Foodstamps For Pets? Goldfish!. . .musing & poem

So foodstamps for pets?  Hmm. . .now while I would normally find humor in this (and only if this were a much stable economy) I actually sympathize.  According to Bloomberg, ‘foodstamps for pets’ is currently in circulation.  While many or most might frown on the idea because it will now cost the taxpayer that much more money, it’s actually a good idea.

 

How, one or you might ask?

 

Well consider the housing market. . .and I don’t give a damn how much the President claims the housing market is stabilizing because it isn’t. . .I have seen more For Sale and For Lease signs sign-stamped on the fronts of lawns more than I’ve seen Going Out Of Business or Business Closed signs stamped on glass windows! 

 

Okay, back to the housing market. . .

 

While many homeowners were or are making their move into apartments and rentals, more and more pets have or are being left behind because their owners can or could no longer afford to feed them as many or most homeowners can barely afford to feed themselves much less their families.  While the cost of food keeps going up and up, so is pet food.  I look at this ‘foodstamp for pets’ as a strategic move as it is just that. . .‘Strategic’ because it will allow owners the opportunity(ies) to keep their pets instead of abandoning them or dropping them off at the local pound.

 

Does that make Sense?  I think it does, only if you’re a pet owner.  But then again if you’re not a pet owner, you will find this idea utterly Senseless and costly.

 

Damn, can’t win for losing!  Enjoy my poem. . .

 

**********

 

GoldFish

 

I woke up one morning

to an empty place with

an abundance of space

for the life of me I could not fill. 

 

So these walls suddenly became

the material, the immaterial

the existent, the non-existent;

I was buried within.

 

Yet, no one knew or cared

to consider me lost

no flyers, no milk cartons, no billboards

not a trace of my importance existed.

 

I was dead

 

Or was I?

 

This is how it starts:

 

She yells, you yell.

She threatens to leave, you leave.

She takes the dog, you take the cat.

She calls a lawyer, you represent yourself.

 

Then, the dog runs away with the cat

‘cause it considered you two morons.

And her lawyer screws the hell out of you

because you like screwing women.

 

And that’s how it ends.

 

Now back to these walls.

 

I’m alive again.

 

My space needs a woman’s touch

then I remembered, ‘No it doesn’t,

it needs a man’s touch, goddamnit!’

so I leave these walls blank.

 

I take a ride out to IKEA

since every single divorced man tends to shop there

sorting through colors, patterns, lamps,

things square and oval and all around boring.

 

But after two hours of trying to recover things lost,

things I care not to buy, I say ‘Fuck it!’

and storm out the store to the store next door

and buy what every man should buy after a divorce:

 

A goldfish.

(pub2011 in DS)

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Oscar Moments and a Pigeon. . .musing & poem

My choice of Oscar Moments:

 

1.)     Despised Amanda Siegfried’s candor on the red carpet.  Oh, please!

2.)     My partner thought Michael Douglas looked better than his wife, Catherine Zeta Jones.

3.)     Kerry Washington’s overly swaying hips as she strutted across the platform.  Can you say unbalanced washing machine boys and girls?

4.)     Anne Hathaway’s lack of a bra.  Her nipples were more erect than my partner’s penis.

5.)     Despised Chicago’s rendition.

6.)     Let’s hear it for Jennifer Hudson!  It’s no wonder Beyoncé got all butt-hurt when Jennifer won her Oscar.

7.)     Kudos to Quentin Tarantino.  He needs more recognition, and a straighter tie. 

8.)     I don’t think kids should win Oscars period.  So way to go Jennifer Lawrence!

9.)     Kristen Stewart looked lovely but painful to be at the Oscars.  Where was RPaz?

10.)   Ben Affleck’s moving speech simply because he didn’t prepare one because he probably assumed he wasn’t going to win so therefore he spoke entirely from the heart.  Congrats, Ben!

 

 

I remember when the Oscars once took place in the Shrine Auditorium.  When I was in grade school living in El Monte, California.  My class took a field trip to the Shrine Auditorium where my class then met the actress Cheryl Ladd.  Since then I have been a HUGE fan of the Oscars.  And while I do have to admit that some years have been pretty boring, other years have not.  Last night’s Oscars however left me laughing and crying. . .Laughing because I happen to adore Seth McFarlane (and for those who don’t know this but Seth is the voiceover to Stewie on Family Guy.)  God, I love Stewie.  He is so. . .so. . .rambunctious, and I love his take on attempting to take over the world.  Okay, getting sidetracked here, now back to the Oscars. . .um, where was I?  Oh yea, meeting the actress.  Hey I’ve also ran into Randy Johnson, Mike Tyson, and Alice Cooper (used to work for Alice Cooper’s wife, Cheryl. . .hey, another Cheryl!)  Okay, enough with my bullshit, back to the Oscars.  Aside from thinking Seth McFarlane a stimulating character, my fav highlight of the night was Daniel Day-Lewis winning for Best Actor in Lincoln.  I sobbed because I have been a longtime admirer and fan of Daniel Day-Lewis; I’ve seen practically every movie he’s made; my fav, Gangs of New York.  So congrats, Daniel!

 

Now onto Jennifer Lawrence. . .I did not laugh.  I was so ecstatic for her Best Actress win!  However, I did get pissed over the dress tripping her triumph to mega-stardom.  I did enjoy her comeback speech, though.  Way to go Jennifer!

 

Adele won for Best Song “Skyfall”. . .but of course. . .although I preferred the song, “Before My Time” performed by actress Scarlett Johansson.  Now this one is sure to be a classic!  If you hadn’t heard it yet, click on player to hear it.  Sultry Scarlett is all I have to say.  Sigh.

 

Okay enough about the Oscars.  Here’s another poem.  Enjoy!

**********

Pigeon

 

in the midst’s of daylights dark

my soul sits comatose

on a stoned cold bench,

pigeons dig trenches around me.

the snow is beyond freezing

against my fingertips and toes

remembering the sound of your voice

I so desperately want to hold

in this moment as I toss the breadcrumbs

and they land wherever they may fall,

and you say “Pigeons are dumb!”

i laugh, but then i want to cry,

but nothing escapes my eyes

they are stone cold like this bench

and i am so pissed because it’s wasted

years spent on pigeons and bread.

true, I have a few marbles rolling loose in my head

only because it’s been a year and 

i can’t believe you’re dead, or maybe

because i can’t believe i’m dead without you?

i sigh, and glance up at the sky,

a threat of first light threatens to push through,

you coo, “Toss me another breadcrumb, will you?”

i say, “I love you, and I miss you too.”

Politics and Prostitution…rant & poem

Well another day, and nothing really to say or add except for America is going to hell in a handbag!  The fiscal cliff keeps cliffing.  Political differences and issues are now threatning the FDA to go on furlough so the cost of meat, poultry, vegetables, eggs, milk, etc. etc. are all going to sky rocket in prices if nothing is resolved by March 1st, so stock up.  Government employees are facing potential pink slips.  Just the other day I saw a sign screaming “Depression Rates”.  And one of my kuzis (I think that’s the way you spell ‘Kuzi’?) once read:  “It’s a Recession when the other guy loses his job.  It’s a Depression when you lose yours.” 

You know the Mayans never predicted that the world was ever going to end (thank Hollywood for that) but merely predicted big changes were to come.  So are they here now?  Where is Nostradamus by the way, or Superman for that matter? 

Need to go back and see Phil Collins/Genesis videos.

In the meantime here’s another poem. . .this one dedicated to the Sexual Politics of America!  Enjoy!

 

**********

 

The Prostitute

 

Across the conferences she lays to bade foreign

nations wielding pens mightier than swords

bleed the predatorial beast beneath red-top masses;

 

the sovereign of exchanged currencies

exorcising their gluttonies within her are but

a mere promised farce, an anti-cleansing of impure hands-

 

she is the shameless populace of God’s right hand,

the echo of a prostituted nation

for at his feet, she weeps

Musings of a Writer, Blocked

 

I’m not as intelligent as I used to be

 

somewhere, somehow, my brain

fell off the grid of post-independence,

now I’m influenced by the vast roaches

inhibiting my fortress of proverbial pain,

though they call to me, whisper my name

their shame becomes all of what I used to be;

 

the Marigolds no longer bloom on my plantation

they too have become all but a crying out sustenance,

not for water, but for company, companionship,

someone with the greenest thumb to stroke their

whimsical little petals now weltering beneath

the cosmic forces that bind us not as one but as three;

 

to re-seed another whole new life, I must twist the

dead Marigolds until their necks break, and when those

tiny seeds invisibly bleed out, I am reminded

that now would be a valid time to remember what I have forgotten-

in the soil I watch as those vast roaches clamber beneath me,

soiling those precious anthropoid seeds with their scum scavenger cum;

 

still, I’m not as intelligent as I used to be but I’m writing again

When was the last time we kissed on the corner of a street?

 

When was the last time we kissed on the corner of a street

when it mattered the most? You say

why is it that when we age

that drift of sensual exhibition seems to drift from us,

an exhibition that knows no boundaries except

to exploit what we once innocently felt,

like an impulse waiting to explode,

then implodes from the inside out.

that used to be us. . .young, wicked, dangerous, un-wise,

un-visceral, un-universal, genuine angst at its unpolluted

but somehow we have become polluted with the

do’s and don’ts, the acceptable and unacceptable,

the conventional and unconventional of age

so why should we live by those fucking rules?  You grab

my hand and pull me close to you, and far from them,

in my mind you are still sixteen, and your kiss still tastes

of Marlboro mint faintly washed by a bottle of domestic beer

just like the night I snuck out of my parents’ house

to make-out with you beneath a lighted pole on the corner of a street.