By My Side

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In shadows
There is dark light
when night
tightens is strangle
on joy,
on memory,
on images past


in dreams
are all that last
when dying follows
the dance of denying ploy,
Seeming bright
with all its grim colors
Of keening loss,


Nightmares churn, turn,
toss and fiercely burn
the dross of loose ends,
of flammable memories and crematories of hope.

These sharp shards of death
float in a painful sea of guilt
stirring the silt of buried emotions
to bend the truth
in the poisoned potions of regret.

Nothing is ever the same

after extinction
carries away
the shore of love
and drowns it in the
vast ocean of nothingness.

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Broken Hearted

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Wanna Dance

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Cardinal Burke: demoted to sparrow

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Death Panels: Dorothy Zborknak To Be Executed


“According to recent reports, a group of death panels organized under Obamacare ordered their first execution.”

“Following a hearing by the president’s Patient Resource Efficiency Board (PREB), 86-year-old Dorothy Zborknak has been ordered to death. The reason? According to the administration, she is no longer useful.”

“Zborknak worked at Fleur de Lis Florist in Chicago for nearly forty years, before she made the decision to retire in 1998. Since that time, she has struggled with a host of health problems, including diabetes, high blood pressure, and kidney failure.”

” ‘Unfortunately, the cost of her care just became too expensive,’ claims Peter Johnston, a member of the Chicago PREB. ‘Under the Affordable Care Act, we have the power to make choices about end of life care and I stand by our ruling. I know it will be hard for the family to accept what’s going to happen…But from a financial standpoint, this was a very easy decision.’”


Hashtag: Teabagger Morons

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Donuts for the Buddha


Donuts for the Buddha

In the foggy Avenues
A neighborhood cafe
Makes breakfast
The old days way:

Sunnyside up,
Gravy— maybe—-
Flip cakes
Maple syrup
And a stir-up of
Black, black coffee
With a drizzling stream
Of tiny container cream,
A slider of crispy bacon
And fried scrapple  what am,
Make’un the day start right in the AM.

Time is tight for the old men
Who get there by seven,
To talk of sports and news,
Or jokes to blush the church pews,
In a jumble of loud noise
Which rises clear up to each man’s heaven.
At the center of it all,
Shining bright in this greasy spoon,
An altar carries the daily offering
Of incense, a tangerine and
fresh jimmy donuts for the Buddha.
Whodda thought? An appetite for enlightenment in this busy room.

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