I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic: I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an eighteen-inch waist because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
having to choose
between eating and breathing with not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a thirty-nine inch bust and three times the forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine squeezed to a three, spending
three to nine avoiding mealtime because my weight loss book says
'Don't eat.'
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic, but...
I'm not plastic.
I've sat here listening while you complain about society but I don't think you realize that
society is made by you.
You complain about masks but you're masked by your poetry and
trust me,
it's trendy:
Psychiatry.
A bottle of capsules captures your soul and your dreams,
fading
reality.
I cannot be defined because a definition leaves no room for change and I
am a flame,
ready to burn the cardboard box of priority you put over me.
All the cool kids are lesbians and thespians on about repressions
and I care,
I do,
I mean... I'm standing here among you.
But words are just air.
You can stand on this stage and tell me I'm beautiful, but
I am more than my face so
disregard my mild distaste for your
inspirational speech.
Now, this...
This isn't a call for help.
This is a call to arms.
This
is a battle cry because
I
am sick of waiting for a future that should've happened yesterday.
So use this air to live the words you say and
rally.
Do not soothe, because we've already been cocooned by soothed reality in
Shawnee,
Johnson County.
I'm a real girl,
in a real world.
Life's fantastic, and I
refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
a neck moulded perfectly for both eating and breathing so I don't have to choose.
I refuse to be plastic,
a bust that you don't need to be sizing
when I've got eyes
a green not of romanticized meadows but of drunken
puke.
I refuse to be plastic,
a size nine foot in a size nine shoe,
spending three to nine
enjoying my meal times,
because my weight loss book is
chucked down the chute.
I'm a living girl
in a beautiful world.
Life's fantastic,
because I'm not plastic.

Wait a minute Black man
If I understand you right
Theres an enemy you fight
Whose skin is light, and grips you tight

So you’re stuck in the hood
Misunderstood, drugged up, junked out and up to no good
he throws you in jail, for the same **** the ****** man gets out on bail

Paying 250 dollars were his biggest fears ,
While you don’t even sweat
12 generations of slavery; two fifty years.
So I ask…………………..

Why do you …….swallow promises from a….. promise breaker?
What makes you……. think you can receive life from a…. life taker?
These words are
nothing new,
its all in the family
Death IS Uncle Sam’s Nephew
Poverty his Cousin and Exploitation his brother
I want to cut ‘em from the *** of, yes, hypocrisy his Mother.

So when I look at this country and say “your mothers a *****”
Don’t get me wrong I mean nothing more
I’ve just figured out what my history’s for

So when I say “wait a minute Black man”, once more
What I’m really saying this for
What I really mean, is that you and me
We got a common enemy
The ***** of America—Hypocrisy.

I’m trying to say that I am not numb to where you’re coming from
For I’ve been there too
You thought I was another ******* hypocrite
HaHa The jokes on you

Cause I can see the invisible hand that guides the economics of life and death
Of hearts I break
And of breath’s I take
Of dreams I make
And the money I rake

I am no fool, there is no wool over my eyes
I am no tool to my peoples own demise
250 years under the yoke
But exterminated I will not be
Forever a thorn in the side of hypocrisy

So when I say “wait a minute Black man” for the 3rd time
This is what I want you to hear from me
Do not fornicate with that ***** hypocrisy
And beget children who will forever be
Just out of reach of the American dream

But most importantly, and especially to those like me
Those called the Penobscot, Mohawk, Seminole and Shawnee
Forget about your reparations,
Uncle Sam’s bank account has been emptied
The collateral was truly……trails of tears and Cherokees
And to demand from one man that which he took from another man is Hypocrisy

So when I say “wait a minute Black man” for the 4th time
Hear this,
40 acres and a mule promised you are still mine.
Native American heritage boils in my blood, but you can’t feel it
If I ink it on my sleeve, you neglect to see it

But the EARTH is ours, and a globe will show it
Theres a place called Africa, of this you know it

Lets you and I take a boat ride
across the sea
Fight on one more front in the war on Hypocrisy

Liberate your people unto whats entitled them
Let’s stop losing brothers to the lust of gems
This precious piece of our earth, this is where it ends

It’s still a rock, a stone
We’ll go back home,
halt the broken hearts and bones
that are caused by the greedy man
Who forces the needy man
To dig speedy through the sand
And find the tedious ingredients that make wedding bands
For the mother of the man who forged this plan
For hypocrisy and her favorite son, Uncle Sam

We shall raise our voices and object every time she marries
We shall, without remorse, abort every fetus she carries

A poets weapons are metaphors and similes
With these we can forever be, thorns in the side of hypocrisy.

The slant-eyed
giant hunter
people of Tsul Kalu
came in peace

To become
the central universe
Cherokee white elders
hereditary priests
teaching peace

Winged rattlesnake
constellation
of time untime

Singing the death song

Sacred spirits
animal, plant, herb and tree

The wheel
what is, will be

(The ancient Chinese were
the greatest astronomers.

Later in the 1400's their
massive treasure fleets
mapped the World

The Yuki, Navajo, Apache,
Yuchis, Ming **, Melungeons,
Shawnee (Oceanye **), Sioux,
Cree Ojibuwa and Moskoke
have Chinese ancestors
some claimed to be Chinese

European explorers told of
elders speaking Chinese
ancient Chinese artefacts
and wrecked junks seen

History as taught might
be but a fairytale)

The slam poet in cords, in denim,
rambles from neon beer haven
to flybuzz brothel, cracking quiet
jokes about soup to shiny junebugs
in the relentless moonlight.
One hundred dollars in thirty-five bills
slowly retreat from wallet
toward water-cut whiskey.
He’s got a chapbook widely
available at frozen yogurt shops
across the metro; he’s got a
tour in the works, tri-county,
every middle school from
Shawnee to Seminole; he’s
got a collection of ex-girlfriends,
made up almost entirely of wizened lesbians;
he’s got an MFA from UNC Wilmington,
and he shouts this more than speaks this
from his treacherous barstool to the sleepy bartender.
One of the girls, she takes him upstairs,
and to her he says, Your freckles—islands
in the sea of your milk-white skin.

The night passes, warehouses are razed,
and he watches the loft apartments emerge.
The food trucks come. He parks beside them,
typing poems made to order out of his trunk. The
money flows in, crumpled and sweaty and
in one-dollar denominations. The Old Fashions
transfigure into Old English. And in his pocket
thesaurus he looks for a word. It’s not vagrant,
nor vagabond. It’s not homeless, nor wayward.
He lies in the long shadow of a Midwestern sunset,
starved and shaking. Up from the blackened
city shrubs comes an indifferent breeze and
just as he thinks the word Pauper, he dies one
on the corner of 23rd and Western.

Okeh, three ways, in the opening pitch,
the plan is novel, in itself. Okay, ok, si yes da ja.
We know, we do this part,
as words in mind, nada mas, a thought caught
as a poesy fallen star,
from Lawrence Kansas, not too far from
Shawnee Mission,
now that the meme and its meaning meet once
more, realizing a time kept hidden, for fear
of believing more than a Marvel Mind,
straight from first edition, Boom, era, of fully
Disneyfied American Mind, sponsored by
Mattel its swell
and Mars Candy Company and other child aimed ads,
though there was this unaffiliated

- channel, I was about to say, of course
- groove, rut, a grave - with its ends kicked out,
Can you
Imagine, he said that
amen?
and we all agreed at once, and what do you know,
there is a mind in the grand linkage system,
forged from ice by iron plows,
balance demands, optimum life on earth calls
the call to us all, be the thorny issue ye be
ye nanifestations of Romans 8, taken in minds
conjoining to attain, peace made
for temperature equilibrium,
just right…
think of it from an angelic anthro-myth-ledged being,
see the book of life talk to you, and say,
look, man, we made it, and we made it back.

But unless the temperature is going up, we failed.
Try again,
but no war this time. That's proven too self willed
a thing to give children premade.

My stick men were all Audie Murphy, when I was six.

$50 and your hand in mine
Singing Jason Aldean when we hit the state line
Back country roads running through little towns
Your voice half a whisper when you'd tell me to slow down

And I can remember it all
Like it was yesterday
But I can't tell you if I want it to fade

We stopped at Shawnee Springs just to sip apple cider
Standing in the rain but that didn't seem to matter
I can remember still the sweet taste on your lips
And my mouth still begs for one more kiss

And I can remember it all
Like it was yesterday
But I can't tell you if I want it to fade

The world hath gone back to the time of the ancient Romans as I noticed man doth get his sick kicks out of seeing another murdered, beaten, robbed, violence guru's!!! These beasts I seeith art what thou calleth humans, yes humans!!!
As in the last few days I've really been thinking of what man hath done to this rock ( I'm just visiting until mine return home). How he hath barred it with fences. How he hath blundered it by poison, bombs, weapons, disease, hate, no love to be found other than only in a few left....  See I live in these apartments, with a river behind me. With trees All around me and a river behind mine apartments ...and the river hast islands around it going back to the time of the Shawnee Indians also known as Miami Indians.... I hear those heavenly birds outside mine window daily and I see the beautiful greenery wrapping around mine building... Than I go down to the river and see how amazing the beauty is other than the disgusting brown river created by beast's chemicals dumped into it by the glass factory down the road that shoots up million miles worth of smoke!!! Anyways back to story... I hear those God created birds hum for me daily.. And all the little creatures I feed just down below our porch.... Cats, racoon's, squirrels, possoms, skunks, sometimes coyote, all creatures.... Than I think of what man is doing... Destroying mine green land.. Destroying our weather.. Governments using ( DARPA) governmental agency that controls weather) to control weather and bring storms in thy humans only planet to take care of!!! As man dirties Rivers...  Smokes the sky with pollutant molecules... And poison's the water and their own people whilst controlling those people , I canst help but to feel indignation...as thee humans doth haveth. Though God whispers to me and said to me...

Son,

It shalt all be renewed soon.
No more men's hurt to their planet
Not their brothers
sisters
Moms
Dads
Lovers....

It shalt all be made pure soon
Mine child...

As at the time I smiled
And said
I know father
I know..

Just seeing that dumb red hat
gives me the Heebeejeebees,
the Holy Camoleys,
I get the *******,
the John B. Scrotes,
I feel Ben Carsoned,

as if I've been Rogered in my sleep
by Quasimodo & then been forced
to pleasure the Seven Dwarfs,

I have the shivers,
I plead repugnance,
I share the odium,

I experience that near frenzied disgust
as left by a cold slug traversing one's
naked arm in the dank moonlight,

when that oh so ridiculous red tractor
hat is worn by men who have
chauffeurs & bejeweled
golf carts,
& look like a fat cat's fantasy
of a fat cat,

to Make America Great Again for that matter
maybe you have to go as far back as Sitting Bull,
Red Cloud, the Shawnee, herds of bison,
counting coup, & eagle-feather headdresses,

Making America Great Again does not in any
way involve Leroy from the hills feeling better
about his race or Donald J. Trump coming
forth as some sort of Poor Man's Moses.

I hate that stupid hat!

I'm a ghost
Overflowed
Chambers of saccharine delight
Sounds I've never heard before
You send me to the places
I never knew were inhabitable
Like the prophet of Shawnee
I died twice
Once when I flung myself
Into the traffic of desire
And then when I realized
I was yours and you were mine
It's so late in the night
To say
My heart is running in circles
And a young lover
Is a young lover

I wasn't blown away
By the Duino Elegies
But he's right about beauty and terror
Was in Vienna for 3 days

I like German food
But I'm pescatarian now
Only vegetarian sausage
Never drank much beer

The doc called it Meniere's disease
Vomiting, vertigo
Comes a Rattle and Hum
Tinnitus in my right ear

Arapahoe. Seminole. Apache.
Shawnee. Pawnee. Stays.
Thomas Builds the Fire
Burning, yearning quays

                   Cays

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                 Sailing a Couch into History

         We are not permitted to choose the frame of our destiny,
                           but what we put into it is ours.

                         -Dag Hammarskjold, Markings, p. 51

Through eating, fatting, sleeping, video games
En couchant in a stasis ossified
By the low expectations of the zeitgeist
(“What’s a zeitgeist?”) some flail into history

The ironic echoes of Call of Duty
Flatten against an empty ‘tater-chip bag        
Yesterday flung into the baby’s crib
(“Ain’t no one seen little Shawnee today?”)

His MePhone case is manly hunter green
He's checkin’ out the fantasies on a glowing screen

It's mostly silences
Unbalance in my brain
Anxiety attacks
Toledo, Ohio. Toledo, Spain.

Arapaho Drive
Tecumseh the Shawnee
Chief Seattle
Thailand, Land of the Free

I take my son to work
Gonna sleep till 4
Class of 72
India, China, Baltimore

           forgotten lore

Who then devised the Torment?
Eliot thinks it's Love
I'm not quite so sure
But I give thanks for Andy Dove

Shiva the Destroyer
Tecumseh the Shawnee
Me and Susan Meek
3333

Yo soy un desperado
San Francisco grey
Fog upon the bridge
Me and you, Lee May

Dread annihilation
Oxford, Si Romero
Little Red Corvette
Big blue black Camero

             Gracias!

during and after a moderate snowfall
today January 19th, 2024,
within Southeastern Pennsylvania
and elsewhere across the Eastern Seaboard,
whereby blanket of whiteness
muffles sounds of civilization.

I hate a spoiler alert
regarding weather forecasters prediction,
especially when meteorologist
wannabe spouse doth blurt
out impending blizzard
which never materializes,
thus no need for yours truly to exert
himself shoveling and yet denying same
to frolic and gamely flirt
with Khione, the Greek goddess of snow,
daughter of Boreas, god of the North Wind
and Winter, and sister of Zethes and Calais.

I feel humbled and enamored
when Mother Nature
singly and/or nsync with old man winter
looses propensity to bestow majestic scene,
when expanse of pure white
individual ice crystals
that grow while suspended
in the atmosphere—

usually within clouds—
and then fall, accumulating
on the ground,
where they render further magic
changes landscape into blanket
of pure ****** whiteness;
I fondly think back
remembering '96 storm of the century.

At that time January 1996
me and the missus while timesharing
at Shawnee on the Delaware
ardently, diligently, and persistently strived, yet
unsuccessfully conceived Blizzard Baby.

Now wife far beyond procreative age,
(though nevertheless I wistfully envisage
begetting another progeny -
simultaneously stretching credulity
to breaking point)
all things considered
exhaustion would peter out
after capitulation of divining rod
announced, *******, and issued forth little squirt
necessitating lifetime to recoup energy.

Bound within figurative four walls
of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania domicile
courtesy appreciable snowfall,
I direct energy crafting poem.

Yours truly will actually
refrain comestibles despite feeling hungry -
(plus he will be undergoing a colonoscopy
five days hence and abstain eating fiber
unless inclement weather determines otherwise)
lest metabolism to digest food
decreases potential alertness,
and full belly finds me
able, eager, ready and willing
to lie supine, study
the backs of my eyes and digest.

"Mother Nature" commences
to baptize spilling
purity from sheltering overcast sky
bajillion year celestial tureen
while refulgent weak solar beams
desperately massage tender shoots
thawing frozen earth,
where frigid cold icy sheen
hermetically sealed, asper
horizontal frozen walled in pond,
Thoreau and thru,

when skaters waltzed
stealing lovers kisses unseen
soon thaw melts pools
of frozen precipitation
all a buzz with feeding
Gabriel donning primped
orange coiffure trumpeting
"NON FAKE" arrival herculean
kickstarting powers unleashed
since time immemorial worship,
and/or sacrifices made

to deities of webbed skein
viz, animal and/or plant
wide world rejoicing when
harvest yielded cornucopia
primitive, yet over keen
superstitious shutterfly scattered
bands of hominids plentitude
linkedin to sugar daddy's
favorite colored jelly bean
benediction, and veneration rituals
also included pagan dispensing

prayers believing
obeisance necessitated cyclopean
appeasement lest death
and destruction would rain
purple pearl drop monsoon,
traced to angry spirits
subsequently drowning
helpless prehistoric hygiene
cleansed **** sapiens
ancestors possessing gene

and chromosomes latent
within dormant flora lean
fauna coming alive
with the scent of fragrant bouquet
while the hills burst
with creativity healthy panacean
liberating tentative "cabin fever"
wrought by polar
vortex, the spell of warm weather,
a respite sunscreen

applied to ward off deadly
ultraviolet solar radiations
something in magnitude
bajillion extinctions obscene
spate of lost species
as seasons greetings witness hot
untenable global warming
affecting every calm serene
nook and cranny incumbent
to relish approximately

twelve weeks of cold temperatures
while sipping my ovaltine
reminiscing about Lake Wobegon days
recollected from fictitious boyhood,
when snowfall covered roofs
tops inconveniencing Rudolph,
and his deer friends a teen
nee tiny bit, and school cancellation
necessitated state requirement
resulting summer vacation
shelving reading Pygmalion
for Shaw!

I hate spoiler alert
regarding weather forecasters prediction,
especially when meteorologist
wannabe spouse doth blurt
out impending blizzard
which never materializes.

Yours truly humbled and enamored
when Mother Nature
singly and/or nsync with old man winter
looses propensity to wreak havoc
and/or blankets landscape
I fondly think back
remembering '96 storm of the century.

At that time January 1996
me and the missus timesharing
Shawnee on the Delaware
ardently striving, yet
unsuccessful conceiving Blizzard Baby.

Now far beyond procreative age,
(though I wistfully envisage
begetting another progeny -
simultaneously stretching credulity
to breaking point)
all things considered
exhaustion would peter out
after capitulation of divining rod
necessitating lifetime to recoup energy.

Bound within figurative four walls
of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania domicile
courtesy appreciable snowfall,
I direct energy crafting poem.

Yours truly will actually
refrain comestibles despite feeling hungry -
lest metabolism to digest food
decreases potential alertness,
and full belly finds me
ready able and willing
to doze immediately into deep slumber.

Hungry stomach in tandem
with eventful weather
sends surge of giddiness
coursing thru body electric
crackling, popping, and snapping
(while O Captain My Captain)
came to witty man (me) suddenly
enervating with poignant pregnant expectancy
papa pondering his empty nest syndrome
analogously attempting to offset void

coaxing poem into existence
unsure how literary endeavor
(mine) will thrive
amidst well suited
panoply of prolific writers,
whose unseen fingers
hop lightly and gracefully
across qwerty computer keyboard
akin to heavy armed soldiers
with fearlessness and deliberation
heading off to war to acquire poetic license.

Meanwhile chafed knuckles
of one garden variety primate
previously scraping along tundra
(methinks I espy frozen Mastodon)
(before twenty first century caveman
learned to stand *****)
endeavors to strike letter combinations
eliciting, facilitating, and generating
enticing curb appeal.

****** whiteness blankets terrestrial realm
bajillion snowflakes tumble out of sky
atavistic fascination awakened
agog at ice crystals stinging each eye
while I strike open mouthed stance
relishing tasting frozen water molecules.

No matter yours truly witnessed
countless winter wonderlands
since completing lxiii orbitz round the sun,
the first major seasonal substantial accumulation
excites the little boy inside me.

Additionally, I feel truly humbled and enamored
when Mother Nature
singly and/or nsync with old man winter,
whether she (former)
looses propensity to wreak havoc
(think climatological, geological,
meteorological, et cetera phenomena)
or latter trumpets weather,
whereby landscape magically transformed
into blinding brilliance,
I tip hat to personification of winter
and fondly think back
remembering '96 storm of the century.

At that time January 1996
me and the missus timesharing
seven nights and six days holed up
along Shawnee on the Delaware
(a honeymoon gift courtesy my parents)
spending disproportionate amount of time
frolicking under warm blankets
ardently, fervently, naturally...
both of us experiencing
devilish, feverish, impish,
loutish (more so me)... concupiscence
striving to beget offspring, yet unsuccessful
conceiving Blizzard Baby.

Now far beyond prime procreative age,
(though I wistfully envisage
begetting another progeny -
simultaneously stretching credulity
to breaking point)
all things considered
exhaustion would peter out
after capitulation of divining rod
necessitating lifetime to recoup energy.

Bound within figurative four walls
of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania domicile
courtesy appreciable snowfall,
I direct energy crafting poem.

Yours truly will actually
refrain comestibles despite feeling hungry -
lest metabolism to digest food
decreases potential alertness,
and full belly finds me
ready able and willing
to doze immediately into deep slumber.

Hungry stomach in tandem
with eventful weather
sends surge of giddiness
coursing thru body electric
crackling, popping, and snapping
(while O Captain My Captain)
came to witty man (me) suddenly
enervating with poignant pregnant expectancy
papa pondering his empty nest syndrome
analogously attempting to offset void

coaxing reasonable rhyme into existence
unsure how literary endeavor
(mine) will thrive
amidst well suited
panoply of prolific writers,
whose unseen fingers
hop lightly and gracefully
across qwerty computer keyboard
akin to heavy armed soldiers
with fearlessness and deliberation
heading off to war to acquire poetic license.

Meanwhile chafed knuckles
of one garden variety primate
previously scraping along tundra
(methinks I espy frozen Mastodon)
before said twenty first century caveman
learned to stand *****
endeavors to strike letter combinations
eliciting, facilitating, and generating
enticing curb appeal.

The loneliness returns
But postal conversations

Thich Nhat Hanh on Facebook
I show my dedication

Northwest Ravenstory
Tecumseh the Shawnee

Alex and the Tucson Train
Carolinaly

(I do wish meant to be)
Dublin: Come and see.

Eliade not a fascist
As some would so insist
Though frightened (with good reason)
By Russian communists

Romero not a Marxist
As generals did claim
And now we have Pope Francis
To sanctify his name

When you speak of boundaries
Said Tecumseh the Shawnee
The Great Spirit respects no boundaries
So neither then will we

Gandhi was a Hindu
And Muslim, Christian, Jew
He did not want a Bharata
Divided into two

Some people thought that Lincoln
Might be an atheist
He joined no Christian churches
Yet somehow got the gist

Of where to find the sacred
Amidst competing claims
No malice toward the vanquished
And no attempt to shame

Political opponents
Who also have a will
To power their convictions
And might wreak havoc still

It was the mystic Union
He gave his life to save
Destroying dialectics
Of a master and his slave

Today we all are searching
For something to believe
Our condition called post-modern
We cannot now retrieve

The wisdom of our fathers
Without suspecting first
Our mothers often given
A patriarchal curse

Perhaps we will discover
The music of our spheres
Influencing each other
For laughter not for tears

If we can but awaken
Before our day is done
For often we are many
But always we are one.

Where will you rest, Tecumseh
And where will be your home?
The pioneer and Army cleared
The land you used to roam

Tecumseh get your rifle
Tecumseh get your gun
For on the field tomorrow morn
You'll meet with Harrison

Now who can sell the air
And who can sell the sea?
Who has the right to sell the land
Put here for you and me?

Tecumseh get your rifle
Tecumseh get your gun
For on the field tomorrow morn
You'll meet with Harrison

Now word is on the Valley
And on the hills around
To go and fight for freedom
Up in old Prophetstown

Tecumseh get your rifle
Tecumseh get your gun
For on the field tomorrow morn
You'll meet with Harrison

Tecumseh he was shot down
Upon the field in Thames
Around him lay the wounded
And dyin' Shawnee braves

Tecumseh get your rifle
Tecumseh get your gun
For on the field tomorrow morn
You'll meet with Harrison

So remember all you people
The man so true and brave
For family and his freedom
He fought so hard to save

Tecumseh get your rifle
Tecumseh get your gun
For on the field tomorrow morn
You'll meet with Harrison

               - The Tillers
          ( From Cincinnati, Ohio )

https://youtu.be/uLW5nzD1N0w

The hope is that God is patient and kind
The fear is predatory terror
A lot of chaos in my life
But I pray it is no error

Catteleya does calligraphy
Where there's a will there's a way
Paris on our honeymoon
Parlez vous Francaise?

Harold Crick and Ms. Pascal
Me and Susan Meek
Arapahoe, Navajo, Pequod
Shawnee, Iroquoise, Creek

              Still I Seek

within hinterlands of
Perkiomen Valley Pennsylvania
occurred January 6th promptly at noon.

****** whiteness blankets terrestrial realm
bajillion snowflakes tumble out of sky
atavistic fascination awakened
agog at ice crystals stinging each eye
while I strike open mouthed stance
relishing tasting frozen water molecules.

No matter yours truly witnessed
countless winter wonderlands
since completing lxiv orbitz round the sun,
the first major seasonal substantial accumulation
excites the little boy inside me.

Additionally, I feel truly humbled and enamored
when Mother Nature
singly and/or nsync with old man winter,
whether she (former)
looses propensity to wreak havoc
(think climatological, geological,
meteorological, et cetera phenomena)
or latter trumpets weather,
whereby landscape magically transformed
into blinding brilliance,
I tip hat to personification of winter
and fondly think back
remembering '96 storm of the century.

At that time January 1996
me and the missus timesharing
seven nights and six days holed up
along Shawnee on the Delaware
(a honeymoon gift courtesy my parents)
spending disproportionate amount of time
frolicking under warm blankets
ardently, fervently, naturally...
both of us experiencing
devilish, feverish, impish,
loutish (more so me)... concupiscence
striving to beget offspring, yet unsuccessful
conceiving Blizzard Baby.

Now far beyond prime procreative age,
(though I wistfully envisage
begetting another progeny -
simultaneously stretching credulity
to breaking point)
all things considered
exhaustion would peter out
after capitulation of divining rod
necessitating lifetime to recoup energy.

Bound within figurative four walls
of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania domicile
courtesy appreciable snowfall,
I direct energy crafting poem.

Yours truly will actually
refrain comestibles despite feeling hungry -
lest metabolism to digest food
decreases potential alertness,
and full belly finds me
ready able and willing
to doze immediately into deep slumber.

Hungry stomach in tandem
with eventful weather
sends surge of giddiness
coursing thru body electric
crackling, popping, and snapping
(while O Captain! My Captain!)
came to witty man (me) suddenly
enervating with poignant pregnant expectancy
papa pondering his empty nest syndrome
analogously attempting to offset void

coaxing reasonable rhyme into existence
unsure how literary endeavor
(mine) will thrive
amidst well suited
panoply of prolific writers,
whose unseen fingers
hop lightly and gracefully
across qwerty computer keyboard
akin to heavy armed soldiers
with fearlessness and deliberation
heading off to war to acquire poetic license.

Meanwhile chafed knuckles
of one garden variety primate
previously scraping knuckles along tundra
in mock imitation of forebears
(methinks I espy frozen Mastodon)
before said twenty first century caveman
learned to stand *****
endeavors to strike letter combinations
eliciting, facilitating, and generating
enticing curb appeal.

When you speak of boundaries
Said Tecumseh the Shawnee

The Great Spirit respects no boundaries
So neither then will we

America began in genocide
Probably how it ends
They got a divorce as a matter of course
And parted the closest of friends

I'm fond of little Reno
Less fond of Chiraq
Tecumseh the Shawnee
Detroit does attack

Little library is quiet
Meditation hall is glass
The beauty of her hair
The beauty of her ***

California snow
Wind to water to waves
Ashes to the ocean
******, gamblers, slaves

                   Ishmael!

The photos of Italy are beautiful
So is Susan Meek
Seminole resistance
El Paso in the rain

So I die unknown
Disappear forever
Ashes to the Ocean
Never been to Spain

Tecumseh the Shawnee
3333
Tired. Lonely ly
Sadness in the pain

7 prayers for my boys
Make a joyful noise
Thai tea? Si, nitnoy.

        Traaaaayyyyyn!

When you speak of boundaries
Said Tecumseh the Shawnee

The Great Spirit respects no boundaries
So neither then will we