Concerto for blunt instrument

An irregular heartbeat from d.o. to you. Not like a daily kos, more like a sometime sloth. Fast relief from the symptoms of blogarrhea and predicated on the understanding that the world is not a stage for our actions, rather it is a living organism upon which we depend for our existence.

Tuesday, June 11, 2019

Climate Crime Theater

There's a Climate Crime in
progress, the players
rolls reversed standing
upon wrong marks like
Protectors as Perpetrators
Villains as Extras or
Stagehands stranded among
fallen props, the murdered
Trees and Broken Nests
sullen faced and guarded
by uninformed bad actors and
the State of chaos, of lights
going out, curtains falling and
the Audience arriving late or
never showing up at all to
witness or read a program
making little sense of what's
beyond the fence, the Forest
killed off in the first act
the finale fully revealed
from the start and the
backers, the producers and
directors staging other shows,
failures all, off stage
in other theaters of
operation in a nation of
contagion in need of real
first responders of all ages
all races and relations acting
out a new script instead of
The End.

Sunday, February 10, 2019

A Word to the Management

"Every artist feels himself at odds with modern civilization. In our age, the mere making of a work of art is itself a political act. So long as artists exist, making what they please and think they ought to make, even if it is not terribly good, even if it appeals to only a handful of people, they remind the Management of something managers need to be reminded of, namely, that the managed are people with faces, not anonymous numbers.."  -W. H. Auden

Friday, January 11, 2019

Cat People

Granny Glime the animal whisperer
her grand nephew the Greenwich Village
artist who painted only cats, except for
the occasional abstract butterfly, then
us, the various progeny, all cat people
tolerating the occasional dog or two
just by happenstance, the same fate
or synchronicity bringing felines into
line with untold worried rodents and
the late night yowling out back hot
New York summer nights and the fights!
Uncle Don knew alley cats the likes
of which would take out rats the size
of breadboxes and who would watch
passersby with highly wary eyes like
those who haunt Dyckman House out
back Inwood by the smokehouse overshadowed
by neighboring buildings and time's
eternal churning where cats are known
to prowl all the way back to some
whisperer who set it all in place, cats
and the human race.

Sunday, January 06, 2019


The truth of the lies
often meets the eyes
observing from disgust
of the fabricator's fatal
flaw, fiction's flimsy crusts
over what goes around
coming around hypocrisy
is just fake news real and
he fatally just looks in a
mirror what does he see
in the eye of the beholder
not anything older than
the end of history that 
never really ends 'til the
last historian dies
and all the lies left
fall into the cleft
the funnel of
the bereft
it's over
the end

Friday, September 21, 2018


“This is a tough hurricane, one of the wettest we’ve ever seen from the standpoint of water,”
                                                                                              - The Mad King

I know Water, I've worked with Water,
Water was a friend of mine, Sir, you are
no Water, and you have no standpoint as
you are sinking, sinking under waves of
your own making, sinking into the septic
of your wasted words and deeds, your
liquidation of life preserving policy and
that rising tide lifting all boats, there are
no floats for you to grasp in your descent,
no mammals coming to the rescue only
hungry sharks smelling blood in the
flood you made worse with your sorry-ass
reactions, your paper towels and self
promotion. Sir, you are no Water and
you have no standing in this court of
public opinion nor do your minions who
are deserting your sinking ship of state,
it's too late, the dye is cast, you will
soon be in the past.

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

The Long and Winding Road

Day One begins without sleep from the long haul east across the mighty Atlantic into the rainy Midlands and onto unfamiliar roads going in unfamiliar directions. We are challenged, not too tired to be somewhat frightened by the strangeness of these English roads. Yet the Sun finally shines on the hills and dales of Wales where the English Language is partnered by the Gaelic and the strangely familiar is seasoned with a kind of pleasant antiquity.

We settle in, exhausted, out in the friendly town and farmlands of Denbigh, rolling hills and the calls of the Welch ponies in their paddocks. The Sun, the gentile breeze, and finally some rest.

Day Seven closes with a blue/gray blanket of cloud spread out above the verdant hills and dales of the Lake District, from Armathwaite in the Eden Valley, a well-named vast landscape of farm fields portioned off by ancient hand-laid stone walls (a product of the wealthy landowners Enclosure Acts). Those walled off pastures scattered across the landscape are inhabited by cows and sheep, but most are open to the sky like deep green skin bordered by old oaks and their relations and an occasional copse of woods spared from the saw. Though far too much of this land has been deforested over the centuries some reforestation is taking place, probably not enough.

We are beginning to lose count of how many castles or castle ruins we have visited but all of them remind us not only of that certain haunting romance of bygone days but also of the centuries of warfare, conflict and oppression this land was made to witness; more than two thousand years of bloodshed, turf wars actually. And yet now it feels so peaceful. Surely my people and others from past times had such peace.

We visited standing stones above Keswick and I had hoped to feel some sort of awe or connectedness but all among the stones there stood more tourists like ourselves and I felt nothing really. The surrounding hills and mountains however exerted their power of place inherent in the Earth; this was no doubt what brought these stones here and those that bore them. If one was to enter this stone circle alone I'm certan the experience would be far more eventful.

The people here a more friendly than those in the States, more open to strangers such as ourselves. Perhaps they have had more practice with civility given they've been at it much longer than us Yanks. I wonder if they are as friendly to each other as they are to us?

Day Unknown begins with blue skies and wisps of clouds above the hills and dales of Northern England. A slight breeze ruffles the sedge and plantings by the glass sunporch while off in the distance all seems tranquil among the grazing cows and sheep, even passing flocks of birds appear to luxuriate in their flight. Perhaps I have been visited by the spirit of William Wordsworth whose home we passed by in Grasmere a few days back. I seem to be writing in a similar vein and, of course, are we not effected by our natural surroundings? At least some of us. “Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her.”

Day Eighteen leaves so much unsaid (except for messages sent to sons and daughter, some of whom, sadly, failed to recognize our 50th anniversary). As we are now 40,000 feet over the Atlantic traveling at 530 miles per hour headed toward home, all the castles, towns (mostly built centuries ago) and teashops are now just pleasant memories. The visual and perspective difference from England and New England is markedly present for it is Old England, not a conglomeration of lifeless utilitarian structures without permanence of much beauty as in much of New England. Having said that, Old England's old roads are unsettling, besides their attractiveness they are a real challenge to one's peace of mind. Most are impossibly narrow and winding (something that appears appealing to the eye) with few places to pull over and slow one's heart rate. Many British drivers speed along these narrow roads, some in giant trucks, and pass within inches of us; that and the unfamiliarity of driving on the left side of the road from a driver's seat on the right side of the car make for a good deal of discomfort. Add to that GPS droids (called "sats" in the UK) that seem to lose all sense of direction in cities or decide to take us on tours of highlands history seems to have forgotten. The sights on most of those seemingly unpopulated roads are awe inspiring in spite of the disturbing feeling of being lost to most of the world......but isn't that what a vacation is meant to be?

Thursday, August 09, 2018

Mourning in America

It's mourning in America in
the surreal farce we dare to
call America where television
clowns with diabolic smiles
and, of course, all those frowns
ascend to high places in the
lowest ways and the days
full of outrage and sadness
slowly pass in the odorous
morass filled in by slaves in
good old days it's mourning
in the USA, what do you say
we stop mourning and organize
a massive response, run the
clowns out of town and rebuild
this shambled disgrace of
a place.