Terry Maguire was fond of a fire.
He was a kilnman in days of yore.
But not he's changed to drawing cream
To Tugmans of Teemore.  

When Terry gets up in the morn'
he eats his crumbs.
He tackles the mare,
There's no time to spare
Till he reaches Doonans and Gunns

And when he reaches Tugmans
He's in an awful plight.  
He says "Be jeepers the horse is mad,
I'll not get home tonight."

There were ***** carts and horses carts
And carts from all around
But none to compare with Terry Maguire
The pride of sweet Milltown
(author Gerry/Shem Gunn)

They’d found him, emaciated and tick-ridden,
Down near the docks on Smith Boulevard,
Surrounded by several fellow tabbies
Possessed of the apparent inclination to disregard any taboo
Enjoining them from enjoying one of their own as a hors d’oeuvre.
He’d weighed no more than eight pounds or so,
Closer to six if you scraped off the mats and vermin,
But he’d gotten over that in short order,
As his diet consisted of fried chicken livers
And any bits of tuna sandwich his owner might leave lying about
(Though Jerry Kiley was not a small man himself,
And philosophically opposed to the notion of leftovers as well)
So before long he became utterly Falstaffian
(As Father Maguire from Sacred Heart tut-tutted,
Why, that tom is three stone if he’s an ounce;
He gets any larger, and I’ll have to insist
You kick another two bits into the plate)
And Kiley had to fashion him a bed from a milk crate
Buttressed with sheet metal
Taken from a vat at the old Beverwyck Brewery.

He’d lived well (Better ‘n me, Jerry often lamented)
Though too well, perhaps,
And he’d fallen prey to the maladies of the leisure classes:
Gout, diabetes, a wheezing which sounded for all the world
Like distant cows lowing in a fairly stiff breeze.
The vet had given him any number of pills and potions,
But it all was no match for his appetite,
And he’d ended up taking the gas before he turned five.

It was decided, in the course of conversation and consolation
At the North Albany legion post bar,
That such a kind and devoted soul
Deserved a send off befitting a noble gent.
A collection was scraped together in short order,
And a viewing-***-wake took place at Jack’s Lunch
(Just up Broadway from Jerry’s place.)
Vittles Tuomi made a jerry-built coffin
Fashioned from the now-vacant cat bad,
And John Itzo snagged some fake flowers and a crepe-paper bird
From the brim of his wife’s old hat
(They being perched on a can of tuna soldered to the box
With the intent of nourishing him on his trip to the afterlife,
Jes’ like the pharaohs, according to Vittles.)
As the services progressed, some of the boys floated the notion
That the guest of honor should (under the cover of darkness, natch)
Be interred at St. Patricks, but Father Maguire,
Attending the do as the feline’s ex officio spiritual advisor,
Gently reminded the prospective pallbearers
That His Grace the Bishop had denied burial in consecrated ground
For lesser offenses, and it was finally decided that burial
(It was assumed that he’d been responsible
For an unknown number of progeny, and it was also rumored
That he had a brother or twelve up in Watervliet)
Would be private and at the convenience of the family.

Maguire said: "Help me to help you!"
desperate measures
loud voices vie for unholy green
human bleeding punching bags
shaken brain, dulling wits, eye blur.
What's it all for? Gawd almighty dollar...
Better? A ten o'clock scholar.

I've won a day at the races
For me and my friend Doreen Maguire
Posh frocks and new hats
That's what we require.

So off we go shopping
Hair and nails done on the way
Well we girls want to lookj our best
For the big race day.

Now Doreen's buxom and curvy
Me I'm thin as a latt
Or you could say slim and slender
And Doreen's just fat.

We went in loads of shops
Nothing seemed to fit the bill
Everything was kind of frumpish
And we're definitly not over the hill.


Then we came accross this shop
In a side street in the town
It's called Reds Closet Boutique
And we both came out with a gown.

We got fascinators to match
Shoes, accessories and bags too
Doreen got something in pink
I got something in blue.

It was the day of the races
We were up with the lark
Had our lunch at Tom and Jerry's
Then off to Haydock Park.

The horses are under starters orders
And I'd backed the grey
Well it came home last
But it was winning all the way.

Now we came to the last race
And we're digging deep in our pocket
Doreen said put it on this
It's called Super Rocket.

Well it romped hom at 50/1
This horse called Super Rocket
And me and Doreen Maguire
Went home with brass in our pocket.

© Hazel

Maguire & Patterson
never came to terms
with it, died without
a testimony, they did.

Open casket, stiff as
pokers and bald as a
pair of boiled eggs,
they are!

The dampness got to
them it's endemic, but at
least they get their last wish
to be cremated, they will!

R.

20 Years, capital H, honesty. Corporate career, fast
is the future. She was 19, my Maguire moment in life,
& then lost Ashley... I am not a poet, advertising before
you get lost in your world. Widowed at 20, maiden voyage. Back in life, I design my own live- models.

Here is where we are, pictures, by a railtrack, sun of a
golden brightness. A shock to my system, gone in one
centon, what is the minute man? I am not a career poet,
I live in another century. She and I are there, here, I
blame her death on the tunnel, built perhaps in prefab.

Me, you?
A pile of stew?
A dinner for two?
A side of verbal spew?
Oh, ****.
I picked up sticks
and allowed my mind
to create you different.
You scare me.
Wine in hand
I make weird plans
I use rope and some vinegar too.

Brain cloud, said Joe to his volcano
erupts inside Meg Ryan
"Where are you?"

Tobey Maguire cries rivers
His ***** is this big.

Go deeper for truth
Go deeper for answers
Let's swell and burst.
Spanish for "**** me".

help mi help you jerry maguire you piece of *****

we are all puzzles
wanting to be solved

but we are always
missing pieces

that can’t be found

frustrating each other
because we can never

actually be completed

D.T.:
Joseph Maguire.° Who the hell
Does he think he is?
As DNI, to share the truth,
He thinks the task is his.
To work for me--Donald Trump--
Anyone should see
That I expect--above all else--
Loyalty to me.

By now everybody should know
That things must go my way.
If they don't, you know there
Is going to be hell to pay.
When your biggest fans and supporters
Believe that you are royal,
Then anyone who disagrees
With you is being disloyal.

So what if various agencies
Find that there's a connection
Between the Russian government and
Our 2020 election.
When they give their intel briefings,
To them it should be clear
That such information is not
What I want to hear!

(Chorus)
A national security threat?
Sorry, Uncle Sam.
You can say we're under attack,
But I don't give a ****.
Our intelligence agencies
Think they're being precise.
But frankly I would much prefer
To follow Putin's advice.

The less that Congress knows the better
It is for all of us.
Election meddling is a topic
I choose not to discuss.
I will give the position to
My lackey, Richard Grenell.
He will do my bidding, and so
Sorry, Maguire: farewell.

I have friends in Congress who
Defend me to the hilt.
Nunes°° will do whatever I ask
And not feel any guilt.
We can weaponize the intel
Community and manage
That we make sure it's used for my
Political advantage.

(Chorus)
A national security threat?
Sorry, Uncle Sam.
You can say we're under attack,
But I don't give a ****.
Our intelligence agencies
Think they're being precise.
But frankly I would much prefer
To follow Putin's advice.

-by Bob B (2-21-20)

°Director of National Intelligence (DNI)
°°U.S. Representative for California's 22nd District

I discovered during the power
outage, that the hole in the bread
board, was not for the thumb, as
had previously been assumed.

Beneath the floral plastic coated
table cloth which draped like the
skirt of a hovercraft directly on to
our knees, was a storage compartment.

Immediately after the lights failed,
the old granny, who's permanent
position it was, at the side, pulled the
drawer fetching a big red greased candle.

Before I had blinked, a box of Maguire
and Patterson black matches landed
beside her, team work, uncle **** knew
exactly where they were on the mantlepiece.

First, there was the a click, then, the
smell of sulphur when the tiny twig in
her hand illuminated the room as she
relayed the flame on to the waiting wick.

A hole in one, in the dark too, she went
on about her business as though nothing
had happened. **** said, the worst thing that
ever happened to this country, was the electric city.

Boonsboro is also blue
1837
Villanova's Kevin
In Charlotte Dr. Maguire

I wait to go postal
Need to read indeed
Yo estudio
My chance y my desire

I asked for mystery
So I now give thanks
River Eden mist
In Tokyo the train

37 and 72
Ever ancient, Ever new
Still not sure what to do
Adam Raised a Cain

               !

Okay, let's start from the beginning and see what happens.
uh, I was born January 31st, 2000. That makes me an iGen or Gen Z.
What that has to do with who I am, I have no idea.
I've been told that my spirit animal is a Magpie.
It's unknown to me how that defines my personality
as I have never really let anyone enter into the threshold of my life,
for when I let them, they are there just to wipe their feet on my welcome mat and hurry off to someplace more important.

My list of hobbies include oversleeping, drinking more than eating, having philosophical existential conversations with the voices in my head, stargazing on the ground, and always reminding myself that I have overstayed my welcome. I love music when I cannot play an instrument, rewatching the same shows and animes because I know the endings and can skip to my favorite parts.

I love smoothies, blueberries, pomegranates, and black licorice. Like, a lot. I can't stand the existence of styrofoam, embarrassing comedy, and  country and rap music that has no meaning. I hate when media that portrays light of serious topics, the fact I will never fully believe in myself, and that bad things happen to the best of people, and I hate that I can't trust others.

I'm scared of four things: heights, medicine, myself -especially behind closed doors-, and being happy. I've learned not to be afraid of the unknown, because life without uncertainty, is also uncertain so why try to avoid it? Being afraid is wanting to travel the galaxy but never leaving your doorstep.

I'd say I’m a hopeless romantic that doesn't know how to be romantic. Moreover, I am waiting to fall in love. I am not exactly waiting to be in love as that comes with hardships, disagreements, breakups, the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, but that's just me being pessimistic, knowing that no one will want to love me in that way.  

I genuinely believe I will never find love as I fear happiness. I fear the other shoe dropping, the plot twist that comes with my series of unfortunate events, and I suppose that is why I ruin every  relationship I've been in. I sabotage every possibility by not saying enough, by lying about myself, taking actions too far and turning myself into my inner demons in order to avoid the pity and shame by being the scapegoat.

But I’m waiting for the fall, the moment I look into a girl's eyes and be completely vulnerable, knowing that she is the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. To understand the secret of happiness on a park bench with Sean Maguire.

I suppose that's why I am terrified of heights, but still wish to go skydiving. Not for reasons most people do it. But for the Fate of it, to see the world from a distance and for that moment to relinquish all my inhibitions and just... live, per chance to be. That's why its called falling I suppose, because when you fall, everything you are thinking of vanishes and it is just that moment of falling with nothing you can do. To have the die cast. No scrambling for any purchase or refuge to save you. Or that's how I imagine it.

I'd say I'm a sucker for a girl with a cute smile, curly hair, and a laugh that makes me weak-kneed. I don't know what love is exactly but would love to give it a shot, to end up loving something more than myself, which with all things being, it’s not that much to begin with. I am oblivious to any kind of flirtation that doesn't have the specific words "I'm into you" in it, and I have no clue how to ask a girl out on a date because the girls I have crushes on don't even know I exist.

I'm an audiophile, meaning I like sounds, like a nice breeze though a grove, the roar of a waterfall and even silence, but I can't handle the sound of people. I'm a self-diagnosed sociopath because I've watched death walk away without shedding a tear. I am broken beyond fragments and avoid therapists with my life. I believe I will never find love because you first have to love yourself enough.

I am nobody's "person". I'm the student at the back of the class with the only time their name is spoken of is roll call. I get surprised by notifications, compliments, and the sound of my name telegraphing through the air. For this, I have trust issues, because hearing my name on the top of another's tongue is a symbol of necessity, a god-like power of convenience. And I know that if I disappeared tomorrow, very few to none would miss me as I explore into the unknown and I know I would then have more friends there than I do now.

I have the number 1-800-273-8255 imprinted on my hippocampus and the constant urge to explore sky at terminal velocity. I'm a botched suicide attempt wrapped in scars of doubt, insecurity and self hate, crippled from speaking by a nation who raised me by the terms equal to that of "grow a pair", "get over it", and "men don't cry"

I have a fear of being healthy from medicine, from the memory of a handful of pills, the euphoria to have all pain stripped away, the memory of being the ghost in just another machine, the definition of the words "Let Go." said by 7 demons canonized as opioids, being found by the man in black I met at the cross roads of rock bottom and a 17 story ledge asking where my father's hydrocodone went. And I, wanting to, with every tear stained fault lines, with every choked cry, with every false answer to the question "Are you okay?", to tell the truth rather than blaming my brother's drug addict friends needing their high.

I have a mentality fueled by spite and because of it, a versatile perspective. I know the moment I feel happy, the other shoe will drop. Just let me show you the collar choking my neck and the leash carried by hope, hanging me in a tree in front of a lynch mob of flowers bouquets and second dates. I never wish upon others of the things I've seen for they would lack the tolerance void of compassion and happenstance, to know how to try your best always, yet never be good enough in their own eyes.  

Hi. My name is Jon, not spelled with a H.
I love listening windows down to loud music, exploring odd thrift shops, laughing until my lungs hurt, and watching sunsets.
I don't talk about myself as much as I should and I don't like my own smile. I lie without knowing the truth and have light speed thoughts, but never enough courage to voice 'em.
I like being alone, but I don't like being lonely.
I believe that there is a God out there and I know he/she/they/it is rooting for me because nobody is going to live my life for me, so I might as well live it for myself.

No truer shpake ever shpoken.

Which is why there are no windows in Casino’s.
We do and did feel guilty for not participating
in life. But we never killed a shadow by turning
off the light or left a thirst unquenched by an
open fire and we sang when it was our turn and made
our road home by the longest way round talking
to every dog on the pavement and illuminating our
faces with Maguire and Patterson’s red heads.
But what is more important than all of that is we
are still here because the same now dangles on
the pendulums of eternal dreamers. Sure what
could be wrong with that?