On wed. My 49/yr old nephew died of a sudden blood clot. My mother is  93 and has 12 children 40+ gr. Children 40-50 gr . grandchildren  dozens of gr.gr.  and some more beyond that and this is the first of any to suddenly pass thru .  
I spent all nite writing and preparing clothes so as I posted what I wrote it was the replies and attention given that allowed me the fortitude to stay out of the dark hole I teetered on so to all my most gracious and heartfelt  appreciation for walking with me as I stumbled along in what was only a dim light. Thanks so much.

My 8 track tape is now a museum piece, **** carpet is a health hazard now. No one knows what disco is, and bell bottoms are back in style. Life revolves in a circle. Some things that were old are new. Once I could read the album print, not I need glasses to see the news. I have slowed down as of late, a trampoline is an enemy of the state. If I am not 30 minutes early, then I consider myself to be late. Everyone is driving too fast, and music is now too loud. I'm not sure what blue tooth is, I think I will ask my doctor the next time my yearly check up comes around. I hear about mp3 but I am not sure what movie rating that is. Jokes I still think are funny, just annoy and embarrass  my grand kids. Loafers are fashionable and I don't have to bend over and tie my shoes. Elastic in my pants is welcome when ever I want to breathe. I seldom have time to watch t.v. since I spend all day watching what I  eat. I have come to a fore drawn conclusion that I must admit, I am old I think.

Iridium fastball pitches
from Zuni serpent mound,
bottom of the 9th walk-off homerun
over 30ft diving moai.

Slide to home base in volcanic lava
to congratulatory ***** Gatorade bath
from Kubla Kahn forefathers,
chanting psychedelic clubhouse anthems.

Levitate from home plate
and land atop Pyramid of Cholula for victory dinner;
for since we’re all artists in our dreams,
true dreams never come true.

Skyscrapers and mango trees wearing boxer briefs.

The tantalizing wind blows caressing paperclips and mortuary signs—
turning them indigo red for we all know that dead bodies are nothing but dead.

Hymns of love and soliloquies of the unconscious ego—
Id of our time but men of the past be our hero.
Leaving to wonder, if king Nebuchadnezzar was a crack-feign
would Coca Cola still educate penguins on the importance of Lesbian Existence?

For in this war of life, cockroaches are the real winners,
and the taste of excellence is only reserved for fire extinguishers —

so if nuclear clouds persist,
let the fire burn with love and you lay on the bed of oblivion
cuddling the moral that capitalism leads to schizophrenia.

So insure your sanity for free 99, this, with warm regards from yours truly,

                                                               ­              Rhizome of Golgotha.

Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread

In the burning right hand of the bald city,
denizens frame calories and count instagram blessings
while beacons of hope refund inspiration in USADA *** cups.

Abyssinian maids wail over yesterday lovers
who wore Ginsberg’s skirt with less  pizzazz
and watched bedbugs **** blood off knee caps
wondering, what if Jesus Christ drove a Nissan?

As bullets of paragraphs fall Vietnamese pesticides on my head,
The dusts off my breath sing homilies
With letters of broken leather whiskey,
For even in the most dishonest jest,
clandestine toothbrushes are overrated
and every first false lie is the only truth.

By and by,
we lie, we lie.

Clap your hands
to their lullaby
and become their wonder—
96% of humanity
is worth $6 in space
carrots.

The Cartier watch ticks
and some postmodern twitter
handle rocks
a swear jar full of
16th century curse words.

By and by,
we lie, we lie.