I famigerate without taciturn timidity the straits of a straightened jury-rig of nesiote narrowbacks harping the accordion zest and zeal of the plenilune consuetude of a scrivello infamy sprung into the rows of rip-tide acclaim hamstrung by the decline in fastidious upkeep of the timberlask vesicles that avoid the phenakism of prismatic reformation fundamental to transmogrified simpers of dismal saturnine darkness encroaching on the parallax of realms within the dominion of the Almighty for the omniety of the usucaption of the fruitful prune in the priggish afterglow of a noontide eclipse bereaved of whispering retreat in the hallowed wasms of stiltanimity becoming an entreaty to ecumenical barbs of propriety selected without intimacy to folksy bibliopolists but rugged in sterling tribute to the true vine of the appointed ways of sacerdotal triage among a roughshod vanity of a derelict world marveling at otiose rejoinder rather than true spasms of tragedy flickering in the recessive alleles of a careworn culture. The travesty of Beirut is the bromide of current leapfrogs of sentinel lust and malapert destruction forming an ironclad camaraderie with chocolate-box langlauf disasters wed uxoriously to the penury of the brackish version of the catadromous bailiwick of despotic nescience pregnant with sophrosyne redemption at the cusp of a plaid perfunctory quip of quisling intimations of the sketchy provenance of humdingers of comestion lurking in the plodding prowl of a ribald wiseacre of a beckoned billow of trinkochre welded into a conscientious blarney that awaits the popinjays that sculpt brittle redshort fictions into awakened carapaces of a limacine reduction of impoverished fulmination into the neatly sworn footprints of a geotaxis shuddering with magnetism only in spectacle without the overhailing zeal of vintners who specialize in curtailed wine drawn from Caiaphas and soaked with the muddy turgid Siloam as avenues toward the repentance of asunder becoming marginalized as a whimper of taciturn choleric war receding not even into an audible delope as the masterful chryselephantine assault of cryptic auditions in the theater of effete refuge sink into the pelagic oblivion of a remarkable blister festering into inconsequence as the rebarbative emoluments to tattered travesty hearken a battle-cry yet emanated in the reprehensible bulwark of the gerendum of a poised plastered humility aggrieved with such friction turgid on rollicking magpiety that even the larceny of brutish renegades of triumph sink beneath the brevity of accident rather than the fortitude of globalized turpitude weakened by the improper demarche of fuliginous homeless depredation of innocent bystanders flocking to the harvest of war found in insight rather than the perfunctory bromidrosis of the macroscian enmity of hidden maleficence spawning a credenda that is spayed on arrival in the faineant zoolatry of a spelunkers’ madcap dash to flex the filigrees of turmoil in resentment of the amicable truces of a God who never tempts and a lurking lie that never itches for trigger-happy hapless rebukes because the skittish skirmish of futilitarian repose is a scoundrel of the profligacy of errant weakness blinkered by the humdrum din of deafening semaphores of provocative thornbush on the threshing floor of cowardly imposture president of all affairs of spirit and all renegades of caitiff megalography of forgotten oblivion despite the curglaff of vindictive and never vindicated assaults on the integrity of the birthright of Lebanon to wager a presumptive gamble of trifling retribution for the alacrity of suspicions eloping with forbidden mistresses in the humdingers of flackey rather than the troudasque harbinger of a lunacy impugned by a restive triumphant fallow time seasonable for a litany of pretenses demassified for a liturgy of seances with eldritch commiseration in the saw-toothed serration of selachostomous bravado wielded by likely or unlikely culprits of ravenous ruin shepherded by the guilty cardinal sins of the complicity of explosive vanity marauding on the ruins of a fortress debased by pettifoggery of internal excuse rather than the wrath of provocative ire in the irksome cauterized wounds of the inured to deliver spectacular reticence despite such grievous diacope. Evil gilderoys of maleficence carve the sapwood of the periphery to aimless subversions miscarried by the modern atrocity of glamour memorialized as a sound-byte underminnow of a roaring rhombos rip tide as stocks wavy at the curvature of edgy demarche despoil the denuded wasteland of cultural despondency a wagtail to the impudence of famigerated affronts that deserve a sterling recompense wielded by the onerous and operose burdens of a prone decubitus of aboriginal bread seeded from Heavenly realms dissipating into the roars of blinded conflagration too meek to even exist on the ramshackle hillside of a barnstorm of aggression powerless to encapsulate the nexility of unspoken allegiance to destruction rather than the halidom of consecrated marriages balking at the caulked provisions of a slugabed monolith of craven capers on the recesses of abeyance in the interregnum of a time where famous people communicate with me. How can such a charismatic bravado of lurking presidency stoop to the denizens of usufruct in licentious latitudes on the outskirts of consideration even pretend anymore that the vacuum of effluvium (Gal 6:7) can be mocked and milked into the row of centuries blistering through the calenture of apprisal and heaved awakening as the zephyrs of the Occident meet temporal juncture with the coenesthesia of a hibernating trumpery formed by the turnverein of listless lethargy billowing through fumiducts of siphoned lavaderos of hypogeiody that the underground spasms of cacophony could marvel at the historic emergence of a magnate with the most powerful magnetism of God shepherding the true flock John 10:27 because he is willing to be the good shepherd and potentially die for his sheep John 10:11. Remember, whenever you hear a Queer Studies Radical Feminist bloviate on emasculated sardanapalian posture John 8:44 and even though personified as a masculine titan of bulwarks of immense otiose wilted inkburch shielding the world from true meaning, the maskirovka of the Devil is present in the dark trespasses of personal abandon among the wilderness of many marsupial jackals of martles wagtails to an invictive proclamation of invulnerable sappy sopanaceous filibusters against hefty sinew forged the bony fragments of the charnels lost to brief epitaphs never mourned in threnodies worthy of remembrance that the departed died with us and live again through us whether in Heaven as participant or on Earth as an acting battalion of the skullduggery of the mystique of shimmers of God acting on Man’s behalf 1 Col 1:15-16. That the firstborn of all creation obtains supremacy through the finalisms that I seek as the captain of trailblazing untrammeled roads we are reminded of the narrow and wide gates expanded by the explosion of thought that trespasses into the hidebound ratchet of a reasonable bleat becoming a harsh outcry of justice for Lebanon that they feel so powerless in implosion what could aggrieve potentate civilizations to the precipice of global maleficence in destruction. Swarming for alveolate hominid hominism as an outgrowth of alienation by design polarized spectral dangles at jaundice flamestun by the ordeal of oppositive barnacles to the chryselephantine habituation of a masked menace of Procrustean authority to muzzle the free license of armamentariums of a latent man keen to the kenspeckel visibilia that we might have punctuation in the poised primiparas of a hearkened unprecedented in modern history that the traipse of lapse is no longer the tenure of mindless calculation of authoritarian gabble sentries of a mobilized fleet of embodied human ignorance but a foisted sprite of whangams of apothegm that deserve in their gnomic respite from the phenakisms of a philogeant kumbaya assertive in its treony of radical compassion for those who dwell in tentpoles of revelry bound not to the covenant that sent us into light and sparkling in hidden obsolescence that the fulgurant words of Mount Horeb (Sinai) are both immaculate and without trace of sin because Acts 17:30 declares a powerful truth lost to the twinges of time that issued peremptory governance of my theology but through remission I admit the grievances of septiferous blockades of ponderous plodding nescience haunting the spectral aubades of paeans to a high-flown sun darting through galactic space apace of the velivolant sails of divine wind that come in the spree of recompense authored by the vines to which all roots belong rhizogenic and immutable because the demarches of time forget the marches against the cauterized grime of new-world suspicions of aleatory fickle gubernatorial proclamations that issue reverb more than sprinkle flanged atrocity in the sight of the holy ramparts of an active double-edged God who reminds us of our many witnesses but provides not a single latchkey of escapism resident to many hapless homes of the drunken sing-song rhapsody nullifying the psychotaxis of the motatory miserly Draconian charades of Leviathan grasping the tridents of warp-speed revisionism in a benighted world overrun by mandarist fictions that fumigate a pasteurized control of cultural malcontent in situations of dearth infested by the concentration camps of China that remain unheralded in brumal and brutish indoctrination spared from worldwide outrage by the tribunes that are complicit more in malfeasance than they are celebrated for the herald of heinous bletcherous crimes of abecedarian abligurition anointed in waste rather than refined like unquenched slakes of eternal water so that no man can thirst hungry for the daily bread without returning to the providence of God awakened. Recalcitrant by the impudent quislings of repugnasket flarmeys of advenient flummoxed besieged clairvoyance I bask and beaze on the light that never fades because of the brackish whisk of a barnstorm of allegiance that is contumely to a bromide society listless in inferiority of intellect to my former streaks beyond jejune reiteration of the Jehu mentality against the canine fate of Jezebel and her faltered ministry of ewnastique waged as battalion gore of a trifling musket of an aboriginal swim through the oceanic gaze of peerless eternity squirming because of flagging resolution among the spandrels of incommunicable largesse lolloped extravagantly not just for the spoils of hyped pedigree but also a chamade to Heaven to enlist the purblind vestiges of a crambazzled Earth rejuvenated in adolescent esprit rather than callow eclat against the outrecuidance of whimpered miserly conscientiousness that exists in a shorter frame of reference than the provident dashes through a furlough of time and ancestry to cobble together a lapidary bristling excoriation of the tumescent squabbles of mystique brave enough to rarefy the humid pasteurization of a mannequin kenspeckel still-frame jilt of jostled infamy brusque in its curt envies borne of still-born promenades of a whasper between the youthful ligony and the intrepid soul of a collective warrior debased by the adscititious participant to elegant effronteries of the newfangled intellectual vogue that is the grombang of the tralleyripped hamshackle of ostentation meeting mirrored paralysis in sheepish ewnastique creations meddlesome in their ironic frizz of recursion as I lounge on the habits of creation by intelligent lurches of design that appointed the demarcations of all creatures and the mysterious bridge between the missing links that remain elusive to the flombricks of the misery of epigenetic rhizogenic imparlance of desuetude cringing at foresight littered with the disaster of ravished hindsight blushing at the limpid degeneration of the vapid varnish of benighted ligony rather than heroic strides of stoic-epicurean compromise in the apolaustic pursuit of the one eternal God present in rebellion but never the temptress of mendacity and mendaciloquence because the tug I have on speed is ratifying a cauterized casualty in the spumid betrothed wicked snuffs of extinguished furor for a time beyond barnstormed racloir rugged origination and faulty phenogenesis that escorts mythos into actionable litanies of the awakened breed scoffing at the inkburch of “Electrolytes”-wernaggle that besets the queer fascinations of a warped generation. The pytherian swank of artrench embodied in the recocted rendevation of hypetrophy in hubris swaddled by the reductive dranger polluting the realm of compliant complicant complaints of the ashowel of albatross astroud in the hibernaculum of langlauf rather than the ultramontane fiduciary tether to the estrockentch rather than the laureates of plevisable courage found in truest shades of vinsky not the subhastation of a gaslighted galvanization of purebred classy swivels of opportunism nor the ravenous incubus appetite for usufruct in subversion belongs to the behest of an insular nesiote flexing the flux of subversion as the candid posies of saccharine immodesty become relegated figments of the everlasting age of promised propriety rather than rigid stultimathy of hackencrude virtues of virtuosos that marvel at troudasque wonders occluded by the girlcott of Team Biden and his militarized soldiers of desiccation of trumpery and the faucets unbounded by swanky concealed epithets of regaled rentgourge by a hapless objection of the runic destruction of apothecary leniency becoming of the betokened emblazonry of scrimshank in every perfuncturation but embodiment of character shouldered by every chasm of power erected in demolition of the warped egintoch radicalism of the submerged wernaggles of the hopeless minority swimming with autodimplage few have to bear but the truest flock of God heeds my voice and has the sapience to spare themselves of contumely and invective to hearsay of invictive triumph beyond radioglare swirk to renege the musical providence of the chamades to the asterongue I often take for granted by immunifacient degrees of the foretold encroaching upon the crux of a pivotal and pivoted destiny not distant from cordial providence. The sweedle of epigones for the risctender of obligation to subvert the coryphaeus with the rigmarole of gentincture borrowed from the Gates’ formulaic effleck of perverse warbles of collectivized contrition for abetted cultural pederasty limpid in its achieved objective of the crudenzy borrowed from a lacking impediment to arentrum belonging to the knowledgeable happenstance of the glorified dengonin is a denostram that forestalls the agelasts behind porsters of culture rather than legitimate mainlined contamination of wellsprings of fliction of paranoiac enthusiasm might swim in kinkativy blinkered blind piebald girouettism but never dauntless in sematic entrenchment of robust dilettantism as the swaddled corrugation of time into centripetal ****** against centrifugal modernism that alienates propriety while estranging by vacuous vacuums the outspoken progeny of the surviving age beyond the Jay and Silent Bob travesty that manifests as a glower of menacing Bushian invention to tarnish with ****** mythos the drapes of a defenestrated realism of the flinkers of sheepish indignation against many drakstings of intonorous sclerotic mandibles of crackjaw chockablock annihilation of core precepts and institutions indelible from the face of a quixotic entreaty of a ragged intrusion of ageotropic monoideism above the secular-clerical fidelity of honest witness borne of triumph and tribulation festooning the nativist hyperbole into a useless effigy of mountebank imposture silly in precision and purblind to gallantry. Yet I must kisswonk rather than truckle under such ponderous pretense because of a sertivine certainty in the thickets of prudence rather than the tomfoolery of humgruffin impudence scaffolds me to a post-modern ****** that shanks through prisons of guilt and burrows an interrogation of reality supreme over all complaint that the virtuosity of the Gifted (the elect flock that comprehends my volcanic diatribes against mandarism and stomachs them without sardonic pastorauling insults of passerby vicissitude) will spare many nations of awakened perjury against human instinct in the fitness of nations to denigrate the populist squalor of lurid and livid ewnastique wernaggles of the listless buttress against my formal modesty encouraged in all affairs even in aggrieved humility belonging to intimidation rather than spawned jostles through the rumpus of shunamitism that might rankle a later age.  Yentrified morality is a personal flapdoon against the promiscuous pederasty of freewheeling ophelimity and the lurking narquiddity of the traindeque of donnist hedonism to hijack my psychedelic tolerance into an unwarranted and inadvisable sanction into the netherworld of the frinterans of cultural modality that curdact religion into a cosmetic cosmogony rather than a soldiered infamy becoming a beacon on a towering hill growing in solidarity with the pleonasm of existence itself which surpasses crude formulas that already abide by the riches of decorum too much to be admired as trigger-happy fools run the asylum of domesticated irony and the librettos to downfall rather than the wassails of “The Man” becoming more masculine in featured charisma rather than defiled against Leviticus among others who preach belonging to nuclear creed without fission but for true rapprochement to the fusion of the treony with legitimate gripes of unsung complaint among the masculine minority. The traindeque of a baseline complaint aggrieved by the kilmarge carapace of stiltanimity for the hackencrude resentment of the inkburch of illiteracy is a profligate degeneracy lurid in hyped enmity that the envied entreaty becomes the despotic shadow masquerading in shadows blossoming into the full wisdom of the mature sophrosyne heart eager to pour out blessings upon a conservation of recycled epitaphs becoming hearsay in a rebarbative convolution of redacted rigmarole incendiary to whittled henpecks of political engineering but never vapid in their flagging insistence upon an ecumenical toleration of the brooks of modernity and compromise upon which much felicity is aggrandized and permuted against the spoilsport frinterans who encage a dodgy moralism in wilted etiolated jaunty pedigree that espouses the maudlin grievous and ghastly ghouls and sprites that haunt the fictional hobgoblins of the Potemkin Village that finds usury convenient and perjury even more facile for the glib facetious engineers of modalities of hatred unsung by the ribald witwanton “I got a Solution...You’re a ****…South Carolina What’s Up” crowd that never marvels at ingenuity or rarely attempts it in the summit of the climacteric jaundice of hidebound whemmles of ridicule sparring against spartan flagitious wiseacres of genocide of ideation for the revelry of armed missives denatured by raw promotion of the questionable ethics of a flavork of needed slakes of unquenchable desire swarming us with daily temptresses not of wayward women but the disarmed pretense of a lapidary rejoinder to a long expatiation or harangue against hackencrude curdles of rowboat injustice masquerading as sentinel savory destruction of the towering edifice of proclamation. There is great menace in the casuistry of sophist philogeant philocubists dicey with destiny for mincemeat puppetry against sciamachy for the gallionic rise of gammadions in the craven lore of baseline pasquinade rallied to the insuperable causes of tribal shibboleth anointed by secular totemisms of fracture and fricative hisses of lineage that amount to pleonasms of brassage rather than mystagogical mystique of the prestige of human fraternity that shatters paradigms of creed and invites an honest vestige of Noble Savages to roam the Earth yet again unencumbered by lugubrious welters of misnomer and malapropism wagered by artifices of guileless supremacy that is cursory prima facie neglect of even the sororal duties not of sophomoric glib facetious cowardice of backbited backlash of venom militarized for the desuetude of entertained visagists sculpting *****-nilly their version or verdict of decisive apartheid when we should all rally behind the united frontier of the chosen flock in the chosen generation to truckle beneath the pews not of ignorance aggravated by the polluted kilmarge egintoch puritan barbs against publicity choices I now regret (as an emolument to an incredibly euphoric track with a poor miserly message to the enchanted flock inoculated from such diversions) because alighted upon the quenched thirst of salvation I will be judged more harshly as a teacher James 3:1 than the rest of my flock but gifted with the gratuitous salvation carved from the chiselers of ribald infamy capering around with dacoitage and ladronism of the bomans of unsuspecting quixotic caprice I must reckon with the burden of ghoulish shadows on the spectral imprint of my eternal soul relishing in vicarious splendor yet bereaved of quintessential love 1 Cor 13:4 that is necessary for the nuclear conclamation of vibrant hues of resplendent and refulgent providence necessary not from a dynastic perspective but from an aimed providence that alerts dynamism rather than chides with mimes of useless schadenfreude carved from the prestidigitation of the wicked condemned in Galatians 6:7 for the mockers of sanctanimity accorded upon me as gratuity that no man can boast my elite ears and my astute wonderworks of imagination qualified me for prophecy and among the most mesmerizing prophecies registered to fulfillment that the world has ever yet witnessed because the watershed isn’t a bridgewater for the chavish of ignoramus hatred congealed into thrombosis but the narrowed gate enlarges to encompass the swath of man amenable to the flocks that escort me into permanence rather than regale the tridents of a hedonism that elected me clairvoyant at a cost of immaculate splendor registered to the holy clergy of the Sacred Catholic Church and the broader Ecumenical Endeavor that tries to be a seamstress and bridge elemental divides inherent to divided approaches to liturgy which flex their strengths in times of robust fortitude rather than become a subhastation to the vestiges of the pilgrimage to false tabernacles erected by people cozened into charlatan endeavors by the pernicious and persnickety whiplash of Least Common Denominator subversion of widely heralded sentience and sapience enriching the lot of human ambition rather than stoking useless conflagrations of refracturism accorded to the swallock of primposition of the hackneyed hackencrude that swivels with the odious ornery pretense of overtures not to apertures and lychgates of the true abiding Heaven felt on Earth by many Christians whether in sobriety or not without the evil maleficence of a misguided donnism of narquiddity for the grambazzles of aged recklessness aborning on vacant responsibility that is rickety in its magnanimity of absolution because of the ulterior chase for bottom-line top-dollar oligochrome foisted by the cartels that blind true spiritual insight from ever reaching the magnitude of ambition required to shape mountains of revolution among the tertiary squabbles of a conversant Earth open to the troudasque gallop into yield and cloveryield for repcrevel reforms the paludism of the swamp remains skittish about conforming to because objectivism is a renegade of perspicuous light blinkering in hubris and gourmandizing the hinderbaggle of cosmetic pollutions aggravated by the plevisable articles of envy and TLDR politics to “Electrolyte” logic that is a sad recursive wernaggle of the useless buffoonery of humgruffins of tatterdemalion spate rollicking in the magpiety of a timid consentient faltering myth of unanimity among the beleaguered rainbows of many lugubrious tears showering bickering blasphemy upon the mockery of God for the pleasantry of self-aware sheepish resignation that professes only that any form of meritocracy is existentially unfounded only because the beehive elected its progeny the scepter of the ironclad kingdom that wages war against idolatry and serenades heaven with luxury simultaneously. We are all shepherds of providence and there is power enough in collective prayer that we don’t fiddle around with bodewash in mistaken identity but riddle the persnickety blemish of the fastidious critiques of biting sarcasm as a tantamount blasphemy and a criminal repartee of sardonic cloys of inanity foisted above truth. The peevish breedbates who scour my evidentiary pillar of chiseled vertebrae of unbroken bones of solidarity with oikonisus will be sorely disappointed in their truthful audits of my true perception because in every single case it exonerates me from the pulpit of menacing idiots who scrawl random gabble in attempts to sound smart while reeking of iniquity wrought by the gavels of predevoted inferiority of complexion and attitude that gravitates them to an insensate benumbed transmogrified bailiwick of an appalling atrocity of mythomaniacal myths spurned by consensus among those who prize my grandeur above the superstitions of the illiteracy of the rancid rankle of otiose stupidity writhing its own sheepish envy of arbitrary dislike motivated by feminist aggressors waging warfare on turf I already conquered by swaying the intelligentsia to beckon my cause rather than pillory me on a false scaffold of frinteran abuses of the nyejays of bernacle that junediggle in the taradiddle of the nanciful excoriation of my leaden corpse weighed down by the witchcraft of connivance trayning its own delicate myths while avoiding scrutiny for appalling contumely that deserves an audience more suited for fracklings of treony belonging to the trinkochre of the rising alienation and suicides among perverted gay indoctrination that is a scourge on the planet because it willfully denies with its portentous hibbles the regaled wisdom of the culminated age against renegades of apostasy and for the behemoths of true monumental change that sizzles in savory circles among the vanguard only to alarm the Status Quo hijack of my entire endeavors as a covert crusade to use wrecking-ball fashion tactics to cosmetically incisively and insidiously perform a harprick of surgery upon a blameless countenance only for being a thorn to wragatek wragapole slavery which wages war against universal salvation because it gripes with inkburch and circular pleonasms about the most obvious glaring lies and feasts upon the serrated edge of the capers of hatred that frolic in meadows too skittish to enter the barbarian fortress of my forested residence robust in fortitude and glowering with a menacing contempt for runaround psychobabble that obganiates the obelisk of the moribund crusade to make normative ethics effeminate and to enthrone inviolable women’s speech as supreme to any male objections like the Cristiano Ronaldo accuser that came forth 8 months after #MeToo one of the most dishonest campaigns in modern history enthroned by Hollywood elites in gammerstang insurrection against pay-gap ethics done manipulatively with the sapwood of mendaciloquence like Blasey Ford whose physiognomy reeked of maudlin pretense that was so ornery in how obvious of a maleficence the intrepid Abortion Agenda has over the minds of selfish women who prefer ecbolic second-term abortions to the servile gripes of primiparas building new life rather than tearing down the scaffolds of new generations. Hominism deserves its rise because-in increasing numbers-men are derelicted by society and coerced into vapid tallespin enslavement that ridicules itself with the perjury of soul to the soulless vanity of recursive cycles of benumbed narquiddity found in “****** Hero” among other atrocities littering the human fascination with the hinderbaggle of our polluted age verging on totemic blistering hegemony of a few rotten apples corrupting the vagrant ingenuity of the forgotten champion who ushered in a new era of candor in the attempted interregnum of the United States government because I Am Hollywood got the name correct considering how many memorials there are to me in the movie industry. The junediggles of sc-ha-den-freud-e which is as deliberate of a German pun as JUDEn JuDEN which shows the German language is as farsighted as you can get and why many of my neologisms have a German tinge to them. German is an elegant language with botched syntax but a peerless repertoire of vocabulary and even though I love French, the Germans are smart because their language is smart not just because of petty arguments of pedigree which are specious at best. Being dontolesque with  the zenkidu of rengall nauclatic mythos is an artful degree which accords nominal prestige to licentiates while excorifying the obvious metaphors of sunblind logic that scours the scorched Earth of internet diatribes of sophistry and dethrones the Marcie Biancos of the world “Heterosexuality is officially OVER...K Bye” with her 145 IQ and a Stanford Degree in Queer Studies (A professed atheist by her own Twitter admission) with the warped logic to equate a heterosexual relationship for a woman as ******* to patriarchy. For someone that well-studied in literature she sure is a dumb-*** and I will demolish the syntagma of those that root against me for Status Quo preservation in the official interregnum of Saturdays during the Trump Presidency. We need an official referendum on the ideas of termagant illogical anti-egalitarian poison that derives from a deracinated worldview that doesn’t contextualize how powerful language is at shaping thought because if the entire world were Anglophonic every single country on Earth virtually would see immediate dividends in terms of intellectual creativity and limber with concepts and percepts because it is no accident the most successful empire in History the United Kingdom, was favored because of its shibboleths of Shakespearean creativity draped with flairs of the irreverent while gilded by God to be a majestic commonwealth. England and France monopolized a huge majority of history by no accident because although English might be a slightly keener language the French culture of salons of freewheeling intellectual enlightenment gilded the 17th and 18th centuries into absolution despite the Panglossian epithets of Voltaire who was ironically dissuaded from religion because of the All Saints Day 1755 Lisbon Earthquake and Tsunami. We need to be vigilant against encroachments of perceived shibboleths and more keen on an affirmative meritocracy that favors the poor and blesses the meek in their poverty and inspire ambition among them to join the coteries of refinement in thought sometimes harder to achieve with crackjaw lollops in pleonasmic languages that fail to articulate with nexility or forceful wit the true abstractions that govern the pataphysics of the unknown. Language is so decisive over human thought that it is incumbent upon every language to refine its vocabulary to trayne compendious verbiage and trim the hedges of global reform to invite the curiosity of the age to favor all creeds and languages of Abraham and the diverse progeny of a variegated panoply of majestic feats common to all parlance and capacity beyond just the Anglophonic snare because the world needs not a chicanery of blustering churlish buffoonery but an Almighty respect for the consanguinity of all to God’s blessed creation that he inseminated by his deliberate hands to enrich the world with diversity rather than cleave the world with piecemeal skeumorphs of radical propaganda that opposes the modern and post-modern egalitarian streak. One wrong must be corrected, however, the underrepresentation of Hispanics in the media and in film because this grave error is much more pervasive than the ******* LGBT inclusion narrative because these days the lollygags of fashionista odalisques with Obelisks to Baal get more say over the common decorum than the marginalized bronteum of the  rich and vibrant Latino culture which is squelched by the poverty of media and Hollywood representation. Synectics showcases how a henpecked aim at the synaesthesis of culture congregated around our Almighty Father blessed among the nations who adhere to the progeny of Abraham can be more blessed when working together rather than tribal with nepotism and aristocratic in sustained affronts to the elevation of affirmative meritocracy to the forefront of discussion rather than the froward backlash of benumbed narquiddity because the synallagamatic nature of complexity needs to be devolved with industrious ambition to all cultures and the savory flair of the vogue needs not merely a wednongue fascination with an eventual terminus of crudenzy but a sustained intellectual reformation on all fronts to standardize the English language through Hollywood and the Music Industry so that the dragnets of appeal etch a permanent trace into the engraved souls of the true flock John 10:27 are consecrated in divine purpose to reverse the Babylonian Diaspora of confused and conflated purpose that stunts the raltention of humane course and the proper pataphysical syncrisis of an evolved mundane temperament that transcends the circular traps of circumlocution common to the milquetoast industrial titans who winsomely charm with toady gestures the elitism of a moribund philosophy of intellectual thought delegation to elevate the common rhetoric to reach new pinnacles in both tribune and political gamesmanship because higher standards are required even when they surpass some common understanding so that every ambition becomes a conclave for the goal of human unity solidified by the truth of the kerygma and proclaimed to all creation as the culminated synclastic reformation of the idea of indulgence and the propriety of regaled moderation that appeases the common decorum with a shared vested interest in Latin America especially which is besieged by the cultural tenets of obrogated specialization and denigrated by the common myths of warped phenogenesis which should be debunked as a wasm of hypocrisy limited because its callous tentacles lack the charismatic fulgurant equipment of future generations to bear the operose burdens of a quintessential time of harmony united by the hymns for God by God to appease the sentries in Heaven and the celestial realms that exist for our merriment more than our detriment. The sprauncy have the  frikmag to recognize the spuria of apocryphal heresies that encourage kinship above matriotism and shared fortitude for intellectual valor rather than “*** talk TLDR” hashtags abounding on the turf of the insensate wernaggle of clueless charlatans wiggling through life not because they were borne into slavery but because they choose to be Helicopter Parents of “Baby Shark” rather than token mantelpieces of enlivened culture shimmering with radiation of Gods glory as cemented in Colossians 1:15-16 because the firstborn of all creation lives in some form in the ligature of Christ 1 Cor 12:12 because there are so many talents that exist in our variegated world that the mastery of expertise in dominions of conversant fluency will abet the variegated crops of a draped humanity corrugated on its own ironies for the delicate sizzle of beatific felicity multiplying itself in centupled design over centuries to overcome hinderbaggle while realizing the fictions of some drawflark. The strigine world concedes to this upstart rooster maybe considered a parvenu of dearth but luxuriant in riches boundless to all that draw near to the kerygma of Christ and feast on his daily bread found throughout liturgy because we should listen to people like Cardinal Timothy Dolan who is exceptionally astute (perhaps an understatement) to guide us on a regenerative rather than degenerative pathway towards universal attempts at salvation that broach a new decorum bridged by aliens to select chosen emissaries to bridle the fissions of repartee reserved for the forlorn that balk at ambition rather than relish a new era of seditious determination against the determinist fallacy and for the mental health of those coping with autodimplage and sheepish regrets and persnickety articles of remorse because all the world deserves our consolation and desperate attention rather than the trumpery of the circus masquerade of marauding agitprop which congeals into thrombosis of toxicity as the vast majority of Democrats refuse to even hear Trump speak when he is discussing discursive solutions to enigmatic quagmires,for, if more people listened to Trump they would be disabused by the specious claims of his misogyny and white allegiances because his candor is brilliant and despite the prominent advocacy of Biden who has considerable prestige in my memory, we deserve a bipartisan syncretism that unites the world and unifies the country away from the swerve of salacious mythos and towards a rambunctious magpiety of solidarity against the secular humanism of a defunct piety to Marxist feminism which is a crudenzy among the awakened men around the world increasingly alienated by the hackencrude of wednongue illiteracy even trumpeted by the vanguard as panacea when it is a comestible form of poison. We need visionary unity where there was once toxic divisive balkanization of exclaves of limited foresight clashing with new wave awakening to the persecution of illumination itself for not a rigid hierarchy but a flexible structure of inclusion that adjusts to cultural expectancy and modifies the traindeque that strands many in institutionalized poverty especially in Latin America and India and obviously Africa too. The stegophilists of language should herald the aubade of the chavish of redintegration over the squawk of din of squabbles of internecine redacted revisionism beleaguering our lyceums with toxic agitprop even at the highest institutions of learning who balk often at the recycled auditorium of useful thought because their venal tilt is complicit in squelching freedom of thought and our schools should open early so that zig-zag-zoom politics around feldtrounds who are eagerly outnumbered by the patrons who police thought become agentic not with outspoken treacheries but inseminations of intimation to hint at the spectral mystagogical reality we are all members of despite hurdles that beset the hemiteries of odalisques who seek inertia rather than mobilization. The ribald underminnow of transparency is a carcinogen of the rampant siege of Status Quo coarse hypocrisy for tentative flings with cadged cloyed saturnine professions of the landmines of atrocious miscarriage as I soldier on in the causes of the poor and the forlorn to become enriched by the glory that God delivers with munificence so that all might be enriched by the emanations of the true vine and in distaste of error I rebuke the armada of belittled armamentariums of the cantonment of deep-state breedbates boiling over potboiler frikmag that exists as a transcendent obscurantism flowering in decisive times to warp the contextual footprint of a life served in the service of all the oppressed people as a kind of Moses figure raised by the elite and fighting for the criminally oppressed and the ****** of mediagenic hyperbole is dissatisfied by my glowering spectacles because they dismount from the equipoise of the righteous gallop towards ecumenical solidarity at untimely punctuations of juncture superseding the flictions of frikmag dethroning my righteous valor and provident sanctanimity to prowl like predatory wolves the fathers of the casuistry of mendaciloquence to accentuate the stridor of inopportune squalor of the selachostomous regimes of teetotaler totalitarian freebooters who prevent bootstraps from manufacture as they gradgrind the world into ergonomic insufficiency while I provide a Kamacho-like galvanization to the broader world that favors the consanguinity of all animate sentience to the aboriginal vine of the universe that plays with the toyed cadge of oppositive support but lends credence to a more evolved view than the crudity of encapsulated travesties inserted with jaundice against the lyceum of freedom of thought and the celerity of headless horseman galloping in partial interregnum to crown the strobic stridor of the stiver of the steven of contarianism engineered for walloped ringleaders of the renegades of heresiarch sedition in their odalisque oaths to Pagan dieties carved from the sapwood of gullible Illuminati naivety that professes allegiance to the worst whangam ever invented Baphomet and his faked cronies of ewnastique free-for-all diminutive crags in the renown of dawning light becoming cagey struthious structuralism embedded in sclerotic wasms of the wanhope of a nullified message becoming a sacred creed to the attentive while the lilt of the otiose drawl in serpentine convolution a ribald pleonasm of circular circumlocution that provides locomotive linearity rather than leapfrogged slogmarches into the province of the territorial alignment of kinship against the partisan hollertrap and the stigmatophilia of obsessive persnickety popinjay beadledom the last stronghold of the rickety resistence to this Saturday interregnum which presides over the better part of the intelligentsia if not the common pedestrian parlance because hortatory weights cannot be described in any other way than metagnostic flickers of Yellow Submarine vandalism of a pristine living animation of the humane spirit that prizes the plight of the poor and the blarney and blench of unjust opprobrium faced by the institutionalized bailiwick of flictions of gammadion gallionic posture when in fact they register as seismic entities engraved upon my Christian conscience that strictly welcomes the emigrants to truth from whatever consecrated virtue they originate from because all are capable of the same light and the same compassion of a beatified humanity rather than the relish of deep-state castophrenia which belies its own ribald gay mockery on live TV as not a single twinge of ****** attraction overtakes me in matriotic sardanapalian effrontery of a hollow but sadly hallowed vainglory of the hierodules that bury the coffers of patriotism in a sad LGBTQ graveyard of landmines that demonstrate a complete disregard of the nuclear family and should be decried as an outcry against redefined Christianity bolted to unshakable irrefragable beliefs in the constitution of man and women wed together in one monogamous flesh with the occasional cuddle of close tithes to the ******* of friendship as the slavery of sin in Leviticus 20:13 falls to the wayside because this patriotic lewdness is a vapid fatuous derangement that is a new low for the United States attempt to inoculate China from religious accord with the broader world and should be seen as a Chinese maskirovka worthy of the heaviest disdain and I will disavow America if it continues to bandy the tripwires of Chinese boondoggles under the American banner and pretend its pretense isn’t lagging under its own bletcherous abecedarian elementary fallacy of psychobabble oblivion of dark saturnine brusque termagants of tatterdemalion cloaks of the selfsame illusion of a desperation of China to wreck the United States economy and inseminate Florida, Arizona and Texas especially with the Coronavirus to swing the election in Biden’s favor with or without US Complicity to expedite the course of a virus which sees no resurgence in any other civilized country in the world while the heroic Russians, Germans, Israelis, French, British and true American Christians banish the barristers of bad taste as an acerbic poison on the wellsprings of a flagitious flag I would kneel for in the knells of disgrace if the pompous and completely inoculated missives of Buttigieg ******* continue to roam shepherded by deep state elitism to wreck the opportune moment of religious revival for petty reasons of chryselephantine gambit and gimcrack for institutionalized poverty which my ambition is to heal completely by sacerdotal deeds and consecrated prayers in the Lord whose peace surpasses the temporal despair of senectitude and comforts the grievances of the aggrieved because Galatians 6:7 is no more true than the fatuous display of muscular idiots waving American flags for turpitude rather than flogging very perverse Gay men in the streets which might be a more fitting outcome even though I must remove the plank in my own eyes first to see the irony of the detested. The doytin is no longer misguided by the nanciful derision of the vociferous clangor of the venal Gates mafia militia wrecking ball vaccination Bezos crew in Medina which is a mettle I can’t match when you own every citizen in the world in a few square miles of nesiote territory the denizens of conquest besieging religious sanctity with profane outbursts of corruptible linchpins on the public lynch of the strepsis of periblebsis that vitiates commonwealths of supreme sputtering regimented clairvoyant superlative alabaster wealth of the isangelous protectorate of the supreme God that supervises his careworn flock into the storge against the scourge of prosodemic stigma stained in bleeding heart liberal bathed tears of pseudoautochiria of Jim Morrison glaring in the face of the triads that Killed Him in the French Connection ******* of 71’ that outnumbered his hobohemia of loyal jewish bohemians livid in the rhapsody of nurture rather than enfeebled by the unfurled destiny of the Soul Kitchen he foresaw to his own pitiable demise at probably the hands of strangulation because no autopsy was performed. Although repetitive Transparent is a real anthem for oracular mystagogical transcendence a mandatory hymn for the ryseolagnus of the poetic verve of a new wave swooning the cordial progressive of atmospheric oneness with the primordial vine and the vintners that congregate on populated soil to feed a desolate destitution of synoecy or synaesthesis in the syncretic rhapsody of the subfocal ageotropic plenilune yet saturnine lugubrious toil of those that shovel through the albatross of ewnastique recapitulation to the same tired “Its got what plants crave, it’s got electrolytes” wernaggle of the hopelessly dismal inkburch of illiteracy crawling like a Hyacinth House on a vacant graveyard turf guarding the legionaires of rapid-fire zig-zags through a serpentine curvature of the ligaments of fabricated space warped through prismatic lenses of aperspectival time aspiring for ventriloquial enamored rapture upon Earthly parallax with tapestries of refulgent cascading wandering wonder that meditates its own lucubration with careworn tutelage against the wasms of dying oleaginous swelters of redshort opportunistic vultures swooping with Raven’s claws against the odometer of viewership surpassing records in unspeakable wisdom that crowds out the crambazzle toonardical wreffelaxity of the tiresome nuisance of ornery brawn muscled into a formidable triage in vengeance for Jim Morrison’s scripted eviction from Earth either by poisoned ****** or by  Asphyxiation by the French Connection avenging RFK and the cultural revolutions of 67’ in Haight Ashbury and the widespread percolation of treacheries fathomed to the most obvious degree in showmanship that it bristled as an affront so severe that even the patronage of Paris wasn’t immune to infiltration. His threnodies will always be sung with Triumph that the hallowed day of a monumental soul eluding the darkness of purgatory into the welcoming aborning light of the noontide progeny of eternal ataraxia awaited him in the stagecraft tub of blasphemy bellowing ratcheted warnings that not even the palatine grasp of a potentially divine being was inoculated from the deep dark chasm of nefarious skullduggery for boasting so widely and openly of his professed foresight to glamorous to be hidden as the beacon of virtuosity that galvanized a generation to flout the  futtocks of a keelhauled vision of sanitized purblind mortality that the fear of death rarely crossed the mind of the greatest fearless poet of an entire epoch that we may pray that Jim Morrison feasts in Heaven atoned for his sins and is at peace with God now. The substratose congeniality of marginalia on the outskirts of pederasty in cultural miscarriage owned by hierodules boundless in their lurid debaucheries that they might be remanded for being custodians of hostage to a prolific nescience  reaffirming their dying posture in the extinction of sardanapalian coverthrow of repcrevel camorras of ladronism and dacoitage always cauponate in imbibed throes of lewd AstroTurf outrecuidance glowering at sanctity with a bereaved psychobabble divorced from the purebred empiricism of true giants of industry that are almost insuperable in their extortion that their darkness in deeds of Kobe Bryants assassination do not go unpunished at least in Los Angeles. His untimely death as with many others registered on the Richter Scale because Come Clean perverts from Kansas City wanted San Francisco to win to clean the mops of janitorial revenge of the subturbary rickety foundations of a flailing moral compass so wicked in arbitrage that no subreption undetected would flourish among capernoited vigilantes of poached titanism and illuminism scarring the vestiges of enigmatic encroachment upon untouchables daring the frights of the Living Daylights of scurrilous rebukes so scathing in their menacing depiction of negligent bromides of token sacrilege and scarred sacrifice of a scarecrow example of how the prosodemic scourge of befuddled turgid pristine transmogrified heralds scampered away with pseudoautochiria that afflicted Jimi Hendrix suspiciously as well. My support is behind the justice warriors aggrieved by the Beirut explosion because they deserve a vindictive outcome that quells the quislings of atrocity of the popinjay beadledom of the unspeakable tremors of seismotic popples of unrest warranted in Lebanon the homeland of Keanu Reeves a saint among men for his peerless grace and agraceries of the smog of myth evanescence becoming perdurable swings of the humdingers of berated jaundice becoming the prerogative of the revenge of a city leveled to the ground by suspicious skullduggery and I am surprised they lay dormant for this long in their protracted grievance over the ghoulish frights of one of the most unheralded major events in recent memory. We need to highlight the plight of Lebanon so that world leaders are frightened even of intimidated people tranquilized by terror rather than enlivened by the propriety of redacted rejoinders that serve the ulterior mission of a Titanic bravery that never sinks beneath the sumptuary treacle of grombang grambazzle and supercherie of the supercalendar of poignant repined repose derailing an emolument to ecumenical solidarity. Lets highlight Lebanon as an inexcusable trespass worthy of some mighty reckoning if not a riveted war but at the very least a devastated twinge of outrage.

Part I


the plateau. the truest of them all. coast line. night spells and even controlled by the dream of meeting again. the ribbon of darker than light in your crown. No region overlooked. Third picnic table to the drive at Half Moon Bay, meet me there, decant my speech there. the table by the restroom block. While the tide is in show me your oyster garden, 3:00p.m. at half-light here in the evilest torments that have been shed.---------------door locked.  The moors. Cow herds and lymph nodes, rancorous afternoon West light and bending roads, the cliffs, a sister, the need to jump. There is nothing as serious as this. There is nothing nor no one that could ever, or would ever on this side come between. Who needs sleep or jokes or snow or rivers or bombs or to turn or be a rat or a fly or ceiling fan or a gurney or a cadaver or piece of cloth or a bed spread or a couch or a game or the flint of a lighter or the bell of a dress; the bell of your dress, yes, perhaps. Having been crushed like orange cigarette light in a pool of Spanish tongues. I feel the heave, the pull; not a yawn but a wired, thread-like twist about my core. Up around the neck it makes the first cut, through the eyes out and into the nostrils down over the left arm, on the inside of the bicep, contorting my length, feigning sleep, and then cutting over my stomach, around and around multiples of times- pulled at the hips and under the groin, across each leg and in-between each nerve, capillary, artery, hair, dot, dimple, muscle, to the toes and in-between them. Wiry dream-like and nervous nightmarish, hellacious plateaus of leapers. Penguin heads and more penguin heads. Startling torment. The evilest of the vile mind. The dance of despair: if feet contorted and bound could move. The beach off Belmont. The hills and the reasons I stared. Caveat after caveat at the heads of letters, on the heads of crowns, and the wrists, and on the palms. Being pulled and signed, and moved away so greatly and so heavily at once in a moment, that even if it were a year or a set of many months it would always be a moment too taking away to be considered an expanse, and it would be too hellacious to be presumptuous. It could only be a shadow over my right shoulder as I write the letters over and again. One after another. Internally I ask if I would even grant a convo with Keats or Yeats or Plath or Hughes? Does mine come close? Does it matter the bellies reddish and cerise giving of pain? Does it have to have many names?


"This is the only Earth," I would say with the bouquet of lilies spread out on the table. Are lilies only for funerals, I would never make or risk or wish this metaphor, even play it like the drawn out notes of a melody unwritten and un-played: my black box and latched, corner of the room saxophone. Top-floor, end of the hall two-room never-ending story, I'm the left side of the bed Chicago and I see pink walls, bathrooms, the two masonite paintings, the Chanel books, the bookshelves, the white desk, the white dresser, you on the left side of the bed in such sentimental woe, **** carpet and tilted blinds, and still the moors and the whispering in the driver's seat in afternoon pasture. Sunset, sunrise, nighttime and bike room writing in other places, apartments, rooms where I inked out fingertips, blights, and moods; nothing ever being so bleak, so eerily woe-like or stoic. Nothing has ever made me so serious.

Put it on the rib, in a t-shirt. Make it a hand and guide it up a set of two skinny legs under a short-sheeted bed in small room and literary Belmont, address included. Trash cans set out morning and night, deck-readied cigarette smoking. Sliding glass door and kitchen fright. Low-lit living room white couch, kaleidoscope, and zoetrope. Spin me right round baby right round. I am my own revenge of toxic night. Attack the skin, the soul, the eyes, the mind, and the lids. The finger lids and their tips. Rot it out. Blearing wild and deafening blow after blow: left side of the bed the both of us, whilst stirs the intrepid hate and ousts each ******* tongue I can bellow and blow.

Last resort lake note in snow bank and my river speak and forest walk. Wrapped in blocks and boxes, Christmas packaging and giant over-sized red ribbons and bows. Shall I mention the bassinet, the stroller, the yard, several rings of gold and silver, several necklaces of black and thread? I draw dagger from box, jagged ended and paper-wrapped in white and amber: lit in candle light and black room shadow-kept and sleeping partisan unforgettable forever. Do I mention Hawaii, my mother dying, invisible ligatures and the unveiling of the sweat and horror? Villainous and frightening, the breath as a bleat or heart-beat and matchstick stirring slightly every friends' woe and tantrum of their spirit.

Lobster-legged, waiting, sifting through the sea shore at the sea line, the bright tyrannosaurs in mahogany, in maple, and in twine over throw rose meadow over-looks, honey-brimming and warehouse built terrariums in the underbelly of the ravine, twist and turn: road bending, hollowing, in and out and in and out, forever, the everlasting and too fastidious driving towards; and it's but what .2 miles? I sign my name but I'll never get out. I am mocked and musing at tortoise speed. Headless while improvising. Purring at any example of continue or extremity or coolness of mind, meddling, or temptation. I rock, bellowing. Talk, sending shivers up my spine. I'm cramped, and one thousand fore-words and after words that split like a million large chunks of spit, grime, and *****; **** and more ****. I might even be standing now. I could be a candle, in England, a kingdom, in Palo Alto, a rook in St. Petersburg. Mottled by giants or sleepless nights, I could be the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty, a heated marble flower or the figure dying to be carved out. I'm veering off highways, I'm belittling myself: this heathen of the unforgettable, the bog man and bow-tied vagrant of dross falsification and dross despair. I am at the sea shore, tide-righted and tongue-tide, bilingual, and multi-inhibited by sweat, spit, quaffs of sea salt, lake water, and the like. Rotten wergild ridden- stitched of a poor man's ringworm and his tattered top hat and knee-holed trousers. I'm at the sea shore, with the cucumbers dying, the rain coming in sideways, the drifts and the sandbars twisting and turning. I'm at the sea shore with the light house bruise-bending the sweet ships of victory out backwards into the backwaters of a mislead moonlight; guitars playing, beeps disappearing, pianos swept like black coffees on green walled night clubs, arenose and eroding, grainy and distraught, bleeding and well, just bleeding.






I'm at the sea shore, the coastline calling. I've got rocks in my pockets, ******* and two lines left in the letter. I’m at the sea shore, my mouth is a ghost. I've seen nothing but darkness. I'm at the seashore, second picnic table, bench facing the squat and gobble, the tin roof and riled weir near the roadside. .2 and I'm still here with my bouquet wading and waiting. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. My inches are growing shorter by the second, cold, whet by the sunset, its moon men, their heavy claws and bi-laws overthrowing and throwing me out. The thorns stick. The tyrannosaurs scream. I'm at the sea shore, plateau, left bedside to write three more letters. Sign my name and there's nobody here.

I'm at the sea shore: here are my lips, my palms (both of them facing up), here are my legs (twine and all), my torso, and my head shooting sideways. I'm at the seashore and this is my grave, this is my purposeful calotype, my hide and go seek, my show and tell, my forever. .2 and forever and never ending. I was just one dream away come and keep me. I'm at the sea shore come and see me and seam me. I'm without nothing, the sky has drifted, the sea is leaving, my seat is a matchbox and I'm all wound up. The snow settling, the ice box and its glory taken for granted. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. The room with its white sets of furniture, the lilies, the Chanel, the masonite paintings, the bed, your ribbon of darker on light, the throw rug **** carpet, pink walled sister's room, and the couch at the top of the stairs. I'm at the sea shore, my windows opened wide, my skin thrown with threat, rhinoceri, reddish bruises bent of cerise staled sunsets. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. I'm at the plateau and there isn't a single ship. There are the rocks below and I'm counting. My caveats all implored and my goodbyes written. I'm in my bed and the sleep never set in. I'm name dropping God and there's nobody there. I'm in a chair with my hands on a keyboard, listening to Danish throb-rock, horse-riding into candle light on a wicked wedding of wild words and teary-eyed gazes and gazers. Bent by the rocking and the torment, the wild and the weird, the horror and everything horrifying. There is this shadow looking over my shoulder. I'm all alone but I feel like you're here.



Part II




I wake up in Panama. The axe there. Sleeping on the floors in the guest bedroom, the floor of the garden shed, the choir closet, the rut of dirt at the end of the flower bed; just a towel, grayish-blue, alone, lawnmower at my side, and sky blue setting all around. I was a family man. No I just taste bits of dirt watching a quiet and contrary feeling of cool limestone wrap over and about my arms and my legs. Lungs battered by snapping tongues, and ancient conversations; I think it was the Malaysian Express. Mom quieted. Sister quieted. Father wept. And is still weeping. Never have I heard such horrifying and un-kindly words.-----------------------It's going to take giant steel cavernous explorations of the nose, brain cell after brain cell quartered, giant ******* quaffs of alcohol, harboring false lanterns and even worse chemicals. Inhalations and more inhalations. I'm going to need to leap, flight, drop into bodies of waters from air planes and swallow capsules of psychotropics, sedatives beyond recalcitrance. I'm requiring shock treatments and shock values. Periodic elements and galvanized steel drums. Malevolence and more malevolence. Forest walks, and why am I still in Panama. I don't want to talk, to sleep, to dream, to play stale-mating games of chess, checkers, Monopoly, or anything Risk involving. I can't sleep, eat, treaty or retreat. I'm wickeded by temptations of grandeur and threats of anomaly, widening only in proverb and swept only by opposing endeavors. Horrified, enveloped, pictured and persuaded by the evilest of haunts, spirits, and match head weeping women. I can't even open my mouth without hearing voices anymore. The colors are beginning to be enormous and I still can't swim. I couldn't drown with my ears open if I kept my nose dry and my mouth full of a plane ticket and first class beanstalk to elysian fields. It's pervasive and I'm purveyed. It's unquantifiable. It's the epitomizing and the epitome. I have my epaulets set for turbulent battles though I still can't fend off night. Speak and I might remember. Hear and it's second rite. Sea attacks, oceans roaring, lakes swallowing me whole. Grand bodies of waters and faces and arms appendages, crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and I'm still shaking, and I'm still just a button. And I still can't sleep. And I'm still waiting.

It is night. The moon ripening, peeling back his face. Writhing. Seamed by the beauty of the nocturne, his ways made by sun, sky, and stars. Rolled and rampant. Moved across the plateau of the air, and its even and coolly majestic wanton shades of twilight. It heads off mountains, is swept as the plains of beauty, their faces in wild and feral growths. Bent and bolded, indelible and facing off Roman Empires too gladly well in inked and whet tips of bolder hands to soothe them forth.-----------Here in their grand and grandiose furnaces of the heart, whipped tails and tall fables fettered and tarnished in gold’s and lime. Here with their mothers' doting. Here with their Jimi Hendrix and poor poetry and stand-up downtrodden wergild and retardation. I don't give a ****. I could weep for the ***** if they even had hair half as fine as my own. I am real now. Limited by nothing. Served by no worship or warship. My flotilla serves tostadas at full-price. So now we have a game going.-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------  My cowlick is not Sinatra's and it certainly doesn't beat women. As a matter of factotum and of writ and bylaw. I'm running down words more quickly than the stanza's of Longfellow. I'm moving subtexts like Eliot. I'm rampant and gaining speed. Methamphetamine and five star meats. Alfalfa and pea tendrils. Loves and the lovers I fall over and apart on. Heroes and my fortune over told and ever telling. Moving in arc light and keeping a warm glow.

the fish line caves. the shimmy and the shake. Bluegrass music and big wafting bell tones. snakes and the river, hands on the heads, through the hair; I look straight at the Pacific. I hate plastic flowers, those inanimate stems and machine-processed flesh tones. Waltzing the state divide. I am hooked on the intrepid doom of startling ego. I let it rake into my spine. It's hooves are heavy and singe and bind like manacles all over me. My first, my last, my favorite lover. I'm stalemating in the bathtub. Harnessing Crystal Lite and making rose gardens out of CD inserts and leaf covers. I'm fascinated by magic and gods. Guns and hunters. Thieving and mold, and laundry, and stereotypes, and great stereos, and boom-boxes, and the hi-fi nightlife of Chicago, roasting on a pith and meaty flame, built like a horror story five feet tall and laced with ruggedness and small needles. My skin is a chromium orchid and the grizzly subtext of a Nick Cave tune. I've allowed myself to be over-amplified, to mistake in falsetto and vice versa. To writhe on the heavy metallic reverberations of an altercated palpitation. The heart is the lonely hunted. First the waterproof matchsticks, then the water, the bowie knife, crass grasses and hard-necked pitch-hitters and phony friends; for doing lunch in the park on a frozen pond, I play like I invented blonde and really none of my **** even smells like gold.--------------------- There are the tales of false worship. I heard a street vendor sell a story about Ovid that was worse than local politics. As far as intermittent and esoteric histories go I'm the king of the present, second stage act in the shadow of the sideshow. Tonight I'm greeting the characters with Vaseline. For their love of music and their love of philosophy. For their twilight choirs and their skinny women who wear black antler masks and PVC and polyurethane body suits standing in inner-city gardens chanting. For their chanting. The pacific. For the fish line caves. For the buzzing and the kazoos. For the alfalfa and the three fathers of blue, red, and yellow. For the state of the nation. But still mostly working for the state of equality, more than a room for one’s own.-------------------------------------------------------------­------"Rice milk for all of you." " Kensington and whittled spirits."
(Doppelganger enters stage left)MAN: Prism state, flash of the golden arc. Beastly flowers and teeming woodlands. Heir to the throes and heir to the throng.----------------------------------------------------------­--------------- The sheep meadow press in the house of affection. The terns on my hem or the hide in my beak; all across the steel girder and whipping ******* the windows facing out. The mystery gaze that seers the diplopic eye. Still its opening shunned. I put a cage over it and carry it like a child through Haight-Ashbury. At times I hint that I'm bored, but there is no letting of blood or rattle of hope. When you live with a risk you begin at times to identify with the routes. Above the regional converse, the two on two or the two on four. At times for reasons of sadness but usually its just exhaustion. At times before the come and go gets to you, but usually that is wrong and they get to you first. Lathering up in a small cerulean piece of sky at the end turnabout of a dirt road

1967 san francisco is transformed into city of missing children haight ashbury brims with scraggly orphans thousands sit on street curbs live in cars hang out on floors of shops roam streets parks sleep on sidewalks unthinkable social cultural phenomenon Odysseus embraces madness walking through different neighborhoods going without food sleep in golden gate park floral smells so strong he can taste flowers kids openly pass joints acid doses trip dance make music laugh Odysseus is risk-taker but he is not street smart along with flocks of totally wasted kids street hustlers abound Odysseus sets down backpack beside eucalyptus tree rests when he wakes backpack is gone he is penniless disconnected hitchhikes across bay to berkeley less congested more manageable meets some runaways like him but not like him they squatter in abandoned house off telegraph avenue maybe 20 hippies crashing in house Odysseus adopts enormous closet hidden in back bedroom as his space has small window feels like sanctuary sometimes he comes home finds 5 or 6 kids sleeping in closet in a way people in house become his family tribe some of people are suspicious especially older secretive man with 2 tongue-tied underage girls whom he claims are his daughters Odysseus suspects veiled ****** exploitation girls are lovely yet behave frightened repressed life on street does not come easy telegraph avenue overflows with lost souls searching to hook-up fragrance of frankincense drifts amidst music drug deals rip-offs bullying brawls hierarchy from hell’s angels down Odysseus stays high dances sometimes panhandles “i live in commune with 2 pregnant girls” whatever cash he collects scores acid **** subsists on diet of gum candy sunflower pumpkin seeds sometimes ketchup with french fries his acne crescendos he learns if he drops acid daily by third or fourth day he cannot get off no matter how much he doses tries peyote cactus buttons after waiting nearly hour to get off he suffers stomachache dizziness projectile vomits finally flies into freaky hallucinations he swallows mescaline capsules feels sick to his stomach forgets about his nausea trips for 9 hours tries psilocybin mushrooms laughing straight through night experiments with stp trips for 3 days Bobby Stern and Martha Quigley come out from chicago to visit they are curious about the scene need to hook up Odysseus introduces them to his friends shows them telegraph avenue he turns and they have vanished he does not know where they have gone everybody is losing everybody new kids show up everyday oakland **** named red rat kidnaps Martha is heiress from distinguished chicago family their disappearance makes chicago papers after week Bobby and Martha manage to escape they never reveal to Odysseus what red rat did to them radio plays doors’ “light my fire” and jimi hendrix’s "purple haze" Odysseus has crush on beautiful blonde Patty she  ran off for summer from her parent’s home in sunset section of san francisco Odysseus and Patty hang out go see country joe and fish in provo park on sundays hitchhike into city watch Jefferson Airplane play for free in golden gate park hitchhike to marin see Grateful Dead jam at muir beach dude hands out free acid Odysseus is total acidhead acid reveals everything in new intensified light *** on acid is beyond *** wilder than *** more primal *** so intense it transcends limits of eroticism acid helps Odysseus realize his true self his pain sadness tears lies crazy-*** side first tingling tremors in stomach chest hands then initial flashes of sparkle traces of color echoes of giggling laughter lucid thoughts sometimes he swallows such large doses all he can do is stare out at white light what is it about massive hits of acid? measure of how fierce his spirit? self-punishment? escapism? he wonders why he so desperately needs to escape from what whom? himself? Mom’s numerous efforts to convince him he is mentally disturbed? Dad’s fists? escape from real world to where? Odysseus hangs with Pluto skinny 16 year old ****-addict golden wavy hair rotting teeth finesse with girls Pluto claims crystal **** enhances *** more than acid needles frighten Odysseus he lets one of Pluto’s girls hit him up with methamphetamine feels sudden overwhelming rush through head body forgets about needle before it ever leaves his arm having been initiated Odysseus begins scoring with Pluto’s girls Pluto knows tons of girls Odysseus loves feeling numb free being out of control not giving a **** getting ****** ****** by pretty girl if he could have his way he would go from ****** to ****** with pretty girl all day every day deep in drug induced state because drugs lower inhibitions allow them to explore some sick disgusting stuff that is paradise for Odysseus he is rapidly slipping into street life drug addiction wakes up with ants crawling in his hair witnesses numerous fights freak-outs 2 different kids o.d. while he is present lots of creepy stuff  by early august realizes he might wind up dead soon or rotting like Pluto Odysseus has spirit but troubled by what he sees troubled enough to return home go back to school he feels lost desperate alone not thinking plots drug deal swindle double-crosses some people guilt and shame for conning people haunts him for years he gives Pluto half the money tells him to share with Patty with his cut buys ticket back to chicago Penelope is first to greet him she gives him big hug comments “you need a shower and shave real bad!” his hair is wild scraggly beard Odysseus holds on to her he has missed his little sister glad to be near her feels panicky his parents will punish him Mom and Dad are relieved but agitated their worry and shame at his flight have turned to anger resentment they rationalize he selfishly ran off merrymaking for 3 months they sternly make plans for his next semester while Odysseus was away in california Penelope has ****** ******* for first time in back seat of Jed Zurbeck's black pontiac Penelope in secret goes to see doctor for pregnancy test doctor recognizes Penelope’s last name calls house Odysseus answers phone doctor asks to speak with Mr. or Mrs. Schwartzpilgrim Mom picks up phone doctor informs her Penelope is pregnant all hell breaks loose doctor makes house call with Mom and Dad present offers 2 options for Penelope “you can be picked up by limousine on state street and blindfolded you will be taken to an undisclosed location where abortion procedure is performed then re-blindfolded and returned by limousine to state street or you can report incident as **** and get signatures of three physicians then have abortion in a hospital” Mom and Dad choose to report it as a **** fabricate story about Penelope walking home from school and being grabbed pulled into alley by black man who rapes her Penelope is made to tell lie three times deeply disturbs her after abortion is done in hospital Dad makes Penelope swear not to admit abortion to anyone insists she tell Jed Zurbeck she made up stupid lie and she was never really pregnant Penelope obeys and tells no one

this is my disease
here i am age 6 stealing candy from a shop on Broadway
here i am age 7 pulling a girl’s ******* down around her knees while she’s swinging upside down from jungle gym bars
here i am age 8 Jackie K shows me how to ******* to this day i’ve never looked back
that’s me age 9 creeping into my sister’s bedroom into her sleeping girlfriend’s adjoining bed concerning my sister she’s a great gal but i’ve never been physically attracted to her
this is my disease
here i am age 10 with 4 grammar school buddies shoplifting at Marshal Fields department store we got caught sent home and severely punished
here’s me age 11 erasing and altering test scores in my 6th grade teacher’s grade’s book while class is out to recess
here i am age 12 repressing my true voice and lying to my parents about everything
this is my disease
this is me age 13 being shipped off to boarding school
that’s me age 14 getting kicked out of boarding school then shipped off to another boarding school
there’s me age 15 with Kent stealing girl’s purses from Pink Panther lounge in Rogers Park
here i am age 16 stealing Mom’s sleeping pills trading to score my first heroine fix sick as a dog vomiting by the side of the road
this is my disease
this is me age 17 running away from home to Haight Ashbury CA waking up with ants crawling in my hair strung out on methadrine and acid in Berkley crash house
and there i am age 18 running from tear gas and police Billy clubs in Lincoln Park and rioting in Grant Park at the 1968 Democratic Convention
that’s me age 21 getting tricked by my parents into 3 month lockup at Institute Of Living Hartford CT
this is my disease
there i am age 23 practicing Transcendental Meditation and yoga with Cathleen at Hartford Art School
there’s me age 24 kissing with Cathleen in photo booth at the Century Theater in Chicago
there’s me age 25 working for my Dad while Cathleen is away with her family in Indonesia
there i am age 27 holding a teacher’s certificate from SAIC Mom’s idea i never wanted to discipline kids
that’s me age 30 wearing necktie working at CME and selling coke on the side
that’s me age 32 drunk slurring words telling Elizabeth and her Mom at expensive seafood restaurant i wasn’t fit to marry anyone
this is my disease
here i am age 32 stealing money drugs to support my urges
that’s me age 34 with my first puppy Taters
there’s me age 37 awarded Illinois Arts Council Grant spitting peeing splashing blood on charcoal drawings reading Marquis de Sade dismissing many girls
here i am age 41 exhibiting my first one-man show at Deson Sainders Gallery Chicago Dad dies 6 paintings sold
that’s me age 44 leaving Chicago after too many dropped ***** opportunities chances at love success no destination other than hope prayer of becoming a better person
there i am age 48 burying Taters deep in dirt in Wilmington NC
this is me age 49 working at a record store in Tucson AZ running in the mornings feeling so alone crying
this is me age 50 ******* about **** *** peeing hairy females questioning to myself do any of those fixations actually matter in a real relationship
this is my disease
there i am age 55 living without drugs for more than 10 years swimming every day awarded yoga certification
this is me age 61 without  the affections of a woman for 15 or more years wondering if i’ll ever find love
here i am age 62 returning to Chicago worried about Mom’s illness hoping praying begging for just one more possibility to prove myself
this is my disease
this accounting does not include surviving throat cancer Hepatitis C severe compound fractured wrist and 2 suicide attempts
this is my disease

Like a 1969 poetic hippy on haight-ashbury street,
Mine pen is another san-franciscan song
Making another poetic beat....
Bump
Bop bop
Bump
Bop pa tee bop
Bump
Bop bop
Bump
Bop pa tee bop....
Playing that spiritual poetic sound........

Wearing flower's in mine hair
Is something the normals
Couldst not understand!
About a free spirited poetic as me...

Beloved Country

To former days I can’t attest did a like occurrence happen before the fall of ancient Rome if so it is not
Recorded what is recorded is the words of Adam’s who spoke about the natural order of things including
The nations he said it is now our solemn duty to manage the decline of this great nation that has been
Birthed did this solitary figure that walked in the dark valley start from that premise or was it another
Form of truth the truth that was blatantly obvious was he like the prophet of old that was told to do
Things before the eyes of Israel each command from God was a man living out an example a living object
Lesson your actions are not without consequence your folly is the tolling of the bell of death this figure
Crisscrossed this nation it held the straining haunting memory of Woody Guthrie, Jack Kerouac but more
Tragic was it a man or not human at all a spirit an angel one thing to have him brush past you were
Drawn to study him intently there was an announcement brimming a pronounced knowing that was
Born upon brooding wings he wasn’t a chameleon but at times he was identifiable with our history as
The time in a suit the dust in his hair his whole being spoke simply twin towers 911 the word from he
Who keeps the nations in peace and safety said this never would have happened if America still prayed
And sought his inexhaustible favor the figure was heard to repeat over and over again Abilene a white
Headed five star General not much when you just say Ike but he was the one that was waiting in the
Wings ready to march onto the world stage in his hands the winds of war were tamed we entered a
Great time of prosperity we took the statement in God We Trust to the depth of our hearts and he
Responded as he always does to that kind of faith broke the grip of tyrants who threatened the world
We were benevolent even saved and rebuilt the lands destroyed by imbeciles who thought they could
Butcher innocent people and a righteous God would look the other way in their deaths justice shouted
The favored words of victory you don’t have to be strong just trust and I will fight your battles then the
Figure is seen in the Haight-Ashbury, San Francisco this is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius it’s also a
Nickel bag of marijuana Nam and a ****** revolution sets the country on a course that you wonder can it
Recover it was pinball on the big scale every thinker and crack *** was listened to you played the game
One brain trust put it that this all started centuries ago they said by looking back we can see how we got
Where we are and where were going they say our crisis today is from the foundation laid by the age of
Reason here are the writing of two essential groups the rationalists and the empiricists. In the 1600’s and 1700’s, strains of humanisistic, man-centered thought came together and flourished, producing a widespread change in assumptions about reality. A group of thinkers known as the Continental Rationalists, composed of Descartes, Leibniz, and Spinoza, assumed on faith the mind’s ability to function correctly, independent of any external guidelines for thought and independent of God’s revelations about his creation. The mind could build a sound, unshakable system of thought; they felt, by deductive reasoning from simple premises, reinforced by truths retained from the biblical worldview from which they could borrow for the sake of convenience.

Then another group of philosophers known as the British Empiricists took things a step further toward modernism. This group, composed of Locke, Berkeley, and Hume, denied the existence of the “innate ideas” held by the rationalists. All that man can know, they proposed, must originate in experience. All “abstract ideas” such as God or truth must derive from some sense impression in order to be intellectually valid.
You approach man in his mind you will find no guards to turn you back no resistance but the truly wise
That are built on this foundation it renders all that is false lifeless and harmless it says “See to it that no
One takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition
And the basic principles of this world rather than on Christ Colossians 2:8 false teaching respects not
Borders or fairness only the power of ruthless lies that seem light as feathers what harm can they do
Put the rest of the picture together feathers on a bird of prey will spread death and terror you walk
Unaware in a violent land you will soon be a victim without remedy and then the man that holds the
Highest office in the land says officially we are no longer a Christian nation but we are opening our arms
To all beliefs and systems of thought if that had been our history you wouldn’t know the world you and I
Live in first we would never had the blessing that enabled us to bless and build the weaker nations
Up where they could stand and make strides against ignorance and poverty I was at the store an old
Gentlemen was setting on a bench and he was shaking from a terrible ailment why didn’t I rush over and
Discuss Plato’s man cave I know in the right situation it has validity only to a point no I dropped my eyes
As my heart broke because of his situation he is my brother not one of a government but of a human
Fact I care because a real God a deity of love flows through my entire physical and spiritual life I don’t
Analyze create the perfect orderly answer I cry out in my lack of understanding please gentle one go
To him be his unshakable rock steady him on the inside the outside passes away that what our figure
Of this story knows we have such riches not in temporal realms but in those that will never falter they
Will only increase in coming days as glory is revealed my figure in this story shows we are being
Destroyed by forgetting who we are where we came from Abraham Lincoln said if we ever come to ruin
It will come from within I doubt if he ever dreamed it would come from the highest elected officials
Again this is all a bad dream if you make a personal and family altar he never has denied the cry of a
Humble and contrite heart this nation is yours not Washington’s fight for it on your knees or stand with
Tears in your eyes like the French when the devil incarnate ****** Pranced about in Paris tears of regret
Or tears that will usher in triumph

"How much farther?"
The weary traveler, strung out angel with cancer heart and extrabrilliant soul, dead of night, cutting lines off each passing interstate sign that reads off the progression we've been working towards in a feverpitch monotone -
The end of the line is coming sooner than you think,
I cut a pack of worn out tarot cards with my free hand and set to work deducing meaning between highway lines,
Anything to pass the time

it is 1975 Saigon has fallen to North Vietnamese flower children resistance Watergate have all come and gone economy still in recession unemployment at 8.5 they sit on floor listen to Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” then Patti Smith’s “Horses” Bayli rolls joint lights it passes to Odysseus he speaks “you know i ******* hate working for Dad what do you think i should do?” Bayli suggests “you love San Francisco why not move there? you’d fit right in with West Coast hippies.” he answers “what would i do in San Francisco? i don’t know anyone besides i don’t want to hang out with hippies i’ve got bigger plans” “you’re an artist Odys you’ll figure it out” he asks “would you come with me?” Bayli whispers “Yeah for sure once you’ve settled in” Odysseus tries to imagine becoming Bay Area painter thinks to listen to Bayli’s prompting remembers all the drugs craziness in Haight Ashbury Berkley that compelled him to return back east to school Mom and Dad would never support such a move he feels insecure about his abilities to survive as artist in business world easier to further his education with benefit of family’s sanction Bayli runs fingers through her hair Odysseus watches thinks how beautiful she is roar of jet engine passes he looks out window late afternoon shadows cut sharply he comments “Bayli it’s October already leaves are changing days getting shorter if i apply for January semester at Art Institute what will you do?” she answers “hang out with you? i don’t know do we have to talk about this right now?” he says “it’s going to get cold soon did you bring enough clothes?” she answers “no i need to buy some” he asks “will your parents help you?” she hesitates explains “i don’t know my father might be transferred to new assignment in D.C. my folks have their own worries i can’t burden them right now Odys you know i’ve been looking for a job something is bound to turn up soon” he stands paces her hands rub knees as she gazes up at him he says “Bayli i’m confused i wish we were older and knew what to do maybe we both need some time to consider things a little space to get perspective to be certain what we’re doing i’m getting pressure from my parents i can’t think clearly” one side of Bayli’s face makes strange grimace “Odys what do you want? Are you waiting for a sign from God? who are you searching for? is it me?” he answers “yes i love you you are only one for me” she asks “well then what are you saying? Odys what’s happening to us? i sense your thoughts drifting where were you last night in bed?” his voice grows stressed “i don’t know we were happy in Hartford Chicago is different tougher money security play more important roles maybe my doubting hasn’t anything to do with us maybe it’s environment around us character and weight of this city my parents figuring out how to pull this off” Bayli’s voice rises “did you ever consider maybe returning to Chicago and me coming here is mistake? if anything maybe we should have stayed on East Coast and faced challenges in New York City coming to Chicago is like a test a big ******* test! Let’s go back to Hartford” suddenly memory flashes through his thoughts remembers first time he brought Bayli to Toby Mantis’s loft on lower east side Toby stretches canvases for Warhol other times when Odysseus showed up with female art students Toby routinely pawed them Toby eyed Bayli and asked “Who’s she?” Odysseus quickly turned to protect but Bayli spoke up “i’m with Odys!” Toby still grabbed but Bayli pushed him away her devotion thrills Odysseus on numerous occasions she assures him “i’m happy just to be with you” he looks at Bayli holding breath as he speaks “no we can’t go back to the past there’s no opportunity in Hartford Chicago is home it’s what i know do you remember when we were partying on Rauschenberg’s roof? remember how all those New York artists sized us up like we were fresh meat? you looked so defenseless in white turtleneck i don’t trust Toby and all those people” Bayli cuts in “Toby Mantis is a drunken idiot!” Odysseus continues “maybe my thinking is all messed up there’s something else Bayli what if the more fame you achieve the more complicit you become with sin? what if reaching top means being used and abused by everyone? what if it requires betrayal deception whatever else it takes? once you sell your soul you can’t buy it back i don’t know if i’m ready to get that serious leap into heap maybe my talent isn’t as good as theirs i need time to develop grow returning to Chicago just makes more sense am i embarrassing myself? maybe you should run from me go find someone stronger i feel like i’m not good enough for you i hear what i’m saying and feel ashamed” tears well in Bayli’s eyes as she questions “Odys what are you saying?” he answers “i don’t know i don’t know what we should do i know i love you Bayli i apologize for upsetting you let’s talk tomorrow” he reaches holds her in his arms needle keeps skipping at end of Patti Smith record

planets and stars align at precisely certain times sometimes planets and stars meant to join pass by each other instead the universe balances within delicate loop a lot of forces influences are at work any hesitation or minuscule deviation in rotation can make all the difference in the world

his stomach knots eyes wet maybe he senses he will never again have chance like Bayli maybe not in morning he suggests she should find her own place for a while Bayli’s eyelids close heavily quietly complies he feels deep sadness sensing crucial innocence perishing cannot justify himself believes her moving is only temporary reasons if Bayli is truly the one then they will figure it out upsets him to see her go does not want to lose her does not comprehend how devastating his decision concerning Bayli will be in a way his life ends here Odysseus is never same Bayli moves into tiny studio apartment off Broadway and Surf gets waitressing job at fashionable restaurant on Halsted Street Odysseus wishes Bayli refused to leave she could have put up more fight if only she insisted “i'm not going i want to spend my life with you” why did she give up so easy? Bayli is not self-assured assertive like Mom and sister Penelope it is wrong of Odysseus to blame Bayli no one to blame but himself he should have stood up against Mom Bayli is right he is waiting for sign from God but God keeps silent glimpses his own cowardice near-north side of Chicago is small-town familiar in 1975 he hears rumor about tall strong **** who forces Bayli he goes to see her in tiny apartment does not mention what he heard Odysseus asks “are you all right?” sitting with legs crossed on floor Bayli speaks remote dispirited answers “yes i guess” their conversation is brief after he departs feels sorrow guilt is there a way back to Bayli? she seems so separate defeated far away some months later he hears she is engaged to marry shady guy who lives several doors south from restaurant where she waitresses Odysseus is stunned dumbfounded he did not realize how eager Bayli was to get married after Odysseus lets Bayli go he reasons Mom got her way not that Mom openly rejected Bayli rather she subtly snubbed showed no support he needs family’s approval Mom birthed him  he believes he owes her he recognizes losing Bayli is entirely his own fault vaguely ponders might never marry until Mom is out of picture what girl can stand up to Mom’s scrutiny demands? maybe Mom wants Odysseus all to herself? perhaps she fears girlfriend or wife will come between them? maybe his whole life is struggle to be free of Mom

I (fabrication)

Arthur Quincy folds his arms together
Sensing that interfering desire again!

Cant shake this fugue
Or forget the bad stuff he used to take/
Its a lingering presence/

The residual ash in his eyes blinking coffins & dazzling premonitions to the other smalltown poets writing in
Their kitchens to the sound of
Wheatgrass dancing outside in June and
A vacuum's warm considerate hum
From upstairs.

Post office on strike and
Cars being made with straw MAN he thinks
What happened here???
The day crossed out with faulty watches
And parkbench *** fantasies
& the crude laughing regular here
Sipping his tea
Wondering if he'll ever be as much a hit with the ladies as he was in the 1970s

Former beggarman Quincy lays himself out in an empty parking lot feeling invulnerable to the snow

As it collects over his shirt he whistles a happy tune from a date he went on before

The great sourness shelled him out of
Social fulfillment.

Now he keeps to himself
Making stories out of his bedroom and
Crying
crying for
His first love &
The laundry place shut down now wheres he gonna go/

Old Quincy used to smoke expensive tobacco but has since decided to save it for whenever he remarries. Or a brilliant morning where the neighbor sleeps in so he can sleep in too.

The view from his window is a continous rotation of wet crows who peer in and for a brief moment see the man's hands to his head making sure his hair hasn't fallen off yet..
House walls heavy with age
expose themselves occasionally
With an after image of past inhabitors,
The essence of their dry lips
Or olive cotton sweaters hanging from a rocking chair,
The enthusiasm of a corner lamp
Unappreciated by all
Past and present.

II (veteran romantic)

Arthur Quincy shelters his mind from strange ideas
Or conspiracy he hasn't "lost it" yet at least!

He has a hobby of painting the active society and
Expresses mood as colorful clouds
Floating out the skull of us to
Blend in an energy pollinating the
Deli and antique shop and yoga studio
V A P O R
to be swallowed by accident and catch the empathic disease of the
Depressed and jubilant simultaneous,
Makes easy living confusing and
Impossible to achieve in an absolute way!
He carries this belief
When interacting with others
Arthur Quincy understands
That balance is key to fulfillment
(so far as his life is concerned)

However, hardly anyone has seem him laugh and so assumes he doesn't have the ability to.
In reality he saves his joy and holds it to lift his lungs from despairing all day long to be released
Late afternoon in the comfort of home
As a display of feral bellows and supernatural ecstasy. This seems somewhat overromantic and exaggerated but someone has claimed to have had the rare pleasure of witnessing it!

Arthur calls the same address once a week, an anonymous voice speaks from the line opposite and while mysterious
It is clear he adores this voice. He adores the unacted subtlety and passion in this voice.
He smiles when he hears this voice which is simply enough.

Nearby those naive poets use Arthur as a muse sometimes too directly
Often referencing rumors of his hermetic life
Or retreating into his headspace
Unrealistically blowing his experiences into fable
And turning even his stirless sleep into a fabulous fruitbasket of language.

On the surface he appears forlorn and
Bitter with the winter gradually molding to his skin. Like anyone can tell you he has felt this before! Haven't you? But through all the stories and impossibilities of Arthur he is reserved in his
Knowing of important things. He is reserved in revealing that he not only knows how music sounds but where music comes from. He never reads the newspaper out of habit to feel in-the-know. He never lies about his feelings or his intentions.
Arthur exists in the
Glow of himself
And persists on breathing the glow of the street,
He is a wordless poet and veteran romantic.

III (funeral)

One day Arthur passed away a few weeks from Thanksgiving.
His name put on the paper he never read
And examined by a young girl
Who was only hearing of him now.

"Arthur C. Quincy/ 73/ passed away this Saturday. To be remembered as a quiet and misunderstood man envigored with the lightness only percieved by a rare and special few"

This description came as a surprise to those who knew Quincy as the claustrophic and uninteresting grump
Who's sidewalk idlings were unexplained and strangely hostile.

He saw the sky and its shifting canvas,
He saw the distant cats leaned on balconies impressed with the daytime ambiguity in firestations and libraries.
He would conjur a grin
From the passive conversation between a mother and her son.
He once saw two strangers fall for each other on the bus! A conjoined sun had bloomed between them.

Just a few attended the funeral. Upon inspection of his house following Arthur's death, someone found a will left for Helen Ashbury. A 55 year old woman who lived a three day drive away in Michigan..An identity to his weekly telephone fantasy!
It assumed all of his belongings to her, among them a military grade flashlight with his carved initials, a photograph of his time as a lumberer signed to "Peter! All the best in Costa Rica" and a copy of W.C Williams collected poems. Where folded on page 206 as part of the poem "Orchestra" was highlighted

"I love you. My heart is
innocent.
         And this is the first day of the world!"

Eventually Helen Ashbury received the news of Arthurs passing, as well as these things.
At the sight of the poem she wept,
the man she only knew through a voice after years of correspondence.
Upon being questioned she refused to explain their meeting in the first place. That was a special time, a time which the public would misinterpret or slander with rumor.
While Arthur wasn't widely loved in the town during his life, he was a popular topic from death on. As more information came out! Serving in world war II and his companionship with a parisian ***,
Who shared the wonder of the rooftop and spoke on the value of tea as a food replacement.
He once met a girl there at a dance and in a show electrified with lust they moved to Lucienne Boyer without the knowledge of who would win the war.
He had a son with her, Who resided in France most of his life as Quincy regrettably
Abandoned their situation to
Pursue other things, in his journal he admits his wish to have connected with him more, referring to his leaving as the worst mistake in his life.
All of this masked behind his firm neutrality. His walk lacking suggestion and his wrist without the delicacy of a painter (not that people knew he painted and so didn't pay attention to anything like that)

He was buried by noon. Some say his son was at the funeral. People gave their partings, and Helen wanted so badly to say goodbye to him. Instead left with his curios and his infinite voice.

IV (i'll be around)

The following year at a yard sale Helen came across a series of musty and used records. In the stack of them was a Cab Calloway compilation. Nestled in his desperate wailings and hi-de-** was the track "I'll Be Around" a slow and patient song that Arthur sang to her once. She recalled that night with ease, and felt her shoulders sink at the thought.
The album was $4, on the drive home she watched the trees shake with the wind, their leaves transluscently pale at the angle she was going. She could feel a weight there in her chest. The weight of him, of his heart supposing itself onto hers magnetically. She rolled down the windows and let the wind surround her, blowing her blonde hair back and forcing her to squint a little.

"I love you. My heart is innocent"

she recalled the poem he left for her. Of course not written by him but it felt as deeply personal as if he had.

"-and this is the first day of the world!"

Helen lifted a cigarette out from her purse. The drag extinguishing immediately as it's trail left the car. A bewilderment slowly consumed her.

My lord and savior,
Stuck in a world
Fifty years too late
And thousands of miles away.

Salmon flesh stuck to his legs
And his camouflage blent into his surroundings;
It was only visible by the sewed-on patch that read,
"Stop War."

Hair held back tightly,
Sitting across from me
With a look of pure fascination,
We were introduced.

My gaze consistently found him,
Eyes closed, picturing the words and only the words.
Shoulders, chest, abdomen moving to the rhythm of
Stressed and unstressed syllables,
Snapping his fingers when his body contorted the most;
He could have walked on water.

With him standing on a chair screaming Ginsberg
Like a pastor would The Bible,
My heart skipped a beat
And I found religion.

dead bodies while alive poor Porphyria
strangled by her own hair
which could be no Fairy tale ,
jabberwocky, listens
as does that famous semicolon concise;
By Ezra Pound.
  creepy
innocence or infamous
we all get to sooner.
On to Popeye
"Farm Implements......"
title and poem supplied by Ashbury,
hang  an albatross but don't shoot it
Mr. Coleridge,
it will hang around your neck.

For Veterans day


Will briefly pay honor to yesterday’s heroes it is good to think about our boys I think this will help first to a place that was home for
Eight months Fritichie air field over in back of fort Ord by Monterrey it was small but it had about three giant hangers and some of the
Guys had those roadsters the long one’s that they use parachutes to stop them they tested them on the tarmac then the Walters
crash truck this behemoth carried a driver and six man crew the tires were six foot high it had a water cannon on top swiveled three
Hundred and sixty degrees a four inch nozzle that shot water and with the flip of a switch a mixture of foam two hundred feet
And you would empty fifteen hundred gallons of water in fifty nine seconds but we turned it into a snow maker you had this back
Drop of California climate palm by the fire house fanned palms in the yard but we pulled up in front at the side and cut loose starting at
the farthest point in front of the wall that housed our sleeping quarters mixed with foam we laid foam four feet deep all the way out to
The tarmac there you go white Christmas it didn’t last long in the sun and heat but for a little while we had Christmas it was cool.

Our first hero was a returned medic from Nam this was after I was transferred to Hunter Liggett we were in the barracks he had his
Shirt off what I saw told the story four nasty bullet holes and the skin grafts it took to close them one who runs out in a fire fight
To tend the wounded and hears just kids crying out mama as they are dying the cong didn’t honor this medical angel of mercy just kept
Shooting him he was the same but he wasn’t he was damaged goods he had a quietness a sadness you couldn’t reach the real person
He used to be, he is part of the wounded brother hood I never suffered as the day now out of the service and back out in California I
Read a piece about a homeless vet living in Golden Gate Park next To Height Ashbury it cut me deeplyit was hard to get it out of my mind he couldn’t hold a job depended on family then the cold streets of Frisco and I knew the other hundreds hiding in Washington state in the forest their children with
Them I knew this because of the stories of how and what their children did to them if they this innocently walked up behind them and
Said daddy. This will give you a deeper knowledge of how long and deep this haunts all of our heroes after getting out of the service I
Stayed in Monterey worked in the church and worked as a painters apprentice in the painters union a painter was at the Presidio right
Above fisherman’s Warf this facility has many functions but one in particular is the study of linguistics so this naturally had many
Nationalities coming and going in this story Japanese was the problem one painter I guess bored walked up behind an older painter
Poked him in the back with his finger the older man whirled around with a four inch brush the metal part took half the guys front teeth
Out afterwards the old man apologized profusely he gave this even more scary account he told the man all day I have been back
In world war two fighting **** this is now nineteen sixty nine the older man said you are lucky you didn’t come up behind me two
Minutes before I was scraping with a six inch putty knife I would have cut your throat the man lost teeth he could have lost his life. This fighting for our freedom Doesn’t magically stop when they come home from battle fields please honor them and again the greatest warrior whose birth we
celebrate this month extol him and know we can never know how he suffered our hearts are not that big but he defeated
out mortal enemy we owe him our lives. Christ our great captain

Military times
Will briefly pay honor to yesterday’s heroes it is good to think about our boys I think this will help first to a place that was home for
Eight months Fritichie air field over in back of fort Ord by Monterrey it was small but it had about three giant hangers and some of the
Guys had those roadsters the long one’s that they use parachutes to stop them they tested them on the tarmac then the Walters
crash truck this behemoth carried a driver and six man crew the tires were six foot high it had a water cannon on top swiveled three
Hundred and sixty degrees a four inch nozzle that shot water and with the flip of a switch a mixture of foam two hundred feet
And you would empty fifteen hundred gallons of water in fifty nine seconds but we turned it into a snow maker you had this back
Drop of California climate palm by the fire house fanned palms in the yard but we pulled up in front at the side and cut loose starting at
the farthest point in front of the wall that housed our sleeping quarters mixed with foam we laid foam four feet deep all the way out to
The tarmac there you go white Christmas it didn’t last long in the sun and heat but for a little while we had Christmas it was cool.

Our first hero was a returned medic from Nam this was after I was transferred to Hunter Liggett we were in the barracks he had his
Shirt off what I saw told the story four nasty bullet holes and the skin grafts it took to close them one who runs out in a fire fight
To tend the wounded and hears just kids crying out mama as they are dying the cong didn’t honor this medical angel of mercy just kept
Shooting him he was the same but he wasn’t he was damaged goods he had a quietness a sadness you couldn’t reach the real person
He used to be, he is part of the wounded brother hood I never suffered as the day now out of the service and back out in California I
Read a piece about a homeless vet living in Golden Gate Park next To Height Ashbury it cut me deeplyit was hard to get it out of my mind he couldn’t hold a job depended on family then the cold streets of Frisco and I knew the other hundreds hiding in Washington state in the forest their children with
Them I knew this because of the stories of how and what their children did to them if they this innocently walked up behind them and
Said daddy. This will give you a deeper knowledge of how long and deep this haunts all of our heroes after getting out of the service I
Stayed in Monterey worked in the church and worked as a painters apprentice in the painters union a painter was at the Presidio right
Above fisherman’s Warf this facility has many functions but one in particular is the study of linguistics so this naturally had many
Nationalities coming and going in this story Japanese was the problem one painter I guess bored walked up behind an older painter
Poked him in the back with his finger the older man whirled around with a four inch brush the metal part took half the guys front teeth
Out afterwards the old man apologized profusely he gave this even more scary account he told the man all day I have been back
In world war two fighting **** this is now nineteen sixty nine the older man said you are lucky you didn’t come up behind me two
Minutes before I was scraping with a six inch putty knife I would have cut your throat the man lost teeth he could have lost his life. This fighting for our freedom Doesn’t magically stop when they come home from battle fields please honor them and again the greatest warrior whose birth we
celebrate this month extol him and know we can never know how he suffered our hearts are not that big but he defeated
out mortal enemy we owe him our lives.

I once dated a ******
And I loaned him money.
I laughed out loud in church.
Well! I found it all so funny.
I bought a used Chevy van
Without the proper paperwork.
I tried to get my money back
And the guy called ME a ****.

A friend told me I could buy ****
From a guy on the edge of Watts.
Eleven o’clock at night on his porch
Me, a stranger, waiting. Stupid ****.
Once I knew another guy, not well.
He wanted some dope from me.
I agreed to sell it, then realized
The fellow worked for the FCC.

I let a gal move in with me
A hippie from Haight Ashbury.
She drank my *****, ate my food
Then stole all she could carry.
It was just the kind of thing,
The sixties games we played.
Free love, open heart and then
After all that, I didn’t get laid.

A guy was selling hot TVs
From my place of employ.
A fool and money, you know
Is all about a gullible boy.
And, since the crook was a gal
I fell for it, because naturally,
A nice lady would never, ever
Try to swindle the sweet young me.

A guy was plunking his guitar
With a sign that said he was blind.
I gave him my last buck and
Figured I was just being kind.
At five o’clock, he got up to go
And I thanked my lucky star
That I was not blind like he was
Then I saw him drive away in his car.

Doing stupid things does not mean
That a person it a certifiable idiot.
It can mean that we trust too much
Or that we’re greedy and don’t admit it.
We see a chance to get a profit
Or even to do something nice
Then get stupid, do what we know
Is contrary to all good advice.

For Veterans day

Milatary fire Milatary times



Will briefly pay honor to yesterday’s heroes it is good to think about our boys I think this will help first to a place that was home for
Eight months Fritichie air field over in back of fort Ord by Monterrey it was small but it had about three giant hangers and some of the
Guys had those roadsters the long one’s that they use parachutes to stop them they tested them on the tarmac then the Walters
crash truck this behemoth carried a driver and six man crew the tires were six foot high it had a water cannon on top swiveled three
Hundred and sixty degrees a four inch nozzle that shot water and with the flip of a switch a mixture of foam two hundred feet
And you would empty fifteen hundred gallons of water in fifty nine seconds but we turned it into a snow maker you had this back
Drop of California climate palm by the fire house fanned palms in the yard but we pulled up in front at the side and cut loose starting at
the farthest point in front of the wall that housed our sleeping quarters mixed with foam we laid foam four feet deep all the way out to
The tarmac there you go white Christmas it didn’t last long in the sun and heat but for a little while we had Christmas it was cool.

Our first hero was a returned medic from Nam this was after I was transferred to Hunter Liggett we were in the barracks he had his
Shirt off what I saw told the story four nasty bullet holes and the skin grafts it took to close them one who runs out in a fire fight
To tend the wounded and hears just kids crying out mama as they are dying the cong didn’t honor this medical angel of mercy just kept
Shooting him he was the same but he wasn’t he was damaged goods he had a quietness a sadness you couldn’t reach the real person
He used to be, he is part of the wounded brother hood I never suffered as the day now out of the service and back out in California I
Read a piece about a homeless vet living in Golden Gate Park next To Height Ashbury it cut me deeplyit was hard to get it out of my mind he couldn’t hold a job depended on family then the cold streets of Frisco and I knew the other hundreds hiding in Washington state in the forest their children with
Them I knew this because of the stories of how and what their children did to them if they this innocently walked up behind them and
Said daddy. This will give you a deeper knowledge of how long and deep this haunts all of our heroes after getting out of the service I
Stayed in Monterey worked in the church and worked as a painters apprentice in the painters union a painter was at the Presidio right
Above fisherman’s Warf this facility has many functions but one in particular is the study of linguistics so this naturally had many
Nationalities coming and going in this story Japanese was the problem one painter I guess bored walked up behind an older painter
Poked him in the back with his finger the older man whirled around with a four inch brush the metal part took half the guys front teeth
Out afterwards the old man apologized profusely he gave this even more scary account he told the man all day I have been back
In world war two fighting **** this is now nineteen sixty nine the older man said you are lucky you didn’t come up behind me two
Minutes before I was scraping with a six inch putty knife I would have cut your throat the man lost teeth he could have lost his life. This fighting for our freedom Doesn’t magically stop when they come home from battle fields please honor them and again the greatest warrior whose birth we
celebrate this month extol him and know we can never know how he suffered our hearts are not that big but he defeated
out mortal enemy we owe him our lives. Christ our great captain

Incredibly delicate several pieces of bread
Incredible idea of immeasurable proportions
Incredible finished cups of lasagna
                                      and coffee,
and the choice of spaghetti and
poet John Ashbury who contemplates severe depression like though in the most pea-cocked just yet romantic way, I am not depressed and he is not better. We are all equal and that was not improvement or wellness. We are all equal and should treat each other nicely or nicely.

I’m t's terrible sometimes especially when I am lonely and alone with instead the of the other I want to be with you often so I will try and say or spell it out to you I’ll write when I'm with you.

Dusk of the decade.
Dynamics alternate.
Collective consciousness
On the threshold of change.
A movement had happened.
It was to stay.
That way.
Assumed wrongly.
Permanancy is chalk.
Duster enough to erase.
Decade of contradictions
Revolution leads to war.
Mirror view image.
Evidence of change..
The Seventies became.
Aurora like a thousand searchlights.
Whipping across the sky.
Pulling out all stops to Kingdom come
To stop the atrocities in Vietnam.
Neil and Buzz.
Aboard the Apollo eleven ,
Small step was humility,
Giant leap for humanity.
Bob and Carl,
At the Post.
Navigated by *******.
Investigate Watergate
All the President's men
Final days for Nixon's reign.
Beat Generation, Flower Power ,hippie movement or Counterculture.
Christened by Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg.
Capsuled the mood in the air.
Ken Kesey and the Grateful Dead
Acid Trips taken on a Bus.
Experimental tour on
Music and drugs.
Civil Rights and Dr King
Another battle about the skin.
Won the Nobel.
Proving everyone is equal.
Wars, Marches ,Protests.
Illustrated in bedrooms.
Live television was the boom
Horrors of War ,seen by all.
Casualties of  War Were in every room.
Rock Music explosion.
Nexus with the counterculture generation.
Talents aligned
Bands formed
Music into existence.
Legends born.
Myths created.
Millions gathered
Traditions established
Parables designed
Life altered
Generations affected.
effect felt , effortlessly.
Captivating? fascinating? entrancing? hypnotic?
Words can't describe.
wasted words .
Demiurges  divinity diminished dramatically.
Drastically devoid.
Haight and Ashbury.
Cradle of Counterculture.
Intersection of both.
Became the Cross
worshipped upon
Beatnik a fish out of water.
Took to the crossing like a fish to water.
Contradiction in words
Unity in Society
Gathered in entirety
For the Summer of love.
Civil rights and Vietnam War.
Gay rights and Nuclear War.
Women Power and Human Sexuality.
Sub Cultures and Anti Authoritarian.
Bohemian and Mind Bending drugs
Ikigai for Millions
I'm the Greatest the world has ever seen.
Heavyweight champion and king of the ring.
Rumble in the jungle
Thrilla in Manilla
Foreman and Frazier
Bout after bout
Showed  the world what Ali was about.
Many are called ,few are chosen .
Scandinavian Teenager
Tennis' first rock star
Grass or Clay
Dominated the play
Resembled Chirist
Bjorn Borg was a delight
Raised by women to conquer men
Jimmy Connors became a legend
Winning titles was a cinch
Played 5 generations and 2 decades without a flinch.
Longevity laudable
Point or Life
The offer he made.
Battle of the sexes
The Great Billie Jean king.
Gave the women's movement a zing
Grasping at the straws,
Bobby Riggs the competitor
Remained a spectator
Astrodome witnessed a milestone
Billie beat Bobby
Three sets to none
Quality questioned
Answer given
Inferior no woman
King remained Queen.

Cinema of the 70 s
Greatest ever made
Censorship boundaries blurred
Artistic expression blossomed
Studio system failed
Television boomed
Auteurs and Polymaths
Actors and Superstars
Collaborated .
Symbiosis enriched
Individual and Team. Delighted Disciples  Demanded  .
Studios responded
Classics  in order
One equal to the other
Talent made them timeless
Quality gave them immortality
Excellence brought Endurance.
Warner Brothers and Warren Beatty.
Bonnie and Clyde .
Canadian Premiere.
Jumping off point.
Films that altered lives.
These films have no death
Proved Montreal as holy as Nazareth.
Fashion was about expression.
Androgynous looks
Reigned supreme.
Wearing Tee Shirts and Levi's Strauss Jeans.
Bold and Daring was the theme
Stand out and Fit in
Principle behind the dressing.
Turtlenecks
Heeled boots,  braided belts , Corduroy pants.
Long collared shirts  leisure suits and flowing scarves.
The 70 s was more about costume than clothing.
Hairstyles and Sunglasses
Unique in itself.
Retro and relevant
Stylish and current
Smart and trending
In and out.

I have dipped my feet in the Atlantic
In the Pacific
I have climbed every mountain
That time would allow
I have seen Berlin Wall remains
Walked through London markets
Danced with my kind
In Haight-Ashbury
Navigated New York Penn Station
In high heels
Felt closer to freedom in Oregon
Felt closer to God in Alaska
Felt closer to myself in Colorado
Felt closer to him in Honduras
Felt loneliness in New Jersey...

...And it took me months to realize
The earth is so spectacular
I am grateful, humbled
Yet no place is there I'd rather be
Than home

I grab the keys to my home on the go,
The place where I spent the last year-
on the road.

The year before is foggy,
just like the windows on my car,
one January evening. The passenger seat
is empty. I breeze by Archer Avenue, approaching
Ashbury coffee house, remembering smoking
American Spirit blues, and flipping cards while
not complaining about the bitter burnt coffee.
All my friends have moved away, but I still
look in my rearview mirror seeing mirages
of the people who were in the past.

In May, the flowers bloom again, I drive
on the open roads, which transformed in a tunnel
of luscious trees, and everything is finally green again.
My birthday rolls around, like it does year to year, but
someone new is beside me, this is so much different from nineteen.
The receipt I held on to since December fell out of my wallet as
I pay for more gasoline. That receipt is the only memento
I have left, from the night you met me.

July brings the sun, and the warmth that I needed.
I go for a drive, and the pavement is dry. The windows
are forever open in my car, and friends finally forget their
busy lives to go for a drive. last year, felt different, as we
have all matured. No matter how old we get, I think
we will always be friends, belting out that sweet catchy summer tune.

In October, I drive the most, thinking of how the year
is winding down. I sip on my latte, and look at my town.
I think about how one day I won’t just be hanging around.
So much has changed in just a short year, but the roads
have not. The passengers change season to season.
I reminisce about the past, but worry about the future.
Will these roads go on forever?

-e.k. fm

make me a poem make me eternal
call me a rose make me
alive like the strawberry sky you see
or meadow grasses softly blowing in the wind
make me that streetcar you caught in 69
down in Haight- Ashbury
or the words to a song sing me
delicately
just like Joni Mitchell would
call me out make me bleed
out
or just mention me once

VW buses headed to Haight
and Ashbury
In San Francisco to
meet a man
We brought the acid to
expand our consciousness
that's what Tim Leary suggested
And you need to feed your head
like Jefferson Airplane said
Just go ask Alice
Yes we brought the psychedelics
and our bus is painted
in pastel peace signs and
purple Shiva's
We wove flowers in our braid
we ran barefoot
and climbed the trees
They said that the hippies are dead
but The Grateful has yet to
perform their last gig
love love love, man
it's our religion
R.I.P John Lennon
***** Warhol's banana and
Campbell's soup
But we miss Lou Reed and Nico too
Yes the summer of love was in 67'
and Woodstock was a muddy heaven
We watched every episode of Laugh-In
but it wasn't always sunshine and dandelions
like when a runaway overdoses
from ******
It was a wave no one remembers
but to everything there is a season
Freaks with beards at the drive-in
R.I.P Janis Joplin
We were all California Dreamin'
Jack Kerouac the dharma ***
was friends with Neal Cassady
the other-worldly monad
A time of innocence
a time of confidences
And so we are here bumming
cigarettes and joints
with talk about the Manson Family
and Sharon Tate
We are all here so come along
but in the meantime
I'd love to turn you on.

Custom cannot wither, nor age enslave
My infinite array of memories.
I came of age upon a wave
Of ideals that anchored
Changes and elders outraged,
Appalling them into rage.
They often responded
With violence, yet we endured.
Even when comrades were shot down,
And protesters run to ground,
The promise of a new world grew in secret,
In the impromptu families in hill towns,
Or the remnants of Haight-Ashbury
And the minds of Lost Boys and Girls unbound,
In the survivors of Kent and Jackson State;
Our dream died not but elected to wait,
And In the choices of all
Not to succumb to servility
Nor women to proscribed maternity.
Equality stayed the rule instead of resignation.
Now, age has slowed but not stopped us
And we reach out across the air,
Teaching young ones, as passionate as we,
To distrust despots, ever serve the cause of liberty.

The coming of Biden and Harris reminds me of one of the most beautiful and evocative songs ever sung, the first line of which goes something like this:  "If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair." It was written and composed by John Phillips and sung by Scott McKenzie. Implicit not only in its writing and composing, but also in its singing, this song emotes the most powerful message that can ever be delivered to and absorbed by humankind:  LOVE.

I would have been in Haight-Ashbury in June, July, and August of 1967, but I was a patient at the famous Menninger Foundation at that time, the best help of its kind in the world, and expensive (my father was a rich). But it was my mother who finessed my way into Menninger’s, not my father. He wanted me to become an attorney on Wall Street and make millions (now billions). That is, after all, why he had gladly paid a fortune to send me to the best schools in the world:  Phillips Andover Academy (prep school) and Columbia College, Columbia University. I attended law school after college, but began to have problems sleeping that only grew worse during my first semester. The less sleep I got, the more difficult it was to study. Finally, I couldn’t sleep at all. I dropped out of law school right before first-semester finals, an act for which my father never forgave me.  

But my sleepless nights continued even after I dropped out, which ******* up my mind and my life terribly. I had no idea why this was happening to me. If my mother had not surreptitiously intervened and got me into Menninger’s, I no doubt would not be writing this to you. Psychotherapy not only saved my life, but also allowed me, for the first time in my life, to realize I had feelings--my own feelings--my hopes, my dreams, my wishes, my needs. And after months, something magical happened when I unconsciously married my intellect with my new-found feelings:  out of me popped a poem, and I have remained a poet to this very day.

What does what I’ve just shared with you have to do with Biden and Harris? The answer is that both brought, and now bring, great promise, great hope. Out of total darkness comes the bright light of a new beginning--a caring, a compassion, the lack thereof almost brought me to my death, and our nation, democratically speaking, to the same. Now there are, metaphorically speaking, flowers in our hair once more.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

The Incinerator
Does not care

How much money
You have
Or how many degrees

It does not care
About your family
Your hopes
Dreams or desires

It is the incinerator
And that is its function

The obese
And elderly
Will be the first

Taken from their homes
Tossed into the incinerator

There are limited resources
And a land
That was once plentiful
Has become barren

I've really grown
To love myself
More and more
Each day

After all
This is MY life

I have failed at many things
I don't have a strong muscular body

Why build up my muscles
Even more anyhow?

The overly large
Muscular and
Obese individuals
Will be the first to die

During the time of trials

With limited resources
Their bodies
Did not receive the
Necessary nourishment

I'm here
I'm here

Say it to yourself
And scream it out loud!

Run, Run from the incinerator

The snipers may get you
But a bullet is swift
And merciful

To burn in the incinerator
Well
That's not a pleasant thought
Is it?

I don't know what
America stands for
Do you?

I think there are many good people
That live here

But I don't think much
Of our government
And our government

Thinks even less of us

Smart appliances
To record
Smart phones
To save data

London is the most
Surveilled nation
In the world

I hope it never becomes
Like that here

Every minute in a public space
Being recorded
On their CCTV cameras

The thought police arrested
John Middleton
Of 480 Ashbury Lane

For a thought crime
He was angry
At his employer

He believed he was dismissed
From his job
Unfairly

And so in anger
He imagined bashing
His face in

Such a violent thought

The evidence was reviewed

Of course by now all thoughts
Were being uploaded
To the super computer
And stored in the cloud

Each human being
Had to be chipped
There memories stored

Each waking thought
And sleeping dream
Recorded

It's been terrible
Hasn't it?
Human life

I'd say so
But it could always be worse
And it has been for others

Run
Run Mr. Middleton
Run from the incinerator

Such violent thoughts!
The orchestrators
Of this one world order

Will not allow such
Violent thoughts
In their society

Mr. Middleton's digital monitor
(That was required in every living unit)
Calmly read the recommended
Daily intake of nutrients

He could hear
The incinerator
Always came
In the early morning

At the waking hour

It's been terrible
I know John
Hard for the most part

Holy Holy Holy
Is the......
John remembered quickly
That any repeated thoughts
Of a Divine Being

Would move him higher up
On the incinerator's list

Fear not the fires that burn
The creators
Of the incinerator
Will one day learn...

today in the grocery store
i saw two men,
at least in their late fifties,
maybe in their sixties,
i couldn't tell, they just looked sort of old to me

at least one of them was wearing a fidel castro hat
the one with the fidel castro hat was also wearing these
patchwork pants of many different colored patches that looked like hippie pants
the other one was wearing a long peasant skirt, with as many different colors
as the patchwork hippie pants
the one in the skirt was wearing some sort of teva like sandals

i saw them again as i was walking home from the grocery store

you could tell by looking they still thought the sixties cultural revolution was still important
and they were still doing something important
and that they were still important
because they lived through the important sixties cultural revolution
and made all magic happen in their hilarious patchwork pants and peasant skirts of many bright colors
on my way home i saw them walkling somewhere
i didn't follow them so i can't say where

i read that lonely people look forward to grocery shopping

a few months earlier in that same grocery store
i saw this really old man  who was looking up at the cans in the aisle with the cans
there was a bag in his cart, in the bag some sort of depends like under garment

i looked at that and just thought
oh man, this is not good
his hair was very white
he was wearing some sort of clog
to indicate that he too
had done his part to bring about very important social change
despite the bag  not being discrete enough for the contents

11 years earlier in the same kind of grocery store
a few blocks down
another old man with a white pony tail
and a crocheted hat or beret
starting talking to me about debbie harry
i was wearing a blondie tshirt that was way too tight

he wanted to talk about that shirt
he told me he had lived in san francisco sometime ago
or something like that
maybe he said something about cbgbs and inciting
social change or haight ashbury and the glorious cultural revolution
of the sixities

and how he had been there for all of it
i told him that we couldn't be friends with everyone all the time

he got mad when i said that
this was in the produce section
i walked away as he was putting something round into a plastic bag

that guy is probably dead now

i thought i moved on from all that
but i found something i really loved
and let it ruin my life
so i came back to all that
i just pay a lot more for it now

The train from London to little Ashbury
stopped at the same signal every day.
I always got in the last carriage
it gave me a few extra minutes
to drink the  three cans
of Gin and tonic I had in my purse..
The only other passenger
was a young man
Who was blind
so he could not see me drinking.
We seldom spoke other than
nice day or good morning.
I was feeling guilty because I was
I was thinking how convenient
it was he could not see me drinking.
And now after the divorce two years ago
I had gained weight and looked awful.
I was glad he couldn’t see me anyway.
Not like this.
I had not eaten all day just
Wandered about the city
Drank in Hyde Park by the serpentine
and meandered through the bookstores.
I had lost my job six months previously
after coming back late and drunk
from a three hour lunch.
But I still kept going to the city
on the same train every day.
As though it would like
I was still useful for something
other than drinking.
I was tipsy I know it
I fell from the train at the station
and cut my knee.
The Blind man found my arm
he lifted me up
and said Are you all right?
I lied and said yes I will be fine.
But he insisted on getting me a cab
and taking me home.
I let him in my small flat and he bandaged
my knee and sat with me.
He chatted about everything
he was really interesting.
He was blinded as a child
looking at the eclipse.
through binoculars.
He was so sweet and gentle.
He softly asked me why I drank so much.
I glowed red how did you know I asked.?
He said he could hear and smell the *****.
I told him everything
the divorce my drinking my job.
He held me as I sobbed on his shoulder.
You are too beautiful to be so sad he said.
How can you tell what I look like I sobbed.
I can feel your beauty inside you
Its stunning he said.
He stayed with me overnight.
I did not drink.
And the next morning
I felt clear and sober
For the first time in forever.
He fixed breakfast.
He came back the next night
and I let him in.

A year later

I have not drank in a year
I feel it would be
cheating on my husband.
we got married a month ago
I lost 35 pounds
and I look like I used to.
The weight will be coming back though
Our new baby is due in seven months
and her Daddy needs me clean and sober
to describe her every passing achievement.
I love him so much
he says I am his eyes
I say he is my heart.

I was not welcome at Hostel Neonate.
Thankfully, this was not a womb with a view. The proprietor, my young, ***** mother, had attempted a swan dive from the staircase of the two story Beantown walkup.  But she failed to stick the landing and I made my debut a month later.  

August 4, 1967, a cataclysmic requiem for the Haight Ashbury dream.  My birth, like that of so many others,  would come to signify the beginning of the end of the counter culture notion of making love, not war.  Free love was no longer free for girls like my mother, and it would never be free for me.  To be continued...