Saturday, September 3, 2011

The Week After Irene Was Just a Scream, Wasn't It Baby?

"But you run on anyway, to keep from losing grace, don't ya baby?"
~ Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
It wasn't that, as Lennon sang, "Nobody said there would be days like these." Somebody said. Nobody listened ...
Climate change and the subsequent social disorders it creates, is the No. 1 story, and No. 1 security threat in America this week, and it doesn't look like those facts are going to change soon, politicos ...
Time to bring the boys and girls back home? ... Well, according to the Huffington Post ... "Military Spending Waste: Up To $60B In Iraq, Afghanistan War Funds Lost To Poor Planning" ... seems to me the storm-wrecked nation could use a little nation rebuilding back home ..
Currently working on: "An Apology for Walking: A Pedestrian's Galaxy Guide to Provincial Tactics in Avoiding to Get Hit By Weaponized Bus Drivers and Other Weapons of Mass Public Transportation." ... But before I post it up for free I'm going to put it up for auction on eBay to see if I get any fee-based interest there ..
Sure, it's one-hundred and five out here in the shade in Arizona, but yeah, I'll wear my blue Columbia rain gear out to breakfast this a.m., as a symbol of mutual support for my brother and sister journos out there on the East Coast, fluttering in the breeze and waving their arms in the wind to entertain us. Sure, I'll do that.
Now featuring "reality lit" and poetry by author, poet and Bards of Mythville singer/songwriter Douglas McDaniel ...

But now the heart is set: You want to have
the tale of all my trials -- and I must add
more tears to all I have already shed.
What should I tell you first? What should be last?
I've had so many griefs at heaven's hands.
Let me begin by telling you my name,
so that you, too, may know it; for I may --
when I've escaped from fate's most cruel day --
receive you, though my home is far away.

~ The Odyssey of Homer

Noplacia was once my name,
That is, a place where no one goes.
Plato’s Republic now I claim
To match, or beat at its own game;
For that was just a myth in prose,
But what he wrote of, I became,
Of men, wealth, laws a solid frame,
A place where every wise man goes;
Goplacia is now my name

- Thomas More,
from Utopia

To continue reading
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Here we go, about 11 years worth of blogs that preceded the blog, My Parking Lot for Words. They were the Genesis for more than 10 books, available at,, by author Douglas McDaniel 

Note: Here's a couple from ANGEL OF THE AVENUES, By Douglas McDaniel


Celestial heavenly lights blinking
At dawn over Camelback Mountain.
The rose is left in view, rosy
And true. The sky is a blue frame
For madness or his nameless name.
Milton wrote, he choked and smoked:
The mind is its own place,
and in itself,
Can make heaven a hell,
A hell of heaven.
But if this the Void,
it..s a Void of truth.
The stirs of green cirrus streaks
In the cloud, the chair-back
Alignment of Venus and Mars,
The waning dusty moon;
All simple proof there..s no real
Distance between me
And unknowable you.
Silhouette of a Praying Monk,
I smolder and move
to get a better view,
lay my shitty pocket things
into a fire pit and sit
on a merry temporary throne.
Light up. Listen to
a raven..s haunting call,
The trickling of cool waters running
Beneath the surface of the desert:
O Milton, poor bastard, you only
Had it half right. Man, his heart;
The only Void in view.
I climb this tree, O Bard,
And sing a sad song for thee:
Thy sun,
thy surface,
thy furnace.


Consider the totality of stress
on the renaissance man.
Hustlin' to & fro',
talkin' wings off birds,
puttin' eyeballs on kites,
makin' list of daemons.
Start one thing no sooner
you're burning the next green branch,
jugglin' chaos and oozing blood
to congeal the form,
breakin' time's inscrutable pane a' glass
& gettin' no fuckin' sleep in the process.
There are days when ideas
rise in the sequence
of smoke holes to the ceiling,
and you gasp for air,
allowing the muse to take form.
There is no sex life, nada,
no time for introspection,
only invention and monk's tea,
as if mere air were a seven-course meal
before you turn to bed to weep.


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