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Category Archives: America

The Self-Made Man

09 Saturday Jul 2022

Posted by petersironwood in America, politics, psychology

≈ 19 Comments

Tags

America, capitalism, Democracy, life, politics, truth, USA

Photo by Egor Kamelev on Pexels.com (A self-made ant)

The Self-Made Man

The Self-Made Man awoke. That is to say, his eyes snapped open, as they typically did, one minute before his alarm setting. He quickly turned the alarm off. After all, it was only a back-up system. His superior brain constituted alarm one. 

The Self-Made Man swung his legs (legs that evolved courtesy of the four-billion year old evolutionary struggles of his ancestors) over the edge of his memory foam bed. (Memory Foam had been invented in 1966 by NASA. NASA was America’s space agency. The tax dollars of US citizens paid for that, and for many other inventions). 

The Self-Made Cucumber

The Self-Made Man didn’t believe in paying taxes. Taxes, he thought, were for suckers. The Self-Made Man, according to his judgment, spent his money on things he found worthwhile such as making more people like himself. Why should he send his hard-earned money to Washington DC and let the government of the people decide where his money should be spent? That made no sense; after all, it was his money! (Money, by the by, was invented about 2000 BC, approximately 4000 years before the Self-Made Man was born.)

The Self-Made Man slipped his feet into his slippers. Slippers, of course, provide an easy way to add protection to your feet. Slippers are not unlike the moccasins that many Native Americans used for over ten thousand years before Europeans came to destroy most of them with germs and guns. The moccasins of The Self-Made Man were not made of deer skin or moose skin, but of synthetic fabrics which had been developed over the preceding century by thousands of scientists working for “rubber” companies and chemical companies. Some of this research was funded by US taxpayers but the money spent on tires for their cars paid for most of the research. 

As The Self-Made Man slid his feet into his slippers, he did not think about these things. He was thinking about a speech he would be giving later that day encouraging people to fight for lower taxes, especially for the wealthy. Somewhere in the back of his mind, The Self-Made Man, was vaguely aware that poor people tended to waste their money on such mundane things as clothing, shelter, food, healthcare, etc. How tedious! Rich people were far more imaginative and spent money on important things like golden toilet seats, yachts that were so large they couldn’t enter harbors, cryptocurrencies, and politicians. 

The Self-Made Poppy

The Self-Made Man didn’t waste much time thinking about poor people at all. They were fools anyway and actually worked for their money. How stupid is that, when you can be rich enough to own things and make more money from owning things than anyone could possibly make from simply doing things that provided value to others. 

The Self-Made Man picked up his smart phone and “dialed” his head speech writer. The “smart phone” of The Self-Made Man had grown from technology that was largely, though not entirely paid for, by the taxes of US citizens. No matter. Of course, the very smart people who developed that technology had been able to do so largely because of their education. Most of that was paid for by taxes of US citizens. But that education itself depended upon thousands of years of development of language, mathematics, science, etc. 

The Self-Made Man showered in hot water and cleansed himself with soap. Having hot water at his fingertips grew from the magic of yet other inventions. Without thinking much about it, he not only cleansed himself of dirt and dead skin but also benefited from the action of soap to kill some of the germs that lived on him. Indoor plumbing itself had been invented about 6000 to 7000 years earlier in India. Sometimes, the Self-Made Made let the shower water trickle into his mouth. Luckily, government agencies had ensured that this was safe to do. Those agencies had been paid for by the tax dollars of ordinary US citizens who were too stupid not to pay taxes. 

Photo by Samira on Pexels.com (The Self-Made Pig)

The Self-Made Man dressed and went to his home office to take a last look at his speech. He quickly accessed all his needed information using protocols that had originally been developed by DARPA using the tax dollars of ordinary US citizens who had paid their taxes. He scanned through the speech. The Self-Made Man thought it merely adequate. He reckoned it did a nice enough job of arguing as to why The Self-Made Man was the most important kind of man in the world. But something was missing. The speech, in a way, was the heaven part. It explained why The Self-Made Man and others of his ilk were bringing about a veritable heaven on earth. That was fine. So far as it went. But where was the “Fire and Brimstone” part? Where was the part that aroused the hatred of unions and workers who supported them? Where was the part that would make the audience be willing to do anything to keep the rich and powerful in control? Missing. The Self-Made Made shook his head sadly. Using the Internet protocols and hardware inventions of generations of scientists and engineers, he fired his main speech writer and alerted his second violin speech writer to add the “Fire and Brimstone” part. “Demonize these people the way they deserve to be!” 

Firing people always gave a little thrill to The Self-Made Man. Firing was always a “Triple Play.” First, it made “The Self-Made Man” feel good immediately. Second, it taught the person fired a valuable lesson. Third, it rekindled the fear in his other employees that they too could be fired at a moment’s notice if their work wasn’t up to snuff. And, it worked. As it almost always did. The “Second string” speech writer added some nice demonizing text and even included a Bible verse about the value of hard work. 

Soon, The Self-Made Man’s chauffeur zoomed them along an Interstate highway system (paid for by US taxpayers) toward the airport (which had largely been paid for by tax dollars). The Self-Made Man’s limo was a marvelous example of pollution whose external costs were almost all borne by others. The land beneath which the oil lay had mainly been stolen without compensation from the Native Americans (and other indigenous people throughout the world) who had lived there for tens of thousands of years. The extraction of the oil and its refinement to gasoline polluted air and water and required the dangerous labor of many. The combustion of the gasoline poured still more pollution into the air including carbon dioxide which was warming the planet so quickly and so radically that every year, people died from various climate catastrophes. 

Photo by Chokniti Khongchum on Pexels.com. (The Self-Made Medicine)

The Self-Made Man soon arrived at the Conference Center (paid for largely by tax dollars, because, after all, conventions brought business to the downtown). His speech was well-received and several Self-Made Men walked up afterwards and congratulated him on his brilliant speech. Three from The Self-Made Man’s social media team tweeted and instagrammed excerpts from his brilliant words. These were soon echoed by several of the politicians he owned.

The Self-Made Man was too busy to stay and chat long. One of his assistants handed The Self-Made Man a cup of coffee as they rushed out to the waiting limo. As he began to take a sip of the beverage which had been invented far away and long ago, the top came off and burned the thumb and index finger of The Self-Made Man. He noisily fired his assistant on the spot. He shook his head sadly as he slid into the rear seat. The Self-Made Man began feeling the scald in earnest and therefore began screaming at his chauffeur. “Where the hell is the damned ice! Can’t you see I burned myself?!” 

The limo was a marvel of sound isolation, and in fact, the chauffeur had not known anything about the spilled coffee. “There’s ice right beside you in the champagne bucket,” the driver said matter-of-factly. 

The Self-Made Man wasn’t about to reach all the way across the back of the limo to get his own damned ice! He screamed: “Pull over and get me the damned ice!” 

The limo driver sighed. “Sir, there’s no place safe to pull over right here. I can pull over … “

The Self-Made Man screamed even more loudly. “What the hell’s wrong with you?! Pull over NOW!” 

The chauffeur complied.

Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com (The Self-Made Tank)



Meanwhile, the bus driver behind them had his own issues. Of course, it wasn’t really the bus driver’s fault that the airline schedules were all bolloxed up. And, somewhere in the back of his mind, the disgruntled passenger must have known that too. But it didn’t keep him from screaming at the bus driver just long enough to prevent the bus driver from noticing the oddly parked limo.

Before the crash rendered everything in the limo burned beyond legibility, there had been a prominent sign in its passenger compartment which read:

“Please buckle up! It’s the law.” 

The Self-Made Man, of course, felt himself much too important to follow laws of any kind.

Although The Self-Made Man was rushed to a hospital (mainly paid for by tax dollars — but not his) and once there, received trauma treatments developed by thousands at a cost of billions of dollars and thousands of lives, his particular and largely insignificant leaf detached and fell from the Great Tree of Life and was no more.

Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com (The Self-Made Merry-go-round)

——————-

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Dick-Taters

Essays on America: The Game

As Gold as it Gets

Do Unto Others

I Can’t be Bothered

Plans for US; some GRUesome

Fascism Leads to Chaos

Poker Chips

When do we break the elder wand?

Sports Fans Only 

Author Page on Amazon

“There is always light, if we are brave enough to be it.” — Amanda Gorman

The 4th of July: Fire Works

03 Sunday Jul 2022

Posted by petersironwood in America

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Democracy, fireworks, hope, IndependenceDay, July4, poem, poetry, politics, USA

“A rose is a rose is a rose.” — Gertrude Stein “A fascist is a fascist is a fascist.” — Anonymous

I had a dream, American, (But now I can’t),

Iconic and ironic in its inner core.

The Founding Fathers, somewhat smug & ignorant 

Of Life and Love beyond the European  shore 

Unwittingly might see a noble people dark

As less, and bless twin evils: Slave & Masterhood. 

Yet dimly saw perhaps a democratic arc.

Provide for ways to grow a land of humanhood.

Remember to find the light — wherever you can. And then add to it. No matter how small, it helps.

 

Alas that dream seems dashed upon the rocks of creed

A manic sycophantic oliphant has come

To overturn both logic, love with crap & greed.

Pretending not to notice what we’ve learned; plays dumb.

It tramples rights of non-white, poor, and double X’s.  

Projects itself upon a pedestal, and hexes.

The real strength of the oliphant is less than you think; because it is fragile as anything based on a lie inevitably will be. Strength requires being tied to reality without being enslaved to it. We can imagine and strive toward something better.

Endless support of nature means endless support of beauty. The value of natural beauty on this earth far exceeds even all the wonderful works of artists and artisans in every land. That’s not to say such things aren’t wonderful and up-lifting. They are. But if we destroy the natural world, even if we could somehow live, we would be immensely poorer no matter how “rich” we were.

They practice witchcraft of a very shifty sort

And thus, with evil devils, they themselves consort. 

The logic they pretend to worship, they contort. 

They gorge on earth and every shred of life they can.

They cite the lies with which our history once began

Ignoring all the truths since learned so they can ban —

All life is not black and white. In fact, very little of it is.

The lives and loves of what they do not understand.

They stuff their ears to drown the sound of those they’ve banned.

They cover eyes to blind their brains to flames they’ve fanned. 

The air and sea are fouled: – by blood-soaked, unlearned hand.

They point their blame toward each direction in the land.

If everyone caves, they’ll expand their demand. We’ll all be damned.

Even at sunset, find the light. Even after sunset, find the light. The light will lead to truth and the truth will set you free.

It cannot stand. Fallacious fascism falls and fails. 

It won’t be folx, but traitorous cheats who’ll fill our jails. 

The Fire of Love is Fire that Works: The Fire of Life.

Fulfill America’s Dream. The Dream beneath the Dream. 

Help everyone see and feel the Theme beyond the Theme. 

The Fire of Love is Fire that Works. The Fire of Life.

We need a land that works for everyone who’s here. 

For rich, and poor; for men and women, straight or queer. 

For blue, for yellow, red and white. Behold the Light!

For each heart knows that “Cheat and Lie” cannot be right. 

Divide’s a trap for fools. It’s history that schools:

Don’t follow those who promise jewels then break all rules.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

Instead, we’ll stand, hand in hand, across the land. 

We’ll sing a song still better than the one we planned. 

We’ll sing clear air; we’ll sing our forests back to green.

We’ll sing of love; we’ll face the truth; grow strong and clean. 

We need not join dictatorships of scum and hate. 

That’s not the arc of America’s fate. That’s not our gate. 

It’s over on that hill of green. That place of sun? 

That place of light and love? There’s room for everyone!

The Fire of Love is Fire that Works. The Fire of Life. 

The future is ahead of us. A thousand wars of strife 

Will not turn back the seasons nor the sun. The Light 

Will grow the Tree of Life beyond the Fear and Fight.  

Come climb the hill and in the valley far below 

You’ll see the hands around the campfire and its glow. 

You’ll hear the singing. Join and you’ll help quench the strife.

The Fire of Love is Fire that Works: The Fire of Life.

The Fire of Love is Fire that Works: The Fire of Life.


Author page on Amazon

The Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Dick-Taters

The Broken Times

Sonnet Supreme Sedition

American Dream

American Dream 2

Dance of Billions

The Three Blind Mice

Stoned Soup

Absolute is not just a vodka

We’re all in this together

After All

Plans for US; some GRUesome

Story about a child sociopath

The Extreme Court

Clarence

Fish Have no Word for Water

Guernica

The Crows and Me

After All

30 Thursday Jun 2022

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, poetry

≈ 38 Comments

Tags

Democracy, poem, poetry, politics, USA

“There is always light…” Amanda Gorman

Silver buttons, golden boughs, ornately jeweled fingers.  

Adorning ditches alongside random tires and used syringes. 

So much depends upon a little red gully 

Filled with muddy, bloody, rain-water. 

“There is always light if … ” – Amanda Gorman

The demagogue was not a demigod after all.

Dictatorship turned out not to be so much fun after all. 

And after all, after all the joy of wanton cruelty faded

Survivors just got jaded and all the joy faded.

After all the promises unkept and all the lies exposed, 

After all the hypocrisy grew like hairy poison vines

And after all the trees were felled, life itself rebelled.  

After all the hate replaced each and every seed and every need.

It wasn’t so much fun after all. Not to die nor even to bleed.

“There is always light if we are brave enough…” Amanda Gorman

They shoot horses don’t they? 

Yes —
Buttheyshootdogsandcats and anythingtheycan.
Food is scarce, for sure.
But it isn’t just for food.
It used to be for fun.

But now it’s just another humdrum way to fight boredom

Laced with randomness and ruin and rum. 

“There is always light if we are brave enough to see it.” Amanda Gorman

Even the scab-faced Bannonites.
And the golden calves of sanctimonium,
Radioactive to the core, 

As is the mango pit they still adore,
Even they who wanted check and slay,

All are nothing more than shadows on the dead and empty warscape.

Killing off the ecosphere had all the “inconvenience” of a rape. 

“There is always light if we are brave enough to see it. There is always light…” Amanda Gorman

This was the summer of our discontent. 

Too hot to live, the grid had nothing more to give. 

Lack of AC proved a prize for everyone!

Not just those too poor. Surprise!

The greed, after all, charged its own lightning fast steed 

Of the apocalypse. 

After all the trials and after all the errors, 
After all the pilgrims and their progress.
After all the pillage and the patriots
No-one was saved, after all.  

There was only the infinite regress —

Not to the mythical fifties,

Not to flags Confederate, 

Not to ages medieval

Nor even to Empires Latinate

After all, after all the shattered dreams of millions, 

Just aching to be free, 

We let it all slip away; 

Pretending not to know our history,

Pretending that there is no devil to pay

When we cheat each other day after day after day after day. 

“There is always light if we are brave enough to see it. There is always light if we are brave enough…” Amanda Gorman

It doesn’t make anything great, after all.

It doesn’t make anything better, after all.

Being a baby that fusses and musses

Isn’t so wise after all

When there are no adults left to clean up the messes.

“There is always light if we are brave enough to see it. There is always light if we are brave enough to be it.” — Amanda Gorman

After all the pain.

After all the suffering.

After all the self-imposed blindness. 

All we really thirst for 

Is a little human kindness. 

So we search inside the bombed out marts.

We search beside the broken body parts. 

We search beneath the fallen walls.

We search abandoned shopping malls. 

What we find, after all, 

Is what we should have seen before it all. 

We have nothing but each other.

So why would we kill a brother after all? 

After all, 

A Civil War 

Is not so civil…

After all.


Author Page on Amazon

Guernica

Dance of Billions

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Absolute is not just a vodka

The Crows and Me

The US Extreme Court

Clarence, but not Darrow

The only them that counts is all of us

We’re all in this together

Supreme Sedition



 

Sonnet: Supreme Sedition

26 Sunday Jun 2022

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Democracy, poem, poetry, politics, truth, USA

The Handmaiden by POWSTER Creative Studio, Florian Pollet, Sylvain Kellaway is licensed under CC-BY-NC-ND 4.0

The Monsters of the Magic Modern Monolith:

With Zero Thought and Zero Care; our Freedom they Entomb.

Their Claws are Bloody, Dripping Gore, from Sure to Shore.

Sans Logic, Love, sans Sanity, Forthwith.

Our Rights are Ripped Untimely from the Unripe Womb.

And Every Woman Now is Redefined as Whore. 

Photo by Thuanny Gantuss on Pexels.com

No Family Now can Claim it’s Built on Love’s Respect.

Each Family Now is Based on Power’s Sharpened Sword.

Society is Based at Last on Baseless Lies.

Each Act of Love is Now an Object to Inspect.

If Judged by Strangers Strange, they’ll Slice the Living Cord.

Foundation’s Crumbled. Every Certainty is Now Surprise.

Photo by NEOSiAM 2020 on Pexels.com

The Tears are Bitter. Tide will Flow. Hypocrisy

They’ll Find, will Sink not Float on Angry Boundless Sea. 

Photo by Marc Coenen on Pexels.com

Photo by Min Thein on Pexels.com

—————-

Dick-Taters

The Broken Times

Poker Chips

The Mammoth and the Mouse

Absolute is not just a Vodka

The Extreme Court

Clarence, but not Darrow

Stoned Soup

Three Blind Mice

The Orange Man

Plans for US; Some GRUesome

What Could be Better A Horror Story

Dance of Billions

The Broken Times

Corn on the Cob

The Crows and Me

American Dream

American Dream 2

Fish Have No Word for Water

We’re All in this Together

Author’s Page on Amazon

“There is always light, if we are brave enough to be it.” — Amanda Gorman

The Broken Times

15 Wednesday Jun 2022

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, poetry

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

politics

Only the skulls remain

Upon the pikes.

Oddly, you cannot tell without the clothes

Without the skin

Who was who and who was not.

Is it so surprising after all?

“There is always light if we are brave enough to be it.” – Amanda Gorman



Once upon a time, 

The legend goes, 

People knew how to repair the cars but

That was long ago. 

After awhile, it did them little good. 

No parts were to be found.

When all the lines went dead. 

Electric grids were hit and miss. 

“There is always light, if we are brave enough to be it.” — Amanda Gorman

Is it so surprising, after all?

No-one now recalls just when

The Broken Times began

Or what was the straw that broke 

The camel’s back.

We’ll never really know which straw it is.

The one we’ll choose to blame.

Of course, it’s really all the straws.

The straw men.

The straw arguments. 

The spines of straw.

“There is always light if we are brave enough to be it.” — Amanda Gorman


At some point, 

The weight of lies outweighed the weight of law

When the rule of law was replaced

By the rule of power.

Is it so surprising, after all?

At first, the ones with guns tried to steal everything. 

Well-rehearsed by then in lies, 

They loved to scream and rationalize 

That they needed the grub.

Along the way, they killed the very ones 

Who could have helped their grandkids survive. 

They did not revive. 

They had no time to reinvent.

Nor wits to circumvent. 

“There is always light if we are brave enough to be it.” — Amanda Gorman

Is it surprising after all?

Everything went to hell,

Even the hand-baskets never arrived

Supply chains lay all shattered

No-one trusted anyone; not anyone.

Lies became the  way of the people; the lay of the land.

It’s monotonous music that rocking and rollicking band.

If you don’t mind hearing nothing else at all, at all, at all.

If you don’t mind truth being stripped from every strip mall. 

“There is always light if you are brave enough to be it.” — Amanda Gorman

Is it so surprising after all?

Everyone became a thug of sorts, a liar and a thief. 

That’s life on the street, they say. 

That’s all the life that’s left: 

The life of sneak and slay

The life that’s steal and cheat. 

Is it so surprising, after all?

That after choosing lies and guns

Eschewing truth;

That after losing by a lot,

The child who would be czar,

Touted lies both obvious and bizarre 

Which losers slurped as they embraced 

To show their fealty to the lie; 

Is it so surprising after all?

That a nation fell

And every life went straight to hell? 

Is it so surprising, after all?

“There is always light if we are brave enough to be it.” — Amanda Gorman

Is it so surprising, after all?

That so-called undesirables were rounded up

Forced to drink a poison cup

Or shot upon the spot? 

That books were burned 

True love spurned. 

Justice adjourned?

“There is always light if we are brave enough to be it.” — Amanda Gorman

Is it so surprising, after all?

With science denied 

And so many lies

The crops all died?

The billionaires learned all too late

They didn’t know how to operate

Factories or companies after all. 

Is it so surprising, after all?

That no-one can recall

The Times before the Broken Times? 

The times before the broken rhythms 

And the times before the rhyme broke?

“There is always light if we are brave enough to be it.” — Amanda Gorman



In the corner, I spy a broken box. 

A guitar! That’s what it was called. 

In the Times Before the Broken Times.

All the music now 

All the music now, 

If you can call it that, 

Is all the same. 

Guitars are illegal and inedible. 

Like phono graffs. 

And once I think we had 

Shiny photo graffs.

Illegal now as well

Hard to tell 

What, if anything, remains okay. 

Since the Broken Times began. 

Is that so surprising, after all?

“There is always light if we are brave enough to be it.” — Amanda Gorman

Dance of Billions

Listen you can hear the echoes of your actions

Ripples

Take a glance; join the dance

The only them that counts is all of us

Dick-Taters

A Profound and Utter Failure

Where does your loyalty lie

The Orange Man

Stoned Soup

Three Blind Mice

The update problem

What about the butter dish?

The ailing kind of agitate

The Game

My Cousin Bobby

Wednesdays

Happy Talk Lies

American Dream

The Declaration of Interdependence

The Bill of Obligations

Pattern Language for Collaboration & Cooperation

Author Page on Amazon

The Stopping Rule

.

American Dream 2

12 Sunday Jun 2022

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Democracy, insurrection, poem, poetry, politics, sonnet, truth, USA

(For a time, Sunday’s are for sonnets. We begin with free, chaotic verse that coalesces into a sonnet, but with ABBA stanzas, rather than the more traditional ABAB of Shakespearian sonnets).

PREAMBLE:

A loser.

More than anything.
A loser.

Love: A loser.

Business: A loser.
Bravery: A loser.

Elections: A loser. 

No creator, just a hater.
A waiter for the Putinate. 

The dawn upon the lawn

Shows the blood of many innocents.

Not a teacher, not a preacher.
If he can, he’ll try to reach her,
Stick his sickly sticky stubby hands 

Beneath her bands.
It’s his closest approach to broach 

The subject of true love.
Lady Liberty he’d gladly grope

If he could con a trope of rope-a-dope. 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Like a friar with a briar in his britches;

Like a pussy cat who hisses and then pisses 

Wherever he goes, he goes.

A splitter, not a hitter. 

A bit like Hitler with a soul that’s even littler. 

His littleness a wonder as he tries to tear us all asunder. 

He snatches Bibles as well as pussies. 

He’s a fellow who is yellow to his heart of wobbling jello. 

He’s a puppy and a puppet; a sorry little muppet. 

Photo by Min Thein on Pexels.com



A rap sheet for a rat sheep. 

A giga-gaga fool who’s jowls are spraying drool

The mango Mussolini who’s a mangy melon fool.

His ship has sailed. His coup has failed. 

His acts will soon be nailed to the wall he never built. 


He is crooked as a broken cow; 

A man absurd, without a word

That anyone can count on. 

Putrid knows it well. He’s just poison in the well.

Mango Mussolini would never ever dwell

In office if Putrid’s coup prevails.

Crude, lewd clowns who spray themselves with gold

Are less than dime a dozen. Putrid would install a cousin.  

He trades in sumps and sewers.

Names are used as skewers. 

Like a crow that loudly cawed, 

He’s a frankly cranky fraud. 

A pawn who likes to fawn

Upon his own necrotic dance. 

An odd and frowsy drowsy prance.

He’s a rag tag brown down

Largely baggy clown.

With a suit of downtown diapers, 

He tries to reason treason with his pipers.

From the Foe-Fox Terriers & Suckers

Carl’s son & Smucker’s cluckers & his clones.

Droning on and on and on until the lie seems natural.

Screams a meme, a theme, until a dream seems actual. 

SONNET:

The crews who snooze; they’ll wake upon the land.

They’ll see what seemed such grand orchestral songs

Was just a band of candy coward schlongs. 

Mirages mirrored & wavering o’er the sand. 



Both time and tide will ebb and flow; and know

That truth will win the day at last and hate

And fear — that sea of filth — will dissipate.

The cuts all sutured; nature nurtured. Though

We must take care. Lay bare the plot to kill

Democracy through wealth & pelf & greed.

Corruption spreads a weedy, cancerous seed.

We’ll hoe, and weed, and weed and hoe until:

We’ll share the truth & goods for all alive. 

Until all folx of earth survive & thrive.

Author Page on Amazon

Sonnet: American Dream

Dance of Billions

Vlademort Putrid

Dick-Taters

Plans for US; some GRUesome

Donny Boy Attends a Veterans Day Parade

What could be better? A horror story.

If Only…

To Addison Mitchell the III

11 Saturday Jun 2022

Posted by petersironwood in America, family, poetry, politics

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Democracy, gun, life, poem, poetry, politics, safety, shootings, truth, USA

Photo by samer daboul on Pexels.com

Do not 

Do not pretend to care

Don’t you dare

Pretend to care

Photo by Markus Spiske on Pexels.com

Bloated blaggart 

Yacht-boated braggart

Coward to the nth degree

Weasel words and wobble words

All about the free 

A well-rehearséd fantasy

Photo by Rebecca Zaal on Pexels.com

Your suit and tie and fancy shoe 

They show in fact, what’s really you

Campaign cash ill-promised gold 

Yours a story centuries old 

Photo by Naomi Shi on Pexels.com

Do not pretend to care 

Don’t you dare

Don’t you dare pretend to care

Photo by Archie Binamira on Pexels.com

 

You’re owned lock, stock, and barrel 

By a foreign funded PAC

By a putrid agent gone quite feral. 

And all you do is yack yack yack

Your tongue is forked 

Your belly porked

Your heart is corked

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Do not pretend you really care

Do not presume

Do not resume 

Your play of tears

Across the years

Your promises of thought

Your promises of prayer

When all you do is nought

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Do not pretend you really care

The powder burns upon your sleeves

Your blood-stained lips and pasty face

Your utter lack of human grace

You care much more for bills in sheaves

Than children dying day by day

You sit & munch on curds and whey

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Do not pretend to care

Don’t you dare 

Don’t you dare pretend to care

A coward’s coward’s coward

There’s nothing more untoward

Than a mealy-mouldy turtle 

You contemplate an inch high hurdle 

You remain too yellow to leap

You remain too sick and cheap 

You nibble your crumpet

You cheat and lie to grease your palm 

Dead shark eyes your jowls are calm

Photo by Max Fischer on Pexels.com

Do not pretend you care 

Do not pretend you care

Everyone’s bones grow eventually bare 

Long after life so long as there are eyes to see

Your name will live in infamy

So long as there is one last shred

Of humanity 

Or memory

Uncountable deaths of kids are clearly on your head

You soullessly stand in halls of power

Do nothing but whine at the ultimate hour

Watching children ripped apart

While you play-act your well-learned part 

A thousand horses and then the cart

Your well-practiced lines of lies 

Mumbo jumbo mumbled and tumbled

While another innocent dies

Another opportunity bumbled

Another step stumbled 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Do not pretend to care

Don’t you dare

Pretend to care

Photo by Max Fischer on Pexels.com

Just as a cancerous cell

Pretends to be well

So too do you

Pretending all the while

Wearing your dead-eyed smile

Pointing fingers everywhere

Fingers pointed everywhere

Unarmed teachers

Dearth of preachers

Photo by judit agusti aranda on Pexels.com

 

“Let’s re-make schools be just like prisons

Let’s give every teacher a heavy gun!

Let’s make school shootings loads more fun”

Photo by u5468 u5eb7 on Pexels.com

Do not

Do not

Do not pretend

Do not dare

Do not dare to pretend you care

Do not dare to pretend you care

Photo by Jonathan Borba on Pexels.com

The NRA has bought a beach- 

Head, impossible to reach

The beaches sing each to each

Putin thinks that we will all sit calmly by

And eat our peach

Sand and all 

While children die and checks get cashed

Our future trashed

Bigger yachts are shipped and shined

Bigger mansions bought and sold 

Bigger wads of cash are rolled

Bigger steaks are grilled and dined

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com


Do not pretend

Do not pretend you care

Do not dare

Do not dare

Do not send thought

You’re already bought

Do not send prayer

And do not dare

To pretend to care

Dick-Taters

Plans for US; some GRUesome

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing

Blood Red Blood

Thrumperdome

The Crows and Me

Ripples

Family Matters: Part One

The US Extreme Court

Clarence, but not Darrow

American Dream

American Dream

05 Sunday Jun 2022

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Democracy, ethics, poem, poetry, sonnet, truth, USA, violence

Photo by Element5 Digital on Pexels.com

Betray just once: Destroys both love and life.

Can you still hear the shot the world around?

Do sounds and echoes yet rebound around?

As Pattern, Betrayal fosters endless strife. 

When life and love don’t matter to some few;

When greed and lies become their normal ways,

Civility’s turned inside out and days

And nights whirl out of step into Gray and Blue.

Return, return, to common ground or sound

Of songs won’t long remain. Retained instead:

The din of war will echo in your head.

But bitter herbs & shiny shards are found. 

American dream too gladly grasped by greed

Escapes like wisps of smoke of self-served creed. 

———————-

Author Page on Amazon

Guernica

The Crows and Me

All for one; and none for most

All of us 

All together now

Stoned Soup

Three Blind Mice

Dick-Taters

Plans for US; some GRUesome

Imagine all the People

The Forgotten Field

Index to a Pattern Language for Collaboration & Cooperation

Satire Saturday: Gifts for WORMS

04 Saturday Jun 2022

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Democracy, parody, politics, satire, truth, USA

It’s nearly Christmas! Well, not really. But before you know it, Yuletide decorations will be everywhere and it will be well past the optimal time to choose a gift for your favorite ultra-wealthy, tax-avoiding, dead-eyed, sociopath who already has everything. 

Never fear! I am here! I have catalogued those items most needed for the very neediest amongst us: the born-rich, old white males who, as we all know (because they tell us constantly) are the most unfairly treated group in all human history. They selflessly spend their own precious time prescribing what others may or may not do in their “private lives” because — let’s face it — women, and POC and Native Americans and immigrants and college kids and Hispanics and did I already mention immigrants? And females and homosexuals and lesbians and vegans and vegetarians and people who believe in science and evolution and math and facts and such can not be trusted to make decisions for themselves! Oh, my no! So, the old white guys are stepping up and stepping in whether they’re wanted or not. They don’t have time left over from this precious work of theirs to find presents for themselves. We have to … I should say, we have the privilege to do it for them. It’s a daunting task, but I have made it much easier for us all! 

Each gift chosen from this catalog will be wrapped with one ton of earth-trashing plastic! But mainly it’s the gift itself that will let you know that you did your part to show your appreciation for the tireless efforts of that under-represented under-appreciated segment of our society — the White Old Rich Male Sociopaths — WORMS for short — among us. Their vision is legendary, often extending far beyond their fingernails all the way to their bank accounts. Their courage is so awesome as to require almost no statement. Almost. But just to remind folks of one of a few of their sacrifices, imagine an eleven year old gets raped by her step-father and now she has to agonize about whether to have an abortion or have a baby to take care of. No problem! The WORMS have graciously decided to take that decision completely off the table for her. Whew! Problem solved. 

Photo by BROTE studio on Pexels.com

And, that’s not all. What about that troubled teen Todd, a child of one of the WORMS, whose teacher threw him out of the spelling bee in the first round simply for misspelling the word “treason.” Come on! One word and he’s out? What kind of bee is that? He spelled it: E-L-E-C-T-I-O-N. Pretty darned close! Right? E, T, O, and N are in both words! Anyway, free and fair elections are treasonous as everyone knows. Women shouldn’t be allowed to vote unless their owners/husbands can be sure they’ll vote as ordered like Amy Bare-it. And POC? Seriously? Who says they can vote? Anyway, the point is, terrible problems like this are solved all the time by those unspoken heroes, the WORMS. In this case, the WORMS are making sure kids like Todd have access to assault weapons so they can express their frustrations in an appropriate fashion — by honoring the Constitution and its Most Holy Second Amendment. Who but the WORMS are there to make sure that no-one actually reads the Second Amendment because that would confuse ordinary mortals since the Founding Fathers accidentally spelled “individual” as “well-ordered militia.” A typo. Obviously. Duh!

Anyway, no need to keep dwelling on how utterly fantastic and under-appreciated the WORMS are. I’ll just say one more thing and then, I promise to move on to the exciting catalog itself. Did you know that some of the non-WORMS are trying to change your habits so that the earth is viable for future generations? What nonsense, right? Who cares if future generations are flooded, or starved, or can’t get clean drinking water, or thousands of species die or humans are plunged into endless war? Trivial stuff like that can always be solved by the WORMS. But meanwhile, they’re trying to reduce plastic? Plastic? Are they nuts? In the beginning, Ben heard the word! And the word was “Plastics”! ‘Nuff said.  

As for the gifts themselves, the first thing to say is that you can rest assured that none of these gifts will be the kind of worthless trinkets that poor people buy with their money — you know — trivialities like clean water, food, clothing, shelter, health care. What fun are necessities? How crude! How rude! No sir! None of these gifts will be consist of necessities. These are gifts that show distinctiveness and fine taste.

Photo by Leonid Danilov on Pexels.com



CATALOG OF FINE GIFTS FOR WORMS

(All prices are current estimates based on current Market Conditions. All prices are subject to change without prior notice). 

US Representative  What better gift for WORMS than having their very own US Representative in their pocket? Representatives come in a variety of special flavors including, but not limited to:

Wacko Conspiracy Theorists! One of our most popular items! Whether it’s Jewish Space Lasers or Ersatz meat from a Peach Tree Jar or Vaccines with Computer Tracking Devices, your WORMS can own a US Representative who will spout ridiculous absurdities to distract everyone from their tireless work destroying US Democracy! Current Market Price: $300,000. 

Gun-Toting Incompetents! What better way to help squelch any semblance of stately debate than to have your very own Representative show up with an assault weapon, hand grenades, or even a sawed off shotgun! Is it illegal? Sure it is! That just makes it all the more fun! Can be yours to give for the low, low introductory price of only $6969.

Table Banging Blowhards! What a nice gift this makes for WORMS. Whether it’s a child rapist or merely a former wrestling coach who looks away from sexual predation right under his nose, the Table Banging Blowhard will quickly turn any substantive debate about policy into a shouting match. What a fun way to destroy the world’s oldest continuous democracy! $75,000.

Photo by Anna Tarazevich on Pexels.com

US Senator If there’s one thing WORMS like more than their own “Representative”, it’s having their own Senator! One of the advantages of owning a Senator is that they never have to show their ownership by actually voting on things. They can simply refuse to vote! You remember those movies where a Senator “stands on principle” and yacks it up till everyone loses patience and interest on a topic? Those were the bad old days. In today’s Senate, they don’t actually have to filibuster to filibuster; they just have to say they will.

The Hypocrite’s Hypocrite! Made from moldy bread and manure heaps, yet much resembling an aging turtle, these fine folks can not only speak from both sides of their mouth at the same time; they can do it with mock sincerity! They can explain on Monday why even considering thinking about nominating a Supreme Court justice with a Presidential election only a decade away is against common sense, the spirit of the Constitution, the Legend of Babe Ruth, the rules of propriety, and the bylaws of Kentucky’s largest Chicken!  On Tuesday, they will explain why it is crucial to confirm a Supreme Court justice with a Presidential election already on-going! Each Hypocrite’s Hypocrite comes with dead shark eyes and is guaranteed to have undergone a complete bilateral ethicsectomy.  Price — a mere $500,000.


The Sick Sycophant! The sick sycophant will periodically make a run for the Presidency! During this time, they will explain, with apparent sincerity, why the would-be dictator they are running against would not be good for America. They will explain that he is a failed businessman, a liar, a crook, a racist, a sexual predator (self-proclaimed) and that he has zero experience relevant to being a President, or even, come to think of it, anything else. But have no fear! Once the incompetent liar becomes Putin’s nominee, The Sick Sycophant (SS for short) will tout the would-be dick-tater as the best thing since sliced stupidity! If the would-be dick-tater lies, the SS will repeat the lie endlessly. If the would-be dick-tater tells people to drink bleach or stick UV light up their butt, the SS will demonstrate. If the would-be dick-tater tries to sell out his own country to become an actual dick-tater, the SS will vote against impeachment.  On special today for only $666, 666. 

The Kinky Kid Killer! Often referred to as the KKK, the Kinky Kid Killer will tout how we must protect the innocent life of a fertilized egg or even an egg that might be fertilized or the sacred right of a man to fertilize any egg he wants to, and meanwhile, ensure that actual living, breathing, loving kids are killed on a regular basis. He or she will explain how Americans will never be safe in schools, movie theaters, grocery stores, street corners, rock concerts, post offices, or hospitals until every man, woman, and child in America has their own personal arsenal of conventional, atomic, chemical, and biological weapons. While the favorite way for the KKK to kill kids is via shredding caliber automatic weapons, the KKK is quite versatile. They will often support rolling back food safety regulations, safe water regulations, air pollution standards, workplace safety standards and, naturally, oppose free health care, child care, after school care and lowering taxes on the poor. The KKK is one of our top line items at an even $1,000,000 but guess what? You only have to pay one half of the cost! That’s right! If you act now, the Kremlin will funnel the other half of the cost through the NRA! What a bargain! You really can’t afford not to buy one of these Senators for your favorite WORMS.

Photo by Ben Phillips on Pexels.com



Extreme Court Justice These items have only been recently added to our catalog! Act now before it’s too late! The US Extreme Court (formerly known as the US Supreme Court) is the final authority on Big Lies and Partisan Bickering. Help the WORMS completely control every aspect of American life from the proper bedroom behavior to health care options to controlling the press and the media. 

The Logician Magician The Logician Magician will cry, scream, threaten, frown, and lie on command! He will wave his hands and drink beer. Hey, he likes beer! He will show you that he cannot possibly have sexually assaulted someone because — Look here! Look here! — There’s no entry in his calendar for the alleged sexual assault! Well, if that doesn’t establish his innocence, nothing will. Also, did I mention that he likes beer? Price: $2,000,000. 

Photo by Tembela Bohle on Pexels.com

The Memory Leak The Memory Leak will answer any question you don’t ask and none of the questions you do ask. Nonetheless, he will eventually make you believe that he’s answered your actual question. For example, if asked about allegations about sexual misconduct he is accused of actually doing, he will say, “I would never do anything designed at making a woman uncomfortable!” (Translation: I only bring up the topic of pubic hairs on my can of coke to turn her on and thereby give her pleasure; not to make her uncomfortable). If pressed for more information, he will say he can’t remember.  If asked about whether he supports the decision in Roe v. Wade, he will say, “It’s settled law!” (Translation: The right wing has spent tens of millions of dollars getting conservative justices so we wouldn’t overturn it!) If asked whether he debated the issue in law school, he will say, “I don’t think it ever came up.” (Translation: Seriously? I’m not answering that.) “Should I recuse myself as judge simply because my wife is a probably defendant? My wife? I didn’t remember she was my wife.” (Translation: eff yew) Price: $1,500,000.

Photo by lascot studio on Pexels.com

The Handmaiden The Handmaiden has plausible deniability about everything because she belongs to a cult that believes women should defer to their husbands on all things. Price may seem high on this one, but remember, these are lifetime appointments and she’s barely out of her teens. Price: $3,000,000. 

The Witch-Hunter This guy’s still truly PO’d that Sally Jones wouldn’t agree to be his date for the Senior Prom. Instead, she went with Charlie Jenkins just because Charlie was the football team running back and made All-State. If the Witch-Hunter happens to run across a part of the Constitution he doesn’t like such as the Ninth Amendment (also known as the “Democracy for Dummies” Amendment which basically says just because a right isn’t explicitly listed doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist), he will find an earlier precedent from some other source such as Attila the Hun, say, or an English judge who sentenced women to be burned at the stake for being a witch like Sally who should have gone to the Prom with the judge, but instead chose Charlie Jenkins, damn him. He wants women to be property, not to be mean, of course, but because — you know — it’s nature’s way! Men are bigger and stronger and live longer and are much more likely to be rapists and killers so men are obviously superior! Even the Taliban knows that! And so what if men can’t have babies? How fair is that? How can men even know if the baby is really theirs? You have to keep them indoors and locked up. For their own good, of course. WORMS will love this gift, but this particular robot seems a bit damaged so it can be yours to gift for the bargain basement price of $1,750,000.

Join the club! Help buy American Democracy for WORMS! 

Remember our motto: “The life you ruin may be your own, but you’ll ruin lots of others as well!” 

Remember our second motto: “All sales are final. We are not responsible. For anything. If we were, we wouldn’t be selling the country to the Kremlin.” 

—————————-

Dick-Taters

Absolute is not just a vodka

Bill of Obligations: Article One

Bill of Obligations: Article Two

The Extreme Court

Clarence but not Darrow

Siren Song

The Three Blind Mice

Stoned Soup

The Game

The Orange Man

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing

Fractured Friday Fables: The Sty at Seaside

03 Friday Jun 2022

Posted by petersironwood in America, politics, psychology, story

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

fable

Matt the Pig, who called himself “Matt the Magnificent,” strolled along the hill when he heard a curious sound. It sounded a little like the roar of a lion but very distant. He turned to his companion, Marjory the Muskrat and asked, “What could be making that sound?” 

Marjory Muskrat, who secretly called herself, “Marjory the Magnificent” flung her backpack off her shoulder and searched for an idea hiding among the many assault weapons, but she couldn’t find an idea anywhere. That was not surprising because she had not really had an idea for many years. Nonetheless, she smiled at Matt the Pig and said, “I know exactly what that is!” 

Matt tilted his snout and stared at Marjory with his beady pig eyes and wiggled his pig ears and said, “Really? What?” 

Marjory Muskrat wriggled her muskrat nose and said, “What what? What are you talking about?” 

Matt sighed in a porcine manner and said, “You said you knew what made that roaring sound. What is it?”

Marjory Muskrat never felt obligated to answer a question, especially when she didn’t know the answer (which was usually) and would be caught in a lie (which was always) so instead she said, “Follow me and I’ll show you!” With that, she scurried up the side of a nearby dune.

Matt the Pig came snuffling after her. His cloven hooves spiked deep into the soft sand. Marjory, on the other hand, found that her feet allowed her to climb up the dune quite easily. She waited at the top for her more cumbersome companion to join her. Finally, he clumsily clambered up beside her. He huffed and he puffed. He wanted to ask her again, but he never got the chance. Marjory Muskrat was skittering down the other side of the dune toward the seashore. 

Matt the Pig ran a few more steps before he tripped himself up with one of his own lies and somersaulted head over hooves down the far side ending up in some wet sand. It felt good. For awhile, he forgot what he had wanted to ask Marjory. 

The roaring noise returned, much louder than before. “What is that? What’s making that noise, Marjory? You said you knew?” 

“That” began Marjory, “is the sound of a million billion trillion migrants swimming ashore on our borders!” 

Just then, a Teacher walked by. Having overheard the Misguided Muskrat, he said, “Nonsense. It’s just the roar of the ocean waves.”

Matt the Pig oinked with delight. “At least, it’s not a lion! I like the sand. I’m going to build a house here! Do you want to help, Marjory?” 

Marjory Muskrat grinned so broadly that all fifty of her little white needle teeth showed. “No, you go ahead. Since you’ll be working hard building a house with your oh-so-powerful snout and hooves, I’d better go find us something to eat. I’ll be back in a jiffy!” 

Matt muttered, “Typical. I’m left to do all the work. It’s okay. It’s easy to dig here in the soft sand. I should have a house in no time at all. Matt the Pig began shoveling with his powerful long snout.” 

No sooner had he begun, however, than the Teacher said, “Excuse me. My name is Teacher. If you build your house here, the ocean will wash it away.” 

Matt the Pig scoffed at the teacher. “What do you know? It’s easy to dig here. I’ll make the quickest house ever. I shall name it, The Sty at Seaside. 

Teacher cocked his head to one side and said, “You’ll want to rename it Bye Bye Sty, because, as I said, within a few hours, the ocean will come and wash it away.”

Matt the Pig didn’t see any reason to believe a teacher of all people. “Nonsense! You’re just jealous you didn’t think to build a house here first! What do you know, anyway?”

“I walk this beach nearly every day. Also, I look at the tide charts. Every high tide, the ocean comes in much further than where you are digging and … “

Matt the Pig grunted. “Hah! I see where the ocean is. I see where the house is. Foolish man!”

Teacher shook his head and walked off. He muttered, “Suit yourself. You’ll see.” 

Matt the Pig continued to wallow and snuffle and snuggle into the sand. He began to grow hungry and he looked up to see whether Marjory Muskrat had returned with their lunch. No sign of her. As hungry as Matt the Pig was, he realized that all the hard rooting around had made him very thirsty. He wobbled over to the ocean and began lapping up the water. 

A Doctor who was out for his morning constitutional noticed that the swine was swizzling seawater. “Hey!” Said Doctor. “That’s salt water! You can’t drink that!” 

Matt snorted. “Hah! That shows how much you know. I just did drink some. Though not enough because I am still thirsty.” 

Doctor sighed. “Yes, I mean you can drink it, but it’s bad for you. It will only make you thirstier! It’s salt water. I’m a Doctor. Believe me when I tell you that it’s bad to drink it!” 

Matt snorted. “Hah! Who cares what a Doctor thinks. Water is water! Everyone knows that! I’m plenty thirsty so I need some more so I can finish the work.”

Doctor shook his head and walked off. He muttered, “Suit yourself. You’ll see.” 

Matt realized that despite having drunk quite a bit, he was thirstier than ever. He decided he would see whether the Doctor was telling the truth so he pulled out his smart phone and googled, “Do Doctors Lie?”

Matt looked at the results page. Over 8000 results! Matt snorted. “I guess that proves it! Eight thousand results! Of course, Doctors lie!” 

Matt the Pig was getting seriously hungry as well as thirsty. He glanced at the dunes, but didn’t see any sign of Marjory Muskrat. He wondered out loud to himself, “Surely, there must be something to eat along this beach. Clams? Oysters?” 

Matt began rooting for shellfish. It wasn’t long before he dug one up. He was about to smash it on some nearby rocks, when a Wild Boar came crashing up beside him, “Whoa there, fellow! Can’t you see the Red Tide? Don’t eat shellfish now! You’ll get deathly ill!” 

Matt snorted, “And who are you, pray tell, that you should interfere with my dinner?” 

“I’m a Wild Boar. My friends call me Crashing Boar, but you can call me Mister Boar. Everyone knows that you don’t eat shellfish during the Red Tide. Why are you digging up such a large part of the beach anyway?”

Matt snorted. Again. “I’m making a new home here. I’m naming it The Sty at Seaside.”

The Wild Boar frowned. “This is not a good place for a home. You’re right near the ocean!”

Matt snorted. He seemed to be snorting a lot these days. He didn’t care. He said, “That shows how much you know! This happens to be a perfect location! It’s easy to dig. There’s plenty of water and food within easy reach!” 

Wild Boar nearly gored himself with his own tusks. “What?! Listen, Pig. The tide will come in and wash away your home. And the water is not potable. The shellfish can sometimes be eaten, but not now. You best find another place for your home.”

Matt snorted yet again. “Hah! You just want this excellent location for yourself. Leave me alone. And, no, I am not sharing my clams with you. Nor can you have any of that water which I claim for myself.”

“That’s the ocean! You can’t “claim it” for yourself! It belongs to everyone! But anyway, you can’t drink it.”

Matt snorted until his nostrils bled. “Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do! I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions! Be on your way. And let your more civilized cousin finish his house.” 

The Wild Boar galloped up a nearby hill and began crashing through some underbrush. He looked one last time back at Matt the Pig, shook his head, and sauntered off. 

Matt the Pig, meanwhile, realized that all his work and arguing had made him uncommonly thirsty so he went back to the ocean and took a few more tremendous gulps of brine. It didn’t help. “I must be very hungry. That’s the problem,” Matt muttered. So, he dug up a few more clams and smashed all of them on nearby rocks and ate them all. That satisfied his hunger but he still found himself to be extremely thirsty. He decided to take a short nap in his new seaside sty. He lay down in the nice soft sand. 

Matt lay basking in the hot sun. Matt lay in his new home and enjoyed the sound of the name of his new home, The Sty at the Seaside. The many clams he had eaten satisfied his hunger, but he still felt terribly thirsty. He closed his eyes and thought back to the sty where he used to live. He remembered the girl in the gingham dress who filled his water trough with cold clear water. He wished Marjory Muskrat could be more like the little girl. It felt to Matt as though the world was spinning around. Or, that he was spinning around. Or that everything was spinning around. Suddenly, he felt very sick. He wanted to go somewhere else. But the roar of the water. Confusion. Where was that Muskrat, he thought to himself. Why is my home so wet? I’m so smart I know everything. But I don’t know why my sand home is so muddy now. And I’m so thirsty. 

No-one knows even to this very day whether Matt died of food poisoning, or dehydration, or drowned. Marjory didn’t care. She knew he was still fresh enough to eat and that’s all that mattered to her. He went very well with the Russian dressing she had gotten at the market. He tasted okay — but way too salty. She felt oddly tired and distant as she finished off the last morsel and stared at his well gnawed bones. I’m too tired to move, she thought to herself and then mumbled, “Best to just let the waves wash over me. They make a nice wet blanket. Later, I’ll turn him over and eat the other half. Right now, I just need a long, long nap.” 

Indeed, Matt had been right about one thing. The Sty at Seaside did make a nice home.

For the crabs.  


Author Page on Amazon

Stoned Soup

The Three Blind Mice

The Mammoth and the Mouse

The Orange Man

Dick-Taters

Donnie Plays Bull-Dazzle Man

Plans for US; some GRUesome

As Gold as it Gets

Do Unto Others

Thrumperdome

Listen to my Siren Song

My Cousin Bobby

What about the Butter Dish?

Where does your Loyalty Lie?

True Believer

Can’t be Bothered

Kleins Bottle

Tales from an American Childhood recounts early experiences & relates them to contemporary issues & events.
The Winning Weekend Warrior delves into the mental game for all sports.

Fit in Bits suggests many ways to put more fun, variety, and exercise into daily chores & activities.

Turing’s Nightmares explores the ways that Artificial Intelligence could impact society.

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