The Scribblers

New Poem by Paul Dolman Hijo Mio (Son of mine) Click here

Sunshine, 8am, Pacific Coast Highway underpass-I am out for a walk in Santa Monica minding my own. I come up from the underpass on the beach side of the busy road head back towards the town along a good cycle and walking path. No more than 30 metres from the road and my ears are filled with sirens from 8 black/ white police cars escorting a vehicle through the traffic on the highway. From my morning mental haze I click into realising this is probably President Moron. I may be wrong but I take a cowardly, futile and somewhat distant guesture by raising my right hand and one digit ( I'm not stating which one) in the direction of the escorted vehicle. The darkened glass reveals only shapes not faces. Nobody saw me and no effect was caused but my tiny mind had a tiny moment of tiny accomplishment. I turned to walk on and noticed a homeless man asleep on a beach bench oblivious to the world. Then within seconds a sports lycra cyclist wizzed by at speed it's rider sporting a huge and