Hurry with this blog since The Story of Bluegrass will be on at 9 pm

 Thanks, Mom, for unwrapping these Papermate pens. Impenetrable plastic I cut open for her. Ellen explained how to do it. There's a little plastic piece at the bottom which must be removed first.

First I had no combs, which I bought, and now the pens which I bought this morning.

Yes, lady, stop staring at my blue hair. What can I do about that?

I could sic Harlan Coben on him.



I think it's about serial killers.

Hold on. Gotta lock my front door and side door.

AND my Verizon line doesn't work.

Enter your pin number, it says.

Ellen said she was tired of buying food for mom, so I picked up the slack.

Chinese food from Helen - broccoli and beef - fried rice and pork - we stopped eating chicken as we think it gives us UTIs. My newest problem is an inability to ....

I'd like to write a poem about it, if I may.

Any talented poet can do this.

DAY NUMBER FOUR

With the Times Chronicle spread out on the floor
- thanks, Sharon Dietz for having it delivered into
my mail box - while eating black cherry Chobani,
favored by Mary Ann Mower, I counted the days
on my fingers.

The fingers on the left went into spasm, why we do not
know. Picture the duodenum, packed solid with
lamb burgers, mushrooms, watermelon and honeydew
Lovely but for the morphing of horse manure

Tomorrow is another day, another serial killer
of Jersey-born Harlen Coben, how I'll dance
to the bluegrass as my body readies itself
for a hoedown in the nearest barn.