This is not a poem, this is a story of a an 83 yr old man, that
got away with lying aboat his actual age, so he could box,
for the light weight Dallas County Iowa, championship.

"Howard is the name and these are my two knock out fists, Tuffy and Tougher and I'm here to sign up for the light heavy weight championship boxing title of Dallas County."

That was my official registration to the County boxing Commission.
They of course ask me my age and some other questions related to
my boxing experience, to which I lied very convincingly.

By the way, the way to lie convincingly is to literally believe yourself what you are lying about. I had spent hours telling myself the lies I told the Boxing Commission, so they had no doubt about what I told them about my boxing experience. I even had some fake newspaper articles about my boxing experiences that I printed on my home printing press. I'll tell more about this later in this story.

What motivated me to do this, was the current champion was the
Grandson of one of my high school classmates that I detested, because he was such a proud blow hard, about every athletically thing
he did, from being a baseball pitcher, a running back football player,
a wrestler and on and on he bragged about himself. One time when
I could not stomach his bragging and pompous way he walked, I confronted him to his face, actually his chin, as that was as close to
his face I stood. He was about 6' 4'' and I was slightly over 6'. I looked him in the eyes and told him I and everyone else in school was sick
and tired of his bragging about himself.

He then sneered a me, reached down and grabbed me by the callar of my shirt, and said. "Why you little dumb pipsqueak, you aint nothing but a hog raising farm boy!" and shoved me hard against
the hallway wall, so I smacked the back of my head against it, and was
knocked out for a few minutes, long enough for someone dumping a cup full of water on my face to bring me alert. Then ol blow hard
spread it around that I had attemped to hit him and he "just naturally" defended himself and gave me a little shove.

But back to the main part of this story, I had been working out in the city gym, working on my cardio, that's my breathing. I had been keeping up with my physical condition all of my life, so for an 83 yr old man  I am in good physical shape. I have been punching the heavy bag on daily basis and have had someone bouncing a heavy medicine ball on my stomach five minutes every day, so I have those three muscle stand outs on my stomach, that everybody ooos and aaas about.

I also sparred with young boys around 20 and 30 years old, convincing them I was just 28, by my foot work and bobbing and weaving and left-hand jabs. I still had a good head of hair, which I
had dyed a light black, which also convinced the boxing commission that I was 38, actually the year I was born, 1938

My boxing bout with the young grandson of this high school classmate that I detested, was supposed to be just a warm up match for him, in preparation for a title fight. He was the Dallas County Light Heavy Weight champion defending his title against some unbeaten
opponent. My goal was to knock him out and disqualify his title fight.

Oh yes, I neglected to mention my boxing manager, who was a young 62 year old retired boxer. He didn't grow up in
Dallas County, Iowa,  so he had no idea of my background age. He came from New York or New something.  I had him convinced that I was just 38 yrs old also. I grew up in a small town called Vermillion about 60 miles from Des Moines, where the fight was scheduled. Vermillion was a town with a population of around 2500 when I lived there. Most of the people who knew me are living under ground now, or in a old folks' home, so the secret of my age will not be revealed.
,
This grandson of the school mate I detested, is just like his Dad, a smart mouth, bragging, pompous, cocky Strutton showboat. He has no idea who I am but has already started boasting about what he is going to do t me.

"Hey, I'm only 27 yrs old and this old man I'm fighting is 38 yrs old. Somebody will have to help him through the ropes to get in the ring." "What's an old man like him still thinks he is a boxer?

"He ought to be sitting on his back porch, watching the rabbits and squirrels hop around."

"He claims to be 38 yrs old, I'll knock him out in 38 seconds in round 3."
   ,
He came to the gym when I was working out one morning to scout me out; I put on an act of being slow and winded.

He yelled at me from a few feet away, "Hey old man, my kid sister
has a faster jab then you. You sure you want to fight me?"

My manager walked up to him, and gave him a double arm shove
out the door, so hard he stumbled. "You big mouth punk, crawl
back in the skunk hole you came from."

                           The Big Fight

I was in the ring first and was warming up with little dance steps I had had learned in a dance studio, which I intended to use on him, BTW  his name was Virgil Throgmartin, but he took pride in calling himself, "V T"=Very Tuff.

He was taking his time coming to get into the ring, and when he did decide to enter, he did so with a bunch of short, skirted cheer leading girls dancing to loud music being played. When he approached the ring, two of the girls, squatted down on one knee and VT than made a big show of standing on each of their leg, and pushed himself off, tumbling over the ropes onto the ring apron.
amid 40,000 loud cheering fans.

"Enjoy it while you can VT, because in about 15 minutes, five three-minute rounds, yu're gonna have 40,000 stunned fans looking at you, sprawled halfway under the ring ropes, watching the referee
waving the fight over."
                                ROUND ONE
VT came quickly to the center of the ring with a stupid looking
grin on is face, hands down, swinging back and forth at his waist level.

I took a couple steps toward him, then through him a big surprise,
that stopped him in his tracks. I did a little two step tap dance, and in the few seconds it took him to recover from surprise, I took a quick step toward him and shot out a left jab, purposely hitting
his right eye. Over my years of boxing experience, I developed a
fast twist at the end of the jab. This little twist would tear the skin
producing a cut in the eyebrow, which it did to VT. I don't think he had ever been cut before by the way he wiped his eye, leaving his face unprotected, of which I took advantage, and smacked him with
another quick jab on his nose, drawing another spurt of blood.

VT wasn't expecting such an early barrage of attack and started back peddling. Once again, I put on my little tap dance,
to a 40,00 applauding, whistling crowd of men, women and teenagers. By now ol VT had no idea what to do with me. He took a quick look over at his corner for help. And when he did, I took a big step forward and planted to quick left jabs on each of his eyes.

I heard the fight announcer telling the radio listeners, he had never seen such a show boating boxer like Howard is putting
on. He has VT totally confused, not knowing what to do with
him. He came into this fight as a warmup for his upcoming defensive championship fight with The Rock, Rocky Argo and he is being bloodied and cut up, by what in the boxing sport is considered old, a man close to his 40's but is moving like a 25 or 26 year old. Folks I don't recall Howard in any past fights, but uh, hang on a moment Howard is moving around VT, bobbing, weaving and talking to him, I can't quite read his lips, but something about going down in uh, some round. Meanwhile VT continues to back pedal away from Howard, who is trying to cut him off....Oh! now Howard stops chasing him and motioned with his hands to come in and fight. There's the bell ending this third round.

There is some kind of commotion going on behind me.... someone wants to tell me something but is being detained by the police.
"Hey officers, let him talk to me. Folks, this is the craziest night I have ever experienced, let's see what this old man, I'm serious about Old, He must be  "Uh how old are you, sir?"

"I'm just a couple years younger than Howard. We grew up together in Vermillion, Iowa. I'm 81 years old and that old man in the ring, he was known as "Howie", is 83 years old and...."

"Hold on just jack rabbit minute! Are you telling me, that Howard,
  what did yu call him? Howie, that boxer in the ring, beating VT, the current light weight Dallas County champion, is 83 years old? Is that what you are saying?"

"Yep, dats whot Im sayng.We growed up t'gether, in da same school t'gether, wrestled and boxed t'gether, and I'm 81 years old and he was alays 2 yars older'n me, so I knows he is 83 yars old.

Folks., getting back to the fight, VT is circling to his right to get in position to throw is left hook and then is right overhand knockout punch. I think Howie is aware of what VT is trying and keeps circling to his left.


This is the  the round Howard bragged he would KO VT. VT is coming out in his usual swaggering way, Howard had him intimated in the first four rounds, with his little dancing jig and blooding his nose and eye. VT wasn't used to that kind of pressure, but his corner manager and some others that joined him, gave him a little pep talk, and so he has regained his confidence. As usual Howard, try's his little tap dance as he approaches VT, it's gotten a little much and no one is cheering it.

I failed to ask you, old man, your name"

"I was known as "The Rock in Vermillion my real name is Rocky Argo. You said dis is da round Howie is going to lower da boom on this young feller?"

"Well that's what he told the fight reporters in the newspaper. But frankly, I have doubts that he can do it. Thus far all I've seen from your friend is a few left jabs. He hasn't used his right in the entire fight."

"Well you just keep your eyes on his right; what yor going to see is a flurry of left jabs, and out of nowhere his right and will suddenly show up and that will be the end of the fight."

Well folks there is just two minutes left in this round, if Howie is going to KO VT, he is going to have to get more aggressive than, OH! Howie just connected with a double left jab, and another one and he had VT weak legged from a barrage of jabs. He looks like he is about to go down OH WOW Howie hit him with a straight right hand punch right between his eyes and VT is on the canvas, trying to get up, the count is up to 5, 6,7 VT was up at the count of 8 but collapse. The referee is waving the fight over, and the Dallas County  light heavy weight champion has been knocked out by Howie Howard in the 5th round just as he predicted."

"Let's listen as the referee announces the winner of this fight."
"And the winner and NEW DALLAS COUNTY LIGHT HEAVY WEIGHT CHAMPION IS HOWEEEEEE HOWWWARD!!

Howie, the talk around the dressing room is that you are 83 years old. Now tell us your real age. I mean, a 83 yr old man can't do that little jig you did tonight and beat up a 27 yr old. So c'mon and let this crowd and thousands of radio listeners know your real age."

"I was born on the twelfth day of July 1938, if my math is correct that makes me eighty-three years old, and that's the absolute truth."

"Ok, so tell us how you have kept in such physical shape to be able to
dance and beat up a young 37 year old champion boxer as you did tonight?"

"Well, first of all, I have to give God all the glory f or entrusting me
with an extraordinary physique. I have honored God many times in many ways because of this extraordinary body, that I , or others could not have done with a normal body. The second thing I want to emphasize is when I was just eight years old, I was convicted that there was a hellfire, called The Lake of Fire, that unbelievers in Jesus Christ are cast. I was just a small child, but I knew in my heart that in God's sight I was a sinner for whom Jesus suffered and died on the Cross of Calvary, and if I just received Him as my sin-bearer and personal Savior, He would forgive me all my sins for the rest of my life. And I have done a lot of sinning in my 83 years of living, one of which has been a distain for VT's grampa, with whom I graduated from the Vermillian High School in 1957. He was the most egotistical, arrogant, vain and proud ****-of-the-walk person I ever knew, and VT was just like him. His grampa died about five years ago, but I have held a grudge in my heart for VT's grandpa all my life, I thought it would give me great satisfaction to ruin his opportunity to fight for the Iowa State Championship.  So I arranged with the Iowa Dallas County Fight Promoters to give VT a warm up fight for him to fight the current Iowa State light heavy weight champion. I studied VT's fights and trained for them these past three months, with the intention of doing what I did to him tonight."

"So what are ..."Excuse me, I'm not finished yet. I thought I would feel good about beating the snot out of VT, but you know what? I don't. I was really enjoying it when I was blooding VT up, as though I was kicking the arrogance out of his grampa. But now that I've destroyed VT's  chance to fight for the Iowa State Championship, I feel empty inside, and feel sorry for VT. To all of you who paid out good money to see this fight, I just want to leave you with this one thought "A grudge is too heavy a load for anyone to carry"
     From Jerry Howarth's Book of Stories

This is not a poem, this is a story of a an 83 yr old man, that
got away with lying aboat his actual age, so he could box,
for the light weight Dallas County Iowa, championship.

"Howath is the name and these are my two knock out fists, Gerald
and Ron, and I'm here to sign up for the light heavy weight championship boxing title of Dallas County."

That was my official registration to the County boxing Commisson.
They of course ask me my age and some other questions related to
my boxing experience, to which I lied very convincingly.

By the way, the way to lie convincinly is to literally believe yourself what you are lying about. I had spent hours telling myself the lies I told the Boxing Commission, so they had no doubt about what I told them about my boxing experience. I even had some fake newspaper articles about my boxing experiences that I printed on my home printing press. I'll tell more about this later in this story.

What motivated me o do this, was the current chjampion was the
Grandson of one of my high school class mates that I detested, because h was such a proud blow hard, about every athletical thing
he did, from being a baseball pitcher, a running back football player,
a wrestler and on and on he bragged about himself. One time when
I could not somach his bragging and pompous ay he walked, I confonted him to his face, actually his chin, as that was as close to
his face I stood. He was aout 6' 4'' and I was slightly over 6'. I looked him in the eyes and told him I and every one else in school was sick
and tired of his bragging about himself.

He then sneared a me, reached down and gabbed me by the coller of my shirt, and said. "Why you little dumb pimpsqueet, you aint nothing but a hog raising farm boy!" and shoved me hard against
the hall way wall, so I smacked the back of  my head against it, and
knocked out for a few minutes, long enough for someone dumping a cup full of water on my face to bring me alert. Then ol blow hard
spread it around that I had attemped to hit him and he "just naturally" defended himself and gave me a little shove.

But back to the main part of this story, I had been working out in the city gym, workig on my cardio, thats my breathing. I had been keeping up with my physical condition all of my life, so for an 83 yr old man  I am in good physical shape. I have been punching the heavy bag on daily basis , and have had someone bouncing a heavy medicine ball on my stomach five minutes every day, so I have  those three muscle stand outs on my stomach, tht every body ooos and aaas about.

I also sparred with young boys around 20 and 30 years old, convincing them I was just 28, by my foot work and bobbing and weaving and left hand jabs. I still had a good head of hair, which I
had dyed a light black, which also convinced the boxing commission that I was 38, actually the year I was bornd, 1938

My boxing bout with the young grandson of this high school class mate that I detested, was suppoe to be just a warm up match for him, in preperation for a title fight. He was the Dallas County Light Heavy Weight champion defending his title against some unbeaten
opponant. My goal was to knock him out, and disqualify his title fight.

Oh yes, I neglected to mention my boxing manager, who was a young 62 year old retired boxer. He didn't grow up in
Dallas County, Iowa,  so he had no idea of my bckground age. He came from New York or New something.  I had him convinced that I was just 38 yrs old also. I grew up in a small town called Clive about 60 miles from Des Moines, were the fight was scheduld. Clive was a town with a population of around 2500 when I lived there. Most of the people who knew me are living under ground,
or in a old folks home, so the secret of my age will not be revealed.
,
This grandson of the school mate I detested, is just like his Dad, a smart mouth, bragging, pompous, cocky strutton show boat. He has no idea who I am, but has already started boasting about what he is going to do t me.

"Hey, I'm only 27 yrs old and this old man I'm fighting is 38 yrs old. Somebody will have to help him through the ropes to get in the ring." "What's an old man like him still thinks he is a boxer?

"He ought to be sitting on his back porch, watching the rabbits and squirrels hop around."

"He claims  to be 38 yrs old, I'll knock him out in 38 seconds in round 3."
   ,
He came to the gym when I was working out one morning to scout me out; I put on an act of being slow and winded.

He yelled at me from a few feet away, "Hey old man, my kid sister
has a faster jab then you. You sure you want to fight me?"

My manager walked up to him, and gave him a double arm shove
out the door, so hard he stumbled. "You big mouth punk, crawl
back in the skunk hole you came from."

                           The Big Fight

I was in the ring first, and was warming up wih litle dance steps I had had learned in a dance studio, which I intended to use on him, BTW  his name was Virgil Thornley, but he took pride in calling himself, "V T"=Very Tuff.

He was taking his time coming to get nto the ring,  and when he did decide to enter, he did so with a bunch of short skirted cheer leading girls dancing to loud music being played. When he approched the ring, two of the girls, squatted down on one knee and VT than made a big show of standing on each of their leg, and pushed himself off, tumbling over the ropes onto the ring apron.
amid 40,000 loud cheering fans.

"Enjoy it while you can VT, becaus in about 15 minutes, five three minute rounds, yu're gonna have 40,000 stunned fans looking at you, sprawled half way under the ring ropes, watchng the referee
waving the fight over."
                                ROUND ONE
JT came quickly to the center of the ring with a stupid looking
grin on is face, hands down, swinging back and forth at his waist level.

I took a couple steps towad him, then through him a big surprize,
that stopped him in his tracks. I did a little two step tap dance, and in the few seconds it took him to recover from surprize, I took a quick step toward him and shot out a left jab, purposly hitting
his right eye. Over my years of boxing experience, I developed a
fast twist at the end of the jab. This little twist would tear the skin
producing a cut in the eyebrow, which it did to VT. I don't think he had ever bee cut before by the way he wiped his eye, leaving his face unprotected, of which I took advantage, and smacked him with
another quick jab on his nose, drawing another spurt of blood.

VT wasn't expexcting such an early barrage of attack, and strted back peddling. Once again, I put on my little tap dance,
to a 40,00 applauding, whistling crowd of men, women and teen agers. By now ol VT had no idea what to do with me. He took a quick look over at his corner for help. And when he did I took a big step foward and planed to quick left jabs on each of his eyes.

I heard the fight annoncer telling the radio listners, he had never seen such a show boating boxer like  Howarth is putting
on. He has VT totally confused, not knowing what to do with
him. He came in to this fight as a warm up for his upcoming defensive championship fight with Scrapiron Peel and he is being bloodied and cut up, by what in the boxing sport is considered old, a man close to his 40's but is moving like a 25 or 26 year old. Folks I don't recall Howarth in any past fights, but uh, hang on a moment Howarth is moving around VT, bobbing, weaving and talking to him, I can't quite read his lips, but someting about going down in uh, some round. Meanwhile VT continues to back peddle away from Howath, who is trying to cut him off....Oh! now Howarth stops chasing him and motioned with his hands to come in and fight. There's the bell ending this third round.

There is some kind of commotion going on behind me.... some one wants to tell me something, but is being detained by the police.
Hey officers, let him talk to me. Folks, this is the crasiest night I have ever experienced, let's see what this old man, I'm serious about Old, He mst be  "Uh how old are you, sir?"

"I'm just a couple years younger than Howarth. We  grew up together in Perry, Iowa. I'm 81 years old and that old man in the ring, he was known as "Howie" is 83 years old and...."

"Hold on just jack rabbit minute! Are you telling me, that Howarth,
  what did you call him? Howie, that boxer in the ring,  beating VT, the current light weight Dallas County champion, is 83 years old? Is that what you are saying?"

"Yep, dats whot Im sayng.We growed up t'gether, in da same school t'gether, wrestled and boxed t'gether, and I'm 81 years old and he was alays 2 yars older'n me, so I knows he is 83 yars old.

Folks., getting back to the igh, VT is circuling to his right to get in position to throw is left hook and then is righ overhand knock ut puncht . I think Howie is aware of what VT is trying and keeps circing to his left.


This is the  the round Howarth bragged he would KO VT. VT is coming out in his usual swagering way, Howarth had him intimiated in the first four rounds, with his little dancing jig and blooding his nose and eye. VT wasn't use to that kind of pressure, but his corner manager and some others that joined him, gave him a little pep talk, and so he has regained his cofidence. As usual Howarth, trys his little tap dance aa he approaches VT, it's gotten a little much and no one is cheering it.

I failed to ask you, old man, your name"

"I was known as Scrapieon in Perry, my real ame isRichard Peel.
Yo said dis is da round Howie is going to lower da boom on this young feller?"

"Well that's what he told the fight reporters in the news paper. But frankly, I have doubts that he can do it. Thus far all I've seen from your friend is  a few left jabs. He hasn't used his right in the entire fight."

"Well you just keep your eyes on his right; what yor going to see is a flurry of left jabs, ad out of nowhere his right and will suddenly show up and that will be the end of the fight."

Well folks there is just three minites left i thos round, if Howie is going to KO VT, he is ging tp alf to get more agressie than, oh,Howie just connected with a double left jab, and another one and he had VT weak leggedfromma barrage of jabs. He looks like he is about to go down OH WOW Howie hit him with a straight right hand punch right between his eyes and VT is on the canvas, tryng too ge up, the count is up to 5, 6,7 VT was up at the cnt of 8 bt collapst. The referee is waving the figt over, and tne Dallas County  light heavy weight champion has been kocked out by Howie Howarth in the 5th round just as he predicted.

Odysseus needs a job he calls pima community college art department chairperson sends her his resume she does not respond after a week he catches her on phone she says he lacks proper credentials laughs to himself his whole life never worked lucrative or reputable position gets job working at thrift store wacky group of coworkers customers store frequently smells like public latrine job expires after 7 weeks he gets better paying job working at record exchange Odysseus always loved music everyday he learns new artist or band his coworkers are at least half his age they pester him about being slow on keyboard he never learned to type neither he nor his generation could have foreseen future would revolve around keyboard he plods on register keys people smile politely kids he works with fly fast making many keyboard mistakes November 29 2001 george harrison dies of cancer he is 58 years old Odysseus recognizes he is from past world different era of contrasting standards ‘80’s behavior is totally unbefitting let alone ‘60’s beliefs it is 2002 and one badly chosen word is sure to send someone flying off the handle he watches his language carefully co-workers mostly born in 1980’s grew up in 1990’s they live indifferent to hopelessness he struggles to bear none of them believe in higher power music is their religion he wonders what their visions concerns for humanity are? they seem addicted to consumption as if it is end in itself he questions what is hidden at root of their absorption? loneliness? despair? apathy? absence of vision? where is their rage against social conversion current administration? he warns them about homeland security act privacy infringement increased government secrecy power they shrug their shoulders why aren’t they looking for answers? why don’t they dissent? do they care where world is going? he realizes they will have to learn for themselves few coworkers read literature or know painters philosophy their passions are video games marijuana “star wars” most of them are extremely bright more informed than he often Odysseus needs to ask questions they know answers to right off the bat he is like winsome uncle who puts up with their unremitting teasing “hey you old hippie punk rocker get you fiber in today? stools looking a little loose! peace out old man” in peculiar way he finds enough belonging he so desperately needs they tell him stories about their friends *** addictions eating disorders futile deaths he is bowled over by how young they are to know such stuff job includes health insurance which is something he has not had since Dad was alive having some cash flowing in he buys laptop computer with high-speed connection cell phone trades in toyota for truck opens crate of writings he abandoned in ‘80’s begins to rewrite story sits blurry eyed in front of computer screen his motivation has always been to tell truth as he knows it he wonders what ramifications his labor will bring positive or negative results? he guesses his story will sound like children’s fable in stark brutality of distant future october 2002 3 week ****** spree terrorizes maryland virginia  district of columbia 10 people killed 3 critically wounded police believe white van responsible october 24 man and 17-year-old boy arrested in blue chevy caprice juvenile is shooter assailants linked to string of random murders including unsolved shooting of man at golf course in tucson Odysseus mentions incident at work speaks of prevailing terror madness in america co-workers kid tell him he is crazy “did you see a white van parked outside the store Odys?” they seem desensitized to increasing national atmosphere of anger panic or perhaps they are overwhelmed by weight trauma of modern life lie after lie prevailing  havoc slaughter make for dull numbness in world they know suicide is compelling option december 22nd 2002 joe strummer dies from heart failure at age 50 Odysseus’s eyes wet he adored the clash everything they stood for loved joe strummer and mescaleros he plays “global a go-go” over and over listens sings along with first track “johnny appleseed” march 2003 president bush launches attack against iraq united states seems drunk with “shock and awe” zealous blind patriotism many people politicians countries around globe question unproven line of reasoning saddam hussein possesses “weapons of mass destruction” Odysseus gripes “not another **** vietnam” record company allows employees to check out take home used product Odysseus stopped watching movies in 1980’s he has lots of catching up to do particularly likes “natural born killers” “american history x” “american ******” “fight club” “way of the gun” “******” “king of new york” “basquiat” “frida” “*******” “before night falls” “quills” “requiem for a dream” “vanilla sky” “boys don’t cry” “being john malkovich” “adaptation” “kids” “lost in translation” “25th hour” “28 days later” “monster” “city of god” “gangs of new york” “**** bill” list goes on perfect circle becomes his favorite band followed by tool lacuna coil my morning jacket brian jonestown massacre flaming lips dredg drive-by truckers dropkick murphys flogging mollies nofx stereophonics eels weakerthans centro-matic califone godspeed you black emperor magnetic fields fiery furnaces dresden dolls smog granddaddy calexico howie gelb sufjan stevens warren haynes dax riggs john vanderslice alejandro escovedo sean paul elephant man bjork p. j. harvey ani difranco aimee mann cat power sophie b. hawkins kathleen edwards mia doi todd kimya dawson regina spektor carina round neko case fiona apple nina nastasia beth gibbons mirah rasputina dr. dre talib kweli immortal technique murs slug atmosphere trick daddy eazy-e tricky list goes on october 21 2003 elliott smith commits suicide stabbing 2 wounds into his chest Odysseus thinks about music when jimi hendrix stood up at woodstock deconstructing national anthem on guitar it took courage when punk emerged with ugly screechy sounds attempting to divorce itself from melodious harmonies of 1970s complacent crosby stills nash  the dead kennedys and *** pistol did not pander to conventional commercial success what they performed were desperate gutsy songs trying to reclaim music rock’n’roll is no longer about inventing instead it imitates its glorious past hip-hop and rap come nearest to risking rebellion but are caught in gangsterism infantile self-adulation no longer does music offer vision of what is or could be instead it conjures looping escapism from hopelessness of modern life he continues working at record shop for several years store contains every genre of music cinema he grows weary of retail sales weary of higher-ups constantly changing rules dictating what to do head manager is manipulative drama queen thrives on crisis once in private admits stealing from company Odysseus nods not knowing what to say head manager works Odysseus hard keeps him down atmosphere of conspiracy betrayal hang at start of each day assistant manager routinely taunts berates bullies teases regularly calls Odysseus “dumb-****” or “****-up” other times laughs after goading Odysseus to flinch eventually bully backs off and they become friends retail pushes Odysseus to brink of misanthropy corporation requires all employees to exercise overt courteousness while serving a public of disrespectful gang bangers demanding “show me black market brotha lynch mac dre why ya godda keep dat **** behind da counter? dat’s ****** up hey old man i ain’t got all day” it always amazes him when shoplifter is caught with product stuffed down his pants thief blatantly states “i didn’t do it i don’t know how that got there” thanksgiving through christmas to new years is most swarming stressful he feels like automaton greeting customer scanning product looking at screen to see if price agrees with product typing money amount counting money into drawer counting money out handing change to customer handing customer product receipt next customer cockroach capitalism packs of masses line up in endless stream of needs stupid remarks job also involves trade appraising condition value resale probability of cds dvds video games tapes vhs vinyl news of  iraq war gets dismal mounting civilian casualties suicide bombers hostages beheadings beginning of 2004 reports of torture ****** psychological abuse **** ****** ****** of prisoners at abu ghraib prison guantanamo bay white house cover-ups denials growing insurgency increasing u.s. body count other costs he thinks about men and women who are so much braver than him then comes re-election and lavish republican parties parades cheney rumsfeld tom delay and whole regime smirk portentously on tv none of it makes sense anymore “we the people of the united states” what does it mean? the dreams and aspirations of his generation have long since faded away he is citizen of forgotten past current world is barbaric place he barely recognizes there are real pirates with machetes rocket launchers on the seas big drug corporations hiding harmful findings kidnapped children abandoned children crooked politicians corruption at every level of society horrifying stories daily ******* priests slave markets extreme heinous cruelties abruptly everyone is acknowledging society is worsening life is not the same he does not understand people and certainly does not understand america or the world he remembers when all could be so good modern existence has turned everything into madness what happened to lessons of history? it is as if Odysseus fell asleep and when he woke everything is changed he is mistaken about what he thinks he knows feels pity for people america pity disgust sorrow he misses his dog

"Collide"

The dawn is breaking
A light shining through
You're barely waking
And I'm tangled up in you
Yeah

But I'm open, you're closed
Where I follow, you'll go
I worry I won't see your face
Light up again

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
[Regular version:] Out of the doubt that fills my mind
[Acoustic version:] Out of the doubt that fills your mind
I somehow find
You and I collide

I'm quiet you know
You make a first impression
Well, I've found I'm scared to know
I'm always on your mind

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the stars refuse to shine
Out of the back you fall in time
I somehow find
You and I collide

Don't stop here
I lost my place
I'm close behind

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills your mind
You finally find
You and I collide

You finally find
You and I collide
You finally find
You and I collide

To know just where your're going

You must know where you've been

You must respect the history

The things others have seen

It's true in all things relative

Be it music, sports or life

If you don't know where you came from

You're just dancing on a knife

Gherig, Ruth and Robinson

May, and Mantle, Seaver too

Respect their contributions

And don't just say Ruth who?

Respect where things have come from

And the players of the past

Because you learn and make things better

It's what makes the **** game last

Jimmy Foxx, Bob Gibson, Kaline

Nestor Chylak and The Goose

They made baseball special

They gave the game a little juice

Orr, Richard and Gretzky

Gordie Howe and Howie Morenz

You have to know about them

You need the beginning to your ends

Bob Baun and Bill Barilko

Connie Smythe and yeah...the Chief

You have to know their history

They're what it is to be a Leaf

The game has changed immensely

Things can not go back in time

But to me...the old alumni

Made the game I know as mine

Respect the ones before you

The ones who laid the groundwork down

The ones who made it special

The non-pretenders to the crown

Elvis, Buddy, Harrison

Played the songs inside their heart

Lennon, Wilson and the rest

They all played a real big part

Every single generation

should learn from the one before

For if they don't know where they've come from

Then what has it all been for?

Nicklaus, Palmer, Bobby Jones

Sarazen and Hogan too

They pushed the gameright to it's limits

Now the pressure's upon you

The new breed are the teachers now

They're the ones to lead the way

When twenty or so years from now

You'll hear somebody say

"Respect who came before you

The ones who made us so **** proud

LIke  Nash and , Perry and  Taylor Hall

They played the game so loud

Pudge, Jeter, and Verlander

they brought it up a notch

They were there to stretch the limits

Not to just sit by and watch

Rory, Justin Rose and Mahan

Bubba, Dustin and the rest

They are the players of the future

They all respected the games best

So, to know where you are going

You must know where you have been

Respect, past through the future

And all that's happened in between.

But I'm open, you're closed
Where I follow, you'll go
I worry I won't see your face
Light up again

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills my mind
I somehow find, you and I collide

I'm quiet, you know
You make a first impression
I've found I'm scared to know
I'm always on your mind

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the stars refuse to shine
Out of the back you fall in time
I somehow find, you and I collide

In my childhood bedroom closet
There's a little white ledge
And I kept on the edge
A collection of the trophies I'd won.

The trophy most prized
Was a small rubber guy
That sits atop of a pencil.

Graham booth was the boy
Who gave me the toy
As he smiled a goofy smile.
He looked like a 10 year old Backstreet Boy
Not a Howie - but a Kevin. Or a Brian.

My other trophies include
- I wouldn't want to exclude -
A small piece of rock
That I got
At the Bytown Museum
In grade 4.
Ms. Lewis' class.

Graham Booth was there
(With his boy band hair)
And he told me the rock was
Quote "neat"
End quote.
Sweeeeet.

My beloved knickknacks
(Oh! And a box of tic-tacs)
Weren't the only things hidden in there.
Under the front right corner
Of the soft white rug in my closet
I kept
My soiled underwear.

There were 2 pairs of underwear
Hidden in there,
One purple and the other ones blue.

The blue ones -
Well they weren't great.
Was it something I ate?
Couldn't put them in the laundry basket
In any case.
Couldn't tell my mom
For the look on her face.
She'd wish "Could another child
Take this one's place?!
She's ruined her ******,
What a big disgrace.
Those beautiful ******,
One purple, one blue!"

So I'd let no one see it:
My closet of secrets.
Some treasures
And some other ones
...Poo.

The script just told me these times are hard
Even Howie day whispered that the best ones fall down at times
We are slowly fading away, just the same as those good songs switch.

You even told me Maroon 5 is as contagious as our bond
How come thoughts are pounding with anger like Linkin Park scream as loud?
Maybe those rhythm are fake, and how more months can we take?

I think you don't even remember how mad I was
Because all you can think of were the dramas.
Goodluck to this, goodbye maybe it is.

Eight Thousand and twenty games it took
before Howie could put it in the books.
There was, here and there,
a base on *****.
One desperate catch against the wall.
One possibly disputed call,
but Johan Santana got them all..

Bob Murphy would have loved this night
The Park in Queens alive with cheers.
Fans walking out in a gentle rain
with his happy recap in their ears.

Monarch butterflies landing on flowers
Just the right look coming your way
Swans appearing in unexpected places
Children being real and genuine
Rainbows gracing us with their presence after a storm
An ebony velvet sky with twinkling diamond stars
Rainy day walks that never end
Long Summer nights
Moments that stay with us forever
People, places and things beyond compare
The feeling that you’ve got it right when naysayers tell you that you’re wrong
What captures your heart
Caresses your soul
Knocks you into the next star system
The Song you hear on the radio forever but must stop to sing
Just like you do to me
You always take my breath away

Dedicated to Howie Steinhart
C@rainbowchaser2018

in the background... Howie B's: fizzy in my mouth / your mouth....

i'm rarely given these rare opportunities of late,
where i sit down to have a few whiskey
sharpshooters, smoking less and less cigarettes
(mobile sheesha is the way to go,
cherry... i'm still to try the blueberry liquid)
and thinking: what is it that i want to write?

but sometimes, after doing some manual labour
around the house and... this time the garden
i.e. putting up a wooden arch... trying to salvage
my grapevine... nice work...
   the mind relaxes when the body is exerted...
the joy of not thinking: whether that's
reflexive thinking or long: "profound" instances
of reflective thinking... because the body takes
over reality while the mind checks out...
      
but i was watching this video about dating...
a girl saying she's not fit for the dating scene
because she's a bad-*** *****...
and she could undermine any man's masculinity...
dyed hair... baseball cap worn backwards...
tattoos up to and including her neck...
and these two Aussie guys commenting...
(x) said... she reminds me of my ex-girlfriend...
there's this specific charm about a woman
who likes to give off stand-offish vibes...
      (y) said... i'm put off by women like that...
i prefer feminine women...
swearing is out of the question... blah blah...
    i just walk away (says y): terrible vibes...

i have to agree with (x)... i too dated a girl like
that... although... she was more into dread hair...
piercings and obviously tattoos...
   she swore like a cobbler
   and i was into that... she even wanted to convert
me to turn my long hair into dreads
and given she was into tattoos... she wanted
to give me a tattoo...

    i refused both invitations...
it wasn't even a: "it's not me, it's you" /
   when you love someone you don't want to change them...
well... she did finally remove those piercings in
her lips... her body reacted terrible to all that iron...
crusty lips... i told her: you either take them out
or i'm not going to kiss you^,
    tattoos? no...
   dreads?! double no...
           well, i wasn't going to tell her to get rid
of her tattoos... that would be sort of "racist"...
in a funny sort of way... since what's done is done...
but she got rid of her dreads...
even though i didn't ask...
             i just told her... i have a manic pixie dream-girl
fetish... i was obsessed with the film Garden State
at university... no... that's a lie...
i was obsessed with the song from the soundtrack
of Garden State:
    the Shins' New Slang...
   one night i climbed the scaffold that was erected
when New College... Old College?
    was being renovated in Edinburgh...
                    the Law College...
                                  it was such a beautiful night
to climb up and sit and dance on the roof...
       listening to that very song...
                   that's when i thought i wouldn't fall
in love: in that untidy sort of way...
and that love would only be something imaginary
in my head or in the words of Stendhal's
the Crimson and the Black....

she turned from being this dread-head baggy jeans
sneakers and band t-shirts mad *****
to being... well... when i would put on linen
trousers and a linen shirt... and leather sandals...
she would put on a very pretty dress -
and we would enjoy ourselves in the St. Petersburg
zoo... looking like a very fashionable couple...
or we would do something similar and go to the opera
to see Verdi's La Traviata...
                       she might have know a few bands...
she introduced me to In Extremo...
obviously i figured out: there are more bands exploring
  musikvölkisch... and i found them...
but she wanted to see Madame Butterfly...
   i said no and...
                      that's the thing about dating women...
they're always comparing other women...
in the opera she overheard two women
talking... i don't understand Russian to this day...
but they must have ****** her off...
for ****'s sake... i'd still rather say
КБAЦ
                    than read KВAC as KVAS /
kwas... not... with a Polish diacritical L: Ł...
i don't know how the Germans make
the ****** distinction, i.e. between the V and W...
it's not a double-U to begin with...
it's a double-V... off of Volkswagen...
     but i was thinking in three languages...
we dated speaking English...
   but in the back of my mind i had "mother" Poland
while she had "mother" Russia...
               and i abhorred her accent...
in England people ask me where i'm from...
but they can't really place the accent...
                    that's why they ask...
because i don't have an Essex accent...
i have a London: cosmopolitan accent...
                                            and that troubles people...

hell... i don't have any regrets...
i write fondly of her... even though she was
x, y & z of headaches... the *** was: for someone who just
turned 21... pretty ****... plus she introduced me
to Bulgakov... while i already knew about
Dostoyevsky... i don't even remember what
i introduced her to... jazz... something or other...
my grandfather once asked me:
don't you regret it?
             the older i get... i looked her up some years
ago... after me...
  she spiralled out of control... by the time she
reached 30 she was already on her second marriage
while i was starting to wake up from
my hermit's slumber...
            
but those girls must have really ****** her off...
they must have commented something akin to...
why is this troll of a girl with this good looking guy...
i mean: i wasn't a ******* Quasimodo in
my early 20s... sure... i took some psychiatric beating
in my later 20s... put on 50kg thanks to
the pills they prescribed me... but i managed to
beat 20kgs down... and... let's face it...
a guy in his 30s is not going to weigh a lean
weight that he did in his 20s... muscle...

even she used that same ****** tactic...
   comparing women... with the men they were dating
and how "superior" we were as a couple...
i just wanted to hide with her in the bedroom
and ****... because... over-charged with *******
since aged circa 8 i had to find a healthy canvas / outlet
for all the "suspense" / "condoms"... restrictions
of the "nunnery"...

^mind you... i found myself peeling at the scabs
on my face and eating them...

so gentleman (x) and (y) were talking about this girl
with tattoos and blah-****-blah syntax
and dyed hair and it go me thinking...
gent (y) used the term...
APOSEMATISM...
               that's what prompted me...

i think i need to write that word in the Greek alpha-,
απoσεματισμ...

can we have a "debate": "orthographically",
not that i'm an expert
                e-psilon vs. e-ta
             i.e. within the confines of -σε-
                                               vs.              -ση-       ?

but i already know the answer...
it's e-psilon and not e-ta for the simple fact that...
you can't translate handwriting
into letter-digits...

    i.e. -σεμ-            vs.            -σημ-
  
   although... hmm... that's a tough one...
after all... it's a question of orthographical-aesthetic,
yes, i know that i once stressed that orthography
is related to the use of diacritical markers...
the modern Greeks overuse them...
they're so pedantic about them...
                       they're almost reinvented Byzantine
bureaucracy...
             but it's hard not to discount Charles Dickens'
misnomer use (misuse) of the term orthography
when examples cited are as pointless as: little is to litle...
aesthetically? obvious reasons...
since English is so rigid in its past...

one example in English... but we're not talking individual
letters...
          θought & φilosoφy...
              F ******* F... back to back...
but... enter the Romans and there's no a distinction
of meaning: even though the sound is the same:
one's TH-ETA the other is PH-I...

just like i could never be a novelists...
novels takes weeks, months... years to write...
i couldn't layer my efforts for that long... i couldn't use
camouflage of lost interest: regained interest...
person life / struggles... enjoying life...
sitting in a coffee shop... doing a ******* Ernest
Hemingway's hunting trips to Kenya...
absinthe drinking sessions
         and hunting trips to the back of his head...
bloating in agony like Bukowski...
                         idealising love...
                           oh sure... i have one of those...
and she's a nun going by the name of Norma...
what a ******* name... a bit like Norman...
even Otto is more palette friendly... for the ear...
unless... hearing someone eat with their mouth
open is almost like... hearing the sounds mollusks
make when fudge-packing their ego-skeleton-imaginations...
because: that probably does happen...
from time to time...

    what's so bothersome about the Chinese
and the O? if they have to complicate "matters"
with their skeleton of 圆?
  to hell with building the great wall...
when... nonetheless the Mongols will still invade?!
you really need an "explanation"
of a circle bound to a square?

i have to feign... some details...
i has been a blessing to have experienced a bicycle
accident days prior to my shift...
just days after my *******...
because it was unlike any *******
bound to *******...
it wasn't one girl riding my phallus while
another shoving her **** into my face
where i wanted to be bound to a third person:
looking in...
this was much better...
i was simulating... i wanted to **** both their
faces with my eyes...
how?
        i was cuddling up to one of them jerling me off...
while the other one was looking on massaging my
testicles not getting ******...

i did state a change of auditory "flimsy"...
man with no name - own the world...
this ******* was unlike what
******* sells...
this ******* was...
one was jerking me off
and i was cuddling up to her neck
while the other felt abandon...
if you're ******* two girls at the same time...
at least one needs to feel neglected... jealous...
i wanted to see both of their faces...

it's a good "thing" that after having this *******
had my bicycle accident...
it was a reality check...
                best to feel the ultimate pain
after receiving the ultimate of pleasure...

it's that word again... APOSEMATISM..
at work... i've been working with them...
*****.. butch-lesbian stereotypes...
heavy rings... tattoos...
some come with dyed hair... some come
with crew-tops...
me? i come with bruises...
i get... hurt... i'm currently coughing
and my chest hurts... when i cough...
will i see a doctor? ha ha... since the pandemic...
i've seen a dentist in Poland...
good luck in England...
to hell with the Hippocratic Oath...
if they don't care... i don't, care...
no... sorry... it's not how it works...
              
APOSEMATISM...
at work... these butch *****...
she dyes her hair purple... she collects
serpents... i ask her... what about spiders?
she's like... fair enough...
     they have piercings... they have tattoos...
i have bruises...
ooh... itch...
                      the beta-males surround me
looking for conversational protection...
sure... i'll talk...
   let's talk... Heidegger's hammer?!
*******... silence... i must be feeding the intellectual
escapade of gnats!

half of me is being realistic...
half of me is being insulting...
i don't know which is which!

St. Cyril made a **** poor job of morphing
the Glagolitic lettering away from Greek...
let's face it... Cyrillic looks like the cheap version
of Greek... ***** and their dyed hair...
their piercings... their rings...
their tattoos.... woman: 'ard! ugh!
their crew-top hair...
      but when they see a guy with...
bruises that could have been tattoos...
how they back off...
                                      
there's this girl Emma who collect serpents...
dyed purple hair... insecure **** in the making...
i mention spiders... to counter her obsession
with snakes...
what... could... possibly... be... wrong...
with... either... cats... or dogs?!

but bruises tell a better story than tattoos...
better pain translate...
oh, sure... you want to be readied
at clinging to something serious...
you sometimes stand around these puppets walking
around: his eye is bruised... blah blah..

yeah... these butch girls have tattoos...
i have... scars... i prefer scars to tattoos...
what?!
     ink is expensive...
                       pain is freely given!
children sort of adore people with scars
than tattoos...
         i love children... they adore authenticity.

There’s many legends told of those who tended to the nets
Whose talents brought grown men to tears, made bookies hedge their bets.
One man’s special gift was to make the goal lamp glow
Therein begins the woeful tale of Red Light Racicot.

The story starts at Granby in Quebec’s junior ranks,
Where pimply youths have slapshots which seem fired from tanks,
And flashy cat-quick goaltenders will often steal the show;
Alas, no such heroics came from Red Light Racicot.

The ease he was beat stick-side left his goalie coaches dumb.
Granby supporters prayed as one that they would trade the ***
They called him “Ancient Mariner” (stopping one in three or so),
Surely Les Habitants would not sign Red Light Racicot.

But indeed, Les Canadiens dragooned him in the draft,
Fully convincing one and all that Serge Savard was daft.
Children throughout the province prayed Dear merciful God, No!
Don’t let our Forum bear the taint of Red Light Racicot.

But then came a stretch where Patrick Roy’s work had been poor,
And Hayward and Vinny Riendeau had each been shown the door.
And Montreal fans heard the saddest words they’d ever know:
…Starting in goal this evening is Red Light Racicot.

He flailed at wobbly wristers and wound up on his ****.
And gave up much more five-hole than any village ****.
Even cross-check befogged Savard knew it was time to go
And mercifully, he released poor Red Light Racicot

In Heaven there’s a glowing rink where gods of hockey skate:
Maurice Richard, Howie Lorenz, all of the truly great.
In one net, Georges Vezina makes saves with stick and toe
But someday they’ll all float soft goals past Red Light Racicot.

Howie was a Halloween cheat.
He was much too old of a kid to go trick-or-treat.
But he did it anyway.
Some people gave him treats.
And some people just laughed and sent him away.

I am the Teddy Bear Poetess
My Right or Die know who tbey are
The very best people that ever happened to me are Howie,
Names not familiar to you but resonate with me and make my heart proud to beat
Reminding me why words and poetry are my art
So the pen and paper are never far away when the keyboard isnt
I am the Teddy Bear Poetess longing to be Mrs.
Pooh

C@rainbowchaser2023

Adam ******* shot my mom in the head.
in character, Howie Ratner from the
2019 film Uncut Gems told me
"i hafta! it's in the script! i hafta!"

out of all my nightmares,
there's been worse.

paralyzed,
my heart was a wasp nest
how it buzzed and stirred.
i begged my ribs to crack
and let them flood out.

for what an intrusion of stings could do,
i cannot:
articulate how scared i truly am.

Bark like a rooster, roar like a chicken
Fake those healings till we sicken;
Churchy frenzies, righteous quavers—
Charismaniacs and ravers.
Holy laughs from Howie Browne
Lame libations: drink it down
Until you sprawl on the temple floor
searching for God’s own unlocked door.

(Ntl. Poetry-writing Month 2022, prompt #2)

/                       some people
           walk dogs at night...

i tend to walk
a can of red stripe,

a passionfruit
              rekorderlig bottle,

and the entire
    turn off the dark
album by
    howie b....

  1997...

   come to 2018 via 2017
(obviously)...
  
           why has it been
a year since camila cabello
released
                     habana?

sure, it would be great to
have a dog,
  but...

        i don't like the idea
of a leash...

          and petting cats...
well: you can almost forget about
them,

            and you:
literally infiltrate petting them
with the addition of,
a leash.

I cant go on
Im sorry to leave
Im to weak to cut
So pills it will be
My pain is real
The reminders will never leave
My dad hit me
A car accident too
Its all to much
Im just to low
I get told im lying about the truth
But no one will ever love me like i love you
Here it goes im sorry for the truth
I love you but it wasnt enough
Tell my mom i love her
Tell her to take care of Howie, Angel, and Topaz too
Ill be watching with no hope to move on
If i wake up ill will hope im gone
But i wont tell anyone
Wont be the first time
Leave me here to die
Dont say i didnt try
My heart is broken
My eyes are open
Ive seen enough to want it to end
Goodbye the end