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Entries in wordplay (32)


Did They See It Coming?

would you go to a psychic who didn't see the misspelled sign in their future?Proofread, people

P-S-Y-C-H-I-C versus P-S-Y-C-I-C...

Would you spend your money getting your future told if these people didn't predict their signs would come back from the shop with a gross misspelling on just one of them? The sad thing is, the bottom sign looks like it was hand painted on both sides, which means that someone had to do it wrong TWICE!


Enlightenmental Illness

Oh wonder, wherefore?
Enlightenmental illness!


Birthday Haiku

Thirty six years old
Cursing my inheritance
Travel light, seeker!

Oh Wonder, where art?
Enlightenmental illness?
Reach inside for God!

The first shall be last
And the last shall be the first
He saw the future

Boys can kill by law,
Girls legally women
Kid's play, far removed


A Life In 100 Years Or Less

I actually wrote this last year for the same occasion, but I'm not sure anything has changed and circumstances are such I don't think I shall try to top this. So here it is again.

One Hundred years ago my grandmother was born.
Of course she wasn't my grandmother then.
She was just one more new chance at getting things right in the world.
One more chance to solve the problem of war and economic inequality.
Perhaps racism would be erased and the human race would be won for good.
Maybe the rat race would be seen as the race not worth winning and not fit for human participation.
She might have witnessed the glorious second coming of Jesus a few times over (plenty of people predicted it).
But instead she witnessed grievous poverty while some got rich beyond all reason.
She witnessed the landing on the moon, but watched as the Kingdom of Heaven got further out of reach.
She watched as the stock market rose and rose to new heights, only to crash again—a rebuke to our materialism.
Her generation was among the last to know actual wealth.
It was on or in the ground. In the forests. In the community.
Her generation was among the last to know actual freedom.
Then came the car and the airplane, the credit card—the so-called liberators that inspired fanatic devotion.
To which my generation has become a slave.
Over which we now wage war and from which gangsters kill or enslave from on both sides of the law.
The surest preventative measure for that kind of lead and plastic poisoning is love.
But this is not what technology and markets and politics promises us—at least this is what they cannot deliver.
The century of technology and science has built us many things.
But it has not brought us happier families and better communities.
It has not made our water cleaner or our trees taller.
It has not answered our age old questions—at least the ones that matter.
It has not increased our capacity for love and mercy toward our neighbor.
It has brought us pain and grief from senseless death by the millions, and the promise of our final destruction.
What we have to look forward to is endless thwarted expectations.
The techno-messiah is a false messiah better called gadget-worship.
In her time it was the telephone or the phonograph, in ours it is the internet and the iPod.
The so-called greatest generation dropped the ball too.
Still they have much to teach us.
But my path is much like a mirror to theirs.
Their story is one of ascent while mine is one of descent.
The War to End All Wars and its sequel is still being fought somewhere in the world today.
Echoes of 1919, 1929, or 1939 ring loudly today while the echo of 1909 is for me to amplify.
The history books are chock full of conquest and vanity, inventors and geniuses.
We can measure the effect of this ruler or that; of depressions and wars; of laws and events on film.
But how do we measure the life of one woman during her 91 years when no one chronicled her history?
A mother and grandmother and a navy wife.
A patriot and a God-fearer.
An historian and a writer.
A teacher and an advocate.
A friend and a minister.
And so very much more.
The past century was the canvas upon which her life was painted.
But it was not her life.
She was not the inventions or the wars or the treaties which failed.
She was not the poverty or the racism which stifled human dignity.
She was not the television or Elvis' gyrating hips or Marilyn's upblown skirt.
She was not the cure for polio or the cause for AIDS.
She was not the frame 313 in the Zapruder film or the evacuation of Saigon.
She was not the Empire State Building or the Twin Towers.
She was not the convertible Cadillac on Route 66 or the oil shocks of the 70s.
And maybe for these reasons you will never read much about her.
The people who she touched don't write that sort of material.
Some of those to which she ministered are still in jail.
Others are dead.
Others are in their ivory towers or the jails of their own devising.
Some don't know what they had while others grieve their loss.
It's not that there aren't any new people who had her promise for a new beginning.
They're born every day in every nation in greater numbers than ever.
But none have been or will ever be like her.


Nobody Can Change the World

A nobody can change the world
It has happened many times
But the best one so far was when a baby was born
On the fringes of the world
From folks no one knew
(With a bit of scandal to boot)
They were from a town of no consequence
Good only for their taxes and labor
Forgotten by the senators and priests
Except when it was time for taxes and ritual

A nobody can change the world
It isn't just for the big names in history
Those who wield the money and power
Or who sit at the right hand of the king
An itinerant preacher sets the world ablaze with love
In a way that few saw coming
Coming to a heart near you
That is, if it hasn't already rushed into you
Consuming with unquenchable fire helped by a gust of wind
But starting with the still small tired voice of Mary
Who sang her child to sleep
Amidst the very few who were more lowly than they that evening

Mary labored one night
But Heaven labored much longer with the question
How to penetrate the hearts of men
When the answer came it was quite unexpected
A marvel to be sure—
A baby who was born, lived, and died as a person of no consequence
Except for the magic he wrought when he dared show us how to love
First because he was innocent by the standards of the world
And later because he was guilty by the standards of the world

Where in the world tonight will that baby be born anew?
In that forgotten place?
Under the boot of an oppressor?
Slaves to the desires of the rich and well connected?
Nobody can change the world—
A thought that must itself be changed


The Milkwagon And The Milkman

ed at the top of the driver list printoutMy work "productivity" is measured in how many invoices are counted to my credit each week. Not a lot was said about desirable numbers when I was hired, but Bob the boss mentioned that he'd like to see 70 in a week, which is about 14-15 a day. I tackled that with no problem and was routinely coming in around 85 for a few months. Then, in the early summer, something clicked and I hit a stride that was around 100 each week and sometimes more. So he gave me a raise, and then somehow, I managed to pull even more out of my hat. There are about 20 people who are "just" drivers and many other people from the shop end up doing deliveries, so a list is tallied each week and usually the numbers span from one to 150 or more. During most of the summer, I was at about the fourth position where it looked I could not rise above the so-called trio of gods upon Olympus—three guys who have fixed routes that are not too far from the shop but also very dense ones at that, and who tended to work six day weeks and overtime each day. They had a lot of favorable conditions. But, since there has been a crackdown on overtime for a couple months now, I've nudged into their space. I got the third spot once and was all smiles, but this last week, I saw that I got the top spot with numbers to spare—131 deliveries over the next guy's 116. Some recent talk from Bob and his co-owner brother was about how I am the best driver there, but more so that no "short driver" (non-route) has been at the top slot before.

people didn't get why there was a hoe in my bed until i showed them how to move potatoes without crouching and contorting.I got a hoe in my bed, and better still, it was on the company dime!The case for being a short driver—for me anyway—is that I don't have to wake up at 3 am in order to work at 4 am, and also don't have to do the same damned places every day, even though that might have its advantages. I have usually started at 9-10 am and work "straight eight" with no lunch break, and my shift is the last of the driver shifts that can be occupied doing driving only. The next later involves parking trucks and gassing them up, which is not really what they want me to do since they fancy me too worthy a guy to do that for 1/8th of a shift when I could be zipping around in the "Milkwagon" —the beat up and chronically troubled 249,000 mile old white F-150 that I drive, that even after having seized up the engine this summer, they still let me drive daily (while other guys are shifted around from one vehicle to another each day). I do anything I can to avoid having to drive a refrigerator truck, which just disrupts my flow and always feels out of scale for me. I cram that F-150 full if I need to—the bed, the Xtra cab, and the front seat if need be. It is often hard to get around in since it has a matching shell on it, so I requested a tool to help reach in and pull stuff. It is silly as fuck but they got me the hoe I asked for (resulting in many lewd jokes about how my hoe is good in bed, etc.) It turns out that it is quite a good thing to save my knees from climbing inside. Likewise, its good for my back to not be contorting within the covered bed space. Until I can grow arms like Inspector Gadget, it will have to do!

I don't really know what the milk joke is or how extensive it reaches, but the truck has been dubbed the Milkwagon, and I the Milkman. I didn't know that term till someone else got the title for a while before he left or was canned. This title goes to those who spill milk. For me it was about a gallon of heavy cream back in my first month. But for this other guy, it was totally losing some big share of a 24 gallon order as a stack of crates toppled. One day, I was in the shop as this made word and spread like wildfire, then before I know it, someone chimes in, remembering my heavy cream incident of months before, and says, "well, I guess you're not the milkman anymore!" Of all the things I've spilled repeatedly over the ten months I've been there, I wonder why the milk thing sticks like it does.


Veggie Poetry

A baby boks of choy
Twenty-four carrot Yukon gold
Taters, maters and jicamango
Broccoleafy vegetables
Caulifloral arrangements
Honey, dew you love me?
We can't elope...


Graffiti For The Digital Age

I was perusing various listings on Craigslist and it occurred to me that this is where all the lewdness, crudeness, and idiocy-laden cruelty has moved to now that bathroom stalls are not nearly as viable places to spread such nonsense. Why limit your message to the clientèle of a given restaurant, high school, or public beach bathroom when you can be seen by millions? The messages scrawled on the walls of bathrooms of yesterday seemed kind of twee. Some, like this one from around middle school were sort of poetic and endearing enough to be remembered all this time later.

Here I sit, broken hearted
Tried to shit but only farted
Then one day I took a chance
I tried to fart but shit my pants

That's what I'm talkin' about! Hah. The wonders of the internet(s).


My Undermining Love

highly stylized image of kelli and ed in a hug, wrapped in an odd collage borderUndermining love
Love me more than those other ones
It will drive them mad

Undermining love
Carry the baton farther
Watch them fall away

Undermining love
They had their chance to excel
They didn't want it

Undermining love
See the future? It lies ahead
For us to call ours

Undermining love
What we have we made ourselves
And its our party

Undermining love
They set up the game for me
Don't like the winner

Undermining love
Stay with me here forever
They won't understand


Mmmm, Tastes Like Chicken

Chicken is a versatile meat that lends itself to many recipes. Here are some that I like, with names that seem to capture the flair well.

  • Steamed artichokes with mayo or butter and garlic, with lemon and oil marinated chicken with herbs. It evokes a Mediterranean vibe when served with warm pita bread. I call this one "Choked Chicken."
  • Or, tonight we had a salad with some chicken that was marinated and let to simmer in a delightful parmesan and shiitake mushroom sauce. I call it "Chicken Shiit Salad."
  • In an effort to eat less meat, we have sometimes experimented with some of the soy/tofu substitutes for common meat products. Trader Joe's has a pretty adequate chicken substitute made of tofu. I thought it was a tad dry but if it were let to simmer in a sauce of some sort, it would be even better. The name "meatless chicken" is so unfortunate when you could call it by a far more succinct and memorable name using the words tofu and chicken.: "tofucken." Caution must be exercised so it isn't confused with foot fetish sex or anything else that falls under the term "toe fucking."