The Corner of Comedic Contradiction

One gray and chilly Saturday morning, the kind still trying to recover from weeks of snow, a comedian steps out onto his front porch and proceeds to proclaim a new skit of the likes one might see on Saturday Night Live.

The anchor man says, “A man was found hanging around the meat market waiting for his leg of lamb to cure where it hung in the window. But that is not what this is about. He was a witness to the Scarf Lady Killer who allegedly strangled a Senator who refused to pay for her services.”

“Wait!” The Scarf Lady Killer enters the news set wearing large round sunglasses with thick black rims and a paisley scarf wrapped around her head. “It wasn’t me! I did not do this! How can you say such things about your mother!?”

“Mom!” The news anchor exclaims!

“Don’t give me that or I’ll call your father and he can remind you of the bull whip!”

“Oh no, not the bull whip!” The anchor man ducks down behind his desk and peers just over the edge.

“Your witness is a blind man and I don’t know any Senators.”

The smoke from my cigarette swirls into a sky of tiny snowflakes learning to fall. The four corners of the complex are quiet and empty but for the comedian. He is an animated fat guy in his old worn cardigan and disheveled hair that transforms in to an orator of profound theater. With one outstretched arm, he is erratic and quirky speaking proudly the voice of each character. He tries to squat when the anchorman ducks and bolts to his feet when the Scarf Lady Killer states her case. Then suddenly, dramatically, he comes to an abrupt stop and dead silence just hangs there over the yard. Slowly, his shoulders lower and he is an ogre or Eore. After two weary steps, he is comedian again and jumps into the next scene.

A judge appears dragging his pulpit onto the news set. The anchorman says, “Judge! Where did you come from?”

“I am here to end this madness, once and for all. The Scarf Lady Killer must be stopped and there is only way to know for sure if your mother is she.”

The comedian leans forward and waves his hand over the courtyard with a scrunched up facial expression that squints with a cynical look. In a deep raspy voice, he says, “Whoa to you Scarf Lady Killer, we will know the truth yet. Where were you the night of April first? It was a Monday, if I recall.”

“Judge, you can’t be serious! I was with you!”

The neighbor jerks into the air and scuttles a couple of feet to the end of his perch laughing at himself. He halts before tumbling into the snow bank and says, “A monkey riding an alligator runs onto set and eats the judge in one big gulp. Then a trained voice of another anchor person says over everyone, “Well, I guess that takes care of that?”

Then slowly, the comedian fades back into being a cave dweller and disappears behind the screen door. I took that as the end. There was no encore or applause. The cigarette had been gone already five minutes and it was cold so I went back inside my own cave and marveled at the wonderfully strange world we live. I doubt my neighbor will ever repeat his antic, but it is possible, and so I will continue to pay attention.


Sometimes swollen from stress, she stifles a smile strained and scared to share some semblance of self-satisfaction.

Starts and stops string a song of life standing as a solitary sign, annoyingly stoic and submissive. A vast sea of sound is situated with only strangers strapped in their own seat; saddled with their own stride.

Surrounded with sterling chauffeurs; suffocated in a facade of sugar and spice. A day dream of circumstance contrasts who you thought you should be; sunbathed in shiny bronze of slippery skin.

Something surreal sifted slowly into the psychosomatic reality of sweet truth. A shift of self-discovery and consideration of something sinuously beautiful, even if aloof with stubborn scandals that skip along a sidewalk of surrendered seams of hope.

Saturated with tears, a soul swallows strands of soft string; styled for she that would embrace her strength and let go of the sinister sense of succumbing to a stagnant strangulation of self.

Stars streak through a scattered sky. A stern lip stings with a piercing slip of spiked tongue; split with spite. Sand drains through steep cylinders of scoured time while you shout at the top of your lungs scratching for something simple.

Screaming into silence where only shit moves in the bowels of your social media. Certain sob stories shall sink in making way for a strapping scheme of survival, The surface is smooth as the sinking moon, astounded by the sun that celebrates.

Stealthy silhouette slinks into shadows of insanity; swept into smithereens, a sultry tone smells of salty slang. Certainly.

one year later

I have ignored this sight since nearly the beginning. The story is like a haunting where threads gather in the corners where dust mites eat them alive. Every word is mutilated into something like pig-latin. A secret code that few will understand. Sometimes, I am asked what I write about. How does one categorically place it? How does one pull it from the dark places and into the light of something meaningful for others? who knows and who cares? I would be lying if I said I give two shakes of piss whether or not my writing did anything. Of course, we all want to be above the fray and floating on what we love most; a place where work slides away from a job. This past year has been a busy year. A quick synopsis looks something like this:

  1. working on lots of interesting projects with a great team
  2. 25th anniversary and two weeks in Cartagena, Colombia
  3. writing thousands upon thousands of words
  4. took many local trips in the beautiful Northwest
  5. deep snow has pushed me to work remotely on several occasions
  6. did I mention writing?

As it stands now, I am trying to get my blog straightened out. I have had it for years but never really got it organized properly. I hope it flows better now and the content will bring more people that like my writing. Ideally, I will develop a large readership as I publish chapters of my first book, FALLEN. Of course, I will only put out a limited amount of the book since I do not want to undermine the efforts of getting it published legitimately. (whatever that really means!)

this is another vomit page, basically. An update to cap off a long day of reorganizing this space. thanks!

What Divides US

I don’t even know where to begin. It has been a serious whirlwind since the election; too many monumental shifts to list them all. My mind wanders over the various slogans from the campaign, searching for something to lean on; to step back from this precipice of panic that seems to come with every executive order.

“We must drain the swamp!” I can hear the chant but then wonder at its meaning. I assume it is to rid our government of the bottom feeding creatures that corrupt the system with obstruction and bias to afford the elitist class with all the benefit where policies are slanted with shadowy influence and corporate interests.  I am drawn to consider these creatures as representing the elite class where so much of the rhetoric seems always to come back to an idea about income inequality and disparity between the billionaire class and middle america. Like Bernie Sanders, I sought this commitment from Trump because he picked up Bernie’s banner on this issue and championed it through his own campaign. But now as the cabinet takes shape, he is putting together the most powerful and wealthiest ever to be assembled in the executive branch. Just this point alone raises the question about intent and are we to believe that the trickle down good will of the elite really cares? Are they themselves simply a new kind of creature – like a monster that has come into the swamp to dominate?