Canto I. Long ago and far away...

Under the bridge across the Kankakee River, Grampa found me. I was busted for truancy. First grade. 1946.

Summer and after school: Paper route, neighborhood yard work, dogsbody in a drugstore, measuring houses for the county, fireman EJ&E railroad, janitor and bottling line Pabst Brewery Peoria. 1952-1962.

Fresh caught Mississippi River catfish. Muddy Yummy. Burlington, Iowa. 1959. Best ever.

In college, Fr. ***** usually confused me with my roommate, Al. Except for grades. St. Procopius College, 1958-62. Rats.

Coming home from college for Christmas. Oops, my family moved a few streets over and forgot to tell me. Peoria, 1961.

The Pabst Brewery lunchroom in Peoria, a little after dawn, my first day. A guy came in and said: "Who wants my horsecock sandwich? ****, this first beer tastes good." We never knew how many he drank. 1962.

At grad school, when we moved into the basement with the octopus furnace, Dave, my roommate, contributed a case of Chef Boyardee spaghettios and I brought 3 cases of beer, PBRs.  Supper for a month. Ames. 1962.

Sharon and I were making out in the afternoon, clothes a jumble. Walter Cronkite said, " President Kennedy has been shot…”. Ames, 1963.

I stood in line, in my shorts, waiting for the clap-check. The corporal shouted:  "All right, you *******, Uncle and the Republic of Viet Nam want your sorry *****. Drop 'em".  Des Moines. Deferred, 1964.

Married and living in student housing. Packing crate furniture. Pammel Court, 1966.

One of many undistinguished PhD theses on theoretical physics. Ames. 1967.

He electrified the room. Every woman in the room, regardless of age, wanted him, or seemed to. The atmosphere was primeval and dripping with desire. In the presence of greatness. Palo Alto, 1968.

US science jobs dried up. From a mountain-top, beery conversation, I got a research job in Germany. Boulder, 1968. Aachen, 1969.

The first time I saw automatic weapons at an airport. Geneva, 1970.

I toasted Rembrandt with sparkling wine at the Rijksmuseum. He said nothing. Amsterdam International Conference on Elementary Particles. 1971.

A little drunk, but sobering fast: the guard had Khrushchev teeth.
Midnight, alone, locked in a room at the border.
Hours later, release. East Berlin, 1973. Harrassment.

She said, "You know it's remarkable that we're not having an affair." No, it wasn't. George's wife.  Germany, 1973.

"Maybe there really are quarks, but if so, we'll never see them." Truer than I knew.  Exit to Huntsville, 1974.

On my first day at work, my first federal felony. As a joke, I impersonated an FBI agent. What the hell? Huntsville. 1974. Guess what?-- No witnesses left! 2021.

Hard work, good times, difficult times. The first years in Huntsville are not fully digested and may stay that way.

The golden Lord Buddha radiated peace with his smile. Pop, pop. Shots in the distance. Bangkok. 1992.

Accomplishment at work, discord at home. Divorce. Huntsville. 1994. I got the dogs.

New beginnings, a fresh start, true love and life-partner. Huntsville. 1995.

Canto II. In the present century...

Should be working on a proposal, but riveted to the TV. The day the towers fell and nearly 4000 people perished. September 11, 2001.

I started painting. Old barns and such. 2004.

We bet on how many dead bodies we would see. None, but lots of flip-flops and a sheep. Secrets of the Yangtze. 2004

I quietly admired a Rembrandt portrait at the Schiphol airport. Ever inscrutable, his painting had presence, even as the bomb dogs sniffed by. Beagles. 2006.

I’ve lost two close friends that I’ve known for 50-odd years. There aren’t many more. Huntsville. 2008 and 2011.

Here's some career advice: On your desk, keep a coffee cup marked, "No Whining", that side out. Third and final retirement. 2015.

I occasionally kick myself for not staying with physics—I’m jealous of friends that did. I moved on, but stayed interested. Continuing.

I’m eighty years old and walk like a duck. 2021.

Letter: "Your insurance has lapsed but for $60,000, it can be reinstated provided you are alive when we receive the premium." Life at 81. Huntsville, 2022.

Canto III: Coda

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time. The thin comfort of fading memories. Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes. Not often, but every now and then.

(Begun May 2016)

"So why are you painting a woman in a bottle?"
The challenge. Handling all those quirky reflections and layers of transparency.

"She has phantom arms and legs, what about that?"
Yes, pretty cool. A Vitruvian woman in a bottle.

"I'm looking for Meaning: Don't paintings look under the surface?"
You mean, what does it mean, really mean? It's just a way to test my skill.

"But what are you saying with that?"
It's not feminist nor anti, it's just an exercise. Besides, there's a rope.

"But aren't you, as an artist, exposing reality, presenting emotions and feelings, seeing the soul?"
I'm not on a soapbox-- I'm testing my skill-- I paint and don't think about it too much. After all, 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar' or is it 'just a smoke'? *

"I don't like your message."
OK, I'll paint you in a bottle...
As a shrunken head.

My road is not a highway, well-traveled and straight.
Nor does it meander through the woods or follow a country brook.

No, it's often like a cave with short horizons;
And when there is a fork, I take it.

Bang! bang! went the screen door,
"Don't slam the door!", my mother.

Decades later...

Bang! bang! went the screen door,
Sounds like heaven to me!

I'm just a miserable bunch of quantum field excitations. A bag of bags of quarks. And so's my truck.

I was entangled with a gal, but things went South. We're still ensnared— unmeasured and immeasurable with no divorce.

Dark energy, dark matter, dark thoughts-- I'll go to the dark side and jump in a black hole.

That'll teach you,  bit....   [loss of signal]

The Standard Model is full of sticky, quirky Quarks,
perky little Fermions, and the Boson Higgs,
the reigning King of Mass of towering might;
who, by spontaneously falling off in any old direction,
gives ad hoc Masses to nearly all, and to all a birthright.

And for all normal matter in creation,
the Boson Higgs is the physicist's salvation.
Alas, we could have learned more,
but a Weasel ate through the Collider core.

Blackbird:
       In a field, pecking corn;
       At a pond, drinking;
       At dawn, stretching;
       At sunset, disappearing;
       Chasing dinner, a bug.

Blackbird:
       In flight, bringing the storm;
       Circling my house, waiting;
       Over sea, with the wind;
       Spiraling up, diving down;
       Quoting Poe, nevermore, nevermore;
       At the window, knocking;
       Bringing omens of trouble.

Message delivered:
Blackbird in a tree, observing me.

When I first heard Elvis, I shivered.

Blue, blue, blue suede shoes, heartbreak hotel, you hound dog, you!

But when the Beatles came along, I left you behind.

Later when you came to Huntsville, you were fat, and then you went back to Memphis and killed yourself--- **** you!

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.

Paintings delight my eye and ignite my imagination: Devotional icons, the omni cubist view, the brazen eyes of Whistler and Manet; and Monet's lilies.

The perspectives of the renaissance and the violence of Caravaggio; the lush glowing skin of Rubens' nudes; and more!

I celebrate the intellects that created these.

Concealing more than revealing,
Forgetting more than remembering,
Talking much, saying little.
The triage of truth.

Collared for white collar,
To society I'm paying my dues
The Trump appointee Club Fed blues.

The beds are pretty clean and soft,
At Club Fed, they hardly cost

Shootin' shuffleboard, takin' a snooze
Just forgettin' the Club Fed blues

The **** beach aint just ahead
Club Fed just aint the Club Med

At 3-pm, it's tea and cake
Every night supper-- it's Trump steak
The cash register rings, it's all his take.

They're adding on to the Club Fed thing,
A spanking new Congressional wing

Having latte with a Trumper con
He whines,"I'm no Don,
I was just a pawn."

On the ladies side, want to meet
Lori, the College Admission cheat

No black ink pen tattoos
Just plain old Club Fed blues

Bill Barr and Rudy sit at table
Remembering when they were on cable
Just spinning another Ukrainian fable

Missing my 5-pm yardarm *****
A stiff price to pay, the Club Fed blues

When I leave it's to the Caribbean
To a fat numbered account
And I'll finally lose the Club Fed blues.

After our loving,
drifting and dreaming;
the dog barks for supper,
and so it goes...life.

Thoughts of dreads came and went.
I fell asleep to dream.

No, not the infinite intestinal maze
with red, slimy, pulsating walls
forcing me ever-forward.

It was worse.

I was in my own bed with a big snake.
I was tangled in the covers and I couldn’t get away.

Flick, flick, serpent kisses to my face.
Slither, slither, as coils envelop.
I knew it was a dream but I couldn’t wake up.

And then I did.

i am that Fly--
the one that Crawled across the sheet--
her last sound and Sight
and i want You to know--
its not my fault, she Would have died-- Anyway

We flies get a bad rap--
we carry Germs- never met one myself--
Across food i tippy-toe-- i only take One bite-
from that little Bite--
she would not -- could not die

But let me set the record Straight--when
she finally went still-- was i Glad--
one less Swatting and shooing-- but
its not my Fault, she would have died-- anyway.

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.

There are books that teach, that we revere.
There are poems that we remember because they are true.
But there are only a few movies that show us how to live.

Just as the Don prepared Michael for his life, his words guide us as well:

"Don't raise your voice- Improve your argument."
"Never hate your enemies, it affects your judgment.
"Great men are not born great, they grow great."
"A man who doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man."
"Accidents don't happen to people who take accidents as a personal insult."
"Time erodes gratitude more quickly than it does beauty."
"Never let anyone know what you are thinking."
"Forgive. Forget. Life is full of misfortunes."
And if that fails:
"Revenge is a dish that tastes best cold."

And when life serves us lemons, Clemenza offered us this:
"Leave the gun, take the cannoli."

Dreams curl away,
Eyes blink open, toes wiggle.
It's morning, ready or not.

The Indian gentleman, Brahmagupta,
invented the zero, null, nil, and zip--
just for times like now:
You betrayed me, you broke my heart.

Zero, null, nil, and zip--
Rewind, erase, delete, obliterate.
You betrayed me, you broke my heart.
You are nothing to me.

Rewind, erase, delete, obliterate.
Brahmagupta’s wonderful cipher lets me precisely say:
You are naught to me--
And not just for now, but forever.

The bongo drums of his thought carrom across the cosmos,
revenanting across the dawn with nodules of coltan from beyond.
A clear channel for reading the universe:
"When you come to a fork in the road, take it."
"Thank you for making this day necessary."
"It's déjà vu all over again."
"You can observe a lot by watching."
“Ninety percent of the game is half mental.”
“Pair up in threes.”

The smell of a quantum of disconnect,
the taste of the magenta of non-sequitur,
the  sight of logic colliding with chaos,
the touch of an insightful short-circuit,
the music of senseless syntax that says it all.

Coinciluckily, the saving grace: "I really didn't say everything I said."
"Always go to other people's funerals; otherwise they won't go to yours."
Who else would say, “You’ve got to be very careful if you don’t know where you are going, because you might not get there.”
Que sera, sera - "It ain't over till it's over."

In the beginning there was procrastination,
and I can't wait to start putting that off.

To begin or not to begin that divides us all.

Deferring action never increases entropy,
and lengthens the life of the universe.

Completion happens once, but delay has no limit.

I'm not dithering, just exploring all the options.

This "beginning" poem has just been hijacked by hesitation,
and dragged down the rat hole of reluctance.

Oh well, there is always tomorrow.
One can always say, my muse took a snooze.

The Indian gentleman, Brahmagupta,
invented the zero, null, nil, and zip--
just for times like this:
You betrayed me, you broke my heart.

Rewind, erase, delete, obliterate.
You are naught to me.

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.

Their names are:
Katie, Bobo, Bear--
Max and Buddy,
Sushi and
Grafin Hegwig von Stubenrein*,
Hedy for short.

For 30 years, dachshunds, chihuahuas
and miniature schnauzers.

Chihuahuas are definitely
the undercover dogs,
but dachshunds will burrow too.

Hedy and Buddy at the foot
of the bed, cross- and lengthwise.
Bobo too, but anywise.

Sushi and Max like it
when we sleep on our sides--
preferring the crooks of the knees.

Katie was an armpit dog.

Dogs are mobile and in a pinch
do double duty as a heating pad--
but a cold nose on bare skin
is welcome in the heat of the summer.

Night or nap, the company is welcome--
Did we rescue them or did they rescue us?

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

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time.
Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes.
The thin comfort of fading memories.
Every now and then.

Canto I: Before the beginning
St. Augustine was asked, "What happened before creation?"
He replied, time is a part of creation--
if there is no time, there is no before.
Now many conjectures--
We don't really know, but Augie could be right.

Canto II: The earliest and furthest we can see
400,000 years after the beginning,
the atomic plasma combined, and light broke free of matter.
3000 degrees then, 3 degrees now, expanding and cooling--
The Cosmic Microwave Background: escaped light, fiat lux.

Canto III: The big bang starting point
Dense, hot spacetime with physics different from ours.
What is to become the visible universe is the size of a proton
(give or take).
Separation and emergence of the four forces, gravity first.
All the energy of the universe is present--
It's all in a low entropy state,
primed for almost unimaginable transformations

Canto IV: Inflation, an evidence supported theory of crazy expansion
Superluminal expansion of spacetime.
In an instant, inflation begins and ends, from proton-sized to inches.
Within spacetime the speed of light is energy's maximum,
but need spacetime itself be so limited?
We don't know the full extent of spacetime, just what we can backtrack.
After inflation, a coasting slowing expansion begins

Canto V: Particle creation and cooling
Age of subatomic particles--
Is this when dark matter appears or is it already there?
Quark creation, fusion and confinement into particles.
Neutrons, protons and others.
Recognizable physics processes occur.
Cooling, coasting expansion.

Canto VI: Normal  matter
Protons, electrons and photons appear in a hot plasma state.
With cooling, electrons are captured and atoms appear.
Light, with fewer charged particles to dance with,
leaves matter behind to create the Cosmic Microwave Background.
Free at last!

Canto VII: Changes slow, but expansion continues and then spurts
Clouds of matter, normal and dark, gravitational compaction.
Two billion years: Proto-galaxies and stars form
Things are starting to look normal.
Feeding on dark energy, expansion speeds up. Surprise!
Galactic accretion continues

Canto VIII: Life
Four billion and a half years ago earth forms.
Less than a billion years later, there is life.
Are we special? Does life exist elsewhere?
The visible universe is 14 billion years "old" and counting.
Everywhere we look we see uniformity:
We may not be alone.

Canto IX: The end?
All distant terrible fates:
Don't worry, be happy!

Driving down a backroad in desolate Apulia,
a black cloud of birds formed behind a hill--
It became two then one again in dynamic flight,
resolving into specks and finally,
graceful darts of life.
In the air: Swerving, splitting, rejoining.
Aware of each and all,
a synchronous response to a secret call.

A wave in motion, a flowing organism,
never repeating but ever the same.
We stopped and looked with wonder--
How do they do that? And why?

A lightning bolt: Is it a protest? Pesticides?

What would we do when
topsoil blows,
oceans rise,
food is scarce,
and wells run dry?
Probably nothing as organized- or beautiful.

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.

Before the sun, before the birds--
The porch calls. The raw spring earth.
Reflection time.

A jogger's headlight dances down the street.
He doesn't nod, I don't wave.
Solitude.

She was twenty on the night she came to our street.
And where she was, there are flowers by the curb.

She was twenty and from abroad, but living in Ardmore and sad.
Her friends, who were not really her friends, left her on our street: drugged and dead.

But every year, her mother brings plastic flowers to that spot on our block,
And what could have been, is remembered.

Erwin, bitte, bitte!
I guess I should have told you first
when I found your missing diary.
So here I am, stuck in the kitty SuperMax.

Yes, I am Schroedinger's cat
trapped in a box with
food, water, and air--
and an infernal machine.
There's no way out--
no litter box either.

I assure you that I'm alive-- for now--
But I wonder about the world outside--
Does it persist, has it vanished--
or is it in a more indeterminate state?

If anyone is out there, please LET ME OUT!
Because life goes on— for a while,
How about some kitty litter, Bitte Schön?

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.

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

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

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've become a lazy reader,
dismissive and curmudgeony too.
Magazines or books? Not magazines--
Magazine readers are a different species.

So books it is. Let me take inventory:
Nonfiction. Sorry, just the occasional science book.

General fiction lost the war for my attention--
Do real people really have so many feelings?
So often and so detailed?

So I read genre fiction.
But bang, bang adventure has become tiresome--
after all how many times and ways can you shoot/stab/blow up/car chase?

Likewise, there are books that seem spend pages and pages describing clothes.
Even though Chaucer also spent many words describing clothes,
his best lines were about bare ***** hanging out a window.

All my favorite characters are now old, Harry Bosch, George Smiley.
To my regret, the Wall falling and the Cold War ending almost wiped out the thoughtful spy story.
Science fiction, a previous favorite, took a goofy turn awhile ago, and I’m done with it.
Let's see: fantasy now seems written for teenage vampire-witch wannabes. Just flutter away.

What's left? I think it's only Detective stories and Poetry.
I'm pulling for Harry Bosch and Billy Collins at 90, and, God bless him, John Le Carre.

There will be no litany of dreads,
No enumeration of my deepest fears.
No dark dwellings of my darker nature.
My secret fears will remain secret and deep.
Nothing more is needed,
Reality is tough enough.

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.

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

Just a glimmering of an idea--
No flesh, no bones, just a mirage in the distance--
But also commitment.
And so it begins, the beginning begins.

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

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

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.

Black holes are really cool.
The bigger the cooler.
And they are not really black.
Absorbing real quick, emitting real slow,
By George, that's the way to go.

In the almost musty basement, with the TV playing,
Sharon and I were on the sofa making out.
Urgent kisses, clothes a-jumble, smooth bare skin.
And Walter Cronkite broke in:
"President Kennedy has been shot….”
Shocked, we turned away and watched the world convulse.

We drifted apart,
each to ourselves, changed.

But in the autumn of my life, sometimes at night,
I still think of  
that blustery autumn day in Ioway.