[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero

Sister and I loved to play, to run and twirl and roll in grass all day. Momma gets mad when we go too far but our yard is massive we live on a farm! Running on rolling fields of prairie, singing and laughing and acting merry, shot right through the tree line that marks our abode, slid across the rocks on Old Joser Road, saw an old lady who walked with crumpled toes and spoke too and listened too a pack of crows, plucking weeds and picking a thorny flower she called out to us that fateful hour;

  “Oh my and how lovely, two twins so cute! I had thought no one lived so far out here, away from the town and its charming cheer? Why don’t you come over and meet my pet crows and I’ll show you two a trick that nobody knows!”

  I leaned down to consult with sister you see, she being younger she’s littler than me, I told her to stay close while we watched the show, then we’d be off and away we’d go;

  “Okay old lady my name is Tim and this here’s Tam and this place you’re in, is our family farm and that guy in the field, well that’s our Dad, and if you mess with us he gets real mad, so no funny business in this game and we’ll be nice to you just the same.”

  “Agreed indeed you little man and I can’t wait to see you in my pan!”

  Now I had to think on this real hard. Did that mean something about being able to see or was she talking about eating me? No matter, no problems and boy those crows, did they sure put on some funny shows and acted like they had lots of smarts and seemed just like pets and warmed our hearts;

  “Thanks old lady we gotta go we’re almost late for dinner you know?”

  She moved too fast and came right up and pulled out an odd-looking wooden cup;

“Wait there dearies, not so quick, about that dinner and my sweet shtick, you see you owe me a trick too, two coins I’m asking there of you, you bring them up to my cabin on that hill and I’ll teach you some magic and give you a thrill!”

  “Okay lady!”

  I agreed as we ran, if we don’t get home soon it’s gonna be my can! ‘Cause I know my pops he’ll beat my **** and I’ll be sent upstairs with nothing to eat, so I told little sister to move those feet!

caesura

  Whisk you down the road of boiled toad, and singeing hair, of whispered things and fires' flare, of evil looks from open books, pigeon’s toes and a chicken gizzard, while around your legs it crawls and creeps, my hungry lizard that never sleeps! You gawk! You stare! My wrinkly-face, the dank rank air in my dingy place, the dusty shelves a-lined in books and creepy crawlies in every nook, cobwebs and spiders at every corner, piggies run squealing while the chickens banterer, ravens caw at strange green light from lantern but back to all those shadow corners where little bad things spy and salivate, thinking on what they had last ate, and there you are shaking, nervous, trembling; a porky little piece of meat and something we all want to eat!

  “Oh don’t be scared my little one, I’m kidding, teasing, just having fun. Hand me the coins I asked for earlier, when we crossed paths along Old Joser, draw near to me, come here, come a bit closer!”

  Be careful will I not to bare my teeth, or lick my lips or stare too deep, for one is easy, two a dangerous feat and I so want to have my little porky piece of meat! I stood on a ladder with little Tam on my shoulder, so she could see the *** as it smoked and it smoldered, I directed little Tim over there to a seat and he saw me lick my lips as I thought about their meat.

  “Aha ha ha ha ha!”

  I laughed out loud as I cast in the dust and the billows changed color and kiddies made a fuss, but then the sparkly things popped and shimmered in their eyes, while both of them let out marvelous sighs, bewildered, bemused and tricked by my lie, I threw Tammy in to my cauldron to die!

  “Nooooooo!”

  Little Tim, little Tim did he let me in and punished will he be for that little sin, I whispered a spell and took up my broom and zapped a hole in the floor out in the room, where Tim was running and dropped him in a hole, down a tunnel he went that saved his soul, for out he shot back on Old Joser Road, no wiser no worse for the trick I showed!

Now listen up children or this is your lot,

For I’m out there always lurking with my ***,

I’m always hungry and so are my crows,

We’ll eat you up all the way to your toes,

“Jimson and sassafras, morning glory, woodrose seed,”

“A ***** of my finger, lock of my hair, a thimble and tweed,”

“Two coins, a cauldron, my cunning and your breed,”

“Whenever I’m hungry that’s all that I need!”

Almost effortlessly it appears to be
somewhat divine
cuts the line so fine through skin and bone
homes in on the malady that's affected me
and burns it out.
Laser beams unpicking seams
I deem it best to just accept the light
lay back and relax
while the laser attacks
me
internally.

It's like Star Wards
tied by hospital cords
and it's scary
but interesting and fascinating
hyperventilating
fear
the laser comes near
closing my eyes
nobody dies who comes into the light
Yeah alright
I'll believe
but the laser freezes and does not burn
which is of some concern
did not expect that turn of events.

The surgeon cements me together
he's clever
and say's 'all done
nothing to worry about'
then goes off with a gun in his hand
to laser beam land?

Everything moves so fast
where once a plaster cast would have done,
Today,
everyone wants to blast you with a laser
gun.
Zapped.

i am a fat american
i feed upon ancient history
i know the truth but yet
i think i own the magic

i am a fat american
i am bug zapped by distraction
i believe you but yet
i cannot believe in me

i am a fat american
i think i am already free
i know i am lost but yet
i refuse to ask for directions

i am a fat american
i buy low and sell it high
i have faith in god but yet
i let you live in poverty

The earth was zapped today by a solar storm and my heart was zapped by something that won't ever result in something as beautiful as the Northern Lights.

For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of *****-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dog tag,
Or better still a dog, a colossal pet beast,
A humongous Harlequin Dane to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is, after all, dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes and boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.

We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo, they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?

You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
He leaves you on the ice floe,
Remembering not to leave the sled,
The proverbial Sled of Abbandono,
The one never left behind,
As it would be needed again,
Why not a home in storage while we wait?
The family will surely need it sometime down the line.

A dignified death?
Who can afford one these days?
The question answers itself:
You are John Goodman in “The Big Lebowski.”
You opt for an empty 2-lb can of Folgers.
You know: "The best part of waking up, is Folger's in your cup!"
That useless mnemonic taught us by “Mad Men.”
Slogans and theme songs imbibe us.

Zombie accouterments,
Provided by America’s Ruling Class.
Thank you Lewis H. Lapham for giving it to us straight.
Why not go with the aluminum Folgers can?
Rather than spend the $300.00 that mook funeral director
Tries to shame you into coughing up,
For the economy-class “Legacy Urn.”
An old seduction:  Madison Avenue’s Gift of Shame.
Does your **** smell?” asks a sultry voice,
Igniting a carpet bomb across the 20-45 female cohort,
2 billion pathetically insecure women,
Spending collectively $10 billion each year—
Still a lot of money, unless it’s a 2013
Variation on an early 1930s Germany theme;
The future we’ve created;
The future we deserve.

Now a wheelbarrow load of paper currency,
Scarcely buy a loaf of bread.
Even if you’re lucky enough to make it,
Back to your cave alive,
After shopping to survive.
Women spend $10 billion a year for worry-free *****.
I don’t read The Wall Street Journal either,
But I’m pretty **** sure,
That “The Feminine Hygiene Division”
Continues to hold a corner office, at
Fear of Shame Corporate Headquarters.
Eventually, FDS will go the way of the weekly ******.
Meanwhile, in God & vaginal deodorant we trust,
Something you buy just to make sure,
Just in case the *** Gods send you a gift.
Some 30-year old **** buddy,
Some linguistically gifted man or woman,
Some he or she who actually enjoys eating your junk:
“Oh Woman, thy name is frailty.”
“Oh Man, thou art a Woman.”
“Oh Art is for Carney in “Harry & Tonto,”
Popping the question: “Dignity in Old Age?”
Will it too, go the way of the weekly ******?
It is pointless to speculate.
Mouthwash--Roll-on antiperspirants--Depends.
Things our primitive ancestors did without,
Playing it safe on the dry savannah,
Where the last 3 drops evaporate in an instant,
Rather than go down your pants,
No matter how much you wiggle & dance.
Think about it!

Think cemeteries, my Geezer friends.
Of course, your first thought is
How nice it would be, laid to rest
In the Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey.
Born a ******. Died a ******. Laid in the grave?
Or Père Lachaise,
Within a stone’s throw of Jim Morrison--
Lying impudently,
Embraced, held close by loving soil,
Caressed, held close by a Jack Daniels-laced mud pie.
Or, with Ulysses S. Grant, giving new life to the quandary:
Who else is buried in the freaking tomb?
Bury my heart with Abraham in Springfield.
Enshrine my body in the Taj Mahal,
Build for me a pyramid, says Busta Cheops.

Something simple, perhaps, like yourself.
Or, like our old partner in crime:
Lee Harvey, in death, achieving the soul of brevity,
Like Cher and Madonna a one-name celebrity,
A simple yet obscure grave stone carving:  OSWALD.
Perhaps a burial at sea? All the old salts like to go there.
Your corpse wrapped in white duct/duck tape,
Still frozen after months of West Pac naval maneuvers,
The CO complying with the Department of the Navy Operations Manual,
Offering this service on « An operations-permitting basis, »
About as much latitude given any would-be Ahab,
Shortlisted for Command-at-sea.
So your body is literally frozen stiff,
Frozen solid for six months packed,
Spooned between 50-lb sacks of green beans & carrots.
Deep down in the deep freeze,
Within the Deep Freeze :
The ship’s storekeeper has a cryogenic *******
Deep down in his private sanctuary,
Privacy in the bowels of the ship.
While up on deck you slide smoothly down the pine plank,
Old Glory billowing in the sea breeze,
Emptying you out into the great abyss of
Some random forlorn ocean.

Perhaps you are a ******* lunatic?
Maybe you likee—Shut the **** up, Queequeg !
Perhaps you want a variation on the burial-at-sea option ?
Here’s mine, as presently set down in print,
Lawyer-prepared, notarized and filed at the Court of the Grand Vizier,
Copies of same in safe deposit boxes,
One of many benefits Chase offers free to disabled Vets,
Demonstrating, again, my zombie-like allegiance to the rules.
But I digress.
« The true measure of one’s life »
Said most often by those we leave behind,
Is the wealth—if any—we leave behind.
The fact that we cling to bank accounts,
Bank safe deposit boxes,
Legal aide & real estate,
Insurance, and/or cash . . .
Just emphasizes the foregone conclusion,
For those who followed the rules.
Those of us living frugally,
Sustaining the zombie trance all these years.
You can jazz it up—go ahead, call it your « Work Ethic. »
But you might want to hesitate before you celebrate
Your unimpeachable character & patriotism.

What is the root of Max Weber’s WORK ETHIC concept?
‘Tis one’s grossly misplaced, misguided, & misspent neurosis.
Unmasked, shown vulnerably pink & naked, at last.
Truth is: The harder we work, the more we lay bare
The Third World Hunger in our souls.
But again, I digress.  Variation on a Theme :
At death my body is quick-frozen.
Then dismembered, then ground down
To the consistency of water-injected hamburger,
Meat further frozen and Fedex-ed to San Diego,
Home of our beloved Pacific Fleet.
Stowed in a floating Deep Freeze where glazed storekeepers
Sate the lecherous Commissary Officer,
Aboard some soon-to-be underway—
Underway: The Only Way
Echo the Old Salts, a moribund Greek Chorus
Goofing still on the burial-at-sea concept.

Underway to that sacred specific spot,
Let's call it The Golden Shellback,
Where the Equator intersects,
Crosses perpendicular,
The International Dateline,
Where my defrosted corpse nuggets,
Are now sprinkled over the sea,
While Ray Charles sings his snarky
Child Support & Alimony
His voice blasting out the 1MC,
She’s eating steak.  I’m eating baloney.
Ray is the voice of disgruntlement,
Palpable and snide in the trade winds,
Perhaps the lost chord everyone has been looking for:
Laughing till we cry at ourselves,
Our small corpse kernels, chum for sharks.

In a nutshell—being the crazy *******’ve come to love-
Chop me up and feed me to the Orcas,
Just do it ! NIKE!
That’s right, a $commercial right in the middle of a ******* poem!
Do it where the Equator crosses the Dateline :
A sailors’ sacred vortex: isn’t it ?
Wouldn’t you say, Shipmates, one and all?
I’m talking Conrad’s Marlow, here, man!
Call me Ishmael or Queequeg.
Thor Heyerdahl or Tristan Jones,
Bogart’s Queeq & Ensign Pulver,
Wayward sailors, one and all.
And me, of course, aboard the one ride I could not miss,
Even if it means my Amusement Park pass expires.
Ceremony at sea ?
Absolutely vital, I suppose,
Given the monotony and routine,
Of the ship’s relentlessly vacant seascape.
« There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea,
And I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates. «
So said James Russell Lowell,
One of the so-called Fireside Poets,
With Longfellow and Bryant,
Whittier, the Quaker and Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.,
19th Century American hipsters, one and all.

Then there’s CREMATION,
A low-cost option unavailable to practicing Jews.
« Ashes to ashes »  remains its simplest definition.
LOW-COST remains its operant phrase & universal appeal.
No Deed to a 2by6by6 foot plot of real estate,
Paid for in advance for perpetuity—
Although I suggest reading the fine print—
Our grass--once maintained by Japanese gardeners--
Now a lost art in Southern California,
Now that little Tokyo's finest no longer
Cut, edge & manicure, transform our lawns
Into a Bonsai ornamental wonderland.
Today illegal/legal Mexicans employing
More of a subtropical slash & burn technique.

Cremation : no chunk of marble,
No sandstone, wood or cardboard marker,
Plus the cost of engraving and site installation.
Quoth the children: "****, you’re talking $30K to
Put the old ****** in the ground? Cheap **** never
Gave me $30K for college, let alone a house down payment.
What’s my low-cost, legitimate disposal going to run me?"

CREMATION : they burn your corpse in Auschwitz ovens.
You are reduced to a few pounds of cigar ash.
Now the funeral industry catches you with your **** out.
You must (1) pay to have your ashes stored,
Or (2) take them away in a gilded crate that,
Again, you must pay for.
So you slide into Walter Sobjak,
The Dude’s principal amigo,
And bowling partner in the
Brothers Coen masterpiece: The Big Lebowski.
You head to the nearest Safeway for a 2-lb can of Folgers.
And while we’re on the subject of cremation & the Jews,
Think for a moment on the horror of The Holocaust:
Dispossessed & utterly destroyed, one last indignity:
Corpses disposed of by cremation,
For Jews, an utterly unacceptable burial rite.
Now before we leave Mr. Sobjak,
Who is, as you know, a deeply disturbed Vietnam vet,
Who settles bowling alley protocol disputations,
By brandishing, by threatening the weak-minded,
With a loaded piece, the same piece John Turturro—
Stealing the movie as usual, this time as Jesus Quintana—
Bragging how he will stick it up Walter’s culo,
Pulling the trigger until it goes: Click-Click-Click!
Terrestrial burial or cremation?
For me:  Burial at Sea:
Slice me, dice me into shark food.

Or maybe something a la Werner von Braun:
Your dead meat shot out into space;
A personal space probe & voyager,
A trajectory of one’s own choosing?

Oh hell, why not skip right down to the nitty gritty bottom line?
Current technology: to wit, your entire life record,
Your body and history digitized & downloaded
To a Zip Drive the size of the average *******,
A data disc then Fedex-ed anywhere in the galaxy,
Including exotic burial alternatives,
Like some Martian Kilimanjaro,
Where the tiger stalks above the clouds,
Nary a one with a freaking clue that can explain
Just what the cat was doing up so high in the first place.
Or, better still, inside a Sherpa’s ***** pack,
A pocket imbued with the same Yak dung,
Tenzing Norgay massages daily into his *******,
Defending the Free World against Communism & crotch rot.
(Forgive me: I am a child of the Cold War.)
Why not? Your life & death moments
Zapped into a Zip Drive, bytes and bits,
Submicroscopic and sublime.
So easy to delete, should your genetic subgroup
Be targeted for elimination.
About now you begin to realize that
A two-pound aluminum Folgers can
Is not such a bad idea.
No matter; the future is unpersons,
The Ministry of Information will in charge.
The People of Fort Meade--those wacky surveillance folks--
Cloistered in the rolling hills of Anne Arundel County.
That’s who will be calling the shots,
Picking the spots from now on.
Welcome to Cyber Command.
Say hello to Big Brother.
Say “GOOD-BYE PRIVACY.”

Meanwhile, you’re spending most of your time
Fretting ‘bout your last rites--if any—
Burial plots on land and sea, & other options,
Such as whether or not to go with the
Concrete outer casket,
Whether or not you prefer a Joe Cocker,
Leon Russell or Ray Charles 3-D hologram
Singing at your memorial service.
While I am fish food for the Golden Shellbacks,
I am a fine young son of Neptune,
We are Old Salts, one and all,
Buried or burned or shot into space odysseys,
Or digitized on a data disc the size of
An average human *******.
Snap outta it, Einstein!
Like everyone else,
You’ve been fooled again.

spread-eagle at the summit
facing endless gusts of sandy billows,
mountain-backed vitruvian man,
i flail frustration at the outer
drips against, again in toes
forget the boots the pack
the bearbag full of snacks
the nylon thunder night-fret
flash of demon forking
shamefaced fear in throat
of shaken chest or weakness
soaking downy thermarest--
underfed it seemed so clear!
with only distant puffs within the blue
so here i lay despite the warnings hitherto--
the stakes have ripped electric
by the sky or sudden wind
as corners rock and threaten
rolling off into the gale--i sweat to add
a static vision sailing back alone,
a teardrop tent against the lightning caverns of the clouds
a skeleton of light suspended in the strike,
a sierra sign designedly godlike,
zapped nocturnal whisk i am
in awe now fearful grateful
mythos-understood of human
imagination's pawn still prone
with whining seams the poles still hold
within the whipping whites so loud
to tug my heels against the flying fabric
portal damp enstormed insomniac
to will the stony sand there once again
to sleep perhaps another dozen in
before the morning knuckles
pound the staff from off this mountaintop

tabitha all grown up, meeting the 120 year old ** ** the clown



tabitha was busy seeing people interested in their previous lives before this one

and ** ** the clown, who was having delusions, through his sudden memory loss

one minute it’s as bright of day, the next it’s gone, and then he would pick up a tabithat doll

and as he held it, he would remember that day, where he favoured tabitha more than the other kids

and wanted to find the family, but didn’t want to be a bother, so endora came into his dream

to walk away from the nursing home and all the care he is given, to travel to sydney australia

to pay a visit to tabitha, and it took him 7 days as he touched down in sydney to find out

wherte tabitha is, and then went into a house, which said tabitha’s den, and saw this attractive twenty something

and thought to himself, he is in the wrong place, but asked, i am looking for a tabitha stevens, the girl

that was the inspiration to the tabitha doll, and at first, tabitha was puzzled, but it came back to her

when he said he was ** ** the clown, and he is now 120 years old, and wants to know tabitha’s secrete

on staying young, and tabitha, said, being a witch can do things to you, and ** ** the clown said, your a what1

tabitha said, a witcortal, well, my dad’s advertising firm hired you, i was just favoured because of my grandma

and this made ** ** really excited, and said, can you tell me, was this doll, a cute little doll meant to talk

and tabitha said, no, it was a coverup, so daddy doesn’t lose your account, it wasn’t daddy’s fault he lost the account,

it was grandmas, but she hates the idea of a witch marrying mortals back then, you should see the other clients

that were trapped by witchcraft, no, you were under a silly spell, and ** **, left and went back to his hotel, and

endora came into his room and put a spell on him, to never have him wake, ever, he will reincarnate into something else

and then endora said to tabitha, yeah i remember that day, when we made you into a doll, but i just killed ** ** the clown, ok

he believes in reincarnation, he won’t suffer, and he will realise, that you did the wrong thing, because, now he knows tabitha

death happens, and i didn’t want ** ** being the mortal out living the witch’s and sam and darrin popped in and tabitha said

how is adam, and adams side was expecting another baby, due in 4 months, and tabitha told one of darrin’s old clients ** ** the clown

the whole truth, which made grandma **** him, to reenter his next life, full of happiness, and darrin said, how old was that kodger, and

tabitha said 120, and went to his hotel to die, grandma said, and darrin said, i might be a warlock now, but i show a bit of compassion

and endora said, do you believe in god, well god is your mother in law, me, and i did all that to you, to bring on your sense of humour,

sam knew, but hated the plan, but it was my job, ok, ** ** the clown was too old, and feeble, so i made him escape the nursing home

and find tabitha, hex the house and doll with memories of that day, put a weeny spell on tabitha to spill the beans, so he will die peacefully

and he did, and the stevens family had a meal in new york, to celebrate the life of ** ** the clown, even going to his funeral, larry was forced

to go, and there was a big party, as tabitha, was asked to get rid of the tabitha doll, and zap it out of those kids homes, after a man, said, were you

the inspiration to the tabitha, it was flattering, but freaky, so tabitha zapped all the memory of the tabitha dolls, to leave the world with ** ** the clown

and everyone left, and tabitha went back to work, to tell this 45 year old man, he is ned kelly, cause of a dark lobe, and that is the end of ** ** the clown.

The strike of the rainbow warriors part 2
We arrive in the  rainbow  land of mystery and see lots of rainbow people watching us while the  bight coloured green ship lands in the dock.  The golden goddess watches with delight when a golden sheet is laid down for  us to  walk upon.

The crowd  roars in laughter while our golden army is  taken down towards the big bright palace of illusions to meet the king of rainbow land.  After reaching the palace a guard dressed in bight orange  takes us through towards a big golden study.

A  confused white tiger looks around the strange bright  palace and starts  to feel very scared all of sudden at something in the air .  We all comfort the white tiger  while its mouth drops with shock at the moving roof above our bodies and the strange atmosphere .

All of a sudden  the king of the rainbow people walks in and stands next to his gold desk of power holding his bright hands towards the roof .  I hug luitent megs while the horses seem to become more concerned and unsure about the strange king  while the room begins to spin about.

The golden goddess suddenly grabs a door handle to escape but get thrown down upon the golden carpet by some sort of strange force .  At that moment the room becomes a mist of surprise and the windows have become metal shields of terror while we begin to run about looking for a means of escape .

We all stand in shock when the king transform's  into a large  pumpkin monster and his  bodyguards have  become  large fire breathing  dragon men with long  spiked tails.  The horses kick out at the dragon men's  bodies while they try and beat us down  but gets zapped by the king  laser gun of hatred .

The dragon men then escort us all towards another room with  yellow walls  while  the pumpkin king  throws  some magic powder over our scared  bodies of terror.  we promise to reveal the kings  secret to the rainbow people until a smiling  red witch with golden hair appears in the room and    says we will evaporate into dust  powder if we reveal  the secret  of the  pumpkin king.

All of a sudden a door opens and we are ****** out  inside the rainbow city with thousands of rainbow warriors cheering and clapping at our golden army.  We look with disbelief  while a  guard of rainbow people escort us towards our bight red hotel of multicoloured  glass.

written by wayne mockler
ownership and copyright wayne mockler

You emoji’d me a happy face
I emoji’d you back a heart.
You sent me an okay thing.
When did all this start?

You shot me back an icon
That looked rather like a hand
But my phone’s screen is small
So I couldn’t quite understand.
I wan’t moving fast enough
To send an answer right back.
You sent another emoji and that
Was when I completely lost track.

I got from you a little thing
Like a jack’o’lantern face
So I sent a laughing icon
That must have been a disgrace.
You zapped back three letters
Which I quickly recognized.
W, T and F, in caps appeared
Like a specter before my eyes.

You emoji’d me a happy face
I emoji’d you back a heart.
You sent me an okay thing.
When did all this start?

I typed in a question mark
And quickly hit the ‘send’
Still hoping against hope
This madness could end
And we could begin to speak
As human beings can do
If they use the keyboard letters
And at least a finger or two.

I never heard from you again
I must have done something bad.
Not even a red face emoji
Or the one that means you’re sad.
I try to stay on top of things
As new fashions will unfold
But this kind of funny picture show
Quickly has gotten old.

You emoji’d me a happy face
I emoji’d you back a heart.
You sent me an okay thing.
When did all this start?

behind the glass door things happen
to stay behind the glass door
until things have happened.

don't ever stick your hand
into the magic happening
or else a bubbly bone will remain.

dont even try putting a golf ball
in to cook
or an egg
because only egg heads do that.

behind the glass door
water droplets use vibrators
and get superhot
you are not supposed to watch
but you do anyway.

don't get zapped
when you are not looking.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 8 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11591413-microwave-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.0iCzdTmh.dpuf

I had the strangest feeling
That if I cut my hair
All of my crazy poem ideas
Would suddenly disappear

Like Samson with Delila
I'd loose that added edge
If I didn't keep this mop top
On top of my knotted head

All the poetry would be zapped from me
And I would lose my purpose
Start rhyming things like moon with June
At that point my pen would be worthless

But I couldn't take it anymore
It was driving me insane
So I got out the heavy duty shears
And did something about this mane

I now see the pile in front of me
Expecting the Philistine's to crash through the door
But the only action that there is
Is me sweeping my curley remains up off the floor

I now face the day in front of me
Showing no lack of courage
Continuing in my quest
Of looking for that elusive word that rhymes with orange

Racing down the hall to a code response
I arrived breathless at the scene
grabbed an AMBU bag
it was like something out of a dream:
Surreal yet stark reality
we all had parts to play
we did everything we could
but the patient slipped away.
We zapped, compressed the chest
I gave the oxygen real fast
the patient didn't change
we knew he wouldn't last.
But we we did everything we could
but alas, it wasn't enough
sometime life is way unfair
sometimes life's just rough.
So it was today
so it may be tomorrow
but we're committed to saving lives
as well as enduring sorrow.

I'm on one
Been trapped in a buzz for four or six months
Since that I've pulled a few stunts
My mind, opposite judgement of a nun's
So I tend to act rugged when it comes

I'm on one
Zapped down by these side effects
Trapped now, take benzos to alleviate
More and more as the effects depreciate
Good for a few hours
But I need to finish this report, so I give myself powers
Amphetamines by all means
I had a dream once, but now I cant sleep
Don't use guns, to do this damage to myself
Going through funds to do this damage to myself

I'm on one
Is it worth it in the long run?
I've Seen what happens and it isn't fun
But how can I do this job without them
Be out of water, desperate as a trout, man
Aches and pains I think I have the gout man
Take pain killers, the real brain killers

I'm on one
Tipping over while typing these words
Tripping over how I got this net worth
Incognito, reputation with the best first
Wish I could reveal, but I'd have no appeal
They'd think I went bananas

See I no longer have the fun that I had before hand
Gleam in the Rover like the sweat against my forehead
Blasting AC on max, thinking about paying tax
But I already am, my kidneys show the facts
Because I'm on one

sometimes i feel hollow
like i don't have
bones
or blood
or organs
or anything inside

all that i am is a hollow human being

where dread and panic and anxiety
can easily ricochet around,
making me ache from the inside out

it starts with a pang,
where my heart is supposed to be.
and then spreads like wildfire
across my skin,
through my chest,
along my arms
and down my legs.
into the tips of my fingers and toes,
burning my ears
and catching in my throat.
and all that's inside of me is this hurt.

sometimes i feel hollow,
like a lonely, old oak tree
that's been zapped by lightning
one too many times.
he still stands, strong and proud
but electricity tingles
and makes him feel vulnerable
every now and then.

sometimes i feel hollow
and broken up inside

sometimes i feel hollow
like i can hear an echo when i talk,
my words just bounce around
with no purpose or drive

sometimes i feel hollow
like a needle could make me burst

sometimes i feel hollow
like all i am is an empty shell

*sometimes i feel hollow

I sat up in bed, wide awake.

Mere seconds separated my dreams from reality. Yet, consciousness had seized me more effectively than ice water.

I had been caged within sleep, until something ridiculous happened.  

Something ridiculous, and something real.

I sprang from the covers, pulled on a sweater, and burst out the door. All around me was silent. Life, it seemed, was not yet awake.

I took a deep breath, and began running. I ran so fast my surroundings blurred into a pallet of color; the sound, still muted.

My feet flew across the dewy grass.

I imagined myself into smaller, simpler spaces; tucked in with the ghosts. How fast could I run from my dreams? How fast could I run towards reality?

If the grass had soaked my socks, I barely knew. If the wind had serenaded my skin, I remained disembodied. The alexithymia of consciousness.

My thoughts snaked and swerved and collided in my head, but in that stretch of oblivion, a lone inference guided me.

Nothing mattered in the world but one thought.

Wake up, Maple. Wake up.

The House of Addictions was the epithet I chose.

It nestled several blocks from mine, and was the type of estate that demanded normalcy.

Upon reaching the front hedge, I examined the house; two blue paneled stories. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but this wasn’t it.

I coaxed the front door.

Locked.

I circled around to the backyard. The room I sought was on the second level. I ascended the balcony onto the porch; the room’s window stood several feet from where I could stand. There was a vacant flowerbox sitting on a ledge outside the window.

Without question, I clambered onto the deck’s railing and extended my leg into the flower box. It was a long way to fall, but I wasn’t scared. I had no choice. I clung with all my might to the window’s ledge, shifted my weight to the flowerbox leg, and plopped over the other. A scream frozen in my throat. Breathing heavily, a death grip on my perch, I crouched; the box seemed sturdy enough.

I peered through the window.

At this ungodly hour, he was most likely still asleep.

Unless.

The bed was vacated. Did this mean? I closed my eyes, took a breath.

Wake up.

Things like this did not happen – plain and simple.

A minute later, after clambering off the flowerbox and scampering back down the stairs, I rejoined the street, sprinting along with renewed vigor.

The sun glistened on the grass, the morning, ripening. Yet, I heard not the sound of birds chattering on secluded sycamores, nor my feet pattering along the sidewalk. I was immaterial. I was the wind – gliding fluidly towards that which waited.

My body was to be found at a stoplight, punching the button spastically.

But my mind had already arrived, several streets away.

The stoplight changed. I ran. Stores whizzed by, early morning traffic sheathed the street. I had to slow my thoughts, I had to separate from the stark possibilities that incased me.

I’d dreamed of his death; simple, like the twelve forget-me-nots he threw across my floor five years ago. The last expression I saw as he departed still had yet to leave his face.

Although he moved home a year ago, he never really returned.

Wake up.

I veered my course to the left, dodging through traffic, and found the street.

It was there that my mind had arrived.

This avenue was vacated and tranquil, an eclipse of the earlier. And there was that house; green and silent as ever.

Clutching a stitch in my stomach, I dove over the waist high fence and tripped on my own foot. I fell, scraping my elbows on concrete and swearing beneath my breath, but I couldn’t stop. I scrambled to my feet and staggered towards a ground levelled window.

Exhausted, I tripped again. Then several strangled events laced together. First, I tumbled to that window. I held my hands out, expecting to hit glass, but realized too late that it was open. Before that fully registered, I was toppling – headfirst – through the open window. My insides plummeted, muting my scream. I hit the bed with a sharp thump, before it tossed me to the floor.

There, I landed, **** first, mute and sprawling.

While my body congealed, my heart auditioned as drummer, and stars teased my peripheral.

The room materialized as I blinked through confusion. Softy, I sat myself upright.

His eyes were the first thing I saw.

Reality zapped me so hard I almost fell back again; he was alive, I’d woken up.

Then my senses caught up; my elbows cried, my head throbbed, and my breath rekindled in ragged crackles. As if a switch was flicked, I suddenly identified sound; the humming of cars outside, the crisp ticking of a clock, the gurgling of his fish tank. So loud – so distinct. Color sharpened and brightened.

My mind in overdrive.

He was here.

He sat on his bed, alive and well, speechless with alarm.

Oliver was shirtless, lidded only by flannel pants and black gloves. He considered me with bleeding elbows, disheveled hair, and desperate eyes. Then, the shock on his face gave way for a giant grin.

“Come here often?” He inquired. His voice, raspy with morning.

Still panting and shaking, I conjured a smile to match Oliver's.

“You’d think so. . .” I choked.

“And I’d be right, Maple.” He finished. I managed a laugh.

Nothing had changed.

We are the boys who go out and party, and get into trouble, oh yeah we're bad


You see I went to the club to watch a really cool band
For starters it took a while to start and when it did
I was the only one dancing, you see I was the only cool one there
And I went to the Brumbies and I yelled when they dropped the ball
Saying we stink we stink we stink
Then after that we went to an old house in Wanniassa
And I knocked on the door and this lady answered and said
How are you little cool dude, I am the evil white witch of Canberra
Who are you, you fine gentlemen, who are you
I said I am Brian Allan, and I am the head cool boy here in Canberra
The evil white witch said, not for long, I have Mark Marlor and Brendan Schultz
Both captured in my den in the backyard, yes it looks like a chicken coop
And I want you too, because mate, you are a little brat who hangs around witch's houses
I tried to escape, but the witch before my eyes, zapped me in chains in the den
With Mark and Brendan, and this was going to be doom for us
The white witch wanted to feed us, because he wanted us to fatten up
For the big feast, which was in about 2 weeks from now
And these three Canberra kids are the Canberra kids who will bring peace to the city
For the centenary, yes the white witch was sitting in her chair saying I have the cool kids
Mark, Brendan and Brian were saying, we are the boys who go out and party
And get into trouble. Oh yeah we're bad, cause we end up being chained in an evil white witch's backyard den, and we are by all means doomed
The witch came down to the den and said, have you boys gained fat yet
You 3 can no longer be muscle boys, cause you are my prisoners
I have you forever, kiddies
The white witch made sure that Brendan,Mark and Brian were securely chained in so tightly, and then went on a little walk around Canberra trying to find more Canberra crowd kids to catch, and he walked past the Duffy shops and the white witch saw Luke Salvorg who was. Under 12 for Weston Creek and he was riding his bike down tbe road, and yes, like all sports boy, he thought he was never going to be kidnapped, because he was too loud and too fit, but the white witch waved her arms and suddenly Luke found himself in the witch's den chained up, he was scared and Mark Marlor, who knew him, said, we must eat, because we are going to be the food at a dinner party, you see we all are kidnapped by an evil white witch, and don't worry she only wants boys, because boys are tough
You see, we are the boys who go out to party and get into trouble, oh yeah, we're bad, cause we end up being chained in an evil white witch's backyard den, Luke said please mummy rescue me, please, and I want you to do it now



Sent from my iPhone

Sorry, dude. I must admit
I find it more than pathetic
That you experience life
With sorrow about some of it
That you don’t have a drug
To take to help appreciate
Something that is amazing
And really needs no chemical
To help you exaggerate
What is really going on
And pretend it is better
Or somehow transcendent
As if water can be wetter.

But it is as if time warped
And I have gone backward
To talk to myself about it
And then zapped forward
To see what a saturate
What a wet-brained fool
I was back then, it’s true.
I was a tin-plated tool.
I measured my existence
One dime bag at a time
Giggling with stoner friends
About my forays into crime;
Selling backs of skunk ****
When nobody else had any
Good stuff or bad stuff.
And I was the one with plenty.

Walking through Hollywood
With stoner friends and flakes
Singing as we stumbled along
About life and what it takes
To satisfy *** hounds those days.
***, drugs and rock and roll
And pride in our half-witted ways.
Learning how to roll pinners
Of a buddy’s stash on the sly
While he was taking a whizz
And couldn’t ask me why.
Learning how to properly treat
The remaining sticks and stones
And confiscating the roaches
When the others left them alone.

That was the cannabis coalition
The Sativa Society at its height.
We worked in the daytime and
Got ******* most every night.
And sooner or later, on the job
In the bathroom or on the roof.
I didn’t think of it addiction.
I still needed further proof.
I needed to try to buy ****
From a government man I met.
Fortunately I bailed on that
Before adding one more big regret.
Life has gotten better since then
No more outside dependence.
I quit before the drugs became
The entire focus of my existence.

The drone swept silent
between the maple tree
and the shed

zapped my dog Shep
with an electric bolt
that vaporized him instantly

while Mr. Stone next door laughed
I told you, Hoffman
to shut that **** dog up

just as my drone
launched a fire grenade
up the exhaust pipe
of his new Lexus

yet somewhere
in the akashic record
of my sweet country
a muleteer helps
pull his neighbor’s wagon
out of the mud
that follows
a torrential rain

The Q Man
The Q Man was somebody who was different
He travelled the galaxies and universe doing a job
Flying a Type 6 spaceship interstellar style
Normal space travel took forever and a day
But his ship was a souped one off
With engine and fuel enhancements
Zipping from world to world to work
He lands in a remote place and hides
His pointed ship from observers or spies
And hikes to his location to do the job
The tool of his trade is a long range rifle
Made on Planet Earth three millennia ago
It’s fitted with modified 7. 62mm bullets
These **** every single life form from a mile
On normal blood and body organisms
Normal explosive bullets do the job
With insect like ones with an armoured body
Armour piercing acid bullets eradicate them
He has 3002 different bullet types to use
Each one killing a designated target
The contract killer with no home
Except between the stars in his ship
Living for a dozen centuries extendable
You don’t want to mess with him
Nor be on his **** list as you’re ******
Zapped by an old skool high tech bullet
Fired by the best assassin there ever was
The Q Man and his rifle always on call

It’s not singly your jubilantly playful smile
Or eyes that instill faith,
Faith that miracles exist in us
And absolutely not independently
The miraculousness that ever so gently
And tenderly
Sleeps on top of a face to which
No being can compare to, it makes such
Euphoric feelings kiss the world
And my heart, now zapped
By a current of life and flare
This miraculousness fabricates an image of
Your benevolent wind, light and sublime
Rolling softly over the waves and hands
Of the ocean, flowy and ecstatic
And the cause of my enamored state
Is not isolated by
The effervescently sanguine blush
Of your adorable cheeks,
Which regularly has exploded
A nervous, yet amazed smile
Upon myself
No,
Although with the fullest probity
I may spew that these angelic virtues
Have spirited me to a place
Where Zeal is my name
And time with you
Has become my heroine,
It’s your energy, your aura
Your vivacious fire
That so happily bombards me
With laughter and excitement
It’s your poison, your wonderful stain
That’s colored my life
And shocked my heart
It’s you;
You are a poem

The whole world is in panic
The whole world is in fear!
They don’t know what the truth is
But they are zapped with what they hear

A virus has attacked us!
It is going to wipe out the world!
It is going to **** us all…
Through the media, we are told

Is it a danger, is it real?
Or is this just a myth?
As long as we live in fear
We will never realize the truth

Of course, it has killed thousands
And it’s mainly the old
The young will mostly get away
With a fever, cough and cold

The Coronavirus is a champion
It seems to have a tactic
Though many it appears to infect
But for some, it is asymptomatic


Therefore, we don’t know the numbers
Who are actually killed by the virus
There are many with heart and lung disease
Are they dying because of this?

The whole world is in panic
They think of COVID they will die
They have locked themselves in their houses
Unable to enjoy the sky

Of course, we must take precautions
And stay away from one with a cough
But to shut down the entire world
That is way off!

Fear is the cause of this panic
It is making a mountain of a molehill
Far more than the Coronavirus
It is Fear that will ****

Fear is False Expectations Appearing Real
The mind creates this thought
But once paralyzed by this panic
In anxiety we are caught

Why are we scared, why do we fear?
Why are humans given this gift?
God gave us this instinct for a reason
From real dangers, so we can drift

There are many types of fears
Some even fear a loud sound
Some fear to go up in the sky
Some a lizard on the ground!

Fear often grows into a phobia
An irrational fear of something
Dentophobia is a fear of the dentist
And claustrophobia, a crowd of anything

Some have zoophobia – fear of animals
Some arachnophobia – fear of spiders
With aerophobia, there is fear of flying
And cyberphobia – fear of computers

Finally, the question that matters most
Is fear actually real?
Fear is not a danger, fear doesn’t ****
It’s just an Expectation that Appears Real

But when fear attacks us
And fills our body and mind
The rascal makes us suffer
And makes our life a grind

Fear is not a danger
There is a difference in these two
A danger can attack us
But fear just makes us feel blue

The consequence of fear is tremendous
It can bring our life to a halt
It can stop our intellect from thinking
By just finding fault

What is the cause of fear?
This killer is caused by our mind
It makes us see what is not
In anxiety, makes us blind

But there is a way to overcome it
With courage and with hope
We must wipe out every thought of worry
Then with stress and panic we will cope

But the first step is to wipe out
Ignorance from the mind
To differentiate the mind from the intellect
Both are of a different kind

The intellect can discriminate
It can realize the truth
We must ask questions and investigate
Till we get to the bottom of the root

It is important to flip our life over
From NEP flip to PEP
From negative emotions to positive emotions
From poison to power, step by step

After all, life is a drama
On the earth stage, it’s just a show
We are all actors in this theatre
We come, but we must go

Nobody can escape death
Life is in somebody else’s hand
There is a power we can’t comprehend
That created the sky and land

Because we fear we will die
We live with such panic
We get scared of a virus
That’s truly tragic!

Fear can lock us in prison
Fear can shut life’s door
Fear can frighten us to no end
Drilling into our core

The biggest Fear is that of death
Loss of all that is known
And then a greater Fear still
What is beyond death, unknown

But Fear will make us suffer
Fear will make us sad
We must learn to overcome it
If again we want to be glad

There is a way to overcome
The ignorance caused by Fear
It happens with Realization of the Truth
Not going by what we hear

We must ask and investigate
How real is our Fear
Is it actually a danger
That’s coming very near?

Fear is an illusion
But is powerful and can ****
It can paralyze our entire life
And stop us from doing our will

Today, fear more than ever before
Has made the world come to a stop
In panic, stress, and anxiety
Forced people to shut their shop

Of course, the virus will **** a few
But all of us eventually must die
If not because of this virus
Something else will send us to the sky

So why be in panic of the virus?
We must realize the cause is Fear
False Expectations Appearing Real
Is truly causing us dear

The economic crisis that is being caused
Is far greater than the virus
But Fear is making us blind to the truth
And going in the wrong direction, in stress

Fear is making us blind
We can’t see the truth that is plain,
It’s projecting illusions that are fake
And will cause the world to be slain

Its time to realize what Fear is doing
And **** it before it kills us
The virus will come, and the virus will go
But Fear must not destroy us

If we remain ignorant of our ignorance
And live with Fear and stress
Every such virus that comes in life
Will make our life a mess


-       By AiR

Why I no longer lie or change:

I loved a strong man
he made me feel weak
He choked my songs
my voice ceased to sing
I loved a hero
but he zapped my strengths
Took my strong words
broke them beneath his feet
My words for him were love
his were hate
all my insecurities
he said he was trying to push away
until the day
he decided I had changed too much
Because I had changed too much
Changed by every word he said
He decided to break his promise
forget the ring I wore
And take another girl to bed.


There are no good memories of you:

I hate that I can remember being loved by you
The look in your eyes the first time we slept together
it was a January morning you wore a green sweater
I remember how you said our names all mixed together
I don’t know when we changed
but your oh ****, your ending phrase
your truth turned lie
blew back over everything
I have no good memories left of you
they are all tainted by hatred and pain
now I hate the way you said my name
how it was not as safe on your lips as I believed
And I hate what you had made of me
by the end
I hate what we could have been.
I do not hate that we are not
I am glad that you are gone
I only wish that you had thought
to leave my heart alone.


Your bookshelf was too small:

Though your suggestions were good, though you read every classic, though you knew every (over-spoken) line, you knew too narrow a scope. Though I agree that very little remains unspoken after the classic works. Your shelf of scarcely over seven books, and the fact I never saw you read one, should have conveyed to me a point of disaster that I somehow did not see coming. I have drunk in the words of others since I was a child. I have dived in bargain bins and raided library discards for one more book to read. You could have afforded a library beyond what I could have imagined, and your greatest concerns would have been what people thought of the books you kept and if their spines all matched. I have read almost every book on my shelves. I think they number in the hundreds and I have read so many more besides. And you, you disdained new work. Your pretentiousness and pseudo-intellectual paths fooled even me, until I believed that maybe you, with your little shelf, could offer me something I had not yet discovered. I think you thought so too. But my honest thoughts on you loving a writer are that you, with your little shelf and your boxes and your preconceived notions of what people should be, had no way of knowing how to love someone as open as a writer; someone who can turn their whims with the setting of the sun, who can live in worlds you have never seen and longs only to share them. You with your little boxes and your little shelf never deserved my mind or my stories in your life. I am glad my books never found homes on your shelves.

I'm logging out
of this smouldering
relationship with
so much drama.
It deflated me
and sap my
soul of energy.
Don't ever encourage
me to wait
for a little bit
or give it time
to work out or change.
You probably won't
meet me well
and alive or maybe
meet me insane.
I don't need
a shrink to
know that I'm fully
zapped out and
need to recuperate,
or a monster
created by this
unfortunate event
will be unleashed and
probably devour me.
Right now there's
a network problem
and the number
you are calling
is no longer available
or maybe switched off.
Now there's a need
for a new SIM card,
but the memory card
is still valid.
Remember that
the number you
are dialling is
not in use and
not recognized by
the service provider.
I'm no longer
available in that network.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

Atoning
Admonishment

Beloved
Blessings

Confusing
Contemplation

Debating
Disturbance  

Everlasting
Eternity

Foreboding
Faithfulness

Gods
Goodness

Hasting
Heaven

Internal
Intuition

Jesus'
Judgement

Kings
King

Loving
Light

Monday's
Moment

Never
Numbing

Open
­Opportunity

Peoples
Persons

Qualify
Quiet

Redeemer
Resemblance

Saving
Salvation

Thee
Truth

Undenying
Unity

Valient
Victory

Washed
White

X chromosome
X factor

You
Yelling

Zealously
Zapped

Speak no more
Utter no more sentences
Vague, and context devoid through
Glass electric fixtures.
Stopped communication via
Frozen gears and halted processes
Dead progress, mutated metals.  
Sing no more, no more notes raised
Upward bound towards fleeting skies
Reigning over all we were.
Love no more, see no more
Begone like the invisible microwaves that
First created and ultimately possess you;
That zapped you full of life and color and now defy you.

I am mesmerized by you.  
As days turn to months and months to years.
Your persistent love for me and I for you follows.  
A friendship turned into love that sparked a passion from a flame.
It burns eternal in my dwellings.
I have no crown; you placed laurels upon my head,
crowning you the muse of me.
The goddesses of Zeus worked magic within
my mind, and zapped my fingers with a magic wand.
The rivers have flowed ever since.
I am obsessed in your everlasting springtime.  
This is a beautiful crazy if any one behold thee.
We compliment each other.
We know our thoughts, and how to  
create the perfect work of us.
I ponder a contemplation  if I ever loss your precious gift.
Time would be a waste.
A meaningless mirage of existence.
My meditation is focused on our love, passion and obsession.  
Forever we shall be entwined as lovers in rhapsody.
The muse of me.

JHpoetry