The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Splatsville

Well, here we are, the end of the month already! Happy Friday evening everyone and a little tip of the kippah to you all. Well, talk about long week again! But thank-god for the weekend! We can lie back and relax because that wonderful little capper has joined us again. So, from out of my past, comes an old 'beat' poem. As usual, please remember my dear, dear readers; always-always-always enjoy!

Splatsville

Men went walking on hills
Picking daffodils
To give to ladies of the night
Who fucked like cats in alleys
Underneath pale lamplights
Bums on the edge
Steps away from the ledge
Into
Splatsville
Once and for all

The Changing Of The Guard>An Occupational Hazard-Act 24

Disclaimer: He who rejects change is the architect of decay. The only human institution which rejects progress is the cemetery. All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another. Without accepting the fact that everything changes, we cannot find perfect composure. But unfortunately, although it is true, it is difficult for us to accept it. Because we cannot accept the truth of transience, we suffer. Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who thinks otherwise probably believes that change is inevitable except from a vending machine that changes nothing.

“This is the Titanic man; you’d better find yourself a life raft…” Knee-Jerk Johnson, Devil’s Island prisoner

Devil’s Island is being dismantled, slowly but surely; the signs are becoming clearer as the days go by and other prisoners are beginning to acknowledge it too. The disappearance of all-too-familiar faces is creeping up more and more, while the whittling away of basic human & prisoner rights has become more visible on the surface.

What prisoners on Devil’s Island used to expect from Upper Prison Brass have been cut out of the prison system completely.

Could it be that it had something to do with the recent visit by the International Red Cross that found unsafe housing conditions for prisoners and called in Amnesty International to launch a full & thorough investigation as to how it got to be so bad here on Devil’s Island?

It’s to the point where prisoners are quite concerned for their lives, well-being & general safety. No, I doubt sincerely that Devil’s Island is going to collapse overnight, but I will guarantee this; the negatives are already weighing out the positives and with more pessimism than optimism, there is a graver chance that Devil’s Island will disappear completely over time and space.

Yet, Upper Prison Brass believes that they are at the top of their game; they believe that nothing can go wrong because all of their systems have been safe-guarded and maintained well. Upper Prison Brass believes that everything is safe, sound and secure.

The opposite is true. Their old systems have unraveled enough and are bursting at the sides, with water streaming in and the prisoners have noticed this, and although it seems to be well-hidden by Upper Prison Brass, a little subliminal reinforcement message is being repeated by the likes of Broadcast Betty, The Most Holy Father & The G3 Boys who keep saying that “everything is okay” and of course it is not.

When it gets to the point of no return, the prisoners will no doubt react to the sudden changes with demands, silent boycotts and refusal to listen to what laws dictate, until prison conditions change for the better.

Here on Devil’s Island, change scares Upper Prison Brass and everyone else who subscribes to the pipeline philosophies they are plugged into. Change can even damage and destroy a well guarded prison system and make revolutionaries overnight.

The ship is indeed going down fast.

Let The Folly Of Death Commence! An Occupational Hazard-Act 23

Disclaimer: God pours life into death and death into life without a drop being spilled. I am not afraid of death. It's the stake one puts up in order to play the game of life. The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time. Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who thinks otherwise probably believes that if man were immortal he could be perfectly sure of seeing the day when everything in which he had trusted should betray his trust, and, in short, of coming eventually to hopeless misery. He would break down, at last, as every good fortune, as every dynasty, as every civilization does. In place of this we have death.

Effective immediately: I have been placed in solitary confinement here on Devil’s Island. For good measure, I have a noose that has been arranged around my neck so properly and pulled tighter at regular intervals by The Most Holy Father.

There are handcuffs chained to my hands, which are chained to the bars of my prison cell, plus there are chains placed around my ankles, bugging & tracking devices that I keep finding throughout my space. They have even placed computer chips within my food! Let me tell you one thing, boys and girls; I don’t like this one bit, not one bit!

In essence, I am being watched closely by Upper Prison Brass and The Most Holy Father. Rumor around Devil’s Island is that The Fraternal Goon Twins have returned in full force, while others remark that it’s the ghost of Old Black Devil has implanted itself inside the body and soul of the next heiress to the throne of great evil-doers, I am referring to none other than Suzi Scarecrow.

Suzi Scarecrow is the perfect trap, what with her svelte appearance and quiet, yet resourceful attributions; she makes great attempts to scare the wits out of anyone she feels she can intimidate with her eyes and her body; such is the life of a scarecrow.

I’ve always believed that there’s been a price on my head for the longest time; silently and quietly there’s been a major movement afoot triply coordinated by The Most Holy Father, Josie Peppermint & now Suzi Scarecrow to have me executed for my crimes of heartfelt passion in and around Devil’s Island.

I have nothing to hide. I’ve always been a good, decent and hard-working model prisoner, yet at the same time a great representative for many prisoners here on Devil’s Island who otherwise are afraid to speak their true feelings aloud.

Suzi Scarecrow is nothing more than a diversion to distract others from what is really going on behind the scenes at Devil’s Island. Upper Prison Brass believes they are so smart by trying to nickel and dime everything and everyone with decoys like Suzi Scarecrow, The Ramblin’, Gamblin’ G3 Boys and The Most Holy Father.

It’s all a ploy, a good game of control which is processed and tinkered with almost daily, for in reality mind control is the first step toward execution. Devil’s Island is out of control in terms of what really needs to get done, because in reality, they do not know and will continue to spin out of control; that is their destination, but not mine nor the rest of the prisoner population.

In fact as of now, the party is over; I’m shutting it down for good. The mind games that they puppeteer for their own benefit are just little games to me, ‘tis all.

If they want me to die, then I will die, but I am proud to die and I will be so much happier when I do die, for I will be welcomed by so many other brave souls that went out before me, fighting the good fight for honesty and unmanipulative mannerisms.

Devil’s Island will sink itself into a black hole and not recover. Parties nor honeymoons don’t last forever, when there are no more bridges to cross, when those higher authority figures destroy them in the short run, just because their appetite for destruction is a little too close for comfort.

Let the folly of death commence!

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>The Ground

Ah, good late evening my dear friends. How about some poetry for a late Tuesday night? And always remember, please enjoy!


The Ground

She’s the love of his lifetime
And the lifetime of her love
She’s the shine in his window
From the stars up above
She brings lots of sun
When his forecast says rain
He brings her much pleasure
When she feels pain
She laughs
When he smiles
So simple and plain
He fills up her heart
When they are apart
And he tells her, he loves her
When she is sad
And she tells him she loves him
When he feels bad
Well, the two little lovers
Did settle down
And he loves her
And she loves him
Down, down to the ground
Just
Down, down to the ground

New American Yarnprose>100 Percent Bullshit

Every once in a while, I learn a life lesson and a few weeks ago, I learned a big one, as well as a gentle reminder that I have to watch out for some remarks I say because sometimes, it stings the other party involved pretty badly, even though I meant no harm.

Having said that, I’d like to present a new piece of yarnprose I wrote earlier this month…

100 Percent Bullshit

Sunset streams into my bedroom cluttered with papers and books, photographs, empty jewel boxes & parts and all sorts of CDs. Mingus is blowing steam as usual and he comforts me well. A friend has just hung up upon me as he tells me about a rally about nuclear power usage in India that he attended and all I said to him was, “Well if it’s not Iraq, it’s something else.”

That angered him I guess.

I swallow my apple juice and wonder about useless anger. Where in the world does it go when there is no place left for it? Garbage cans are already filled to the brim with other ridiculous notions; there’s an undeclared illegal war that has already filled over 2,300 plastic body bags and TV talk shows and radio broadcasts just spit and punch their fists in the air and their callers take turns agreeing and disagreeing with each other, but does it really matter this useless anger that hangs hard in the evening air?

What is there to do about it?
What is there to do about it?
What is there to do about it?

Just sit on your ass and complain about it like the rest of the complainers already do.

There is too much negativity in this world I tell myself; no one accepts what can’t be stopped. How can something be stopped when it’s already been chugging down the tracks for months on end and headed for disaster? How! How! How!

Disaster breaks bones in a single swing.
Disaster is an excuse to turn positive into negative.
And I wonder aloud how many can.
And I wonder aloud how many care to.
And I wonder aloud how many collective orchestras behave like lemmings and do what they are told?

Plenty, I say to myself, plenty.
And I know I am right.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Sprawl

Well, here we are again, dear readers, it's Saturday night and I ain't got no money, but yes, I have plenty of poem! Two days in a row! Can you dig it! And please remember my dear, dear readers; always-always-always enjoy!

Sprawl

The dope returns
Halftown boy hobos East
Cold wind whistles through his hair
Pack wet with sweat
From sleeping
Boobham for dinner, the night before
Could still suck the sweetness from her jeweled skin
Pinching the sop
Onto the open road
Thumbing on inward to Buffalo
The days neck longer,
His dreams stretch
Outward to the rainbow sky
8 a.m.
And
All
Is
Well

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Her Fingers

Well, here I sit, dear readers and yes I realize it's late on a Friday evening, so a quick tip of the kippah to you one and all tonight and well, talk about long week again! Days keep getting longer by the minute, but at last we can relax because that sweet little capper is here with us once more. And what a treat tonight for you all; a new poem! As usual, please remember my dear, dear readers; always-always-always enjoy!

Her Fingers

The boy lays still in the night
Feeling his sweet girl snuggle close to him in the midnight sun
And yet he looks so alone, weeping quietly
As she feels for his soul so softly
She is beautiful in the dark, in the light
She is quiet when she tells him all is well
He closes his eyes and dreams of her
She closes his fingers, clasping tightly around his soul

The MishegasMaster Meets The Mishegas Bathtub & The Mishegas Bathroom Sink With Generics!

It looks as if I have won round one in the war against my bathtub and bathroom sink drains. The clogs in both have been unusually strange, but I suppose the winter season froze the pipes up, making water virtually impassable.
I don’t put a lot down the bathroom sink, other than the usual "spit-the-water-out-of-my-mouth-and-into-the-sink" kind of action every morning and I do comb my hair and beard occasionally and I suspect with the latter, much hair has clogged up both the bathtub and the sink.
Yet the bathtub has been the worst by far, as for days the water wouldn’t go down, until I began using drainpipe solutions. Much as every company claims to make a good product, the best formula I have found thus far and was easy on the pipes is a solution called "Everyday Living: Professional Strength Drain Opener."
Just imagine it; a 64-ounce bottle filled with thick liquid formula (sounds kind of kinky, don’t it?) that unclogs pipes? I thought it was too good to be true until I tried it myself, but lo and behold after flushing out the drain and a little plunging, it worked!
This product is a generic brand and seemed to be so much better than all of the name brand solutions I was using. Generic brands, whether we realize it or not, are absolutely the best. They may not smell, taste, feel or look the same as a nationally known product, but they do the trick so wonderfully as well. 90 percent of my clothes, medicine, music (CDs & cassettes), toiletries and food is generic. Generic is cheaper, it saves on cash when you don’t have a lot to spend to begin with and you don’t have to rely on a name brand product that tells you that they are the best in the world, which of course, many realize isn’t the truth.
I haven’t had a problem with the bathtub since I used "Everyday Living."
Sigh...

If only, if only I could find a way to de-mouse my apartment like that now...

New American Yarnprose>Virtual Town

Virtual Town

In Virtual Town, no one hears what anyone has to say they just act as if they can hear, but in reality cannot. Viva Tarfe is one such individual who behaves as if she were deaf; well deafness and her own personal soul-searching radar system, truth be told.
Viva was a religious witch whose spell-castings sometimes got a little too out of hand. Other than turning ordinary men into mushugana fools, she used to create love potions with often disastrous results.
Viva’s love life had never been much to crow about anyway, as every man she fell in love with, she fell out of love just as quickly, for her standards were just too high and mighty, the dreamboat that sank itself in the river virtually every time. Two of her greatest flaws were jealousy, for jealous had a way of turning an already angry witch into a raging monster and having control, control in the sense of it’s my way or the highway.
Sure she was capable of loving, but she never could quite grasp how the other person really felt because it was all virtual; virtual meaning that she could never touch the other person, never feel the other person beside her as she worked on her spells, potions or whatever she chose to do.
One of the troubles with a virtual relationship however, that you could never see the other person’s eyes, for it was a pair of eyes that told countless stories of sadness and passion; stories that she could never understand because she was always to busy to notice.
That’s not to say that she wasn’t helpful, for she was. She gave out as much as she could, but when it came to loving herself, she always sold herself short, which is always bad when you’re looking for a way to heal the ache.
Men seemed to swoon over her, falling like flies, that is all but one man by the name of Velvet McStark; he knew better than to believe a witch.

"Witches," he used to say to himself aloud, "Are full of mischief and trickery. They can read you like a book, yet treat you like a dirty dishtowel. No, all witches are the same."

One day in the virtual marketplace, both the religious witch and Velvet McStark accidentally had their signals crossed when trying to purchase a truckload of kashrut meals. When Velvet realized what had happened, he tried to explain the situation to the young witch, but she was already entranced by Velvet. Unbeknownst to Velvet, she imprinted his soul into hers, a little trick she learned while studying with a Turkish man who offered her whiskey from time to time.
To prove that Velvet was her truth and not another falsehood, she conducted little experiments on his soul. She made amazing predictions as she made her way through a battery of tests. All through her testing she was difficult, heartless and cold. She knew love no other way.

In a virtual world, things are easy; in the real world life was difficult, blundering and unsympathetic. Such was the case with the religious witch, Viva Trafe.

MishegasMaster Notes On Illinois Primary Election Day

"Are you all gonna go out and vote? I wish my vote meant something, but what the fuck does it mean? Ronald Reagan, Walter Mondale, Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny! Cartoon characters! The puppet strings are being pulled by the same people, over and over again..." Jello Biafra, lead singer of The Dead Kennedys, October 31, 1984, Cabaret Metro, Chicago, Illinois

It’s primarily Election Day here in Illinois, although primarily it still is important, for all parties concerned. The voters never seem to come out in droves like they do for the general election though and why is that? Perhaps they feel it’s just that it’s not the big a deal.
Although the current sitting Democratic governor has a challenger this year, I believe the governor will easily defeat him. The Republican candidates on the other hand, seem to have more at stake and course, what would a political campaign be without a good old-fashioned name bashing fight?
I’m not sure it matters that the four candidates, who fought it out, fail to realize that whether they behave like conservatives or moderate Republicans, more people seem to look at how they conduct themselves overall.
Election campaigns are famous as well as infamous for running notoriously hateful campaign television and radio commercials and really if you think about it, blatant hateful words only confuse a voter more and only makes the potential candidate look like an ass, but if you think you've seen the last of these ads, buddy, think again! You'll be seeing them from now until the General Election in November.
Their behavior especially publicly and privately seems to indicate that some of the candidates could care less about the overall public, caring only instead for public opinion polls and their selfish professional persona.
No such thing as an honest politician, as they go directly for the throat when they promise us the world and bring us back nothing but a bucketful of dirty salt water. Then again there are some politicians (and friends of theirs) who bill themselves as clean and honest and what we end up with is a celebrity politician who is all talk and show. The kind of man or woman who gives the people nothing in return, for after all it is for the people and by the people who vote to elect a candidate to office. That being said, junior Illinois senator Barak Obama should resign his senate seat.

But politics is a tricky business run by tricky people, looking for a few extra tricks on the side, while selling as many tricks as they can get away with selling. At least former Illinois governor George Ryan was exposed for his bottomless pit of dirty tricks, as well as late President Richard Nixon and an entire slew of others who lost their trust from their citizens who believed in them at one point.
Trust is important to the American public and once a person betrays their trust, others will do everything in their power to expose them and destroy their persona. Exposure is good to a degree, for once the truth is exposed, your soul will forever remain free.
There’s an election in Israel next week too. I certainly hope the citizens of the American-sponsored country will exercise their rights to vote as well. Anyone who doesn’t vote should be deported from his or her respective countries. Despite what they say in the press and what many believe in the public eye, voting is a privilege, so use it and don’t lose it.

Cobb-Webbed Forgottenness & Hurtful Melodies Get A Second Chance To Breathe

In the spring, time is observed for healing old wounds slowly like the drops of dew scattered on flowers in the morning. It’s a time to begin new projects and study the law of averages, knowing things once uneven and bombastic, now turn smooth, round and softer around the edges.
In the springtime, pink & naked is more often than not the true meaning of new beginnings; a significant turning point that brings together the cob-webbed forgottenness & hurtful melodies into the forefront and pumps new breath into the meaningfulness and purpose set forth and put upon this earth.
It’s was a hard winter for me all around and I almost didn’t make it through, but thankfully due to a few good friends that care, I came out on top. Then of course I also have to thank my newly found friends, my angels, my spiritual guides who came at a time when I needed them most, picked me up and held onto me as tight as they could.
At first I didn’t believe my angels were really there, but to prove their existence, they shook the futon where I sleep, eat and meditate on a few hundred times and well, after the 101st time and a few other holy tricks, I believed them.
Springtime is also a perfect opportunity to clean house or in my case, my apartment space, which seems more like a storage facility when one gets an eyeful of it at the present moment. Cleaning house is definitely in the forecast this year; the very idea of getting rid of unwanted junk is more appealing to me this year, than any other year in recent memory, perhaps since there’s money to be made on stuff!
Some say spring is a young man’s fancy, though I really believe spring is a time for women to make men act like fools, all for a little comfort.
And also for me, spring is a time to make peace with one’s self after a long hard misunderstood and often frustrating battle between souls that never quite went away.

Getting The Internet At Home

There’s a beautiful feeling in my heart tonight as I write this blog. I finally have the Internet hooked up and I couldn’t be happier! On the other hand, what a few crazy weeks it’s been.
I made the decision to get the Internet at home based on my ever-changing life. For the past six years, ever since I moved from Chicago and into the surrounding northern suburbs, I’ve had to resort to creative ways of communicating and connecting with the world, as my finances haven’t always been that steady or well-kept.
Of course, up until last year I was making payments on my Saturn and therefore, couldn’t afford all that much, including a telephone. During the entire year of 2003, I had no telephone and so I had to resort to using disposable calling cards whenever I wanted to speak to someone, namely my parents, The Arizona Babe & Rex Pater Homo. I used to call them at a local hotel, not too far from the basement apartment where I was dwelling on Sunday evenings.
That situation changed when with the help of The Arizona Babe, I was able to purchase a cell-phone and re-establish myself in the world once more. In the meantime, I had no connections to the Internet and so I would use the next best location, the public library.
The last time I had Internet service at home was late 2000 and then it stopped because it was at that time, financially impossible for me to keep paying for it. So, I had to resort to any and all public libraries in order to fetch my email and find out varying bits of information that I needed. I had initially thought that this sort of life without the Internet would be a temporary situation, but of course it lasted for almost six years!
Now libraries aren’t so bad, except for the privacy factor and believe me, people hanging out and waiting for their turn to use a computer made me a workaholic when it came to finding time in my already busy day to get online.
Not having the Internet at home also cramped up my free time. In fact, I almost never had free time, especially when I began dating and it almost always came down to a choice of either going on a date or using the Internet. But of course, there were ways around that; I would just spend less time online and get back to the next day.
Then of course there were the days that the library would be closed due to inclimate weather or various holidays. That can really muck up a schedule especially if you’ve been depending on something of great importance. I’ll miss the library, but perhaps only the folks who worked at the reference desk and that’s all.
Two weeks ago I was hooked up via the local telephone service, but that’s when all of my temporary troubles began. In order to get online, I had to have my computer fitted properly.
It took several trips to the local electronics store to get my computer fixed and re-fixed until it worked properly. During that time, I had experienced several episodes of near panic attacks and several shades and states of sadness. At some point, I prayed to God that I would get through this hardship and asked for guidance. This past Friday evening, God answered my prayers as I was finally was able to get online.

The first thing I did when I got online was to call up The Arizona Babe, who was overjoyed with the news. Then I took her surfing with me and of course the first website I went to was www.beatles.com; we then looked up her name, then my other two brother’s names, Benjy & Louie and lo and behold I found that my brother Louie has a blog like me. Then on final approach, I took her to my blog and read her one of my recent posts.
Even though I am working on the bugs within the system, I am still able to get online with no real problems. Those frightful days of having to go to the library are over. But all those days are gone now.
Today was a beautiful day; I went grocery shopping, I went to a friend’s house to party, I picked up some instrumentation for my pesky bathtub, went to work out at the gym and will do the laundry soon.
It’s almost as if I’ve become a free man!
I think I’m going to like this.

American Yarnprose>Sardines

Sardines


Oh, I wish I wish I wish I were a fish disguised as an Oscar Meyer Weiner; everyone would be in love with me or would they? Would they really, really, really, really, really, really, love me if I became someone else? I have always wondered that possibility off in my mind; I mean would they be satisfied like those sardines in a tiny can if someone like someone could actually change a person & their status for good? The true foreverhood of time. I had too many try to do that to me & ended up as dissolved throat lozenges gathering acids inside the stomach of pulp-woods.
Sometimes it seems to work; sometimes it doesn’t. I hope no one ever tries to pull that shit on me.
Help is better than change. It just refines the wine. Ages the cheese. Prolongs the movement within the climax. Makes the train ride seem a little longer in the short of it.



Bye-bye love. Bye-bye happiness. Hello loneliness. I think I’m a-gonna cry. Goodbye my love. Goodbye.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>War Materialism

Well, here we are again, it's Friday! Tip of the kippah to you one and all and Happy St. Patrick's Day too! Boy! Talk about long weeks! This was certainly one for the books, but it's finally here, that fun little capper that greets us the moment we walk into our homes after a hard day's night! In keeping with the topic rhythm of the past four days, I've chosen a poem that fits right in! And please remember my dear, dear readers; always-always-always enjoy!

War Materialism

The time has come

No need for more slack

The time is now

Before they put a gun in your back

Your chance to serve

Is going fast

Pretty soon

It’ll be days of past

So grab a load of guns

Bayonets and slick grenades

Join the army join the navy

Display them proud in parades

But then comes the real chance

No fun and games, no time for romance

It’s time to see

Both blood and guts spill

Watch the bodies collect in the unmarked gravesites

No time for scaring, no time for frights

Instead, you see

Victims of war materialism

Band together on a muddy hill

A MishegasMaster Minute

There are too many complainers in these here United States. Yes, I know that many have taken great advantage of the freedom of expression law within both the United States’ Bill of Rights and the U.S. Constitution, but there are a growing number of useless blabbermouths who have a better purpose here in our country.

All they do is complain, complain, and complain.

It’s the same kind of complainers who sit on their collective asses, watch television talk shows or listen to local/national radio call-in programs and actually believe everything they see on television and hear on the radio is true.

I wish I could believe in the news media as a whole or its members, some of whom I still see from time to time, having been in the news business a long time ago, yet it’s changed from bad to worse, mostly overtaken by corporate conglomerate companies with executives who dictate how the news should be presented.

Many of these companies will tell you their first obligation is to present the news, yet with a twist; the very idea to get their own agendas and viewpoints hammered into viewers and listeners’ heads the first time with an earthquake Hollywood-like intensity and a little public relations thrown in for good measure and oh yes, before I forget, they must make a profit.

Ever since NBC was taken over by General Electric (G.E.) decades ago, who also just happens to have within its patent arsenal the MX-missile, I doubt anyone of us will ever see anything bad about the bomb. Stories about electricity companies and its entities will also not get as much negative press either on NBC or its affiliates, not as long as someone like G.E. owns them.

Strange how that works itself out; reminds me of the time I was a young reporter working for a northwest suburban newspaper in the Chicago-area in the early 1990s and our newspaper staff had to write advertorial news; translated it means writing a positive article on a business that advertised with our newspaper.

The trouble with doing those kinds of stories was how dishonest the newspaper was being to us reporters and how the wrong lesson was being taught to us. Sure a newspaper needs to generate ad revenue, but not by having its staff writing happy, bogus stories about its advertisers! The worst part of it was, when the advertiser had final say so what went into the story and the editor agreed with the advertiser and not the reporter!

If there is ethics in the news or publishing business, I fail to see them, as there are so many irregularities in both. The worst types of ethics I run across are those that manipulate the truth and present it as fact, when the opposite is true.

Anybody with a computer or a blog is a reporter these days; anybody who calls into a radio or television stations with an eyewitness account of a robbery, fire or car wreck is a reporter. Anybody who hasn’t studied journalism yet uses the jargon and mannerisms of a journalist is a reporter.

If anything I measure true journalists and writers this way; anyone can write a sentence. Anyone can write a paragraph. Try editing it down. Therein lays the key to success.

The Hilary Clinton Haters

My country is made up of various groups; perhaps one of the more wicked and evil of them is an outrageously out-of-control sexist mob made of mostly men in the United States who absolutely disdain Hilary Clinton, for several reasons, some of those which I will attempt to address within this blog.

Some say she’s just a senator from New York; just a senator you say? Whoa buddy! You’d better sit quietly in your chair and let me give you the lowdown.

Ever since Bill Clinton had been elected to the office of the Presidency of the United States, there had been a slow-burning movement to ridicule him and his wife Hilary.

Let’s face it; politics is a dirty business and there are those whose life’s mission is to destroy other men’s souls just because they don’t have what they want or what God handed to them in the receiving line; sometimes it’s called professional jealousy. Still others resort to name-calling and mud-slinging, digging up whatever terrible-bad actions a person did in previous times and exploiting it.

Before Bill Clinton became president there were several people out to destroy him, but thankfully he beat back their stupidity with honesty; besides one can only go so far with dirty tricks. Still, the people liked him and voted him in, not once but twice.

But sure enough, there have been those in the media who have sought the Clintons out, like a personal vendetta; people like pain-killer popping radio talk show host Rush Limbaugh, overgrown Congressmen, media stars, attorneys and right-wing Christian groups, among others.

Seems to me the more the Clintons put themselves in the public eye, the more the hatred and disdainment spews forth like a putrid vomit geyser. To make it seem more ludicrous, during the time I worked in a corporate bookstore chain in the Chicago-area from 1994-1997, I saw at least 100 anti-Bill & Hilary Clinton books. Never in my life was I so shocked.

And yet I still don’t get it. The Clintons are quite intelligent and hip to society, as is the societies of people that are hip to them, like me. What other United States president can most of us say admitted to digging Elvis (Presley), playing the saxophone, smoking weed and connecting with people? Certainly not George Bush Jr. or Ronald Reagan or even Jimmy Carter; no the Clintons are observantly brilliant and smart.

But back to why most men seem to disdain Hilary; perhaps they feel threatened by her dominance or maybe it’s her aggressiveness or assertiveness that she displays so well.

In general, I believe that most men would rather have a woman who stands behind him, wash his clothes, bake his bread, make him dinner and submit to every command he requests from her. If not, will then his woman is most likely a bitch or a femanazi because she has a mind of her own.

The same rule of thumb applies to Hilary Clinton; why are so many men afraid of her? The same basic principles and that’s sad when you think about it really.

So sad.

What’s The Point Of Undeclared War When We Can ITMFA!

There are some true idiots in these United States and strangely enough most of them live in either Florida or Texas, save for a few in the other 48 states. Their mentalities range from those who putter around and blog four or five times a day without being paid for it!

That’s about as bad as serving time in the United States Armed Forces, pick your branch, they all seem to be the same and those who serve believe they are doing a good deed for our country, by “protecting our freedoms.”

You call this undeclared war in Iraq “protecting our freedoms?” That has got to be one of the biggest lies ever told to young, naïve men and women who sign up to fight for Uncle Sam. It’s so far from it. All they are doing is protecting our oil interests.

I don’t care what President Bush or Vice-President Cheney says! It’s a little tough to believe what both men say anyway! They’ve already lied to the American people several times over the course of three years and invaded a country that wasn’t bothering America to begin with?

How is it that America had Osama bin Laden trapped in Pakistan a few years ago and then suddenly loses sight of him? How is it that they go after a smaller dictator who had nothing to do with the events in New York City and the Pentagon in Washington, D.C on Tuesday, September 11, 2001?

What significance does the trial of Saddam Hussein have on the outcome on the undeclared war? It’s never really been answered as to why Saddam Hussein’s is on trial, other than perhaps he was an easier target for George Bush Jr. to smash and grab while he had the chance. Or maybe it’s payback time for his Daddy (George Bush Sr.) who let him go at the end of the Gulf War in 1991 to begin with.

If you coupled Bush’s crimes against a country that wasn’t even involved with 911 to begin with, plus all of the illegal wire-tapping of phones and cell-phones (including yours truly), the monitoring of email to those who send letters to friends & lovers overseas (including yours truly) and those who write blogs against the President (including yours truly), I’d say we have a President that is far worse than President Richard M. Nixon’s paranoia could stretch out, far worse than Ronald Wilson Reagan’s lies and deceit he spread out over the Americas and all those faithful who so believed him like lambs to the slaughter and far worse than George Bush Sr. could ever profess to be!

And yet, the bastard hides behind the Patriot Act like a scared little rich kid...I wish he could face my friends who he's harassed and tell them the truth, but I know better...

George Bush Jr. should be impeached for all of his crimes against humanity followed by a trial jury of his peers and given the maximum sentence one could get for such crimes.

I’ve always said that polls don’t mean much for politicians or celebrities, but by the looks of things, I’d say this time the numbers do mean something significant and let me tell you that all the bullshit speeches our President makes this week on how wonderful the undeclared war without a mission or without a time frame for our boys and girls to come home safely won’t do him a world of good.

ITMFA!

Assassination-The Easy Way Out

Assassinations are everywhere you look; people planning to murder others for varying reasons. Perhaps they don’t agree with what is said or what is agreed to, like say deals involving money, broken promises, bad sex, medicinal side-effects, horrible positions in life or a handful of pills disguised as several obstacles than one could swallow so easily on any given day, let alone week.

Assassination is the result of projected selfishness, the very idea of wanting to work alone based on a lonely fear factor, i.e. fear of failure of one’s self-worth. It’s almost a half-step below suicide bombings, as suicide bombings seem to strike at random against anybody or anything, unlike the self-proclaimed suicidal maniac or assassin, who decides to take out one’s own soul out of its misery for whatever reason because pressure is too much aka, a decision made is a decision kept or promised.

Suicide like assassination is not only based on impulse, but well thought-out plans, with the intension of not making any slip-ups. Assassination is another word for murder, killing or slaying and just a fancier and more glamorous way of approaching the act.

When I was younger, assassinations were a part of everyday life in America, having grown up in the 1960s. Death seemed to fit in with everyday life and as strange as that sounds, it actually did.

I had terrible dreams between the ages of 6 to 8, watching bombs go off in my head or watching virtual newsreels of important men being assassinated before my very eyes. To be safe, I used to sleep outside in the hallway of my parents’ bedroom (The Arizona Babe & Rex Pater Homo), knowing they would protect me from harm’s way.

Benjy, Joey, Naomi, Louie, never knew what to make of that action and for several years following, used to make fun of me for doing it, calling me all sorts of hurtful names, insisting it was fear of detachment and as I now reveal here for the first time ever, it was quite the opposite, so please stop ridiculing me already!

Assassination of one’s self seems at times to be the only way out from the absolute madness that follows a wounded soul around like a lost puppy dog.

And maybe it’s the best way possible to go.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>The Dress Shop

In keeping with the rhythm of poetry for last few days, I think I will keep up with the pace and offer up one more poem to you. And remember my dear, dear readers; always-always-always enjoy!

The Dress Shop

Eyes upon eyes

Do not say hi

But watch what you buy

Behind the façade

Of

Starkness

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>This Cold Rain

Well, it's such a nice day here where I live, the sun is shining brightly with a light breeze in tha air, oh how I know spring is coming soon! And I thought instead of my usual rabble-clatter-bang, I'd give you my readers a triple treat! Poem time! Three poems in three days feels good, doesn't it? And remember my dear, dear readers; always-always-always enjoy!

This Cold Rain (for Phoenix, Arizona's Cloudburst After 143 Days Of Dryness)

It’s as strange as day

She and he tell the perfect story

The long-winded lies

Dirty dancing chills me

The spirited shadows do feast

As ever to feel this cold, hearing the warm breath

Throws out those secret whispering sky songs

And

Flowing mud

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Babyshoes' Blues

Yippee...we made it to Friday once again!!! And here we are to embrace that loving gentle capper that greets us like a long lost relative! Time for another oldie but goldie poem of mine, that is enjoying a comeback of sorts. Please my dear readers, dear readers, always, always, enjoy!!!

Babyshoes’ Blues

I met this cat named Babyshoes who walked the streets at night with the biggest sack of blues I'd ever seen in this life.

Seems like Babyshoes had wimmin troubles.

Hell! We all do at one time or another.

Yeah man! Babyshoes cops the blues with rosy palm intact in fact almost every time I can think about it; he cops a feel between a rattle and a banana peel, sandwiched in the middle of two pegs, always a runny residue left on a plate of scrambled eggs, feelin' satisfied.

Seems that Jane, a woman half his age, drunk in pints, gave him the eye more than once in that juke joint he used to frequent.

So the story goes, she saunters up to his table, spread-eagles herself next to him and says, "Hey Babyshoes, feel like swingin' on the vine tonight with Jane?"

But Babyshoes' answer was always the same, "Why bother?"

He'd get his fill, lay back & holler, milk the old one-two and he'd be done in two squirts, like a shot of iron into his bloodstream.

He was such a lonely cat, that Babyshoes.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Suffragette

Well, here it is a Thursday evening and guess what? Poetry!!! At times I really like to treat my readers extra special and tonight is one of those nights. So sit back, relax and kick your feet up and enjoy a brand new poem on me! And remember my dear readers, always, always, enjoy!!!

Suffragette

We

Suffer!

Suffer!

Suffer!

Suffer!

Suffer!

Suffer!

The madness of truth

sandwiched in between

stories we paint ourselves to keep ourselves real cool

And we hope to think that we are right, but you know we are not

And we

Suffer!

Suffer!

Suffer!

Suffer!

Suffer!

Suffer!

for the madness

Local Yokel? Okel-Dokel!

I park in a leased parking lot a few feet from where I actually work at and I pay a partial parking fee for the usual every quarter, which I have no qualms about, but I’ve been noticing little things occurring there since I’ve been parking there and seems to me that neither the city of Evanston or the Evanston Police Department isn’t exactly doing their job as well as they could be.

While warming up my car these past few months, in the middle of the afternoon during my lunch break, closer to 3pm as a matter-of-fact, I’ve noticed a lot of unfamiliar-looking cars in the parking lot.

The signs where I park clearly state: “City Of Evanston; parking Lot 64 permit required. Monday through Friday, 5am to 3pm. Free Evanston theater parking weekends and after 3pm weekdays” and “All trucks and buses prohibited. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.”

That sign is a relatively new one, posted up nearly a month ago after which a lot of people tried to park illegally in the lot during a Northwestern University basketball tournament, which caused lots of headaches for those of us who park in the lot. A lot of those unfamiliar cars park there since the local greasy spoon; Mustard’s Last Stand has a tiny parking lot next to the alley, approximately seven spaces. Ah, they just don’t build cars like they used to, but anyway, the funny part about that first sign is that the movie theater has been closed for several years and yet people still park there knowing that, cheating the law.

And speaking of Mustard’s Last Stand, what’s the deal with the morning deliverymen dropping bread off on their side windowsill facing the parking lot and leaving? You’d think that the hot dog joint would have a better system, but oh no, not them.

Sure the bread is wrapped up tightly and in plastic, but still, anything could happen, like say a curious rodent shows up like a squirrel and takes a bit out of the bread or a vagrant man or woman wonders by and steals it? I think they are asking for trouble in the long run.

And what about that one suburban Pace bus driver that ignores those bus signs and drives through the lot at exactly 3pm each day just so he can take a shortcut to get to the Linden El Station in Wilmette? Shouldn’t he be reprimanded too?

But then again, I suppose it’s like those poor clowns who park in the Chase Bank parking lot on Central Street, just because they couldn’t find a metered space on Central Street to return a movie at Video Adventure, have a meal at Prairie Joe’s, mail a letter at the post office, get their hair or nails done.

The schmucks don’t care, just as long as their needs are met. In the meantime, they take up a good space for folks who really want to do business with the bank, despite the fact that there are signs in place there that strictly prohibit parking, plus cameras, but apparently, they are ignored.

Ah well...what do I know? I'm just a local yokel! Okel-dokel!

For The Price Of Tea & Eggs In India: An Occupational Hazard>Act 22

Disclaimer: By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is noblest; second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest. Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it. Faced with what is right, to leave it undone shows a lack of courage. Go before the people with your example, and be laborious in their affairs. He who learns but does not think is lost! He who thinks but does not learn is in great danger. Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who thinks otherwise probably believes that he who speaks without modesty will find it difficult to make his words good.

Every life span has its mortality; it’s just what we choose to do with it within a particular time frame that makes it all crystal clear. Sometimes on Devil’s Island one learns the hard way that mortality has its price, meaning who will be spared for the moment, while who gets the one-way ride on the gurney to the death house for the last time.

One never knows his or her consequences until the day of the actual event and in many ways it makes one feel as if they have been placed in a Nazi concentration camp, with little chance of survival, meaning the only ways out are by secret underground tunnels built and organized by freedom fighters or death.

In the time one can spend here like many of us have done so in the past and present, the death rate has been awfully and unusually high, right now the average execution or escape rate comes up to two souls every three months.

When I first arrived on Devil’s Island, the escape and execution rate was exceedingly high, averaging seven to 10 souls per month within in a 24-month period; of course that was during the regime of Old Black Devil, whose motto was “honor the guilty and punish the innocent.”

Not since the flighty days when The Fraternal Goon Twins, Groggleman and Old Black Devil ruled the roost on Devil's Island, have tensions mounted steadily and the prisoner population appears to be more on edge.

The mere fact that each prisoner is required to wear a wristband that monitors their every movement, action, breath, sound, word and thought that processes through their heads is a sure sign of bad times ahead.

Paranoia has set in across Devil's Island like a thick dense fog and no one seems to have any sense about themselves as to what should be done. Yes my friends, it's true; Devil's Island has reunited itself with evil...God help us all!!!

Four Score And 302 Blogs Ago-Why I Blog

Four score and 302 blogs ago, I began writing little diary entries for what I originally thought would be a new outlet to post up all of my poetry, both old and new; an online extension of Cops Hate Poetry, my poetry fanzine which I published from 1986-1991.

But you know what, dear readers? I was so wrong; just like all those Chicago weathermen who were unable to predict the weather forecast correctly between January 26 & January 27, 1967, which most called for a little snow, with accumulation between one and two inches. Most of us, who lived through that blizzard, when a blizzard was a blizzard back in those days, know otherwise!

At least former Chicago television weather forecaster John Coleman kept himself honest; he always told his viewers that if he was ever wrong, that he would stand on his head on live television and sure enough he did it several times throughout his career, but I’m straying as always.

I started my blog because another friend of mine at the time and also a very funny comedian Ray Hanania had interviewed me nearly a year ago on the subject of the arrest of popular Chicago poet J. J. Jameson, who of course turned out to be none other than Norman A. Porter, a wanted fugitive from the state of Massachusetts.

At that time, I remember looking at Ray’s blog-page and thinking how easy it looked to set up one. Now of course it was! After several minutes of trying to pick and choose a name for my blog…my real name was taken, I chose The MishegasMaster and the rest as they say, is history!

Over the course of what seems like a lifetime, I’ve written so much and covered so much ground, almost as much ground during my newspaper reporter days. Unlike my reporter days, with a blog I’ve been able to respond to my harshest critics who believe I am always too honest. As a reporter you’re not always able to do that or face the firing squad of editors and ultimately, the company’s human resources department, if such a department existed.

I’ve also written several fictionalized stories and serials too, two of which are still running regularly and a one maddening surreal serial that runs every so often, plus my regular Friday poetry series.

Along the way, I’ve rediscovered myself, redeveloped my writing skills through trial and error and most of all, I’ve found that after all these months of writing and editing myself, that there is always so much more to learn, write about, comment on, constructively criticize, defend, label and create! I’m proud of myself with the strides I’ve taken and made with this blog and the several friends I’ve inspired to create their own blogs!

Blogs are a wave of the future, though the future is now; a cliché perhaps, yet true. While on vacation last month in the Valley Of Golden Happiness, my mom, The Arizona Babe had given me a stack of newspaper clippings to read; she’s always saving things for me…ah, the acorns never drop too far from the loving tree, now do they?

Anyway, the one that really caught my eye was a column on blogging by Chicago Tribune writer Kathy Parker, who said in so many words that those who blog don’t really say all that much in their blogging efforts to begin with and equated the blogging experience to nothing more than a lot of wasted space.

It’s really funny how all that works. It’s true; anyone who is a non-writer can get online and become an instant writer via the blogging network. In a small way, I feel kind of irked by that whole idealism, having been trained properly in journalism school many years ago, yet it’s an opportunity for 10 million voices to be heard, organize and focus without being told what to do.

I can also understand how blogs have become a brand new outlet for freedom of speech and how it might or might not sway public opinion. In more so in the case of Kathy Parker who feels threatened by bloggers like me and others, so I guess it seems only natural that her insecurity would side with the uselessness we bloggers have to offer the free world!

Most of my friends who blog are not writers at all, with the exception one guy who did journalism school; the rest of them are ordinary citizens preaching to the choir and their friends, mostly. After all, it is your basic online diary for the entire world to see. And I do have my favorite blogs too, so try these on for size, won’t you?

http://energynorm.blogspot.com/

http://pietyhill.blogspot.com/

http://onlysummer.blogspot.com/

http://spacewine.blogspot.com/

Be sure and tell them The MishegasMaster sent you!

The Amazing Tale Of Wearing My Yarmulke In Public

Sometimes in my life I have found some incredible animosities, both personally and professionally and this past Friday was no exception. I have begun to explore my religious roots and I’m finding that because I am who I am, which is a quite sensitive person among other qualities, I find that I am in it for the long haul.

And having said that, I felt like an outcast as I sported my colorful hand-knit yarmulke for the first time upon my head to work; of course there were some snide remarks like; “Oh, so that’s the infamous yarmulke, eh?” to rude stares and whispers whenever I passed their desks or departments.

I often wonder why certain religious artifacts are regularly accepted by society and others aren’t. I mean it seems to be perfectly okay for the three major religious groups of Catholic, Jewish & Muslim to do what they feel without being questioned as long as it’s normal in the normal sense of reality.

But you know it’s not; not by a long shot. People in America especially behave peculiar because they seem to have their own hang-ups about what is acceptable and what is not when it comes to religion.

These are the same people who go around judging what others do, while expecting themselves not to be judged. How so very hypocritical of them. It is with that thought that I will leave you with as I present this prose-poem on my experience in my own home territory.

A word to the wise; I will continue until further notice to wear my yarmulke on Fridays until I feel comfortable enough to wear it on other days, so for those of you who I know personally have a problem with it or choose to openly criticism me, remember that instant karma strikes back hard!

Funny Little Hat

I am shunned in my workplace like a blacklisted man in Hollywood

For speaking what my soul desires

Jabbed with indifferences to indifferent to notice what I am about

Injustice bleeds me dry

Every time I ask to be recognized or called upon

But you know, they never notice and they greet me with their tokenisms

And their strangeness

Because they fail to comprehend that I understand their ignorance too.

If crosses were banned from wearing around necks, would the Catholics complain?

If head coverings were banned, would the Muslims complain?

If gospel, R & B, rap & hip-hop music were banned from listening to at individuals’ desks, would the Afro-Americans complain?

If the frightened ones were dragged from out of the closet, would they complain?

So, when I chose a new flight path that gives me new found hope, why do my friends blind their eyes and not look at me as if I were some kind of sideshow freak in a Brooklyn, New York neighborhood?

It’s a conspiracy I tell you man, it’s a conspiracy!

Don’t ask, don’t tell and to tell you the truth, if I weren’t at all Jewish,

I’d probably blame it all on them too!