Even when...

 

Even when he is looking right at you

you don't see him.

Yesterday's News

 

Yesterday’s News seems such a harsh title for this photograph, and yet somehow appropriate.   It is a statement about the fleeting condition of time and an epitaph addressing our departed, even as we stand in line waiting to join them.

  

 

 

     What I thought was a photograph turned out to be a painting.  It was expertly framed and hung on a prominent wall.  So well done was this art, that I stopped and stood directly in front of it, just to enjoy its high level of quality and beauty.  I must admit, however, that it was the subject matter that drew me in.

 

Morning Ritual

 

It isn't anything I came up with
and I certainly don't recommend it.

Helps the Medicine go down

 

bits from here and there

 

From: Lily Tomlin

"Ninety-eight percent of the adults in this country are decent, hard-working, honest Americans.  It's the other lousy two percent that get all the publicity.  But then- we elected them."

 From: Mark Twain

On a recently deceased politician -

I did not attend his funeral; but I wrote a nice letter saying I approved of it.

A Boy and his Dog

 

Tony could see it in his eyes.  There was an understanding, he somehow knew.  He absolutely knew.   Of course, he didn’t have the various facial expressions and certainly not the ability to talk, but he knew things.  Tony believed his dog’s ability to sense things was elevated far above anything we refer to as mental telepathy.  

Tony vaguely remembered the story of Babble.   Mankind was going to build this massive tower, so high that it could reach up to God.  God, of course, didn’t want this to happen, so what he did was to give everyone a different language.  Some spoke Greek, some Scottish, others Italian and so on.  Once God had done that, Mankind could no longer coordinate his efforts.  They couldn’t communicate their intentions, develop plans or simply work together.  Trust dissolved and construction on the giant tower came to a halt.

Tony believed things were different in the animal kingdom.  With the exception of some species, animals understand what is going on around them.  They know all about you the moment you walk up to them.  They know what scares you and if you can be trusted.  They can see an evil heart from quite a distance.  They have a strong sense of play - if play can be described as a sense.  Even crows have a sense of humor and often play tricks on each other.

The problem Tony had was nobody believed him whenever he tried to explain to them that his dog Gregorio could understand him completely.  It was just something that was going to have to be their little secret.  And it wasn’t so much the verbal cues that were understood but rather that Gregorio could anticipate Tony.  He somehow knew ahead of time what they were going to do or what Tony wanted, and it didn’t take Tony long to pick up on that. 

There was, however, great frustration within Tony.  He hated the language barrier between Man and animals.  He wished he were smart enough to figure a way around it.  If only there was something, some part of evolution that could be enhanced.  Maybe gene manipulation.  He had heard of the work being done in gene splicing…  why not do it with this?   Then again, he thought, maybe that is a lock that should never be picked, a tower that shouldn’t be built.

 His cat, on the other hand, ignored him completely.

 

 

 

The Harmonica

 

I believe it's time to toss the box out.

There's just something about it...

Be it light, be it dark - there is no place to park

 

Handicap spaces

stretch near and stretch far,

I just need a spot

where I might leave my car,

Neither King, Queen nor Duchess

gets here upon crutches,

Why so many spots

for the wobbly tots,

with no wheelchair races

why all of these spaces,

A revolt should be mounted

stand-up and be counted,

and if you can stand

give a quick show of hands

put your dime in the meter

say, “Hello” to the greeter,

No ticket to pay

just park miles away.

 

The Power of Juan

 

Sometimes there are odd little things that happen and only later do we discover the importance of their sequence.  Some years back I purchased a ring from one of those mystical shops that burn incense and sell crystals.  The gypsy-like lady in the shop told me the ring was infused with an incantation to repel negativity.  I thought $3.00 was a small price to pay to keep my mother-in-law away, so I bought it.  I expect it was only through the power of suggestion that it worked.  Not in keeping my mother-in-law away but as a constant reminder for me to be positive.

Last night, while having dinner with some neighborhood friends, I felt a tiny flick in my hand.  I didn’t much pay any attention to it, until I felt something sharp.  As I was knee-deep in conversation with my neighbor I didn’t want to suddenly look away or appear distracted, but the moment I could I inspected the source of the sharpness.  Sure enough, a small piece of my ring had spontaneously popped out.  Keep in mind, this was a solid ring of metal.  No moving parts, no gemstones imbedded or anything like that, just a plain circle of steel, quietly wrapped around my finger, just beneath the tabletop, resting on my knee.

Being somewhat removed from the situation now, I find I must consider my close proximity to Juan, the person with whom I was speaking.  I don’t for a minute believe him to be evil, but I have encountered people in the past who, themselves discovered forces at work that exist just beyond the scope of our awareness.  This person is not only large in personality but has an aura that is easily seen.  He seems to be one of those individuals who can control his surroundings.  The room we were in was full of strangers from all walks of life, and yet I’d bet many of them never once saw him sitting there talking with me. 

It was during one of Sally’s walks around the neighborhood that she came upon Juan and Phillis.  Friendly and knowledgeable about all walks of life she found them both to be potential friends.  So it was through Sally that I met Juan.  He, like me, enjoys reading and learning.  He never has a problem keeping up his end of the conversation and I find I must be on my toes whenever engage with him.

I do not know anything about incantations, except that they have a specified lifetime.  They eventually dissipate.  Other than time itself, there are other forces that can disrupt a spell.  I believe that by sitting so close to Juan, that it was his power that not only broke down the incantation in my ring but actually broke through the metal as well. I never for a minute believe this was an intentional act, but simply a situational exposure.

 

Sole Searching

 

The shoes I’ve had forever are no longer comfortable.  They are worn out to the point of getting my attention.  That’s not a good thing.  Shoes should be something you never think about.  You put them on at the beginning of the day, and at day’s end, you slip them off.  That’s it.  If there is one thing in life you are allowed to take for granted, it’s your shoes.

I’m not here, however, to discuss the transition from old shoes to new.  We’ve all been through that.  It is the point right before the switch I wish to focus on, saying good-bye to the old pair.  Think about it.  You’ve been through an awful lot together.  It’s been a relationship.  There was trust, dependability and don’t forget comfort.   Setting them out in the trash seems just so cold.  Hardly a fitting end for old friends.  And no, they are way beyond donating.  Nobody wants these things.

I do not have a photo album full of pictures showing their first steps, or seeing for the first time, their reflection in the angled floor mirror in the shoe department.  You know, I wouldn’t put it past those people to put extra padding under the carpet in shoe department.  They are trying to sell shoes.  They don’t care how they fit or what they look like, they just want their commission, so the more cushy everything feels, the more likely you’re going to pry your wallet open.

No, sorry.  Adding another layer of polish isn’t going to bring them back to life.  It’s beyond all that now.  I could, I guess, just stick them in the back of my closet instead of putting them out with the trash.  They’d be out of the way, and whenever I needed to see an old friend, there they’d be.  I could bring them out on special occasions.  Is this too weird?  Is this getting weird?  Look, I know they are just shoes but they’re not, just shoes, if you know what I mean.

Then again, maybe by wanting to hold onto these shoes, I’m subconsciously trying to hang onto my youth.  Could that be it?  Maybe I’m no different than these actors getting face-lifts, trying to keep looking young so they can get just one more job, do one more big movie.  Am I that pathetic?

No, I don’t think that’s it.  I certainly don’t wish to relive my youth.  Once was enough.  Once through high school was certainly enough.  What a joke that was.  The only education I walked away with was an in-depth knowledge of human behavior.  So called educators regurgitating bland descriptions, obscure dates and for what?  The teacher’s lounge filled with cigarette smoke while pay stubs were compared and weekend plans made.  No more than children themselves – no thank you.  Once through that was enough for a lifetime. 

So what then?  What do I do with these?  What would be a graceful end to their time here?  Do I think there is a shoe heaven?  I don’t know.  If you follow that line of thinking, then a pair of shoes unlucky enough to be on the feet of a bank robber, would not get into heaven simply due to their association to the person wearing them?  How is that fair?  You’re saying a doctor’s shoes would be more important than a plumbers?  Maybe it’s like that kid thing…  All children automatically get into heaven, just like all pets do.  So maybe it is the same with shoes.

You know, I’ve seen these psychic shows, where they say loved ones are there to meet you when you get to heaven.  A sweet thought indeed, but that leaves me wondering…

What about that one shoe you see in the middle of the road?  How did they get separated?  Has the other shoe gone on without its mate?  How sad is that?

 

I don’t think I want to talk about this anymore.

 

 

 

They actually thought this would help

 

"When the road runs out, make a left."

Old Passwords

 

Sweeping Second-hand

 

    I have actually done it.  Jim Croce made a song about time in a bottle, but I have gone and done it.  I have actually captured time.  I have knocked it down and swept it into this dustpan, then dropped it carefully into this bin.  Don’t mess with the lid.  Don’t even lift it to peek inside.

    I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it.  I know for a fact it is the most valuable thing we have, so maybe I’ll sell it to the highest bidder.  Maybe someone dying in a hospital, they’d surely want more time with their family.  Or perhaps someone on death row.  But where would they get the money to pay me?

    I need to think about this.  I don’t want to waste it.

    I should have weighed the empty bin, then I could weigh it now and see just how much time I have.  I mean, I know I have a bin full, but how heavy is it?  Do I charge by the pound or by the minute?

    I wonder how long it will last in there without air holes in the bin.  But the moment I start putting air holes in the bin, the time will get out through the holes.  Boy, that would have been a rookie mistake.  Time doesn’t need to breathe.  What was I thinking?

    I don’t even think I can dole it out to someone in segments, without spilling it all over the place.  I’ll have to sell the entire bin just as it is.  They will just have to trust me that the time is in there.  Once they get a little time on their hands they can figure out what to do with it.

My Alarm Clock

 

You might not think that from

the top of the tree they would be loud enough

to wake me up.

But you'd be wrong.

You have to look close

 

The cliffs were steep and the rocks jagged.

At one point in our climb I noticed the tiny

plants growing beneath the bark of this tree.

Incident on the Tarmac

 

 

The key was hanging from the ignition and no one else was around.  All I had to do was climb into the cockpit, start the engine and taxi down the runway.  If I did everything right, I would be up in the air long before anyone would notice me.

Getting myself into the cockpit was much harder than I thought it was going to be.  It’s one thing to jump high enough to see the keys dangling there, but quite another to pull myself up and climb in.

Once I was in the seat, I couldn’t help but to just stare at all the switches, buttons, and gauges.  What a nightmare.  Who came up with all this anyway?  I turned the key and the engine tried to turn over.  The propeller made a couple revolutions but then stopped.  Trying to start it was much louder than I had thought it would be.  There was a light on back at the hanger, but I didn’t see anyone come running out.  I doubt anybody was here at this hour.  I tried it again and it fired right up.

I looked for a gas gauge but didn’t see it right away.  I saw the horizon line going across one gauge.  I could see the oil pressure and voltage meter, so where was the gas gauge?  I finally noticed it and could see the gas level was just above half.  I instantly felt better knowing it wasn’t empty.  I had no idea where to fill the tank, had it been empty or even where a gas pump would be.  I knew enough to know you don’t just pull into a gas station.

Suddenly someone was talking to me.  I jumped a mile.  I looked back at the hanger and still there wasn’t anyone coming.  Then came a squawk from the radio, followed by that same voice.

“Mayday – mayday, this is Cessna 8525, heading in on runway 2-5.  I am out of fuel and altitude is dropping.  Is anyone there?  Need assistance.  Mayday – Mayday.”

I had no idea what to do.  If I pick up the microphone to answer, what do I say?  “I hear you, but no one is here right now.  Maybe you could call back later this morning.”

Again, came his mayday distress call, and again all I could do was listen.  The panic in his voice was very real and it made me feel sick.  I wasn’t even supposed to be here.  Why does this stuff happen to me?

I had no idea how much time before this guy came crashing down, but my sense of urgency was growing fast.  This whole landing strip didn’t look right.  Where were the runway lights?  Why were there no people around?  I don’t know why I did it, but I picked up the mic and said, “I can hear you.  I am in a small plane here on the tarmac.  If I can figure out how to turn this around at least I can light up the runway with my headlight.”  I waited but there was no response.

“Where is everyone?  Why aren’t the runway lights on?”

Again, I clicked on the mic and answered.  I don’t know.  I’m here alone.

“Who are you?”

I didn’t answer his question, I just repeated that I would try to point this plane down the runway so I could light it up with my headlight.

He obviously could tell I wasn’t a pilot and he started throwing a bunch of questions at me.

“Have you removed the blocks from in front of the wheels?  Is the plane running?  Which way are you facing now?”

What an idiot I was.  I never thought to look for the blocks keeping the plane from rolling.  I clicked the mic and said hold on, I’m going to try something.  I turned the ignition key and shut the plane off.  Then I carefully climbed out of the cockpit and dropped to the ground.  I could now see the wheels were blocked.  I pull chalks away from the wheels and then went to the tail of the plane and tried to spin it around to face the runway.  It was heavy but I could move it.  The front tires squeaked as they swiveled on the asphalt.

As I was doing this, I kept listening for my airborne friend to get back with me on the radio.  Then it hit me.  The moment I turned the key off, the radio was no longer going to work. 

He had probably been calling for me this whole time and I just couldn’t hear him.  I had to quickly get back into the cockpit and turn the radio back on, not to mention the headlight now that the plane was facing the right way.

As I tried to scramble back up, I could suddenly hear the engine of his plane overhead.  Ready or not, he was coming in.

I flung myself over the edge of the cockpit, reached in and turned the key back on.  Then I quickly pulled the knob to light the headlight.  The beam of light shot along the edge of the runway.  The distressed pilot made a quick correction and landed safely, right down the center.

That, as best as I remember, was my first assignment as a guardian angel.  The moment the pilot landed safely I was called back here.  I think things got a little too close for comfort, but I managed to pull it off.

Back on Earth, they are still talking about how odd it was that the plane’s front light just came on all be itself.  Personally though, I need to get faster at figuring things out. 

 

 

 

 

 

Thoughts, stems and pieces

 

I don’t know from formulas or equations.  I haven’t a clue as to calculus, rocket science or why rice puffs up in water but doesn’t in a rice paddy.  What does give me cause for concern is man’s eventual ability to create artificial intelligence.

When machines surpass man, what will be the need for man? 

There is a final ember glowing just beneath the burnt logs.  I dare not walk away assuming it will extinguish itself, because the moment I do, a blaze will overtake this portion of creation, leaving fingers pointing at me.

 

Buoyancy and balance are all I require to drive across the lake.  My four tires will surely float as they are like balloons full of air.  Their positioning - equally spaced about the vehicle will provide the needed stability.  Tire rotation, I expect will propel the car forward, so other than having a sandwich and Coke with me for my lunch, I am all set.

 

The community college sat at the top of the hill, which I assume led people to refer to it as higher education.

 

 

  

OWL

 

With wings for arms and claws for feet,

I grab and tear the things I eat –

I leave for Crows the road-kill stew,

but much prefer my meals be new.

Crows are noisy – they squawk around,

I sit quiet and watch the ground,

before too long they’ll be a chase –

I’ll snatch a mouse and then say grace.

What's better than a Cookie?

 

A two-sided Cookie.

Dear Lawyers

 

You studied hard and passed the bar and now have been released into the wild.

You walk amongst us, dressed as would a professional.

You speak in complete sentences and articulate clearly your intentions.

You have the appearance of a normal person.  At social gathering you blend in.

It is only when you are in a running motion, breathing heavy, sweating to catch up to the ambulance that we can actually see your scales.

In your effort to warn and caution people of possible hazards, you have forced drug manufacturers to use over-sized pill bottles just so the warning labels can accommodate all potential situations, in every language.

It is because of you, the cost of a new car far exceeds people’s ability to buy one.

Your actions have altered children’s toys to the point of giving choking hazards a bad name.

Smokers no longer feel free to strike a match without first closing the cover.

As a result of your actions, the technology now required to buckle yourself in to an amusement ride cost the same as strapping an astronaut into a space capsule.

Over time, you have stretched and manipulated the English language to such a degree that someone must hire another lawyer just to read what you have written.

You have made it to be the case that doctor’s offices are now run by insurance companies.

Lawyers have become so toxic and abrasive that now – in addition to fences around law schools, they have moats and sneeze guards.

The simple act of using an emergency gas can requires three hands and impressive strength.

Even now, as you’re going through this, you are thinking about billing me for reading it.

 

Good-luck with that.

 

Word Math

 

There is a small wire basket on my desk, it holds my pens.  There are currently 17 pens and one Sharpie in the basket.  The unknown factor at this time is how many words are in each pen.  I believe a reasonable guess would be that a person could expect to get 14 pages of writing from each pen, not counting the Sharpie.

With standard spacing and normal size font, a person should be able to get four good-sized paragraphs per page.  That equates to 10 sentences per paragraph, or 400 words per page.  14 pages times 400 is 5,600 words.  That’s 56 paragraphs.

Assume for the moment that you could find an average student.  Not some over achiever but just some normal looking student walking around campus, a vacant expression on their face, perhaps, searching for the cafeteria.  You stop them and offer them 10 cents a word to be a stringer on the school newspaper.  All they have to do is bring in stories of life on campus.

Okay, so Joe Schmo accepts the task and starts bringing in stories for the school paper, the Sometimes Why.

This is a large campus of a major university, so obviously you have a need for more than just the one stringer.  Let’s say you have 9 stringers total.  That’s a potential of 50,400 dimes you will need to pay your staff of reporters.

Now the advertising department, the ones tasked with selling ads to generate revenue are hitting up the pizza places, the pubs, the local car dealerships and the bookstores.  Each one needs to run ads in the Sometimes Why in order to keep the paper afloat.  In order to entice these business to place ads in the school paper, the circulation department needs to show adequate circulation.  They must be able to show how these advertisements will be seen by thousands of potential customers.

Here's where the Sharpie comes in.  The graphic arts department will need to draw up charts and graphs, with population density, timelines, distribution points and yearly projections, adequate to convince the small business owner to invest.

Meanwhile, somewhere across campus, a sinister plot is afoot to ban the use of Sharpies, suggesting their fumes wreak havoc with the math gene.

 

 From what you have been told, answer the following;

1.    Where was Joe Schmo headed?

2.    What is his current major?

3.    How many pizzas will need to be sold to cover the
        cost of an ad in the Sometimes Why?

4.     Does a black Sharpie and a red Sharpie smell the same?

5.    Could it be the smell of the Sharpie that caused the math error in
        jumping from 4 paragraphs equaling 400 words?  How many words
        per sentence is that?  I'm sorry, but that just doesn't smell right.

Webster's

 

Oddly enough, the very last word in my dictionary is sound.

I was just curious.  I see my brain as my resource for words

and knowing I will someday expire; I was wondering what

my last word might be.  Keep in mind, I did not locate this

last word on a normal page but printed on the back cover.

The heading above the word was Physics. 

Now that I know this, and assuming my life and this dictionary

are living parallel lives, the moment I hear myself say the word

sound, I’ll know that was my final breath and that I am out of

 words.

 

zc

It was so much more...

 

It was never just some paper kit.

Once it had been built it came to life.  Just looking at it for hours at a time, the small boy could hear it, he could feel the low rumble as it passed.

He imagined the smell from the smokestack and the taste of dust kicked up by the wind it carried along with it.

This had traveled far beyond the walls of his house.

It had transported him to where no dishes needed to be washed or trash taken out.

In it's Time

 

it had importance.

The correspondence that came across this desk was often urgent and sometimes devastating.  

Great issues were addressed and topics argued. 

Because of the great task of delivering the mail,

letters were never trivial. 

Today, in the back of this antique shop,

there is a quiet knowing -

it did it's job, and it did it well.

It is not embarrassed by the price tag.

It feels worthy.

The Sound of Old Bookstores

 

    I enjoy the squeaky floors of an old bookstore.  Sometimes with my eyes closed I’ll confuse a tired squeaky postal shoe with the strain of a floorboard.  I would further enjoy getting into a conversation with random people, but my conversational skills are sometimes filled with awkward gaps and pauses, like inappropriate punctuation causes a reader to stumble.  It is these spaces that slows time to an uncomfortable level, usually resulting in the annoyed participant wandering away.

    For me, old bookstores also carry the heavy scent of dust.  The dust resting on the tops of unread pages tends to waft about the store with only the slightest movement of customers.  It is history itself traveling along the aisles, settling upon tabletops and into the fabric of overstuffed chairs, only to again get puffed out as someone sits to read.

    Collectively, it is a symphony of sights and sounds, of stories and adventures - tucked between covers designed to tempt you to extend your hand, lift the book from the shelf and be carried off on someone else’s imagination.  

What’s not to like?

 

Red Wine

 

It was a very sturdy table, never a wobble or

balance issue of any kind.

The guest, however, had arrived with a wobble of their own.

Having bumped into the glass of wine

it had no option but to fall to the carpet.

The carpet was eventually cleaned, but the

stain upon the clumsy guest remains to this day.

The Kerfuffle

 

The announcement over the hospital intercom reported a kerfuffle in the Psyche Ward.

Some doctors scurried to lend assistance while others remained in the Doctor’s

Lounge, smoking cigarettes and sipping bad vending machine coffee.

Meanwhile, Alice Fulton was calmly folding her clothes into her travel bag.  She had

 pulled the IV lines from her arm and disconnected the annoying monitor.  Alice was

getting out.  She had enough of doctors and clipboards and green Jell-O.  She was

seizing this kerfuffle to be her distraction.  While everyone else was running to the

 Psyche Ward, Alice would calmly stroll past the nurse’s station, take the elevator

 down to the lobby and casually leave by the front door.   

Little did Alice realize – she was the kerfuffle.  It was the disconnection of her monitor

that had set the alarms in motion.  Completely unaware that she was the one in the

 Psyche Ward and that everyone was in fact scurrying towards her.  That’s when the

unexpected happened.  A split second before everyone burst into Alice’s room, a well-

 dressed man appeared.  He was standing just a few feet from Alice and calmly

introduced himself.  “Hello Alice, I am Phillip Wisenheimer.  I believe I can be of

some assistance.”

For whatever reason, Alice was neither startled nor concerned by his sudden

 appearance.  In fact, she simply glanced at him and said, “Help me fold these.

We’re running out of time.”  But as Alice placed her slippers on top of her folded robe,

She turned and said, “What kind of name is Wisenheimer?”

“It’s one I thought you’d appreciate”, Phillip replied.  “Do you know where you’re

Going from here?  Do you have a plan?”

Before Alice could answer her new friend, nurses and doctors came bursting into her

room, some trying to reconnect the monitor, others taking hold of her arms to help

her back into bed and a nurse attempted to reconnect her IV.

Alice didn’t struggle against any of their attempts but instead marveled at the fact

that none of them mentioned Mr. Wisenheimer standing there.  They all seemed

Oblivious to him being in the room.  She knew it wasn’t visiting hours and the place

had strict rules when it came to visitors.  Then Alice noticed that Phillip was not

wearing a visitor’s badge.  Now she wondered how he had gotten past the nurse’s

station.  Who was this guy and why didn’t anyone else mention him standing there?

For reasons known only to Alice, she didn’t mention Phillip Wisenheimer during the group session on Thursday but simply smiled slightly whenever she glanced at him standing against the side wall.  By the end of their group get together Doctor Ryan asked Alice to stay behind when everyone else was going back to their rooms.

“How do you think today’s session went, Alice?”

Alice wasn’t at all sure if she should bring up Mr. Wisenheimer or not.  She assumed that Phillip didn’t want to get involved, as he had said nothing throughout the entire meeting.  Even when Betty went on and on about her issues, he just stood there, not joining in.  And Doc Ryan hadn’t yet acknowledged this new visitor in the room.  So Alice, so far, had not responded at all to Doctor Ryan’s question.  She just wasn’t sure what she should do.

The doctor let the question just hang there a bit but then went on to Alice’s attempt at leaving the hospital. 

“The last time we talked Alice, you mentioned that there were certain parts of your life that didn’t have belt-loops.  You stated that most of your life was headed in one direction, but occasionally you felt tiny bits were headed off course.  When you packed your clothes to leave, where were you going to go?  Would you like to talk about that?”

Mr. Wisenheimer asked me the same thing.  He wondered if I had a plan.

“Who is Mr. Wisenheimer, Alice?”

What Doctor Ryan saw was Alice look back at him, as if she was trying to figure him out, then she looked over at the wall and got that same expression on her face.

To answer your question Doctor Ryan, I am choosing to go with plan B.  I will be checking myself out of here, I will sign whatever forms you have releasing you from liability, but I am going.  Then she looked back towards the wall and said, Come-on Phillip, we’re leaving.

“Alice, of course patients can leave whenever they wish, but if you are seeing someone who isn’t really there… don’t you think that’s cause for concern?”

Mr. Wisenheimer is very real Doctor.  He is well dressed, has a kind face, and seems to want what’s best for me.

“Do me one favor.  When you have your travel bag packed, ask him to carry it for you.  If he’ll do that then you have my blessing.”

The Doctor and two nurses on the fourth floor, Psyche Ward stood and watched as Alice walked towards the elevator to leave.  Her travel bag appeared to be floating next to her, as if being carried by someone else.

Neither nurse dare to acknowledge what they saw.  In fact, they quietly turned and headed back to the nurse’s station.

Doctor Ryan never entered any of that in his records.  His only comment at the bottom of the page was, Alice Fulton was discharged.

 

 

 

 

Not in any history book

 

He was never famous.  His accomplishments were few.  Never a leader, never first in anything, in fact – I doubt I can recall his name.  All I know is that he was next to last of the Mohegans.

Glue, Nails & Mitered joints

 

I thought they were kidding.

To me, it looked as though it had been painted

by a blind quadriplegic third grader.

There were splatters here, blotches there

a squiggle ran into the corner, then

disappeared around the edge of the canvas.

The appraiser from the Antique’s Road Show

gave it a value of $650,000.00

If I could afford it,

I’d buy it just to hang it facing the wall.

To me, it is the construction of the frame that

steals the show.  

 

Lays

 

To the crisp potato chip

your salty flavor on my tongue,

You elevate my love for life

up at least another rung,

So few your numbers in a bag

Why so cheap your CEO,

just open wide, don’t be a drag

and fill the bag – just let her go.

How grand twood be, would make my days

to find a bag so full of Lays

even I, would spring for dip –

should I find another chip.