the river flows as
living memory

the birds of the
Nile are its
knowing eyes

fly catchers
ply the rich
delta
probing
sediments
of sand
washed
from
distant
Nubian
mountains
eons
ago

layers of
recollection
go fathoms
deep

shrieking
gulls
plumb the
mud flats
with heroic
persistence
as they did
when the
first rafts
drifted out
of the
Great Rift
ferrying
civilizations
forebears
to the
opening chapters
of world history

the first
seafarers
competed with
greedy spoonbills
to navigate
porous
papyrus
crafts
through
the narrow
channels
of the
Damietta,
transporting
ideas, skills
and goods
to build an
emerging
world

mallards
troll the
same
gentile
eddies that
goaded the
Mother of
All Waters
to float the
basket cradling
Yahweh’s
infant prophet
Musa, into the
loving arms
of Bithiah
who nurtured
the vanquisher
of Osiris’
galleries of
Gods

a litany
of conquests
rolled on the
silver waves
of this river

conquerors
maneuvered
the truculent
currents
like sharp
eyed hawks
skimming the
pliant waters
with well
extended
razor quick
talons
picking the
Nile’s bounty
clean

this fertile
delta remembers
more than
6,000 seasons
of harvests

the
cycles of time
has produced
seasons of plenteous
abundance and
desperate privation
all cleverly exploited
by generations of
fearless herons
who wrangled
the demons
of hardship
to route the
dread of hunger
expelling despair
from the Egyptian
DNA, etching
a new hieroglyph
of freedom onto
survivors hearts

the Niles
sorrows
and glories
perpetually
wash this
magnanimous
delta
surely as
the gentle
wakes
of feluccas
continue
to lap its
shore

the marshes
have not withered

the verdant
reeds prosper

flamingos find
the water
rich in fish

in due
season
the red
lotus will
paint
the arcuate
alluvial
fans in
scarlet
autumnal
hues

In the
Valley of
the Kings
the shadows
of migratory
flocks mark
the foundation
stones of the
pyramids
as they did
when slaves
pushed them
into place

the eternal
lines of
pharaohs
rule has fallen,
their gods
imprisoned
in hieroglyphs
adorning their
royal tombs
on display
in the worlds
museums

the weathered
pyramids continue
to crumble

the face of
the sphinx
withers away

torrents of
blood flowed
in this rivers
currents, now
strained clear
by the reeds
anchoring
its banks

the fleeting
rule of regimes
are pictured
as momentary
reflections
skimming along
the ripppling
water; the
rise and fall
of rulers is
captured like
the shifting hues
sunrises and
sunsets bespeak
upon the waters

the ascending
waves of
the Sacred Ibis
dance atop
the Nile’s gray
waters; the
river jumps
to life as the
graceful wings
take flight
to foreign
destinations;
expecting
to return
again as
the cycles
of seasons
round once
more

as the Nile flows
its memory deepens
the eyes of the birds
watch and remember


Music Selection:
Gary Bartz, I've Known Rivers

Oakland
3/31/12
jbm

There before me stands the cenotaph
of Master Sergent Wilfred Niles
He died of his wounds received
in the battle of Belleau .
He is buried in the soil
near the River Marne , in France
He left behind his mother Maggie
Her only child gone , she's now so bereft
She would die in a few short months
Of a broken heart from grief

Caged organs never sounded so beat
Bone marrow around the brass meat
I'm a toxic lover with love around my waist
And afraid of poisoning, as you taste waste
Cleaning toxins out of my sheets with chemicals.

(commercial break)

Ay-yeah-ya-yeah-yeah
Ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-wa

Breathe me all the ways to stay away
Blood on bathroom tiles that run for miles like crimson Niles
Just stay

Ay-yeah-ya-yeah-yeah
Ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-wa

(Okay, we're back.)

Coals in your cold coat holes
I know you're happy now
I hope you're warm with fingers intertwined
within the future in your ribcage
feel your organs to know you're alive
your heartbeats beat because of a stolen car.
I feel-

(change the station)

Drive me, my baby. I'll turn you out in time. Don't you recognize
you're the only thing I want in sight. I could change your-

(change the station)

You're the one for me. You are my-

(change the station)

I hope you like it like you love it when you should like it because you love it without liking it with loving it within loving and without loving with love and without like because liking is love and love is liking what is liked to be loved within and without. Here's God with the weather.

(change the station)

Green and cotton, that's a lovely chair, I could make love from over there
without a percocet. Un-un-un-un.
Touch the eyes that boil within; you find me nice but I'm not applicable
because I'm a lonely boy without a dog.
And I,
am
God.
And I,
am
God. Nod.

Sugar sweet, silver sweep,
I could touch you in familiar places in unfamiliar ways
I get lost in the boulevard of a sweatshirt
And I,
am
without.
And I,
am
without. Route.

Mhm, that's not a smile,
that's a thirty-foot crocodile
waiting to take a chunk outta my heart.
Art-Art-Art-Art-Art?
******* in separate dreams with the same meaning,
blood boiling in coffee pots and soldiers
without a cover.
Tame me like a child in uniform, from the universe.
Cake drugs like it's an icecream cone. Jesus loves you.
**** in another room
to feel the same.
**** in another mindset
to feel sane. Train.

I'm not a river of veins suffocated by milk skin,
to be without a busted lip is to be kissing without pain.
And to be your God
is to be ******* insane. ******* in a bathub.

Mhm,
you're a painting within a crooked house
inside a straight housewife's flamboyant blouse.
You're sippin' on God and Orange Julius
without a straw.

Ripping out red ribbon rays from rayon replays of a river in ruin
really what did you expect to do with that sort of information
I could cancer caulk chalk with every other walk
to seal your home without home inflammation.

Jesus on a candle clock, with a nail in each hand of the hour
I feel nothing but sugar shame when I sail past his shower.
And I,
am
without remorse.
And I,
am
without remorse. Force.

Candy-coated ***** candidly corroding colored coats into capes
callously creating cowardice,
can you be more?

I have a way to remove myself from great events
and a way to sell lies wrapped up in honest packages.
To be without and which way would you run with me
if I were not a twenty-three
in your eyes,
meteorological decline.

And the winds
carry
me home.
And your eyes
carry
me home.
And your lips
carry
me home.
And your hands
carry
me home.
Home again.

(change the station)

Bone marrow
in my back
touch me, I wanna feel
Give it up
Give it up
I want to make love in love
I want to die and donate
a part of myself
my backbone, lack thereof

(change the station)

Tie a noose around a highschool grad
attach to a college rule to rule how to think the same
because a couple of IDs and free games
help you understand how you understand how you understand
how you understand how you understand how you understand

Dreams.

Whoops.

****.

Two twenty-three inside a church for me because God doesn't have
a responsible doorman, just an abused son and a plot-hole plan.

(change station)

Save the opera for the quiet drinks
I wanna think, I wanna think

(change station)

Sonic tendencies
suicidal sound
My heart is left in a bone,
bone marrow
I'm a broken calcium stick
surrounded by health
I waste away
Waste away for you
Oooh,
I love.

I tried to stay my overstay.

(change the station)

Bronze your lips, I want to kiss you green.
Wait. I could be the best.
Don't walk too far because it feels like walking away.

(change the station)

Super fast
in the past

Long ago in a poultry yard
One dull November morn,
Beneath a motherly soft wing
A little goose was born.

Who straightway peeped out of the shell
To view the world beyond,
Longing at once to sally forth
And paddle in the pond.

"Oh! be not rash," her father said,
A mild Socratic bird;
Her mother begged her not to stray
With many a warning word.

But little goosey was perverse,
And eagerly did cry,
"I've got a lovely pair of wings,
Of course I ought to fly."

In vain parental cacklings,
In vain the cold sky's frown,
Ambitious goosey tried to soar,
But always tumbled down.

The farmyard jeered at her attempts,
The peacocks screamed, "Oh fie!
You're only a domestic goose,
So don't pretend to fly."

Great ****-a-doodle from his perch
Crowed daily loud and clear,
"Stay in the puddle, foolish bird,
That is your proper sphere,"

The ducks and hens said, one and all,
In gossip by the pool,
"Our children never play such pranks;
My dear, that fowl's a fool."

The owls came out and flew about,
Hooting above the rest,
"No useful egg was ever hatched
From transcendental nest."

Good little goslings at their play
And well-conducted chicks
Were taught to think poor goosey's flights
Were naughty, ill-bred tricks.

They were content to swim and scratch,
And not at all inclined
For any wild goose chase in search
Of something undefined.

Hard times she had as one may guess,
That young aspiring bird,
Who still from every fall arose
Saddened but undeterred.

She knew she was no nightingale
Yet spite of much abuse,
She longed to help and cheer the world,
Although a plain gray goose

She could not sing, she could not fly,
Nor even walk, with grace,
And all the farmyard had declared
A puddle was her place.

But something stronger than herself
Would cry, "Go on, go on!
Remember, though an humble fowl,
You're cousin to a swan."

So up and down poor goosey went,
A busy, hopeful bird.
Searched many wide unfruitful fields,
And many waters stirred.

At length she came unto a stream
Most fertile of all Niles,
Where tuneful birds might soar and sing
Among the leafy isles.

Here did she build a little nest
Beside the waters still,
Where the parental goose could rest
Unvexed by any bill.

And here she paused to smooth her plumes,
Ruffled by many plagues;
When suddenly arose the cry,
"This goose lays golden eggs."

At once the farmyard was agog;
The ducks began to quack;
Prim Guinea fowls relenting called,
"Come back, come back, come back."

Great chanticleer was pleased to give
A patronizing crow,
And the contemptuous biddies clucked,
"I wish my chicks did so."

The peacocks spread their shining tails,
And cried in accents soft,
"We want to know you, gifted one,
Come up and sit aloft."

Wise owls awoke and gravely said,
With proudly swelling *******,
"Rare birds have always been evoked
From transcendental nests!"

News-hunting turkeys from afar
Now ran with all thin legs
To gobble facts and fictions of
The goose with golden eggs.

But best of all the little fowls
Still playing on the shore,
Soft downy chicks and goslings gay,
Chirped out, "Dear Goose, lay more."

But goosey all these weary years
Had toiled like any ant,
And wearied out she now replied
"My little dears, I can't.

"When I was starving, half this corn
Had been of vital use,
Now I am surfeited with food
Like any Strasbourg goose."

So to escape too many friends,
Without uncivil strife,
She ran to the Atlantic pond
And paddled for her life.

Soon up among the grand old Alps
She found two blessed things,
The health she had so nearly lost,
And rest for weary limbs.

But still across the briny deep
Couched in most friendly words,
Came prayers for letters, tales, or verse
From literary birds.

Whereat the renovated fowl
With grateful thanks profuse,
Took from her wing a quill and wrote
This lay of a Golden Goose.

Motherhood

Smothering mothering is what she is best at.

Gathering her smattering of children

and racing to grace them with her persistent worship.

Her life is outlined by her finding

new things to admire regarding her juv’niles.

Living and breathing her maternity;

feeding and cleaning and watching and working.

Defined solely by her motherhood.

I Alphonso live and learn,
Seeing nature go astern.
Things deteriorate in kind,
Lemons run to leaves and rind,
Meagre crop of figs and limes,
Shorter days and harder times.
Flowering April cools and dies
In the insufficient skies;
Imps at high Midsummer blot
Half the sun's disk with a spot;
'Twill not now avail to tan
Orange cheek, or skin of man:
Roses bleach, the goats are dry,
Lisbon quakes, the people cry.
Yon pale scrawny fisher fools,
Gaunt as bitterns in the pools,
Are no brothers of my blood,—
They discredit Adamhood.

Eyes of gods! ye must have seen,
O'er your ramparts as ye lean,
The general debility,
Of genius the sterility,
Mighty projects countermanded,
Rash ambition broken-handed,
Puny man and scentless rose
Tormenting Pan to double the dose.
Rebuild or ruin: either fill
Of vital force the wasted rill,
Or, tumble all again in heap
To weltering chaos, and to sleep.

Say, Seigneurs, are the old Niles dry,
Which fed the veins of earth and sky,
That mortals miss the loyal heats
Which drove them erst to social feats,
Now to a savage selfness grown,
Think nature barely serves for one;
With. science poorly mask their hurt,
And vex the gods with question pert,
Immensely curious whether you
Still are rulers, or Mildew.
Masters, I'm in pain with you;
Masters, I'll be plain with you.
In my palace of Castile,
I, a king, for kings can feel;
There my thoughts the matter roll,
And solve and oft resolve the whole,
And, for I'm styled Alphonse the Wise,
Ye shall not fail for sound advice,
Before ye want a drop of rain,
Hear the sentiment of Spain.

You have tried famine: no more try it;
Ply us now with a full diet;
Teach your pupils now with plenty,
For one sun supply us twenty:
I have thought it thoroughly over,
State of hermit, state of lover;
We must have society,
We cannot spare variety.
Hear you, then, celestial fellows!
Fits not to be over zealous;
Steads not to work on the clean jump,
Nor wine nor brains perpetual pump;

Men and gods are too extense,—
Could you slacken and condense?
Your rank overgrowths reduce,
Till your kinds abound with juice;
Earth crowded cries, "Too many men,"—
My counsel is, **** nine in ten,
And bestow the shares of all
On the remnant decimal.
Add their nine lives to this cat;
Stuff their nine brains in his hat;
Make his frame and forces square
With the labors he must dare;
Thatch his flesh, and even his years
With the marble which he rears;
There growing slowly old at ease,
No faster than his planted trees,
He may, by warrant of his age,
In schemes of broader scope engage:
So shall ye have a man of the sphere,
Fit to grace the solar year.

Sargent Wilford Niles
        March 9 , 1888 - June 18 , 1918
          Buried somewhere in France

I gaze into the sullen dreams
I wonder about his shallow age
So far from family and all his friends
Did with God he make amends

What a journey did he make
When he left home he made a stake
Left to go fight in a foreign land
So far from these United States

Only thirty years so long
Thirty Happy Birthdays for a song
He hopped the train and then was gone
And left us wondering , right or wrong

1
Never ever lacking in drama,
since the day he knew her first,
as he races  his car, at breakneck speed
to reach her point of departure,
one last time, right on time,
mind flits to arenas different, in real life,
Shakespearean dramas to Greek tragedies,
from where memories of her come alive.

A maze of roads he sees in front,
they appear from nowhere,
then from all four sides, like other peoples' lives,
come in to contact unawares, run parallel-
for some time, get entangled like serpents in heat,
like it happens after frenzied mating,
quickly get separated as if by post ****** hatred,
then, goes missing for ever, like her,
till the last moment.

2
                                 Though  roads appear divergent,
and destinations seems varied, all roads in the end,
one would understand, converge at one point,
to transcend and dissolve in the embrace of infinity.
The present, past and future the three time frames,
are rivers; clear, dark and hopeful blue they appear,
but all these  Niles, come to the confluence when
the illusion of time vanishes,
then, color doesn't matter, final destination is the same,
there isn't any other.

3
He parked his car at a distance, watched mourners
filing past, a muted lament meandering;
a sluggish python,
slithering slow, after gobbling too much.
Its a ritual, all of them came from far and near,
none he knew was there, an eventful past fully obliterated,
isn't it strange to say the least!
Once played the lead, he is now just  a relic, a stranger,

                                                                              a discordant note

A whole new cast was added later, after his exit,  he learns
here they are, from different places, some flew down,
others took trains, coaches or drove down in cars
as if meticulously planned for a flamboyant farewell
to the queen bee of the hive, who knew how
to rule the kingdom she takes over,
by defeating and trampling on the puny kings .

4
Every queen finally bows out when her part is  fully played,
on the way back his mind was empty like a concert hall,
just after the performers have left; this show packed up midway though.
Can anyone plan, the journey to the point of no return
as a victory lap? He was asking to himself,
At last all stories reach to the same  sad end,
the songs, words, tunes and best laid plans stand changed.
Time is a mirage, but it rules us, it can interfere with the plans
of man.And change everything the way time flows.

It was getting dark, rain  lashed making him drive with
caution, while passion from the days of past
visited him like gusts of wind pushing him backwards.

5
**A thought murmured in his ears, like a beetle,
with her memories dancing in the background.
" One needs to drive slow, look around,
hear the hum of the wind in the ears,
and when it rains, let the water wash and heal,
feel contended, move on with the sun,
tomorrow is another day"

they calling me styles
i got flows like the niles
these rappers roll a couple bars
I spit a couple miles
they Upper case "C"
I move with old G
while they moving the crowd
I'm touring over see's
making everyone sees me
like they looked at CD's
They do it for the likes
I do it cause its me, just being me
these tired MC's raps got me catching three Z's
these haters got bitter looks in their eyes
like they just caught them some ******
you got me? yeah - hater please
they should just stop trippin
and swallow these !!!

One more
     every night just
                    one more.

my veins protrude a thin layer of skin
called the back of my hand
rivers of blood that I was shocked
to find are a very deep purple.
     What does that mean?
     Has my blood given up on me?
     Refused to bubble red and
     thunder through my Nile?
I saw the Nile during winter
and witnessed first hand how
its once thriving forget-me-not
blue has turned the murkiest
of brown.
It was very sad really.
Crocodiles replaced with stumps
of driftwood or perhaps
dead Egyptian bodies growing moss.
The Nile -the shadow of Cairo’s Gotham City-
     It was too cold to dip my feet in
     and I think even if it wasn’t I
     wouldn’t have done it really.
     It’s too scary.
Almost a waste of space I
have a feeling the Egyptians will
soon deal with that.
But right now like all rivers
I guess it must flow.
Injected with steamboats and pesticides
its waves subside to
a slowest of slow pace.
And it smells like a *****.

One more
     every night just
                    one more.

so that when I close my eyes
I see purple Niles in my dreams
leaking through half-closed eyelids
that move so swiftly I
wake up to blood stained sheets
even though razors are
locked in drawers along with
the many other horrors tucked away
neatly in a box, locked,
     who said we were all Pandora?
     If Prometheus was an idiot it
     Doesn’t mean I am. Keep something
     That good to yourself.
But wow what an idiot –there’s no point
fearing a recurring doom-
the mythological liar and thief
who took humanity a step forth and
then a million back.
we would’ve figured it out sooner or later…
or don’t people look at the bigger picture?
     What else would we have held
     under flattened aluminum?    

One more
     every night just
                    one more.

What happened to Marty's sofa?
Did Eddie find love too?
Was Roz the best boss ever?
Niles, Daphne, David and...?


Cafe Nervosa turned into a cat cafe?
What happened to the tossed salad and scrambled eggs?

Oh... Oh...Oh

Oh Frasier,
Why did you leave the building?

As the sun in the day brings heat and light
As the moon shines with cool ray at night
As the herbs work to bring magical heal
Thy poetry walk amongst people with zeal
Approving deep feeling, beauty and grace
Exploring rich humanity's lost all trace
To waken up all the souls sleeping deep
To prepare them to fight the fates creep
To drain their unfathomable Niles of pain
To empower 'em and to free from chain
Let the poetry flow as the blood flows
Let in thy respiration love and joy glow
Thou hath to use the last drop of the ink
To write the last poem make people think.

I’m tired of these poems that talk
About dissolving in to the bed together
About spaceships on the ceiling
And dust on your forearms
I’m tired of these poems-
And tired of the crushing weight-
These poems that talk about love
As if it’s something we can taste
Or touch or smell or melt or dissolve
Or fly or crash or destroy ourselves into
I’m tired of these metaphors
The double entendres
The verses
The prose
The ulterior motive to sleep
With the girl next door

Stop talking about love likes it’s tangible
Like it’s something you can find
In the creases of your sheets
Or the pores on your skin
Like it’s something you can hear
In the tone of his voice
Or the pitch of her laugh

Stop looking outside
Stop telling her she’s an ocean
Stop comparing him to a rain storm
Stop howling your stanzas on rooftops
When they leave you
Stop expecting for the wind to be there
Love does not exist in the air
Or in your heart

Love exists when you learn how to-
When existing becomes the only thing you love
When you stop setting yourself on fire
To keep him warm at night
When you stop letting her freeze you
Just so she can keep you there

Enough of your Nerudas
Your moons
Your suns
Your mountains
Your stars
Your inhabitable forests
Your deserts
Your fires
Your oceans
Your seas
Your lakes
Your rivers
Your Niles
Your Paris
Your talk of good destruction

I have seen them throw their voices in to caves
Desperately wanting to hear an echo

Toss aside your shallow skin and knee deep words
So you can no longer hurt and no longer drown

Me thinks the reaper be, not too far behind.
A specter not foreboding, his deeds not all unkind.

Did I ever tell you my loathsome friend of what has yet to be?
The falling of your heavens and the boiling of your sea.

How the dead will not suffer the living to pass.
Or how the sun will scorch your fields of grass.

The dogs of war will howl when the moon turns to blood.
Screams of woe will die in vain in black volcanic mud.

Anubis will awaken to drink of the Niles tears.
While Odin's in Valhalla, where he'll stay for many years.

These events they will transpire and there's one thing you can do.
You can have a drink and dance my friend, accept you are the fool.

No summer breeze to quell your pain no balm left Gilead.
You are but a Hector in that cursed book the Iliad.

There is a thing you can try but this task you mustn't botch.
I can't stop the earth from splitting but could you get for me a scotch?
On the rocks.
No lime.

Isn't it world enough and time to tell that this reading of the last minutes splits my soul and mind....?
Crawling on its feets to rise,
Gnashing on its teeth to raise,
The un-step foot became stepped, harbouring around the Sahara desert of open Heaven and he'll.

The breeze beckons the trees to stand still,
The wind hummed slowly silently in unison;
And here the chemistry, and flesh, in God's wisdom unfold that we live to leave....!

The twinkling of the Stars,  the cloud and the crying of a nightingale are both meaningful in the silent day!
The grace that took us together seems falling, and the strength is no more;
The Love that chained us together seems lost and the hug is no more. We all travelling an unlawful trip and time consuming often time in often hours.


Where is the road that leads my way?
Where is the bridge that leads across the Niles? For my day today have embittered with interlace wet of nature's spit. Breathing in a maniac struggle of soul, invisibly transfigure without pressure the strength left her alone descended beneath the lower layer of the universe taken dominion of realm shadows of darken emblem and thus, the realm conceived the ghost-child with no words to utter.

Who else knew?


Buried with anger that was in her and the hidden things which uttered not, here she became a guest in the other corner of the universe during the sudden Shaft of the moonlight when the breeze speaks the air of the morning dew.

While the dust moves, behold she cried out for help on which way to be led ere her serading steps gently hurl her soul in the shading shrine of mourning.

The heart set in a blue-shape,
The duration lost its Harmony and pitch, the hectic street drifting back home to where it belong.

Of all what she had laboured for couldn't go along, as it is in contrast with the pitch and harmony. The infant baby crying of uncaring. Alas it's Mother, its Mother sudden exit sentence the acolyte to slumber.
"Good night! I mean, good bye or bad bye my baby. It wasn't my fault I left you this way. Perhaps, I have wrong the world. However, time to tell is same as one time to know. Between us I hope there's a Carven of silence begging to be part by the sadden sound of sorry falling from my lips, while a glass wall devouring rage and hurt hurled from my throat as you lying still with a  frown on your face...!

a sixty four year old married bloke
born January 13th, mcmlix
under Capricorn sign in general,
and January 13th in particular
who dons online personage
with custom (think
swiftly tailored harried styled)
made poetic raiment cloak.

With my scrunched  
and bushy furrowed brow
I often ponder precise circumstances
that linkedin yours truly to be born
tracing back lineage of self
or arbitrary individual
unpredictable as the dow
reckoning a series of events
sustained life similar
to sowing seed of corn

ruminating fragile nascent organism
at the mercy of fate flourished and how
taxing me mind how each score
composed for each
to toot their own horn
aware that just slightest
off beat fluke determined
from millennia ago or now
that particular organism –
whether one celled entity

or beings that can mourn
the loss of kindred members –
food for thought
for able bodied/minded bard,
who pledged marital vow
like this poet, whose presence
a mere fluke of circumstances possibly torn
at any point in distant past
rendering me absent,
and hence unable to utter wow
evincing expression care worn.

At what crap shoot of circumstances
wrought Matthew Scott Harris to be
cognizant of the self
and world wide web
or follow threads back in time,
albeit not more than
a couple generations –
whereby emigrants did flee
from supposed Eastern European swath
in general finding thyself to rhyme
for no reason,  just as other creatures
great or small occupy themselves with glee

or just groveling along
at bare ***** knuckle existence
without a dime
less apt to own luxury  
how **** sapiens
purportedly evolved from monkey,
whereby harsh ill fate
tempts them into life of crime,
when perhaps riches
with kingly figures
loomed large in their family tree
begat courtesy making whoopie.

A genealogical limb
branching off way back
when back in the day
glorious personalities
populated genealogy to boot
twisting a tortured destiny
somewhere o'er the rainbow
along Yellow Brick Road way
setting stage for rags when
once August ancestry buried in loot
yet tis quite frivolous
to bemoan present woes or even pray
to win lottery turning attention
to how like our ancestral gingko

or Geico gecko newt
dwelling in rich primordial
egg drop soup
wantonly in massive bay
inexorably transformed
(by dint of dice throw)
per flora to take root
as well fauna to mutate
into species and genus
trumpeting horns heard
signaling Santa Claus
in his trademark red suit
on land to assay.

Punctuated equilibrium
first proposed by
and Niles Eldredge in 1972
gave rise to variety
to an assortment of animals and plants
perhaps also contemplating genetic grants
this one speck of flotsam
in particular owned
a passion for contra dance,
whereby others from massive beasts
to microscopic organisms
scurry hither and yon to and fro
essentially to be alive for lifetime,
nevertheless a mere blink of an eye
all due (in my view) to chance
to self taught amazing uncles and aunts.

born January 13th, mcmlix
under Capricorn sign.

With my scrunched  
and bushy furrowed brow
I often ponder precise circumstances
that linkedin yours truly to be born
tracing back lineage of self
or arbitrary individual
unpredictable as the dow
reckoning a series of events
sustained life similar
to sowing seed of corn

ruminating fragile nascent organism
at the mercy of fate flourished and how
taxing me mind how each score
composed for each
to toot their own horn
aware that just slightest
off beat fluke determined
from millennia ago or now
that particular organism –
whether one celled entity

or beings that can mourn
the loss of kindred members –
food for thought
for able pledge marital vow
like this poet, whose presence
a mere fluke of circumstances possibly torn
at any point in distant past
rendering me absent,
and hence unable to utter wow
evincing expression care worn.

At what crap shoot of circumstances
wrought Matthew Scott Harris to be
cognizant of the self
and world wide web
or follow threads back in time,
albeit not more than
a couple generations –
whereby emigrants did flee
from supposed Eastern European swath
in general finding thyself to rhyme
for no reason,  just as other creatures
great or small occupy themselves with glee

or just groveling along
at bare ***** knuckle existence
without a dime
less apt to own luxury  
how **** sapiens
purportedly evolved from monkey,
whereby harsh ill fate
tempts them into life of crime,
when perhaps riches
with kingly figures
loomed large in their family tree
begat courtesy making whoopie.

A genealogical limb
branching off way back
when back in the day
glorious personalities
populated genealogy to boot
twisting a tortured destiny
somewhere o'er the rainbow
along Yellow Brick Road way
setting stage for rags when
once August ancestry buried in loot
yet tis quite frivolous
to bemoan present woes or even pray
to win lottery turning attention
to how like our ancestral gingko

or Geiko gekko newt
dwelling in rich primordial
egg drop soup
wantonly in massive bay
inexorably transformed
(by dint of dice throw)
per flora to take root
as well fauna to mutate
into species and genus
trumpeting horns heard
signaling Santa Claus
in his trademark red suit
on land to assay.

Punctuated equilibrium
first proposed by
and Niles Eldredge in 1972
gave rise to variety
to an assortment of animals and plants
perhaps also contemplating genetic grants
this one speck of flotsam
in particular owned
a passion for contra dance,
whereby others from massive beasts
to microscopic organisms
scurry hither and yon to and fro
essentially to be alive for lifetime,
nevertheless a mere blink of an eye
all due (in my view) to chance
to self taught amazing uncles and aunts.