Of course, the night isn’t silent. The warmer seasons have their choirs of insects, chirping and other bug noises. There are automobile sounds cars racing off, an ambulance or cop. car. I remember once neighbours making love (having sex) with their windows open.

There are nights when I cannot fall asleep. Tonight , for example, is such a night. I’m watching the railroad tracks in Ashland on You Tube, hoping a train passes by. Most likely a freight train will pass, with the banal box cars and tanker cars. of today. There are few poetic reminders of the railroading past . No SCL or Milwaukee Road or Soo Line. Just the dull yellow of the leasing company that owns them.

Railroad executives aren’t poets. Maybe they wish they were. It’s a tough job keeping these monsters fed and moving. Lots of railroad execs went to Michigan , so blue and yellow are CSX’s colors, same as The Wolverines.

I watched The Golden Girls tonight.My Mom liked that show, and it really was a good show. I should have told Mom she had good taste while she was alive. I miss her.

This is why there are nights, with bug noises and heat pumps and refrigerators all doing their bits to shatter silence.

Women (biological) wanted. Must like bel canto opera, homemade cappuccino, and guilt free sex, in no particular order. Gardening a plus.

I will not object if you sleep nude.

Tattoos a plus. Body hair negotiable.

Do women like sex?

Do women like men?

Do women like sex with men?

Does sex, for you, help the loneliness go away?

I feel like everybody does Christmas up royally, except me. They’re ready to go at Thanksgiving, decorate beautifully, buy perfect presents, have the best parties, and are crestfallen when it’s over. They can hardly wait for the next chance to celebrate, be it St. Valentine’s Day , then Easter until the next Christmas comes up again.

Here it is, almost Super Bowl time and I’m kicking myself over another blown Christmas. I’m trying one more time. I’ll send Christmas cards on the Fourth of July, so I won’t miss the chance to get them out. I’ll watch Miracle On 34th Street at least once a month , and take notes.

I’ll buy hard candy, make egg nog monthly for practice, give to the Salvation Army and Toys for Tots.

Next time , I won’t make mistakes or miss any chance to celebrate.

Next time.

Sic Semper Tyrannis!

We must reduce history to a contest of who suffered the most

And that person is the winner

The slave

The redneck

The hillbilly bootlegger

The Harlem denizen dead with a spike in his arm.

Wait in line for your reward

Wait in line for your award.

Because you suffered

you’re somebody

Just like everybody else.

Grinding on toward Christnas. Thinking about dead relatives

Painful.

Would like to skip the get togethers

Im sure they’ll understand

I hope they’ll understand du

Television has old guys like me believing that if we’re not watching, we’re missing something.

We grew up with this endless parade of stuff. The death of Lee Harvey Oswald, the moon landing, the Challenger explosion, Kennedy in Berlin, Reagan in Berlin, The Trump/ Clinton Debate, The Trump Assassination Attempt.

Get it?

Remember The Kinks song Celluloid Heroes.

Eyeballs on the screen is how the TV people make money.

I just watched a YouTube program about Lee Marvin . If he had a message, that message was being authentic. Be authentic to your self.

Believe in something. Live that belief

It’s deuce difficult.

I love women, absolutely adore them

I love sex with women.

I haven’t had sex since 2008, with a woman, not my wife.

I have not had sex with my wife since I don’t know when.

I‘m horny and lonely.

I want the intimacy that only sex with love can offer .

F*ck me.

Ten years ago, my ex-wife died

There is an empty place in my heart.

Grief cannot fill it.

I just hold this empty space, as if it were a hollow blue glass globe.

And if I drop it

And it shatters,

The loss will be complete

Shards of love

Shards of loss.

Let it stay unbroken

Fragile

At risk

She really isn’t a ghost. She’s just dead, but she lives in my head.

To talk about our marriage is to acknowledge that it was a doomed partnership, clouded by alcohol. I was a fuck up , made mistakes, then got sober and the old drunk me was a husk shed with my sobriety.

I could not make enough amends to her.

And now she’s dead. Been dead for ten years.

So she’s not a ghost, but she’s out walking tonight. Maybe again she is a ghost. And I’m not sleeping.

What do you want from me?