The diameter of the quest pointed indirectly into the fog.
The fog that hid the ****** damsel, captive, far from home
With my trusty blade and my rusty horse,
my  whole mission, saving the princess.
My sword slammed into dragon, far and sqware.
I packaged the carcass, put it on the curb, and grinned.

Looking in all the wrong places
In Boston, I shared a bed with a stranger,
In New Orleans, it was rope...
In Memphis, I sat with a stray cat,
I smoked-- the cat did nat...
Just trying to lose the loneliness blues.

2. It’s just around the corner
a warm night in spring
flowers fragrance the air
is this the one?

3. The 90-day half-life
From like rabbits to sustainable passion,
The “inluvy” hormones
are nearly as exhausted as we
Time to work on friendship,
 and commitment to our future.

4. On the shoals
"It wasn't what was said, it was what wasn't said"
negative space shaping the conversation--
dancing, flitting from safe to safer,
like stepping stones across an angry creek,
we just try to get by.

5. An assessment
Love isn’t static
No, it evolves,
waxing and waning
to an uncertain end.
It can fade,
or it can continue to grow
and become something 
truly wondrous.

6. Live and let live
Hanging the toilet paper roll,
evil sister-in-law peeve.
Yes, the toilet seat thing.
A sock warming a room corner.
Not ******* on screwtops 
The toothpaste top, classic.
Every flat surface a shelf,
every car trunk a closet

7. Requiem
Alone again
I miss my friend

grotesque, banal,
sorrow and suffering
meted out to all,
but unfairly spread.
the litany of evil,
endless and pointless.
it's the four horsemen,
joyfully at work.
oh god,
how can you permit this?
a wiser man* than i,
in the stead of god replies,
it's just part of the deal.

All of a sudden, 
No light, no sound, 
no sensations at all.
My mind was freed--
it soared, 
I could think of anything,
and I did.
No sensory distractions,
no outside prompts to guide my thought
                  ?
At first, I thought I was alone,
but I wasn't. 
I was one among hundreds, 
thousands or more.
To the left of me, the right
front, back,
above and below,
silent comrades, 
on a shelf,
each like me.
                  ?
How did I know this?
I don't know, 
but it was true...
as true as anything else.
I was just a brain in a jar,
with the sensory plug pulled.
I just hope the nutrient
continues to flow.

You will become rich
You will become poor
You will eat an apple
You will swallow the core

temperature pales compared to heat
it signals without sensation
but sweat is the real deal

It's thin, it's yellow, it's HB or #2
It's a pencil with a worn eraser.
I've used it and its brothers and sisters, all my life.

Crayons were OK, but not for my airplanes,
careening across the sky,
bravely engaging Axis aircraft.
Rat-tat-tat.

In 4th or 5th grade, fountain pens were used for English and penmanship, of course.
***** things, splat-splat.
But math was always pencils.
Double digit multiplication, long division with lots of erasings.

When it wasn't peashooter or marbles or some other season,
it was hangman in the back of the room.

In 8th grade, I wrote a 10-minute play.
Subject forgotten, but it was in pencil,
pressed hard for carbons for the other actors.

In high school, another use:
Pushing my frog around with the point,
and getting formaldehyde on it.
So I sharpened it.

I moved on to doodling in class,
during the dull parts
when I wasn't looking out the window.
(Schools weren't like prisons then).

Scribbled math became scribbled algebra,
I started shading that led to watercolor, which I hated,
No precision compared my pencil.

College boards, multiple choice, filling in the circles,
special high conductivity, ultra black pencils.

In graduate school, class notes and coding forms.
School doodling becames work doodling.
Though, I confess, I sometimes used a pen.

Late in life, my  goal was to draw "real good".
Still pencils, but graphite too.
My new favorite is 9B for deep contrast.
That "real good" thing-- I'm working on it.

So put on my gravestone, for all to view
"He wrote as he drew, with a #2".

I’m now sure it was a dream,
but then I was 11 and it was real.
I’m still drawn to the memory.

We lived on the edge of the country on a gravel road.
The country started just beyond the back yard
— a brackish pond with a hint of sulfur.
150 South Cooper.

I rode my bike on the marge,
a little harder, but smoother,
and not as dusty as the road.
Left at the corner,
west along the corn fields.
Vivid greens in the sun.

One or two more turns
and along side was a shade tree,
just across the ditch.
I put the bike to the ground
and sat in the shade.
I’ve never known such peace,
either before or after.
Time passed, supper called,
I reluctantly pedaled home.

Several times that summer
I tried to find that place,
but I never could.

Impressions of Philadelphia: May 20-8, 2023

A masked saint dressed in dollar bills. Stuffed rice *****.  Cannolli. Italian street  festival

Bentley and Porsche. Bright sequins everywhere. Side-slit, backless, plunging. Metal detectors. Prom night downtown.

On the median, a barber and a man. Haircuts for the homeless.

Black tattoos, ankle to cheek. Dark lips. Green and blonde hair.  Who needs a bra? City girl, Philly girl.

Bike paths everywhere downtown. Few bikes but lots of scooters.  Lancaster county too.

Belly button here, belly button there, here a navel, there a navel, everywhere navel-navels. Philadelphia Innies ‘n outies.

Bright colors, weathered colors. Loving, nurturing, and plain strange.  Gayborhood murals.

1st post master, mapped the gulf stream, lightening catcher, 9 Atlantic crossings. “I never discovered anything, I just made it useful”. Ben Franklin.

Overnight parking $300. At the Delaware, across from Camden.

The Rocky statue outside the art museum, golden Diana within.

Statues hanging from every other building. Avenue of the Arts.

Drexel, Temple, U-Penn. Unsolved murders. The campuses.

ATV rodeo every night. Rrrumm, rummm!  Broad Street after 6.

Phillies 12 - Cubs 3. $8 hotdogs. Citizens Bank Field.

“All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia”. W.C. Fields

You have my condolences.
There, I’ve said it again.
A placeholder for real emotion,
The empty container.
A mumble in a moving line

And a sudden death?
There is sorrow there, and grief
I could relate to that, but could I sound sincere?

I wonder how often sorrow is really felt
A long, lingering difficult death.
Relief that it’s over,
long illness transforming a loved one into a hollowed husk.
Joyous death, a happy ending

i've been circling the drain,
and then i'll be done
people will say condolences
because that’s what’s said
but I won’t give a rat’s ***

Hickory dickory dock
The clock struck thirteen o'clock
Hickory dickory dock
it's time to fix the clock
Hickory dickory dock
I found an extra part

Hickory dickory dock
The clock struck fourteen o'clock
Hickory dickory dock
I found a mouse in the clock
Hickory dickory dock
It's time to catch the mouse

Hickory dickory dock
The clock struck fifteen o'clock
Hickory dickory dock
The clock has a knock
Hickory dickory dock
It's time to clean the clock

Hickory dickory dock
dot, dot, dot, dot,  dot

Hickory dickory dock
The clock struck nineteen o'clock
Hickory dickory dock
Part, mouse, noise, and more
Hickory dickory dock
It's time to throw out the clock

Hickory dickory dock
Oh, perfection can be such a mock
Hickory dickory dock

In my brain,
making something new,
understanding something old.

I yearn for simpler decisions,
The common sense kind,
that offend no one,
and may even gain approval

Hanging the toilet paper roll,
evil sister-in-law peeve.
Yes, the toilet seat thing.
A sock warming a room corner.
Not ******* on screwtops 
The toothpaste top, classic.
Every flat surface a shelf,
every car trunk a closet

So many decisions--
Who has time for all those?
Not me 
and don't you dare think I do all those things!

Breathe, said the demon
Breathe and assume the bridge pose
Breathe into your favorite body part
We are just holograms at the edge of a black hole, so breathe.
Breathe and retrieve, Warrior I
Breathe and grieve, Warrior II
Namaste and good night

Soufflé,
Prana,
Respiro,
Aliento,
Breath.
 
Hello,
It’s all just air

"Nayah, chickenshit"
A taunt and a challenge
Roll down the hill inside a rusty 55-gallon drum
No brakes just trees

A taunt and a challenge.
A bumpy jumpy rolly ride
No brakes just trees,
Disoriented and dizzy

A bumpy jumpy rolly ride
Hit a tree, spin out,
Disoriented and dizzy,
Bruised and curled up.

Hit a tree spin out.
Crawl out of the barrel
Bruised, stand and stagger,
Stumble and fall.

"Nayah, chickenshit"
Where is the bravery-stupidity line?
At the top of the hill.

French civil engineer and physicist whose research in optics led to the almost unanimous acceptance of the wave theory of light.  (Wikipedia)
Other accomplishments include explaining the polarization of light , its diffraction and numerous innovations in lens design. My candidate for Mr. Optics

While Isaac Newton's theories held sway,
Streams of particles were held as light.
Thomas Young showed they were waves, like water
but the English and French still believed Newton

"Streams of particles are light" they said
Augustin-Jean said "no, light oscillates".
The English and French didn't believe him either.
The French Academy held a competition on light.

Augustin-Jean said "but light undulates".
Ampere said enter the race, tell us why it's a wave
Fresnel entered the competition for the Grand Prix
It was Fresnel versus the French corpusculars

Simeon Poisson, a judge of the race, told the committee,
"Fresnel says waves will have a spot of light in the shadow"
The committee did the experiment-- Fresnel was right
Augustin-Jean Fresnel's spot convinced the world.

Isaac Newton's optics held sway no more,
And light was a wave for a hundred years,
until we found out it was both wave and particle,
but mostly a wave

Groovy. 
******. 
Like wow, man.
Ya know.

Yah, you do know--
We could get by for days,
with just these words. 
Cool.

T'was the day before aluminum.
And all through the towns
Steel fantasies did roam,
All finny at thousands of pounds.

Lots of metal, heavy and sculpted.
No custom kits, just regular Detroit iron,
The Mesabi Iron Range leveled and scalped.

Fins, I say, fin, fins and finny.
You could stab yourself on a '57 Chevie!

Sleek, but massive,
Caddie fins with bullet tail lights
Rare Edsels and Packards

Thunderbirds, killer headlights to match the fins
Remember the Rambler!

Knife edges everywhere, the Studebaker Fury
Corvettes, vruum, vruum, VRUUUM.

Beloved Impalas, Rocket 88's,
Imperials and Mark III Continentals

Where did we go in these steel confections...
Drive-ins, both food and movie,
Down Main Street to be seen,
Back to be seen again, groovy

We had pimples and ducktails, 
hoping to meet girls,
but the cars had fins of steel!
And they were the magnets.

A big stuffed noodle,
but stuffed with what?
Pumpkin, cheeses,
basil spiced chicken,
a bit of meatball.
But not altogether.

Dressed in olive oil,
plop in my mouth,
close my eyes and savor,
tongue, palette, lips.
Amen.

The obits I've read, 
are one sided.
He or she was always 
dedicated to their family...survived by....in lieu of flowers....
And that was it.

I'd like tell you about a friend, 
and say, among other things, 
what else Jack's obituary should have said.

We got along, off and on, for many years.

His most outstanding characteristic was,  
he was a sponge for facts and ideas--
science, politics, cultural trends
That was his thing.

Many a lunch hour we and others ate,
solving world problems. 
On a good day, we could smother conservatives with facts,
and outshout them too.
Jack leaned liberal, but carefully reasoned his positions,
which meant that I mostly agreed with him.

He was thin-skinned and a poor turn of words,
he would silently seethe.
That was the frenemy part.
Afterwards we avoided each other,
until after some time, 
once or twice as long as a year or so, 
we spoke again, 
almost like nothing happened.

Jack read a lot, mostly nonfiction 
Lots of science, with some Asimov in his past

He was dedicated to his profession and stayed current.
Customers trusted him and he served them well.
He only worked at one place, 
mostly because he liked the job
and some of the people.

But if a project didn't appeal to him,
he could also be Mr Passive-Aggressive,

He followed the arts and drew,
building a rig for two point perspective,
his doodles were marvelous.

Jack's character was as complex as his  interests.
He described his diversity with "I'm just a dabbler."
Humble, yet proud. sincere but a little perverse.
But not really a dabbler-- he dug deep, a lot.

His passing was sudden and his obituary had gaps.

The spring equinox has fertility festivals,
but the autumn equinox is less fun--
At best, thanks for enough food for winter.

But a few people still gather at
Stonehenge, Machu Picchu and Chichen Itza,
looking for special shadows or their lack,
or to watch the sunrise between two stones.
In Japan, Buddhists watch the sunset
in the due west where the afterlife is.

It's the beginning of the end of the year,
Nature getting ready for winter --
Trees begin their hibernation,
but dress in their best.
Insulated from nature's beauty,
we watch football. Roll Tide.

There’s a monument at the end of the trail less traveled.
Solemn, incised in stone, it reads,
“This is the end of the trail.
Did it meet or exceed your expectations?”

I don’t want to live in a universe where cats are considered liquids— They’re bad enough as they are.

So some idiot decided that cats fit the definition of a liquid—
“a substance that flows freely but is of constant volume”.

Obviously the dictionary is wrong, wrong, WRONG.
I shall spend the rest of my dotage developing a definition that will not accept cats as liquids.

Perhaps “A freely flowing substance of constant volume that doesn’t meow.”— Perhaps not.

But wait,  cats don’t fit the definition after all. They don’t stay the same size, especially when frightened or wet.

I bet that idiot spends all his time watching cat videos and has never hosed down fighting cats in his backyard.

Dotage saved for more important stuff :
Continue study of Schrodinger’s aversion to cats, look for hidden messages in Emily Dickenson poems recited backwards, master fake outrage.

My first day modeling for Monsieur Magritte,
he asked me to take off my clothes,
and stand facing the easel.
During the next break, I snuck a peek.
There I was , fully clothed,
wearing a bowler
but, instead of a face,
there was a green apple.

As I found out, this was typical.
I have posed as a tree,  and a cat in a hat.
My shadow has been a window.
My face has been a bird,
My torso a bird cage,
A pipe was an organic extension of my nose.

I never understood why he needed a model at all,
perhaps an immediate someone to share his visions.
The money was good, and I faked it.
Wouldn't you?

Night of the morning of short knives,
drills and screws, glue and cadaver bone

Early to bed- Ha! in bed all day.

Eyes closed, mind Percocet blank…
Fully dressed— bare **** gown, oxygen monitor, IV, **** bag, wound drainage can.

Oxygen monitor beeps and flirts with 89%
Silencing deep breaths, Buddha breaths.

What’s with my tummy, **** or not?
soothing infusion, preventive IV drip

Vital visits (4), blood pressure,
pulse (yes), and extra oxygen check.

More oxygen beeps.
If it beeps and no-one comes, does it count?

Three drainage dumps,
Purple red spattered gown and sheets

The inept vampire lady appears.
Can’t see, feel, or find a vein.

First of two that night, the glucose *****.
Revenge, the ******* offered.

The empty IV machine beeps back at the oxygen monitor

The sting of a forced catheter.
Have a pill, dear, you’ll just *** blue

Another anti-**** infusion.
Maybe if I could sleep it would all go away.

It’s four am and not a wink.
And here come the hiccups.

Beeping oxygen monitor, barfie tummy, drainage dumps, vampire lady, sugar *****, blue ****, empty IV, hiccups and a partridge in a pear tree.

But I’m probably getting better.

I woke up underground.
It was eons since my last meal.
My tiny brains were flooded with hunger pangs
I was not your green comic book T-Rex,
I was scarlet vermillion and brilliant oche
and I was confined in the dank earth.
I flexed my armored reptile muscles
and pushed and dug upwards.
I broke ground and saw a feeble sun,
but I was in the middle of a picnic!
Wilted chicken salad and greasy brats,
and some pale mammals,
with crunchy arms and legs.
I left the chicken salad for the flies.

at the outdoor bar on the beach
And all the golf carts gather around.
Some Elvis and a few more beers
No millennials until sundown.

In that little deuce coupe,
the Beach Boys run around,
Surfer girl's a Pasadena lady,
And surf boards are all aground.

Now I long for yesterday
When oldies were the craze.
There goes the sun and I say,
Hey Jude, here's to better days.

I ride back to the boonies,
thinking when oldies were newsies.
Wake up little Suzie,
we gotta go home

A taunt and a challenge
Roll down the hill in a rusty 55-gallon drum
No brakes  just trees
A bumpy jumpy rolly ride
Disorienting dizzying
Hit a tree spin out
Bruised and staggering
Stumble and fall.
Where is the bravery-stupidity line?
At the top of the hill.

Wigglely array of commas
Puppy pile

One day my dreams were just dreams
No need to plan, to scheme, to save
My dreams change into...what?
The path never taken, the life never led?
But on the balance, some good...
I don't see it.
I just don't see it.

In Sevastopol harbor*
on a glittering day,
the shiny, refurbished, 
***** and span 
missile cruiser Moskva 
blocked the harbor?
Sailors stood on deck 
in formation,
saluting and marching.
Small boats (two) 
circled the ship 
on mystery missions.
Makework for sure.

And not a ship or boat
could leave the harbor
for hours.?
A few days later, 
our little cruise ship
sailed the Black Sea.
Lo and behold,
the Moskva, pride of the fleet
shadowed and playfully 
circled us,
and then sailed away,
leaving us uneasy.

What we saw was a dry run,
just a practice.
The next year, the Moskva
again blocked the harbor,
penning in 
the Ukrainian navy,
as Russia invaded Crimea.

The Moskva is sunk.
Sorry for the sailors,
But adios, 
Bully of the Black Sea.
Rat *******.

im numb
the *******
have won

Afterwards, Judy was shunned,
by all, but a few friends.
Dishing with them, she talked
about her former employer.

"It's just so **** unfair,
I got the result they wanted:
Holophernes is not a threat any more,
but no, they said I was too violent.
I was perfect for the job,
I had always liked the bad boys.
We had some wine and cheese,
saving dessert for last.
But he was a really ****** lover,
And then he went to sleep!
Well, what's a girl to do?

I smote him,
in his pumping heart,
on his thick, muscular arms,
his meaty thighs,
his sinuous neck,
everywhere.
And before you knew it,
his head fell off.
There was blood everywhere,
on me, on the tent, on the ground
and even on the ceiling.
A good thing I had no clothes on
and protected my hair.

The State of Israel should be proud of me.
But no, they say I liked it a bit too much.
And then to make matters worse,
they said I mistreated my maid
when I made her carry the head back.
Well, I couldn't have blood on my fresh clothes
Especially for my triumphant entry to the city.
I mean, after all, what are slaves for?

So here I am, a near outcast,
just because I saved their *****--
They can kiss mine.
That's the last time I'll take anyone out for them."
And then with ****** in her eye,
the Widow Judith stalked from the room.

The ever-present callow youth,
entangled in the adult's web,
the strictures of life.
He seeks release
Love, oh careless love.

Entangled in the adult's web,
Caught in the  gravity of the mundane,
the full weight of responsibilities
looking for a stellar escape, ad astra.
Love, oh careless love

Escaping the gravity of the mundane
Answering the siren's call
A tropical island, a free life
Sun-kissed and no obligations
Love, oh careless love

Oh, the siren's call,
The adult hears but knows
This  Forbidden fruit--
It's is just a dream
Morning will ground him again,
But oh Love, that Careless Love.

I like Sy, but my wife does not--
She doesn't like rodents or that they eat our tomatoes.
They’re just rats with bushy tails
But Sy and his brethren exhibit traits
we wish our children had,
They plan for the future, 
hiding nuts, seldom found by dogs.
As a species they succeed, 
they survive and proliferate,
cleverly raiding bird feeders and gardens,
avoiding traps and out-smarting squirrel guards.
Live in a tree, scamper across roofs.
If only, they were better crossing the street.
But I, when confronting my mortality,
I think, next time around,
I want to be Silvester the tomato-eating gray squirrel

negative space shaping the conversation--
dancing, flitting from safe to safer,
like stepping stones across an angry creek,
we just try to get by.

It's on the February calendar,
quite near National Bacon Day.
I understand Pay It Forward,
but I don't understand why
I should inconvenience myself.
There are whole industries for that.
I could name them all,
but what a drag,
so Inconvenience Yourself Day,
Hell NO!

A two-headed coin on edge
heads or heads --
it matters, it matters not

Balance, a dynamic to and fro,
it's a thing to itself--
a delightful tension-- or not

I'll eat heathy and lose weight.
I'll shop for a livable diet,
Low carbs, nil sugar, no fat.
I will do better this year.
I'll draw more, paint more, eat more.
I'll surely do better now that I'm older and wiser.
No more German chocolate cake, fruit tarts,
Strawberries Romanov, pastrami on German rye,
Boullibaise, Fried Chicken, Schweinsbraten,
Ice Cream with Chocolate Sauce, Fat Burgers.
Marshmallows, Tater-tots, Twinkies, Pies
I shall do bet... Aw ***** it--
Prime rib and mashed potatoes tonight
And pancakes for breakfast!

Artists and models,
pimps and prostitutes,
writers and muses,
the noted and the nameless,
in stark black and white.

Under the street lamp,
A stout woman with a dangling cigarette,
her shadow trailing into the dark.
I need a warm place to stay tonight.

On the banks of the Seine,
The lamplighter, making his rounds,
creates the mystery of night

Stairs leading down the hill,
into the fog, into the night.
Gas lamps lighting the way,
for someone who is yet to come.

Lovers in a brightly lit cafe,
sharing a drink and a kiss,
a stolen moment,
oblivious to all else.

Rain and the street glistens
adorned by umbrella blossoms.
Long shadows cast by a rainy city garden.

Matisse and his models.
The Four Arts Ball,
Henry Miller, Picasso,
The Follies-Bergere,

The master himself,
eye to camera,
cigarette dangling,
snap-brim in place,
calf length overcoat on a Parisian street,
recording life as it passes by
A time machine, a graphic history,
all is there for us.

The Paris of our dreams.

Where every thing is black and white
in technicolor;

Where no matter how absurd,
things turn out well;

A cruel place,
but not systematically so;

Where one thing is sure:
when the coyote treads air--
pedaling as fast as he can,
gravity prevails.

Beep, beep.

Scrappy as hell
the little black dog
stood on his hind legs
growling at the
postman.

The girl
in the red jacket
stood on the rock
because...
well, she was
ten years old.

In spite of the
little black dog
the postman
gave the girl
on the rock
a letter,
and winked.

Everyone went their own way,
and lived happily ever after,
I wish.

I hate whiney relationship poems--
By the poem’s middle-- I seldom further get--
I know the poet’s a narcissistic selfish twit.

Buddy, was a dachshund,
an older dog.
Rescued in a Walmart parking lot,
existing on God knows what,
sick, hungry and afraid.
His foster mom called him "Verloren"'
which means lost, in German.
But we called him Buddy,
because he was.
He was with us just a few years,
that was all.

****

When I woke in the morning.
Buddy lay unresponsive,
with shallow breath.
The night before he couldn't walk.
I think it's time, old friend.

At the vet,
I held him and gave the directions
in a wavering voice.
I left as soon as I could.

A dark cloud settled over our house.
That night we slept fitfully,
but the next night,
I was in an indeterminate space,
with furniture scattered about.

Buddy was under a highboy,
sleeping peacefully as he usually did.
I looked again but he wasn't there.
A moment later, I saw him again
and then he was gone.

Some will say my dream,
was just  me processing.
Or was it a sign,
a message from Buddy:
I'm OK.
It's OK.

Dropping her cloak, **** she leaned into the storm and glistened.

The rocket shot to its apex, and filled the twilight sky with white and orange glowing fragments

The car skidded to a noisy halt, the sides fell away to reveal 8 clowns smoking cigars

N-I-P-P-L-E-S. ******* was his name. *******, Joe *******.

A cherry ‘67 Ford Mustang, sumbitch, be still my heart.

After eons, the T-Rex pushed his head through the earth and thought, “Oh good, a picnic”.

Confronting his mortality, next time around he wanted to be one of those **** tomato eating gray squirrels.

The Venetian Red fish
Slithers through the magentic sky,
Sniffing the violence of electromagnetic vibrations,
I, behind the branchia, spur her/him on,
Far away, the sight of thunder rumbling and static,
Feeling the inky indigo of the mirage of toothy desire.
Hearing cold textures of slippery fishy scales,
Tasting the black velvet Jesus, Elvis, and Nixon,
Our banner.

Oh, that can’t possibly happen said Jonah,
As he was enveloped by exactly that,
A piercing cacophony of clashing color
That resolved itself into the image of his ex.
No more, no more.

The red fish jumped the river Stix,
Halting at the 7-11 from hell.
A seventh circle infernal Powerball anyone?
A hellish scratchie tempts my soul.
But my lucky number is a binary: 1-oh,1-oh, 1-oh.
That’s hell for you, unsymmetrical.

Needed, perhaps a chance encounter,
with an itinerant puzzle person
Would they sort the senses and find truth?
Could that help or should it?
He winks and I don’t believe her.

A stolen kiss thrown
At the 2018 Little League Playoffs at Southaven, Mississippi
Still echoes in their brain pans and mine too.
The dull stylus of dangerous thrills
scratched my pancreas as Jim shoveled his lunch.
But I have better manners than that.

In the chaotic magentic atmosphere,
I mount my scarlet stead,
and move on-- as you should too.
Adieu. Adieu. Adieu.