National Delurking Day

Posted on January 14, 2017 in Festivals Site News Web Sites

Today is National Delurking Day. This is an invitation to all those who give a quick scan to blogs but never comment to break the silence and let mystified and unpraised bloggers such as myself know that you are here. Not on our Facebook pages where likes are cheap, not on Twitter, not with the like and dislike buttons at the top of this article, but in the comments.

I am supposed to have hundreds of hits every time I post an article, but I rarely hear from my readers. Are you bored? Offended? Fascinated? Blown away? Is there something you want me to write about? Ring a bell, blow a horn, and comment!

Delurkers delurk!


Posted on January 11, 2017 in Dreams

square947My niece (I won’t say which one because I think my mind just pulled one of them out of a fold in my brain) tells me that she is divorcing me. I take this very hard and move to the streets because I think the whole family is against me. A friend of mine — who is also homeless — announces that she is going to move to the mountains. I prepare to follow her. The niece apologizes and begs me to come back to the family, but I am set in my ways and remain one of the homeless.


After the Rain Stopped

Posted on January 10, 2017 in Hope and Joy Weather Writing Exercises

square946I looked up into the winter sky — rain is our snow here — and saw Vega, alone in the darkness like a tiny hole someone had pierced with a pin to let the light through a piece of black satin. I stared at it, then made out filaments of cloud portending the next storm, which was forecast for just a few hours hence. After this rain, I knew there would be other rain, other storms. A few hours later, after I had come home, Vega had disappeared behind a new bank of clouds. I had lost my friend in the night. She was gone. Later I heard the finger taps of the next front on our skylight. Rain led to rain. We found peace together, the hidden firmament, the weather, and me.


He was the kind of man who….

Posted on January 9, 2017 in Abuse Adolescence Childhood PTSD Relationships Writing Exercises

square945lost his temper and then worried that I sometimes exploded in return. It was uneven. He wanted to be honored as a father — he quoted the commandment incessantly as if he were a river in flood. Not for a moment did he consider the example he set by his violence towards his children or the arguments he had with his wife. The war had warped him, perhaps — he was one of only three survivors of his company of one hundred men to survive the [[Battle of San Pietro]] — but there was a template he followed laid out, I was told, by his father. My heritage is filled with mysteries — why in a family filled with nice gentlemen was my grandfather so mean? My father was the defender of his brother and sister: he knew to blunt the sword of abuse, so why was he so cruel to us?

Whenever I speak of the terrors of my childhood, my mother used to lay the entire blame on him. This was not fair. She contributed as much if not more. He also had his moments of kindness.

There are things that I wish to say that I am not ready to share. If I can get them down in a journal, I will be sure to post them here.

A movie by John Huston about the Battle of San Pietro.


The person I most admire

Posted on January 2, 2017 in Recent Silicon Valley

square944I’ve lost him. The whole family has lost him. One time at a wedding, someone was filming us. I said to the camera: “Denos is one of those disgusting people who everyone loves and, dammit, so do I!” What he had survived! Nazi occupation during World War II was an early one. Then at the end of his life, multiple myeloma, a painful bone cancer. He kept a smile on his face until shortly before the end when he told his daughters “I an not feeling very well.” When I was struggling with depression, he took me in as his son because he knew I had lost my father. Denos, you were proud of me or so you said. Thank you for living.


Last Thoughts for 2016

Posted on January 1, 2017 in Advocacy Authoritarianism Campaign 2016 Commons Theft

square943People say that 2016 was a terrible year. The election was vicious. The wrong person not only won, but he did so by stealing it from the True Popular Vote winner by the mechanism of the Electoral College. I could go on, but to tell the truth I anticipate that 2017 will be worse because of the power given to an evil man and a host of other evil men in Congress and, soon, the Supreme Court. It grieves me to see so many friends suffering from worry, all but chewing their wrists in grief or threatening suicide. Social Security and Medicare are at risk. So many people I know will suffer — they may become homeless or sick beyond help. This is not a world that I want to see. I will fight but I am afraid that I will lose.


Tooth Extraction Haiku

Posted on December 20, 2016 in Dentition Poems

Abscess in the root
Requires a hard extraction.
Browning blood stains lips.

A stubborn crown clings
To the festering root and
The bone deep inside.

She has little hands:
A definite advantage.
I don’t choke on them.

It don’t come easy.
She cuts the molar in three.
Dental trinity.

I know there is pain,
Bleeding, and swelling to come.
It proves existence.

Long threads run from gum
To palate, a piano
I play with my tongue.

Holy is the gap
Between molar and jawbone.
So far, no pain. Thanks.

Spit out the brown blood.
Wash away the pasta crumbs.
Pray there is no pain.

Marlene reads this litany,
Scolds me for my tongue.

Strange is the pain that
Chirps where there is no assault
On gum, tongue, or tooth.

Faint traces of blood
Stain the clear water spinning
Round the white sink’s drain.

The bone graft is gone,
Washed off by my Waterpik.
I made a mistake.

Must do it again
except no pulling a tooth.
Bone of a dead man.


Two New Cinquains

Posted on December 19, 2016 in Civic Responsibility Poems Publishing Television Travels - So Cal


It is
Time for the press
To stop treating smart people
As kooks, dumb people as geniuses.
Wake up!


Centipede crawls
Over concrete bridges
Pointing toward far Sacramento.
The Five.



Posted on December 13, 2016 in Poems Reflections Relationships Sexuality

The first women I loved
were angels,
the next set
sex toys.
Then I began to seek
angels again, but with vaginas.



Write about being a long way from home

Posted on December 12, 2016 in Fascination Vacation 2015 Writing Exercises

square942When I look by the seaside, my seaside or any other, I look out to the horizon and imagine the earth falling away over the edge. I have done this in Senegal, Greece, Mexico, Canada, and California. The effect is the same, but when I am away from home, I imagine my fingers skipping over the water to the place have come to belong. Being away from home is already on the same plane, though I am filled with excitement about being in this new place, seeing what I am accustomed to and things I am not accustomed to like feral cats that nobody ever feeds, vendors who press their watches to your face, and women who seek to impress you with the fact that they are second wives.

I keep meaning to write about Senegal. I have let you down on this. As time passes, I will make good on this.


In a desert I feel…

Posted on December 5, 2016 in Prose Arcana Travels - So Cal Writing Exercises

square941…free. My mind stretches over the cactus, the Joshua trees, the yuccas, and the sage to the mountains and dunes that surround me. Sometimes I stretch to the thin line of the horizon. All is “hollow, hollow all delight” as Tennyson wrote. Hollow in the best way. I could live here, a hermit in a stone house with thick walls where I could keep cool in the day, not cold at night. I would rise in the morning and take in the views, the light as it changes during the first increments of morning. The flow of the light until it floods the sky. Then the fall of the Sun to the west, the flames of the end of the day. Satisfaction.

Not everyone feels as I do about deserts. A friend who completed the writing exercise at the same time wrote about how she hated them — the heat, clunk of the air conditioner, etc.


Write About Waking Up

Posted on December 4, 2016 in Prose Arcana Routine Writing Exercises

square940The morning has been at the eastern face of the building for several hours. The cactus on the deck grab whatever light they can from the slim triangle that the angle of the sun allows in winter, but I am still sleeping. Then the world turns, my deliberately obnoxious alarm sing-screams, and I open my eyes. My cat, who has been with me, sits like a sentry to ensure that I don’t fall back asleep again. I pet her as the light bounces off the walls across the street as I let the glow soak into my face. Then I sit up, let the old man’s dizziness leave my head, and walk to the kitchen to check my blood sugar.

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