Carpe Diem
funny boy
did you wait
till it was too late
hurry hurry
worry worry
you took life
in big giant bites
and then had to stop
to break
only when you
defeated yourself
hurry hurry
worry worry
but even then
after breaking
you got up and overcame
your life and art were amazing and never the same
race hard then fall or stall
and then
once again
get up
and give it your all
you did it
again and again
be extraordinary
hurry hurry
worry worry
never the same
look how you overcame

Good Will Hunting
Dead Poets
Jumanji
Mork from Ork
Patch Adams
Awakenings with De Niro
Aladdin
Death to Smoochy
Insomnia
Peter Pan
Mrs Doubtfire
Good Morning Vietnam
Jakob the Liar

hurry hurry
worry worry
I have to stop
not because I am out of art
there are many more
but because my fingers
are tired of typing titles

Peter Pan
you stayed young
fought the dark
and won many triumphs
again and again
hurry hurry
worry worry
you ran an amazing race
and a pace for two lifetimes
in the end the dark caught you
but you left behind
a mark of amazing art

"gather ye rosebuds while ye may"                                     - Robert Herrick
Carpe Diem
Rest funny man

“CONFUSED” “BOSSY”
“FAKE”
“CREATIVE”
“INDEPENDENT”
“A­NGRY” “POETIC”
“UNIQUE”
“RUDE” “DEPENDANT” “MEAN”
“­ANNOYING”
“UGLY” “GROUCHY” “****”
“IRRESPONSIBLE”
“GOING TO DO GREAT THINGS.”

You Are Appropriately Named
    (But did your parents ***** you?)*

parental fortune tellers we be,
when in  the task of
appellation speculation
(a/k/a name that baby!)
we engage

we tongue taste old vintages,
and some new varietals,
look to the ancient biblical, Greek Gods,
a naming to affix and let it be
the reddest of good luck omens.

baby's future unforeseen and yet,
foretold, perhaps molded?

do we have any clue
of what we do
when, our children, we name?

Foolishly, we plot, we plan,
minor items, woman or man,
we leave in God's hand,
all the rest, content to accept
product of our cooking ***,
recipe of genetic seasoning,

but

when we christen them,
when we nominally oil
and anoint tiny foreheads,
we are choosing for them
whether they will be
annointers or annointed,
Samuels or Davids,
prophet or king

O irony!
'tis no *child's game,
or wordplay fun,
nor a zero sum decision elected,
is it construct, or destruct
the nominal we have selected?

the Oscar envelope is
star-delivered, and unsealed,
futures altered,
determined, revealed,
and for these tiny ones,
there is no appeal!

Think on it.

Endlessly debated, or not,
sources from a list infinite,
grandparent, novel, imagination,
origin indeterminate,
no matter,
we make them sweet or salt,
nuanced, threaded, gruff, plain,
confirmed, or perhaps condemned

do you honestly think there is
no alteration in their fate,
their course not rejiggered
when upon a suspicious world
we emanate them as
Ian or Nate,
Adolf or Shylock,
Jason or Jakob,
argonaut or patriarch,
Scarlet or Abigail:

we have chosen the
color of their visage,
color coded the A
of their alphabet unique,
the one they will speak
a hundred years on

the world's greatest rivers,
are mere droplets at inception,
a trickle upon Mt. Marcy,
becomes my beloved Hudson magnificent

explorers, through peril,
search jungles, risk all,
to find the "source,"
they comprehend,
it does too matter!

so too with human "conception,"
it's all, in the name,
genes be ****** and
habitat may alter animals in
a science laboratory a tad,
tho your heart you will consult,
best hire an ad agency,
for you have, a brand, created!

therein is the rub,
debate no more
tween nurture or nature,
what you nominate, rules,
for better or worse
for shock or awe,
for them, and alas,
for you

This then is the parental sin most original:

you need to believe in
open architecture,
but the first will be last
your selection is a
a table set,
upon which,
you will "re-past,"
many meals in your future
equal parts of joy and regret,
Parents, there is no substitution,
you, the menu have, selected and set





-

The debate between free will and fate has taken a hard right
turn to neuroscience, Brodmann area 4 the primary motor
cortex of the brain located in the posterior frontal lobe
(the one cut out of the one who once flew over the cuckoo's nest).
This area of the cortex has the pattern of an homunculus!
a little man, a troll, the all-wise, mandragon, the golem of Jewish
      folklore.

This little man has a ***** that, when fully engorged, is
equal in size to his entire body. However, diseases
such as Parkinson's, Alzheimer's, Huntington's, Lou Gehrig's and
      Creutzfeldt-Jakob
are gunning for him. His basal ganglia are garbled
and he ends up giving poor advice and making bad decisions.
Who can say what happens to his soul or cells or if all will be given
      or well?

I was listening to the famous astronomer on public radio
who expressed the certainty there is no death, your soul
is immortal, it exists outside of time (but not space?). That's because
time exists only in the human mind (as does the universe
including the professional baseball season which is canceled when
      you're dead).
By Spring, my problems will be solved or ignored, either way is
      good.

"Imagine if we taught baseball the way we teach science. Until they
      were twelve children would
read about baseball technique and occasionally hear inspirational
      stories of the great baseball
players. They would answer quizzes about baseball rules. They
      would practice fundamental
baseball skills, throwing the ball to second base twenty times in a
      row. Undergraduates might
be allowed under strict supervision to reproduce historic baseball
      plays. But only in graduate school
would they, at last, actually get to play a game." --Alison Gopnik

Groundhog holds the knowledge of death without dying
for man needs help from every creature born.
Will the holocaust wipe the smile off the face of our romantic comedy
or will laughter outlast the outburst?
About the dark times will there be singing?
Yes, there will be singing and some of the songs will be sidesplitting.

Solving the ****** reveals the city. Nature of kinships and economic
      sustenance,
who loves whom and why, when things happened and how they lost
      and found themselves
in what happened. Because a meter-making argument cannot appear
from nothingness, purposelessness, just cold.
He does not go where he was supposed to go. He is in the desert,
      Sonoran desert, counting cactus buds and ocotillo blooms.
This is the afterlife for which he has always longed.

My uncle died from Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.
It made his brain dissolve itself in nine months.
I stood next to the once-stalwart man,
With mechanic's hands,
Lying in his hospice bed
That smelled like disinfected death.
During his short stay there I heard him say
"What's happened?"
In his faltered, degenerated state.
"What's happened?"
He repeated, as he saw his withered arms,
While wearing a diaper,
Gazing around with half-empty eyes,
Grasping for some shred of light
In his shattered ruin of a mind.
The life he once made for himself is gone,
And somewhere within himself he knew it.
Somewhere that held on until his final breath,
As he shrieked with pure fear
In his final sleep.

Overlooking the back parking lot of this hospice
A playground stands, built by hand.
The children probably look over here
And wonder what this place is,
What happens here.
I'd tell them that
These are things you don't need to know.
Now go stay outside and play
While the sun is still up.

Forrest Jorgensen ©

The grave thunders were of great coexistence in the mystical legions that turned around the nocturnal advance since the kingdom of the Subclavia and the Macedonian Psiloi began to raise the active groups that had to continue above the dusty silica, speaking no more than another doctrine that the tree of life in the geographical diameter of the town of Sapsila and Grikos on the war route to Skalá, but rather of epigraphy that was kept anonymous until they really saw each other face to face, fading from everything that will remain of the body that lies steep from the specters that will fight in the roadstead of Skalá.

Azrael "the help of God" began to be characterized with thousands of crowds that began to settle to witness this phenomenon of the military forces that had been annihilated in Arbela, and now revived were taking compensation for a credible epigraphy, more than people who were also crowds of souls that competed when contemplating the axon between Grikos and Skalá, attributing shared contemplation with the visions of the fragmentaries and the surplus epidermis, which were abandoned by both sides with the complexions of the same Angels that they left to reside and renew after the splendorous light that was dissimilar to their interests, and escorted them to define the strength of Baal prostrated to the Primordial Ether between all the opposing explosions that obviously divided the Mashiach, which was weighted with the gear of Light that was mediated in infinitives colors, between the banners to the source of Light of the Lights of the Kassotide as the o mphalo of aspiration in the Awir Qadmon of the Zohar, or explosional source of Light from where the Sybillas would descend from their vortex of admission that electromagnetically surpassed them from Hyperborea, and from where it looked like a millennial bleached that was reinserted in the ultraviolet, until degrading even in the pale celestial light from where the infinite playful colors of Raeder and Petrobus are divided, once again characterizing the families in their oikos, giving them holy water on the peaks of the Pelicans to be scattered in all the spectral figures of the Hoplite military forces that are they made upright and humble pro-courtiers who augured the strong influences of their eschatological, which would bring water and bread to all the regions of the Dodecanese after the Mega Seismic of Agios Andreas, from an orthodox rationalism instituted with super munificence withdrawn by the oppressor. The inclinations of both sides were different, those of the Persians were adverse to contemplations of greater emphasis and in the repairs of the medical battles of the past, since Bessos after the flight of Darío and his subsequent crime, he assumed as his Satrap car proclaiming himself as Xerxes' successor.
Fundamentalism brought the anxious troops in the Kabbalah of the Emotional Subclavian since it raises a colossal anthropological remnant of the spectral silica that unites Grikos and Skalá, arguing that from there in this subclavian the hormones of corpse mummies roar, with the greater flow than those that They are destined to die several times without having compassion for their ancestors, turning to the dust brooms that leads them to impieties that contradict the pietism that still did not lie in treasuring them, but wrapped themselves in their own syncretic sarcophagi, to praise the revolutions of woodworm. of dust with the hyper kinetics of Kabbalah that will bring light in meadows, and waters in streams that will be visible by the human eye towards the ecstatic, leaving them uncertain in the reality of joining the Merkaba as a coalition that has consonance, quality, and evidence with all the currents of thought and scholarship of irrational imperialism not adhered to the holiest and most generous to the action of service of Saint John the Apostle.

The strings were seen from great height like chains of Prometheus adding more links for those who made the syntax of Jakob when he came back from the lands of Laban leaving behind the cornered voices of the desert that clarifies everything, and leaves them in the spaces of the graphemes that make up the phylogeny of those who have walked day and night in the desert, at the expense of consonants such as Alpha and Aleph to develop the tracheo-laryngeal voices of Aramaic that were pronounced by all parts of the flint, and of deproposited inclinations of those who are paired by the coveted desire of the virulent result of the temptations by wanting to take all the material gains beyond the grave with Asmodeus or Lilith, if it is very broad to capitulate to the theories of the mysterious becoming, and how this colossal image will rise among all where the figure of the anthropological being rests that was flat in the subclavian, throbbing with so much flow of red blood cells, and Letters of Light where the Eagles and Oxen of Apollo will have the same inspirational wings of one who becomes divine after having been a mythological prototype, prostrated in all the powers of the Lion and the Gerakis as a master of the air and of the lion like the Cherub who he is jealous of the syntax and coordination so that the world began to speak of the common language with a language and its vibrations that rehabilitate the cosmos that had been twisted cabalistically since the Kassotide pit had been sealed. The communities made their souls cultured and genuine, allowing these militia networks to collide, claiming to sustain possible escapes before a body without a soul, being only specters that decomposed as time passed in the heliacal rise that made the pseudepigraphic alerts, to re-contribute to a literary reality that can be incorporated into the elite of anthropological literary works where spectral rooms can themselves contribute and build foundations, that are diligent succumbed parties having to go in the Zohar Light exhibition who stands indoctrinated to rise in these spectral posthumous Battle of Patmia.

Says Leiak: “I have parleyed with the spirits of Strigoi for more epsilons and nocturnal tenths than of the Vóreios of Zefian, endless in the gloom that have divided the chains, with magic that blinds my eyes in the budding sunrises of Ovid and his horizon, With the Katana of a Lapp warrior between the blades of the benevolent Hagakure of a samurai, between the two flaming zones was the Celestina next to me, to degrade alone and old with her ****** folds, collapsing in frenzy as she lost between her fingers with the whiteness of his ciliates, so that as Celestina was the decoy of the Ars Amandi, Ovidio also appeared on the Mataki tablecloth, without hindrance of the worn and lethargic over-relief between the sheets worn by his thumbs and outer fingers on the sheet of the Ovidian index, prevented from having, and rubbing the Mataki full of colorful eyes to see if the third book walked only on the belly of the Celestinas courtesans, or were a strong choice The omens that Strigoi had already confided to her at the door of his ear, with fribrous and cold astragali that they grafted into the damp darkness of the other bleak wetland of the Mandrake. My stoicism has been extolled with the courtesan in a filial augury with the daughter of Laban, for Jakob's needs after twenty years in Harran, in the antitragus of Raquel's ear and hers desert of kabbalah of hers. Laban made obedience to Mount Gilead a command, before a sub-first-born being pulled on the heels by his brother Esau, fear was another option of the augury of sensitivity that was approaching instead of moving away from a greater panic, if at all. Whoever comes and draws its bellicose root from the complete saying of Yahweh turning his back on demons that imitate him, but not being able to walk like him on the desert without leaving footprints. Leiak had all these spirals of Spartan Mirages, where all boasted of democracies, while others evidently in the land that he watered them by hands that also secured the Xifos with blacksmith and agricultural handles, with riches that only provide wood for ships that Will they never sail, not even in half-freedom from the oligarchic mirage with men of war in the pulp, and that they will walk free in the polis until it puts them in the ****** battle where their bones will trade for soft money or lavish exchange?

The farm wasted to comrades who had crossed the dagger, Leiak after collecting them from the fields that were strewn with bones, wasting statistics with a Republican victory. Where is the money? nor would I want my discouragement to attack affections or stoicisms to be the one who averages my flock. The great effort belongs to all or to those who lose their parallelism if regularly a sword is well taken for what since its gain would be desired there, where the possession of wealth brings more care than joys that provide its enjoyment? (Xenophon, The Republic of the Lacedaemonians, VII), so that then more swords than anyone else will charge those who lost them in battles, not even those of gold at auction, for those who collect it as an integral bronze with maximum original zeal, to who must have had it tight in his hand, until the last minute it expired when he remembered that he did it with his plow in the hoplite farm, and in furtive actions now with the "V" Lacedaemon of Vernarth in the complete love of a God that still listens! Let's sing to the beasts, they act with imaginary benevolence, but not with tangible demonicity that touches their human offspring, always fighting with their necromances as a multidimensional actant, with texts that speak of a world that abhors human environments already possessed by a Laban, or by an illustrated Ovid, which crosses Celestina with necromances who only know of their cursed wombs of dry iron, narrated of an empress not reflected in her only until the last gasp to have her convalesced who sings the song of necromancy with her. The Mataki is a peasant with leathery hands impregnated with truth, poured out by the astrology of the horse of Alikantus, which limped in the noisy wand of Betelgeuse, with magical alchemy that gave way in the caverns that could not bear any more necromancers. This is where I come from, from the forests of the transversal valleys of Horcondising, of Andromancy, who was awakened one night at the next dawn in a new world and a new morning, without knowing where it was, but it was a human who guesses its hereditary Andromancy, among dead spirits that indicated that he too is and will be one of them, the advent of a nekroi who only shone towards a female sorceress but filling the maiden fields that mowed the pastures near the deceased people. Right here Yo Leiak, for whoever falls into this spell, I will round the square of a secular necromancer brandishing, only with written science that beats with interferences of his heart, towards a new concordance of the elusive Spartan mirages, where wealth lies on poverty being nothing more than their own science, from an order or Cosmos that piles up the empty bodies of the souls in their empty stomachs, without even an astrological medicine that would measure them of any veracity in the Contemplationis in Deum, where other things will be angels that they will roll through the doors of the tombs, where no one will truly live in the paragraphs of the mute angel. The vampirism taught by Vlad Strigoi, sleeps in the gulfs and inlets where he finds to provoke what or who he woos, and takes them to his fortified castle where passion scales the accents from where it is born, nor will anyone be able to write a single verse with stanzas hidden in a mysterious heart within another, which is from a man versed in the cartoon that synthesizes the plot of a title "Here I Leiak Necromancer, one day I was Franciscan and now I follow the stillness of my master Vernarth and our Apostle Saint John ”, I almost become a clergyman where everything arises and ends in the uniqueness of the functions in this banquet on Patmos, before the greater and lesser compliments, where my heart will serve for the greater good, I live in you my lord,  you taught to close your eyes and not lose your life that does not intercept the gates of the other, here is my adhesion Vernarth "

The Minnesota night was cold;
Ask the man on the street:
It was so cold your words would freeze,
Drop, and break at your feet.
That didn't stop the Jensens at all--
Is that so hard to believe?--
From hosting their annual family feast
That frigid Christmas Eve.

One by one the families poured in
Bearing gifts and food.
Onkel Karl and Tante Inge
Arrived with their brood.
Onkel Jakob and Tante Hilde
And their three kids…Oh, dear!
If I listed all of the relatives,
It would take a year.

Of beer and wine and all kinds of spirits,
Of course, there were a LOT there.
Cousins Arne and Jan were already
Snockered when they got there.
Maybe that explains in part
The reason for the fight
That put a damper on the mood
On such a festive night.

The families had all sat down to dinner
And gazed upon the spread:
Potato dumplings, salads, sausage,
And cabbage, white and red.
Arne, staring at the roasted pig
With a look distant and glazy,
Made a funny joke about
Republicans being crazy.

All at once, the room grew quiet;
Nobody made a sound.
Everybody looked at Jan,
Who glared at Arne and frowned.
To change the mood, Pastor Olsen
Said, "Let's all say grace.
"?Just as he started, Arne got
A lutefisk in the face.

The roasted pig, the salads and lefse
Landed on the floor
As Arne and Jan pounded each other,
And wrestled, kicked, and swore.
The two were covered from head to foot
With gravy, potatoes, and fish.
The last straw was when they broke Grandma’s
Favorite rosemaled dish.

Suddenly, everybody heard
The sharpest, loudest BANG!
Followed by an echo.
Au! How their ears rang!
Grandma Liv was standing there
With a rifle in her hand.
No one was going to argue with her;
She was in command.

Above her was a hole in the ceiling;
Plaster speckled her hair.
The huge room was a total mess--
Food was everywhere.
"Scrape up what you can," she ordered.
"We're going to try this again.
Arne and Jan, just one word
And you two are dead men."

(Luckily there was no one upstairs
Above the dining room,
Though Onkel Odd was across the hall
When he heard the boom.
He was--and who wouldn't be--
So startled by the shot,
That the poor man jumped two feet in the air
And fell right off the ***.)

With dinner salvaged and the table reset,
Again they sat down to dine.
Grandma Liv sternly said,
"Now, family of mine:
Let's enjoy this Christmas feast.
Show me you are able
To have a pleasant evening and keep
Politics away from the table."

Having said that, she smiled and placed
Her rifle in her lap.
Not a soul dared to test her
For fear that she would snap.
Arne and Jan, battered and bruised,
Silently sipped their soup,
To Jan, Grandma said, "Din idiot!"
To Arne, "Nincompoop!"

The hole in the ceiling will remain
As a warning--or constant threat--
Of possible consequences lest
Anybody forget
That political talk at the dinner table
Was something they must nix,
For sausages, pig, lefse, *****,
And politics do not mix.

- by Bob B

one for my friend jakob and his grand mother
one for my own mother and her troubles
one for my brother and his failures
one for scott and his bald head
one for my aunt and her addiction
for my cousin and her children
for jesus
for the sinners
the poor
the rich
the beaten and hurt
the loved
the lovless
for victims
for survivors
i shed a tear
for you what ever your troubles may be
there is a tear for you