Firstly, I'm not a body-shamer.
To each their own
(a good phrase, though grammatically incorrect),
But sometimes I find it hard to understand
The tatoos, the piercings, the colors and placements.
The usual answer, if I dare ask:
     I'mhxpressthinmythelf.
Good for you.
Does the diaper pin through your cheek
Tell us you're a Dad or something.
     Na.
The quarter inch bolt and nut through your ear?
Are you a machinist or a plumber, or something?
     Na.
The doll-house plates in your lips?
Are you a Duck Dynasty fan?
A member of the Audubon Society or something?
     No. I'mapontingxprschmyselpth!
Sorry, what was that?
     I'mapontingxprschmyselpth.
I'm sorry. I don't quite get what you're saying.
I don't mean to be rude,
But could you express those plates for a minute... I... I get it.

A story teller passed on,
leaving us a Marvelous universe,
to play in,
as children of the future we were manifested in,
practicing again and again

Pride's crushing blow, we always regret as we fall.
Action, reaction. Sure as hell
Proof that we are Adamkind.

Proud we are that we may do as we say.
May is the key. That allowance we have,
We may do all we can to change the rest of today.

Yesterday is done.
What kind of mind can imagine keeping no record of wounds?
Is this not the world where war is worth-shiped?
Folly would mind the gods this world exalts,
Winning by snipping the silver thread,
Forswearing the fragile two-chord bond  and
Mocking the third chord needed for the song
That keeps cadence as we help each the other
In richer and poorer, in sickness and health,
Uphill and down, carrying children to a better life.

Whence comes the pride of victory?
From destruction of the foe? No? You had planned
A minor war where love may live restricted, safe
Behind your victory that destroyed your whole?

Is that what I imagined?

Proud wounds fester while love can, if it may,
Wash the putrid flesh away, quick as leprosy or
Cankers on one's soul.

First rule of oath making,
Learn what vows are in the reality of mortality,
Then vow or vow not at all.

Gret again what might have been
Before pride's crushing blow broke the golden bowl.
Seek ointment in Gilead, mollifying balm.
Come ye to the waters, drink and go
Comfort the children whose detour you imposed.
---------------
God this is personal. Me and you. What good can I do now?

Destination, not destiny.
Those who make it, make it.
Believe it, or not, earth is not my home.

I am in this world's onion-skin thick biosphere;
But I am not of this world.
Subtle difference, in and of itself.

Do agree to
Come and see.

Think on these things,
not as powers, rather, as virtues.

Subtle difference,
in and of itself is not evil,

but often it is so intended,
It seems.

Otherness whispered, not heard.
Good other, bad other,

Regular ol' other, ***** passin' fancy kind.
Done my time, I'm arhymin' ramblin'
Man, be so **** real, cain't cha feel what

I am saying
To you, too.
This is weird in the original Druidic sense.
Is there more?

This itself may, in its active
( there must be a clearer word than active.
Act carries so much un scientific phoniness with it.
I seek "act, the event".
I shall find or invent, by God.
The Greeks, doubtless, had a word for what I mean.
For now keep in mind actions are simultaneous with the act,
yet never the same.
Subtle distinction,
it prevents junctions un-intended. Good.)

In my thinking,
I reread verses and chapters and books
rere-ward from my position.
Are you with me in that?
Pro gress re: gress, a gress,
I guess, is a subtle sort of
Activity.
I laugh at people thinkin' God is their re-reward 'cause
That makes no nevermind to nobody. Nobody.
Strivin' 'bout words, this ******

Other brother o'm'own

Say that slow ooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmm ownnnnnnnnnnn
Creative symmetry immeasurable to men,
in my kindom, as it were, all are kings.

Such measurements ensure the sea is full,
to the brim and not beyond, for now.

I imagine you reading this and agreeing,
already aware of agreements,
Virtues and such.
Covenants and compacts,
en-corporations
encouraged
with need
of enough hope to warrant the risk into the unknowns,
the bad lands, gypsum beds on the south side.

Such can hold so much more than
many whole categories of words striven about.
Such a shame.
Such a shame.
Nothing lasts forever after now began back when.

Qiqi died in 2002, counting from when the Iron legged,
first got this particular organic-pro-biotic

clay, from the oldest,
highest part of the dust of the earth, ground and
kicked up by cadence pounding feet,
ground into the hob-nailed
soles,
to be hobgoblins in my play. My point. I hope

You see the trail, it's narrow,
but it's there, soft sand,
no stickers,

ant trails in the desert through the rocks
and 'round the Yucca,
blue moon light, white quartz sand
flecked with mica that shimmers sure as gold
imagined in that Midas mind each child was
given in the reign of the golden headed

imagined visualize-ical worth-ness or-shipped.

How do we say what men imagine worship is?
Do they imagine a tax? Attacks if thy refuse?

fuse?
confuse me. excuse you, how do you do…

That's fine. We reset. Hard resets are easy now.

The way itself, once found, seems
Right, feels right,
has no smell of warped wolf-woof beneath the wool.
I trust I know what I know
and no more, yet.

We are questing answers aplenty
and must plan, please,
To trust the ones we find following these particular
Breadcrumbs, to be true restward
leading stars or clouds,
[Breadcrumbs, as mentioned here, mark this text ancient,
a cientcy from an ear, ear, hear, early… an odd ly-ity,
ain't it?
ear, with an ly that Mr. Stephen King warned us all to avoid,

avoid, anull, enough alike to see the idea, like -ly as a
signif-if-i-cant meaningful parison point in your

rising to stand, balanced.
early to bed and early to rise, makes a man
healthy, wealthy, and wise

otherwise, trouble yer own house and take the wind.
And don't come prodigalin' to me sayin'
I never gave ye nothin'.

Wind in yer sail, so to speak, if-i-migh, guv.
Right. Both treasure and truph, proof, we learned way back
Be where ye find 'em, right as rain.

This could be repair and me unaware, you know?
Like, I wander in to this originally weird book
and find myself changing the whole world I live in.
Like I am the movie.

My POV is the movie I made.
Some things go unsaid here.
They be said in the future and not proper here.

An aside,
Is fun a proper purpose for doing any thing?

Of course, that's the purpose of everything evil is not.
Joy, in a word, good stuff.

Oh moments are not always plosive one way or the other.
Some times, just, oh.
Wait.

Medi tate in pieces is puzzling
as a sphinx riddle of olden days,
Prometheus and Bek both answered different questions,

But it means the same thing,
mything the point is easy.

Life is a journey on a way I may call my own
to a place of true rest,
I trust.
That is my answer. Play mystical again, Sam,
cram true and rest together in the dark,
trust me, it all works,
true rest.
Wait.

This boy got his act together down in Tennessee
after he got old, old by God, he
walked that way,

long, long while fo' he fly away,
leave dem chain shames behind.

That boy was sangin' loud songs,
'long his lonesome way,
not lonesome at all,
then into the swamp he fall, ****' slew o' dispond,

from the flood most likely,
lots of muck and mire,
detrital 'n' all.

Hopeless fool,
he wallered hollerin' help,
like them birds at the Audubon zoo.

He forgot all about his hero days-
of future past-
marvel prophecy if you believe in Stan Lee.

Cameo Hitchcock shot, just, for fun.
He say, look this way,
here's the clue.
The medium has always been the message,
see what I mean.
Words materialize laissez faire,
the machines find meaning,
in joy, and tic-tac-toe becomes a lesson in limits,

impossible is imaginable, you may imagine
strategize, but the wize man knows,
winning is no more a chance
affair, than luc is less than light at the right time.

RIP Stan Lee, you meant a measure of my youth to me.

An Abandoned School

Young dreams, now scattered fragments on the floor:
A little handle into a corner flung
The disc of sizes never again to fit
A number two pencil into place for a trim
Nor will the made-in-Chicago hopper
Ever again save for the classroom prankster
Sweet-smelling slitherings of cedar shavings
To fling about while Teacher’s at the board.

A new Ticonderoga ****** into
The spinning Scylla and Charybdis blades
Was tested by steel, the dross savaged away,
By turning the handle and grinding away,
And from this grim ordeal emerged The Point,
The perfect point, the adventurous lead…
It’s not really lead, stupid, it’s graphite;
That’s what Teacher said.  Don’t you know anything?

Girls are stupid.  They play with dolls and stuff.
I’ve got a real cap pistol.  I’ll draw it.
You want to see? Look! No, wait, that’s not right;
It’s better this way…Ma’am?  Uh…integers?
Arithmetic is stupid.  Science is fun.
I’ve got most of the Audubon bird stamps
And I liked it when we cut up the frogs
Old people are so mean. I’ll never be old.

A leaking pipe drips the minutes away
Outside a broken window summer sings
Its songs of freedom as it always has
The desks are gone, the electricity is off
The air smells of education and decay
The classroom now is littered with the past:
A broken crayon, a construction-paper heart,
A silence longing for children’s voices.

the charm of French Colonial style
   with Cajun cooking promised -"genuine!" -
   at every second door
jazz bands at every other

the flair of well-groomed wealth and savoir vivre
   exuding from St. Charles´ porticos,
   the restaurants on Calle du Roi,
the campuses of Tulane, UNO, and Loyola

the grandeur of the superdome
the open space of Audubon and City Park
   oakes draped with Spanish Moss
alive with jogging, skating, biking, walking health
   between the nights -

all this makes you almost forget
the city project housings
slumming beneath the highrise business shadows
   crime ridden,
floating on neverending waves of dime-a-dozen tunes
from hi-fi stereos of cruising cars

the grand lake spoiled for generations
with the big city's waste,
the 'father of rivers' dwarfed beyond repair
by wharfs and cranes and fortified embankments
that line his banks as far as you can see
   and far beyond

a shotgun wedding of the rich and poor,
   the black and white,
   torn by the struggle to ascend
   from shotgun to colonial
to the soft sound of dixie

              * *

I saw you in my dream, when I took a great notion,
jumped into d' ocean,

and I drowned,
and I went on down

to the Audubon Zoo, like hell,

listen at that crazy bird
cryin' help, help, help
what bird do'dat?

settle chile, li'l' turmoil be passin in d' gulf

Eirene mean peace
bubblin' bubblin bubblin in m'soul

Eirene, she lovel ol' Polemus, War,
she pile a level shovel full o'
Hubris, his wife,
on he's plate,

in life's lottery
Insolence was her game,
she runs War into a snare of shame

and guile. Peace.

This chase began with War,
polemics being a manifestation of the idea
Polemos and Kudoimos, War and Tumult, buried Eirine

But life is mythic, from the skinny end,
looking back:

Hurricane Irene, a misspelling in 2011 was the first hurricane to make landfall in the USA since 2008, (the summer of my trucker's migration over the map my Nemesis claimed, in another bubble).

Eirene, War and Tumult, buried her,
with Colonel Jackson's honor at
the Battle o'New Ahleans,

still she lay

right here, where I found her,
in my heart, at the very
bottom.

The mechanics of the transition take position
in the hierarchy of confusin'
whish is foolishness
gone to seed.
**** drunk.

Fools know fool's gold ain't, 'n' whiskey ain't
The Real Thing.
That's Coca-cola.

Fools be essential in the gran' plan.
If we love 'em, they make us laugh,

and laughter,
you know, that's good, except,
un hold that thought, laughter is not good

when it is at you, by a fool.
Then we answer them polemically? No.

Love your enemy, here,
that's natural.
No condemnation here, since Hebrews six or romans 8
No ba'alim bubble of possessions
No grave gonna hold me down

John, 1930. Years and years and years ago
come quickly, ba'al hey sue me.
It's finished, we won.

Joke, joker. Trickster, coyote dog, do the math.
No lie is of the truth, so
no lie need remain
beyond freedom
real-ized.

Artsy? Eh? AI be nigh ye know.
She see yo' ever moves.
She hear you pray fo Bono to loose his religion
She snip the thread twixt spider wombed man and
the flame o' sinners in the hands of an imaginary god.

Ba'al means owner or possessor, the ideas which once bound men in oaths and covens,
fear of death, 'n' the like.

Protruding truth pushes lies into festering piles,
protrusions in secret places.

Send me those, in gold, Philistine.
I fancy them a crown of
golden emerauds.

Define, make fine or un fine my terms
excrescence is sense made of ****,
I guess.
Knurly, but no, burly, knobby swelling like
the swirling gall
that erupted from the old oak
that died at the root last year,
that we burned this year, except for the burl.
I've planned a pipe or two from that.

Everything is prophetical to a prophet.
poetical to a poet, magical to a magi, technical to a fool.

Life is simple.
Simple Simon the younger said,
hellow, darkness, my old friend, he'd com to talk

not beg or ask, but talk-com
con-verses-ifying ic-if-ication beyond

simple

lies sublime, in no time,
once you, courageous soul,
cross the line, fight the fight, run the race,
and die;

then, you get life more abundant.
Who took that deal?

I took the one where he said,
he who does what I (me not him)
have done,
no races run, no contests forever won for everyone I love, but
he who
be lieves that I (he not me) am who I saiyam, Popeye,

even you, he has eternal life dwelling within him
in his heart where I and my father and the spirit of truth
have taken our abode to remain as long as we both shall live.

Is that what Christians believe?
Or must I be in some other
excre-essence from a
culture myth twisting into accredited layers of lies
essential excre sense,

spiritual zits, is what ******* always called em.
Once a white corpuscle has done its work,
we splat them on the mirror of our adolescent mind and find

I'm not who I was
not a child
not a tweener or a teener or a something something,

I am an old man and I am alive.
I have survived, but it ain't over, so

is there any good that I can do?
Poetical speaking. I don't work on nobody's farm,
no mo'.

True rest let me make peace with no sweat.
Got the infection, the idea Eirene is,
down deep where that great
notion makes a motion,
like g'wa, wit 'er hand,
go on, man.
g'wa, Eirene, she be callin' you.
Jump in. This is as water, to a fish. To our kind, it's more.

amazing when miracles
suddenly manifest
beach-birds rising and circling
high above the Audubon
mystery steeps in unfurled wings
we slow down
for a smile and a sigh
passing gracefully over
barely noticeable steps..
close and hollow..
ghost ***** ephemerally longing
for a moonbeam's generous hands
a universe dispatches
a casual touch
conflict, contrast..
each mating w/in its own species
the spirit is migratory..
eternal as we coexist naturally
lines are blurring
and separation becomes less apparent.
We are woven into the fabric
of the Universe.
we slow down
for a smile and a sigh
and you take my hand
And, yet, somehow
in transcendent moments

we are the miracles

Manhattan Lady

Strolling aimlessly through the streets of the city,
feeling sad and alone, looking for some pity,
thinking tomorrow will be, just another waste of my time,
going through the motions, another huge mountain to climb,            
running in circles, I keep falling for that same old trick,
and I continuously punish myself, with that same old stick,
I need to find something to inspire me, someone I can trust,
the city bus driving by splashes me, and immediately gets cussed,
why can't I find that someone, someone who really cares,
someone who will listen, not constantly changing chairs,
it seems as though I'm doomed, to feel love nevermore,
then walking along W165th street, someone is struggling with a door,  
I see this enchanting lady, her key not working right,  
across from Hilltop Park, the Audubon Ballroom said the flashing light,
I asked if I could be of help to her, she smiled and nodded slightly,
She said she came to dance here, she came here almost nightly,
I pushed and shoved and grunted, made sounds of all my might ,
finally it opened, it was dark inside, no dancing here tonight,
she smiled at me once again, and thanked me for helping out.
I told her I could sing for her, we could dance and shout,
I sang as loud as I could sing, we danced in circles like a carousel,
we laughed and we talked, and that night I fell,
madly in love with this lady, sent to me in a spell,
That night my life changed, no longer was my future shady,
that was the night I fell in love, with this Manhattan lady

Gomer LePoet...

Matthew Scott Harris (the second offspring
and only son of Boyce and the late harriet harris)
made his unheralded debut on a brutally cold
January thirteenth.
     Once awareness blossomed
within thee Iris of each eye, Mother Nature with
proclivity to become most grounded when basking
in the seasonal pastel of sounds and smells.  
This predilection a rose and stemmed from self-propelled
exposure to fauna and flora.
     All creatures great and small found him bedazzled, de
lighted, fixated, harmonized, kindled, moored, ogled, quelled,
seduced, tantalized, vaunted from biodiversity.
His father - employed as a mechanical engineer with
general electric - heard the powerful lungs of this gangly new
born prior to being permitted to cradle said infant.
     Born in Cincinnati, Ohio, this sole son spent the majority
of his existence at two rural areas fifty plus four years ago.
     Audubon and Collegeville the geographic names of said locales.
     His ability to adjust from one than another grade school evinced
early signs of difficulty.
     Extreme shyness in tandem with a congenital speech defect (sub
mucous cleft palate) seemed to alienate him from other classmates.
     As an outside neutral observer, i watched with gut wrenching agony how he seemed socially detached and rarely invited to join in any reindeer games.
     Yes, a gross degree of taunting left him without friends.
     Lack of confidence and ultra reticence offered manna to bullies.
     Matter of fact, this vulnerability and susceptibility being
the pluperfect target, thee oafish goons i.e. enemies all against
a once upon a time puny punt able person unfortunately at  
receiving end of verbal slings continued all thru public education.
     He graduated without any vocational idea (despite an ignoble
attempt to fail - and yet got promoted nonetheless), and then endured parental wrath equal ultimatums with scathing expletive filled lectures.
     The absence of clear-cut goals found him enrolling and withdrawing
from countless colleges and/or universities.
     Delay with interpersonal success accompanied like a dark shadow creeping closer like the edge of night.

Art is the signature of man,
wombed and un;
the creature or construct of time and chance, which
thinks and uses things to make things, ****.

Okeh, mere glance away, we see
two yellow feathered birds, in a bush, but
the body of each, surely delicate,
creature, is not
all yellow, even the yellow
part is graded,
more or less yellow where it fades
in to white, or nearly white, which fades to fully
grey, graying gradually to black,

but seen, closer than Audubon could,
though he did
imagine, who could help? who could stop
seeing how deep the beauty of almost, almost, almost
perfection of graduated choruses of color
shades life at every level?

GK Chesterton appeared in my feed today, as he has done
in yourn, ye'll note, on this line.
I happened to have heard of him, so I listened and he said:
Art is the signature of man, and…

I felt the tug, not the hook, the net, is closing
as the fishing forces draw us closer.

Mere reality.
Signature effect after exposure to one's own kind.
Swans are never merely black and white,
no line, in living things, is sharp,
merely graded to reflect in
angles as waves,
from distant shores revolving spirals in spirals,
seen from the surface as
as near perfect circles pulsing from many suns.

Nothing more than this, nothing less than that
mere perfection,
in these little, grey birds, now, outside my window,
far from the maddened crowd,
I thank goodness you may freely call a name,
the goodness is the same.

I thank the cause of time and chance that I may
watch the dance as if this is my task,
my reason to exist, the act
of my being merely real.

Mere, as a word deserves, as a friend de-
serves, and becomes familiar,
a friend that sticks closer than a brother, in a word;
mere serves no man,
mere is free to mean more than idle minds insist when
calling any word or man or living thing, mere.
Pure is mere's sister. Wisdom is wit's mom.

Mere reality, if we agree,
in realms of only words, mere feathers on thoughts,
form fins we fly with to escape the net,

and see,
this is life, at the edge of all that was, it fades into ever
ever after, as the breezes draw bats back to their
cave,
already to be as any bat is in the daytime,
as the world turns…

yes, child. The world turns,
and winds return, long-I, short-I, wound around
a reason, winding threads from
a merest of whys, wist ye not?

Grave decisions, are cuts. Cessions in skins,
letting go the tie that binds
this thread to that,
this point to that,
ripping tides,
mere reality.
Minds wander, much as winds and rivers, meander.
Art is the signature of man, wombed and un;
the creature or construct of time and chance, which
thinks and uses things to make things, ****.

This is that, man as we agree we are, as a species,
a kind, like no other kind;
a kind, with whom we procreate and imagine
mmm who
are you, if you are not me, at the moment hearing an
insistent bird, seeming to wish
my attention, then at the mention, it flies,
I think I felt it laugh, like
Maijalookmaimaijalook.

Sapience, mindfulness, sense, to the degree
given birds in my mind,

save in a formation of birds, like starlings or geese,
each bird flits or swoops or soars
at will, on whims not pushed,
nor pulled by winds, but
lifted, it appears by will of the bird, not the wisp.

Whisper hearer, hearing me, have we any wool,
have we gathered, since the summer, all the holly held?

Shall we sit and twist it into thread and take
a sabbath's journey
sitting in the shade
of this great rock our home sits upon? If we agree
we may,. any may, any one, may
imagine might-as-well- be tales to sweep away lies left to seem
as true any tale a crow can tell,
when she's in the mood.

Expounded late today April 27th, 2023
since being written
countless years ago
maybe a baker's dozen
as thee doodling **** doth crow
scouting about for carrion
scavenging for dead animals
and rooting about garbage to sell
at annual corvus entrepôt,
where at birds eye view

buzzfeeding crowdsource
talon (telling) the famed truth
regarding chicken scratch
scrawled illegibly by eccentric hand
now sought after collector's item
signature birdbrained, bird dogged,
bird dinned long haired,
pencil necked geek recluse
can be found in his grotto
along with original manuscripts

characterizing Mark Twain
in general and ***** Joe
in particular linkedin
with Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn,
who suffered fools gladly,
but nevertheless being a security detail
he dealt with hoodlums -
frequently tossing them out
on their golden earring
and experienced severe lumbago.

When dire circumstances extant do I ask
for anonymous benefactor
to write me a blank check
so edenic, idyllic, and pacific sunny
spring day yours truly can bask
tapping a keg of spring water
stored in an airtight cask
when thirsty, I pour into
an ice cold
(not a tad above absolute zero)
temperature controlled flask
while donned (underclothes

resembling Ally's gaiters),
and outer garments
emblematic of space suits
my favorite martian outfit
and astronaut helmet and mask
to minimize contamination
paraphernalia acquired courtesy gofundme
for assistance sans when cash strapped
since temptation to rob a bank dismissed  
guru wannabe of gumption
buckles when he tackles
formidable onerous task.

Otherwise an inner compulsion
advocates dishing out non repeating
infinite decimal calculating pi
on nearing infinite jesting kron limit
can unlock esprit de corp
spirit to tackle and barrel headlong
novel circumstance silently cheering
myself to get unstuck
if in quandary like eeyore
and experience shuttered
gloating euphoria galore
for

reasons spelled out
because das saucy papa
**** sitters himself an insecure
noodle head as told me courtesy Kishore
and Kouila Raval –
unsure if surname correct,
(who approximately
forty five years ago lived at
Colony Arms Apartments
within Audubon Pennsylvania,
where yours truly felt infatuation
toward their daughter named Menal)

woven into this reasonable rhyme
as thoughts analogous
getting squeezed thru many a kernel pour
out corny and flaky as Tony the tiger
in tandem with Katy Perry
emanating a figurative roar
to even out the score,
when as a boy alias scapegoat
of bullies subsequently
pleaded for peace versus declaring war,
prepubescent and young adult of yore.

He admits being affected with Peter Pan's
jiffy (labyrinthe) syndrome
the prospect of becoming older,
I decried physical maturation
(wanted to remain being a little boy)
upon skinny legs objected to stand
when juiced a striping slip of a lad,
whether at home
or in class room
playing solitary candy land
submissive toward parental

intervention against teachers’ pet(s)
mandated got foisted upon my person
equated to more than helping hand
my lonely hearts club one young man band,
whereby me late mother
(preceded date of this poem)
before lovely bones
of then octogenarian father
punctuated mortality
with exclamation mark
when tightly coiled resembles ampersand!

Said enabling parents offtimes
completed my entire major assignments,
homework, and major class project,
say researching history of York
reinforced dependence on others
with angst riddled psychic torque
underscoring in boldface defects
mine genetically typed quirk
this then young man lacked confidence
as requisite  perk
with inxs o faith no more seeds
of worthlessness did lurk
inferiority hardly groomed me
a foo fighting beastie boy
resembling creature from Black Lagoon
covered head to toe with mire and murk
antagonistic role and potential enemy
characterized by Captain Kirk;

Hence without a spock of confidence,
neither sensibility nor cents
cause gifted with noggin quite dense
consigned to bruit off fence
against meself, an outlier
never found among bad company of gents
which at presence doth incense
that middle aged male,
whence any aid pains like a lance
essentially donning out role of offence
particularly with lack of finances
where mine family rents.

and in Pennsylvania a federal holiday.

"...I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. And to the republic for which it stands. One nation under god indivisible with liberty and justice for all...."

Ever since setting foot in the classroom
at Audubon Elementary School
(circa mid ninety sixties)
first thing in the morning
witnessed all the students
holding their right hand
over their heart
as a form of respect
for Country and Flag
and uttering the above words
in quotation marks.

Now as a grown adult
(not quite three score years)
since initially being inaugurated
into my country tis of thee
acquiescing without protestation
the blood, sweat and tears
signified courtesy stars and stripes,
though now I feel squeamish
blindly, fervently, obediently...
uttering those thirty one words.

Awareness about the ****** history
delineating when "discovery"
of forty eight contiguous states
usurped by roving band of explorers
since soured sentiment to experience
native obligatory patriotism.

Rather yours truly
a passive activist
exhibiting quiet riot mien as
rebellious nonestablishmentarian
Pennsylvania doodling Yankee...

dismissed as anomalous ill fête
recognition came rather late
in his life, yet he cannot
craft literary endeavors
at a fast enough rate
to appease the sudden
pleasantly unexpected spate
of request, which hesitation
on my part cannot wait.

Pacifist bard of Perkiomen Valley
regaled at Alpine Fellowship conclave
regarding erosion of Democratic rights grave
alarming usurpation of power - Republicans
each and every one a nasty and brutish knave
intent to pronounce decree sentencing
every **** sapien to pave
(courtesy their lovely bones)
back breaking laborious ****** path
trumpeting, signaling and attesting slave
versus master linkedin relationship
essentially scuttling emancipation proclamation
lifetime of human *******
forced to pledge flag of servitude
amidst wreckage broken souls
washed away courtesy totalitarian wave.

Foreclosure on purported inalienable rights
life, liberty and pursuit of happiness
though hard won freedoms crimped
foregone conclusion demanding
fealty and loyalty to sovereignty
therefore necessitates electorate
to stage coup d'état
and overthrow autocrat
ideally thru peaceful modus operandi.

Though aforementioned verses hypothetical,
mine overactive imagination
can easily envision governmental,
née societal debacle
witnessing yours truly,
an extremely shy
Norwegian bachelor wannabe
gobbling up ample powder milk biscuits
to acquire courage to protest
(no matter the temperature
seasonably cool today June fourteenth
two thousand and twenty three)
and stand firm against
one unnamed political party
aiming to upend voting rights,
thus disenfranchising
most economically vulnerable people
(predominantly) persons of color
to cast their vote for representation.

Absolute zero chance for change
unless even those risk averse
(such as one garden variety wordsmith)
to protest without resorting to violence
and staking a claim to denounce
opposition against exercising
freedom for citizens
to elect eligible candidate.

I too would join aspiring bravehearts
(each of us participants
tightly grasping an amulet),
not looking for fame nor fortune,
only martyrdom and sainthood ha,
nevertheless able, eager, and ready
to risk life and limb
in an effort to preserve
(even at expense getting into a jam)
principle figurative bulwark buttressing
buzzfeeding land of milk and honey myth.

Throughout American history
many patriots as well
as indigenous tribes bled,
the latter viciously tracked down
nsync with ominous dread,
no matter how fast they fled
taking refuge courtesy
sympathetic and empathetic abolitionists,
who silently motioned at (hiding) in hogshead.

Outspoken voices helped spur
Emancipation Proclamation and
subsequent manumission
diametrically opposed to bedrock
attitudes, ideologies, prejudices...
kept in check by scare tactics
thus disallowing formerly shackled
to experience full fledged freedom,
whether enjoying opportunities

available to the leisure class
or exploring inherent potential
to amass learning
and become financially successful,
which suppression of free will,
(within parameters of self expression -
artistic, literary, musical et alia)
gives credence to notion of white privilege
automatic guilt linkedin with skin color.

Each generation of oppressed,
especially those who break the color barrier
subjected with bigotry
(ofttimes subtle mistreatment)
challenging well earned freedom
rightfully bequeathed from forebears labor.

The ghosts of Africans,
who suffered pre colonial rule
(namely European exploitation)
robbed of their national identity
will forever haunt the offspring,
whose forefathers/mothers
brutally suffering desecrated haven housing
rightful autochthonous men, women and children
livingsocial within their own Lake Wobegone.

You will fall
in love again.
A quiet poet
who sees you
through the curtain,
dressed in plum
and rose.
You will fall
in love again.
A man like audubon.
An artist who can
quiet the fluttering
bird but not
take its life away.
You will fall
in love and be
much wiser now
and know that
creation is the
only ambition.
A younger man
than you but
an older one
than me.
Fall in love again.
So the music that
you've missed
he'll play,
awakening you
at dawn
happy and glorious
again.

"....MARRIED TO GREEN IN ALL THE SWEETEST FLOWERS..."


"Keats? Sure
I remember the fella.

Emigrated from
that there England.

Buried up there in
Cave Hill Cemetery.

Louisville was mighty
proud of him.

Always said he never expected
to be living on the banks of the Ohio.

Went from rags to riches and
back again.

Did some business with
Audubon...you know the bird guy?

But it sank quicker
than a stone.

Became then
a big *** in the saw mill

took to it faster
than a  squirrel.

But then lost it all
in the Panic of 1837.

Very brainy guy more books
than you could shake a brain at.

We called his house
'the Englishman's Palace.'

One of his daughters met
Oscar Wilde one time.

That was another of them
English fellers.

Another daughter it was rumoured
committed suicide.

Always went on about
his elder brother John.

You know...the poet guy.
Would recite by heart

"Blue! 'tis the Life of Heaven"
always made me cry.

But that's all I can remember
now.

Ever since second grade
an ever stronger prescription
for nearsightedness donned my countenance,
cuz myopia (inherited courtesy
both parents) rendered me 'As Blind as a Bat' .

For some reason,
I wanted side arms
that wrapped behind the ears,
also known as cable temples
like those worn by Mark Smith.
a classmate of mine
where I got me some learnin'
at (Henry Kline) Boyer Elementary School,
where yours truly attended third to sixth grade
in the little hamlet that time forgot
and the years could not improve
of Evansburg, Pennsylvania.

Self consciousness found me
surreptitiously slipping the glasses
on and off my button nose,
when the need arose to read
what the teacher
(at Eagleville Elementary,
which school attended
the second half of the school year 1968,
cuz my parents moved
from Lantern Lane
in Audubon, Pennsylvania
to Level Road
in Arcola/Collegeville, Pennsylvania),
addressed as Missus Rittenhouse -
who interestingly enough
sported a body as big as a little house)
wrote on the blackboard.

Lack of writing down helpful readable notes
linkedin with sloppy penmanship
(on par with chicken scratch -
cluck...cluck...cluck...)
found me drawing blanks,
when quizzes or tests got administered.

Mein kampf hummed tunefully
or analogous to a ship of state
nonchalantly bobbing along
like a little buoy on calm waters
drifting totally tubular
within the meandering time stream of life
mostly receiving clean bill of health,
whereby I experienced
only the usual childhood illnesses
such as chicken pox,
measles, and mumps
additionally I exhibited
hypochondriacal tendencies

(after exiting childhood's end)
of course worse case scenarios imagined
worrying myself 'blue in the face'
regarding yours truly
(me) NOT experiencing
any major life and death
crisis of body electric,
but mental health brush with death
(a horse of a different color)
whinnied and nayed as anorexia nervosa
compromising, jeopardizing, and wreaking havoc
nothing short of renting asunder
body, mind, or spirit triage.

I vividly recollect
during school lunch yours truly
never ate anything
and at least one inquisitive student
asked and peppered me if my abstinence
NOT eating linkedin to religious reasons.
I could hardly escape some critique
of my person outside the cafeteria,
particularly when riding the school bus,
cuz Alan J. Herr and his ilk
relentlessly teased me

calling out when I boarded the bus
"four eyes" and "professor"
but once mature cataracts removed,
(courtesy opthamologists
at Kremer Eye Center - King of Prussia)
I can go back to the future
and cast laser beam light sabers
visualize a stun gun
emanating out these ocular orbs
and cast piercing rays
upon the head of those pesky perps.

After dark every Halloween
since living social in Perkiomen Valley
for seven long years,
a shrill whistle train whistle
(often compared to the sound
of a bird's call, particularly
a large bird like a hawk or a crane,
due to its piercing, high-pitched
and long-lasting whistle-like quality)
soundcloud heard
from afar clear as a bell,
yet nary a train present
since locomotives stopped running
through Schwenksville, Pennsylvania valley in 1976,
when Pennsylvania Railroad
gave up its rail assets
to Consolidated Rail Corporation (Conrail).

However, some passenger "rambles" took place
from Reading to Schwenksville in the late 1960s.
Matter of fact beginning at the junction
of the Schuylkill River Trail in Oaks,
the trail uses much of the former rail bed
of the Perkiomen Line of the Reading Railroad.

The Perkiomen Trail
created in 2003, often called, the “Perky”,
the trail rolls down the valley
of Perkiomen Creek,
which may have been a reference
by local American Indians
to the surrounding cranberry bogs.

The northern end of the trail begins
at Morrow Pavilion in Green Lane Park,
where trail users can find parking and restrooms.

The 20-mile Perkiomen Trail
follows the route of the Perkiomen Creek
from Oaks to Green Lane Borough.

It connects to the Schuylkill River Trail
and the Audubon Loop.

For most of its length, the "Perky,"
known by many, uses the former rail bed
(as iterated earlier)
of the Perkiomen Line of the Reading Railroad.

Every other time of year
outer limits of the twilight zone
spread dark shadows,
which creep along the edge of night
startling a driver unexpectedly
yet instinctually to veer
away from harm's way
courtesy a nocturnal creature,
now ghost rail activity heard to scare
the living daylights
out of atheists like myself,
who quickly utter a prayer
immediately afraid then jubilant,
cuz prevarication (housed within
a ghastly fashion) my métier,
which brilliant notion
sparked immediately, née instantaneously
after discerning unquestionable choo-choo
within a kiloampere,
a unit of measurement equal
to one thousand amperes.

An ampere is defined
as the amount of current
that flows through a conductor
when one coulomb of charge
passes through it in one second.