again

in each others arms again, oh. not thirty seconds together and we're entwined. memories are nothing like the real thing, such meetings repeatedly remind me.

the best intoxication, seeing you again. lost time, like an alien abduction. come back anytime; come again.

and again.

If Ann Coulter Had Any Brains

in response to Ann Coulter's book, IF DEMOCRATS HAD ANY BRAINS, THEY'D BE REPUBLICANS, i'd like to write a little piece i call:

IF ANN COULTER HAD ANY BRAINS, SHE'D COMMIT SUICIDE
---
yes, suicide. our planet doesn't need
any more Republican recruiters like Ann;
we're in enough trouble as it is.
stop big business.
stop overpopulation.
equal tax rates for all,
not special priviledges
for the very rich.
(and stop the so-called "war".)

perhaps if Ann Coulter offed herself,
she's set a strong example
for other nutcases like her
and do us all a big favor.

---

by the way, tops on my new US evil person list, in *ascending* order of evil:
George W. Bush
Dick Cheney
David Addington

and if you don't know who David Addington is, i recommend the PBS show Frontline: Cheney's Law. here's a link to the Boston station scheduling of it:
http://www.wgbh.org/schedules/program-info?program_id=26520&episode_id=3558404

Letter(s) To Haven

not heaven; haven.

writing that will move across the land into another person's hands.

sculpted sentences, second-draft segues, word-wise winking.

hoping that the message gets across.

blood & bell-ringing

first volunteering at a blood drive. got to donate first, so the usual questions about sex & whereabouts, freaky medicines & health, and repetitions. many many repetitions.

did my bleeding and then went to the waiting table -- every donor must sit at the table for 15 minutes drinking bottled water or fake juice (water, corn syrup, and 10% juice) -- attended by me. so i attended myself and then the slow stream of other donors. i was also in charge of the all-important hotel-desk-clerk-summoning bell to DING & summon the nurses in case anybody passed out or started bleeding again. but no luck in that department, after six or eight donors.

until . . . a couple came off the donor tables, but instead of coming right over to the waiting table they decided to stand and talk to someone they knew. for like 5 minutes. then they did come over to the table. i gave the gentleman, rather portly, a bottle of fake juice at his request (and the lady a bottle of water); and the next thing i knew, the portly gentleman had keeled over in his seat and the nurses came scrambling over.

it happened too fast for me to ring the bell. (and the nurses should have escorted the couple from the donor tables, or at least directed them to go to my table; but they were too busy doing nothing.) so i missed my chance - no bell ringing.

the guy was all right, and they got him onto a padded table pronto. they had him sit up a while later; but soon after, he had to lie down again. and then my shift was over.

next time, i'll have my finger on the trigger.

Those Were The Days

Yes. But no. I hear the lyrics, the song, and it makes me cry. Baltimore Sue. I'm still crying; the wound still feels fresh. But it's a good cry.

I just got the CD from my bookstore. Not the live, unplugged version that Sue listened to. But still.

Why does music bring me back like that? Some people strongly associate smells with memory; i guess i associate music. Sounds. Lyrics. But it's not so bad to cry, if it leads me to a new strength.

"These Are The Days"

10,000 reasons for a new day.