“Flim-flam Artist”

Poem 26 pick up sticks. Sir Benjamin M., threw out the inspiration for this poem: Flim-flam Artist. Despite the obvious, I’ll go with the rhythm I feel when saying Flim-flam Artist. I’ll add a dash of the cadence of one of my favorite books that I read to my children: Chicka Chicka Boom Boom.


Public Domain -https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/m/funny-used-car-salesman-crooked-banker-lawyer-27877485.jpg


“Flim-flam Artist”

A Film-flam artist was strolling down the street.

Preying on the first rube he happened to meet.

Selling time shares,

and luxury suites.

Signing dotted lines,

and sweeping dreamers off their feet.


“Whatcha’ got cooking Mr. Flim-flam flee?”

“That’s for me to know, and you to believe.”


“Whatcha’ selling to a man like me?”

“Everything you’ve wanted, I guarantee.”


“How can I trust, that you’ve my best interest at heart?”

“Opening your purse strings, would be a good start.”


“Why should I give my money to you?

“You’ll pay me to take what’s yours before I’m through.”


“But I have nothing, Mr. Flim-flam flee.”

“You underestimate my motives, you have more than you see.”


“My wife is waiting at the old oak tree.”

“Collateral for taking, such a fine beauty.”


“Good day, sir. I’m away, you barter in jest.”

“Surely, one more moment, it will be for the best.”


“There’s nothing you have that could compel me to give.”

“I can think of something that will open you up like a sieve.”


“G’day, strange fellow I must be gone.”

“I can help you travel to the great beyond.”


“You cannot promise that. No one ever comes back.”

“You must trust me, all you do is sign this contract.”


“I can’t, and I won’t and I shan’t sign for you.”

“If you don’t do this, then your wife will leave you.”


“How could you know what my wife would do?”

“Because I am death, and I’ll take her instead of you.”


“No, it’s a trick. This simply can’t be.”

“I told you,  you’d pay me to keep what’s yours from me.”


“Then the trick’s on you, you crusty old ghost. You had me sold with your first ample boast. I’ll sign anything to pass on this cow. My wife’s a calamity, and you can have her right now.  You have what I want which is my liberty. I won’t sign your contract so I can be free. Take this fine beautiful harpy with mouth like a razor, you’ll soon be abused by her ill-mannered behavior. I like the deal you press upon me, I take it, good day. In fact, she’s for free.”

“It seems, I’ve made a mistake kind sir. I meant the guy walking behind you, I’m sure. I tell you grim-reaping is not what it used to be. A Film-flam artist is desperate making ends meet. I wish others could walk in my shoes. If I don’t make my quotas the boss hits the roof. Let’s keep this transaction between you and me, if word gets out I’m finished indeed. There is nothing I have to sell you, I can see. If I did such a thing it would only hurt me.”



Poem 25 came to a well that had desiccated. When one attempts to continually go back to the well for ideas and inspiration, you sometimes find that you reach the bottom and there is nothing to be had but mud. Luckily, with a little time, the slightest trickle allows for a newfound rush of water. Thank you to Haley H., for knowing full well that even the consistent pull the bucket up empty from time to time.




Desiccan, desiccant.

Stop and read Immanuel Kant.

Irrespective of our wishes,

he contends the world is what is.

Reality, hinges on notions plucked,

from thoughts and concepts,

default constructs.

Fashioned perhaps, in a brain,

within our skulls, contained.


Who could argue the enigma?

Seeing into or past direction,

requires being outside perception.


But, alas we are trapped within.


Measure fully what you think,

reality flows from instinct.

Gut check the things that you know.

They aren’t, they can’t,

not a chance, they’re so.


So, solace then,

when death allows escape.


Tethered, in this world and next,

betwixt the madness that infects.


I yearn, for cessation of the suffering.


The world as we see it, needs to desiccate.

The world as I see it, needs to desiccate.


The floods are coming just in time.

Dryness follows.

Truth sublime.








Day 24 brings poem 24 into existence. Most, if not all of you know how a feel about our current President and his administration. Try as I might to veer away from this subject, when I opened up this project to the power of suggestion last month, it yielded a good share of responses that were related to this subject. Unavoidable, but a fair indicator of the life and times in which we now find ourselves. Please consider, “M.A.G.A.”


“M.A.G.A.” Public Domain – http://www.photos-public-domain.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/garbage-cans-overflowing.jpg



Such, temerity.

Small hands tap terrible tweets.

Soon you will quit. Sad!

“The End is Near Sometimes”

Poem 23 exists as a therapeutic exercise. Thank you to JEB, up in NH. Your suggested phrase helped me to revisit some emotion.


“Suffer Buffer” hpcimedia.com/images/website/DIR_34/F_29603.jpg



“The End is Near Sometimes”


Sometimes on Summer Sundays,

people pass out of this world.


Elemental souls leaving behind dead meat.

Honorable hardworking hearts,

hiccup and then stop.



There is a specific room in the emergency wards of most hospitals.

A grief room.

The horror show.

Some call it the suffer buffer.

An administrative attempt at compassion.

Staged grief.

It is preferred that you “act out” in there.


We don’t want the others to think someone is dying nearby.

Only sanitized grief is allowed.

Dignity displayed in disposable units.

Shuffled inside, while they cobble their strategy.

The content is similar,

the names are changed.

Tissue boxes that don’t look like they hold hardly enough.

The door opens.

Please…this way.

The chaos dizzies.

When you arrive at the spot that you are designated to stand,

gravity holds you there.

So many things to see.

Yes, this is it.

It’s time.

It is no longer an abstract.

The moment is upon us.

Hope, has left the room.

Tears well up.

The point of no return has come.

The attending physician somehow gets your attention.

Her eyes are full of two things:

Professional compassion and the consequence of truth.

Eyes still locked.

The decision has been made.

Acceptance of that truth stings for a moment.

Then a desperate attempt to salvage the seconds left.

The chaos falls away.

The people go out of focus.


The only thing left in the room,

a vessel that contained love.


The transfer is complete.

The eyes, always the eyes.

Expressive eyes at one time,

need a gentle palm to close the lids.

Fingertips insuring that rest is obtained.





What next?


The end is near sometimes,

and then it is right on top of us.


Poem 22 ska-doo. Very close to the end of this run. Just 8 more to go after today. A hearty thanks to Carol S. for dropping today’s inspiration on me. This is for all the tense moments in my youth that were surrounded by faux machismo. Concentrated moments of ultra-violence. Although, they were few and far in between, I still had my share of uncomfortable situations that were reduced to violence for the lack that age’s wisdom provides. It’s laughable how indestructible we all thought we were. Now that time has got a hold of us, and a bunch of folks I grew up with have passed on out of this life, I can see the fragility that was the reality.  It taunts me for having really good luck in not getting caught on the wrong end of a punch that could have had consequences. Also, why have most fights I’ve been involved in or witnessed consisted of at least one or more males taking off their shirts?


£££ reuse fee applies - Fans fight in Poznan



The tension is tempurpedic.

One swing at a bystander and we all fall into the mix.

Shouting, spittle, and red faces.

Rocking, lilting, back and forth,

back and forth.

If that prick looks at me the wrong way,

I’m gonna elbow him in the face.

The beer bottle flew past me,

and thick spittle landed in my ocular cavity.

It slid down my nose and hung from my nostril.

I didn’t see where it came from.




Brawl berserker.

Doffing shirts and tumbling into the fray.

A veritable donnybrook

Lots of sizing up and flinging.

The biggest guy on their side just went down with a busted nose.

He’s crying like a child.

Two guys over there are flailing at each other.

Straight up toe-to-toe, hockey saw punches.

I ran up to two of them and while one was sucking on a cigarette,

I pointed at the other.

Neither expected me to take that pointed hand and smash my elbow into the smoker’s face.

Sparks, buckled knees, blood.

The second guy got the hook return and was laid out cold.

The cops were on the scene, I knew one.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and told me to “get the fuck outta here!”

As I fled, I caught a cheap shot from one of theirs.

Real grinder. Looking for any reason to drop dukes.

He couldn’t gain traction with anyone else,

so he clipped me while I as scurrying away.

I didn’t fall.

I took the punch.

Saline solution gargled for days in order to keep the cut from infection.

The adrenaline felt good.

Almost as good as the time I stood the drunk asshole up,

only to knock him out.

Violence in small doses.

Feeling the lethality of the anxiety pre-fight,

is worse than the blows sustained in the fight.

Tempurpedic tension.

Honorable mention.

That moment when you know its going to go down,

and there is nothing to stop it.

Madness, chaos, purging of anger.

Pepper-spray feels like razor blades slicing through your eyes.

Flushing the red pollution out with Emergency Room toilet water.

Waking up with stained pillows.

The heat is on.


Pride worn, and served.

An elbow shattered by a pipe.


Dufflebags full of courage.

Put some pins in Doc,

I can handle it.

Apprehension puts you in a box.

Sometimes the only thing violence understands is violence.