The world of puppets is metaphorically centered in Calcutta.

There is a definite caste system in play.

Marionettes are at the top of the heap.  They are the brahmins, the aristocrats, the privileged, the elite.  Even though their strings are constantly being pulled, they are the chosen ones – they of the hinged mouths, intact bodies, and somewhat normal speaking voices.  They inhabit exotic sets, wear elegant costumes, and rest in padded boxes safe from unwanted attention and wood rot.

Marionettes are performing sacred cows.  Even the name conjures up a privileged puppet lineage, replete with guilded craftsmanship and drama masters.

Not so with the lowest of lows, the sock puppets, those unspeakable, unclean untouchables constantly being rammed onto the hands of the unwashed masses.  Immersion in the holiest of waters would only serve to magnify their defilement.

Beware the sock puppets with their inbred button eyes and absent lower trunks.  Avoid the strident sounds of their insane conversations, if such a thing is even possible.

Sock puppets have no sense of decorum or refinement.

They do not believe in proper social introduction.  They simply appear suddenly out of the subterranean depths, often startling those unaware of their presence.

They glory in the fact that they agitate Calcutta with their sheer numbers.

Yet their limited synthetic reasoning cannot sense how easy it would be to topple the inverted pyramid of puppet society. 

Poor things.

Perhaps one day a tube-sock Gandhi will emerge to pull his sock people up from the miserable mire.

But until that time actually arrives, if it ever truly does come, continue to rinse the reviled and defiled sock puppet untouchables in the gentle cycle of The Ganges.

Copyright 2009

It has been raining three days now, with fish on the front porch.

God is in a depression.  Just look at the weather.

He is drinking pot upon pot of black coffee while pulling dark clouds over his head.

He is questioning his own existence and omnipotence at the same time…not a very feasible idea when you are the creator.

No good will come of it.  Just look at the weather.  It is causing pensive thought.

God ponders his rationale for the design of the platypus and wonders why he didn’t consider an antidote for humanity.

He longs for a vacation that he’s never had and will never experience.

He can’t.

He is the “go to guy,” the righteous CEO with an on-call prayer on his hip.

Another pot of black coffee will not jolt a silver lining into the depressed dark cloud of God’s ennui.  Just look at the weather.

If only the creator had parents he could visit, or a best friend to buy him a beer, or a therapist to listen to his rants.

Instead, he is his own father and son.

The Holy Spirit, while somewhat of an aquaintance, now speaks in tongues.

And everyone, yes everyone, seems to sit in judgment of him.

No wonder he is depressed.  Just look at the weather.  Raining for three days.

Somewhere on earth the platypus starts to sing.  It adores wicked weather and warbling in the showers.

But it is an eerie, primitive tune – one only appreciated by monotreme aficionados.  Humans have no ear for the chaotic jazz of the egg-laying mammal.

They have confiscated its cabarets and gagged all its gigs.  But the platypus is always an artist.

Suddenly God sits upright on the couch.

Somewhere on earth the platypus’ soul has entered its song.

A small smile sneaks across the radiant countenance of the supreme deity.  He designed the platypus out of recycled ideas.

The poor thing was an afterthought, an experiment of leftover parts, a spontaneous miracle of creativity.

But it is perfect, gorgeous, and happy.  And it sings, even in the downpour.  Even after three days.

God is off the couch now and running errands.

His “to do” list is infinite and awe-inspiring.  It virtually yells out:  “Go ahead.  Bring it on.”

The rain ceases.

The nimbus clouds remove their dark overcoats to reveal cumulus underclothes.

God smiles.  His depression has lifted.

Creation is bathed once again in the creator’s unconditional love.  Just look at the weather.

I’m going to trash my umbrella and sing like the platypus.

Copyright 2009

The Wicked Witch O’ The West – she’s an intimidator, a terminator, even a scarecrow baiter.

But a fashionista?  Never!

What goes through her head in the morning?

Does she consider her mole-peppered avocado reflection in the bathroom mirror and think:  “I’ve got it!  An ankle-length black sack topped off with an inky spire for a hat.”

That Bubonic Plague look is so not happening anymore.

She should invest in a quality moisturizer and accent that exotic skin tone. 

Maybe use some kohl liner to bring out those beady little eyes.

Cash in on that edgy ethnic look.

She definitely needs a makeover.

But whom can she consult?

She’s surrounded by devotees of fashion faux pas.

Her minions, the flying monkeys, dress like simian bellhops in drag.

The munchkins, while an endearing little race, are enamored of horizontal stripes, tacky flowers on hats, and turned-up-at-the-toe footgear.

And Glinda, the good one with the high falsetto voice and cascading curls?  She looks like Marie Antoinette on her way to the prom.  Off with her head!

The poor Wicked Witch O’The West doesn’t stand a chance.

If I only knew the zip code to Oz, I’d send her some pink thong panties to head her in the right direction.

Damn that Dorothy!

If only she’d given the witch those ruby red slippers.

Copyright 2009

I never tried to put an anaconda into a taxi cab, but I imagine it would be fatiguing (for the both of us).

I never pumped vodka and perfume into the gas tank of a compact car, but I imagine it would be dangerous (and costly).

I never danced a rhumba to the ringtones of a midnight call to the White House, but I imagine it would be alarming (and undoubtedly illegal).

I never baked Chicken Picasso using tempera paint, sequins and clay, but I imagine it would taste horrid (not to mention the calories).

I never stroked a cat (not my own) with an electric toothbrush (not my own), but I imagine it would be unnerving (for only one of us).

I never floated behind enemy lines in a boat made of newspaper, but I imagine I wouldn’t make it (not even the headlines).

I never did a lot of things and it’s probably for the best – but I can always imagine (for the both of us).

Copyright 2009

Vonnegut walks into a bar.

It is the end of the (insert name of current American conflict) war.

Vonnegut always has a drink at the onset and resolution of any American war.

That is why he’s an alcoholic.

He is a patriotic rebel without a just cause.

As Tolstoy once pointed out to him, it’s a very long stretch between war and peace.

“What’ll ya have this war, Vonnegut?”

Vonnegut bristles with remnant shock and awe.   “The Breakfast of Champions.”

The bartender runs his stubby fingers over the necks of bottles and the spines of books.  He is a chiropractor for aching, tired souls:

                     Bushmills – Hemingway

                    Chevas – Fitzgerald

                    Wild Turkey – Vonnegut

A 325-page unread paperback smacks down on the bar.

Vonnegut snorts.  “Not that trash.  Give me the real breakfast of champions.”

The nonplussed bartender transforms into mixologist.  A martini appears.

“I drink.   Therefore, I am.”  Vonnegut makes his toast and disappears.

All that remains behind are a dusting of cigarette ash, a white curlicued moustache hair, and a soiled cocktail napkin bearing the felt-tipped rendering of a sphincter.

The gist of this vignette?

                     War and peace are too cumbersome to ever learn.

                     Bars and libraries are siamese twins separated at birth.

                    Authors who pack tongues in their cheeks always

                         prefer the real deal.

God bless you and rest in peace, Vonnegut.  Your war is over.

Copyright 2009

There was a time in my life when I lost my soul, literally lost my soul.

I didn’t forget to take it with me, or misplace it at the library, or lend it to some religious zealot with burning crosses for eyes.

My anima, my essence, my spirit had called it quits, packed its bags, and hitched a ride to Budapest, the Mojave, or wherever it is that lost souls go to find themselves.

I never even got so much as a postcard.

Did we fight?  Was there someone else?  Were irreconcilable differences the final fatal straw?

I wish it were any of those.

But I simply forgot to feed it.

My soul became the abandoned carnival goldfish left neglected on a shelf.

No wonder it became famished and left.

So there I was, soul-less and clue-less in the vast wasteland of suburbia.

Golf-course lawns with no holes for bellybuttons stretched out in feudal chunks as far as the eye could see.

It was a desperate land of clockwork precision, unemployed working dogs, and families who migrated to the ocean every spring without fail.

It was a lemming paradise.

And I was a social pariah, captive in a raised ranch with no plastic containers to burp or random landscapes to hang.

Yea, though I walk through the Valley of Depression, I will fear no evil because eventually my soul will run out of clean underwear and coins and need to hurry back home to its sugar mama, I pray.

And then it happened.

The universe spewed forth a hiccup, a fart, a belch – a release of noxious gases toxic with chaos.

It was impolite yet wonderful.

Any cultural infidel has the innate understanding that chaos is the modeling clay for creation.

What was I to do but hold my nose and roll up my sleeves.

I cried the blues until I turned red.

I pushed the raised ranch into the unwitting arms of someone who could love it  as much as it should be loved.

I inherited a toto dog that jumped instead of walked.

Life stood on its head, stuck out its tongue, and preached nonsense.

So now I’ve taken up with a much older abode, one arthritic with age and creaking with stories.

The wrinkles, dementia, and loose moral floorboards intrigue me.

I think I’ve found love in the city again…if only my soul were here to witness the jubilee.

I miss that rascal soul and its impudent ways, especially now that I’ve morphed from tourist to resident.

We would make for a wicked menage, this house, my soul, and I.

Ah, well.  If wishes were horses then who would clean up the mess?

Today I have the toto dog safely tethered to a string in order to keep him from jumping on the clouds.

He is such a ridiculous bit of love.

This neighborhood suits us both, the misfits, with its oddly dressed landscape of ethnicity, diversity, creativity, and all the other “itys” a city can handle.

I feel like jumping myself.

That’s when I notice it – the perfect palate of upper dentures placed in a planter down by the river.

My imagination could never create such an image, not even when it was young and in shape.

Then there is the giggle, the scent of humor, the tap on the shoulder.

My soul has returned, with a fistful of souvenirs, and a forwarding address.

Copyright 2009