It’s a beautiful game of back and forth,
showing me life is merely a game too,
winning or losing may have me trying,
so long as you have fun on the court, playing!

On occasions, I couldn’t get through you,
could you lower yourself for me,
Or are you asking
to raise the game within me?

Serving me a volley of ups and downs,
making me come to the net,
playing it on the rise,
taking risk down the line,
but, alas, life doesn’t give you an HawkEye.

Opponents may be many,
courts may be different,
conditions may be new,
keep that passion within you,
for you never know when the match point is on you.

Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******?
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.

I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?

It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.

No matter how I tried to beg
Dad put his meds to soak in eggs.

Not liking the resulting sog
He tried to give them to the *DOG!

Feel great, feel cool, feel nice. Nice people, nice things, nice ice. Ice cream, ice blocks, ice cubes. Cube, pyramid, cone, sphere. Circle, circle of life, what comes around goes around. Ring around the rosey. Tulips, daffodils, daisies, pansies. Scared, frightened, freaked. Surprise, happy, content, friends. Social, shy, outgoing. Going out with friends, going out of town, going to bed. Sleep, cozy, pillows, blankets, nighttime. Stars, moon, owls, darkness. Dark hair, dark chocolate, dark night, Dark Knight. Batman, Superman, Cat-women, Supergirl, Flash. Quicksilver, Scarlet Witch, Captain America, Iron Man, Hulk, Hawkeye, Black Widow, Thor. Pepper Potts, Peggy Carter, Jane Foster. Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, William Shakespeare. Elizabeth and Darcy, Romeo and Juliet, Jane and Rochester. Love, tragedy, comedy. Happily ever after, never, future, past, present. Wishes, desires, wants, needs. Thoughts, actions, words, deeds. If, when, now, how. Questions, answers, research. Study, work, write, draw. Art, paint, opinions, facts. Math, history, grammar, science. Religion, faith, beliefs, devotion. Marriage, together, apart. Separate, different, change. Old, new, used. Abandoned, left, alone, useless. Useful, helpful, needed, wanted. A place, person, thing. Adjective, verb, adverb, noun, pronoun, proper noun. Mad Libs.

Cryptic warnings in
dusty old books.
Lose floorboards and
cuts from fishing hooks.
Memories that aren't mine,
transferred over airwaves
and across time.
Lifetimes of bitter motes
metered out and measured in
Television tropes.

Sam and Diane until Rebecca
moved in.
I recall Coach's signature move,
taking it on the chin.
Frank until Winchester,
Better or worse,
Hawkeye and Trapper/BJ
ever perverse.

It's not who I am.
Not steps I've taken.
I remember it crisp as
overcooked Bacon.

In hunt of sustenance..
his hawkeye were rolling.
In search of  something..
unknown unnamed.

Alongside of the drain filled with stink water..
holding a ***** jute beg on his shoulder.
Some time on side footpath..
walking silent,  in search of something .

Something that could quench his appetite..
sun was shining like a goblet of fire.
Looking  upward with animosity..
he wiped the rushing sweat.

Whole day passed..
he gathered several items.
Sold them and arrange some food..
dusk of evening was approaching  fast.

He reached  home..
was feeling tired sleepy.
A deep lifeless sleep..
to gather courage.

For facing new challenges..
as every day is like a whole life.
Full of struggle, mysterious..
Strange,  alike a unknown puzzle .


                                                  *deovrat - 08.08.2014 * (c)

Dear Drift Compatible,

You are my best friend. We do not talk every day, but we do not have to. You are kind, and good, and loving. You are my best friend, and sometimes more like a mom, and I love you for that.

When I was broken up with on your porch and ever so suddenly homeless once more, you let me keep some of my stuff with you while I was in the hospital.

You offered me a place with you wherever you are if I ever need it, and that is the kindest, most beautiful thing someone has ever done for me. If I could compare you to a summer's day, I probably wouldn't. They're humid and gross and sticky, things we hate. Winter wouldn't work either, too cold and your heart is too kind and warm.

Maybe early Fall. We'll look back into it.

Thank you for being the Spock to my Kirk ('cause you make sense and I'm an emotional mess but we're both pretty smart), the Riza Hawkeye to my Roy Mustang without the weird ****** tension, and  the Fireheart to Graystripe because everyone knows you're the logical Fireheart and I'm the poor-decision making Graystripe. You are the Levy to my Lucy ('Cause Fairytail had to be mentioned).

Forever your adopted child,
Who needs glass when we have anime and cats?

The factory gates are locked,
And there's no work today.
The line-up's getting longer,
And the soup kitchen's closed.
The cardboard box was recyclable
As a home above a vent;
My children have no clothes,
I hear my school's been closed.
Then I hear you call her ****
Because she won't sleep with you.
The lake's been closed, no swimming,
And the park soil is contaminated;
I think we're underestimated.
Clear the area
Before Gilligan removes the head,
Or Hawkeye looses his arms.
This is not a false alarm.

(A bit of fun for Thomas W. Case - I think he lives in Iowa)

Hawkeye pride burns bright in Iowa City,
the place where Tennessee Williams learned to curse.

Iowa City hosts the 4th of July, Iowa speedway race, unique perhaps
because the cars have to stay behind a tractor for the first 199 laps.

How polite are the people in Iowa City? I saw a news report where a man was mugged,
traumatic? Sure, but the man still remembered to say “Thank you” before the perp bugged.

There are over twenty-six churches here, people can be a bit pious and obnoxiously reflective.
There’s a Hawkeye infestation in Iowa City because of the university, classified as ‘moderately selective.’

Geographically, Iowa’s where the rolling plains meet a limestone rise.(1)
Did I mention that the bars close at 2am? A travesty in any serious drinker’s eyes.

Some noted authors came from Iowa City, the locals are proud of that and own it.
Most were playwrights and novelists, luckily, few of them turned out to be  poets.

(1) whatever that is

Swilled soda at 11pm at night
Wondering why I lie there at 3
Tossing turning
Decisions made far to late
Wrappers
In the trash can
Calories on the waist
Wondering why I ate that last bag of Pretzel M & M;s
Credit card limits reached
Then wondering why I didn’t spend the money on something more constructive
Lyft rides instead of the bus
Sizzling, slices
Each and every morning
Delicious squealing goodness
Whining and wishing
Hours of daydream
Hawkeye, Radar and hot lips on my tv
Because books would take to much time
And probably make me think

There you lay, lowered into the ground, your home a box of wood
Your family, your friends, the complimentary do-gooders all surrounded by flowers and food
No more hellos, farewell’s, I haven’t seen you for years
Your life now talked about, the times that you had, all washed away by wine and beer

So, what comes next now you’ve lived as this mortal being
An angel in the clouds, Hawkeye for God as his all now seeing
Or an animal reinvented, now on the prairies of Africa
Living life again as that majestic mammal, adored by the plenty but stalked by the needy

Nobody knows what’s around the next corner or life would just be a bore
If heaven had a handbook we’d pop up there and ask for the tour
As religion is a belief for those who need that false fall-back option
Were all in the same skin, death won’t separate and put us into sections

No matter where you fall flat and now cease to be
That next step in life is always impossible to see
For we do not know if that was our last conversation or text
Life has no rules over what happens next.

JJB

Its 1983 and I'm home from school sitting cross legged on the carpet in my perfect place, where I could sky watch all night long, and the autumn sun rays shone through the branches of our front garden blossom tree, into our living room, illuminating a patch of carpet where I believed a whole other world existed. Call me crazy, a lot of people do, but I used to truly believe there were other tiny worlds on each carpet strand. Complete with microscopic creatures or miniscule humans like Fairies. All living in fluffy homes with pets and pretty clothes.

A wide sunbeam would light up the specks of dust giving a brown sipea tinge, and I would try to catch each one in my tiny hands whilst I sat counting until you came home each evening.
My older brother told me that dust is just old human skin, mainly from the dead, in his attempt for me to stop breathing, but it just made me want it more. I wanted to breathe in each person's history as a part of me - maybe then I wouldn't feel so alone.

The scent of our old sofa, the glass corner that housed your whisky and Café Creme cigars. I'd trace the pattern for hours of the embroidered vines, their flowers and leaves that were immortalised under the pane. Destined to remain as the day of manufacture. Dark green, homely, comforting.
The surrounding fabric that faded with the daylight and all the New Years Eve parties that my parents threw, filling my sunken heart with a helium like euphoria
Those that I tried but failed to count down the days for
Where the adults would age backwards
Just for a few hours
Forget they had husbands, wives and young children
And my brain would fizz with an uncapped frenzied elation, from the smoke filled lights and music, that would bewray my constant sadness

The turntable blaring out ABBA, Billy Joel, Meatloaf, sounds of the sixties and all the music I now associate with happiness.
Our mothers swaying to Dancing Queen, nostalgic sadness seeping from their white wine eyes and aging skin. But oh they were so beautiful.

Me and my best friend would creep down from my bedroom and hide under the party table which was clothed in a long, crisp white Christmas fabric. We'd steel nuts, sausage rolls, fizzy pop and half eaten pork pies.
Dressed as Mickey and Minney mouse in our reversible sweat tops so indicative of the 80s

I knew right then, that my life would be altered by substances and acquaintances of the night
How I adored the chaos, the energy, the laughter and looseness of it all. Everyone smoked back then, completely care free and drank whatever was lying around, blissfully unaware that it would catch up with them one day, everything always does, in the end.
Our liquor cabinet had the most intoxicating scent.
When no one was around, I'd stick my head in and sit with my face pressed up against the bottles. I loved all the bright labels and colours. I would pick up the crystal glasses one by one and pretend to sip all ladylike the way they did in films, my little finger held out as i mimed imaginary conversations.
"How do you do?"
"Yes I enjoyed the show immensely"
"I'd just love to host next year's party, do come" 
I felt so grown up.

But an average evening saw me sat upon your knee, swinging my 7 year old legs, blissfully happy and loving you as fiercely as I feared you. You'd make my puppets come alive and i really believed.
I still do.
You were magic to me. I adored you.

It's a Wednesday night, which was MAS*H night and in 1983 the final episode played with 105.9 million watching. Too young in years to appreciate the tear in your eye, I watched blissfully unaware, just so happy to be sat up late with the adults.
I'd give anything to go back to that night, just for a few minutes. I'd warn you that in just a few years everything would end. That both our worlds would dissolve and within the sediment, a great heartbreak would settle in and live unwanted forever.
That we needed to spend every second together making memories.
Oh the innocence of it.

I'm sitting here  now, thinking about that night, about my fears, about our sofa and about you.
As Hawkeye and the Korean war fills my screen night after night, my eyes fill with you.
What happened to us?
Why did you let go of my hand?
The saddest day of my entire life

But I never stopped loving you, not for a single heart beat and I'm grateful for these memories that fill my pages, meaningless to anyone else, but meaning the world to me.
Some say you don't deserve my love.
They say you were less than a father.
They're wrong.
I'm ashamed to say that i don't often defend you.
But I declare it here, now.
On this page right this second
That you were everything I could've dreamed of
That the first eleven years of my life were so much more than I can ever articulate.
And how much I thank you for being my daddy...
I missed you
I miss you still.

(RIP 01/12/2018)

.nothing is going to fix this,
sure sure,
  you can either make a zukofsky
out of it, or an ezra pound...
no point of comparison beyond
these two,
you might as well forget
homer...
          because, that sort of ****...
needs to mature.

and i am out of place,
    i'm in england,
but i'm juxtaposing the feral
lands of eastern europe
where women have
a choice...
      either comply,
or be subjected to social
stigma,
       much akin to any small
community...
the old men ask the young
men: where's your girlfriend?!
the young men reply:
she's independent...
  there's absolutely zilch
i can do about that...
     i hardly think this
"concern" has been brewing
in my mind...
ever watch a blonde
    court-side
           at an NBA match?
well...
thanks to b.t.
   (british telecommunications)
i can't tune in into the premier
league matches...
       but if there's a sport
i enjoy... that's over across the "pond"
it's basketball...
well considering h'america is
more of an idea of a country
than anything currently available
that's organic...
   NHL and NBA...
          and when it comes
to baseball... n'ah...
   the lunacy of cricket beats it...
oh and for sure
   NFL can't compete with
rugby...
        i never understood
the "logic" of a one-throw
game policy,
    must feel like *******
into a ****
  with one ***** (runner)
able to squeeze past
the melee...
hawkeye to blade runner...
throw... catch...
touchdown...
  but the interruptions:
too many to count, put me off...
but a blonde court-side
at a basketball game...
    now there's looking
star-struck, there's looking
aghast,
there's daniel's *****
and there's the goliath...
   oh the jaw doesn't need
to drop...
   the eyes are already glittering...
well i'm also hardly
a didldo model...
   what would that look, like?
thank god the crazed monotheist
priest didn't get to me,
i knew the *******
was supposed to fulfill
some sort of function...
never thought it was
to, sit down on a toilet,
take a ****, take a ****,
and then ******* to some
                        fine art...
          well i had to write something!
this is only the interlude
piece of the "puzzle"
before i get really into it,
  before i drink enough to dumb
down and spew doodles...
and the whole itchy fingers
"thing"...
           so i made myself
the promise - write within
the time limit of a reader's capacity
to read it in reverse...
never revise...
    keep to the grammar and spelling...
and when i heard
that bukowski made frequent
spelling mistakes...
then...
         i sort of lost my respect
for him...
             it's not like i sit and,
  "ponder"... scheme...
                    as long as the punctuation
works...
then the "necessary" CAPITAL
lettering is... gone with the wind...
        then again...
just drinking,
    and... what? relaxing akin
to the will styron "conundrum"...
well...
   at least know when i hit
the mega-snooze button
                    and quasi-black-out...
which implies:
       pulled-pork and roast
tatties and some red cabbage
with chilli and coriander just did
their bit...
               as in:
          when it comes to poetics...
thinking is overrated...
and i know that the mainstream
has ****** "hurt feelings"...
but with this sort of ****...
you have to feel more
   and think, less...
              it's not mahjong solitaire
we're talking about,
it's the integrity of language...
sure...
   it's not a stephen king novel...
but like i said two days prior
to someone:
   i lack the imagination
to embrace a future...
              nope... can't see it...
not on a personal scrutiny
of wants...
                  there's only now...
and it's hardly a scenario
of "living in the past"...
sure, i "live" in the past
only because i don't think i did
anything wrong...
   unlike most people...
i like to remember the good
i've done, however pea sized puny...
and i don't have a problem
with that...
   but... "apparently"
a lot of people are so ashamed
of their past that the only thing
they're looking forward to is
a snippet of a future just
before their death...
                i like the past...
not because i live in it,
but because i have, lived in it...
   and that's one sure way
to converse with an Alzheimer's
condition...
         akin to:
last time i checked,
she picked out the engagement ring
herself...
  and she herself,
gave it back to me...
      and then all manner of crazy
**** happened...
'matt, matt! i'm hearing voices!
matt! matt! i'm pregnant!'
like i didn't visit her
after the break-up
and find her sleeping with her ex-,
so now, what?
                   i really want
to be that bitter spare-cog in
the machine of time...
                          i do...
   but something compels me to spew...
sure, drinking,
the "curse"...
          but for all the sedatives
in pharma-land...
    at least this one gives
me a sense of sanity, and focus...
  i'll cook the dog's *******
worth of a curry and a fox
   will come near my garden door...
and then i'll feed him
some left-over food,
bones, groats...
sauce yadda yadda...
       and i'll leave him like that
for a week...
   which gives me great satisfaction...
because it reminds me
of myself as a child,
    the only child...
       with an alsatian shepherd
for a sister
and a dobermann for a brother...
    ****... i still remember that
bitche's name... Bel-la...
   and she was beautiful...
   i'd go walking with my now now
dementia riddled grandfather
into the strawberry fields and
the forest and climb trees...
   and she'd be barking running
insane rounds around the tree
worried for me...
       (verbatim, not my words,
my grandfathers)...
                     and that's how it ends...
autobiographic...
  imagine asking someone
to pay you for this sort of crap...
esp. when they can't relate
to it...
                    but there's this...
and then...
  there's the tabloid press...
                          again: your choice...
personally?
   i can't stomach tabloid
spew...
              as much as i can't stomach
the lovelustre idealists...
i once loved...
          once...
                    once was enough...
after that once...
a sober reality kicks in...
                  and, lucky or unlucky
for me...
        i thankfully don't
have, what's necessary to compete /
provide...
          if there is a god...
i pray: thank you,
       for kicking me out
            from the hierarchy games...
literally: i'm out,
with as much, or little,
               as this little doodle shows;
finally!
    i get to do my pontius pilate
pose -
   not because i didn't try...
i did try...
                 not because i didn't care...
once upon a time...
    imagine that...
ending a book rather than
beginning one with:
                 once upon a time.

kingdoms of reality

banish vagaries & laud

fixity.

so passable with slight

deviations--unnoticed

by hawkeye sanity.

as with the accountability

of a thing--to be left as it

was left.

until kingdoms of reality

are lain siege--gross in

apparency as rubble to

mind, mind to rubble.