This is a Bleeping Bopping Boo.
Bleeping Bopping Boo lives on the biggest bandana in Boston.
Bleeping Bopping Boo eats ******* butterflies, blankets, blue bananas and bears.
Bleeping Bopping Boo likes beating up babies, belly dancing, bouncing on buffalo's back and abducting bananas.
Bleeping Bopping Boo breaks into buffalo bodies, blame babies for bad stuff, and blabber all day.
Bleeping Bopping Boo banged my back against a box. Oy the Bleeping Bopping Boo./Users/mlackritz/Desktop/Screen shot 2012-05-22 at 3.22.47 PM.png

If you danced from midnight
to six A.M. who would understand?

The runaway boy
who chucks it all
to live on the Boston Common
on speed and saltines,
******* in the duck pond,
rapping with the street priest,
trading talk like blows,
another missing person,
would understand.

The paralytic's wife
who takes her love to town,
sitting on the bar stool,
downing stingers and peanuts,
singing "That ole Ace down in the hole,"
would understand.

The passengers
from Boston to Paris
watching the movie with dawn
coming up like statues of honey,
having partaken of champagne and steak
while the world turned like a toy globe,
those murderers of the nightgown
would understand.

The amnesiac
who tunes into a new neighborhood,
having misplaced the past,
having thrown out someone else's
credit cards and monogrammed watch,
would understand.

The drunken poet
(a genius by daylight)
who places long-distance calls
at three A.M. and then lets you sit
holding the phone while he vomits
(he calls it "The Night of the Long Knives")
getting his kicks out of the death call,
would understand.

The insomniac
listening to his heart
thumping like a June bug,
listening on his transistor
to Long John Nebel arguing from New York,
lying on his bed like a stone table,
would understand.

The night nurse
with her eyes slit like Venetian blinds,
she of the tubes and the plasma,
listening to the heart monitor,
the death cricket bleeping,
she who calls you "we"
and keeps vigil like a ballistic missile,
would understand.

Once
this king had twelve daughters,
each more beautiful than the other.
They slept together, bed by bed
in a kind of girls' dormitory.
At night the king locked and bolted the door
. How could they possibly escape?
Yet each morning their shoes
were danced to pieces.
Each was as worn as an old jockstrap.
The king sent out a proclamation
that anyone who could discover
where the princesses did their dancing
could take his pick of the litter.
However there was a catch.
If he failed, he would pay with his life.
Well, so it goes.

Many princes tried,
each sitting outside the dormitory,
the door ajar so he could observe
what enchantment came over the shoes.
But each time the twelve dancing princesses
gave the snoopy man a Mickey Finn
and so he was beheaded.
****! Like a basketball.

It so happened that a poor soldier
heard about these strange goings on
and decided to give it a try.
On his way to the castle
he met an old old woman.
Age, for a change, was of some use.
She wasn't stuffed in a nursing home.
She told him not to drink a drop of wine
and gave him a cloak that would make
him invisible when the right time came.
And thus he sat outside the dorm.
The oldest princess brought him some wine
but he fastened a sponge beneath his chin,
looking the opposite of Andy Gump.

The sponge soaked up the wine,
and thus he stayed awake.
He feigned sleep however
and the princesses sprang out of their beds
and fussed around like a Miss America Contest.
Then the eldest went to her bed
and knocked upon it and it sank into the earth.
They descended down the opening
one after the other. They crafty soldier
put on his invisisble cloak and followed.
Yikes, said the youngest daughter,
something just stepped on my dress.
But the oldest thought it just a nail.

Next stood an avenue of trees,
each leaf make of sterling silver.
The soldier took a leaf for proof.
The youngest heard the branch break
and said, Oof! Who goes there?
But the oldest said, Those are
the royal trumpets playing triumphantly.
The next trees were made of diamonds.
He took one that flickered like Tinkerbell
and the youngest said: Wait up! He is here!
But the oldest said: Trumpets, my dear.

Next they came to a lake where lay
twelve boats with twelve enchanted princes
waiting to row them to the underground castle.
The soldier sat in the youngest's boat
and the boat was as heavy as if an icebox
had been added but the prince did not suspect.

Next came the ball where the shoes did duty.
The princesses danced like taxi girls at Roseland
as if those tickets would run right out.
They were painted in kisses with their secret hair
and though the soldier drank from their cups
they drank down their youth with nary a thought.

Cruets of champagne and cups full of rubies.
They danced until morning and the sun came up
naked and angry and so they returned
by the same strange route. The soldier
went forward through the dormitory and into
his waiting chair to feign his druggy sleep.
That morning the soldier, his eyes fiery
like blood in a wound, his purpose brutal
as if facing a battle, hurried with his answer
as if to the Sphinx. The shoes! The shoes!
The soldier told. He brought forth
the silver leaf, the diamond the size of a plum.

He had won. The dancing shoes would dance
no more. The princesses were torn from
their night life like a baby from its pacifier.
Because he was old he picked the eldest.
At the wedding the princesses averted their eyes
and sagged like old sweatshirts.
Now the runaways would run no more and never
again would their hair be tangled into diamonds,
never again their shoes worn down to a laugh,
never the bed falling down into purgatory
to let them climb in after
with their Lucifer kicking.

Under sizzling and bleeping
The time runs nigh
Between heaven and hell
In a room, too bright
Runs a body deadly circles
Captured in pipes
While the fellowship falls silent
As the headman decides
To live and let die

Slow, but soon, the dying noise
Leaves a weakly beating heart
Fighting it's own pointless war
No men alive shall ever thwart
And lifes children turn quiet
As they face the final loss
The fact they can´t deny
They live and let die

Now, the silence bales and centers
Around the fallen prey
Slowly, death spreads, like a cancer
Drives the living far away
Until only ease is lagging
In the minds that still stand by
Relief about the outcome
To live and let die

Where was I, when you were alive?
Was I sleeping, dreaming, kicking, screaming,
Staring in wonder at the bright stars a-gleaming?

Where was I when you were crying?
Was I thinking of life after dying,
Seeing as it was, or blind and sighing,
Where was I when you were crying?

When you were born, what was I doing?
Was I speaking, walking, peeking, stalking,
Dancing, singing, laughing, mingling,
Looking, lying, toking, trying?

Where was I when you were on the beach,
Staring out towards the sea?
Perhaps I was taking a ***,
Or sipping my hot cup of tea?

Where was I when you were sleeping?
Perhaps I was in mid-air, leaping,
Or watching as MTV was bleeping swearwords.

Where was I when you fell ill?
Was I parked up on a hill,
Waiting for life to arrive
With a plan it did contrive?

When you were driving,
Or tidying,
Perhaps on a snowboard somewhere, sliding,
Was I alone at home and hiding?
Or on the bike somewhere, and riding?

Maybe I was wide-awake,
Or laughing with my friends, while baked,
Or greasing a pan to bake a cake,
Contemplating what makes a lake.

Or perhaps I was asleep and dreaming,
and lost in my subconscious readings,
With avatars of all my friends,
Buying a Mercedes Benz.

Where was I when you were wasted?
Was I laughing at old hatreds,
Staring at a crawling aphid,
Or in the shower, and stark naked?

Where were you while I was thinking?
Perhaps you were awake and blinking,
All the sleep out of your eyes,
After dreaming of cute Albanian guys?

Where is everyone this second?
I mean, this specific second,
As I write or read this poem,
Perform it for a crowd so wholesome,
Where am I as you read this?
Up on a stage and fighting fears false lisp,
To make sure all of these words are crisp,
Or eating bread with ham and swiss?

Are you dead, or are you living?
A minion to society's bidding,
Or policing streets and finally ridding
Pavement of the hobos twitching out of crystal ****?

Perhaps you're firing a gun,
Or you've found the only 'one,'
To love through thick and thin, till death;
Or thinking, "Wow, poor old MacBeth."

In this moment, is it all;
So listen to the moments call,
And cancel all your texting plans,
And use those thumbs to grasp the hand,
Of a loved one next to you;
"The day before" was never true,
So there's no better time for you,
To look for some more love to brew.

So get up, and go do.
Go do it.

So there she was I
knew I saw Jennifer the
fairy in the sky

O she twinkled bright
left happy zig zags flowers
floating so freely

Anyway as I
sunbathed whilst dean fished ,I saw
a big willow tree

Oh my he looked like
had the **** , Jennifer made
his eyes go bosseyed!

She was trying to
round up the dragonflies but
they kept flying off

I was observing
as usual eating a cheese
and tomoto roll

Jennifer was bored
again so she surfed across
the pond racing the

mallards and swans , her
tiny wings tried to keep up
but she had slowed down

But Jennifer was
not going to lose , she loved
to win always..it

was a problem she
had since she was born , her best
friend Peter the Snail

told her on many
occasions to lose is not
a bad thing it can

be a good thing as
well , but she'd much to learn
For now she wanted

to win, she fired
her bow and arrow and hit
a passing carp fish

All of a sudden
The carp turned into a
dragon , she jumped on

his back and both raced
through the sky towards Mr
Willow who was still

in a grumpy mood
but I could actually see
a twinkle in his

eye , he waved his long
arms in the air , Jennifer
and the dragon

had won the race , the
swans and mallards huffed and puffed
not happy with her

winning , I looked at
her and smiled , by now my big
toe was hurting me

And Deans fishing rod
was bleeping , he had caught a
carp, but oh no it

wasn't a carp it
was a dragon,  Jennifer
had forget to turn

him back into a
carp , wooo me and dean run as
fast as we could back

to van where he drove
like a maniac to dodge
the dragon who once

was a carp , as I
looked out the rear window I
could see Jennifer

giggling , she was
riding the dragon with her
bow and arrow , I

thought to myself she's
a mischievous fairy
And I just smiled wide

I got home quickly
and me and dean had salad
and a nice cold drink

Dean still can't believe
we got chased by a dragon
Maybe one day I

shall tell him about
Jennifer the fairy and
I bet he'd smile too

:)

As molecules of cellophane and plastic plate mix with cheesy mire of microwaveable dinner, I make excuse in my mind and apologize to my already over-compromised liver. It's simpler this way, or at least excusable for this moment. 56 dead in Garland, Texas, I think I can be thankful a tornado has not turned my world upside down, whilst biting down on tv dinner rations. Still I think, can 2015 end any faster? These last few days counting down and the microwave's digital display bleeping, sludge discriminating who shall be taken. It's all so guarded and circumspect. Please, if there be an element of good, may the new year know it.

Two thousand and seven.  Late September....
The spaceships came when I was in bed...
There still is a lot I cannot remember.  Perhaps they implanted a chip in my head.
But I seem to recall dancing lights on the wall all around my posters of
Beyoncé, a low-frequency sound and a pulsating pound as I was engulfed by a magnetic ray.
I was paralyzed in my Flintstones pajamas.
It lifted then floated me towards the stars and the orbital base of an alien race on their mischievous mission from Mars.
I found myself in a sterile room...
I was strapped face down on a metal tray...
The aliens entered in tinfoil dashikis...
(They either were mimes or had nothing to say).
Each one looked like a tiny Cher: plastic faces minus the hair.
With never so much as a "how are you, Joe?" they slashed my pajamas with their laser tool, whereupon, using probes that were beeping below
they began to do things that weren't cool
and I felt for the first time shame and disgrace for my ***-tattoo of ****
Cheney's face.
I thought, "Am I dreaming?  Am I still asleep?" As over and over they
Beep-beep-beep.
Why such interest?  Why invest in this vigorous quest up my lower intestine?  Did they hope to study or maybe inspect some
mysterious feature while beeping my ******?
I strained in the straps but I couldn't get loose as the weird little beepers
beep-beeped my caboose.
With continuous beeping filling my ear the bleeping E.Ts went on beeping my rear...callously...clinically beeping me numb.
They treated me like I was some bleeping ***!
Though frightened, exhausted, indignant and weak, very bravely I then turned the other cheek.
I'd been violated.  My sprit broke...the **** of an intergalactic joke.
Dishonored,, betrayed, invaded and duped...
Disgusted, embarrassed, and BOY WAS I POOPED!
Yet oddly I wanted a smoke.
With all their tests run, at last they were done and they left the "lab" en masses having thoroughly beep-beeped my &@$!
I woke up okay in my bed the next day but my ***** did not feel quite right.
I've been in treatment for several years now.
My therapist thinks I'm uptight
but I've learned to live with my dignity stolen and a pro to-illogical rare
semi-colon.
I'm happy I wasn't abducted to Venus where aliens commonly bing-bing
your nose and ears.

Out of everything I saw, I remember
the thumb.
Swollen and lopsided.
There it was, conquering the wires--red, blue, and green,
commandeering the clear tubes coated with stomach bile.
And the nail. What a healthy nail.
A pink rosebud with cuticle trim. Piqued with a white crest, curling.
Prime for at least fifteen more back scratches.
A drawerful of button-ups.
Pockets of heads and tails.
You can do it, Grandma.
One, two.
Heads, tails.
Up, down.
Up for braid, down for bun.
Braid? Yes. Braid.
And then there are two small thumbs bumbling through foreign terrain.
The braidee now braiding. The baby,
aging.
Tucked in, lulled by echoes of strange mothers. Bleeping pressures, sugars, drawing lines and colors.

But you have me.
And I have this thumb,
hidden under mine.
I’ll keep it safe for you, here in this shadowed palm—sanctified, secret dome.
I’ll protect it from the unhooked jaw.
From placid flesh curtains, over a damp backstage.
White light hanging over the insect—splayed on a lightning-gleamed car windshield.
I’ll hide it away.
Intermission.
Hush now.
Quiet, you. The show is not yet done.
And ******, it won’t be. Not with this thumb.
Not on my time.

I bite it.
At you. Skyward you.
Elusive and slippery. Shiny, rubber-like, all but new.
A blank belated card, lost in the mail.
What it might have said,
had I left a forwarding address.

But we’re here now in this dark hand cavern.
Tucked away, safely in lines.
Those of the palm.
Of tree rings.
Of love songs, and
Pretty things.
Lines, like wires
red, green, and blue.
They bring me closer
And closer
To the thumb.
Fat, with shiny aged skin,
stretched new.
And suddenly, I’m
Old.
Numb along one side.
Useless and dumb.
A limp puppet
plunked down
during intermission.

Softness of their bleeping melody
echoes through the canyon walls,
etched by millennium
the sweetest sound,
spreading calm
through cycles
of raging-time
herding on.

today i asked my mom what happened on 9/11 here is how that conversation went
me: what happened on 9/11
mom: Well, a plane crash-
me: what really happened
mom:(sigh) I was nursing you
mom:i found out, by a phone call. it was grandma karen, she called and asked if your dad was ok
me:Then what
mom: I called him
mom:he said he was hungry so he went to get mcdonalds before his flight
me:wait, he was supposed to be on that flight?
mom: he missed his 1st class boarding and they wouldn't let him on.
me:wow
mom: we were 5 minutes away from losing him. but that idiot wanted mcdonalds(crying) and he missed...his...bleeping flight!!!
Mom: you were barely over a year and your father was nearly killed
me:oh my gosh
mom:
me:
mom: then, i turned on the news in time to see the second tower fall.
me:
mom: it was strangely beautiful, no, thats not the word.... it was

captivating,

like a bad car wreck you can't look away from. and the world stopped, and inside i was praying to god even though i had never prayed before in my life.
me:
mom: thats what happened on 9/11
me:
mom: thats what happened

Press play before reading - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RWtx0AvGAlw*

Take all my ashes,
throw them in the earth,
in the wheat fields, the remnants of cotton fields, the tree roots and the minefields.
Take all my bone and sinew,
sew them in the empty spaces,
in the family hospital rooms, in the deployment barracks, in the wake of a tsunami, and the after burn of an earthquake,
Take all my blood,
seal it into a coursing river,
in to the vacumn of the solitary life, the parents watching bleeping incubators, the last breath on death beds, and the blue refugee bedrooms.
Take all my breath,
and throw it into the tide,
in to those that need words, in those that have lost their fight, in those who no longer care, and those that just can't move.
Take all my heart,
and throw it on the table,
give the muscles to the fleeing children, give the valves to the returned soldiers, give the membrane to families destroyed by poverty, and give the beat only, to my son.
Take all my wild passion,
and throw it in to the air,
in to the cyclists before they fall, in to the pianists arthritic fingers, in to all the first wedding dances, and into the young before they grow old.
Take all my tears,
and fill a bottle up,
fill up those thirsty and dying, fill up the lakes of dying fish, fill up those empty with grieving, and fill up the eyes of those who forgot how to cry.
Take all my love,
and let it just dissipate,
let it find its way, let it filter through the *******, let it wash away the guilt and shame, and let it fill you up.

I was seated at the kids table.  Again.  I guess reaching the ripe old age of seventeen has not qualified me to explore the vast mind boggling and stimulating conversations of the adult table.  That or more likely they don’t want me to hear the “curse words” that they would be surprised to know half my teachers use in class anyway and have worked their way into my own vocabulary.  I just don’t understand what would put me in a league with eleven year olds.  At what seemed like the three thousandth mention of a selfie and the obnoxious constant bleeping of their iPhones at Easter dinner, I had been snapped out of my angst filled stupor by my uncles squeaking folding chair.  
My mother glared at me as I looked around the room.  She noticed that my posture was slouched and my arms were folded across my chest.  Again.  Well what did she expect?
As she approached I saw she meant business but I would not let down my well-built walls of being beyond the ******* kids table.  “Rebecca smile for God’s sake.” Ummm no-no thank you?    
I looked her back in the eyes and asked her earnestly “Mom what am I doing here?  I have nothing thing in common with these—children.”  What I was really thinking was You would be slouching too if you were expected to eat chicken fingers while your cousin-only four years your senior might I add- was eating beautifully prepared lamb.  But of course, that would make me seem ungrateful.
“Just TRY, Aunt Lisa will be down with dessert any second now anyway!” she said as if that was some type of reward for dealing with the ******* of being seventeen and still viewed as similar to an eleven year old.  
I resumed my stupor until I heard the clicking of heels (shorter than mine might I mention, I think that should be some sort of factor when deciding seating) coming down the stairs.  I thought there would be something marvelous, something creamy or cakey or some kind of fruit filled something.  The excitement built as I fought against the cracking smile only dessert could bring to my lips.  
There were two boxes. Two tables.  One contained a beautiful cheese cake, topped with fresh fruit.  The other was hostess.  Chocolate cupcakes.  Needless to say I don’t think you have to ask which box was dropped down onto the eleven year old end of the table.  Not even thirty seconds later, the box of carcinogenic cupcakes had disappeared and all I was left with was the bitter resentment of a ***** napkin covered in chicken finger grease and empty wrappers of disappointment.
My mom then had the nerve to ask me to clean the dishes and utensils with remnants of cheese cake and stains from stirring their cappuccinos.  *Gee, seventeen.

there is a simple mono toned beeping in my brain

and as its bleeping, i keep saying

these fireworks for stars are brighter than they ever are

and i'm only lost on this captivating island for so long

i gaze and to gaze, is a miracle itself yet not as miraculous as the planets risen high in the sky

and as deep as the resin in my pipe.

and the grass, so much greener

and the water in this puddle is much cleaner

although i've gazed for such a deliberate extended time

and how it flies

like fireflies or some annoying dragon fly.

all flies. do fly but how high could i take this dragon fly

until she loses oxygen and begins to forfeit her life?

am i this dragon fly? Do i really wanna to die?

Does anyone?

hold on

anyway, as i was saying

am i viewed as absent minded,

when dwelling within my mind

seems to me to be fine?

is it absolutely outrageous that i can't hear you when you speak?

or that i choose not to?

because when you speak, i think, and when i think i dream, on all of that which i percieve to be truthful and great

and stuff

but i'm just analyzing, and finalizing how i really feel about the situation.

and in that deep contemplation i am in a state, and as i am in my state of being late

you are awaiting a response. which you instantly say

"nevermind"

I hate the n and v in that word.

with their sharp edges and falsifying curves.

staring into space now until  every color is one and every object a blur.

and then their is silence

and if you actually cared about the science of it all

you would know i only see what i want to see when i sleep

and so do you, but it's all the same to me.

i'll weave in and out of our conversation as i am

day dreaming of something blue, with warm heat rays

piercing into my very core.

it doesnt mean i'm bored, i just have an imagination,

what? oh...nothing i wasnt here for that anyway....

Wont stop bleeping, can't start breathing,
Knowing where the truth lies.
Listening to you say you miss them,
But what about you and I?

Was it real?
Or am I invisible?
If I died would you notice, would you even cry?
Was it just school days, memories fade?
Or are you a true friend of mine?

Breaking down and building up, but I can't decide.
Were you a true friend of mine?

Was it hope or a disguise?
Are you a true friend of mine?

Tell me! Was our friendship a lie?
Or are you a true friend of mine?

While we were sleeping, the sandman was creeping, whilst we were weeping he waited while peeping.... Dreams were then seeping into bags he was keeping... Ones  we were lapping up laughter, whilst skipping and leaping with joy, that was sweeping through love we were reaping, so much it was heaping up to sizes so great, then oh no, there's that bleeping we hate! Oh that wee thing we berate, that won't even wait whilst are dreams recreate, such a magical state we wishfully want as our fate.... Now the buzzer has buzzed, we're awake, it's too late! X

Letting it out to breathe, carbon monoxide detectors bleeping as smoke fills the moon
As it's ugly and I've already bared it
With ****** lips, my cranberry watch kiss
It is obvious too much
Wanna turn the projector screen on me
All of my insecurities on my face
Every word I ever said
Already..

When I stepped off any JetBlue flights

I always look forward in passing through customs

like a relief of fresh air, as I broad a taxi

and homeward to the hills,

Now it's like humiliations taking over one's pride:



#Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall. #



The smell of the countryside fresh air,  

The picturesque that blanket the countryside, (pleasing)

The welcoming of the breaded goats bleeping (Pleasing)

moves the little girl inside of this old gal.



These days it’s which hotel should I booked for my days stayed

in Quarantine, or which government facility will I be sent off too

Between a rock and a hard place,



I can’t stress hard enough about those Chinese.

Which make our Lebanese bombers looks like saints?

My fainted heart can’t stand this new normal:



The bleach rocks on the sands awaits my arrivals,

And I for one can’t wait to see this corvid19 as a historical memory

Too much emotional, overload for most of us.(including me) however,

being too hasty can also be deadly, or one would say  

Don't be hasty to hug! That was never a problem for me

I never hug, anyone...

Keep your distance, I keep mines too

Poetry is also a distance,  that why I love to compose..



Long enough have I dreamed of happiness,

Now I waited for news to strived for happiness once again

To dance from dusk to dawn, at Q in the community  

To walked freely on the sandy shore,

Without restriction, of a mask bandit,



I am not a swimmer, but to feel the salted water on my ashy feet,

The midst of sea upon my breast, and my cheap weaved curled into locks

That when I know, I am home again, upon that hill (Prout hill)

Where the neighbors' gossips, and tambourine echoes in the village church

On Sundays.

Cold and unfeeling,
The future seems freezing,
You left me alone,
Now there's no place to call home.

You said you would never leave,
Now I'm like dust on your sleeve,
Just brush me off,
And leave me with but a scoff.

Don't look back now,
You're such a bleeping cow,
Don't look at me with those pitying eyes,
You were the one who fed me lies.

Phones are bleeping,
as bell rings, gone age before.

Emails hit with bing,
as inbox sings, challenge raw.

People are hurrying,
as stride heavy, upon corridor.

Cars angry blaring,
as daze cast, expletives roar.

My space is glaring,
as corner table, trees restore.

Home foreswearing,
as serenity rules, office four.

Suicide, I thought,
would be my stage exit

(left)

until the pills got stuck in my throat, the doctors got stuck into my heart

pounding, their television screens bleeping

bringing me back
to Hell

when I was just a
step away

from Heaven

She smiled awkwardly, too young to drink,
And I wondered was this her first time,
As her muddled words tumbled out,

    “It’s not bad news.”

She looked at me, half-expectantly,
Like a child on Christmas morning,
And I wondered was she silently
Counting to 8, or 10, or the exact seconds
Some think-tank had determined was
Right, under the circumstances.

    “Do you want to see the body?”

I shook my head, as the image
Of my father, ever a thin man in life,
Sat up on a gurney, bare-chested,
Wired up to bleeping machines,
Flooded my inner eye.  That was
The last time I saw him, and the
Last time I ever would, and that
Is how I always remember him.

My clock will not stop bleeping and I can't get out of my bed. My hair is a knotted mess and there is a throbbing in my head. I stumble and stub my toes on a toy or two as I make my way to the kitchen for my first cup of brew. The coffee *** is on but its not what I think, instead of steaming hot coffee, I get an orange energy drink. It seems that one of the children decided to help me out. Now my  mouth tastes awful, I need to rinse it out. I have a two year old tugging at my leg. All I keep hearing is eggs, eggs ,eggs. My wife is still lost in la la land. I am not sure how much more of this I can stand. I try to turn on the morning news only to get kids t.v. . Now I am watching pointless cartoons, for the remote has a parental lock you see. So I run to fix breakfast and get burned seven times. Then it's off to get a shower, and hope I can come alive. I turn on the water and here is where I think I will stay. It seems to be the only place I can find a moments peace from my morning in disarray.

when the timestamp on your watch is
3:33
and for a split second
god shines down
from splintered heavens
and the breath that is silent
expands in my lungs
like a million sighs
like an enlarging balloon
racing to the explosion
I see the rapture in my digitalised smile
the bleeping raises to the crescendo
I feel the robot veins
I feel the steady hands
holding wrists
like ropes writ ready

god smiles like an enlarging balloon
hot and heavy
with bountiful love

but the timestamp flickers
from its devilish perfection
3:33
off the edge
cleaved down in a cliff face
I race on the blade of it
the seconds of sanctimonious breathing
coming to a stop

3:34

alternately titled: tick tock runneth amuck
seconds elapse imperceptibly
leaving me dumbstruck,
how quickly fleeting tempus fugit;
ofttimes imagined as time thief.

Hence following vignette: quiet as a mouse lurks the time thief

The invisible hours hoarder stealthily steals precious seconds (like minute hors d'oeuvres) away during the dead of night surreptitiously and unsuspectingly robs and buries me alive by subtracting each and every precious second of my tender life.

As the world spins, the days fly by at nearly the hummingbird wings at the deathly hallow supersonic sound, this little elfin grot sized goniff (groomed by Father Time) monopolizes and usurps a greater role like some unwanted guest who overstays his welcome.

Mortality (visited by quick and painless demise) on the other hand would be an especial balm, relief and tonic to my countless decades long existential slog, which this model ’59 hew man cargo happens to be in sore need and want of that fairy tale genie in a bottle to grant me eternity.

How quickly the hands blindingly **** by instantaneously eclipsing memories from yesterday (when all my troubles seemed so far away) as I just barely shucked off the frock from today.

Meanwhile faint hints of tomorrow (albeit dark shadows creeping imperceptibly closer from the edge of night as all my children frolic in the summer of their blissful innocence totally oblivious to the galloping generational gourmand grandfatherly clocker) hungrily prowling on the outskirts of styx strewn groveling grooved globe.

Nocturnal creatures emerged from respective hideouts regaling in fleeting festivities (apropos to their species/ genus) before the curtain rises on another dawning day.

Although an unseen yet palpable grim harbinger (per prescribed existential allowance) precedes, and allocates finite years sans spontaneous birth of life, the daily hubbub finds this introspective individual self-absorbed in gloom.

Thus, he infrequently finds himself conscious of that eye popping, jaw dropping, mind boggling sheer speed of light flash representative of his passing life. Where in the world did those days, weeks, months, years, and decades go? Try as one might to catch the robber baron of ages, he/she also appears to be at least one second ahead.

These immeasurable micro moments appear to leap ever faster as one inches closer to that average length of longevity. Odd though, that these indiscriminate discrete constituent parts of being consciousness well nigh impossible to isolate, yet recognition prevails at cradle to grave cycle.

I feel utterly dumbstruck at diminishing residence on this planet now while walking along the boulevard of broken dreams. An indistinguishable blur (akin to the brushstroke of an artist across blank palette yet to be covered with an unpredictable product) the only evidence that tempus fugit.

Now as one crotchety curmudgeon contemplating cumulative chapters of mein kampf (from childhood to doddering sexagenarian senescence), nostalgia for yesteryear like a parasite symbiotically festering inside for unrequited liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

The second these minute, gnarled, bent arthritic fingers manage to lay hands on that bleeping son of a blank, hours and days will be like one endless months long week-end without parental supervision.

Throughout mankind's awakened consciousness
elusive abstract notion
identifying past, present, and future
adopted as avuncular personification;
Father Time an apropos sobriquet
impossible concept to grasp
within the mind of one Finnish huckabuck,
whose clodhoppers get mired in muckamuck
analogous to quicksand yours truly stuck
markedly challenged, hence
mission scuttled when attempting to zuck.

Ever since the advent of civilization
contrivances crafted to measure
days, weeks, months...
years, decades, centuries...
analytical “gifted” anonymous minds,
wrought ever more sophisticated inventions
to divide existence into manageable units.

Now twenty first century **** sapiens
technological atomic clock work mechanisms
markedly catapulted by quantum leaps
immense degrees of precision  
extremely accurate types of devices
linkedin with state of the art electronics.

At this fleeting instant
(approximately 8:18 AM
September 13th, 2022)
ever so briefly wedged between
what elapsed and future events to arise)
impossible mission to isolate
that illusory present,

not only cuz the herein now
flits away at light speed
(or greater - you're right quite dubious),
but also everywhere within
cosmic space/time continuum
infinite microscopic and
macroscopic events occur.

As an amateur thinker
I feel baffled when pondering
that crude convenient schema
whereby greater minds than mine
devised devices to measure passage of time.

Yours truly can barely articulate
his farfetched dumbfoundedness,
me merely a simple brute
(shortish but not so nasty),
whose permanently creased
furrowed brow courtesy
his scrutinizing noggin
encasing fifty plus shades of gray matter,

whereby one percent bonafide Neanderthal
deoxyribonucleic acid explains
atavistic predilection issuing primal grunting,
when foraging for small (lame) game,
cuz feeble minded twenty first century
run of the mill garden variety **** sapiens
amuses himself (mentally)
toying with Einsteinian paradigm.

Though barely able to fathom
mind bending and boggling concepts
theoretically linkedin if an object
subjected to travel speed of light
(particularly an objet d'art - ha

think The Persistence of Memory
series of clock paintings by Salvador Dali)
mass becomes infinite
as does energy required to move entity.

Obviously the ability to wrap one's head
(or hands for that matter) around,
humongous (super sized) material essence
filling subsequent seconds, minutes, hours...
defies feasibility to grasp,

neither could ways nor means
allow, enable and provide
any semblance to hold (tangibly) as solid
something so abstract
as a singular moment, yes?

The above (ambiguously stated) thought exercise
equally as challenging where to locate
beginning and/or ending point
upon Möbius strip.

the high
the glaze on the cake
made of sugar and artificial color
once the spill fizzles

you're left with the drizzle
like a Monday morning rain
and you carry the pain with you
it's in your stiletto

and running pantyhose
in your nightstand drawer
with the poetry book he bought
and your nerves taut

as the strings of a bow
till you let the "bleeping thing"
go
but it follows you

hollows you out as a log
feet stuck in a bog of his lies
swarming like flies in your face
and not a trace of him –

'cept his picture in the nightstand drawer
along with the poetry book that he bought