New Universal sign for Gasoline - Gas Next Exit

Bad Drivers - Type 12

There are a lot of bad drivers out there; cranky truck drivers, blue-haired old ladies, drunks and cranky, drunk, old lady truck drivers. My favorite bad driver is the "drivers-seat couch potato". This type is invariably a middle aged white man. You know that type I am talking about. They are usually driving big old boats, like Chevy Impalas or Pontiac Catalinas with the seat reclined so far that if it was any further back they would be entirely supine. You normally see them zipping down the highway with their arms draped around the front seat, like it was a cheap date, doing speeds in excess of 80 miles per hour. The only thing missing from this scene is a remote control in one hand a can of beer in the other. They are so mellow and laid back that if they had to hit the break they would have traveled about 3.7 miles before they were able to come to a stop. Their attitude and posture is more appropriate for sitting in the couch in their boxers on a Sunday morning than controlling a 2 ton hurling piece of metal. Do you think you can humor me and at least PRETEND that you care and that you are paying attention? These are they guys for whom they invented the rumble strip. Opps, I nodded off there, what were you saying, again?

The Recitation

The Recitation

Little people pray
with a heavy tome
across their lap;
children really. Seated
below stern eyes downcast;
closed. They rock and recite
empty words, just sound .
Just an echo,
in a shadow.

Oh, Lord where are you?
Do you dwell in the east?
Oh, Lord where are you?
Are you up there?
Or like fair Orion rising,
in the minds eye, otherwise
naught, but
a collection of stars?

Most surely there is a sign
in that idle worship and incense.
Most surely there is a sign.
I believe, I must,
for I have nothing else
to matter; nothing else.
Guidance is given
to the end to the lost,.
Pieces to a puzzle incomplete,
ours is to try
and put it all in sense.
Ours fate is to repeat
this time, to repeat this line,
in the name of god,
in the name of god.
Why?

JIHAD

I declare a jihad upon jihadists. I declare war on war. I wish terror upon terrorists. Its time we got up off our couches and got angry. We are under attack by barbarians; lowlife pond sucking scum who don’t deserve to breathe the air of decent people. This means you Al-sadr, you piece of S**T hiding in Iran and all the other dickheads like you. I would like to meet you on the street and then I would show what occupation is! I want nothing more for you to read this blog, but you probably can’t read. I urge every American to fight these people in anyway they can. You people picketing the war, hey, I am glad that you have your rights to free speech. I admire you, but where are the crowds decrying the insanity that comes with radical Islam? Its time we see crowds of people in Washington demanding that something is done against these people. Its time! Rise up!

SKY WAVES WATER FISH

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For You Tim

Plug in.
Tune up.
Turn on and
Rock out!

I am

An early April peeper sings
out its lonsesome solo song.
One voice against the gathering night
that goes on and on and on.
I am here, I am here, I am here
it says, announcing that it is
and all that matters is to be
alive on a night like this.


Writing is an interesting art form. Sometimes things come to you in a flash of inspiration and at other times they come in dribs and drabs. Some poems, after a little work, are “finished”, others I chew on, sometimes for years. The poem 9 11 was like that. I started that in 2001 and finished it this year, though there are still elements I am dissatisfied with. I may tinker with a word or two and never be quite satisfied with it even after many years reflection. The above poem came in a flash and after little tinkering, I am quite happy. Is it “finished” though? I am not sure. It seems like it could be, but it also seems like there is more to say. We will have to see. I like this poem a lot though and see it as an important work for me, because I love the “music” in the poem, the sounds of the vowels and consonants. Read it slowly out loud to see what I mean. I hope you enjoy it.

Pet Peeve of the Day

I have many pet peeves; little things that make my skin crawl and my brain squirm. Things that make me want to go find a Louisville Slugger and take my frustration out on…someone…deserving.

Today’s pet peeve is those flyers or ads that they put in magazines. You know the ones; the little squares of paper which, as soon as you open the magazine, about a hundred of these things fall out. At least these are easy to deal with. I just grab the mag. and shake it good before I look through it.

The really annoying ones are the type that is actually glued in; where you have to tear the binding apart to get them out. It wouldn’t be too bad, but ever time you open the mag you open to these stupid things. They are so big now too that it is hard to flip through any magazine, because the ads keep stumbling you up, you can’t find what you are looking for. Is there really someone out there who thinks that these techniques work to ensure that people read these ads? Well they DO NOT!

It doesn’t help that each page isn’t numbered so you have to go page by page to finally find that the article on page 57 ends on page 202, but there is no page 200 and there are a dozen missing page numbers in between.

These things never used to bother me so, but since in this day and age my pleasure reading has decayed from novels and weighty subjects to magazine fare ( I read about a dozen mags per month, including National Geographic, Birds in Bloom – Lynns mag, Guitar Player, Astronomy, Scientific American, and Maxim – that last bastion of high-brow literature ), it has annoyed me so that it has become one, on a lengthy and growing list, of pet peeves. GRRR~!