It’s midnight! At least
In some city back east.
The next sun to be seen’s
One of twenty-fifteen’s,
So look forward to that!
Now, good night. Where’s my hat?


It’s difficult for me to say
What’s in my heart St. Patrick’s Day.
The raucous, alcoholic mobs
Recall the words that Thomas Hobbes
Laid claim to in Leviathan
In sixteen one-and-fifty when
He wrote of lives of men at war.
He called them, “solitary, poor…”
— And here’s the phrase I wish he’d left
For me; I’ve none with quite the heft
With which to crown a leprechaun
As those he chose when he went on–
“…nasty, brutish, and…” — wait for it —
“…short.”  Ka-pow! I just adore it!
Every rancid adjective,
Each golden nugget in the sieve
Of Hobbes’s placer mine of loathing
Calls to mind the garish clothing,
Sick-encrusted facial hair
And boldly buckled hats they wear…
Or is that pilgrims? Puritans
Aren’t known for vomit on their chins
And swilling vats of tinted beer
In outdoor crowds, are they? Oh, dear,
My train of thought just jumped the track.
Perhaps I’ll try a different tack:
Drunken leprechauns are dumb.
Eleven weeks until they come!

Oh Team

A is for Ambivalent!
The M is for Morose!
B is Boo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!
Inside I‘m feeling gross!
V is for the Victory
That’s slipping — AAway!
L is for the Loss that we
Expect — that’s E — today!
N is Nothing: Dead inside!
T is Taco soup!
I know that last one doesn’t fit
But I don’t give a poop!


It’s true that much of what I write
Would not attract the kind of light
Diogenes was wont to shed
In places where his lamp had led,
But equally a fact is this:
As often as my musings miss
The nail head on which Truth would strike,
They graze the shaft–they’re truthy-like.
A hammersmith would disavow
Responsibility, but how
Can I in all good conscience claim
The tool was that which skewed my aim?
Inaccuracy is my curse
But strict perfection would be worse
For in the narrow gap between
The lies and facts, life’s acts are seen.