Sunday, April 9, 2017

3 poems


by wiggly jones "the little hippie boy"




all


god is love
trump is bad
jesus died for your sins
a woman has a right to her own body

you can’t fight city hall
jet fuel can’t melt steel beams
this country was built on the backs of slaves
you’ve never met a payroll in your life



turn it into a parking lot
how come there are still monkeys
if men had babies abortion would be a sacrament
property is theft

the people have taken to the streets
because the streets belong to the people
al gore has a private jet and a private beach
what difference does it make how people love








one



the wheel turns
the candle burns
the moon is the sun
all is one

the rain falls
the telemarketer calls
the burger is the bun
all is one

the clouds drift
the fork lifts
boredom is fun
all is one

life is war
with no reason for
people like guns
all is one

click click
throw a stick
see spot run
all is one

the loser wins
the dryer spins
the colors run
all is one








17 things to do in my next life



1. start a new religion, based on peace and love

2. eat healthier food

3. look people in the eye more

4. write at least two poems every day

5. write a novel every year

6. write at least one 2,000 page novel

7. try to be nicer to dogs - maybe if i like them more, they will like me more

8. learn about astronomy

9. try to learn to draw

10. don’t laugh at other peple’s opinions

11. realize that the only truth is that there is no truth

12. don’t sleep so much

13. make lists of things to do every day, and do them

14. go for long walks in all sorts of weather

15. smile more

16. don’t watch television

17. stay off the internet (and/or whatever might replace it)



Saturday, April 1, 2017

fate


by horace p sternwall

illustrations by roy dismas and konrad kraus






the fire was burning low.

thurston and beresford were the only members of the club still in the room.

“you know,” said thurston, “i was reading something in the gazette this morning.” he paused. “i can’t now remember what it was, but somehow it put me in mind of something. something that happened a long time ago. to a fellow named stafford- wiggins. i don’t suppose you would have known him?”

beresford made a sort of grunt which thurston took as indicating that beresford had indeed not known stafford-wiggins.


“no, i didn’t suppose you would,” thurston continued. “he was a young chap starting out in the service in the corps - the diplomatic corps - at the same time as myself. which, of course, was not exactly yesterday. anyway, all of us - all of us young fellows starting out - thought stafford-wiggins was quite a comer. so, one bright spring afternoon old sir edward chandry - who was in charge of sort of shepherding us through our apprenticeship - invited all of us - all of us young chaps - to the races. at ascot, if i remember correctly.

one of the things that impressed us about stafford-wiggins was the amazing talent he had for arriving at any event or appointment at exactly the right time - never so much as a minute early or late.


so, all the rest of us had gathered in front of the track with sir edward and lady chandry, and we were waiting for stafford-wiggins. the more forthright among us had been laughingly assuring sir edward and his consort that he would most assuredly arrive just in time.

and sure enough, he did just that.

a few of the fellows began chaffing him good-naturedly as he stepped down from his coach, straightening his jacket and getting ready to pay his respects to sir edward and lady chandry, whom i happened to be standing just behind.


“that young man,” lady chandry observed in a low voice to sir edward, indicating stafford-wiggins, “does not know how to wear a top hat.”

this was bad enough, but worse was to come.

“nor,” lady chandry added , “will he ever.”

“i am afraid you are right, my dear,” sir edward agreed as he put on a smile and stepped forward to greet stafford-wiggins.

sentence had been passed, as quickly as a leaf might fall, and of course there was no appeal or any notion of one from the condemned.


i remember that i made a few successful wagers that afternoon, which needless to say made more of an impression on me than any thoughts - deep or otherwise - i might have had about poor staford-wiggins.

in due course, stafford-wiggins was posted to the balkans or spanish guyana or some such. for all practical purposes, he was never heard of or from again. “

thurston paused again, “funny, isn’t it, how a single - what would you call it? not even a misstep, really, can determine a fellow’s fate.”

but beresford did not reply, as he had fallen asleep.