Sidewalk Daisy

Going alone is dangerous
And could be seen as invective
Independent thought angers us
So says the collective

They want us all to think alike
And don't you dare ask why
The minions of the new Third Reich
You must either conform or die

Goose steps along the sidewalk
Long march into the sea
Duct taped and afraid to talk
Find the courage to break free

When will you have had enough?
Are you so bold to interrupt?
Little flower hang in tough
Sidewalk Daisy do stand up!

The conformists are all cowards
Co-dependent and suicidal
They want to play your cards
Because they fear you as their rival

You know they'll go to any length
To make your Titanic sink
But reason is your greatest strength
If you've got the nerve to think

The people in the background
May not know what to do
But if you magnify your focus
Perhaps they'll follow you

When will you have had enough?
Do you dare to interrupt?
Little flower grow up tough
Sidewalk Daisy do stand up!

Family in a walking condom

Family in a walking condom
Keep your who-ha clean
Never mind looking dum dum
You need not steam your bean

Family wrapped in plastic
They dare not think it through
They'd gargle with Fantastik
If the late news told them to

Grandma went to see them
They freaked and got all tense
Turned mole hill into problem
Cause her family is quite dense

Facts don't care about feelings
The podcast guy said so
But fear will send you reeling
If you evade instead of know

Forget masks and social distance
There are plenty other ways to die
So any virtue signaling nuisance
Just mind your bunk and fly

Family in a walking condom
Keep your who-ha clean
You're already looking dum dum
Cause you didn't steam your bean

Your life is like a pebble in the instant when

it pierces the surface of a pond, while time

stretches through infinity, both forwards and back

beyond the limits of your imagination. And

only in that moment, as the pebble breaks the tranquility

of smooth waters, do you exist. What will you have done

with that instant? How will your legacy of ripples

expand long after you are gone, sunk to the bottom

with the mound of pebbles that have come before?

The Not So True Story of How Rigatoni Pasta Got it’s Name

Paulie returned home to his brownstone in the Bronx one day and saw a 25-foot box truck parked at the curb in front of his walkway. He paused and stared at it for a moment. It was unusual to see a truck that size parked on one of these narrow little side-streets. But what could he do? The vehicle was not blocking anything or breaking any law. Paulie shrugged and climbed up the steps to the front door. He grabbed the mail from the box and went inside.

Paulie entered the apartment and tossed the mail on a side table. “Hey Carla, you here?” He called out.

“I’m in the kitchen,” a woman’s voice called.

Paulie crossed the living room and went into the kitchen. His wife Carla was at the stove with a couple of pots going. “I’ve been thinking about you all day babe,” he said as he leaned over to kiss her.

“Paulie, your such a sweetheart.” She smiled. “Dinner’s almost ready. Can you set the table?”

“Sure thing.” Paulie went to a drawer and pulled out silverware. “Oh by the way, who’s that parked out front?”

“That’s Tony’s truck.”

“Tony who?”

“Tony from next door.”

“Which one?”

“Not Anthony. Tony.”

“Oh, okay. What’s he doing with a truck.”

Carla turned to look at Paulie and spoke with a tint of wonder in her voice. “He started a business.”

“A business?”

“I know. I never saw him as the entrepreneurial type.”

“Yeah, I know. Although he does have a lot of experience driving trucks.”

“He does?”

“I shouldn’t talk about it. I ain’t no Johnny Dimes.”

“Ah,” Carla pursed her lips in understanding. “He’s a good guy though.”

“Helped furnish about half of this place. This dining table came off the back of one of Tony’s trucks.”

“But you’re right Paulie. We shouldn’t talk about it.”

“Okay. Changing the subject. What’s this new business for Tony from next door?”

“He’s making pasta!”

“Pasta? Tony is making pasta?”

“Yeah, big, fat, tube shaped pasta.”

Paulie felt bewildered. “But what’s that gotta do with the truck.”

“He’s just getting started, Marie told me.”

“Tony’s Marie?”

“Who else?”

“Just asking.”

“Okay. Sorry for interrupting.”

“So anyway, to save money he and his cousin Sal are doing distribution themselves.”

Paulie scratched his head. “So that’s why the rig out front?”

“He’s says its only for tonight.”

“He should’ve asked before taking up all that space.”

“He did one better.”

“how’s that?”

“A case fell off the back of his truck.”

“He made a case fall off the back of his own truck?”

“And he split it up among the wives on the block.”

Paulie laughed. “That does sound like Tony. He’s a good guy.” He leaned up against the counter, beside Carla, and glanced into the pot. “What are you making?”

“It’s the pasta Tony gave me.”

“Off his rig?”

“That’s it.”

“I don’t know Carla. Do you think its any good?”

“We’ll find out. Get me some plates.” Carla turned off the burner and the drained the pasta. She put servings on both plates and then added sauce.

Paulie took the plates of pasta and put them on the table. Then they both sat down. They both looked at each other. “I guess I might as well try it.” Paulie shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth.

“What do you think Paulie?”

Paulie made a frown of satisfaction while nodding yes. “This rig of Tony pasta is pretty good.”

“I’m glad you like it. Let me try some.” Carla took a bite. She was not quite finished chewing when she spoke again. “It is pretty good.”

The two of them ate in silence for a few moments. The Carla spoke again. “It is ironic though –“

“Right,” said Paulie. “Of all the people to become a pasta maker –“

Just then there was a knock on the door. Paulie got up to answer. A man with a mustache was standing in the open doorway. Paulie greeted him “Hey, Tony Pasta! Come on in.”

“Paulie, how you doin’?” said Tony. The two men hugged and then tony entered the apartment.

“We’re good Tony. We just sat down to dinner,” said Paulie.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Tony apologized.

“No worries. We’re just enjoying this hot off the rig of Tony Pasta’s pasta.”

“Haha!” Tony nearly doubled over. “I should call it that.”

“What?” Paulie looked confused.

“Rig of Tony Pasta’s pasta.”

“What were calling it before?” Carla asked.

“We don’t have official packaging yet, but Sale and me had been calling it tube pasta.”

Paulie made a face like something stunk. “Tube pasta?”

“I know,” said Tony. “It really has no ring to it. But what you said, that has a ring.”

“It’s a long name,” said Paulie.

“And the printer charges by the character.” Tony sighed.

“So you shorten it,” offered Paulie.

“And I ain’t paying for spaces.”

Carla was astonished. “They make you pay for spaces?”

“Only on the big print,” answered Tony.

“You want me to straighten this guy out?” offered Paulie.

Tony tried to disguise his shock. “No, no, I’m trying to do this thing legit.”

“So leave out the spaces. Squash it together and make one word.” Then Carla added, “and change the Y to an I for your daughter.”

“I like your style Carla. I’ll call it Rigatoni pasta!” Tony’ smile was a mile wide. “Wait ‘til Sal and Marie here’s this!”

And that is how Rigatoni Pasta got its name, maybe.

Redemption and Brotherhood

Here is something perfectly irreverent, yet too benevolent to entirely irritate most remotely rational devotees. This is how it is done, not with fire and brimstone, but with a kind smile and a dose of humanity. And what if... Ah, it is kind of fun to imagine a scenario like this.

Redemption and Brotherhood

After laying in a cave for what seemed like forever, nursing his wounds, the wounded man woke up early one morning, finally feeling quite refreshed. He decided to sneak out before dawn to rustle up some mutton and eggs on a biscuit.

The whole ordeal took quite a while. He had to visit three different farms. At the first farm he spotted a door off its hinges, so he fixed it and took some eggs. At the second farm he saw the barn was a mess, so he swept it and took some mutton. At the third farm he saw that the rope for the well was frayed, so he replaced it and took a biscuit. Then he went in to the blacksmith's cabin, where the hearth was always going. He cooked himself a meal. Then he noticed that the blacksmith had left some unwashed dishes from the previous evening. The man washed those, and the ones he had dirtied that morning.

After the man was well satiated, he stepped outside. The sun was just emerging far out over the horizon. He strode out over the hills and watched the sun climb up into the sky. It was such a blissful sight, that he lay back in the grass and took a nap.

Approaching mid day, the man awoke to the far off sound of a commotion, in the direction of his cave. He rose to his feet and strolled over to investigate.

The circumstances which had originally placed him in that cave to die were unfortunate. The man could not be sure that all had been forgiven by the authorities. It was possible that they might still want him dead. He pulled a shroud up over his head to hide his identity as he grew closer to the noise.

Presently he came within earshot, hiding behind a thicket of trees to listen. An excited crowd had gathered outside the cave, and some were in clear histrionics.

"He is risen from the dead!" one exclaimed.

"He died for our sins!" cried another.

"We have sinned against the chosen one," pronounced a third.

"Let us pray for his forgiveness," they all agreed.

Then suddenly the thunder of hooves approached, and Roman Centurions rounded the corner, emerging from the hills into the clearing. "What is the meaning of this!?" demanded the Captain.

"He is risen!" a peasant repeated.

The Captain dismounted from his stead in a huff and marched into the cave. He had been in there only a moment when he stormed back out into the clearing. "Jesus of Nazareth is missing! Find him! Or by Zeus I will have one of your hides in place of his!"

With that the Captain mounted his horse and with his men galloped off into the distance. The peasants all breathed a sigh of relief once the Centurions were out of sight. "Ah men," said one. "Jesus died for our sins. Let us pray that he returns."

Jesus thought about stepping out of the bushes These people certainly seemed to worship him. But when this whole thing started he had never imagined it would get so out of hand. He was just a carpenter who had reasoned out a few things and shared them with his friends. Now people were worshipping him like a God. He just wanted to find a nice girl, settle down somewhere, make a small farm, and raise a family. All that celebrity would get in the way of those ambitions.

After a few moments of mulling it over Jesus sighed. He decided he would just slip away, and go somewhere that nobody knew him so he could start over.

By now, the chanting in the clearing had reached a fevered pitch. Jesus backed away quietly. When he had created enough distance he ran up into the hills. Centurions were everywhere. He wouldn't get far walking in the daylight. He ducked into another cave to rest and wait for nightfall.

About ten minutes had passed when Jesus heard footsteps outside. Jesus backed far into the shadows of the cave and held his breath. To be caught now by a centurion would be a fate worse than death. The peasants would feel betrayed, and they would all spit on him as he was put to a more certain death this time.

The footsteps grew closer, and then they entered the cave. The figure appeared as a silhouette in the doorway, with rays of sunlight streaming in behind him. Jesus could not make out who it was. Then there was a whisper, "Jesus." Who could it be? The voice called a little louder. "Jesus, are you in here?"

The figure shuffled a little deeper into the cave. "Jesus, if you're in here, I am sorry that I betrayed you."

Could it be him? The friend who had done him in? From the cross, Jesus had looked down upon the regret in his eyes. He believed in the sincerity of the words he had just heard. But could he risk that he might have misread the man? How could he not? Such a friend would not betray him twice.

Jesus stepped out of the shadows. "Judas, is that you?"

"Jesus! You're alive!"

"Yes my friend. But how did you find me?'

"So wracked was I with guilt, that I had gone into the woods to hang myself. Then just as I was fitting the noose over my head, I spotted a man who looked like you running into the hills! I could not believe my eyes! I removed my head from that deadly tourniquet and followed the one I had witnessed, to see if it was truly you or if madness had set in to justify my darkly mission."

"It is me, my friend." Jesus smiled. "I am glad you are not dead."

"And I, you." The two men stood staring at one another for a wondrous moment. Then Judas sighed. "Jesus, did you call me friend?"

"Well, that's what you are."

"But after what I have done."

"Nonsense. You were confused. I could see how that tragic misjudgment weighed on your conscience. I did not imagine you could ever consider taking your own life. However, while I lay about healing, the center of my contemplation was over how the guilt of what you had done would follow you for all your days."

"I could not bear it!" Judas admitted, the tears streaming down his face.

"Ah, but I am alive now," said Jesus as he threw his arms around his friend. "You have suffered enough by believing that I was dead. I forgive you."

"Thank you Jesus."

Jesus stepped back and took stock off the other man. "What are your plans?" he asked.

"I don't know. There is nothing here for me now. Even if the others are to know that you live, most would not forgive me as you have. I suppose I must go away and start over somewhere new."

"Music to my ears!" Jesus laughed. "This is my plan too. Celebrity has run its course for me. I seek a quiet life in my next iteration."

"A quiet life sounds nice. But how? Your name, and even my name, are known far and wide."

"Then we shall change our names and shave our beards."

"What shall we call ourselves Jesus?"

"No more Jesus. From now on, call me Hank."

"Hank? I like it."

"Good. And what shall you call yourself?"

"I don't know. Do you have any ideas?"

"I always thought Jerry was a cool name."

"Jerry? I like it. I'll be Jerry and you will be Hank, and we will journey north to find wives."

"Then it is settled," said Jesus, aka Hank. "As soon as night falls we will go."

And so they went, never to be seen in the south lands again.

A Sunset

A sunset drifts across a weary sky.

Would that I were a bird to fly

To chase that ever fleeting light

Far beyond the grasp of night.

But alas, long have I made my nest

Where darkness soon shall usher rest.

For all the many years I toiled and plotted,

Hope I did my best with the time allotted.

My solace now is but to know I flew

During brighter days, under skies of blue, 

Filling every hour, whether hard or soft

By reveling joyously in my time aloft.

The chicks have hatched and taken wing. 

May they in daylight ever proudly sing.



(A friend posted a meme about aging, where there was reference to a beautiful poem that the speaker had forgotten. I decided to see If I could write a poem on the subject of aging.)

No, You Don't Have to Shake My Hand

(The following is a story I wrote some twenty years ago. In sorting through some old papers I came across it. I'm not sure where I stored the digital file. But I've always thought fondly of this story, as it represents a test I set for myself to tell an entire tale in the second person. However, it seems particularly apropos for sharing in this day and age. I considered spending the rest of my day searching for the file, but instead decided it would be a more efficient use of my time to transcribe this little wonder anew. There were a few minor tweaks made to the language and phrasing as I went along, and the ending was significantly re-worked and updated for a somewhat more modern workplace. So without further ado, I hope you enjoy this little number. And also, please wash your hands.)

You are standing in the hallway when he walks past. He is a co-worker and you have worked with him before. He is wearing a white dress shirt and a red tie. He is a salesman. He has closed many big deals on a handshake, some using your research. You notice as he enters the men’s room.

You would already be in there if you hadn’t stopped to talk to the sexy new assistant. Her eyes are like saucers brimming with cocoa. You want to put your lips to them and sip gently – But No! There is a different biological imperative at work now. You are in the hallway for a reason. You need to go. You wish you could explain to the cocoa eye assistant why you are walking away, but there is no tactful exit strategy for this situation.

You fret that the red tie salesman will gawk as you enter the restroom. He does not. He is not at the sink, or the mirror, or the urinal either. You are sure that you did not see him leave. You spot his brown dress shoes peaking out beneath the closed door of the far stall. There is no one else in the men’s room. Just you and him. It could only be red tie salesman behind that door. Whatever anxiety you had about revealing your business in there, is quickly replaced by the urging of a more pressing matter.

Your gut grumbles as you duck into the stall nearest to the door. A few rapid and familiar maneuvers later and you are seated. Relief! Your business is underway. You notice a newspaper on the floor. A headline sparks your interest. You pick up the periodical to investigate further. You can always find reading material in this restroom, regardless of time or stall. For a moment you wonder what the red tie salesman is reading. Perhaps he brought his own material. Perhaps not.

The scent of your leavings begins to permeate the stall. You’re gut tells you that you are not ready to depart, but that you may need to wait for your functions to regroup. You give a courtesy flush to wash away the scent. You continue reading the paper. Second later you hear another flush. You hear the rustle of clothing as red tie prepares to depart his stall. His stall door opens with the click clack of the lock being disengaged. The meatal door clangs back shut against the stall. You hear the dress shoes walk across the gray tiles, heading in the direction of the sinks. You wait for the sound of the faucet…

…The sound never comes. You spot his shoes as they pass outside your stall. The men’s room door opens with a "Whoosh" and then bangs shut with a thud as the red tie salesman exits. He didn’t even put up the pretense of pretending to wash his hands like some guys. He never stopped at the sink. There was not even a cursory splash of water or soap.

Will you ever be able to work with this guy again? Every time he hands you a document, you’re going to wonder whether his hands are clean. It will feel to you as if he had wiped his rear with the memo. You will have to wash your hands repeatedly, every time you work together – Not to mention shaking hands. That must be over right! There is not enough hand sanitizer in the world to allay your distress. What other things in common do you touch? Can you get dysentery from walking through the front door? You have heard that both Howie Mandel and Donald Trump don’t like to shake hands. Now you know why.

You have heard statistics – crazy statistics, which say that large portions of the population don’t wash their hands after using a restroom. You never believed it was true, but now you are realizing that it is true. You wish they had a sign in the office bathroom like the ones you see in restaurants which say “All employees must wash hands before leaving the restroom.”

You have another troubling thought. You wonder how many employees actually heed those signs in restaurants. Its not like a sign has any power to make anyone do anything. It’s a suggestion at best, telling you what the management wants, implying that there would be a penalty for noncompliance, if they could ever catch you.

You wish you had lingered a little bit longer with the cocoa eye assistant. You wish you did not know what you know now. How many more are there like him? You shudder at the notion. There are probably a bunch of non-washers on the floor. People are gross. How can you go on living among them, never knowing when the unclean will touch you? But you must go on. You cannot hide from the daily scourges of mundane reality.

You put down the paper and finish your business. At the sink you make sure to scrub hard. You sing “Happy Birthday” twice in your mind while working up a foamy lather. No matter how others shirk their own hygiene, your responsibility is to yourself. You leave the men’s room preoccupied, heading dutifully passed the cocoa eye assistant, back towards your desk. Your desk phone is ringing in the distance.

In the hallway your boss approaches. He wants to congratulate you, “A fine piece of work on that last report you sent me.” His hand begins to rise to shake yours. Is he one of them too? There is no way to know. You cannot risk it. Before his hand raises passed his hip, you nod and raise your hand to wave. “Appreciate it boss. Gotta get this.”

You duck into your office and pick up the phone. The red tie salesman is on the other end of the line. He wants you to stop by his office so he can hand you the specs for a last-minute project. Your hands are dried out from washing. You have not even moisturized yet. There is no way that you want to touch anything that guy has touched lately. You opt for a white lie. “Oh man, sorry, I’m in the middle of something. Can you just send me an email?”

“Okay,” he begrudgingly replies.

“Thanks,” you reply with relief. I’ll get on it right have I finish this other thing.” There is no other thing, but at least you dodged that bullet. Maybe you should start working from home.