The dreary, whipped, mashed potato masses, croaking on a diet of surreal bulbous gravy, where everyone aspires to grow up and look like the Pillsbury dough boy or the Michelin man. Looks like I jinxed myself last year when I wrote a little blurb on what it would take for me to move back to the DEADZONE, never expecting it would be my own brother to depart for distant shores with the silent boatman. Here I am, about 25 miles west of the DEADZONE proper, living in my dead brothers house and trying to make it float. "I’m next Mom." "Don’t say that. " Back to the world of cooking and getting inspiration and ( we can only hope) libido(ic) stimulation from the frame of the hostess. Pardon my rudeness, but that seems to be the way of the world these days. Let’s be rude to everyone, even if it includes your friends. Actually I’m beginning to believe that my cat is my only true friend, "Alice Hootie, where are you?" (I know that I do have some real friends, I think, at least they’ve referred to themselves as such but, alas there spread through a few different time zones) So, its back to being a stick figure living off my fat (that’s what it’s for you know) in an overweight environment and steering clear of the fat of the land. Don’t ask the stockpiling overly obese man or woman on the street what’s on their minds. They just look back in silent despair and hopeless wishful desire scratching their triple chins, and thinking about their next pork rind, pierogi, and twinky delight. The DEADZONE inspires me again. That’s a good thing at 4am.

THE SILENT BOATMAN (Copeland)

It is said that when we leave this world

If we have suffered we will be saved

So I’ll lift up my head whoever I am

What I cannot do here there’s a place that I can

I’m waiting for the silent boatman

To ferry me across the unknown waters

In this life though I’ve tried

Many things couldn’t be

Closed minds with faces looking down onto me

Parting means grief but only for those left

All men descend into earth at the very same depth

I’m waiting for the silent boatman

To ferry me across the unknown waters

I wonder if in death man can at last love man

Stripped of all life’s gifts to him

No ego to remain

When you reach Jordan’s banks theres no money

Power or fame

No third or second class the fare is all the same

I’m waiting for the silent boatman

To ferry me across the unknown waters

( waiting ) (waiting )

Parliment.1971