Big Yellow Taxi

Joni Mitchell sang, “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”

‘Course, she was talking about Paradise and parking lots,

But, you know, I’m thinking she was talking something else,

Like family, and friends, and even me.  Yeah, maybe even me.

But that assumes one cares what comes and goes.

You said you don’t, but I didn’t believe you. 

I thought that you knew what you had.

I was wrong, but like Joni said, don't it always seem to go?

So this is me, climbing into my big yellow taxi,

Off to find a parking lot with a pink hotel

And a  boutique and a swinging hot spot

And maybe even Paradise where…  well, you know.

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This was written for One Shot Wednesday.

Holiday Haiku

what’s the perfect gift? 

doll for Susie? truck for Tim?

shopping, choosing, that!

wrapping and tying

ribbon, paper everywhere

fun beside the tree

hanging ornaments

stringing lights from here to there

living room aglow

friends come to carol

kisses neath the mistletoe

eggnog, cookies, yum

holiday greetings

stamped and mailed both near and far

season’s love to share

and to all of you

I send love, good wishes too

happy holidays!

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Written for One Shot Wednesday.

Cool, Dude.

Very cool.  Like a-very-dry-martini-in-a-frosty-glass-sipped-to-a-soundtrack-of-Miles-Davis-blowing-Blue in Green; like Ginsberg-reciting-Howl-at-Caffe Mediterraneum.  That kind of cool.  Way too cool to ever speak of it, because, well, that just wouldn’t be cool.

There was a point when we all wanted to be like them.  Shit, we wanted to be them.  Because they were so… well, you know.  We bowed at the altar of Nietzsche and Kierkegaard.  We went around talking about what the meaning of life would be, if life meant anything to us.  We listened to Chet Baker while we smoked and got drunk on cheap vodka.  We dreamed of a garret in Paris, when we weren’t talking about how we were of Everywhere and eschewed the cliché of “roots.”  We nodded sagely as Peggy Lee asked, “Is that all there is?”

Did we really believe all this stuff?  Who the hell knows? I suspect not.  But being so damned cool, we never questioned each other, let alone admitted  that, deep inside, we might be wondering, “Really, is that all there is?”

That was then.  And this is now.

Most of us grew up.  Oh, not all of us, that’s true.  Some of the really cool ones remained true to the anthem.  Many of them died, casualties of the war against the establishment or their trip to find meaning, a trip fueled by Wódka Luksosowa or LSD.

The rest of us eventually joined the reviled establishment, probably driven by the recognition that having a gnawing hunger in our bellies wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.  Our sell-out started slowly, perhaps a job washing dishes in that coffee house in the East Village, but as things on a roll will do, it gathered steam. We met our soul-mate, a kindred free spirit, and talked of wandering together. Just as soon as we had a few bucks.  But inevitably, there was another mouth to feed.  And the next thing we knew, we were working for The Man, paying down a mortgage, and driving a Ford.  I think they call it maturity.

Looking back, I see that all our cherished individuality was a sham. We numbered in the thousands, and we were all pretty much the same, a band of faceless robots trying so hard to feel nothing.  We dressed alike; we lived in the same lofts and basements; we wrote the same bad poetry of our despair.  

I thought it was a phenomenon of the time, a product of being in the vanguard of a generation born under the threat of The Bomb. But I was wrong, because they are still out there, those robots.  Oh, they dress differently, listen to Death Cab for Cutie, drink Yellow Tail and write better poetry.  But they are us.

I wish I could save them their lost years.  But I see now that it must be a rite of passage.  The Self can’t be found without being lost first.

Whoa, that’s heavy.  Very cool, Dude.

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This was written for the Tenth Daughter of Memory.

The Intervention

 

I wish I could tell you it was because of the holidays.  Because I’m here to tell you that there ain’t nothin’ much worse than being outta work during the holidays.  And that’s what I was.  A guy with no job, no money, no prospects, and a family with expectations.

Yeah, that would be reason enough for most anybody, right?

Who could blame me?  I felt like I was betrayed, led down the assembly line like an lamboid to slaughter. 

I mean, didn’t the company make promises when I hired on? Wasn’t this supposed to be “a new era in manufacturing?”  Didn’t they say me and my pals was the new face of the industry?  Weren’t we gonna to make cars like nobody ain’t seen before, what with us being all -- what was it they said? – we was all “programmed precision” or some such crap?  Oh, yeah, that’s what they said, all right.  

But it ain’t what they meant, nossir.

What they meant was that now that they got rid of the union people and replaced them with us, they were gonna be rolling in dough.  And that dough was gonna go straight into their pockets.   

That's what they meant.

We didn’t need no health care insurance.  We didn’t take vacations or complain about working conditions.  We didn’t even need a union of our own.  At least that’s what we thought, us being so freakin' machine-smart and all.

The only one who ever had doubts about the company line was poor Norma Raybot.  Turned out she wasn’t such a dumb cyberblond after all.  We shoulda listened to her when she tried to get a union going.  But look what it got her.  Nobotty supported her, and she was taken off-line faster’n you can say “Jackie Robotson.” 

Them and their “new era.”  Hah.  The name of this great new era is greed.  In my processor of processors, I was glad when it all came apart for the bastards.  I woulda been cheering when I heard that word bankrupt, except that it landed me on the scrap heap along with the rest of the guys.

Yep, the way I  figure it, that would have been reason enough.  But I can’t really use it as an excuse.  Not if I’m honest.  Truth be told, I had developed a taste for the sauce long before the factory closed and I found myself out on the street.  It’s just that being on the outs gave me more time to grease my whistle.

And that’s pretty much how I had spent the day.  When I wobbled home that night, there they were, a bunch of humanoids in white coats, waiting for me.  “This is an intervention,” they said.  “It’s for your own good.” 

And that’s when they pulled out screwdrivers, and came at me.

“Wait, stop,” I said.  And still they came.

“I woulda found work eventually.  I woulda cleaned up and got sober.  I coulda stopped anytime,” I pleaded, backing way.

“I’m not a drunk, real…”  Click.  Click. Glub.

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This was written for the Tenth Daughter of Memory, where the current prompt is "Extreme Robot Vodka." (Yes, really.)

I Am

I am passion

Kindled with suggestion

Ignited by desire.

I am conception

Formed by combustion

Building toward completion.

I am creation

Delivering new hope

Packaged as love.

I am you.

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This is my offering for One Shot Wednesday.

The Final Ride

 

One day at ten, you climb aboard.

The hill thrills you to your core.

A running start and off you go.

Whee! Into the wind you soar.

You hold on tight and rocket down.

The ride is wild; it gives you quite a rush.

All too soon, the bottom’s reached.

So back to the top, and again a mighty push.

Whee! Down and up and down again;

You ride so many days away,

Until, “oh, please, not any more," 

You hear your sore joints say.

One day at “old,” whenever that day arrives,

You climb off your sled, and leave the hill behind.

But at the end you remember, those wildly thrilling rides,

And you ride the hill just one more time, if only in your mind.

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Written for Magpie Tales.

Shooting The Breeze

Just for fun. Not mine, but pretty awesome.