She's a scientist
She don't look back

She's really a 🍕 gourmand,
but genetically,
Gourmet is where she's at

She loves being a statistician,
Calories count per pizza slice
(scientifically, toppings atoms don't matter)

A-good theorem excites,
Especially epically, when she
disproves it in tour face

Knows a lot of big words,
That nobody else understood 
 (but flaunting feels good)

She's an artist,
And a poet, always looking forward
(chasing sunrises)

She gets overloaded with advice,
So knows how, to give it back
(but only tidbit sized)

She knows the world is flat,
When running, she really likes that!

unlike me,
i'll quit when
out of stuff,
but a woman,
well. that's-he, be,
something else

<>
"for the vanity of man is as porous as dust...and, in their supreme wisdom, because of this failing, the Gods have decreed, that mankind deserveth no more, no less than his designated allotment of being.
And such it shall be."
writ by
The Marshal Gebbie
June 2023
<>
rise up, rise up,
son up, sun up!
see for yourself a newly birthing day,
the early rays licking the unlocking of a grinning earth's face,
humbling humans and their perpetuity e~mo/notions of eternity.
how are the daily~we, to measure ourselves, versus our ancestry,
by whom shall we~be set forth as examples to our posterity
what tools we fools think, we possess, an etch~a~sketch,
to imprint of who we are,
what we were, and
who we might become, and
be  beauty becoming,
marking our time with ensigns of
words of integers in some giant network
authored, offered, up unashamedly

and even though the sun
does not always greet & meet
the discombobulated human riffraff
every diurnal,
daily identical,
when it shines,
it shines for us all
in an equality of glorious,
it shines upon us all in equality,
it, great equalizer, who restores and
replenishes our colored planets blue green,
a methodology of air, soil and water interactively,
for we are all chemicals, forever effervescent rebirthing

and so it goes.
our cells, are a
rare earth depository,
we plant ourselves
eternally, fed by
foodstuffs of
our ancestors cells,
their brewed ***** dust,
and thus each of us singly
is thus remembered, reconstructed
as are we, both, individually and collectively,
from dust we are, to dust we return, this matériel future prepped


postscript

We Hebrews have a knowingly foolish,
a most beauteous custom, gifted to us by
our forefather Jacob, who when espying a
solitary grave by the road, a nameless marker of
piled-on stones, marking an unknown person last remains,
added one more, add-on to ensure this nameless one yet remembered,
so we too do not pass by without adding a stone, a tiny pebble,
we encumbered, to solidify, perpetuate, renew, ever sustaining,
cannot pass by without adding another rock,
another pebble, that time will surely shift,
but as long we follow this custom,
spiting time's erosive nature and until today,
yet the same, for at a cemetery, every grave,
all marker, ego big, humbled small, topped,
festooned, with small stones, we top them
signaling that this, very spot here, here!
for now, until for ever
shall never
be forgot

<.
and so this peculiar, deteriorating canister places
one more smoothed handy beach pebble, upon
this, his unmarked resting spot
nml
<>
Monday morning
7:10am
an august, August dream day
specified as the 11th day of this
eighth month in one particular
calendric methodology
and as the
17th of Av 5785
in his ancestral calendar

I like my coffee really hot.
Direct from the coffee machine,
Freshly brewed and steaming skyward,
Nonetheless to the nearby microwave, I digress,
For 90 seconds of steam room added bathing of my mourning
Coffee, bathing in a Vincent Van Gogh almond blossomed mugging

During said 90 seconds, I flutter and putter among the kitchen
countertops, hithering and dithering all about, wiping, swiping
crumbs of prior day's excessive remaining excesses, carcasses of
grains and grams, fruits and vegetables, restocking coffee beans,
watering said machine's infernal thirst for double pure ground water,
ect. etc. etcetera

all of the above takes a little over a minute, whence I return to my still
pre-re-intializing heating microwave clock is  advising twenty four seconds till my additional brewing will be finite finished…

gawd, what the heck am I supposed to do for the next 24 seconds besides rock back-and-forth watching my coffee cup turn Vinny's
almond blossoms slightly more yellow?

Nah.

the internal ding resounds, with a write a poem dummy!
and so I did, even if it ain't exactly short and sweet or more
pissy than pithy

Ha!
while dashing off this scripty nitty gritty writy,
guess what?
my cafe au lay
grew cold again,
and so  the
poem repeats
itself...grrr...
now, me extra very hot & pissy

I love all good poems,
and how they make me
feel whole but deboned,
de~parted,
sometimes cleansed
sometimes *****,
sometimes ashamed,
occasionally fried,
occasionally enlived,
often all of these,
simultaneously

I love how mine please you,
breaking the knots of anonymity,
unleashing the little white package
strings of connection, and, when yours,
make me guffaw, or even  a better, person-age,
when we weep deep in our  recesses where the
just-beneath-the-surface emotes, are pricked and
brought to the surface, for the first time, or the last of time,
exposed, curated, healed, leaving but a tiny sore, that lingers
on the body's surfaces,where all things.are etched that
are needy for a reminding of the when,
and here, right there, is the where,

but your loving of likes somehow
dissatisfying, like a kiss, perfunctory, skullduggery
or dis genuine, a hit and a move on,which is why,
I treasure your comments, long or short,
insightful or delightful, critical or critique(e),
just a tender heart of appreciation, a snuggle
from the sea, throned out of Jonah's whale...
rounded bellicose belly

but they render me
alive,
when they split and spit me, to you,
you, to each, defined in pieces, gratitude
nuggets, each, treasured, each hugged, each letter,
a custom bespoke of  connectivity and

who needs friends, when your words
embrace me so deep repeat and touch me
in places where my heart must follow on & on.
now many poems you commission with every exposition.
even the dimplest thanks is a vibrato of pleasuring sounds, that
you, you, you, took that particular moment of time to
express the heartfelt, destroys the invidious
that does quiet creepily slides inside us,  
saying I am your comforter false,
but is not!

use your words, that,
they to the children teach; let us too
embrace this honorific so terrific, and touch each other with
comments, a sharing, and the sol shines on
'*we two too, for all to seer and see

met Presidents,
kings and queens plenty,
so many princes and princess,
each one, most impressive
to their themselves.
but never knew an Empress…till now~(k)now

twice for emphasis, but better yet, enraptured,
her commandments, demand immediate readings,
never demanding solicitation, just a whispering
"come hither fool~baby"

the paucity of my words grow paler when I compare,
my tongue tied bonds, and I consider abandonment
of what gives me sparks of belief that tomorrow
will still be worth it, that I can create, something
worth sharing, and the words come up in the throat,
abandon all hope, ye who dare read the Empress

I know, you accuse me of exaggerated exaggeration,
plead the Fifth, the right not to self-incriminate,
pointless to demure, make an appoint~moment for later,
when by silence surrounded, everyone gone, re~Read,
out loud chewing every soft obsidian granule, drink
pure water, and curse myself again, who knew, eclectic
electric, as they jay jelly roll (😉) off my was just a few bytes
away, head in hands, equal parts of joy and despair
parting my hair, drawing lines in my scalp, and the
demon muse gleefully, perhaps, at last, thinking mmm…
this will be his last
First Poem of the Day (FPOTD0

and now the day  a)  mences b) ensses

Somehow, unbefuddled, it all ties together,
The happy endings get tied, knots well made,
Sleep comes easy, the light dims slowly, finely,
Clarity, everywhere, not for taking, just for asking,
Wanting is off limits, even inconceivable, and the poem.
Why, even the poem finishes itself, and to all a very, Good Night

a grownup lullaby

Frequently,
a reminder appears,
an app zap,

It's a good time to check your posture!
arrives with precise
ir~regularity,
when I,
couch prone
neck bent,
spine most unfine,
not in a good way,
it somehow knows,
which way my toes are curling

Got me a weighted vest,
to help me
grow down
straighter,
but realized,
already had one,
whole life long,
with the weights
maldistributed,
too heavy,
and the curvatures
of spine and line
was what made me
so unattractive,
were curved
with hard bad work
over decades,

Yes. Way to Late,
To be undone,
I Is What I
have become
undone by design
                                but I write not of my physicality, but
                          of mental posture, of my integrated thoughts,
                   the integrated consciousness of a lifetime of thoughts.
              deeds, desires, fires started and extinguished, acts summary,
as zeroes and ones, binaurally coded in my treasury of memory cells,
       edited by time, seasoned illusions, shame, with no recompense,
                totals of entirety and the totality of the net net of gains,
                          losses, courages *******, sticking points that
                                     unraveled by self~disassembling
                                     and the stench of actions untaken
                                    make me a bent soul, by ineffectual
                                    posturing, flim~flam, and eventually
                   the reminders to check my posture cease and desist,
                                            with no word of farewell,
                                               nor a pose left behind
                                                          ­    <…>

outrageous misfortune

of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** ****, these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago  
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.

But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:

Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bear twice the

outrageous misfortune

For so many reasons;
When the wow creativity
Of the young, new baby poets,

Bursts all over me,
Making me question
My egotistical perception,
Not a slap, but a belly laugh!
At the old fool, who once thought
Ever so secondary briefly, momentarily,
Unofficially, of his own esteemed self-worth,
Only to be reminded, deaf~dumb & blind~sided
By the fresh air, the aggravating sight of new insight
The delicious!delight  of reading the whole of all night
The explorations, the baby hallucinations, the trembling,
Insights of the explorers of the old, not re!newed, but, but.
Made anew, re~viewed with perspectives boldly unknown,
With crazy wisdom to expound, here, you! right here, right now,
I leave you and return to delight, taste, new extra languages, that
                                               I must
                                         learn not to speak
                                       but to peak, even to
                                     Cry, Laugh even Smile  
    
                              In all my new native tongues



Friday, July 18
5:39 AM,
2025
In the sunroom

Dictated in one fell swoop, not a moment to lose, dispatched while
Still laughing at myself...

a decent night's sleep,
my body to keep,
early light invades the
blinking eyesight, and
an indeterminate sky,
yet offers us an
either/or,
heads or tails,
success or fails,
what will the gods
offer us all humans,
to select, elect for this
anniversary of our
country's formation?

the slow rising sun
over the North Fork
will soon provide its
decision/incision for
our nation tumultuous,
turbulent, course direction

it appears that the silent
dawning will give us yet
another chance, a morning's
golden hour, with that irradiating
light that bathes us with visionary,
equality of light, light of equality,
but
last night's thunderstorms leave
us the detritus of savagery of
thunderous rains that came
with fury, reflecting our confusion
and the danger shoals that appear
with no warning, yet reminds us,
once more,
one more time,
even in troubling days,
of the blessings
of opportunity
that each day,
each unique sunrise
provides us choices,
and
skies have now spoken:
the early warming rays are
reminding hints that a new day
owns equal opportunities to
make our country beautiful
for spacious skies and
amber waves, of
water and light,
if we choose wisely, rightly...

July 4th
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
2025