Far moost o' me
     three score minus one year
tethered upon terra firmae where
planet Earth doth veer

(spins upon the global axis
     (tilted 23.5 degrees from the plane
     of its orbit around the sun),
terrestrial genesis (perhaps accompanied

     for Pete's sake by Gabriel
     blowing his horn) in all honesty unclear
boot more oven concern
     points to thermonuclear

and/or subnuclear
war, particularly at forefront
     of thine primate noggin
actively hypothesizing

     theoretical armageddon,
     when non plus ultra gravitates
     with e pluribus unum necessitating
     each individual to bend over

     and kiss his/her rear
goodbye unless total merciless queer
hue loss atomic fallout immediately
     incinerates e'en

     the moost savvy profiteer,
which aforementioned prognostication
     arose from overbear
ring hazy, hot and humid

     dangerous heat spell near
lee approximating insufferable
     temperature nearing triple digits
     (along Eastern Seaboard

     of United baked States
makes this human,
     an immediate convert to climate control
(though he happened tubby already)

     basking, glorifying, and luxuriating
     within delightful 60º Fahrenheit mere
really expressing gratitude for such
     creature comfort donning my

     stretched out birthday suit,
     (yet thee moost comfortable leisurewear
then thrift store "special bag
     mountain of clothes

     as mooch as Yukon sales,"
     no matter mine ill mannered
     mirrored reflection doth jeer
at such a sorry sight, and/or

     laugh reading interlinear
monologue colloquy,
     which message gleaned between lines,
and should this poem be red aloud,

     thy ******* passion linkedin
     with humming HVAC, ye would hear
courtesy hove cochlear
(hollow tube in the inner ear)
sensitive to deafening sounds...so beware!

It's been a while.
Since I wrote a poem.
But not since I wrote about you.

I write about you all the time.
Every once in a while,
I forget why.

Then I remember why.
I remember you,
Or I see a picture.

I see your blond hair.
Your blue eyes.
You're the reason I have a type.

I think of your adventure,
And your shyness,
And your varying range of emotion.

I think of all these
Random memories,
Floating around in my head.

Like ping pong.
And capture the flag.
Like long flaring lights and computer bags.

Like fire escapes,
And hiding under tables,
Like missing you in winter with eyelashes like a fable.

Like long walks in the dark,
And hidden dark handkerchiefs with white polka dots.
Like plaid checkered jackets, even when it's hot.

Like cargo shorts and a white fedora.
Gathering under the arch like it's an agora.
Hiding that handkerchief between the flora.

God, I miss you more and more.
Months til I see you,
I'm down to only a few before.

I almost can't wait,
It makes me feel sad.
The fact that I'd leave,
Just like that.

Just so I could see you again.

It's Valentine's Day
And I'm here without you.
And I wish more than anything,
For that to not be true.

relinquishing emotional fixation
toward material trappings:

gold and silver upholds true value
   capitalist money tree
thrown down upon the gaunt lit alter
   of  caterwauling treasure seekers
within briny current sea circulating currency

countless denominations cashiered
   their legal tender to grant
rich Midas, who straddles diamond
   compound billed as sacred kant

tickles with dollar signs motley crue
   scrambling towards drawbridge gate
pedestrians malingering hungry thirst
   for wealth of nations to satiate

inexorable appetite for wanton money to amass
fuels reverence for all that glitters even brass
whence madding crowd behaviour cruel and crass
deplorable if perceived from one way looking glass

fool hardiness to revere what beast called cash,
   lucre, green back
can buy - sweeping across world wide web
   scarring globe on fast track

toward accumulating high excess lavish life style
and parade with pomp and circumstances while

ninety nine percent of less wealthy live hand to mouth
envying those billeted behind sealed mansions
   east, west, north and south

except this dollar less chap, who could not give
   a rat’s ****
for hearing ka-ching melodic sound twenty four seven
   that does swoosh
in burlap sack clothes and bank accounts
   preferring to slog and push
along the boulevard of broken dreams
   that resembles nothing but mush

yet preference prevails to forego
   attachment to government sanctioned loot
freeing mind and body trying to cherish
   voluntary simplicity which does suit
this quest for knowledge seeking writer,
   who disparages against his horn to toot

nor imposing personal philosophy gives reason
   exuberantly to exhale
versus vacuity and purposelessness  sans
   blind faith soul asylum toward holy grail
goading most people to persevere millions
   of bucks over hill and dale

despite owning next to nothing, yet detaching
   psychological bond that doth choke
ability to experience unfettered psyche likened
   to an oxen with iron bound yoke!

YOUR  NEGATIVITY