Hanger-Head Rests His Arm on a Chair and Reflects Solemnly on a Life of Regrets.

There isn't much that can be done in the mean time. As the late great Eddie Whalen would sign off of each Stampede Wrestling spectacular would say, "In the meantime, and in between time..." But back to where we were earlier. Back to where we thought we saw Alex Trebek in the back seat of a brown Buick on main street. And on side streets. And on secondary highways from this road to that. And then back again. Back to where we thought we saw Pat Sajack and Vana White necking on the front lawn of City Hall. Deck the halls. Boughs. Holly. Tra-la-la-la-la. La-la. La. La.

Beatles. Beetles. Used needles. Hand driven gravey trainers. Lace-ups. Slip-ons. Slide-offs. Rum. Roses. Red wine. Ketchup. Moustard. Relish. Opportunities.

Crazy mother-fathers.

Great Scots!
>William Wallace
>Tony Blair
>Roger Moore

Okay, so I don't know any Scots. I don't know if those Scots are Scots. I could be wrong. I could be a lot of things. I could wander off into the desert with out water or a map or a compass or a clue and come to a mail box and be short on postage and forget my middle name thanks to the heat and return to the video store late and be releived that they too have no late fees. God bless 'em.

God bless mom.
God bless dad.
God bless Kurt Harnett's hair.
God bless Tom Petty.
And the Heartbreakers.
God bless Bruce Springsteen.
But not the E. Street Band.
Fuck the E. Street Band.
God bless Bob Dylan.
God bless the Band.
God bless Ronnie Hawkins.
And the Hawks.
God bless Mr. Holland's Opus.
God bless Richard Dreyfus.
God bless Duddy Kravitz.
God bless the Apprentice.
But not Donald Trump.
Fuck Donald Trump.
God bless brother and sister and such.

I forgot that God is busy these days. Busily making toys for girls and boys and their brothers and sisters. The things they want. And many that they don't really or not at all. But it isn't my fault. It isn't anyone's fault really. It is really only a blip on the radar. And fairy tales of reindeer and antelopes and trick-or-treat fantasies on BBC 4 or 5 or 6. Or seven.

Given, as one might be, to bouts of rainbow suspendered pantless forays into pools of tepid water I might dress a little more water tight for the occasion. But then again I never was one for spoiler warning in my stories about moving pictures ending on a sour note. The boat sinks. The dog runs away. The girl dies. The boy's heart is broken. Typewritten encoded messages written on submarines in the south Pacific to the tune of a Buddy Holly christmas classic like "Deck the Halls" remixed by Crosby, Stills, Nash and sometimes Young. Decoded days later on dry land by teams of pediatricians in blue pin-stripe suits.

Hot Air Balloons Gone Up in Smoke and Other Tales from a Childhood is the name of my first collection of Poems and Psalms for the 21st-Century. Look for it in bargain bins in university book stores shortly.


This episode goes out to e and her ankle and its rapid realignment.

(Hanger-Head Rests His Arm on a Chair and Reflects Solemnly on a Life of Regrets by morganeliasmurray 2006, Jonquiere, QC.)

(Unloading Cart photo of "Lorax" by Dr. Seuss taken by morganeliasmurray 2006, Caroline, AB)

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Without his tree
The gentle lorax hears
No more gentle rustling
Of the wind

A barren earth remains
And from the distance
The only sound
The lonely lorax hears
Is a band named after
Street "E."

The music calls to him
In a gentle rustling voice
"Meet me tonight
In Atlantic City"

And so the lorax leaves
His barren land
Where there are no leaves
And there are no trees