Running Backwards Throughout Time

I'm going to take you out of here
scoop your frail little body in my arms
and run like there is no tomorrow.
For you, maybe there is.
I'll carry you to where ever it is
you want to go,
no need to ask,
I know it will be home.
This sterile hospital bed
is not your destiny.
Let me take you back
return your to you your dignity.
I'll be your legs
and your voice
everything will be your choice.
We'll return to yesteryear
together we'll travel there
I'll damn sure persevere.
There you'll walk again
don't fear
The fountain of youth
is were we'll cavort
and taunt that grim reaper
as we splash and cavort.
Peering in your pain filled face
while you lay sobbing gently
it is my own tear filled eyes
quietly begging back at me.
Take me out of here.
Backwards.
Run.


I had thought of naming this "He ain't heavy he's my brother" after the famous picture taken during the depression of two boys walking to boystown, an orphanage for homeless boys. When asked if the brother he was carrying on his back, was heavy, the first boy simply replied, "He ain't heavy, he's my brother." Kid said it all with that simple sentence,

Giants Walked the Earth

In my mind he is a giant. My only brother, Butch is the stuff legends are made of. Bigger than life is how I will remember him, always.

Being fifteen years my senior, Butch has been an adult all my life. My big brother is the epitome boy next door. If you stand too close to him you will smell the apple pie. Married his high school sweet heart and settled down on the family homestead. Played a little hockey, loves fast cars and hunting. Butch has always been big into physical fitness, and he takes great pride in the strength of his body. Understandable why all my girlfriends all had crushes on him. It's tragic that his body is now failing him.

Butch was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes when he was seventeen. A few years later, I was also. My sis, Flower Heidi, would follow us shortly after. Colorado Heidi is my only sibling fortunate enough to escape this disease. For which she has unwarranted guilt.

My brothers diagnoses occurred just as he was looking forward to his upcoming high school graduation. He had planned on enlisting in the service, as did many of his friends at that time. Butch was devastated that he would not be able to do his part in the Viet Nam war. I thanked God many times he had not gotten into the army. My soft hearted big bother wouldn't of had a chance in combat. I believe the appropriate term is fodder.

Growing up in a rural town of two hundred, we knew no one else with type 1 diabetics. Health care as minimal bordering on non existent. Our doctor also took calls concerning livestock. Living with this decease we knew more than any specialist we would later find on how to take care of ourselves. Butch was the most disciplined of all of us with his diet and exercise. Even his self care was something to look up to.

Three years ago, one Sunday morning, Butch stood up from the breakfast table to let his dogs out and passed out on the floor. He woke up from that stroke in the hospital after loosing his ability to speek and the use of his right side. He learned to walk with a cane and hunt with his left hand. He continued his daily two mile walks and work outs. Butch is entirely too young and strong to be handicapped.

Last winter he was out shovling snow when his blood sugar dipped low and he suffered a reaction and fell. Broke his hip badly, it was discovered when he finally allowed himself to be taken into the hospital the next day. Butch spent most of the rest of the winter in the hospital. I leave today, his birthday, to spend with him, after they remove part of his foot. His downwards spiral has began. Once complications set in, the future for a diabetic is bleak. It will be hard to see him sick and venerable in a hospital bed.

When asked why I went through what risks I took having an experimental procedure tried out on me, I answer as if I had no choice. It was not a matter of if I would develop complications but when. My husband did not want me to have it. My own physician would not sign my consent form stating I was a good candidate for the experiment. The doctor told me only a desperate person would sacrifice herself for this. It was not his choice. I found myself a new doctor that would. If my new cells failed tomorrow, and I become insulin dependent, at worst I have bought myself three years. If my brother could talk, I am sure he would be supportive. I wonder at this point what he would trade for three more good years.

Working Stiff

don't be looking at me
mr. blue collar joe
don't you know
won't even listen to Springsteen
on my high tech stereo

my working class stiff
workin class stiff
trying to get ahead
sweat sweat
my ditch digger
I want your muscles torn

tell me bout your package
display a thick portfolio
I need stocks and bonds to hold me
pack some platinum annuities
before you even get close to me
twice as easy to love a rich man
if I can hire back here please

my working class stiff
working class stiff
trying to get head
sweat sweat
my ditch digger
I want your muscles torn

what's the blue book
on your sweet ride
best be an exotic import
before you qualify my escort
how tight is your mechanic
and dirty is his nails

my working class stiff
working class stiff
sweat sweat
my ditch digger
I want your muscles torn


corner office
but a stepping stone
pent house top floor
is were I want my money maker to roam
the donalds brain oh so appealing
but it's the maintenance man's glo
got my senses reeling
"...poolboy fill me up..."

my working class stiff
working class stiff
trying to get ahead
sweat sweat
my ditch digger
I want your muscles torn

don't want your name on your shirt
or desk
best on the building
at least the letterhead
three little words I long to hear
chief executive office
make you my hearts thief
make your grunts dance for me....

my working class stiff
working class stiff
trying to get ahead
sweat sweat
my ditch digger
I want your muscles torn
"is that your roll or are you just happy to see me?..."
my ditch digger
I want your muscles torn
yeah

this song written for our road construction season and dedicated to the mancandy holding the "slow" signs and buttcrack foremen smart enough to give them the opportunity to brighten my commune time. thank you company owners for being able to afford a woman like me who is able to write such nonsense as I drive

What A Piehole

I was fascinated with his mouth. For a manly man, his lips were sensually lush and full. When I focused on his kisser, I was able to overlook all of the other screaming shortcomings. Mermorized, I would listen to countless hours of rederick just to be able to loose myself in those plump orbs. When he ate, I longed to lean across the table and use my tongue to wipe any miscreant crumbs that had fallen on them. The whine of my nerve endings from want of their touch was excruciating. Crying shame that boy never reaally knew what to do with them.

Such a Woman

I HATE BEING A WOMAN. This being stated in my worst screechy nails on a chalk board, voice, I'll continue. I dunno, you tell me why.

Maybe it is because someone snuck into my perfectly good body again this month when I wasn't paying any attention, and replaced my nether reasons with a wringer washer who's agitator is stuck on frenzy. That explains my bloat factor. Cramps is the acronym for "cranium retardedly attempting mutative persona syndrome". It's not pretty. But it is a girl thing. Unless you are lucky enough to live on a mountain top in Sri-Lanka, nestled safely away in a cozy monastery, chances are you have to deal with one of us. Poor men. I don't even like being around myself at this time. And I'm so fine, if I wasn't me, I'd fall in love with myself.

I can always tell when my time is approaching when I start going all primal with my instincts. Reverting back to Neanderthal woman, my senses heighten. My olfactory abiltitys sharpen. I am able to distinguish the smell of food, testosterone, danger, and money (basic provider instinct) from afar. Sequencualy the world breaks it's self into four groups:

Those I want to kill.

Those I want to mate.

Those I want to eat.

Those I want to nurture.

These four groups are in a constant kaleidoscope of motion, intergrating and passing through one another like a dance. Conceder yourself an elusively lucky survivor if you make it through only one of these category's if you happen to encounter me during this time. My motives, change as fast as my emotions. If I call you up to ask you to cook dinner for me, be wary. I may just want sustenance, but it has been known to lead to copulation requiring resuscitation. If I ask if you "got milk?", run. Don't look back.

For those I want to kill, my temper fuse becomes so short it is non existent. Yelling "What do you mean by that!", is not a question but a heavily loaded threat. My ears become so sharp I can hear what you are thinking. And it is wrong. I pick fights with groups of teenagers, construction workers, and basically anyone who crosses my path. Anger is; another needs getting extreme reagrangment.

For those I want to mate, you are safer away from male dominated areas. Gyms, sporting good stores, and automotive supply places begin to hold a greater appeal for me. A no-mans man hunting ground. If you product any testosterone, your best chance for survival, is playing dead. Period now stands for; pants existing rip immediately off deviantly.

For those I want to eat, your are more likely than not to be a cow or a cocoa plant by product. Good for you because you know I will finish you off in your entirety no matter what your size. Whomever managed to sneak into my body to accomplish my gut renovation happened to hollow out my legs while at it. My appetite is limitless. I eat till my jaws are tired from chewing but never mange to fill up. Craving equal, can't resist a vast indulgent nutritional gorge.

Those I want to nurture are babies. At this time I want babies. They overnight become irresistible. The smell of baby powder and the sight of a diaper commercial causes me to cry. If I could put down this candy bar, I'll go hang out at the playground and find me one. My cat really does look cute dressed up in a sleeper wrapped in a blanket but his sharp theeth hurt when I nurse. Longing is; lucidity on natal grandeur infants now grievous.

Acient cultures knew what they were doing separating menstruating woman from all others during their time. Doing so probly saved the human race. I bet my chances of coercing my Hubby into building me my own hut out back through threats, copulation and starvation are pretty high right now. I just don't want to be stuck in it with myself.

Better Than a Flashing Marquee

When Munkay puts on THE SUN DRESS, she wants attention. See previous blog.

Every woman has such an outfit. It may not be a dress, and she may never wear it, but hanging in every girls closet is such an ensemble. The dress that will get us noticed. It is not quite appropriate and would never be descibed at modest. It is the outfit that if you had a daughter, you would not let her wear. Nor would you show it to your mom. Or anyone from your school district or any religious affliction you may hold.

Mine is a red strappy sundress. A little too snug and a couple inches too short. All that is left to the imagination when I put on this dress is the amount of trouble I will cause by wearing it. It makes both men and women check me out. Men love it. Women love the dress and hate their men for the whiplash it causes them as their crane their heads for a better look. Not only do I want attention when wearing this dress, I expect it. I rarely have cause to wear it now. Only when I need an esteem boost or nothing else is clean. It is not a dress I can pull off when I am having a bad day. No slouching in this dress. Slip on this dress and I am Marilyn Monroe, Erica Kane, Tyra Banks and Beyonce all wrapped into one. Danger wrapped in red.

Knowing the power of my dress, and not having done laundry in a couple of weeks, I slipped it on to run errands and break hearts. After frolicking like I had no sense and causing mischief galore, I picked my kids up from school before one final stop at a shopping meca. We are walking across the parking lot, me in front and the boys far behind me arguing over their purchases. As I near my jeep I hear the wizzing sound of skateboard wheels shortly before a group of teenage boys come shooting out from behind the row of parked vehicles. I smile as the cat calls and wolf whistles begin. "Hi", I chirp cheerfully as they pass, thinking I reconizing them. They are a couple years older than my my oldest son, K1. "Is that K1's mom mumble mumble?", I barely make out as they are not behind me. "No way", is the reply I hear. Then "Hi K!" "I told you it was", in an embassed and disgusted tone.

On the way home K1 asked me not to wear the dress again. Maybe it is time to retire my pistol.

No Chance In Hell

I see you looking at Me
and I pretend not to care
go ahead, check Me out
of you I am quite unaware.
minutiae is more interesting
than you could ever hope to be
vie for my attention
I would if I weren't Me
you I'll keep in my perimeter
there safely you should stay
don't look away from me now
oh see how I toss My hair
My laughter rings infectious
I know by your stare
you my captive audience
poor bastard you haven't got a prayer.

A Measure of Spring

1 iceless lake

95 horsepowers

22 feet of boat

3 boys, 1 munkay

24 minnows

24 worms

12 cans of root beer

4 ruben sandwichs

2 PBJ sandwiches

18 ounces M&M's*

2 books, The Hobbit, East of Eden

48 crappies

48 sunfish

6 bass (recycled)

3 muskrat spottings

2 turtles

71 degrees

4 golden hours


* a large amount of m&m's are neccessary to play "feed the Munkay". To play this game, one does not need to be a munkay, but be only be willing to yell, "feed the munkay", while opening mouth wide, baby bird style. challanger must then toss candy into waiting mouth until a chocolate point is scored. once point is scored, and only after it is scored, will the feeder be allowed to become the feedee. extra points awarded for distance of successfull throw. whip handfulls and you are disqualified and must eat wasted floor candy