matt
did you get my reply? i hope you did, i had written approx. 5, and all of them deleted... i hope i allowed myself a justifiable response with this one:

how about solipsism? solipsism is an elevated term for autism, isn't it? me? personally? i love cats, but they have a tendency to become inexhaustive economists of curiosity... i wasn't implying autism as an insult, i was implying a more crude word, synonymous with solipsism, and there is no shame in that to begin with. i like cats, because i own two, and i'm most content, when i can allow myself the time, to allow them the same time, to be left alone. cat, solo... dog + man + tail waggling + throw a ball... i better post this reply before i allow this reply, to become deleted... with all the prior 5 that have been, and me, having to post the alternative, "revision".

i.e. i rather imagine autism to be in need of having an elevated status of being designated by the term: solipsism... how can i make myself elaborate? point being, i don't want to... i too am confined to a strict vocab. fixation for the purpose of expressing language, that mitigates, bypassing, shrapnel wording of: one category fits all, conjunction words, which, i find, I, to be akin to, when categorised as: AND to begin to confine oneself to, the subsequent rigor of nouns.

i hope this doesn't end, or begin as, an apology... by autistic i was imply solipsist, i wasn't implying the retrograde slur of ******... if there's any god, it's in the disinhibited self of the autist, readily plucked, by... no basis for either a selfish, or a selfless act... i'm over-wording this, but... point being... i needed to settle myself in a posit, above the current cultural norm of the troll... which has nothing to do with autism, or as i like to call it: solipsism, diminished to a slur of: automaton...

i hope you can make lite reading of this... i concede, i attempted to make more than necessary, and conciliatory scribbles... if in any way i redeemed myself, i hope you'll concede to entertaining, accepting my apology.

Jules  22h
My only issue was that your poem seemed to make Autism synonymous with stupid or any other derogatory term. However, seeing as that wasn’t how you meant it, I apologize. I’m a bit defensive as my brother has autism

Mateuš Conrad  22h
that's perfectly understandable, given the circumstances, i am hardly surprised... i'm still here if you want to continue past the initial shock-tactic of testing the waters with me, obviously we can change the subject and not stand, metaphorically: with knives pressed against each others' throats... there i was, thinking i'd reply diving into the subject matter for no, necessary clarification / added depth... but it's the least i can appreciate from your cordial response, as to, at least, appreciate a change in the subject matter, so that, both of us, can return to feeding off a sentiment of: being left, less, uncomfortable; which implies that i have to instigate the question to change the subject matter... hmm... speed-dating-esque trivia... movies, paintings, music... literature... ah... kind of blue, miles davis, my english teacher told me, that if anyone in the classroom didn't own this album by the age they were 30... there was something wrong with them... in my then paranoia, i bought the album, and now own it on vinyl... somehow... i find that there's something more wrong with me, owning it, than not owning it.

Jules  22h
Favorite movie- Mamma Mia, favorite painting- amazing piece by a local artist, music- currently obsessed with the Beatles, favorite book- We all fall down. I’m thoroughly impressed about how reasonable you are being given the circumstances, and after reading a few more of your poems, I can tell you are a good person

Mateuš Conrad  21h
oh come on... mamma mia?! and not something akin to west side story?! who's the local artist? i only access to a London base, and, that requires a networking schedule i'm not going to equip myself with; and i'm hardly surprised by how understanding you are of me, and i do wish to pay more compliments to you, but... i feel that that would overstate me taking liberty in me not incurring an over-simplified stance of my own liberty towards you... remember, i'm one person in writing against a blank, and another person to conjure forth a reply... against a canvas, that is a readied flesh of my own flesh, bone of my own bone, i can see the antagonist in the compounded state of, the sacrosanct state of lingo... i can be a ******* against a blank canvas, but, obviously, when i am to begin with a clarity of an addressee, i cannot consider staging a variation of something, inhospitable, as a Kandinsky-variation to suit myself... Jules, you can never become something akin i treat a blank sparring estate i perform in writing without, something you are already established with, concerns equivalent to my own predisposition being unchanllenged / or, rather, undistrubed. the beatles... i'm trying to find something of a vinyl collector's "beginner's luck"... i'm too into prog. rock music... EP album experiences, akin to: king crimson's debut: in the court of the crimson king... serves me right, for not getting into Mahler... or Eric Dolphy jazz... so i turned the blind eye, and moved toward pagan music... wardruna... hedningarna... in extremo... garmarna... faun... heilung... esp. the last... i have never wished to visit the Faroe Islands more, than, after listening to their music.

Jules  21h
Mammia Mia is my favorite almost solely because of the memories attached to it. You certainly are a unique person

Mateuš Conrad  21h
i agree, i'm a sucker for super trouper and money money money, i'm waiting for a Tina Turner musical, to be honest... don't worry, i've looked into some of your comment sections... i cannot alleviate the blatantly bogus comments that are worth nothing more than an immediacy to make antagonism... i can't, i wish i could, but.... it's either this variant of an outlet, or a punching bag... i'm as unique as you find me to be... but when i just see "demands to conform" to an otherwise unnatural behavior... i don't like behaving in a counter-cordial fashion... you understand me? if there's no need to be bogus, why begin to bother being so? i hope we can remain lodged into partial nuances... and continue this discussion, beside tomorrow, i.e. whenever you feel like to preserve it, which, i hope... you will strip away more of your anonymity... but even if that is to not be the case: i thank you for the compliments... but from having inspected the immediate comments... you are a most tender artifact worth double the inspection's curiosity with a shy eye... and until i take myself to rest, and slumber, i can only leave your with these words... i wish the world was more welcoming than i allow you to believe it to be. if you can ever forgive me, i can only hope you can, by bidding me a goodnight, and welcoming me back into the discussion, within the confines of a tomorrow.

Jules  20h
Goodnight, my hopefully future friend. Poetry is definitely one of the best outlets. I definitely understand that aspect of you

Mateuš Conrad  20h
i hope to entertain you here, once more, and all the future that can be shared between the both of us. let me see you tomorrow, and scrap a beginning of a conversation with you, once more toward a focus of a beginning... and see how many minutes this allows us to entertain an amnesia of: beginning with today... how about that? i'll take to sleep, and hope, to grin... i actually re-read what i wrote: and figured... if i was being all-too despotic in securing pedantry... but then... if you took to complimenting me, i have to compliment you: tender soul... scouting the merger of sight and the hybrid coast... tender petal... why not? who is to obstruct me telling you this? lever... beside the said and into what's thought... tender petal... what a Scouser would call pet, i'd call petal... or... heavily implied: stagnant Bismarck stipend... if it be too much to ask... write me more than under the scrutiny of below the already given minus, of the 10 sentences. come at me as a punching bag... just as an experiment... i want to be the new vanguard... experiment with being uninhibited.

Jules  19h
Even the way you talk is extremely poetic. I appreciate how you took the time to try to talk everything out to prevent us from having any bad blood between, and I see know that you didn’t mean any harm from what you said. Thank you for being so kind about it all. I sincerely hope we can pick up this conversation again tomorrow as I feel we are on the road to a promising friendship. I’d be happy to write more per text, but for the sake of experimentation, I’m intrigued to see if you could try to talk in a little less of a formal dialect

Mateuš Conrad  1h
trying to bypass a formal dialect will be hard, as we're too fresh into our patchwork of setting boundaries, rigid as that might sound, and the current climate, to me, you're a slab of marble, not a statue. this sort of friendship, you're talking about, requires us to keep a modest concern for language, which, awfully, is riddled with diatribe excerpts... how we will transcend this, is, well, concerned with both of us to decide... i'm starting to entertain the fact that you have an autistic brother, since i'm learning to be panicy-picky with my language... i too had an ultra-autistic "friend" back in high-school... and i would constantly retrieve a blank-state response from him, i.e. i was looking at less a person, and more: a labyrinth. how i'll transition into a more informal use of language, i'm unsure how that will take place, Jules, we can't exactly share experiences, we can only avast ourselves, on what will pursue its own noumenon characteristics of stated language. at present, we only share a commonality of language, i'm bewildered by stating something informal... i wish i could, but i'm only allowed an "aggrieved" presence to your wish for: informality, slang, holding-hands type of escapism. i think that, with regards to your wishes, we'll have to settle for a sediments' worth of unravelling, like me, you're too trying to escape the puddle's worth of being immediately "concerned" with the comment section... we'll need to find commonality... from yesterday, i can tell you: i had the beatles faze when i was leaving the years attributed to my teens... then i found it really hard to find new music, outside the realm of bands akin to tool, the neo-progressive rock bands... but i see your point, my language is the sort of formal, that stages a lack of intimacy, but this is an ontological-high-jump, given your reply, and emphasis on friendship... you will have to curate me, moving forward, since i will be unable to moderate how, me, interacting with you, will be adequate to have finally said, something informal, by your standards of scrutiny. time, i will first have to see some of your idioms to change my dialect; i'll begin, i'll tell you where this was written from, Romford, Essex, England.

Jules  1h
If we are to move forward as friends, I have to express my feeling on the autism topic. First off, Autism is a spectrum that ranges from high functioning to low functioning. 30% of people with autism are in fact of average or higher intelligence. Some of the most famous scientists including Albert Einstein were in fact autistic. It is not synonymous with simple or stupid in any way, shape, or form. I dislike that you said your friend seemed to be less of a person because he had autism. However, I understand that you’re misconceptions weren’t meant in a malicious way

Mateuš Conrad  51s
so how can i move forward to establish a less informal dialect? i wasn't focusing on the details of the stated condition, i know that i'm handling something as fragile as an egg in terms of what words i employ, and that i might seem astoudning, in having not contra opinions on the matter beneath the impersonal "facade"... but you were asking about how to make our interaction more uninhibited, if we're going to lecture each other about infringing on delicate matters... i wasn't implying the person in question was less of a person, i was implying he was more of a person, by resembling a labyrinth, i didn't take any personhood from him, i simply reattached it to a metaphor, of elevated complexity, of a labyrinth: i was lost in attaining a mutual comprehension of a shared experience with him... what's so bad about that? i only mentioned something in passing, since your's, was the original "concern"... you asked me how we could continue in a less informal manner... this reply will not answer your original "concerns"... what if i were to say: i'm schizophrenic? what then? you'd lecture me on... all of your knowledge on the matter? if we're all going to interrogate each other... thus... then you have a misconception of schizophrenics... akin to john nash... personally, i don't understand how you'd think i'd be primarily focused on something said: intended to be relegated to: in passing... guess what... i'll send this and...

      BLOCK

               i'm basically rummaging
through porcelain...
  i was ****** off one writing
platform for no reason...
   being ****** off from another
is not on my wish list,
from a very, simple,
lack of reciprocated
       feed of understanding;

   oh i know when i see minor *******,
some liking it to micro-aggression...
i chose a fox as my totem,
learning from a 2015 "debacle":
it looks innocent at first,
    but then spirals out of control;
the more i sieve through
this construct known as humanity,
the more i chose to remain
hidden.
   - and for all the worth
of the tabloid press...
   this is where i'll reign, myself
included.

JULES: (sighs) I mean… I don’t know. I guess it’s– I guess it’s interesting, ’cause, like, before I ran away, uh, I had gone to the city to visit some old friends, and… we were having this exact conversation. And… Basically, um… I feel like I’ve framed my entire womanhood around men. When, like, in reality, I’m no longer interested in men. Like, philosophically. Like, like, what men want. Like, what men want is so boring. And simple, and not creative, and, like, uh… I just, like, I look at myself, and I’m like, how the f*ck did I spend my entire life building this. Like… (sighs) Like, my body, and my personality, and, like, my soul around what I think men desire? It’s just, like… it’s embarrassing. I feel like a… a fraud.
__________________

­ShyGuy118: i really missed you today

ShyGuy118: are u really going to nyc for college?

Jules: i hope so

Jules: why… you gonna come with me??

ShyGuy118: would you like that?

Jules: it would be a dream



JULES: Some of the most profound relationships I’ve ever had have been with people I’ve never met.

I should have known I was setting myself up. Or maybe I did know. Maybe that’s, like, what I’m actually attracted to. Maybe that’s, like, the appeal.

The letdown. The fact that, like, none of it’s real. And it’s all a fantasy.

There was once a fella named Jules

Who packed his bags, and got nothing to lose

Before he passed away,

His mother was sick

Dad went off his own way.


Jules went on to a life worth knowing;

That to love is to heal

And we learn by hurting

As he was leaving

He looked on a picture

Of a former lover who hate him

He felt nothing but one thing

That she loved him dearly.


He went to the bath

Closed the door behind his back

Laid down on the floor

With mom and dad.

As he stared at their lifeless bodies.

He shared them a laugh:

"Mom, dad... your son was bad"


Sirens wail from a distance

As I stared on the floor and caressed

My dear Jules' head

"Oh what fools we have become"

"I wish I was there"



...He did what he needs done
For he still does care.

"I don't want you
To hook up with someone else"
There i said it  loud and clear
What jules might think
Is making my head burst
Then in a low voice she asked
What did i mean
I answered if she wanted
A relationship have it with
Me...
And then
She looked into my eyes
Trynna find answers
To the questions she had
My heartbeat was running wild
With anticipation, with adrenaline
My layers of clothing felt like
A thin cloth  since i had opened
Up my feelings for her
Jules my sweet jules
is hardworking passionate
And driven...
I hate seeing her with men after men
That doesn't deserve her love
I feel pang of jealousy whenever
She went out with guys
And and and
Whenever she had ***
In our apartment i used
To finger myself thinking
I was the person making her
Delicious body ******
When she would complain
About how unsatisfying the *** was
I would secretly be happy
Knowing i am the only one
Who could satisfy her heat
But right now her answer
Is the one i am waiting for
And it's taking her too long
******* hell
She is biting her lips and
Looking like a **** *****
But then her worried face
Comes
And i think go to hell that face
I  lunge towards her and
kiss her like no tomorrow
And her mouth opens for me
Like she is giving me permission
I drive my tongue crazily inside
Her mouth and she responds
With moan and pleasure
I rip the shirt she's wearing
And grab her *****
Kissing her neck
Thumbing her *****
I make her moan harder
Then i take a ****** and
**** it in my mouth
And i swear to god
She moans like she
Could burn the whole
House down
I slowly trail down her
Body towards her nectar
Pulling her trousers and
******* down i smell
Her *****
She says"don't make me wait"
Who am i to make my
Baby girl wait
I hit the town
******* and kissing her *****
Putting finger in her *****
And ******* her **** at the
Same time
And she moans my name
Saying **** me harder
And to be honest listening
To her moan my name
Is so much better than
Any random trash boyfriend
Of hers
Now that i have her
I am going to explore
Every inch of her body
I keep on drilling my fingers
In her *****...
Then a naughty idea pops
In my head
I make her **** my thumb finger
And while licking her *****
I drive my thumb finger slowly
Up her ***
And off she goes
******* like no tomorrow
Cursing **** over and over
Yelling at me because i made
Her *** far better than anyone
As i slowly move upward to her lips to kiss
I say i love you so much jules
And in a dreamy  and satisfied voice
She says love you too Em
And goes to sleep
And me i am more than happy
That i got my baby girl
My lover to this day
With me by my side
Yeah bye writing this
Has made me *****
I am going to maul
My wife to a beautiful
Session of ***
See ya pals
Yours truly EMILY JANE

It seems like an odd duality really, in regards to time. Memory can do this. I’m taken back to when I was a boy sitting on my Grandparent’s front porch on Jules Street; so many years ago, but just yesterday.
My Grandpa sits on this porch and watches a world go by. He has, at this time, roughly sixty-five years of age coursing through his soul. Roughly four of those years were spent in a war overseas. Perhaps the greatest of all wars--World War II. This global conflict he spent in the European theater as he and his buddies, acquaintances, and guys he didn’t much care for, fought as Americans and as Allies in unity against a madman claiming Christ on his side.

We’d be sitting there, playing “This Car’s Mine”, a game this little boy was sure a product if his Grandfather’s genius. Occasionally, I’d point at a car I especially thought boss, and he’d reprimand me for the gesture. “Don’t be doin’ that,” he’d say sternly. Being a little boy, such speech glanced off of me in immature bewilderment. The car game would get old and some time would pass in silence. My attention would be drawn to the busyness of some ant hill, or wasps tending to their little mud or paper homes. Eventually, the question would come:  “Grandpa, what did you do in the war?”
Not looking at me, he’d respond something like, “Oh, fought Germans mostly.” I didn’t know much about the great war at that age, but I knew there was D-Day, and had heard of something called Battle of the Bulge. These are battles I had either heard about on television, or read about in the encyclopedia. Never had I heard about them first hand from my Grandfather. Whenever asked about the great and terrible World War II, all he ever gave in response were vagueries.

But there was always the stare. There were the numerous, indeed countless times when, not distracted by wasps, ants, or cars, that this little boy would catch a shiver rifle through his Grandfather’s world weary frame, or see a wince disfigure his face locked in tight on that middle distant stare. Of course, nothing was thought of it then. That little boy was a typical one. But the odd duality serves for perception. Now this boy who grew into a man with roughly 40 years coursing through his soul sees those shivers, those winces from what seems as yesterday and perceives them as the coldest **** nights ever spent in a supply strapped forest in the middle of a French winter; or the times he dove for cover trying to not be ripped to shreds from shrapnel of an incoming mortar shell or enemy rifle fire; or the time he took some kind of hit to his face which earned him a Purple Heart. I see the middle distant stare, and I see what gravity is all about.

Mulberries ripen,
Let’s play “This Car’s Mine”--
A vet on Jules street.

In toasting Mike I recollect
His steady watching gaze,
I recollect his calm
On a thousand stormy days.
I recall his jaunty humour
In his funny cockney style,
And the rationale behind it
And the pleasure of his smile.

And the quiet determination
In the steeliness within
And the love that emanated
When his Jules laughed loud with him.
When he held her hand and strolled
In the life they shared as one,
In the racket of the grand kids
As they shout and leap and run.

Through the years of hardy seamanship
From England's chalky reach,
Across the ocean's vastness
To far antipodean beach,
To the soft greens of New Zealand
And the promise of this land
And the shining eyes of Jules
When he offered her his hand.

And the life they shared together
Through the joy, the strain the tears
The utter joy of baby Kristin
And her beauty through the years.
The seamlessness of craftmanship
In tradesman's art supreme
And the pride of his achievement
In a sweet successful dream.

A chasm has appeared in life
Where old Mike used to be.
Dreadfull death has exercised
It's right to set him free.
But I can't feel bad for Micheal
For the brilliance of it all
Is celebration of his life well lived
And my toast to judgement's call.

Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
10 January 2010.

When I look in the mirror my heart

stops, I can hear my soul weeping.

I am confused, that is not the image I

expected, certainly not what my brain

anticipated. So many miles I put

between us,

I called, but my subconscious would

change the frequency of the calls with

each passing year. Over a decade and

a half I prevented myself from letting

sand gently tickle my feet, waves relax

my soul, and sea breeze whispers in

my ears. Not able to reflect and re-live

times filled with music, dancing,

learning to love, and learning to enjoy

a colorful culture that despite pitfalls,

obstacles, and oppression, manages to

rise above all and shine, to light up

our path to greatness and show the

sacrifices our ancestors made

so we don’t forget where we come

from and where we have to go.

I look in the mirror once more,

nothing has changed, same image,

now it is staring… I blinked, it is gone.

my dream quickly becomes a

nightmare, the image jumps out of the

mirror and gives chase, I’m not fast

enough.

I am him—He is me, I am cursed!

I am flying, no destination, no horizon,


visibility is very low, I grow tired.

another dream turning nightmare.

same mirror, same image, I ‘m not

running, not scared, never really was.

I turned around to see the image

turning into a beast.

I am no longer him—He is no longer

me. He tries to reach me, tries to talk

to me, he seems to be paralyzed,

frustrated, mute, impotent. I feel sorry

for the beast as he is now powerless,

sad, and alone.

I am flying, I see the horizon, I have a

destination.

I am tired no more… I have a purpose.

So now the thing is over
all the pundits have gone back home
and the Rimet Trophy has been put away
to be played for again another day
some managers will now lose their teams
for not fulfilling a nation’s dreams.

But it is football, just a game
men paid so much, disgraceful shame
while others struggle to put food on the table
players cavorted like Betty Grable
but we watched it still – we cannot stop
I wonder when the penny will drop.

I remember pictures in black and white
when games were played in failing light
where players had jobs to earn their pay
and played the game on Saturday
where then the ref’s decision was law
and players didn't roll round on the floor.

Those days are gone and that’s for sure
the ***** were heavy and kit was poor
but player’s hearts were in the game
and not the glory of fleeting fame
when celebrity wasn't theme of the day
for men oft found to have ‘feet of clay’.

©Joe Wilson – The Jules Rimet 2014

I can still remember Franz Beckenbauer playing on after breaking his arm, simply by wearing a black sling to support it…a sight you wouldn't see today.

Oh, shimmering Jules!
What has happened, to your radiant glow;
and- why, dear, do you sound so sinister?

But- Jules, do you not know:
that some of thee most meaningful literature
has spawned out o' heartbreak and sorrow?

Has it not been shown: that- tis',
only, human nature to scribble scriptures
o' how we've lived beyond cloudy horizons-
and greeted each tomorrow with new wisdom
and a, truly, heartfelt smile?

  (A heartfelt smile.)
I hope to see one return to your face-
if- even- it takes a while.

Seeing you this jaded, my dear,
is causing my peace o' mind to begin fading.

I hope you begin to feel better-
and- a smile you can find in the mirror,
sometime, in this ever-changing year.

Jules why did we come here? We're walking across wet sand and hugging onto boulders, that are boomerang shaped. You hold an electric lantern and glow with light, as you walk along the shore. The stars shine brilliantly and I am sad because you don't look at me look the way you look at that lion-shaped rock.

I chew on gum and try to forget about the fact that you're puffing on a Marlboro light. My Uncle died of cancer two months ago, and this is why I now chew on dentine ice. You tell me to stop smacking my lips. I want to push you in your chest, grab your cigarette, and burn a hole in your cardigan. But I bought that cardigan for you last Christmas. It cost a whole paycheck.

I need a better job. But you got me that job. So at the same time, I'm grateful to work at a country club, sweeping the tennis courts with a broom, as I watch young people swing and miss with their racquets. The clouds begin to darken and cluster above the beach. My knee shakes violently and I know it's about to thunder and boom with hard rain.

I open my mouth and try to put my arm around you, pulling you in closer. But you start to climb a rock, crawling on its lopsided surface, and digging your heels into its cracks. You toss the Marlboro **** and brighten the intensity on the lantern. The light spreads across the rock and the beach, like glass shattering onto a tiled floor. You hold the bright lantern in front of your face.

I can no longer see your brown eyes, your black, curly hair, and your jagged nose. You look at me. But all I see is that bright and shining light covering and shrouding your silhouette. You turn right and stare affectionately at the lion shaped rock. I swallow my gum. I pick the cigarette pack from the sandy floor. I flick the lighter. My eyes close.

I miss you.

I remember reading
Martin Luther King, Jr's
Letter from Birmingham Jail
Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom
Mark Twain's Huck Finn
DuBois' Souls of Black Folk
For the first time

The words of Chief Joseph
Sitting Bull
Tecumseh
James Welch
and Alexie Sherman
And others of indigenous kind
Linger like arrows in my mind.

Of course, there's
Gilgamesh's forlorn quest for Enkidu;
Osiris, Amun, Ra, and Seth,
Homer's Illiad and Odyssey,
And Virgil's Roman treatment -
(For whom the gods destroy
We all must learn bereavement).

I remember reading
Milton's Paradises (lost and found)
And Dante's Infernal quest for Heaven
Through the bowels of Hell with Virgil's spritely guide
And up the Devil's staircase with Beatrice by his side.
John's Revelation of Times' End;
And LaHaye's money-making Left Behind
Apocalypses here to chill my mind.

I have surveyed Dead Presidents
Washington,
Jefferson,
Lincoln
Both Roosevelts, Ted and Frank,
And Reagan
And smatterings of others...
Then hopped the bookish pond to read
Sir Winston and some others,
Not the least of whom is Gandhi G,
Taught by the Queen to free his brothers.

I have studied
Moses
Job
David
Ruth
Esther
Isaiah
Jeremiah
The Disciples
Paul
and James
(Ironically,
Though Jesus is the "Word"
He never penned one).

British poets's thoughts,
Tale tellers long-dead
Have found their way
Into my head:
Beowulf and Chaucer
Old moral plays
Shelley and Keats
Cavalier Poets
Scott and Brownings
Burns and (not) Allen
Spenser and Shakespeare
Dylan and Tolkien
Lewis and Auden
And so many more
That I leave on the floor

Western Americana I have loved
Hemingway and Steinbeck, all worth the time,
Mari Sandoz' Old Jules, and
Rolvaag's Giants in the Earth,
Keroac went on the road, while
Joseph Kinsey Howard showed us the West
Lewis & Clark in journals scribed
Their journey west and back again

I can't forget psychology
And so I will digress
Or Sigmund's accusation stays
That I have but suppressed:
Ellis, Freud, and Eric Berne,
Pavlov, Skinner, Thorndike, Watson,
Wundt, and Wm James, Piaget and Chomsky
Then Vygotsky and Bandura put a social spin
on cognitive psychology, and Everybody's in.
Diverging and Converging, psychic students, all
Could never make transaction
'Til Rogers tried to make some peace
But Ellis wouldn't have 'im.

And then, of course,
The lighter stuff,
The popcorn of the mind:
Clancy, Rankin, Carole Keene
L'Amour and Will James
Stephen King and Poe,
Cruz Smith and Leon Uris,
Grisham, Deaver, Cornwall,
Asimov, Bradbury and Herbert,
Carroll and Baum...