The madness is starting, again.
Dribble drives, lots of jumpers, screaming fans.
The energy will be all consuming
Game after game after game

The bets will be in
Some will cash big, others not so much.
The games will go on
And none of the athletes will get paid.


“You either have it,
Or you,

That’s what the guys said,
A comedian and successful writer,
Both Hollywood sort of royalty,
Both getting paid,
Well, I’m assuming.

Eff both of you,
Your Hollywood is a recycling bin,
Mr. Cable TV, your show is Dynasty without the eyeliner
And pushed up breasts.
I can’t get through your last season
Because it has gone on for too long,
Hedge fund guys do shitty things,
Hey joke man,
Do another impression,
Stop riding Carson’s coattails,
We’ve heard how you are all indebted,
But the more I hear about him,
The more I think he wasn’t an icon
Of anything more than control and power,
Which could be the billionth story line
On that other guy’s show.

The judging of writing is not either or,
It is, the effing moment, if I may.
Sometimes things work, sometimes they don’t,
But the two of you make it seem like Hollywood,
The big and little screens,
Are the Holy Grails of writing.
Maybe, if that is your measure of success.
Is making a living writing the only way to be a writer?
Is it sales?
I don’t know,
But what about simple expression,
An outlet that might have some value somewhere.
Can you be a writer doing that? If not, I don’t care,
Because I know,
Sometimes I have it,
Sometimes I don’t.
Maybe someday I’ll write a popular television show
Or be funny on stage,
But if not,
I’m still a writer.

Cliche, but all the world is a stage,
Who said that?
Who cares…
Truth is that we see the world as we like it.

The grumblings of hate
Running through America are fostered.
They are taught, they are fertilized,
Not only in the old U-S-of-A, but everywhere.

It’s a shame when people think the deserve something,
It’s a shame when people think they can take something,
It’s a shame when people don’t think.
It’s a shame when people do think.

With fingers like cigar butts

Smart phone settings can be a problem.

Better to see a text

Than have everyone in the room listening.

That would be accidental collection

In American political fiasco parlance,

If you know what I’m saying.

So my friend, the goat herder,

Before I take leave of this day,

Hit the right friggen button

So we can text freely next time,

Lest I blame you

For bugging our communications

As I head to the first tee…

Reading about the past
From archived newspapers
As if I was in their time
Shows how little things have really changed.

Watching debates on television
Sure seems like the handlers
For these politicians
Are reading the old papers too.

I thought history was some sort of tonic
To prevent our mistakes
From being elected again.
Little really changes in the political gin.

I have to disclose
That my first attempt at a poem
To satisfy this day of writing
Went to the bin
With all the violence
Of Clyde Drexler throwing one down
In a lane full of giants.
I tried to squeeze ideas
From the great well of the news
Where the best fiction really happens,
But today the ideas refused
To flow from my pen
All I had was Hoffa, who could not be found
And the Polk County Pot pilot
Who got away
Despite the loss of his plane
And the bales of weed
He landed up on Treat Mountain.
I must share
That I sought irony
In a congressman proposing
A national day of humiliation
When on this day
Presidential candidates sound like kids
Walking around an elementary school playground
Slinging the insults without a care
For their image.
I wish one would make fun of another’s mother.
Then I would have something to write about.