Tag Archives: capitalism

A man, a plan – Panama

14 Oct

Damn, if he doesn’t look just like you

He will

I left room in my life for someone

Like you

Planned your life

In spite of

Or despite

Someone like me

Maybe now that she sees

How happy you are

She will

Come back

In time

You might too

Eventually, someday, maybe

She might find

A man with a plan

Same as me

With a little cut-out in the shape of a heart

Just like hers

So she can close the book

Slide it back into the empty spot

Where it belongs

And be content

With someone

Just like

We planned

jardin botanica

aibohphobia n. The fear of palindromes.

Chapter 2 – In the supermarket world

29 Jul

Why does the child’s sand castle stand

Without praise

How can we pass a young girl’s upward smile

Without giving the same

Where can a little boy go when he is lost

In the supermarket world

What will it take to

Make us see

A love without question

Is all we need

To be free

And the child’s castle

Will fly a proud flag

And a smile for each passer by

Will keep us warm inside

And the world won’t be as cold

As the frozen food aisle


Chapter 1 – Liars

15 Jun

I know all there is to know

About liars

They are the forgetful ones

The ones with busy schedules

No courage left for truth

Honesty doesn’t make money

Men do

Tell me what I want to hear

Then disappear

You’ll never stop selling yourself

But you’ll always come up short

You think the ways of the world

Are yours to fondle

You’re buying wealth and gaining

Power. You say everyone and

Everything can be bought or sold

All the while this devil has closed

The deal on your soul.

Chapter 1 – Knave of Spades

4 Jun


A fool in the guise of a wise man

Knave of spades

Neither name nor trade

Grace his thrown

Of greed

He speaks sweetly

Demanding riches

Swallowing power by

Sufficient handfuls

$een by all, known to many

Loved in/visible circles by

Mindful, thoughtless


Idiots, raving at their


Crazed, fiendish, provocative

Chapter 1 – Shoes Sleep

4 Jun

Shoes sleep in silent purple splendor

Pockets swell with nuggets for the vendor

Empty bottles await ash

Book sewn

Weaving words not easily vented

Bed warm – body strong

Will is no tangible power

Pride in excess

Left blind as dear king Oedipus

His rex, the vex of his kingdom

Invaluable measure of pleasure

Delve into luxurious injury

Perjury of delectable sin

Evil always begins

In the minds of the worthy

Reticent descendent

Idyllic matrimony in

Akin cadavers

Horrific, terrific harmony

Death to immortality

Children’s’ grim grin

A fairy take we do spin

Forever, constantly, happily

Chapter 1 – Sugar bowls and flies

3 Jun

Little white lies

Faint replies

Desperate cries

Nine long lives

Fails and tries

Fall or rise

Break all ties

Farewells and goodbyes

Wise women who love spies

Lows and highs

Fatal surprise

Gypsy eyes

Bargain buys

Between her thighs

SDH Pt. 5

19 Dec

Day 8 is a great day! So says, O. who unlike yesterday is fantastically organized, in a happy mood and muy prepared to kick some bi-lingual azz. We even have time to stop for lunch. AND eat it. This is the first time I have ever used the restroom on the job. For being on the computer so much at my “real” job, I am surprisingly energetic. On this third day of actual work running back and forth from the truck—I mean walking at a brisk pace back and forth from the truck—the only thing troubling me is my right pinky toe and the heel of my left foot. I’ve stuffed some cotton in my eight-hole Docs with the original Air Ware heel pull loop and classic trans PVC DMC Air Cushioned outsole and am feeling pretty keen about actually doing work in them after a couple decades of just wearing them for fashion’s sake.

There is hardly any time to talk and it’s loud so O. is definitely not experiencing the full force of my sarcastic wit. Once we’re on the road, it’s all business. We’ve exchanged pleasantries of course. He’s been with the company nine years, straight outta high school, loves it, hates it, has a plan to retire at 50 and move to the beach. Has a gf and a couple baby mamas. Loves his two kids. Is from San Diego, but not that one. It’s a little like flying right seat in an aircraft. You stay quiet and let the pilot focus unless he asks you for help, especially during take-off and landing which in one of these trucks is about every 30 ft. The first day, my worst pain was in my thumb from all the clicking and unclicking but it’s the law and it’s also a safety rule so it is done fastidiously and by everyone without fail.

Tonight marks our first after dark delivery and it’s a little scary. NTR: Well-lit addresses on the sides of mailboxes get high marks from these guys. I’ve learned to appreciate the finer details of a home on approach.  Lighted door bells are underappreciated by the general public. BTW, as a straight path to the front door as can be made is going to happen whether you create one or not.  O. goes easy on me, taking deliveries on his side of the truck whenever there is one; handing me a flashlight and all the packages down the steps so I don’t have to figure out how to maintain three points of contact with my hands full. 248 stops. Not including the last one I made to CVS to pick up the Epsom Salts I longed for during last night’s bath.

It’s a bone-chilling 42 degree sunset after an enjoyably active sunny day. I don’t know if I’m going to make it back tomorrow but O. reminds me cheerfully that on this night we have seen some spectacular Christmas light displays. The once-cold and uninviting windows warm up to a golden glow when the people come home and inhabit their spaces Thomas Kinkaid style. The city lights sparkle and I feel like a princess in my brown polyester uniform presented with cache of precious gems: emeralds, rubies, sapphires and opals in a black velvet lined box. I say so. You know, you can close that door O. says after a noticeable shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. We both slide the heavy floor to ceiling doors with a satisfactory metallic CLATCH after the last stop and enjoy the heat from the engine coming through the vents in the sparse dashboard that includes a fabulously retro push button starter. It’s not the only thing old school on the truck. We silently cruise out of what is most likely the premier planned development in the city taking in the views on the way down. Put it this way: Even I recognize the names and I don’t watch sports.

A gigantic guard-tower looking thing appears between rooftops and hovers over the horizon in such a way that I can only gasp and say, what IS THAT? O. senses it must be something cool since I have been mostly dismissive of the ginormous, over-sized, why the f&*K would two people want to live in a house that big, been there done that castles on a hill to the point that we’re both kind of disgusted by them. I can tell we’re both feeling a tad self-righteous about driving around delivering Santa’s packages by the way his head is perched on the top of his spine. Can we go? I ask, almost pleading? Yeah, let’s check it out. I’ve never been there before. I’m slightly concerned that it’s going to be a house and I’m going to have to own it immediately because it is just my thing—a three-story Spanish mission style guard tower—sigh, home sweet home. Thank god it turns out to be the NDOs (residential group mail boxes). What a joke!

It reminds me of my last apartment—third floor on a mountain preserve overlooking multi-million dollar homes. I pick out the tiny one on the very top that turns out to be the club house. But, I’m in no mood to ponder how the decadence of western civilization will inevitably lead to a water shortage or how the mining companies are buying up rights and will ultimately profit from that too. We are FREE! And the air coming in the windows is crisp and clean and flushes our cheeks like starry-eyed lovers serendipitously thrown together by a dramatic but completely over-comeable life challenge culminating in a financial windfall followed soon after by a major land purchase we vow to be stewards of and immediately begin to dig out passive rain water collection burms, build an earthship, apply for conservation status and invite schools to field trip at our home; educate the children, get a tax write-off and all at once finally feel that this is what it means to be alive.

Readme.txt (in case of death)

28 Jul

on Tuesday, January 27, 2009 at 7:45pm

I wrote this four years ago when I “upgraded” to CS2. It still applies today with the simple substitution of the word DELL for ADOBE. BTW, I LOVE Windows Vista, especially when the automatic updater installs a blue screen. I don’t have the energy to write a whole new one for Dell after 12 hours on and off the phone with their “tech support” AKA people who tell you how to reboot your computer 17 different ways and use a simple system restore function for days on end, but believe me, it would be a KILLER.

If you are reading this letter and I am dead, please forward it to the proper authorities.


Dear Authorities:

Please follow these simple directions to determine the responsible parties punishible for my utimely and painful death.

1. Call 1-206-675-6307 if you think it was ADOBE® Illustrator that brought my mortal days to an end.
A. Press 2 because you do not have a support plan already in place.
B. Press 2 again since this is obviously not an installation issue – rather the opposite as I have now been permanently “uninstalled” from life.
C. Press 1 if you tried to solve the mystery yourself by accessing ADOBE’s® incrediby useful (if you are an ADOBE® tech) website before calling this number.


2. Call 1-206-675-6311 if you believe it was ADOBE® InDesign that eventually did me “in”.

3. If you suspect that ADOBE® Photoshop was the specific cause of my demise, dial 1-206-675-6303 and follow A. B. and C. Above ***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE’S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE.

4. It may be that you have surmised the entire ADOBE® Creative Suite 2 has conspired to snuf me out. If this is the case, dial 1-206-756-6330, follow A. B. and C. Above ***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE’S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE and be sure to reference Case #171650945 or have the serial number handy.

5. Wait two hours for an e-mail response to your long-distance telephone inquiry.

6. When you are sure nothing is coming by e-mail, go back to the website www.adobe.com and search the document numbers you jotted down as the tech muttered them under his breath.

7. Watch your back, they may be coming for you next.



God bless the U.S.A. and Dell

Muffin Rant

19 Apr

In true nightly news fashion, this rant is evolving into an expose comparing complacent Texans’ loyalty to HEB with that of the poor who remain loyal to a fascist dictator who kills their children because it’s the only thing they know. I think I can work socialism in there too. Gimme a minute…and another pistachio muffin, please.


I bought a pistachio muffin (my fave) from the supermarket yesterday and the guy at the check out says, “You know about the recall right?” and I say, “Well, you wouldn’t be selling them if they weren’t okay to eat now, right?” and he just smiles, so I call the bakery this morning and tell them I have one and they flip out and say, “Well, you didn’t get it from OUR store.”  After a bit of arguing that I DID in fact get it at their store, and some background speak in Spanish – that I don’t understand yet, but will soon thanks to Rosetta Stone – the lady with no clue, who “has been gone for four days” tells me “there’s nothing wrong with them anyway.” So, I’m going to eat the muffin for good of mankind and the potential destruction of HEB. Though I doubt anything so unimportant as the death of a customer by pistachio poisoning could stop the massive fear-inducing machine that is our local grocery. The ONLY local grocery, I might add. They are a monopoly of the worst kind, forcing us to buy what they want to stock and then not building enough stores in an area so that what is supposed to be a weekly shopping trip becomes end-of-the-world-mob-mentality-stockpiling every day. There is never enough of anything to go around so you end up buying things you don’t need and stocking up on things that happen to be available at the time you are there, eventually causing scarcity of that product as well. The very presence of those sad, empty, crumb-ridden shelves (they leave empty on purpose) is enough to cause panic in the cereal aisle.

 People (two) have died in our grocery store from heart attacks, according to my last checker who kindly asked‑-as they always do­­–if I had found everything okay. It’s actually stressful to try and get what you want in there without getting hit with a shopping cart or walking ten miles up and down and up and down the ambiguously marked aisles, only to find that they don’t sell Skippy peanut butter – just Jiff or store brand. “Um, no. I didn’t. I couldn’t find three of the things on my list that I usually buy here.” She looks shocked as if it was a rhetorical question like, “Is there a God,” and finally someone has dared speak the unholy answer. She hands me a customer satisfaction survey and pitifully comments that yes, in fact they “are currently doing a huge Hill Country campaign” and are restocking the shelves with mostly HEB brand items. The fantastic part is that they have managed to label all of their store-brand products to look EXactly like the leading competitor’s brand so if you don’t look closely, (or don’t know how to read) you will unwittingly be supporting the very giant that is trying to crush your little soul into an oblivion so deep that all you can do is shut up and buy their moldy cheese.

 The sad part is, I LOVED HEB when we first got here three years ago. Their prices beat any store in Phoenix by a landslide and even though they did not stock my usual major brands of most common items like peanut butter, catsup, mustard, etc. their store brand was decent and I considered it better than the other major label I didn’t want anyway. Kind of like when a republican votes democrat in order to keep the demons in check, yeah? In other words, at first I didn’t mind not having a choice, because I was offered a good-quality-money-saving alternative or at least that’s what it appeared to be at the time. Over the last three years, I have seen the decline of this store and the behavior of the people in it grow steadily worse before my eyes and NO ONE else seems to see it. They think it’s NORMAL. Normal to shop in a throng of people day and night? Normal to find mold in the produce department, stale loaves of bread and gallons of milk with holes in the bottom on a regular basis? Normal for the aisles to be so small that you have to send a single-cartless-(and therefore defenseless)-runner in for the goods and hope he comes back alive?

 At first it was a novelty to me and like Texas country roads, people were kind and moved their carts to let you pass; smiling as you went by, sometimes lifting a hand to wave or at the very least to signal your existence. I thought it was kind of cute, like a little community inside a community. Now, it’s all you can do to get out of the store without someone running over the back of your shoe with a shopping cart or worse – dying of a heart attack in the deli line.  

 The danger of physical harm isn’t the only reason not to shop at HEB. Name your seasonal staple and it will be sold out. Want to contribute to your kids’ college fund through the UPromise College Savings Plan known nation-wide and accepted at every other major grocery chain in the U.S. EXCEPT HEB? Don’t think so. I called the 800 number to ask why they don’t participate in a program so obviously better for children than HEB Bucks and the nice lady on the end of the line basically told me no, HEB does not participate in UPromise, nor will they ever. Why? “Because they won’t.” If I wanted to hear because I said so, I would have turned back time 30 years and called my mother. Even Salsalito and Cheesy Jane’s contribute a small percentage of your bill to UPromise.

 Speaking of turning back time….

 To put it simply, I’m sick of HEB and if I’m the only one who notices that they are a big-time-monopoly hiding behind a small-town-grocery façade, then it’s time some one shed a little light. Though I doubt anything so unimportant as a valid complaint by an educated consumer could stop the massive fear-consuming machine that is suburbia.

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