#solution - Hello Poetry

Feel far from now and then, the past we may recall personally, as matters of familiar facts, we memorized, instantly at the time, a local high school suicide's service, Richard Cory on all our minds, those days it was taught, as we were admirably schooled in every grace: to make us wish that we were in his place. Ah, yes, old man, recall the summer of 1966, precursor season of the post war sorting hat trick, preemptive weeding out of conscientious objection, war on poverty had been declared, Job Corp boys, got exposed to life in an old, for America, sunset town, speckled with shades of muted copper skin color, but no blacks, not one single one, lived in that happy little town. This present notion, not so great, some sharp stone step up and back, noting names taken in vain, golden boy, gay and handsome and talented as Hell, they'd say of him, what was his name, old friend, he'll haunt me, he, who had shared his secret, with me, and another, the shame of knowing, steps with sharp scruples, blame for never knowing such pain, for never needing to hide the truth that I really only liked myself, needing none to love or be loved by, only my dog, as I must admit old age allowed its natural peace of mind, settled down, feeling no local angst nor any international hypocrite shame fed those justifying Trump as Cyrus, Lance Wallnau's revelation, begun after the advent of mega churches blooming into zones abandoned by industries forced elsewhere for cheaper labor. Scatter brain, free form information, mulling over cold coffee. Poker stirring ashes, shaken off, to mull yesterday's wine, now, squeezing drops from the dregs of that '66 vintage, Havasu summer. Site Six got a Holly Corp McCulloch Deforestation Equipment Deal, land mustabin so cheap then, and chainsaw manufacturing rich with endless forests where Pax Americana provided good jobs yeah, mind wandering, senility exercise, daily drill, pray tell, whose life was ever easier than mine, upto now, I got by, in what seems no time at all, each minute spent, as was - offering all my ****** friends to forgive me, slowly - hang out with me and my former enemies, we amuse - ourselves with thoughts that force paste solid memes. Melvin was the kid's name, who put a bullet through his head. Richard Corey was in the Billboard A.M. most requests list. Now no haunting memories remain, just the red socks. And straining pangs from New York one man bands melodizing the old story of Richard Cory's bullet. Edwin Arlington Robinson's 1897 collection, The Children of the Night. Rich men's sons, had such books, free men's grandsons, had Carnegie Library testimonials to puck and good luck. But Melvin was a queer duck, he wore red socks, with his black suit, when he played the prospector, opposite me, as the face of corporate greed, proper black socks, proper conserved privileged extraction, forgettable, that whole scene, but for those red socks.

0

Mar 8

Mar 8, 2026 at 1:51 PM UTC

kenpepiton

Future Presence Sensitivity

Feel far from now and then, the past we may recall personally, as matters of familiar facts, we memorized, instantly at the time, a local high school suicide's service, Richard Cory on all our minds, those days it was taught, as we were admirably schooled in every grace: to make us wish that we were in his place. Ah, yes, old man, recall the summer of 1966, precursor season of the post war sorting hat trick, preemptive weeding out of conscientious objection, war on poverty had been declared, Job Corp boys, got exposed to life in an old, for America, sunset town, speckled with shades of muted copper skin color, but no blacks, not one single one, lived in that happy little town. This present notion, not so great, some sharp stone step up and back, noting names taken in vain, golden boy, gay and handsome and talented as Hell, they'd say of him, what was his name, old friend, he'll haunt me, he, who had shared his secret, with me, and another, the shame of knowing, steps with sharp scruples, blame for never knowing such pain, for never needing to hide the truth that I really only liked myself, needing none to love or be loved by, only my dog, as I must admit old age allowed its natural peace of mind, settled down, feeling no local angst nor any international hypocrite shame fed those justifying Trump as Cyrus, Lance Wallnau's revelation, begun after the advent of mega churches blooming into zones abandoned by industries forced elsewhere for cheaper labor. Scatter brain, free form information, mulling over cold coffee. Poker stirring ashes, shaken off, to mull yesterday's wine, now, squeezing drops from the dregs of that '66 vintage, Havasu summer. Site Six got a Holly Corp McCulloch Deforestation Equipment Deal, land mustabin so cheap then, and chainsaw manufacturing rich with endless forests where Pax Americana provided good jobs yeah, mind wandering, senility exercise, daily drill, pray tell, whose life was ever easier than mine, upto now, I got by, in what seems no time at all, each minute spent, as was - offering all my ****** friends to forgive me, slowly - hang out with me and my former enemies, we amuse - ourselves with thoughts that force paste solid memes. Melvin was the kid's name, who put a bullet through his head. Richard Corey was in the Billboard A.M. most requests list. Now no haunting memories remain, just the red socks. And straining pangs from New York one man bands melodizing the old story of Richard Cory's bullet. Edwin Arlington Robinson's 1897 collection, The Children of the Night. Rich men's sons, had such books, free men's grandsons, had Carnegie Library testimonials to puck and good luck. But Melvin was a queer duck, he wore red socks, with his black suit, when he played the prospector, opposite me, as the face of corporate greed, proper black socks, proper conserved privileged extraction, forgettable, that whole scene, but for those red socks.