Sunday, December 22, 2013

A Sermon, but this one is kind of chintzy...

It's not like me to rub it in, but hasn't the harmonic convergence of 1987 been sort of a let down?  If it was all that great in your camp, that's fine here.  I don't recall winning a beauty contest that year.  Then the damn Mayan end of history, 2012, turned out to be smoke and mirrors.   Had my hopes up, too.  Like Nancy Spungen and Sid Vicious, of the Sex Pistols, I wanted to go out in a blaze of glory
Well, this year's Hamarama is in overtime.  It started, by shear luck, with the rolling of the osage oranges, when the inedible warty nuisances fall off their trees and rolled, bumping and banging in the pot holes,  en mass, like the running of the bulls, down  steeply inclined Federal Street.  As if a new pope was elected, the price of store brand picnic hams fell by up to seventy-five percent, to 99  cents a pound.  Hamarama runs from the first day,to the last, of Very Cheap Ham Season, which lasts each year as long as grocery stores abide the Word.   By way or revue, Hamarama begins near Christmas time, when the price of ham dips to 99 cents a pound, and ends when the price goes back up.  It's a  mono-maniacal feast.

Observant like a zealot, been downing two pounds a day, grand total, so far, eighteen pounds of ham.  Special thanks to the pigs, and to all those nice folks in the meat business.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Next Dippy Sermon at the Store Front Ministry

There's a book of Hebrew mysticism called the Zohar, and I thumbed through it like a fry cook waiting for his haircut at the barber's, but even jerks can make a decent point from time to time.  There was a passage on the subject of marriage, in which it said, give or take a point, that when a man is unmarried, the Earth and sky is misaligned, and that when said same fellow ties the knot, Earth and sky move parallel to each other, like a factory preset position.  Only when married is a person deserving of a static free sunset.

Being a life long a bachelor, you are encouraged to ask, "Why do you care, Pussy Cat?"

It is because a good metaphor makes me wiggle with glee.  For my statistician friends, married men are less likely than single dudes to be  shivved, shanked, shot, beaten, jailed,  pink-slipped, demoted, slandered  or cornholed to death by roving zombies.  They tend to have more stable careers and social lives, give or take a point for  ugly, pimply variables, and some dumb geezers are still claiming that family life is beneficial.

Next on the conveyor belt is that gender roles have been changing.  Did I say I begrudge that?  I didn't.  There isn't a politically incorrect corpuscle clogging veins in this old seed sack.  For the super-logical among us all, the same principle of completeness and harmony can be extended.  Why do mystical precepts have to be good for the goose and not the gander?   And why do I use shitty cliches? I have a diploma from someplace or other.

Well, with loose ends waving at me like a mighty fertile hydra, this rant about applied metaphor is wearing out it's welcome on this page.   Thanks for reading.

Saturday, December 14, 2013

new poem: Fashion Plate

send me off somewhere in black leather
it's riding on my head equine
nearest I get to Secretariat
see comrades I'm a hat nut
compares to graduate studies
I'm a thesis
got this one fresh in the mail from the  online auction
came in a sealed bag hygienic as a Contac capsule
why do certain looks say pills?
no dookey in my socks
no wrong blood levels
it's a look that says prowling
in essence I am