E is for Equality. From zero to Nero.

Equality is a big enough concept to dominate an entire letter of the alphabet, I feel, so I give it that high distinction, but here in my insular world, I don’t speak of social justice or racial inequities or other inter-personal dealings, but equality in ones internal judgements, equality in one’s feelings.

Does one give proper preponderance of whatever things, or does one flail headlong into the fray?  Just this morning I did an impulse buy, however charitable it may have been, as it relates to gift for a young relative.  Nonetheless, I put the hammer down and made the buy happen less than an hour after having the idea.

From zero to Nero.

Cloak yourself and remain in the company of only close associates till this miasma passes from the air, Claudius, lest you should find yourself strangled in your bed, and you a spirit, looking down on some hulking gladiator watching the eyes of your lifeless body glaze over.

We cannot force equality, cannot mandate it, or legislate it, properly, cannot create equality artificially, when the founding fathers suggested equality as a gift from God, and other rights also bestowed by the Creator.  All of these good ideals, virtuous notions, have consequences and we would struggle to make everyone fit the mold, or pass through the headway into some kind of Utopian promised land of legislative good intentions.

But we could try, and make adjustments, the same way these budgetary matters work for two years or so, then its all recession for a few years, then another peak, and then another valley, again and again, and still we put on a button or a trucker cap with a slogan and we push that right on and on, when for a certainty, no agenda survives without incremental adjustments.  Reagan policies made high water for a time, but then caused a recession.  Likewise on the other side, over-regulation can crush the works after a stretch of a period.

WW2 and the Space Program are taken as ideological nationalist victories by people on the right, where actually it was a victory of partnership between government and industry, ala the left, with vast investment by the government.  But the new paradigm is to subsidize solar panels marketed to consumers, even with a buzzword for failure(Solindra), so that political hay may be made by opponents, but what cannot be denied is that the government undertaking was done with the best of intentions, if executed badly.

The old way was to make the government a customer, to fund development and then actually order so many units for official purposes.  Jeeps, bombers, Browning automatic rifles, and canned cheese for the MRE program.  Semiconductors for spacecraft usage, and supercomputers for astronomical calculations.  Need drove R&D, demand, instead of an ideal, a wish that everyone would consider abortion and then buy a solar panel.

Or better yet, get a voucher for the solar panel, and then a tax credit, nevermind that the production of the device was subsidized, so that in fact, in the long run, just as listed here the government will have bought the same single unit THREE TIMES.

But do you fear death?  I don’t think about it, inasmuch as I try to avoid it, not avoid the thinking about it, but avert the actually happening.


SoCS: Flailing headlong into doom.

jumping and scrumping, rhythmically humping, angrily pumping and wrapping, pushing against a weight, bending one’s neck and putting the shoulder into it.


dust from my shoes, curled toes in athletic socks, the kind sans striping, for this our self-denial, our penance for future woes, that we deny ourselves the luxury of ostentation, the luxury of ornament.


dust from my teeth, a funeral wreath, a present for myself, bought as an afterthought, in the final analysis, in the long run, but forgetting to send it to myself, it sits in a corner to collect dust, and becomes, just like the Christmas ornaments, relics of a forgotten long-dead society, a society of children that came and went, and that society was packed away long ago, put in long-term storage, out of sight and out of mind, while the death of the child is adulthood, and awakening to things that cost things, to pay the cost of things, and everything is merchandise of some sort, even the services are goods, and its consumable, babies, because you don’t just use it once, even though its all used-up, because no babies, you go


And I walked, my thighs at the level of the rear bumper of the 1500, and I thought about things that could happen, not that they should, or are even likely, but things that have a chance of happening, even though entirely unrealistic things, the imagining of, has a certain wild titillation


And one might say that, but listen, and marvel, at how lucidly I relate the story, with me standing there, my McCafe on the tonneau cover, discount menthol smoke at my lips, kind of letting my mind churn as it would, project things, calculate things, because you know a good daydream has to run its course, to start and build, and even have some kind of calculus about it, a mathematical element, and it grows, just like a castle in the sand, as one adds new parapets and defensive measures until it is much more than the single stupid colonade of Jabba’s Pleasure Palace on Tatooine.





Reach for the sky! WOTD: Seedling.


Breaching the top soil, a green finger, uncurling, uncurling to stretch, to reach, to extend itself towards the sunlight high above, to try in vain to touch that, to become one with that, and all the one the delicious rainwater, the kind the hippies keep in great vats, what they drink and wash their young ones in, now and then scooping up a handful to dose their own hairy armpits.

As a scrap of a lad myself, I found myself serious about the art of play, and to narrate, as if putting on stage play or motion picture.  Matchbox cars, and me providing a mad conversation between them.

“Oh, look who it is.”

“What a fortuitous turn-of-events, Jack!”

Dodge Monaco cop car.  Peterbuilt daycab dumper, with metal chasis/body and a plastic dump bed, with that last not surviving even a week.  1957 Ford Thunderbird hardtop, without the classic porthole window at the C-pillar.

You know the deal, pickles.  Only classics for my pretties.

A dim dull curved scrap of green, pulling water from the bottom, sun from the top: a natural engine that does little more than reproduce itself, and even then, for the plurality, that benefit of beating Mister Death vicariously is stymied, because your progeny, your bean, winds up sauteed for some lady or mansour, then eaten as part of a balanced meal.

And you know, if the plant had thoughts, those thoughts would be directed towards making a seed, making a progeny, continuing the line, like if you walked to a bean field, you could hear some kind of schizoid chorus of bean song, a kind of disorganized chanting about reproducing.

Farmers Almanac.  April 21: “Fair weather today.  Expect copious bean song.”

Why is something “not my thing”?

Tell me something, for true, apoplexist, that to what degree or threshold shall something be rottenly divisive or wrong or evil or John Ford or what have you, before you take the bit between your teeth and run-off a few rows of potatoes or peas or something?  I would indulge the query that not much escapes the attention of a couch potato, kind of a modern day Buddha, in the sense of being a fat man that sits on his ass.

What in the Wide World of Sports is his thing?  And why feel complied to offer return volleys for so many comments from others, some actually innocent, but all taken as high offense and met with return fire that would wither even the most grizzled.  A heavy hammer from a meaty hand, someone that knows not his own strength, not having fine motor skills anymore because of blood-pressure related neurological events.

In other words, creaking sounds in the haunted house.

He wants his wife semi-nude, tastefully, on a magazine cover, because that thought of her kind of “giving-it-up” to strangers is a turn-on for him, in a world where there aren’t many turn-ons left anymore, so she has got to point her privates away from the camera lens, like as to cover something with a turn of the hips or a strategically placed hand.  But to go further, like to solicit a stranger or get a motel room would be too much, an imposition, and we can be thankfully so, that to be so lazy is to take the boon away from evil enterprise, though, when the proclivity rises up, one can do the work of ten, so it usually comes off as a surprise to the populace.

Someone has been busy, I see.

Evil is always doing something, even when it looks like it is merely sleeping in the corner of the room.

D is for “Dollface, Dead, Dammit!”

The husband revenged himself, there is that consolation.  The mentally unstable murderer, seeing the raised gun, he gets on his knees and begins to recite the model prayer.

Dollface was a favorite at McDonald’s 5396 in Cheraw, SC.  This was a number of years ago, before she became a mother, probably 2011-2013.  She didn’t bowl you over with pleasantries, but was certainly not unpleasant about her work.

Dare I say that I thought she was quite pretty, and at one time I was romantically interested in her, but this was from within the confines of my self-imposed exile, a kind of lull in my being when I was in the midst of putting my personality back together after a kind of breakdown.

Nevertheless, you just have to wish her the best and hope for her, and now, as a victim of violent crime, I can’t help but think that she and her child are in a better place, in the great hereafter.

D is also for Dolemike.

What would Dolemike do?  In official canon, Dolemike went to Africa sometime just prior to the 2008 US Presidential Election, and when he came back, his enemies found, much to their chagrin, that Dolemike had “learned some new tricks”.  He could throw a kind of “force lightning” from his hands, which would incapacitate his opponents for a short period of time.

There was a female counterpoint, who was also a victim of violent crime, shot in the leg, which never healed quite right.  One of the locals went on vacation to the Grand Canyon.  Literally, drove across the country, and reported back to this writer that the counterpart now works as a server at a restaurant on some seemingly anonymous state road.  She wears glasses now and limps, but she still has those iron eyes, resolve that would break bones on anyone else.

“C” is for “Cherries Jubilee in the Mojave”.


All about the wastes, the sands stretching towards the horizons and all points in between, the desultory grotesques of what passed for society collected to burn a giant effigy.

The women, many nude, painted things on their bodies.  Everyone was three sheets in the wind.  It was the heartbeat of Dionysus, come back to devour everything polite society had built over the intervening centuries.

In the marketplace: Trucker caps with the words “make Babylon great again”.


Jackass foraging

having seen

the handwriting on the wall

he was found lacking, wanting

and the pronouncement

destroyed his mind

now bare breasted women

and downcast men

pick over the bones

of the dispatched kingdom.

Alphabit Challenge: B is for “the next bit”.

Lets get alliterative:  The advice to Marcus Tullius Cicero from his father, to wit: “BE the BEST, my BOY, the BRIGHTEST.”  After a brilliant legal and political career, the top orator of the republic was murdered due to an agreement, a forced culling, dictated to Augustus by Marc Antony, as part of a peace bargain between the two powers, then military leaders, with Antony soon to take control of Egypt and Augustus to take over the entire Republic as Caesar’s rightful heir.

The letter B, consonant, the second of the conflagration, is also for the classic Isaac Hayes spoken word cover song, “By the Time I get to Phoenix.”  He says, “seven times I left that woman, and seven times I came back.”

“She’ll laugh

when she sees the note

I left hanging on the wall

Mama, Mama,

that’s all.”

B is also for Barney and Bay 1, because Barney designated Bay 1 as this author’s work area once upon a time.  That statement had no sand behind it, and was not honored, as I would be the only one with an assigned work area in my department.  There was no explicit justification for such a statement.

Killer Bees.   The Wu-Tang swarm, as per the 1997 double album that featured the hit Triumph.

Need I mention Bohemian Rhapsody?  I thought not.  I put Isaac Hayes above Queen, but this is not an oversight, but a choice by omission, a creative decision by the author.  Or even “Bicycle” as in “I want to ride my bi-cycle; I want to ride my bike.”