The Mooch

We barely had to time to wonder what's next.

Scaramucci comes in, Spicer quits, and The Mooch goes ballistic in his first interview. He slams Bannon and Priebus, Preibus doesn't fight back. Then, Priebus is "replaced" (fired for the less sensitive crowd) — and let go in Mooch-esque fashion. Another revealing moment in how much character our president lacks. When you fire people by phone, instead of looking them in the eye, what does that say?

I know what i'd say back to Trump if i were Priebus: F U. And i don't mean Felix Unger.

Trump reassigns Kelly, a guy who's been around and knows some things, to replace Priebus. Many were relieved that Trump had picked, shockingly, someone who could run Homeland Security. Not a billionaire or flunky (or both) who would destroy the department.

And if the reports are accurate, Kelly demanded that The Mooch be sacked. Poetic meets Justice.

If only this were happening in a different country, it would be amusing.

But this mess is evolving in The White House — whenever the Charlatan-In- Chief happens to be there.

There's also the small matter of finding a replacement to run Homeland Security. Obviously, Trump needs to feel more at ease with his staff, than perhaps, the country needs to feel safe from what is getting to be a vast throng of those with a bone to pick with this administration. Hard to feel confident that the new head of Homeland Security will be competent. Or even interested.

Beginning to suspect that the new OOPS app is going to get a workout on at least one phone.

(What new OOPS app? It's a joke, son, a joke). 😎

Camille Pissarro — BOATS, SUNSET, ROUEN. 1898.

Orson

Taking a break

Wondering when Orson will demand his own computer.

He's got the independent clause down, by the way.

Little Lies — I'm With Her

I'M WITH HER: From left: Aiofe (EE-FA, according to the you-tube i found) O'Donovan, Sara Watkins, Sarah Jarosz.

The amazing Susannah Hough alerted me to I'm With Her. The band just released a six-song disc, LITTLE LIES, which is also the first track.


Click to listen to LITTLE LIES

Stunning harmonies. Pure as a mountain stream.

Wash, Rinse, Repeat

Sunday morning arrives, 

Again, way too soon.

Yawning resolution:

Things are going to change.

Then, a shaky shave,

Brush a few teeth:

Wishing for wings

Instead of stale feet.

Lucky parking slot

Close enough to hear the singing.

It’s as if you’re on time.

Then, later, waiting your turn

To snitch on yourself,

You share the echo from last week

And the week before that.

Sadly, you remain discrete.

You decide you’ve been okay,

Maybe more than just fine;

You’re better than before.

But the response you crave

Offers little to no reward.

Confused, you want to press delete.

Wash, Rinse, Repeat. 

Sheet music on the Frey piano:

“All This Wasted Time.”

Frey itself

Has things to say.

Ceiling vents creak at various times;

An old timer scratching his throat?

The stage manager table

houses three computers, chairs,

and a bowl of Heath chocolates,

that, mysteriously, remains full.

The trio stays busy, tracking the lines,

Changing the blocking,

Making certain things keep moving

Toward the end of the rehearsal trail,

Which is actually the beginning.

Then, the circus will be in town.

To the right of the stage manager area

Sits the water cooler, coffee mugs, hot water,

Coffee machines, a tiny fridge for the fixings,

And occasionally, snacks such as cookies or banana bread.

Actors gather near the sweet treats and drink,

A distraction, a gentle laugh, a look and a nod,

Then back into solitary exploration in plain view.

One is alone and always part of a whole.

Forward and back.

Down and up.

Side to side,

Similar to the film “Groundhog Day.”

Over and over and over,

With fresh clues each time

That solve the riddle

And turn on the lights.

Just like Bill Murray’s quest, 

the path is discovered

Via trial and error, 

error and trial, until at last,

Andie McDowell’s heart is found.

All you need is love.

Range bucket mulligans.

Swing after swing after swing.

But it’s never a straight line.

Bright ideas, lightning bolts

Quickly found, then lost.

Salad greens, fresh and edgy

Not yet tossed.

Over and over and over

Until finally

The tent is raised,

And the clown car 

Putters into the arena.

Same ole, same ole

Yet always new.

The underside

Of the overview.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Whispers of incense,

Jangle of the chimes.

The adjacent office space,

As usual, is deserted.

Floor fan stirs a silky curtain.

Soon, the portal opens,

And someone, perhaps a soulmate,

Emerges, often with a grin.

Then, a smile that is just for you

As you take a few short steps

Toward the rest of your life.

Second to second.

Let the floor do it.

Give the knees permission.

Follow the head.

Soft, valium fingers

Offer reminders that

Allow you 

to ease toward complete.

Wash, Rinse, Repeat.

Solitary

You might be in a box

That opens with electric locks.

Eventually, indifference

Becomes your pulse:

You forget

to care.
Or even

That you should.

There’s no right.
It’s all wrong;
You absorb the bad

Cause there’s nothing good.

Once a day you take

A lone trudge into a tiny yard

Where you look for faces

That don’t exist.

The punishment isn’t the time.

It’s the isolation.

And all you once knew

Or maybe need to recall

Slowly fades

Into a nothing

That has no end.

How did I get here?

When can I leave?

The dance floor is packed

With sweat and pending lust.

It’s a rocker that gets it,

And as the drums punctuate

The heat, you stand to the side

Of the gym floor, still in

your street shoes, out of tune

with a sock hop and its rules.

You asked one girl to go, but

she’d already said yes to

that guy who cracked your rib

in gym class for being a smart ass.
You feel pretty dumb anyway.

One of the couples leaves the floor.

He’s got a hand in her blouse,

And her face is hot. They’re headed

To his sports car and, most likely,

Heaven on earth for a few moments.

You watch them hurry, imagining

It might be you, but you know

That won’t happen.

You don’t have a car.

Why am I here?

When can I leave?

Third Avenue on a Friday

Just a bit past noon.
Heavy rain sweeps in,

And as the crowd hurries;

You see a woman without an umbrella,

Getting drenched, looking lost.

She’s extraordinarily beautiful,

Even for Manhattan, but as you approach

She smiles. Then she speaks.
She’s Canadian and doesn’t know better.

“I’m trying to find my husband. He’s

at Larb Ubol in Hell’s Kitchen.
Do you know where that is?”

Nodding yes — your tiny apartment on 49^th st.

is two blocks from that Thai place,

where an order of garlic noodles

burned your mouth just the other day

when you ate one of the red peppers

by mistake. Mammoth mistake, actually.

The rain comes harder, and by then,

the woman’s dress is so wet that

it shares the details of her body

in a way that is totally unfair.

You hold the umbrella mostly

Over her and begin the cross

From the east side to the west.
Twenty minutes later, you watch

Her go into the restaurant, where

She hugs her husband. They were married

Two days ago in Niagara Falls.
And they came to New York

For a week of bliss.

She told you her story,

A stranger, in Manhattan,

In a heavy storm as if

You were in a small village,

Safe from the modern world.
She looked you in the eyes,

And that rarely happens in the city

Unless somebody wants to rob you.
Or fuck you.

You linger another moment,

Watching her slide into the booth

And her husband glancing out the window,

And not seeing you at all. You never existed.

A cab hits a puddle and drenches you,

It’s June, so it could have been worse.

But as you turn up Ninth Avenue,

A different coldness finds you.
You might be in a cell,

Or by yourself at a high school dance

Or on that day, just another wet,

Silent New Yorker,

Caught somewhere between

What you dream and what you dread.

Take The Risk

We love to dance,

As if hearing the music for the first time.

Sometimes we’re free, finding space

Unburdened, across the border into ourselves.

But sometimes the melody stems from fear,

Fear that we’ve said too much, coupled

With regret that we said too little.

We flutter and flit, wanton insects,

seeking purchase and reward:

Glancing ahead and behind,

Making sure we don’t offend,

While hinting at truths with

Casual innuendo.

And that’s kind of sad.

We ache when someone

Treats us poorly, or that we

Believe treated us poorly;

We say nothing in a manner

That endorses the behavior

That bothered us so.

We let it go, afraid to ruffle feathers,

Afraid that we will lose something

That we don’t deserve; that we

Are not worthy of thoughtful,

Consistent consideration.

Instead, we flutter and flit, acting

Like an adult, when in fact

There are no adults, just bigger children.

Yeah, we’re all his children. Or her children.
Somebody’s children, at any rate.

We all got to smile, and we’re all gonna cry.

All of us, every single one of us, needs to belong,

To be accepted, to be held in high regard, that 

We matter. And to some people, we matter so much

That there’s no beginning or end … it is simply

A universe of matter.

And yet we flutter and flit,

Seeking the ripest fruit,

With one eye on yesterday, and 

The other on next week.

We try to accept that most people take,

And fail to give. We try to make that “all right”

By darting about to a tune 

That lacks merit.

Might I suggest stop

Dancing to this music?

Take the risk that the truth

You tell won’t crash the plane.

You might just fly higher.

The Wave

Everyone can be great when they have it.

How good are you when you don’t?

When it’s pure, it’s simple.

It’s a wave you ride home.
No thinking.

The wave has you and it knows.
Gravity has nothing on that wave.

Then, there are the days when

You struggle with the words.

Like mountain radio,
The signal comes and goes.
You have to try.

Even worse,

You think you must think.
Nothing is worse than trying.
Except thinking.

You’re a half beat ahead.
Maybe a full beat behind.
Doesn’t feel like music.
There’s just spaces and empty faces.

You’re only as good as you are at your worst.

Up to you to raise the level:
Cause when you don’t have the magic,

Too bad.

The tricks don’t care; they just need doing.

You can’t call a friend.
There’s no lifeline..

No sparks. No surprise. Nothing.
It’s a busy signal. Can’t get no. Connection.

And it sucks.

The worse part?

You know what happened

Because you were in your head.

So, what do you do?

Give up.

Completely.

Don’t try to listen.

Don’t pretend to hear.

Listen. And forget about you.
It’s never about you.

Never.

When you make it about you.

It’s even worse.

Listen.

Relax.

Vice versa/Versa vice.

Sometimes, you slip back inside.

And find the wave.

Later, you wonder why you ever left.

Great question.