There was a dead horse on my way to work today
The horse had been there a while
I do not know why or how it was left there
But I certainly felt a kinship towards it
I'm a doer, not a waiter, I swear
I only ever wait for impossible things
Sort of like I'm waiting for Godot, in a way
Or like waiting for the dead horse to come alive
Why did it die, anyway? Who left it there?
I heard it beckon to me, softly, quietly
It told me about its pain and it felt mine
It related itself to me, singing sweetly
I could not relate mine to it
But I felt slowly but surely my drifting
We switched places, the dead horse and I
I was the horse, on the side of the road
Down by the railway, dead
And the horse was the one that went to work today
I spent my day, baking in the sun
My odor becoming more and more pungent
And the horse worked tirelessly at the workshop

I'm waiting for the dead horse to come alive
Why was it left out in the sun to die?
Why did nobody care for it in its time of need?
Now it's growing more and more rancid
**** all around its feet and face
And the other horses are all gone
No funeral was held, no ceremony
Just the sweet, inviting smell of death
Quite a squalid state of affairs
How I long to understand how he feels right now

I'm waiting for my dead friend to come alive
Why was he left in the hospital to die?
Why could I not care for him in his time of need?
Now he's growing further and further
Water all around his feet and face
And the other friends are all gone
How I wish I could hear him just once more
Or see the phone ring and know it's him
How I wish he'd ask me how the music is going
Or lecture me about the futility again

I'm waiting for my broken heart to heal
This one really needs no explanation, does it?
All those with broken hearts deserve it
Or at least that's what they keep telling me

I'm waiting for the dead horse to speak to me
A lonely, rotting bovine on the side of the road
Maggots live as kings tonight
"Horses aren't bovines"
I yell at myself in reprimand
"I know, but I forgot the categorization"
I respond in a slightly altered intonation

I'm waiting for Godot today
I like waiting for impossible things
It fills me with purpose, and prolongs the inevitable
As long as I wait and do there is no death
I have long since ceased the doing, but waiting is fine
This bus stop sure is lonely, save for the old man
The old man keeps asking for cigarettes
I reach into my pockets to see
There is a decade-old pack of cigarettes
He takes one and thanks me with a slur
"Did you know I used to smoke, too?"
I ask with a childish naiveté
"Of course, I was there."
He answers as though it's second nature to him

I'm waiting to grow young again
I'm sick of being the old man in the bus stop
I'm sick of the decade old cigarettes from the young man
He is always late and he never buys me a fresh pack

I'm waiting to **** myself
"I'm thinking of ending things" as some might say
In some ways I'm quite like Charlie Kaufman
I also have trouble finishing my work
And my work also makes very little sense to others
But where he is original, I'm ripping him off
And so I'm waiting to **** myself
In a sense though, I'm already dead, baking in the sun
Because remember, I am the dead horse
Quite fond of beating the dead horse in this poem, too
I wonder what my family would say about that analogy
"That's very funny" they might say "you should be a philosopher"
I wonder what my psychologist would say about that analogy
"That's completely normal" she might say
"Everybody relates to dead horses and fantasizes"
"You're just like all the others"
I wonder if she's correct again

I'm waiting to become the John Fahey of the clarinet
In a sense I already am that
Because like Fahey, nobody listens to what I do
But where he is original, I'm ripping him off
And so I'm waiting to become the John Fahey
Of the clarinet
I already said that before, didn't I?

I'm waiting for this season of Better Call Saul to end
While it's airing I cannot **** myself
I am far too invested in it to **** myself
And surely enough these weeks get longer and longer
So I'm alive more and more each week

On my way home from work, I pass the same road again
The horse is alive, and seems happy to see me again
I wonder what caused the anomalous behavior
Perhaps it was sick? But how did it get better so fast?
The ideal time to end it has passed
Because remember, I am the dead horse
And if the horse is alive, I am alive also
And so, I think you've already guessed what I'm going to say
I'm waiting to **** myself again

Your cow pajamas make me smile.
Their pink, covered in little bubbly bovines, and they smell like you.
As much as I love them for their adorable nature, they would be so much better if you were actually wearing them.
there needs to be legs inside these pink threads.
there needs to be toes poking out the end.
there needs to be a belly for the cows to cling onto, in order to stay put.
without you, they do not really have a purpose.
they were carelessly flung onto your side of the bed when you left.
and now they occasionally end up on my chest, cuddled to me, in a pathetic attempt to remember your scent.

nothing is as cute without you. not even cow pajamas.

The ranch-bound bovines, in dehydration,
yet wary of Kool-aid, declined to drink.
They grazed in wonder, cowed rumination:
where does “beef” come from?  A herd tends to think

of pasturage, water, and basic needs.
Ranch-hands assured them all was in order;
privileged guests enjoy the finest  feeds.
Cows, content on this side of the border

try Buddhism, yoga – or simply gaze…
though things in the distance loomed ominous
(those lots at the edge of the well-hoofed ways)
– and a stench wafted into their consciousness.

Yet calves frolicked on while the bulls mounted heifers –
dreamed vegan dreams as they nibbled grasses
some earned doctorates, others went clubbing;
all loosed sustainable methane gases.

Soothing their calves with fables and stories
where cows are the measure of pastured life
they deflected the gist of the young ones’ queries,
affirming that Truth means avoidance of strife.

“It’s best to just graze. Don’t ask questions dear.
We’re on this planet without any clue.
We evolved. From just what is a little unclear –
but Cow Science has proved that it’s true.”

Common rural folk,
the kind who fight for food and shelter and
when they have it
they keep it, store it in holes and barns.
Children dole the corn to fowl
and bovines who gladly eat and give

sustenance, enough to share or save for
when the worst that can haps

Uncles hire warriors to keep watch,
or the no-class at all trash take
all they have inherited and
eat it and burn the hides,

old men beat empty baskets, soft
beat them, soft around the fire,
old women shuffle, shhh see
the ash mixt wit' dust rise on dust devils,
swirl swish dance sing soft hear
hear us
shhh sing soft some rain come soon

Peace in the valley, come see,
soft dance.

We’d known him, back in the day
At dear old Millard Fillmore Elementary,
As Three-Desks Tommy, highly imaginative monicker
Deriving from his decidedly unimaginative first name
And the fact that he, indeed, had three desks,
Each of them stuffed chock-full
With uncounted numbers of pencils and erasers,
Any number of homework papers
(Usually A’s and A-pluses,
Though there were the odd B’s and B-minuses as well,
As he was a bright, in fact inordinately bright, child,
But sometimes given to sloppiness and stray pencil marks
And a predilection for not reading the directions completely)
Eerily accurate renditions of dinosaurs,
Wildly inventive stories featuring rainbow-hued dragons,
Noble and voluble talking bovines,
And knights and knaves of every size, shape, and suzerain,
Stories which resided cheek-to-jowl with some bit of uneaten sandwich
Until such time it made its existence
Abundantly clear to the custodial staff.
We’d never stopped to think much about his miniature Maginot Line;
It was what Tommy did and had always done
For as long as we could remember,
Though there were some teachers and an assistant principal or two
Who thought the whole thing was permissive bordering on coddling
(His teacher was a veteran of the wars, and well-insulated by tenure,
But she had grown weary of over-glasses glares and snide asides
When Tommy’s name came up in the staff room,
A death by a thousand cuts and all that),
And one day, while moving one of his desks
To clear space for Simon Says,
It had caught on a sticky spot,
Overturning onto a soon-to-be-fractured toe.
When he came back to school, accompanied by an ungainly cast
And an equally ungainly pair of crutches, his teacher took him aside.
Tommy, she purred, Maybe someone is trying to tell you something.
The other kids all make due with one desk,
And I’m sure you can find a way to as well, don’t you, Tommy?
So Tommy embarked on a great cleansing of his little fiefdom,
Filling several garbage cans with his collected works,
(Math papers and mastodons, bologna and Brobdingnagians)
And afterward he’d kept himself to one standard desk,
Duly filing, returning, and circular-filing his paperwork
As the occasion demanded
(Though one time Murph Dunkirk
Asked Three-Desks if he minded downsizing;
Tommy just shrugged, and said Well, it’s better than a broken foot)
And maybe in his dreams he had a thousand desks,
A thousand tops to fling open,
A thousand repositories for light and legend
Or perhaps he never gave it so much as a second thought,
No way to know now, one supposes,
Though if anything out of the ordinary had come his way,
We would’ve probably heard.

There’s safety in numbers
I’ve oft heard it said-
Unless there are ninety cows
stuck in a shed.
Those numerous ruminants
Munching on hay
Produce mucho methane
in the course of a day.
Ninety odd bovines
Snacking on grass
Take in the fuel
And produce moos and gas.
Those flatulent heifers
Many cow pies produced
Until a stray spark
blew a hole in the roof.
It was shocking to the farmer
And a blow to the farm,
But at least we take comfort
That not one cow was harmed.

Penguins waddle.

Camels spit.

Aardvarks burrow.

And bovines ****.

There were six of them, officer.
Each 800 pounds.
They had horns on their heads
and they moo'd mean and loud.
They trampled my gate,
made a mess of my pond
then they scattered my guests
and the party was on!
They tipped over the table
that held all the beer.
smashed the cans with their hooves
and they lapped up the cheer.
With the smell of their relatives
seared on the grill
I thought after their keeger
they'd be out for the ****.
I banged on my garbage pails
desperately thinking
The noise would stampede
these fat heifers out drinking.
They finished the Bud I had
bought at the store.
Then they sent my dog "here we go"
looking for more.
Your police car's loud sirens
put the bovines to flight
and they disappeared
drunkenly into the night.
Believe me Officer
I know what your thinking
but truly and honestly
I haven't been drinking


much

in this pasture,
one hundred days past,
scores cheered as the current coursed
through Bundy's body

this evening, I am here,
solitaire, except for my *****,
the cattle, and the fireflies sprinkled
against the night

my spaniel nips
at the flies, but they are quick,
eluding her jaws to perform
a brilliant alchemy again

amidst this spectacle,
cows chew their cud, unperturbed, unaware
it seems, magical lightning comes without
thunder from these creatures

the bovines don't scatter
as I walk among them--perhaps they’ve forgotten
those revelers here on a crisp winter night, eager
to celebrate an extinguishing of light

There were six of them, officer.
Each 800 pounds.
They had horns on their heads
and they moo'd mean and loud.
They trampled my gate,
made a mess of my pond
then they scattered my guests
and the party was on!
They tipped over the table
that held all the beer.
smashed the cans with their hooves
and they lapped up the cheer.
With the smell of their relatives
seared on the grill
I thought after their keeger
they'd be out for the ****.
I banged on my garbage pails
desperately thinking
The noise would stampede
these fat heifers out drinking.
They finished the Bud I had
bought at the store.
Then they sent my dog "here we go"
looking for more.
Your police car's loud sirens
put the bovines to flight
and they disappeared
drunkenly into the night.
Believe me Officer
I know what your thinking
but truly and honestly
I haven't been drinking

much

THE I.C.U. SMART BED                                        
In the intensive care unit
I got my first, Smart Bed
Worth sixty thousand dollars
At least that’s what they said

This bed could move
This bed could talk
This bed could sing
This bed could rock

It was so advanced
It dispensed my medications
Displayed all my vitals
And their fluctuations

If I hummed a tune
I don’t know how it guessed
But it would always, somehow
The right song, finesse

This made me apprehensive
To myself express
For even if I sneezed
It would say, “God Bless”

It could measure temperature
And also what you weigh
Give you, a heads up
And the time of day

It could tilt and lift
Had settings to vibrate
And each of those vibrations
It could modulate

If I couldn’t sleep
Or if I tossed and turned
It would start to rock me
This at night I learned

To get into a rhythm
Became the nightly trick
Cause if you weren’t in sync
You would get sea sick

And waking up
Became a rousing charm
First the soft, sweet music
Then that ******* alarm

If I was sad
It read my mood
Then cheered me up
Dispensed snack food

And if by chance
I blew a ****
It printed out
An air flow chart

The mattress was
Just full of air
With all these pockets
Everywhere

If I sat down
It receded
Then puffed back up
As I needed

For with a move
Of any sort
It was right there
To give support

And when I lay
But did not move
It seemed to fill
My every groove

So when I sat
To have my snack
It spread my cheeks
Then filled my crack

But when I had to poo
A hole would open up
Just big enough in size
For my **** to drop

When I was done my movement
It gently washed and dried
Quite the nice experience
I really was surprised

But, my biggest thrill
Was when I had to ***
Oh, what it could do for women
If it so pleasured me

This suction tube extended
And did my prostrate meet
Then, attached right to it
Like a Bovines ****

It ****** out all the *****
Now that was quite a trip
And then it took a pause
Awaiting that last drip

So, I was quite upset
When, they rudely me dispatched
For I was by then, to it
Very much attached

But, before I left that room
I cannot tell a lie
I gave my bed a hug
And it told me “Goodbye”
BOEMS BY JA 273        
Written in hospital 2014

Can I stay in the woods
Just another day - another hour
To feel the breathing of the earth
To bear witness to these massive green lungs
These carbon giants drinking as one
Devouring the transgressions of their global environs
Such an immense task
Struggling and failing to stay before
Their numbers cleaved in half
In a scant one hundred years
Cut and razed and plowed and concreted
Supplanted by cities and roads and grazing lands
Growing wealth for some
Growing meat for some
What to do? What to do?
Can't grow a forest in a parking lot
Can't displace those gassy bovines
From the desert evolves the jungle
But we don't have another hundred years
For now I'll stay in the woods
Just another day - another hour
To feel the breathing of the earth
                                                RC

The memory is so clear, so here-and-now
That it most likely never really happened,
One of those scenes which lead you to insist, rather huffily,
That it indeed was just that way.
In my mind’s eye, it is a mid-November late afternoon,
The light, no longer tinged with October’s sepia softness,
Slanted, harsh—bitter and defeated, perhaps,
And, in a stand of denuded trees
Some distance beyond the barbed-wire fence
Sitting just past the pavement’s end,
Placed there to enclose a scruffy herd of cows
(Fence and bovines equally shabby and time-worn,
Thus ensuring peace between animal and sub-division lawn)
A mad surfeit of crows shriek and scream and babble
Like the end of days, and I feel—no, I know—
The birds are trying to say something to me,
Impart some secret normally revealed
Only to those ancients skilled in the arts of diving truths
Found in their entrails, but I am unable to glean anything
From their frenzied clacking and jawing.
Soon, it is time to go in
(The day, not unlike my dinner, is getting cold)
And presently it will be time to receive
Those gently stated but unassailable verities
From the evening’s designated wise man
(Rotarian glad-handing Mickey,
The madly winking, almost leering Scrooge McDuck,
Perhaps even the good Walt himself)
Words requiring no pre-washing,
No parsing, no translation.

Ah... already the summer
approaches closing time,
but yours truly can squeeze
one more rhyme
before September first,
thus the following lines after...

Brainstorming, concentrating
panning... for poem
idea shattered brew
tilly by deafening seasonal
greensward cutting crew
contracted throughout summer to mow
leaves of grass
every Tuesday, which drew
attention toward fragrant aroma
seeping into nostrils
of me - match hew,
heavily negated true

quiescence courtesy ear splitting
soundcloud of driving
mowers even moo
ving bovines would
clap cloven hooves
over soft as lambs wool

sensitive hearing micro corkscrew
innards, viz their *****
shaped audiological
anatomical accouterments -
cow word lee lowing Jew
pitter Io sliver by jove whew
once silence returns
(after cessation rip snorting bedlam)
savoring the hum of nature anew,
and moost likely relish
fresh cut leaves of grass
as I inhale analogous

delectable waft of homebrew
albeit molecules borne aloft
after sharp heavy duty blades
of industrial riding mowers bestrew
higglety pigglety, helter skelter
juicy fruit chlorophyll rich
plants releasing nectar
sweet as honeydew
olfactory imbibing nostalgic view
of yesterday, when agrarian farmsteads
populated landscape picturesquely
anointing, exuding, messaging...

perfuming faint clue
intimating rural lifestyle forebears
hapt tubby privy too,
where deer and antelope played
unaccosted by impending urbanization,
hence such idyllic serene rue
man nation - visage you

would probably concur
as most divine comity
worth more than any buckeroo
could purchase - vestiges vanishing
without a trace adieu
mother nature nowhere found
except caged up within human zoo.

Pay me because I will tell them what you want them to hear. I’m surreptitious and very fast. My message from you to them will always last. Why you ask?  Experience surpass because people are vacuous, still listening to cretinous bovines, while taking their selfies. They think everything is fine. I’ll take your dime if negotiations are prime.  Always worked every time.

Pay me because I will tell them what you want them to hear. I’m surreptitious and I am fast. My message from you to them will always last.  Why you ask?  Here’s my resume and my experience is that I’ve been around and they are vacuous but still listening to cretinous bovines while taking their selfies as if everything is fine as wine. The price you pay is the price you get. Just remember I never accept any checks at all because your *** can’t turn them into cash. I’m just asking for a simple percentage of your vintage and all will be. Whom am I you ask?  Well I’m the Risk sent from you to me.

Pay me because I will tell them what you want them to hear. I’m surreptitious and very fast. My message from you to them will always last. Why you ask?  Experience surpass because people are vacuous, still listening to cretinous bovines, while taking their selfies. They think everything is fine. I’ll take your dime if negotiations are prime.  Always worked every time. Hell in the end it becomes mine. Here’s where you sign…..

At the local Assizes, Donkey
decided that the French Charolet
Tuareau, was misunderstood by
by a prudish herd of Irish Friesian's
and wrongly accused of #MooToo
when he remarked to a local bullock,

" See her over the there, the one with
  the big Udder's, Best Lait in the field ".

                     <>

The case was dismissed on the grounds
of parochialism and mono linguisticism
by the Anglophone Irish Bovines who
after 60 years in the EU should have known
better. Donkey also suggested that perhaps
in the light of this incident, perhaps they
might consider Brexiting as their attitude
to Europe was no different than that of their
neighbours across the border in N. Ireland.

Just a garden variety generic wordsmith
teasing out reasonable rhyme courtesy ploy;
self plagiarizing boot juiced barely abiding
by ruff dogma, with enigmatic joie
de vivre charisma,
which oft times witnessed
gentle green giant gentile goy
essentially me being a decoy
occasionally rocketing, outsourcing,
kickstarting, feigning
tubby an Anchorite, ahoy!

Life in the K9 corps
ain't so doggone ease zee
absolutely daunting, hence
lemme share with ye
haunting, and unnerving, the whee
kid nasty, short, and brutish
ways, and truth be told,
I would rather be outwardly
hidebound, gagged, and flagellated
(threatened tubby slowly

strangled to death by bonafide vee
numb muss snakes, yours truly
screaming ****** ******,
viper esse scent chilly resembling
caduceus), and/or re:
peat head lee bitten
(till death do us part)
by vampire (weekend) bats pre
dominant lee inhabiting
spooky attic, nee

above cattle crying
abattoir, bovines bull heave -
meeting grisly demise, where prowling
hoodlums - vicious murderous electric
kool aid acid tested gang
infesting mean streets -
viz hit head hay be us corpse lee
ving shot up desolation
(think skidrow) role much
more blood curdling, key
ping adrenaline heart pounding,

and sweat pouring directive hee
ping helplessness 'specially,
when this gree
gear re: us macho foo fighter,
accompanied by my grateful
dead cutting crew - on free
key Friday the 13th
assigned directive to man
the most crime ridden, and be
dev filled violent bailiwick,
donning head to toe
bulletproof suit vests.

Nevertheless, yours truly fraught with
horrendously extreme
difficulty, and more
challenging, enduring, and grueling
than surviving training
undertaking associated
with elite military clique,
and attendant rightfully
earned linkedin prestige
joining: Raiders of United
States Marine Corp,
Green Berets United States Army
Special Forces, or Navy Seals.

double negative meaning golden years
joie de vivre of married life unknown
during our sputtering rancorous courtship
when skirting within danger zone
witnessed countless ruptures
courtesy selfish wordsmith,
who authored these words.

Circa ~ late spring/ early summer 1978
twas at behest of Harriet Harris,
thus due credit mother dearest
who tried, to bribe, coax, exhort...
(protracted effort not all in vain),
cuz her second of three progeny,
and sole son i.e. (me) to
commingle, frolic, immerse myself
quintessentially ushering yawping zeal,
cuz general disposition courtesy yours truly
heavily trended toward solitude,
limiting interpersonal opportunities
minus those crafted,
videre licet overactive imagination (mine).

I took immediate affinity
(think duck adapting to water)
to milieu of contra dancing
and soon became popular with the gals,
surprising myself how enjoyable
untrammeled pinteresting linkedin hoopla
delivered je ne sais quois joie de vivre,
(the most fun one could experience
without taking off their clothes),
me no exhibitionist by a far cry!

How fitting and proper
to state we (thyself and spouse)
met (for reel) and jiggered mine johnson
at Thursday night contra dance
Summit Presbyterian Church
6757 Greene Street,
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19119
(initially held at Church
of Saint Martin-in-the-Fields,
Saint Martins Lane, Chestnut Hill,
Philadelphia, PA 19118
scads of years past
(actually more'n deux times deuce
score earth's orbitz around
or quattuor decades ago),
whereby the missus claims,
she espied (yours truly
then as) young lad
(bookworm type fella)
with boyish good looks
and golden locks
emblematic of Samson,
who would be envious (ha).

At four foot eleven Delilah,
the petite prospective missus
(plus her waist length brunette tresses)
ball of fire stood out amidst
madding crowd drew attention (mine),
yet she vociferously, vigorously,
and vehemently still claims
initial awkward overtures
ascribed to Zison assertiveness.

Yours truly, he blatantly admits pranced as novitiate
devoid of interpersonal finesse and polish to whit,
a mere neophyte in a nutshell
hankering to sow wild oats that's zit.

Whereby our relationship got off to
(how shoal I say) rocky start
gallivanting with thee lass,
who would eventually
take me (grudgingly - ha)
as her respective lifelong sweetheart.

Unbeknownst to yours truly,
pent up unleashed testosterone
experienced disquieting alarm
adequately adept equipped with strong arm,
I tapped into secrete Lucky charm,
(albeit surreal environment
cavorting amidst madding crowd)
helped cultivate feral latent impotent
animal husbandry to farm
long fallow fresh unadulterated field

jabbering innocent blather,
brazenness embarrassingly proliferated,
but provocative behavior
smote ego (mine)
not with irrecoverable harm,
analogous to angry bees didst
adequately buzzfeeding naiveté
beehive ving like metaphorical swarm
(smartly stinging me) think freshly cooked
cockles and muscles clammy and warm.

I eventually acquired figurative ropes
regarding dating game
basic primal version
(at that time apps unnecessary)
nevertheless, call of the wild
thee woke former slumbering
beastie boy needed receptive body to tame,
he thus availed himself as lame
crash test dummy
feebly acquired social skills
bungled how to romance a capricious dame
readied himself to aim.

Aye celebrate thy life partner
with balance and swing
proffering courtesy turn
exhibiting gratitude occasionally
while with linkedin elbows turn a circle
punctuating spontaneity with do-si-do.

July 25th marks wedding anniversary
delineating, demarcating, denoting,
where the missus supposedly
filched mine bachelorhood,
whereby justice of the peace
Judge Henry Schireson,
(who still maintains an office
925 Montgomery Avenue, Suite 100
Narberth, Pennsylvania 19072-1913)
accommodated us as we became newlyweds
pledging our troth that hot July twenty fifth,
I try to recollect any vestige
constituting distinguishing,
under_scoring outstanding details
sifting thru hazy memories of past.
Today references when more' n force gore
and seven years ago
tha youngest daughter of
William and Sylvia Zison
found her lifetime beau (zoe)
pea ping over a paperback
(at present aye got nada clue of the title),
unbeknownst to him,
he would be
doing lifetime penance as a husband
and father, no longer

able to keep his head underground
like an ostrich or emu
foisted into marriage
when flagellated cell
didst ova whelm,
and subsequently flue
max, a panic prone
pencil necked geek
soon to learn goo
goo gaga, and brushing up
on Horton Hears a Hoo

learning to swaddle
airtight as an igloo
though a devout atheist gentile,
he attests genealogical lineage
linkedin many a Jew
but unfortunately only
scant details this groom knew,
hence he fabricated
while flushing in the loo,
which sketchy family tree
did include roomy, loony,

goofy, and cookey
offshoots, (essentially deadwood
pruning hooks never took down),
hence weak human DNA stock
freely germinating cow
wards less bright than
cloven hoofed bovines moo
ching and sometimes
tasting ****** Semitic brew,
especially espying bear naked lady
even yours truly

hollered yabba dabba doo
tasting verboten fruit
predestined to sire daughters
after enjoying despacito
while playing flugelhorn spitting
sputtering semantic glue
whereby biological totally
tubular fates loosed full bore
obligatory, yet paternal loving chore
foisting dada track detour
invoking fatherly delight

as fate found me to explore
the joys and sorrows
engaging das mister Harris
chieftain, sans family of four
attending, diapering, and pampering galore
which necessary task
aye could, nor would
be able to ignore
from which pier rill us
infant sea bay bee
launched jarring

insightful growing pains
attendant 'pon requisite
summer re: autotomy offspring,
when tears streamed
down cheeks as more
declarations of independence
meant nudging flight while pouring
heartfelt love shorering, and anchoring,
viz Harris blackstrap -
molasses survival skills,

thence giving progeny Thor
row lee - wharf fare
levying my best ******
gluten and MSG free
emotional bulwark whar
renting channeling concurrently bolstering
your preponderent swell alcove
harboring shipshape bon voyage.

Expediting distilled
when in the quarts of hue man ovens
this neptune salad days
steps outside summit Presbyterian Church -
and Westview Streets
near Weavers Way,
where yarn not gonna believe,
our traditional Jewish
wedding vows as merely imagined
courtesy fictitious Norwegian Jewish
bachelor farmer wannabe

so please pardon perfectly praiseworthy
precise preferential prevarication
page turning suspense
filled vaulted sepulchral air
ushering the veiled spouse to be
while afar off trumpets did blare
(arranged by
well known matchmaker Harriet Kuritsky)
creating the ambiance
analogous to a renaissance faire
yet contrasted in that this bachelor

and other men related to me
segregated with females and males
at a set distance away
i.e. not physically near
dictated by mandates
of Hebrew coda
stemming from Moses biological tree
which, separate quarters
ample enough to spare
until the proper toll of the bell would peal
accompanied by unified yippee!
After Rabbi Boyce officiated
for the groom and bride,
the crowd exalted with cheers
of L’Chaim with chutzpah
oompah sizzling and hot.

Klezmer musicians played schmaltz
which accompanied hoopla
as couples did waltz.
All the while family, friends and relatives
blessed the new groom and bride
although highly orthodox,
the men removed respective skullcap
more commonly known as yarmulke
some plain others dyed
women and children broke out
in traditional dance and song
while other did clap
exemplifying Yahweh to deliver mazal tov
and shalom as spiritual guide
to the pronounced husband and wife
who pledged their troth in a snap.
Toward conclusion
of typical Jewish wedding,
a full goblet of kosher red wine
got tossed in the air
this (in conjunction
with crush of emptied wine glass
sacred apex rite
of passage communicated a sign
and marshaled the crowd
to begin a local Jerusalem exodus
symbolic and clear.
As the newlyweds blissfully
and radiantly strolled arm in arm
and exited the Synagogue,
the euphoric and excited crowd
did house tossed handfuls
of uncle Ben’s unconverted libertarian rice
grown from norwegian bachelor farmers
on nearby organic whole foods farm
a chauffeur waited
to shuttle newlyweds to honeymoon location
passersby waved and bowed
and local fire department
rang a false alarm.

If humans were meant to be
carnivores then haemorrhoids,
constipation, suppositories or
****** laxatives would never
have needed to be invented.

Animal protein is an articulated
truck in a narrow windy country road
where herbivore grass is growing
up the centre like a crease in groomed
hair, going to to a baby's christening.

Sometimes adventurous bovines
that have heard about greener pastures
the other side of the fence, end up
grazing between the hedge rows,
thus bringing the lorry to a halt.

No amount of shooing or even mooing
is going to shift the blockage and there
is no way round it neither, a pile up
occurs as more traffic arrives along the
single lane road with no lay by.

It is almost as if the driver has taken
his load into a Cul de Sac, cursing and
swearing ensues and there is no hope
of reversing, this is a full on pile up
while meanwhile the cow chews the cud.

This call for GPS, some sort of assisted
space suppository guided system via
satellite instruction from head office
where the load was initially discharged
to locate a drover to solve the impasse.

Once the obstacle has been herded, the
bowel begins a snail pace all the time
watching through the windscreen at the
phenomenon of a an animal ******* and
walking at the same time, it's amazing.

Mind you, vegans and vegetarians can
almost do that, but have you ever listened
to Carnivores grunt in public cubicles or
have you ever taken note of how little time
vegetarians take to evacuate the windy road?


Ps.

And no splash!

The losing

It was a magnificent bull it dominated
and cowed any upstart bull trying to flirt with his bovines
there was a lean bull that refused to be chased off the field
it came to blows, at first it looked like the big bull
would win, but it lacked stamina, defeated it walked to the
stables the humiliation was all too much
and it refused to come out until the farmer gave it a bar
of chocolate with nuts.
The bull told itself OK, So I lost, but I´m still the biggest oxen
around this neighbourhood.

He said how to the cow
and she responded with
a Jackson ******* splatter
on concrete in green ink.


ps.

How, an Irish colloquialism
for ushering bovines to the
milking parlour.