**********************************
Capt. Bob @ Ground Control,
Imagine you are off attempting to perform a miracle.
Well, I’m off to Daytona Beach.
I make well-to-do friends meet me at resorts,
anywhere but Hernando County,
for reasons which become more obvious every day.
I come upon the verge of tears to live in a town without pity
to coin a phrase again
a place without a bookstore.
Preferably with coffee.
And beer.
***
Wait just a second…
That gives me a business idea,
maybe a franchise even,
kiosk on three wheels.
BOOKS AT THE BEACH.
Need a cooler.
***
Knew girls in Boca Carne who sold hot dogs in bikinis.
The girls, not the hot-dogs.
That was so good, that was so good,
the government shut it down.
I almost crashed once.
***
Which reminds me,
when I teach writers,
I often suggest,
get ready for it,
just write a letter to a friend.
When you finish,
take off the Dear Capt. Bob
@ Ground Control
at the beginning
and the adios, Major Juan Loboloco
At your service
at the end.
And what you have,
you have a first draft.
And nobody will ever know.
***
I am having trouble
because every time I feel like making a bid,
the news trumps me.
No pun intended.
When did the Sunshine State Motto become
“Well, at least we are better than Mississippi?”
Really.
***
Rubio is seen now as the savior of The Establishment.
I actually heard that.
Whatever that means.
The man can’t keep track of one employee,
himself,
and two credit cards;
great smile,
but maybe he’s not the guy to run
the world’s economy.
Cuidado.
***
Cruz? Really. Por favor.
Who among us actually believes “natural born” means
‘anywhere else but here is okay, too?’
Not to mention we already know for a fact
right here in this banana republic:
when you elect a possible sociopath
and likely kleptocrat to major office…
well, let’s just say the bottom 99% of the rest of us,
we don’t smell as sweet.
***
Trump – my eight-year-old grandson might ask,
‘isn’t this ironic?’ –
merits no mention.
A real Twilight Zone episode.
Whatever.
My forwarding address, if it should come to that,
is c/o General Delivery, British Columbia.
***
Christie? Reminds me of that square ugly guy
in the broad-brimmed hat
you send into a dark tavern
to ice pick a guy’s hand to the bar
while somebody else garrotes his ass.
And poor John Kasich.
He comes across as simply too, ummm,
too sane and intelligent and thoughtful and honest
for The Mob With Pitchforks at the caucuses.
Probably why I have never been elected to any post
higher than President of the Punta Gorda
Swamp Cabbage Coalition.
***
Let me tell you about Iowa.
Guessing the place hasn’t changed that much since 1970.
I was getting my MFA at the Iowa’s Writer Workshop
and I lived in a communal farmhouse outside of Ames.
My girlfriend lived with me.
She was a poet, petite in stature,
with a great smile, red curly hair,
big hooters and a nice ass.
And glasses.
Enough said.
***
So, anyway, one day, there’s a knock on the door.
I’m closest to the door
and I open the door
and there stands three couples of farmers.
They were all blondes and they all looked sheepish
and I must’ve looked a bit, dark beard, flowing mane
wolfish maybe, I don’t know,
tell you the truth, felt more stunnedish.
***
My girlfriend’s name was Naomi Stein.
They had somehow learned of the gorgeous and sensitive Jewess’ presence
and were wondering
if she actually had a tail
as they had heard was true of Jewess poets.
It’s almost all true.
1970. Really. Iowa.
***
Frankly, I am voting for the candidate
who promises to put mute buttons
on these damn new gas pumps.
If I wanted to listen to bullshit,
I wouldn’t be driving around by myself.
***
Like I said, I just can’t seem to cope with the news.
Or outdoors.
I am thinking maybe ignorance
might really be bliss.
***
Merde.
I’ll hope to crash through the wall,
this, damn shit fuck,
just call it what it is,
word constipation soon.
Which reminds me,
are you as happy as I am,
when you go to an ATM,
it asks you if you want English or Espanol?
I thought so.
***
adios,
Major Juan Loboloco
At your service.
