The Most Important Lesson of All

Transmitted by Dr. Don Cornelius in Nepal
Thursday, March 19, 2009

1. May I accept all that arises regardless of my wishes.
2. May I accept all that arises with equanimity.
3. I merit my karma. Happiness and unhappiness are a result of my actions, not of my wishes.

Everyone has to have a guru in his life. Mine just happens to be a 70 year old dude named Don, who used to teach Social Work at Molloy.

For ten years I did all I could to shock, provoke, and annoy Don, as is my custom with just about everyone I meet. Now, as anyone who knows me well will tell you, I have an amazing ability to piss people off. It's my special gift, actually. I do it without even really trying. But nothing I did or said ever fazed Don in the slightest. He would just look at me with complete equanimity and smile at me as though I was a silly, wayward seven year old.

Turns out that Don was a practicing Buddhist in the Vipassana tradition, and, unlike many so-called religious types actually tried to practice what he preached. Once when I was particularly agitated, he shared with me his secret for staying so damned peaceful all the time. "Just remember, Mike," he would tell me. "It is what it is."

It is what it is? I had no idea what the fuck that was supposed to mean. But I was intrigued by the success that Don had in dealing with life's adversities without ever becoming agitated or mean-spirited. His life was filled with no small share of suffering - like everyone's life, I suppose. But unlike most people, he used his pain to help him gain a greater perspective on the human condition and to rise above the ego-centered reactions that most of us have when faced with suffering.

Last spring when we were in Nepal together, a student protest completely stopped all traffic and we were stuck for hours in a shit-ass, god-forsaken, garbage strewn town in the middle of nowhere. The weather was about 95 degrees and the flies were picking voraciously at my flesh. After about two hours of pacing back and forth, getting dizzy from breathing in the fumes of the thousands of cars, trucks, and buses idling on the road, I was about ready to explode. Then I looked over and saw Don sitting on a rock, his eyes closed, in his typical meditative posture. I went over and asked him how he could stay so calm when we could be trapped in this hellish spot forever. That's when he shared the three teachings of the Buddha that he had made central to his own outlook on life:

May I accept all that arises regardless of my wishes.

May I accept all that arises with equanimity.

I merit my karma. Happiness and unhappiness are a result of my actions, not of my wishes.

He was putting these teaching into practice at the very moment when the rest of us were bitching and moaning about how unfair life was. For Don, life was neither fair nor unfair. It just was what it was. You could rage against the inevitable - in this case, the idiotic student protest that left us trapped in the middle of Nepal - or you could just learn to accept it and move on.

Hearing those words come out of Don's mouth and witnessing his Buddha-like tranquility even in such an inauspicious context, helped to calm me down tremendously. And just when I was becoming prepared to sit out the protest for another six hours, the traffic miraculously began moving again. That's the way life is, I guess. Good and bad, suffering and joy all mixed together. What Don taught me that day was that, although pain and adversity are an inevitable part of our human reality, suffering doesn't have to be. It's all a matter of perspective.

The Lessons of Springtime

1. It Doesn't Pay to Be Pretty

The young children
in the neighborhood
invariably pass by
my budding
azalea bushes,
hardly noticing them at all.
But over the years
I have learned
the most important lesson
of springtime:
you must always appreciate
beautiful things
while you have them
and solemnly morn them
when they are gone,
for everything in this
ebb and flow universe
is a precious gift,
available only to those
with open eyes.

2. The Devil Has a Furry Tail

The godless squirrels
have dug up my
zoysia plugs
for the fifth time
this week.
I know that
squirrels are
hard-wired
by nature
to unearth their nuts
in the dew-dappled
month of May
when the ground has
sufficiently thawed,
and that my
poor front lawn
is nothing more than
collateral damage,
in the wonderful
pageant that is
springtime.
It still doesn’t make me
hate the little bastards
any less.

3. Nature is a Cosmic Snuff Fest

Spring rains
pour over the tiny seedlings
in my garden,
bending them almost
to the ground.
Some of the weaker
plants will perish
under the rain’s fury,
but the stronger ones
always manage
to survive…
Take this lesson
to heart,
my son:
nature despises
weak things.

4. If You're Useless, You Will Die

The weeds
in my garden
always get
pulled up
by their
little asses
and left to die
a hideous death
in the blistering heat
of the midday sun.
I suppose
someone should mourn
their untimely demise,
but no one seems
to give a damn.
They’re only weeds,
after all.

there was a boy who smelled like cheese

Here is my completely vulgar version of "The Boy Who Smelled Like Cocoa." Same general theme, different smell, and completely different attitude.

there was
............a boy
............who smelt like
cheese—
.............not just
.....................any kind-a cheese,
........but a............fully ripened,
........highly aromatic
................................cheese,
........like some kind-a
.......................gorgonzola
.............fuckin' kind-a
......................................cheese.

he sat
........in the seat right next to me
on the
.........bx-55 going to pelham bay,
and I thought
.........the smell of him
.........would drive me
................completely bonkers,
because he smelt like,
......................well,
...........................cheese.

“boy,”
.............I said,
“can’t you go
.......sit down

............somewhere else
....on this bus,
so I don’t have
..........t’smell............your cheesy
....................smell?”
but the boy
..............just looked at me
.........with a sad
............sort-a look
................. ‘n said,
“man,
.......you need some
..................beautiful stank
.....in yo life,
.......‘cause
.................you is jes too fuckin’ clean
.................fo this world.
.................you is so clean dat
.................even........yo........asshole
...........don’t stank
................da way
.....................it should."

at that
...........i shed a small tear
........................for myself
...................and all humanity
........................because I realized
he had
....cheesy righteousness in abundance
.............and i
.............had none
.............at all.
I tried to
.......to thank him
...............for his
...............ripe counsel,
but when I turned around
.........he was gone,
.........pooof,
...............disappeared right off
.........................the bx 55
...............bus to paradise.

And nothing remained
.........at all
.........of that.......small.........boy,
.............................(saintly sage of
.............................putrid profundity),
not even
........the slightest hint
....................of his cheesy aura.

Small Package

Street scene: They bump into each other on Broadway. Eyes meet. Pleasantries are exchanged. They fall in love almost instantly.
.....“I’ve waited my whole life for a girl like you,” the man says.
.....“I fell in love with you the minute I saw your blues eyes staring down at me,” she says.
.....“It’s just like some kind of fairy tale,” he replies.
.....“Like Cinderella and Prince Charming.”
.....“…or Brad and Angelina.”
.....“You don’t mind that I’m a little person?” she asks.
.....“Not at all,” he answers, holding her tiny hand in his. “I’ve always favored petite women.”
.....“Some men are turned off by my size,” she says with obvious embarrassment.
.....“That’s nonsense,” he says. “Wonderful things come in small packages.”
.....“I’m glad you feel that way,” she says.
.....“Listen,” he says with some hesitation, not wanting to appear too aggressive. ”I know this fabulous little bistro on 12th street. Would you consider having lunch there with me?”
.....“But we’re on 48th street,” she replies with alarm. “It’s such a long walk, and I have such small legs.”
.....“That’s no problem at all,” he says confidently. “Allow me…” Then he picks her up and puts her snugly in his shirt pocket.
.....“Comfy?” he asks.
.....“Extremely,” she replies, admiring his angular chin from her seat inside his pocket. “I just hope I’m not too heavy for you.”
.....“Heavy?” he says. “Why my cellphone is heavier than you are.”
.....“You’re so funny,” she giggles coyly. “What did I ever do to deserve a man like you?”
.....“No, I’m the lucky one,” he insists. “I’ve always wanted a pocket-sized girlfriend.”
.....“I also fit in glove compartments and handbags,” she adds with evident pride.
.....“This is going to be the perfect relationship,” he says as they stroll down Broadway. “Just think of how much I’m going to save on the price of movie admissions.”

It Happened on the E Train

Fat man on the E Train. The AC is not working and the car is sweltering. The inside temperature must be close to 90 degrees. Rivers of sweat pour down the man’s face; his suit is drenched with perspiration. It is so hot that he is having trouble breathing. “Two more stops to 52nd street and I’ll finally be off this infernal train,” he thinks to himself optimistically. But, for no apparent reason, the train suddenly stops in the tunnel between 23rd street and 34th street. The conductor assures the passengers that the train will be moving soon, but the car continues to remain motionless in the tunnel. With every minute they are sitting idle in the tunnel, the temperature in the train rises another degree. An hour goes by, and then another. Still no sign at all that the train will be moving any time soon. Gallons of fluid continue to pour from the man’s body, like a great waterfall. Finally the train begins to move. When the doors open at 34th street, all that remains of the man is his $1,200 Brooks Brother’s suit and his black patent leather loafers lying in a puddle on the floor of the train. Maintenance crews quickly mop up the water, and the suit and shoes are donated to a local charity providing free counseling sessions to maladjusted French poodles.

Twelve Set Pieces for Raising Interplanetary Conciousness

1. Do the mad moonlight mambo in the dead of night with the feral cats in fedoras hanging out by the pool tables. If they refuse your request to dance, threaten to take away their cigarettes and catnip.

2. Drink two gallons of Cherry-Berry Kool-Aid as quickly as you can and wait at least 30 minutes without going to the bathroom. Go to the corner and walk down the street backwards while urinating. See if you can do this the whole way down the block without pissing on your suede shoes. Note: This piece does not work well for women, unless they were born in Southern New Jersey.

3. Creature comforts must all be left behind on the journey for personal and planetary perfection. Tighten your loincloth for the quest and take only what can be carried comfortably in the space between your spleen and your kidney. For safety, keep your passport hidden at all times in one of the folds in your large intestine.

4. Rave, rave, then rave some more…like the mad, manic ones who rule the galaxy from afar. If you rave loudly enough the mother ship will suddenly appear to take you back to your homeworld.

5. Every minute of your life is a swift descent into the grave. You can forestall the inevitable demise, but only if you follow the methods of the great Himalayan sadus: Go to the sacred spot on the river where they burn the shrouded corpses, strip down, and spread the ashes of the dead all over your body. Then start walking due north until you come to the place at the foot of the sacred mountain where the holy ones dwell. Stand there perfectly still until the end of the Kali Yuga in approximately 10,000 years. You will be old and decrepit by that time, but your thighs will be absolutely amazing from standing in one place for so long.

6. To prevent gaseous emission from occurring during interplanetary trips—totally unpleasant for your fellow travelers—be sure to get plenty of sleep the night before you depart, eat a healthy lunch of mustard greens with wasabi and ginger no more than two hours before you get on the spacecraft, take 6mgs of Lotromitiozol every four hours to prevent air pockets from forming in your bowls, and be sure to keep yourself properly hydrated during the flight by continuously drinking either diet Dr. Pepper or Orange Squeeze……Or just take a shit instead.

7. Above all else, never, and I mean never, try to kiss the thin-lipped octopuses who sunbathe in the rocky coves on the fifth continent of the third planet in the fourth solar system (no matter how cute they might seem in their bathing suits!) They rarely are satisfied with just a kiss, and you will inevitably loose your self-respect and your reputation. If you find it impossible to say no to their charms, at least insist that they buy you a drink afterwards.

8. It has been said that seed should never be scattered on rocky ground, but this is a lie. I say, scatter yours far and wide wherever you can, and watch as the evil yellow weeds creep up from the cracks in the ground where they fell. Those weeds are strong, much stronger than the shoots that spring from wimpy mustard seeds. They eat mustard plants for breakfast and small children for lunch.

9. Pull the daisy out of your ass. It has already been fertilized, so it should grow fairly quickly in properly prepared soil.

10. On one of the stalls in the men’s restroom at the rest stop off Route 111 on Seti 9 someone wrote: “For a good time, call Schlomo Golberg at 001-000472-234-7707." But anyone who knows Schlomo will tell you he’s definitely not worth the money, even with his additional fifth appendage.

11. When you get back home, and your mother asks you where you’ve been for the past three months, just tell her that you were on an interplanetary mission to explore strange new life on a planet called Earth in a distant solar system called the Milky Way. When your mother slaps you across your fifth cheek with her left dorsal fin for lying to her, tell her instead that you were out on a continual bender with the boys and were unconscious most of the time so you couldn’t call her. This should appease her and may spare you from getting your schnitzula beaten raw with her clitemzola minkscoffy.

12. When you see him, tell Pauley Ragutso that he still owes me $12.50 for the beer I got him last week. If he refuses to give you the money, tie him up in a sack with George W. Bush, and beat the sack vigorously at least 17 times with a tire iron. This will accomplish absolutely nothing but is great exercise for the shoulders and upper back.

Redemption

The women in the office keep telling me that I’m not sentimental enough. So to prove them wrong, I thought I’d try writing something romantic for a change.


Mr. Morris Jellenick was the ultimate nobody—the kind of fellow who inspired contempt in others because of the utter pointlessness of his life.
.....Every morning for the past thirty years, his wife, Costanza, would remind him of just how insignificant he actually was. “If you were any less of a man,” she’d say to him, “you’d have breasts and a vagina”. Or, “I’d tell you to grow a pair of testicles, but they wouldn’t be any use to you anyway.”
.....And every morning, he would try to ignore her rants, focusing with studied intensity on the high fiber, low fat breakfast cereal he was forced to eat to keep his cholesterol levels down. “I’m just going to eat my breakfast quietly and, as it is written in the Good Book, turn the other cheek,” he’d say to himself. But every time Morris tried to turn the other cheek to his wife’s incessant abuse, she would slap him across the face with her meaty hand.
.....At his job, working as a quality control manager at the local bubble-wrap factory, Morris was subject to similar abuse. “Hey, Morris, “ his colleagues would joke, “what sort of sick stuff do you do those rolls of bubble-wrap you’re always foolin’ around with in the back office?…I hear there’s a lonely roll in the warehouse that keeps askin’ for your telephone number. Har, har, har….”
.....But Morris ignored their cruel barbs and offered his sufferings up to Christ. “If our savior could endure the cross,” Morris would remind himself, “then surely I can suffer this with equanimity.” And he would go on examining roll after roll of bubble-wrap for defects, reciting the rosary in his head to drown out the endless insults of his coworkers.
.....Every Saturday morning, Morris would go to confession at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows Church in Perth Amboy to confess his sins to Fr. Marchese, the local parish priest. The problem was that Morris didn’t have any really interesting sins to confess and this irritated Fr. Marchese considerably. One day, Fr. Marchese had more than his normal usual amount of scotch for breakfast, and was feeling particularly sadistic when Morris came into the confessional.
.....“Bless me father for I have sinned,” Morris began as usual. “It has been one week since my last confession.”
.....“Lemme guess,” Fr. Marchese slurred, barely able to hold his head up from all the booze he had consumed. “You weren’t as understanding as you could have been with your bitch of a wife and you bought yourself a cup of coffee at Starbucks instead of putting the money into the collection plate.”
.....“How did you know father?” Morris asked with amazement.
.....“Because, you pathetic piece of shit,” snapped Fr. Marchese, unable to control himself any longer, “you come in here every week, and every week you have the same goddamn idiotic sins to confess. And the sad part is that they’re not really sins at all. I know 70 year old Italian widows who have more sordid things to confess than you do!”
.....“What are you trying to say, Father?” Morris asked completely befuddled.
.....“What I’m trying to say,” said Fr. Marchese, doing all he could to prevent himself from sliding out of his chair and onto the floor, “is that I don’t want to see you again until you have something to confess that is going to provide me some legitimate titillation. You think it’s easy being a priest. This is all I have—well this and the occasional altar boy—and if I don’t get to hear something really juicy, then, goddamn it, you are going to be banned from the confessional.” With that Fr. Marchese slumped over in his chair and began snoring loudly. Confession was over for that particular day.
.....“Well I guess that if a holy man like Fr. Marchese thinks that it would aid my spiritual life to commit some flagrant act of sin, then I suppose I should consider it,” Morris postulated. “Men of God always know what’s best for members of their flock.”
.....When he got home after Church, Morris locked himself in the bathroom to avoid being disturbed by his wife and thought carefully about all the possible sins he could commit. There were a number of options that he though might satisfy Fr. Marchese’s need for titillation. He quickly ruled out murder, blackmail and larceny, because he was just not that kind of person, and eventually settled on adultery as a suitably offensive choice. But who to have an affair with? He married his wife right out of college and hadn’t had much experience with women before or since. Mrs. Castorini, one of his neighbors was a definite possibility, but he struck her off his list when he remembered that she was a heavy drinker and he normally passed out after one or two glasses of wine.
.....But thinking about Mrs. Castorini made him think about another member of her family who might be open to his advances: Zoey, yes, sweet Zoey. Zoey, that wild young creature, whom he had admired for years from across his picket fence as she lounged in the sun on his neighbor’s lawn. Sure, she was a bit young for him, but that just made it all the more enticing.
.....“It’s set then,” he said to himself. “I’ll have an adulterous affair so that I can have at least one decent sin to confess to Fr. Marchese, and it will be with Zoey.” She was young; she was fresh; she was cute; she was feisty. She was everything that he could possibly want in an illicit sexual partner—the complete opposite of his wife in almost every way.
.....The fact that Zoey was the Castorini’s pet Shih Tzu made the prospect even more intriguing. “When I got married, I settled for a woman who was beneath me. If I’m going to have an affair,” he though, “it might as well be someone classy, someone with proper breeding.” And Zoey was definitely a pure breed through and through.
.....He wasted no time making his advances, treating Zoey to gourmet packets of Alpo’s finest treats, and buying her extravagant gifts, like a new diamond studded collar and designer lavender-scented flea powder. Although she resisted at first because of their obvious age difference, Zoey eventually became as smitten by Morris as he was by her. She was even willing to defy Mr. And Mrs. Castorini, who were dubious about the long-term prospects for the relationship. “He’s a married man,” Mr. Castorini would remind her. “And a member of a different species besides,” his wife added. But nothing the Castorinis said could dampen the ardor that had developed between Morris and Zoey.
.....When Mrs. Jellenick found out about the affair, she was shocked that someone as bland as her husband could attract an obviously upscale type like Zoey. “How can I possibly get him back from her,” she wined to her friends. “She’s so sophisticated. Her coat always has such a fine sheen.”
.....“Don’t worry, hon,” her best friend, Magda, counseled. “He’ll get tired of her kind eventually. She may be cute, but I hear from the girls in the neighborhood that she can be a real bitch.”
.....The guys at work were similarly amazed that a devout fellow like Morris would be bold enough to flaunt his adulterous liaison in public, and tried as best they could to downplay Zoey’s considerable charms.
.....“Everyone keeps talking about how hot she is,” said Tony Saccamano in shipping with utter contempt. “But personally I think she’s a fucking dog.”
.....“If I was going to have an affair,” added Bill from accounting, "it sure as hell wouldn’t be with any Shih Tzu. I wouldn’t settle for anything less than a Yorkshire Terrier. Now, that’s real class.”
.....But as much as everyone kept trying to downplay Morris’ achievement in bagging a foxy young thing like Zoey, they really couldn’t help but notice the changes that had come over him as a result of his affair. Even Fr. Marchese was suitably impressed when Morris confessed his flagrante delicto to him during their next session in the confessional. “Well,” Fr. Marchese admitted grudgingly, “if you had to commit a sin, having an affair with an under-aged house pet is probably as good as any. I don’t remember any specific prohibitions against interspecies intimacy in either the Old or the New Testament, but I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that this does qualify as a legitimate act of adultery. I’m giving you a 9/10 for the effort. Now say ten Hail Mary’s, five Our Father’s, and make sure to come back and see me next week to fill me in on any new developments.”
.....I wish that I could report that Morris and Zoey’s relationship remained as passionate as it was during the first few blissful weeks of their courtship. But Zoey, I’m afraid, was not by nature the monogamous type. One day, while Morris was out getting his morning newspaper, he accidentally spied her sniffing the crotch of a hunky neighborhood pit bull. And that was the end of their relationship.
.....Morris’ story did not turn out as badly as you might expect, however. Following the advice of Fr. Marchese, Morris started cruising the neighborhood in search of a new object for his affections. Although he had a few dates with a sultry iguana he met in a local pet store, he found kissing someone with such a long tongue surprisingly awkward. A blind date with a pot-bellied pig from the local petting zoo proved equally disappointing.
.....Then once day, when all hope seemed lost, Morris bumped into a pious little Chihuahua name Carmen during a novena he was attending at Church. Once they got beyond the language barrier and the obvious cultural differences, they discovered that they had an awful lot in common. Like Morris, Carmen had a special devotion to Our Lady of Guadalupe and a sad history with prior relationships. She had dated a German shepherd, named Gert, off and on for many years, but her mother forced her to break off their engagement because he wasn’t Catholic.
.....Although she was a bit old by Morris’ standards—she had just turned eight in August—Carmen had the kind of maturity that someone like Zoey (for all her considerable charms) lacked. Besides, she made amazing churros. The two were married by Fr. Marchese on the Feast of the Circumcision and have been together ever since. You can often find them sitting hand-in-paw on the front porch together, lazily sipping tequila and lime, and, when the mood strikes them, howling at the moonlight in between decades of the rosary.

Lush Life

Ok, I was listening to Sinatra today and thinking somewhat refined thoughts (for a change). I wanted to see if I could write a few poems that capture my ideas about the good life. You know: charming romance, fine food, interacting with sophisticated people in interesting places. These are the best I was able to come up with. It's not my usual choice of subject, but I thought I would try something completely new.

Your skin smells like jasmine—
or is it honeysuckle?
I could never tell the difference.
Silky skin,
so incredibly smooth—
smooth like vanilla yogurt
and just as inviting.

A dark brewed cup
of Belgian coffee
(bold but never bitter),
a glass half -filled
with Norman Calvados,
shimmering gold
in the Northern moonlight—
a perfect pair
if ever there was one.
A taste of coffee,
then a sip of calvados
(ahhh, what ecstasy!)
Only later did I realize
it should have been
the other way around.
There are rules for
these sorts of things
in civilized nations.

We once held hands,
walking down along the
left embankments of the Seine
as the tourist boats passed lazily by
and Notre Dame cast
its inviting shadow
across our path.
No better time
to be alive
and certainly
no better place.

You look just like Liza Minelli
and your taste borders on the sublime—
all Bennett, Martin, and
just the right kind of jazz
(soothingly familiar but never predictable).
I really thought that I would
fall hard for you,
but then I realized something—
right taste,
wrong face.

I turn on the radio…
Sinatra singing “The Summer Wind.”
Could anything be cooler than that?
Could anything be
quite as melancholy?

Miro opening at the Gagosian.
Everyone exquisitely attired,
lovely beyond description,
and drenched with that
strange sort of
unnatural refinement
that only true art lovers
from Chelsea possess.
There were some paintings
there too,
but no one seemed
to notice them.

Dylan's Latest Masterpiece

For some time now I have been engaged in an intensive study of the music of Bob Dylan. I did the same thing for the Beatles and my study only took me only a year. With Dylan, I am only up to his albums from the early 1980s and it has already taken me three-and-a half-years just to get that far.

What's the difference, you might ask? The difference is that the Beatles were great pop recording artists for ten years, who during a very specific period in their career (1966-1969) bordered on genius, whereas Dylan has been a revolutionary musical artist for the past 45 years. There simply is no comparison.

I promised myself that I would study all of Dylan's albums systematically and chronically one at a time, even committing myself to struggling through his crappy evangelical albums of the 70s and his miserable albums of the 1980s. Absolutely no jumping ahead, I swore. It wasn't a big problem for me to take it slowly: I had no desire to listen to Dylan's current music in which he sounds like someone who has smoked far too many cigarettes for his own good.

But then something horrible happened. Someone gave me a copy of The Bootleg Albums: Volume 8: Tell Tale Signs as a gift. The Bootleg Albums (1-8) contain alternative versions of some of Dylan's songs and songs that, for one reason or another, never made it onto his albums. Volume 8 is mostly tracks from the 1990s that Dylan never used. As I listened to this album, his voice, which once was so off-putting to me, suddenly sounded perfectly suited to the kind of bluesy, gruff songs he was now recording. This compelled me to jump ahead to listen to Modern Times (2006). I was completely amazed. The music on this album is so powerful that it makes 99% of theschlock being recorded by younger artists seem like absolute shit by comparison.

Now Dylan has done it again. His new album, Together Through Life, is currently Number 1 in the music charts in both the U.S. and U.K. So, of course, I had to listen to this one, and, once again, I was devastated by how powerful the music was. Two songs in particular, "Beyond Here Lies Nothing" and "It's All Good" are destined to become Dylan classics.

And what of that gravelly, grizzly, gin-soaked voice of his that I hated so much in comparison to his magical nasally whine of the 60s. I'm ashamed to say it, but I was totally wrong about the voice. If anything it lends a certain gravity and world-weariness to his songs that makes them all the more compelling.

I had a barbecue a week ago and so did my neighbor, Jim. Together we had about 60 people packed into our two tiny backyards, and half the people there were probably under the age of 25. Jim asked me if I had any music that I would like him to play on his booming audio system. I hesitated, but gave him Together Through Life. I waited for the response...and then it came: everyone, and I mean everyone, was ecstatic about the music.

I asked one of the kids in the backyard, who was about 20, what he thought of the music he was hearing, and he said to me with tremendous enthusiasm, "It's f#%&ing great shit, man."

What higher or more eloquent praise can anyone give a collection of music than this?

Vague Musings

Baby sparrow fallen from

the chestnut tree.

Perhaps his mother will find him

and return him to his comfy nest.

More likely he’ll just die…

that’s usually the way

life goes.

Fat Ed from
across the street
doesn’t like
the look of
my lawn.
Too much crab grass,
he says.
I nod in perfect agreement,
and wish
violent death
upon him.

Small faces
on the school bus,
so filled with excitement
so eager to learn…
That won’t last very long.

June…
There should be time enough
in June.
I keep waiting,
but June never comes.

Junie Cloonie
loves her loony toonies,
takes a bus trip to the old
cheese moonie.
Sad, sad
Junie Cloonie,
so damn cute,
but such a
silly baffoonie
[I wonder what ever happened to Junie Cloonie? She was such a swell gal…winning personality, excellent penmanship, always wore the most sensible patent leather shoes. There’s talk that she wound up starting an import-export company and sold her spleen to a camel jockey in Saudi Arabia for $42.79; the rest of her is supposedly on exhibit at the Smithsonian. If I could, I would marry Junie Cloonie, even without her spleen. I love you, Juny Cloony!!!]

Whenever I smell
antiseptic ointment
I always think
fondly
of you
and your
rubber gloves.