘bout your last rites--if any—
Burial plots on land and sea, & other options,
Such as whether or not to go with the
Concrete outer casket,
Whether or not you prefer a Joe Cocker,
Leon Russell or Ray Charles 3-D hologram
Singing at your memorial service.
While I am fish food for the Golden Shellbacks,
I am a fine young son of Neptune,
We are Old Salts, one and all,
Buried or burned or shot into space odysseys,
Or digitized on a data disc the size of
An average human *******.
Snap outta it, Einstein!
Like everyone else,
You’ve been fooled again.

When Jesus walked away from my i didn't care
In my life, he had never really been there
Just a force I confessed to once a week
I didn't miss his prescence

In my life, he had never really been there
Like a deadbeat daddy who never cared
I didn't miss his prescence
He's departure hurt, but not enough

Like a deadbeat daddy who never cared
He let mother, brother, sister fall
He's departure hurt, but not enough
He was never there to begin with

He let mother, brother, sister fall
I don't think he ever cared or loved
He was never there to begin with


I don't think he ever cared or loved
In my life, he had never really been there
Just a force I confessed to once a week
When Jesus walked away from me I didn't care