How unsettling it was to finally realize that Nurse Ratched was a Bajoran.  You read the credits and it raises so many questions.  Someone points out the amazing coincidence and we all have to pause to say “Hmmm”   It clearly confirms Louise Fletcher as an acting legend and national treasure but then confusion reigns supreme.  So Nurse Ratched was a Bajoran religious leader and just as bad ass running Bajoran religion as running an mental institution in America.

Mind boggling to think

the implications unclear

ponder the meaning

So we don’t have the same timeline so we have to figure it all out.  Did Kai Winn Adami travel back in time to become Nurse Ratched.  I always felt that Chief Broom escaping from the Cuckoo’s Nest was vital for the survival of the human race.  Randle Patrick McMurphy was a true martyr.  You’ll never convince me otherwise.  The Bajorans needed Federation interference to survive.  Maybe the Bajorans sent Kai Winn back to make sure Chief Broom was motivated to escape.  Or maybe reincarnation is the rule of the day and Nurse Ratched several lifetimes later was still a total ruthless badass bullying and dominating innocents.  Lack of growth defeats the purpose of reincarnation but who knows?

Ponder mysteries

the universe so complex

the great mysteries

remain ever elusive

will truth ever be revealed


I saw the best minds of my generation 

destroyed by blandness

MTV spoken word tour; sewn up vaginas;

dismembered penises, poetry slams

featuring dickless, cuntless verse

spewed by genderless eunuchs

all in the name of advancing pop culture

for lamebrained, gutless pansies

trying to rap out poems

to the underage audiences

running around pretending it’s deep

yeah, Henry Rollins,

16 year olds think you’re deep

but we falsify the nature of the beast

mindless infidels, staggering drunks

The feasts that were promise 

were never delivered by corporate—

yes, corporate MTV execs

pathetically trying to be hip

& failing miserably in the effort;

Timid poets pointing a finger at me

while I raise the finger at them;

All the yuppified, glorified culture

Jim Morrison wannabees and white boys

trying to rap like wiggas

without a clue about riddum

and the ever so sensitive—

ever so sensitive political correctness;

worrying about Bill and Hillary

or trying to eliminate sexuality

It’s all a crock of shit to me

Don’t have an alcoholic drink

make it water with a lemon twist

Try to create a giant rubber room

out of this glorious planet

so our Volvo’s and Saabs

can run freely in peaced

hide inside petty rhetoric

allow tv producers to think for us—

can’t actually expect us

to actually think for ourselves

figure out how not to offend

while pretending to be radical poets

those people cutting into my scheme;

but don’t think I don’t know it

only I admit it up front

that it’s 90% art, 10% pretense

or maybe the other way around

I just cling to my insanity

but it slips through my fingers

It, like sand beaches, is eroding

I am falling prey to the plague

but I try not to be defeated

try not to be like everyone else

It is a desperate, lonely plight

but not without its charms

as I keep the candle lit

and burn passionately through the night

determined to escape the fate

of albatrosses & other fallen angels



As I waltz through my life

whiling away hours, weeks,

years & even decades

I never found a shortage

of certain undesirable sorts.

There seems to be 

an asshole lurking

under every rock

& a bitch to be found

around any old corner.

The cretins aren’t coming.

They’re already here

They appear out of the mist

when you least expect them

always willing to lend a hurting hand.

There’s no longer any surprise

in finding someone new

only to learn they are not dependable.

You’re only an afterthought

they never truly care for.

As I get older

I find I have fewer friends

and more casual acquaintances

and that’s very much by design

as I try to keep my life real.

I’d rather be surrounded

by those relatively special few

that I know I can count on

than have thousands of false friends

valued at a dime a dozen.

JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT IT WAS SAFE TO DO POETRY AGAIN: Schaefer, George: 9798449725561: Books


They found him

in a room in Thailand—

pants down, belt around neck

big smile on his face.

The prostitute in the room

sobbing and swearing

it was an accident.

Auto erotic asphyxiation

gone horribly wrong.

And then there are suicidal tendencies

and people hanging themselves.

But families lose the Ka-ching

if it’s suicide

so now we have lawsuits

claiming deceased loved ones

were really just perverts—

No intent to die

Just intent to cum

Auto erotic asphyxiation 

gone horribly wrong

But maybe we’re taking

our idioms and adages too far.

Maybe we need 

to drop “choke the chicken”

and bring back “spank the monkey”

There will still be

a lot of redness and swelling

but at least you’ll live

to recount your shame.


I haven’t had

the Batman dream

in quite awhile.

That was always

my favorite recurring dream

in my early adult life.

The basic gist of the dream

is that I would be Batman

with uniform and Bat Cave and all.

Of course,

I wasn’t a very good Batman.

I was more interested

in making time with Catwoman

than preventing crime.

Then people ask the obvious:

Which Catwoman was it?

Was it Julie Newmar or Eartha Kitt

or Lee Merriweather or Michelle Pfieffer

or Anne Hathaway?

I’m truly a whore

because it always rotated 

among the different CatWomen.

All of them (including Haile Berry)

appeared in at least one dream

and truth be told

I’ve yet to select a favorite.


It’s fairly well known that a lot of football players used to wear panty hose underneath their uniforms in colder weather.  Joe Namath and the Oakland Raiders were well known offenders. Several magazines felt the need to sensationalize the issue.   It made perfect sense to do so in spite the insecurities and biases of many homophobic football fans.  The sheer nature of the fabric provided warmth without being bulky or obtrusive.  I sometimes wore panty hose under my football uniform when I was young.  It was helpful to performance.  The panty hose barely showed so people generally wouldn’t notice if you were wearing them.  You really only had a small area of the calf between the sock and the shin guards.  Of course, I always dreaded that that would be the precise area where I got a run.  I have hairy legs poking through and causing problems.  You know if a run is visible someone is going to notice.  Alert the social pages, we have a major breech of protocol.  The embarrassment was always hard to live down when it happened.

Try to hide snafu

a run in my panty hose

endless shame we face

Cannibalized Haibun: Schaefer, George: 9798416456573: Books


I was 16 years old and in all probability working illegally.  I had taken a gig as a busboy at a local diner.  I was working the graveyard shift from midnight to 5:00am on weekends.

After hour gig

bussing tables of the drunks

virgin cherry popped

I befriended the dishwasher.  He told me everyone called him Pakistan Joe.  He assured me I couldn’t pronounce his real name. I only asked once but we were pretty high at the time.  We got high out in his car during breaks.  It was usually my weed.  My weed was usually cheap dirt weed.  I was buying it on a busboy salary.  He did offer me swigs of some rot gut whiskey in return.  He talked about the world, weed, wine and women.  He was always quick to crack a joke about anything and everything.

That rot gut whiskey

burning brightly in my gut

eyes popping open

It was always a good time.  Every 16 year old needs to be exposed to the suburban drunks filtering into an all nite diner for 3:00am breakfast.  It’s really how you learn about life.  They say it causes great harm but I survived and thrived.  I learned since to drink better whiskey and smoke better weed among other things.  Pakistan Joe may not have been the best sensei but there was wisdom gained from the friendship and I pour a shot to his memory tonight.

Old Pakistan Joe

a not forgotten mentor

remembered fondly.