Saturday, January 20, 2018


by corinne delmonico

don’t want to be like my father
working for the man for years
don’’t want to be like my mother
a fountain of tiresome tears

don’t want to be like my brother
a bum despised by all
don’t want to be like my sister
a brainless barbie doll

i say i just want to be myself
but what does that mean?
it means i want to rule the world
i would make an excellent queen

you probably want to be queen yourself
emperor, empress, or king
it would really be so nice
but you can’t have everything

i am a big crybaby
whining all day long
that ’s just who i am
and these are the words to my song

Friday, January 19, 2018


by horace p aternwall

hitler was a bad person
stalin was a family man
bismarck was a man of the people
and drank his beer from a can

mao wore pink pajamas
and slept all afternoon
churchill ran around naked
whistling a happy tune

roosevelt liked the ladies
and watched them through his pince-nez
the kaiser was always a gentleman
i don’t care what anyone says

ronald reagan studied the stars
to determine what to do
margaret thatcher sat by the river
singing the weary blues

richard nixon did crossword puzzles
and often fell down drunk
boris yeltsin wore funny hats
and wished he was a monk

they all drank tea with honey
and ate croissants with flaky crusts
now their memoirs are forgotten
and their empires have turned to dust

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

message in a black and white school notebook, found in a garage sale in arlington tennessee, february 9, 2017

by corinne delmonico

do you believe that anything is real?

do you believe that you yourself are real?

do you believe that you can be anything you want to be?

do you believe that you can live forever if only you want to?

do you believe that you will live forever?

do you believe that you are real but that nobody else is?

do you believe that all the other people in the world should be your slaves?

do you believe that all the other people in the world are your slaves?

but that they just don’t know it?

would you like to learn how to make them realize that they are your slaves?

do you think that somewhere in an another universe there might be someone even more beautiful and immortal than yourself?

would you like to meet that person?

would you like to make that person your slave?

would you like to be their slave?

and live with them forever?

would you like for the two of you to be attended by thousands of slaves?

or to be alone in a kingdom on an island?

which do you like better, cats or dogs?

Tuesday, January 16, 2018


by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy"

here is a very common expression

you hear it every day

maybe you use it yourself

treated like a human being

but what does it mean?

does it mean anything?

could you explain what it meant to a martian?

or to a time traveler from 500,000 b c?

how many of the 8 billion other persons on the planet do you treat like a human being?

or ever get a chance to?

how many of them treat you like a human being ?

or get a chance to?

how about the people you see and pass by every day?

it is not billions but if you live in a city it might be a few thousand

two people are sitting in a subway car

facing each other

but almost surely not looking at each other

one could be old, and one young

one could be male, and one female

or one black and one white

or one well off and the other homeless

one a criminal and the other a law-abiding citizen, etc etc

or - they could be identical in most particulars

they don’t want to talk to each other

or know each other

or meet each other’s eyes

or have anything at all to do with each other

or have the other think for one second that they might want anything to do with them

are they treating each other like human beings?

Monday, January 15, 2018

poem for today

by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy"

the sun comes out in the morning
the moon comes out at night
my face is ragged
but my heart is right

grass grows in the summer
leaves drift in the fall
i may not be much to look at
but i give my all

snow falls in the winter
flowers bloom in the spring
i know i will live forever
because i am not just a thing

they say the world is a pebble
falling into a hole
it may disappear some day
but not my immortal soul

Thursday, January 11, 2018

the conquered city

by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy"

somewhere in a conquered city

that no one has ever entered

down a street

that no one has ever walked

there is a door

that no one has ever opened

into a room with a table

that no one has ever sat at

on the table is a book

that no one has ever read

and when you read it

you will say

of course

i should have seen that long ago

everyone should have seen that long ago

and you get up

to go out to tell everybody the news

but the door is gone

and you can not get out

you look out the window

down to a street that is so far down

that you can not see it

or maybe it no longer exists

beneath a sky that will never rain

Monday, January 1, 2018

the artist

by emily de villaincourt

illustrated by danny delacroix

my aunt catherine was one of the last of the last generation of middle class women who, if they could not find a job or a husband, lived with and were supported by their families their whole lives.

she could never hold a job because she just was not very bright. she had a hard time remembering anything or understanding instructions, and always talked, and seemed to think, slowly. earlier generations would probably have described her as “simple” although the use of the term was mostly obsolete in her lifetime.

she never had much to say, almost never initiated conversations, and usually answered, “yes”, “thank you”, “i suppose so,” or “that’s nice,” when spoken to. she watched a lot of television.

her father, my grandfather, died when catherine was forty-two years old. my grandmother and catherine continued to live on grandfather’s pension until grandmother died two years later.

when grandmother died, her house was sold for a few thousand dollars and the money given to my aunt janet towards the support of catherine, who went to live with janet and her three teenaged children. janet had been divorced for many years and worked as a waitress and sometime hostess at a family restaurant.

catherine was given a small space to live in janet’s finished basement.

it was a few months after moving in with janet and her children that catherine began speakng of herself as an artist.

she would say things like “artists like myself do such and such…” or “artists like myself are the soul of the world”, or “things seem different when you are an artist like me.”

she was not, so far as anyone could see, making or attempting to make any type of art. when she talked of being an artist, her listeners would nod, and nobody questioned her as to the nature of her art.

the only opinion on the subject was expressed by janet’s son adam, who said, “she probably got the idea from watching oprah or ellen.”

janet’s daughter terry replied, “but would she get the idea from oprah or ellen that she was an artist herself?”

bob just shrugged, and no one else had any thoughts on the subject.

when catherine died, no art of hers of any kind was found in the basement, or anywhere in the house.

janet’s three children moved away from home.

catherine is never spoken of by her surviving relatives, except occasionally by my mom and janet, who agree that it was a “blessing” that she died before she became more of a burden.