Thursday, July 21, 2016

The Almost Jaywalker

She stood at the corner of West Genesee and Avery, by the Rite-Aid. She had gray hair and was in her late fifties or early sixties. She was in a hurry, or impatient. And confused, as if she was unfamiliar with how to cross a street, when to do it, with the light red, or the light green. She pressed the button on the pole, the button to change the light. She slammed it repeatedly, the way we do that while waiting for an elevator, with no speed-up of results. She was angry at the delay. Slam slam slam. She frowned. She seemed to be taking the whole challenge personally, an affront to her freedom of movement, impeding her progress, hindering her day. The light changed. I crossed the road. I saw her crossing in my rear-view mirror. I traveled south, now looking forward through my windshield, lessening the chance of a collision.

This is America today.

Thursday, July 14, 2016

summer day

AC off. No fan spinning. Siren. Thunder rumble. The mattress creaks. Where are the birds? For that matter, what happened to the dogs? Parched lawns. Other people's AC humming. The curtains swaying. Now the chirps. Tires on pavement. Wind chime.

Monday, July 11, 2016

nature bling flash

A shock of yellow. Is it yellow? What's a canary? A winged flash. Swooping amid the green branches. Is that green? Reeds, meadow, shrubs. Brilliant yellow. Here and gone. Goldfinch. Into the sky. Is it cerulean? A vision. A blessing. Mirabile visu.

Thursday, June 16, 2016

happy blogaversary, selfie

Ten years ago, I started The Laughorist, appropriately enough on Bloomsday. I've kept at it. Not every day. I'm glad I did.

Thanks for reading my words.

I invite you to browse backwards into the archives, strolling through the streets of my imagination and the precincts of my world.

Call me Boulevardier.

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

family values

Each of the seven kids received a "diploma," a certificate. Pre-K graduation. They sang "Kindergarten, Here We Come." As each youngster went up to get his or her certificate, the daycare director made declarations of future aspirations, what they want to be when they grow up. One girl wants to be a mermaid, another "graduate" wants to work at the large factory down the hill and across the street. 

My grandson?

"When he grows up, he wants to be a . . . Dad."

What a testament to my son's fatherhood.

Monday, June 13, 2016

amid the geraniums

"Let's go outside. It's not too bad out there, Mom." We walked out of the dining room. She used her cane. I slowed my pace yet was slightly ahead of her. We found two chairs facing the setting sun, partly in the shade. A man to our right sat in a chair, slouched, eyes closed, mouth open. Facing us, a man and a woman, he in a wheelchair. "Those geraniums are really something, aren't they?" "They're beautiful." Eight hanging baskets in two parallel rows. Bright red geraniums, full, lush, some buds still to blossom. "I love that tree like an umbrella. They get it to be just right." Sparrows jumping into the bird bath or leaning over for a sip and then darting off. Bees landing on the ground-cover flowers. She kept coming back to the geraniums, mentioning them over and over, with the same phrase, as if we had not already spoken of them. And I'd reply likewise. The sun was too hot for her. I said it was because her black pants absorbed the heat. The couple in front had left. We took their seats. The sun was at our back; we were in the shade. She could smell the fragrance of flowers. I could not. Purple. White. Green. Yellow. "That guy is dozing off." She replied: "You never know. Maybe he just doesn't want to talk."

Sunday, June 05, 2016


As the rebar comes flying through your windshield, you flinch. You flinch as the ponded puddle at the curb is about to inundate you. An infinitesimal moment before the crash, you flinch. As would I. Similarly, we hunch our shoulders against the wind, rain, or snow. We squint at the blinding light. We brace ourselves for the verbal daggers flying toward us.

Tell me. Does the flinching, hunching, squinting, bracing, wincing, cringing, or shrugging alter the results one iota? And yet we seek these armours, these paltry shields, involuntarily. (Are they ever voluntary?)

Powerlessness 101.

Wednesday, June 01, 2016

out of the blue

why blue

not azure cerulean opal hues

out of the blue

thin air

laden with promise







in the space

of a heart-


Tuesday, May 31, 2016

our lady joy of all who sorrow, philadelphia

and who doesn't sorrow

seeking joy

or all


seeking nothing 

the dolorous faces

of the icons


the joyous ones

our lady

succoring our sadness

savoring salvation




Saturday, May 28, 2016

author! author!

Here is authorial click bait: a one-source venue for buying or browsing any or all of my six books.

Or if you prefer something more overt and blatant:

Thanks for browsing, buying, mulling, sharing, seeking, or any other gerund you want to add.