Eleanor P. Carney sat with her legs folded,
Casually reading a catalogue
As she waited. Her mind drifted
Effortlessly away from Joe until:
"Come this way"  said a voice dimmed,
In light of the current situation.
The click of Ellie's t-strap heels
Turned the heads of many
Beauty parlor goers, as she
Was lead to a back door.
A *** of boiling water hosted
Sharp things for slaughter.
"Now, I have to ask,
On account of virtue,
Do you really want to do this?"
The beauty practitioner who
Practiced more than beauty, stood in
The corner, tying an apron
around her thin waist.
Eleanor P. Carney shook  her head,
And sat down on the
Cold counter knowing that
She would not regret this.

Ruth L. ****** struggled everyday
To find new ways to disgust herself,
But the lack Ms.Carney's
Shame and guilt would
Do just fine for today.

CLOUDWATCHER
( for David Olaf Carney )

A cloud
gets the ****.

Becomes a camel.

Another **** sees it
transform into a dromedary.

Now a kidney!

Then as on a whim
becomes a Picasso

or some such
thing.

Sometime there's
shape and sense.

Sometimes none.

We make up names
for the one's with none.

Here for instance
stolen

from an old religious tract
THE CLOUD OF UNKNOWING.

And here, from the same
"...the cloud of forgetting."

This one
we dub in Ancient Egyptian

"HPRR!"

"rising from....coming into being
itself.:

And this one" "HPR!"
"...to become...to change."

And while our minds run on
the Egyptian thing

why here is Nepthys
Goddess of the Death

that is not
Eternal.

Here Horus
Lord of things to come.

This here cloud
we give the moniker

THE AGENBITE OF INWIT

before it becomes
an Inuit.

Now an anvil and a hammer
in a Black Country summer

"Gie-in’ sum ‘ommer!"

we command it
commanding the skies.

Now here again
a nothing.

Clouds bring forth
not the gentle rain

that falleth from Heaven
but...thought

whatever the mind
imagine.

And here
why here

is a cloud
that is just

a cloud.

For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of *****-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dog tag,
Or better still a dog, a colossal pet beast,
A humongous Harlequin Dane to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is, after all, dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes and boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.

We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo, they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?

You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
He leaves you on the ice floe,
Remembering not to leave the sled,
The proverbial Sled of Abbandono,
The one never left behind,
As it would be needed again,
Why not a home in storage while we wait?
The family will surely need it sometime down the line.

A dignified death?
Who can afford one these days?
The question answers itself:
You are John Goodman in “The Big Lebowski.”
You opt for an empty 2-lb can of Folgers.
You know: "The best part of waking up, is Folger's in your cup!"
That useless mnemonic taught us by “Mad Men.”
Slogans and theme songs imbibe us.

Zombie accouterments,
Provided by America’s Ruling Class.
Thank you Lewis H. Lapham for giving it to us straight.
Why not go with the aluminum Folgers can?
Rather than spend the $300.00 that mook funeral director
Tries to shame you into coughing up,
For the economy-class “Legacy Urn.”
An old seduction:  Madison Avenue’s Gift of Shame.
Does your **** smell?” asks a sultry voice,
Igniting a carpet bomb across the 20-45 female cohort,
2 billion pathetically insecure women,
Spending collectively $10 billion each year—
Still a lot of money, unless it’s a 2013
Variation on an early 1930s Germany theme;
The future we’ve created;
The future we deserve.

Now a wheelbarrow load of paper currency,
Scarcely buy a loaf of bread.
Even if you’re lucky enough to make it,
Back to your cave alive,
After shopping to survive.
Women spend $10 billion a year for worry-free *****.
I don’t read The Wall Street Journal either,
But I’m pretty **** sure,
That “The Feminine Hygiene Division”
Continues to hold a corner office, at
Fear of Shame Corporate Headquarters.
Eventually, FDS will go the way of the weekly ******.
Meanwhile, in God & vaginal deodorant we trust,
Something you buy just to make sure,
Just in case the *** Gods send you a gift.
Some 30-year old **** buddy,
Some linguistically gifted man or woman,
Some he or she who actually enjoys eating your junk:
“Oh Woman, thy name is frailty.”
“Oh Man, thou art a Woman.”
“Oh Art is for Carney in “Harry & Tonto,”
Popping the question: “Dignity in Old Age?”
Will it too, go the way of the weekly ******?
It is pointless to speculate.
Mouthwash--Roll-on antiperspirants--Depends.
Things our primitive ancestors did without,
Playing it safe on the dry savannah,
Where the last 3 drops evaporate in an instant,
Rather than go down your pants,
No matter how much you wiggle & dance.
Think about it!

Think cemeteries, my Geezer friends.
Of course, your first thought is
How nice it would be, laid to rest
In the Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey.
Born a ******. Died a ******. Laid in the grave?
Or Père Lachaise,
Within a stone’s throw of Jim Morrison--
Lying impudently,
Embraced, held close by loving soil,
Caressed, held close by a Jack Daniels-laced mud pie.
Or, with Ulysses S. Grant, giving new life to the quandary:
Who else is buried in the freaking tomb?
Bury my heart with Abraham in Springfield.
Enshrine my body in the Taj Mahal,
Build for me a pyramid, says Busta Cheops.

Something simple, perhaps, like yourself.
Or, like our old partner in crime:
Lee Harvey, in death, achieving the soul of brevity,
Like Cher and Madonna a one-name celebrity,
A simple yet obscure grave stone carving:  OSWALD.
Perhaps a burial at sea? All the old salts like to go there.
Your corpse wrapped in white duct/duck tape,
Still frozen after months of West Pac naval maneuvers,
The CO complying with the Department of the Navy Operations Manual,
Offering this service on « An operations-permitting basis, »
About as much latitude given any would-be Ahab,
Shortlisted for Command-at-sea.
So your body is literally frozen stiff,
Frozen solid for six months packed,
Spooned between 50-lb sacks of green beans & carrots.
Deep down in the deep freeze,
Within the Deep Freeze :
The ship’s storekeeper has a cryogenic *******
Deep down in his private sanctuary,
Privacy in the bowels of the ship.
While up on deck you slide smoothly down the pine plank,
Old Glory billowing in the sea breeze,
Emptying you out into the great abyss of
Some random forlorn ocean.

Perhaps you are a ******* lunatic?
Maybe you likee—Shut the **** up, Queequeg !
Perhaps you want a variation on the burial-at-sea option ?
Here’s mine, as presently set down in print,
Lawyer-prepared, notarized and filed at the Court of the Grand Vizier,
Copies of same in safe deposit boxes,
One of many benefits Chase offers free to disabled Vets,
Demonstrating, again, my zombie-like allegiance to the rules.
But I digress.
« The true measure of one’s life »
Said most often by those we leave behind,
Is the wealth—if any—we leave behind.
The fact that we cling to bank accounts,
Bank safe deposit boxes,
Legal aide & real estate,
Insurance, and/or cash . . .
Just emphasizes the foregone conclusion,
For those who followed the rules.
Those of us living frugally,
Sustaining the zombie trance all these years.
You can jazz it up—go ahead, call it your « Work Ethic. »
But you might want to hesitate before you celebrate
Your unimpeachable character & patriotism.

What is the root of Max Weber’s WORK ETHIC concept?
‘Tis one’s grossly misplaced, misguided, & misspent neurosis.
Unmasked, shown vulnerably pink & naked, at last.
Truth is: The harder we work, the more we lay bare
The Third World Hunger in our souls.
But again, I digress.  Variation on a Theme :
At death my body is quick-frozen.
Then dismembered, then ground down
To the consistency of water-injected hamburger,
Meat further frozen and Fedex-ed to San Diego,
Home of our beloved Pacific Fleet.
Stowed in a floating Deep Freeze where glazed storekeepers
Sate the lecherous Commissary Officer,
Aboard some soon-to-be underway—
Underway: The Only Way
Echo the Old Salts, a moribund Greek Chorus
Goofing still on the burial-at-sea concept.

Underway to that sacred specific spot,
Let's call it The Golden Shellback,
Where the Equator intersects,
Crosses perpendicular,
The International Dateline,
Where my defrosted corpse nuggets,
Are now sprinkled over the sea,
While Ray Charles sings his snarky
Child Support & Alimony
His voice blasting out the 1MC,
She’s eating steak.  I’m eating baloney.
Ray is the voice of disgruntlement,
Palpable and snide in the trade winds,
Perhaps the lost chord everyone has been looking for:
Laughing till we cry at ourselves,
Our small corpse kernels, chum for sharks.

In a nutshell—being the crazy *******’ve come to love-
Chop me up and feed me to the Orcas,
Just do it ! NIKE!
That’s right, a $commercial right in the middle of a ******* poem!
Do it where the Equator crosses the Dateline :
A sailors’ sacred vortex: isn’t it ?
Wouldn’t you say, Shipmates, one and all?
I’m talking Conrad’s Marlow, here, man!
Call me Ishmael or Queequeg.
Thor Heyerdahl or Tristan Jones,
Bogart’s Queeq & Ensign Pulver,
Wayward sailors, one and all.
And me, of course, aboard the one ride I could not miss,
Even if it means my Amusement Park pass expires.
Ceremony at sea ?
Absolutely vital, I suppose,
Given the monotony and routine,
Of the ship’s relentlessly vacant seascape.
« There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea,
And I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates. «
So said James Russell Lowell,
One of the so-called Fireside Poets,
With Longfellow and Bryant,
Whittier, the Quaker and Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.,
19th Century American hipsters, one and all.

Then there’s CREMATION,
A low-cost option unavailable to practicing Jews.
« Ashes to ashes »  remains its simplest definition.
LOW-COST remains its operant phrase & universal appeal.
No Deed to a 2by6by6 foot plot of real estate,
Paid for in advance for perpetuity—
Although I suggest reading the fine print—
Our grass--once maintained by Japanese gardeners--
Now a lost art in Southern California,
Now that little Tokyo's finest no longer
Cut, edge & manicure, transform our lawns
Into a Bonsai ornamental wonderland.
Today illegal/legal Mexicans employing
More of a subtropical slash & burn technique.

Cremation : no chunk of marble,
No sandstone, wood or cardboard marker,
Plus the cost of engraving and site installation.
Quoth the children: "****, you’re talking $30K to
Put the old ****** in the ground? Cheap **** never
Gave me $30K for college, let alone a house down payment.
What’s my low-cost, legitimate disposal going to run me?"

CREMATION : they burn your corpse in Auschwitz ovens.
You are reduced to a few pounds of cigar ash.
Now the funeral industry catches you with your **** out.
You must (1) pay to have your ashes stored,
Or (2) take them away in a gilded crate that,
Again, you must pay for.
So you slide into Walter Sobjak,
The Dude’s principal amigo,
And bowling partner in the
Brothers Coen masterpiece: The Big Lebowski.
You head to the nearest Safeway for a 2-lb can of Folgers.
And while we’re on the subject of cremation & the Jews,
Think for a moment on the horror of The Holocaust:
Dispossessed & utterly destroyed, one last indignity:
Corpses disposed of by cremation,
For Jews, an utterly unacceptable burial rite.
Now before we leave Mr. Sobjak,
Who is, as you know, a deeply disturbed Vietnam vet,
Who settles bowling alley protocol disputations,
By brandishing, by threatening the weak-minded,
With a loaded piece, the same piece John Turturro—
Stealing the movie as usual, this time as Jesus Quintana—
Bragging how he will stick it up Walter’s culo,
Pulling the trigger until it goes: Click-Click-Click!
Terrestrial burial or cremation?
For me:  Burial at Sea:
Slice me, dice me into shark food.

Or maybe something a la Werner von Braun:
Your dead meat shot out into space;
A personal space probe & voyager,
A trajectory of one’s own choosing?

Oh hell, why not skip right down to the nitty gritty bottom line?
Current technology: to wit, your entire life record,
Your body and history digitized & downloaded
To a Zip Drive the size of the average *******,
A data disc then Fedex-ed anywhere in the galaxy,
Including exotic burial alternatives,
Like some Martian Kilimanjaro,
Where the tiger stalks above the clouds,
Nary a one with a freaking clue that can explain
Just what the cat was doing up so high in the first place.
Or, better still, inside a Sherpa’s ***** pack,
A pocket imbued with the same Yak dung,
Tenzing Norgay massages daily into his *******,
Defending the Free World against Communism & crotch rot.
(Forgive me: I am a child of the Cold War.)
Why not? Your life & death moments
Zapped into a Zip Drive, bytes and bits,
Submicroscopic and sublime.
So easy to delete, should your genetic subgroup
Be targeted for elimination.
About now you begin to realize that
A two-pound aluminum Folgers can
Is not such a bad idea.
No matter; the future is unpersons,
The Ministry of Information will in charge.
The People of Fort Meade--those wacky surveillance folks--
Cloistered in the rolling hills of Anne Arundel County.
That’s who will be calling the shots,
Picking the spots from now on.
Welcome to Cyber Command.
Say hello to Big Brother.
Say “GOOD-BYE PRIVACY.”

Meanwhile, you’re spending most of your time
Fretting ‘bout your last rites--if any—
Burial plots on land and sea, & other options,
Such as whether or not to go with the
Concrete outer casket,
Whether or not you prefer a Joe Cocker,
Leon Russell or Ray Charles 3-D hologram
Singing at your memorial service.
While I am fish food for the Golden Shellbacks,
I am a fine young son of Neptune,
We are Old Salts, one and all,
Buried or burned or shot into space odysseys,
Or digitized on a data disc the size of
An average human *******.
Snap outta it, Einstein!
Like everyone else,
You’ve been fooled again.

How do you swindle the light?
This would be the greatest grift.
An ongoing experimental conn
where we all remember,
who the mark(s) is,
pretending, just in case,
behind the curtain,
sleight of hand,
behind the back,
if there is no wizard in the back seat,
just in case...you'll tell the kids:
'it was all for them.' So they could sleep.

Childhoods are just safe houses for hope.
In play roles come easy,
in assortments, and unpackages, separate;
but everyone knows the rules,
their part, they remember
that fairness is sacred to play.
Some games get played
and some gamers’ play is accidental.
The game like the carnival is vacuous,
inhaling all into its eye,
exhaling into its calm, swindles like a carney,
jettisoning all into the extinction of gratification.

The mystery lies in the conspiracy.
System can beat game, house, odds,
conn the conn and you can go home a winner.
The Universe is a big casino, you see.
And all you have to do is get up from the table,
cash in your chips, and figure out where your car is.
The house always wins, you’ll say.
But therein lies the reason we play.
Which you're sure to figure out in the lot,
cramped delineations garner thought,
you'll realize that therein lies nowhere.



The conspiracy lies in the abyss,

A place where villagers lose their cattle,
Costumed & uniformed, singing gray prayers.
Crop circles are diasporic clusters of hope.
Where science fiction invented the cold war,
Between ghosts created by radio waves.
A mass hallucination produced by trauma?
Dellusion v. Illusion
Nurturist v. Naturist v. Projection,
As long as it’s a weapon!
Destination unknown-
But just in case, let’s create something that can destroy us all.

"...A STRAIGHT LINE DRAWN CROOKEDLY INSIDE ME..."
( for David Olof Carney )

"Six months, if that...eh?"
inside the cancer
eating him cell by cell

life now
a death sentence
he couldn't live with it

"If it be now..."
Hamlet's solliquoy
comes to mind

in the car crash
his last laugh: "Thank you God!
You're a good sport!"

HOW TO MAKE A BREXIT-EXIT PIE

( for David Olaf Carney )

Put in as much
Gove as one can take.

"Not a lot...not a lot noooo
no **** it....that's too much!"

One can make it too toxic!

Sprinkle in enough barmy bumbly
Borisisms

to make one gasplaughchoke
in total disbelief.

Then, come what May...
round up the usual suspected

lies lies and damed lies
enough to fill a "Blunderbus!"

Leave out the petty Pretti one this time out.

Cook on a slow Conservative heat.

Ooops you upped the Auntie
way to high!

Even the lies are becoming
transparent.'

Ouick...more lies more lies more lies!

Oh my good Conservative God they are
becoming see through....what will we do!

Looks a bit burnt about the edges!

Looks decidedly
un-tasty and incredibly inedible.

And when the Pie was open
the liars began to sing!

Oh wasn't that a truly terrible dish
to sit before

the dissed United Kingdom.

Face it - things is looking Grimm!

"The United Kingdom - Le Royaume-Uni
NUL POINTS.....NUL POINTS!"

the drama in a ****** of crows
the clueless jive of the chickadee
the serious expression of the phoebe
hide and seek flickers
overly dramatic plovers
sleek kestrels, scanning the meadow
gulls always headed somewhere
the mystery of owls
robins, Art Carney-like
nuthatches that waddle through the air
an advertisement of goldfinches
vile, surly winged jays
waxwings, safe within their clique
ospreys, fat on minnows
snapshot herons always posing
patient vultures, ever on call

the perfect beasts to rule this world
they reveal personalities
to this lifetime observer

Slang..
Chick-fil-a = the best place ever
jade = *****
brooke = gorgeous
mishin = the boss, as in “You aren’t the boss of me.”

We’re on vaycay. School is OVER, COVID is over. We’re in New York City and we’re doin’ the town this time. Lisa told me, “You showed me Paris last summer, now I’m going to show you New York City.” Her mom, Karen, smiled and gave a little sideways, “Yes, yes we ARE’ nod.

Leong and Sunny, two of my Yale roommates, and my BF Peter are staying in Lisa’s (parent’s) 50th floor Manhattan apartment for the week. The apartment is singularly stunning, with its all-glass views of Central Park and the city, but it only has five bedrooms - so we’re doubled up a bit.

One of the things that makes Manhattan chick-fil-a, is that the Broadway theaters are 15 minutes from Lisa’s door. You step out, whirl around Columbus Circle and you’re on Broadway! Minutes later, you’re in your seat, Oh, and don’t forget to get the cinnamon crusted almonds.

We saw ‘Bad Cinderella’ the night before last - that was only a ‘West End’ show (I’m learning to be a Broadway snob). Tonight, we’re going to see Hamilton. Last night, we saw ‘Hadestown.’ I didn’t know anything about ‘Hadestown,’ but Leeza (Lisa’s 13 year old sister) has seen it three times now.

We’d just finished lunch and Lisa started off a debate. “Is Orpheus (one of Hadestown’s leading characters, played by Reeve Carney) superhot - the hottest man alive - or is he the littlest jade ever?
“He’s brooke,” Leeza swooned dreamily, fanning her face as if it’s hot, “I’d definitely hit that.”
Lisa gasped, “shutUP, you aren’t “hitting” anyone.
Leeza’s been driving Lisa up-the-wall all morning. We had Pancakes and bacon for breakfast and Leeza’s been all rude and maple sugar buzzed ever since.
“You aren’t mushin,” Leeza snorted, and as Lisa gave her a threat-laden look, Leeza finished with, “that man can get it.”
I’ve seen this before - and these sisters are heading for it.

Leong adds “Orpheus sees a submissive woman in distress. What he thinks he sees, is a typically beautiful woman, by societal standards, who he knows nothing about - and he’s like, ‘I want to marry you.”
Sunny leaned into the conversation fiercely, saying, “He doesn’t KNOW her! Wouldn’t you just punch that guy in the face?”
“Probably,” I answered, laughing, “if he weren’t in a frigging MUSICAL!”

“Excuse me,” Lisa interrupts, “you’re telling me that this scene doesn’t perpetuate the idea that only looks matter?” As one of the most beautiful women in the WORLD, Lisa is sensitive to objectification.

Sunny adds, “One reason to cancel him - I assume we’re trying to cancel him now - is that he sees a woman in distress and says ‘that’s the one, the love of my life,’ - a beautiful woman who can’t survive on her own.”

“She didn’t need him,” I suggested, “he was a burden on her.”    
Peter, who’s been working away on his laptop, looked up and said, “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

Leeza, snarked, “Then go back to your little coding.”
I think I gasped and Peter looked a little shocked.

When Lisa, who’d gotten up to get some ice, heard that comment from Leeza, she said, “THAT’S IT,” in a steely voice.

Leeza, who was sitting with her back to the kitchen on the huge white sectional, had a millisecond to look over before Lisa pounced on her. She came in from her backside rolling over onto Leeza, trying to cover her mouth.

Leong, and Sunny, who’d never seen these to wildcats at it before, squealed and flinched out of the way. Peter, an only child, found this delightful and hilarious. He burst out laughing with glee, as he too, cleared some space.

“You’re trying to silence me!” Leeza yelled, giggling and grabbing Lisa’s arms as they got into a full, sister wrestling, flailing ball of hair and arms. Rolling off the couch and onto the floor. “SHUT UP,” Lisa demanded at the top of her voice.
“She’s trying to silence me!” Leeza howled again, “I will not be silenced!” This match continued for a hot minute until Lisa got Leeza’s arms pinned with her knees.
“Apologize!” Lisa said, out of breath, as she began to ponytail her hair.

“Excuse me,” Leeza yelled, herself gasping for breath but trying to blow strands of her red hair out of her face and wiggle free. “I’d like my lawyer - get OFF me - you ******* Karen!”

When that doesn’t work Leeza starts yelling, “HELP, MOM, ****!!” at the top of her lungs.

Karen, on a laptop in a glass walled alcove just off the living room, had seen the whole everything. Folding down her laptop lid, she stuck her head out and said, “Girls.”

Then Michel, their dad, is in the doorway, “What are you two doing?” He asked softly.

The fight immediately broke up, Lisa and Leeza sheepishly disengaging. “Nothing,” they said, together in near perfect union. Lisa gave Leeza a wide-eyed, tilted head look and Leeza said, “I’m sorry Peter, I was only foolin’ around.”
“I know,” Peter replied, chuckling, “but it was worth it.”

Sunday - drum roll please - this Sunday (Mother’s day), we’re going to see Taylor Swift in concert.
On Monday, Peter and I jet off to Paris (and Saint-Tropez) for 10 days. He’ll get to meet my Grandmère and Uncle Remy - I’m SO hyped.

I’m squeezing a lot into the first three weeks of summer. My fellowship starts June 1st, and that’ll take all of June and July. I can’t wrap my head around being a junior next year. Where’s the time GONE?

Poet daubed the corporal on the wings of carney
Wanderer dilettante soul lusted au wild routes
Counted each the millimiles covered
Upside , unstrained , Unflaggingly.
Yon the valleys , epitome meadows and Hillsides
Beated around the alcoves amok
Ridges passed the marooned trails
Agape the flinged self flew spirited madrigals
Slowly rooted the tints into wilderness
True entity got superimposed to sylvan instincts
The obsolute shadow rigged the shooner
By dimension lengthier the time but shorter by grace
Grazed through and some toxic airs exhaled then pulled
Blinked all the roof to rugs
Remembrance of concrete boxes and intimate sidekicks
Cheap conflict wins to hit the ring
If body wins wanderlust looses thereby path ends
Simultaneous call by consciousness and objection by eternal shadow
Only the body grazed the maps with pointers
Though insatiably leveed
Kept retention the coursing shadow
Yet remained damp , savaged the sylvan traits
Life was near but the abstainer failed
Wilderness abysm rejected the unfortunate physique
There appeared
Scorched canopies along wilted flora
Container flogged the shadow to a stultifying death
Physique deceived self the core truth
Existence thereafter without knowing the chance with eterna
Several followed the imperishable conflict trail
Roll of honour diminished by fourth dimension
Marked victories of featherbrains over pappus chambers
Only few sticked upto xanthic flowers
Raise up , were the victories thristled down?
Many knocked and still keep on knocking incarnations
Fine array of fossilized saturnine inhibitions
Callous attritions over altruism of succinct shadows
Flip sorties pariance spurts
"The stanchion to revet my sky" voiced the shadow

I live in the land of concrete and flowers
of broken dreams that dazzle on gower
the end of america
The edge of the pacific
where the mad fEver rush
rolls the last minute carney hopes
in the sea swallowed by
Foam, gasp, foam, spread, foam, butter legs, sand *****, scabs, toxic waste, castles, meltdowns, stock crashes, dance parties, heroes, well -theives disguised as them, cardboard castles o **** n drugs n poverty,
some promise that one in several million will b truly rich beautiful and free enough to complain about meaning
Hello my ***** luv
That throws me up
After its feasted my youth into apathy
Hello oligarchy
Homeland
Birth place of so many things I lust after
Broken concrete flowers peak through
Some neon sunrise
A prop to be used
a marketing strategy of humanity
living the dead end dream

Joesph L. Clark then decided to stand up, because
The gravel was hurting his knee.
"Well, why not?" He pondered,
Aloud. That was a mistake.
"Because Joe,
You can't make a living off of
Poetry and whiskey."
Her voice was sharp
Like knives, as strong as
A meat pounder.
Joe short of liked that,
Though.
"And besides, there are other men
Here in this town that can hold my
Hand tighter than you ever will."
To that, Mr.Clark's jaw tightened,
His hands around themselves did so as well,
And with a tilt of his head he muttered
These words out of his bearded face:
"I'm no option baby,
I'm all or nothing."
And walked away knowing that
At least he had the dignitiy to be
A man at times.

Ms. Eleanor P. Carney's
T-strap heels struggled against
The grain of the dirt road, as she ran after him.
Tight hand holding made her palms sweaty, anyways.

mark carney your job is mine - business rights 15.08.18

welcome to the application
dropping poetry to become a economist
rising is anger more then inflation
understanding the notes equals a realist.
similarity is the bachelor
mark will agree
figures i controlled by the poetry spatula
the clear difference is your degree.
university is the grate
did not have this shield
if a hard bexit mark would cut interest rate
knowledge from oxford st peters college or nuffield.
going to balloon
life now no poetry spoil
bring on the month of june
going to put the bank in turmoil.
spend spend spend will erupt
i am going to be the best banker
england soon to be bankrupt
poetry and now for finance is why they call me a ?????r.

Poet daubed the corporal on the wings of carney
Wanderer dilettante soul lusted wild routes
Counted each the millimiles covered
Upside , unstrained , Unflaggingly.
Yon the valleys , epitome meadows and Hillsides
Beated around the alcoves amok
Ridges passed the marooned trails
Agape the flinged self flew spirited madrigals
Slowly rooted the tints into wilderness
True entity got superimposed to sylvan instincts
The obsolute shadow rigged the shooner
By dimension lengthier the time but shorter by grace
Grazed through and some toxic airs exhaled then pulled
Blinked all the roof to rugs
Remembrance of concrete boxes and intimate sidekicks
Cheap conflict wins to hit the ring
If body wins, wanderlust looses thereby path ends
Simultaneous call by consciousness and objection by eternal shadow
Only the body grazed the maps with pointers
Though insatiably leveed
Kept retention the coursing shadow
Yet remained damp , savaged the sylvan traits
Life was near but the abstainer failed
Wilderness abysm rejected the unfortunate physique
There appeared
Scorched canopies along wilted flora
Container flogged the shadow to a stultifying death
Physique deceived self the core truth
Existence thereafter without knowing the chance with eterna
Several followed the imperishable conflict trail
Roll of honour diminished by fourth dimension
Marked victories of featherbrains over pappus chambers
Only few sticked upto xanthic flowers
Raise up , were the victories thristled down?
Many knocked and still keep on knocking incarnations
Fine array of fossilized saturnine inhibitions
Callous attritions over altruism of succinct shadow
Flip sorties pariance spurts
"The stanchion to revet my sky" voiced the shadow

The preacher lifts his old hand,
“This is where we are meant to be!” and,
The geese croon overhead as the day turns around,
“Here in the country! A mighty place to be for men so small!” said he,
The preacher, or the carney, the very angry canary,
“Here is where the wind blows and whistles across the fields,
Making waves and currents that show early eidolons in the rye,
And here is where the willow trees make curtains
For mid-afternoon ******* with a sultry sweat on the brow!”

The preacher clenches his pink fist,
“Here is where holy work is done,
And God is surely watching!
Here is where the lilacs create a musk that staggers,
And leaves the devil in bewilderment!
The son of God is in your boot,
He is in the locked gun cabinet,
Which you threw away the key!”

A woman drops to her knees,
And I ask why, in which she replies,
“Of course! Of course! I love him! I hate myself!”

Ay, slow and easy,
Her lips took the scenic route.

God!
The ugly and plain,
With pouches and paunches,
**** a dime a dozen,
Come here to settle in the humid heat,
Of a thousand fields spread eagle across,
The American hot bed.

Yes’a, I thinks,
The boonies,
Is where I should be,
When God comes around.

The preacher points his fat finger,
“Leave the city for the gluttons!
Leave it for the sinners! Leave it for the lazy!
Leave it for the intellects of bygones,
And aggravated souls who are not just,
Content with what God has given us!
Leave it for the hounds! We have only to hear,
The gospel of sweet nature like honey dew,
Or golden sopping molasses!”

The sun came in through the stained windows,
Shooting colors across the pale flat faces,
Of the god-fearing townspeople.

It’s thunderstorm country around here.
They roam the boiling, hot, southern skies
on legs of lightning, like dark, angry trolls.

My Chinese roommate is impressed with them
because as menacing and mountainous and electrical
as they seem, through the trees whip and the rain
lashes - like special effects - no real damage is done.

Love is like that, a circus briefly coming to town,
that scintillates, palpitates, irritates or validates
- a carney-call with the urgency of a sale.
“Run away and join the show,” it whispers.

Love is both less than it seems and more than it is.

Take a carney ride
at high noon,
or at midnight sky
under the moon.
The moonlight says,
the night is a good deal,
and the night says,
the moon knows
that we are here
to pack a wallop.
But the stars ignore
the moon's stolen light
knowing that they
will soon be dust,
while they spend
wistfully useless hours
wondering if
the only reason time exists is
so everything
doesn't happen at once,
then, all at once,
they are able
to leave well enough alone.

© copyright 2012

Take a Carney ride
at high noon,
or at midnight sky
under the moon.

The moonlight says
that night is a good deal
And the night said: the moon knows
that we are here to pack a wallop.

But the stars ignore the moon's stolen light,
knowing that they will all turn too soon turn to dust.

The stars spend
wonderfully wistful hours
wondering if the only reason that time exists
is so everything doesn't happen at once.

Then, all at once, they are able to leave well enough alone.

You've gone and done it now
You blew it
I'm ******* crazy
I'll have you know
It's something I wear like a badge
This circus tent
You walked into
Well you've ****** them off
See,
The term "******' carney"
Is offensive
You're cruel
You're crass
But I'll do you one better
I'm the ******* ringleader
Of these "******' carneys"
We're no better than you
But wait, don't move
There's more in store
We've got a special exhibit to share
She eats flaming swords and slits throats
With her words
He charms snakes like Karma
Now Karma the snake is a real *****
You might go as far as to say
She's a real pain in the ***
And the twins on the tight rope
Murdered their father
On the way to west Italy
But if you think that's bad
You haven't met me
I'm the craziest *****
I'm the leader
The ringmaster
I'm also the most sane
But darling that elephant **** you
Just stepped in smells like perfume
When I stand next to you
Because you came
In here
Nose in the air
Dressed in your suit and tie
You came to a circus
Expected an opera
Then mentally ****** with my family
I will rip off
Each of your individual nails
And embed them in your throat
Then pluck your eyelashes
One by one
Telling you to make a wish
I'll send you on your merry scared way
Because I protect them first
Word to the Wise
Hunny, you don't **** with us crazies
'Cause honestly we're the worst

The words that were never said
Could have brought so much joy,
if I hadn't forgotten how to say them

and I feel like I'm on a roller coaster
that scares you and you can't get off
no matter how much you yell at the carney

realization sets in that I'm wasting away,
and I'll fall apart

I didn't mean to complain about this town,
or my friends
I just couldn't see with such selfish eyes

I figured if I tried hard enough,
the world would be handed to me.

Never ever did I think I'd be trying to remember
all the names of the people I've kissed

all this time spent trying to help everyone and myself
i'm going insane
I don't want to disappoint anyone,
but I let the sadness eat me alive
and I can't go outside without feeling like
the sky is mocking me with its constant brightness and darks

I don't know who I am,
but someone useless

CLOUDWATCHER
( for David Olaf Carney )

A cloud
gets the ****.

Becomes a camel.

Another **** sees it
transform into a dromedary.

Now a kidney!

Then as on a whim
becomes a Picasso

or some such
thing.

Sometime there's
shape and sense.

Sometimes none.

We make up names
for the one's with none.

Here for instance
stolen

from an old religious tract
THE CLOUD OF UNKNOWING.

And here, from the same
"...the cloud of forgetting."

This one
we dub in Ancient Egyptian

"HPRR!"

"rising from....coming into being
itself.:

And this one" "HPR!"
"...to become...to change."

And while our minds run on
the Egyptian thing

why here is Nepthys
Goddess of the Death

that is not
Eternal.

Here Horus
Lord of things to come.

This here cloud
we give the moniker

THE AGENBITE OF INWIT

before it becomes
an Inuit.

Now an anvil and a hammer
in a Black Country summer

"Gie-in’ sum ‘ommer!"

we command it
commanding the skies.

Now here again
a nothing.

Clouds bring forth
not the gentle rain

that falleth from Heaven
but...thought

whatever the mind
imagines.

And here
why here

is a cloud
that is just

a cloud.

Take a Carney ride
at high noon,
or at midnight sky
under the Moon.

The Moonlight says,
the Night is a good deal..
and the Night  says..
the Moon knows
that we are here
to pack a wallop.

But the Stars ignore
the Moon's stolen light,
knowing that they
will soon be dust,

While they spend
wistfully useless hours
wondering if
the only reason time exists is

So everything
doesn't happen at once..
then, all at once,
They were able
to leave 'well enough alone'.

Why can’t you look at me as normal?
Why do you see me a freak?
Why don’t you think that my heart can’t break?
Why can’t you understand that I own my own pain?
That I drive myself insane trying to become something new.
But when I say that I hurt, its, “who knew?”
So put me in a cage,
Condemn me for wishing for normality
That wish led to my fatality.
So I am here
With the ones they call odd
The ones you laugh at
The ones you question
Because if I can’t be normal, than no one can
Spend my life wishing to be larger than life
Wishing that people would see me, and not for my appearance.
Because as this is written, I am in pain
At this time I have no hope.
So go and tell me
“No need to mope”
But hell, not even the pope
Could pray the things I need prayer about.
That’s why I fell so far behind
Because I thought there was another path to find
And music was the only way I felt right
The notes where my eyes to see the light.
But you still laugh at me
Because my music is not sung at church
Because I scream
I am labeled a freak.
But if I don’t have talent
Why am I still writing on?
Because one day
You will remember the remraf name
When I claim my fame,
You will burn in the flame of my darkness
Of my shadow
So welcome to the carnival,
Where the lowest of the low find the highest of the high
Because today
Is the day
We rise,
Every “freak” in the world
Rise.
Because a freak is the new normal
And if you don’t agree,
Than you can stand before me
And tell me all my faults,
Tell me my insecurities.
And when you’re all said and done
It’ll be my turn to pay my respects
Because when you looked down at us
You forgot that even you had overseers.
Because what you do
What you say
Is downright *****.
I am angry at your actions
Treating me as a carney boy
I am no freak
I am no freak
I am no freak
Leave me be!
Oh!
Leave this alone
Let me live my life
So what if you don’t like my music
So what that you don’t like my style
So what that you are to ***** to make your own
So what?
So what?

Take a Carney ride
At high noon,
Or at midnight sky
Under the moon.
The moonlight says,
The night is a good deal
And the Night says,
The Moon knows
That we are here
To pack a wallop.
But the Stars ignore
The Moon's stolen light,
Knowing that they
Will soon be dust.
While they spend
Wistfully useless hours
Wandering if
The only reason Time exists is
So that everything
Doesn't happen at once.
Then, all at once,
They are able
To leave well enough alone.

Let’s pay homage to many innocent black lives that were taken by
the corrupt system:  Martin Luther King Jr.  Malcom X.  Emmett Till.  George Stinney.  Will Brown.  Sandra Bland.  Trayvon Martin.  Ahmaud Arbery.  Breonna Taylor. George Floyd.  David McAtee.  Natosha “Tony” McDade.  Yassin Mohamed.  Finan H. Berhe.  Sean Reed.  Steven Demarco Taylor.  Ariane McCree.  Terrance Franklin.  Miles Hall.  Darius Tarver.  William Green.  Samuel David Mallard.  Kwame “KK” Jones.  De’von Bailey.  Christopher Whitfield.  Anthony Hill.  Eric Logan.  Jamarion Robinson.  Gregory Hill Jr.  JaQuavion Slaton.  Ryan Twyman.  Brandon Webber.  Jimmy Atchison.  Willie McCoy.  Emantic “Ej” Fitzgerald Bradford Jr.  D’ettrick Griffin.  Jemel Roberson.  DeAndre Ballard.  Botham Shem Jean.  Robert Lawrence White.  Anthony Lamar Smith.  Ramarley Graham.  Manuel Loggins Jr.  Wendell Allen.  Kendrec McDade.  Larry Jackson Jr.  Jonathan Ferrell.  Jordan Baker.  Victor White III.  Dontre Hamilton.  Eric Garner.  John Crawford III.  Michael Brown.  Ezell Ford.  Dante Parker.  Kajieme Powell.  Laquan McDonald.  Akai Gurley.  Tamir Rice.  Rumain Brisbon.  Tony Robinson.  Mario Woods.  Quintonio LeGrier.  Gregory Gunn.  Akiel Denkins.  Alton Sterling.  Philando Castile.  Terrance Sterling.  Terrence Crutcher.  Keith Lamont Scott.  Alfred Olango.  Jordan Edwards.  Stephon Clark.  Danny Ray Thomas.  Dejuan Guillory.  Patrick Harmon.  Jonathan Hart.  Maurice Granton.  Julius Johnson.  Jamee Johnson.  Michael Dean.  Keith Childress.  Bettie Jones.  Kevin Matthews.  Michael Noel.  Leroy Browning.  Leroy Nelson.  Miguel Espinal.  Nathaniel Pickett.  Tiara Thomas.  Cornelius Brown.  Jamal Clark.  Richard Perkins.  Michael Lee Marshall.  Alonzo Smith.  Anthony Ashford.  Dominic Hutchinson.  Lamontez Jones.  Rayshaun Cole.  Paterson Brown.  Christopher Kimble.  Junior Prosper.  Keith McLeod.  Wayne Wheeler.  Lavante Biggs.  India Kager.  Tyree Crawford.  James Carney.  Felix Kumi.  Asshams Manley.  Christian Taylor.  Troy Robinson.  Brian Day.  Michael Sabbie.  Billy Ray Davis.  Samuel Dubose.  Darrius Stewart.  Albert Davis.  Salvado Ellswood.  George Mann.  Jonathan Sanders.  Freddie Blue.  Victo Larosa.  Spencer McCain.  Kevin Bajoie.  Zamiel Crawford.  Jermaine Benjamin.  Kris Jackson.  Kevin Higgenbotham.  Ross Anthony.  Richard Gregory Davis.  Curtis Jordan.  Markus Clark.  Lorenzo Hayes.  De’Angelo Stallsworth.  Dajuan Graham.  Brandon Glenn.  Reginald Moore.  Nuwnah Laroche.  Jason Champion.  Bryan Overstreet.  David Felix.  Terry Lee Chatman.  William Chapman.  Samuel Harrell.  Freddie Gray.  Norman Cooper.  Brian Acton.  Darrell Brown.  Frank Shephard III.  Walter Scott.  Donald “Dontay” Ivy.  Eric Harris.  Phillip White.  Dominick Wise.  Jason Moland.  Bobby Gross.  Denzel Brown.  Brandon Jones.  Askari Roberts.  Terrance Moxley.  Anthony Hill.  Bernard Moore.  Naeschylus Vinzant.  Tony Robinson.  Charly Leundeu “Africa” Keunang.  Darrell Gatewood.  Deontre Dorsey.  Thomas Allen Jr.  Lavall Hall.  Calvon Reid.  Gerdie Moise.  Terry Price.  Natasha McKenna.  Jeremy Lett.  Kevin Garrett.  Alvin Haynes.  Artago Damon Howard.  Tiano Meton.  Andre Larone Murphy Sr.  Leslie Sapp.  Brian Pickett.  Frank Smart.  Matthew Ajibade.

There are so many more that have died at the hands of the prejudice system.  All of you will never be forgotten.  Your legacy will forever live on.  Rest in Paradise to the fallen angels.

From so far away
the fairground music fades
the carney's call echoes.
Were you sure you wanted to pay those pennies
for that stick of horehound candy?
String a song of sixpences together
And **** at them until they turn your mouth blood red
To hide your broken lips.

In the double wide that gapes into the evening
With its yawning broken windows.
The dingy feeling in your eyes
Refuses to fade with the dust
And the touch of sticky plastic stars on your bedroom ceiling
Keeps you company
In the bitter watches of the night

Jesus and John watch your father from the living room wall,
As the last flickers of a camel’s Pentecost flame
Are extinguished on your arm.  
Branded, you lie stained in sin
Your child eyes asking St. Peter
Why the gate is shut.
He breaks bread across the table
With your bones crushed to a fine flour,
Mixed with wine.
This is my body.
This is my blood.

(POSTSCRIPT TO AUTHOR'S NOTE:  As the bit of my brain which allows me to actually complete a piece of writing seems to have gone on hiatus, this chestnut is re-submitted for your approval)


We’d stumbled upon it simply by chance,
Playing on a channel heretofore unknown to us,
Almost as if the remote, in a final, desperate attempt
To escape the CGI-augmented Britneys and Biebers,
Had taken matters into its own hands and steered us there
(Indeed, when we tried to find that channel later,
It had gone a-gleaming, replaced by some lower-case Telemundo)
Presenting no outsized and over-decibeled spectacle
But a stark, quiet, indeed all but silent black-and-white panorama
Where a distinctly un-scrubbed and un-homogenized Santa
Delivers no new cars, no cartoon-mouse vacation cavalcade,
No million dollar prize from some scripted faux-survival experience,
But those things from the realm of the small, the subtle:
A sweater, a meal, a bottle for those not overwhelmed by the contents,
All courtesy of a purveyor of gifts seeking nothing more
Than to provide some measure of comfort and joy
For those who were well short on either.
It all tends toward the romantic and maudlin a bit,
One could contend
(And, indeed, did not the teleplay’s progenitor
Insist on spending his eternity on a lonely hilltop,
In order that he could have an unobstructed view
Of the cold, narrow lake
For which he’d formed such an improbable and irrational fondness?)
And those who take such a position may very well be right,
But it is equally likely that we could be better men in a better place
If the notion that we could rise above
Our tin-can and yowling-tabby tribulations
And embrace that within ourselves which is child-like and yet saintly
Was submitted for our consideration on more than an annual basis.


(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This poem owes a considerable debt to the December 23, 1960 episode of The Twilght Zone.  The episode, entitled "The Night of the Meek", features Art Carney as a decidedly down-on-his-luck department store Santa who receives a helping hand courtesy of Messrs. Serling and Claus.)

snake oil selling man
*** H Dee, carney barker
pushing empty dreams
rock bottom close out pricing
beware the foolish buyer

Beneath the
bleachers,
our toes buried
by misguided
popcorn
bites.

our life
is a wonderland.
of confetti
and caged
animal
deliverance.

our laughter
echos
from the
furled
corners
of heavy
canvas tents.

Sparks fly
from the
mingling
of our lust
at play.

dust
finally
settled

on a show
that I thought
would never
end.

Carney girl
over ringmaster

under ringmaster

and everything

in-between.

nothing
tamed.

two souls
eternally saved.

by big tops /

and deep
revival

kisses.