DA PLACE IS RIGGED

Though I'm billed in some places as a wiseguy who has something to say about most everything I must confess that I studiously avoid frankspeaking about politics—that dear perpetual place charged to overflowing with sincere expectations inevitably met by barefaced, "uncappable" mendacity. Nevertheless, the mis-called, so-called "spill" that is spewing into the Gulf has generated some questions that might have some tenuous connection to politics. 1.
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GOOD COMPANY

Lately and of late I have become weary of the company of fallen angels who have nothing better to do than chatter about the chains they are dragging along and to make matters more intolerable feeling compelled to blacken the future, near and far, with habits, hopes and pre-owned opinions which are nothing more than the same old rattling extrapolations of their cherished chains.
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AN UNSUNG SONG

so the talk trips on

through waves and wires

waltzing while wheeling while

overclouding underseaing

underscoring emptiness

talk aloud talk aprint

tic toc talk

airborne talk

talk as if compelled

by meaning maims

ether and air

as well as mostly

me and thee

voyager o voyager

making sleeptalkers

of us all which

tempts me to say:

there's something to be said

for silence      but

i won't

A RARE BIT OF A RABBIT

And now I have a rabbit, a singularly self-possessed rabbit, a lady, huddled in her hutch, white with black splotches, staring wide-eyed at the shenanigans of a strange world, her name trumpeted before her—Wilhelmina, a queen's name I think—with a full scale biography accompanying her beginning with her unsung birth behind the 3 Brothers Pizza place. Before she was released from her previous home and owners I had to agree not to eat her. (Now, would I eat a queen? Really!) Of course I agreed despite the fond memory of my grandmother's rabbit tomato sauce that still lingers on my palate.
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A PIECE OF UNSOLICITED ADVICE

Take a lesson from mad men:

     they pray incessantly

     talking to themselves

     talking to themselves

Take a lesson from sane saints:

     they pray unceasingly

     knowing who is who

     knowing who is who

Mad or sane, sane or mad:

     mankind does what it can

     does what it must

     does what it must

BEWARE THE TEETH OF NIGHT

Knowing my partiality to tomatoes my sister-in-law, Barbara, who works in a greenhouse, gave me a tomato plant from Italy last year, and the plant became an immensity, a great overspreading almost-tree that crowded everything else out and produced meaty, delectable plums five times the size of any I've ever seen. So Barbara said save the seeds, and I did, a lot of them, fifty or sixty. When spring arrived she started them in the greenhouse and she gave me fifteen or so. After all how many can you plant? How many tomatoes can you eat? And in high summer how many can you give away?
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PICKLEBALL —SANTA FE STYLE

Santa Fe's just a dusty old cow town despite its pretensions to be the New Age capital of the world. Witness its obliviousness to the master game of Pickleball. There was nothing for it but for me, a complete non-entity, to flap all the way from New Paltz, a smaller New Age oasis, and introduce the game.
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