Proclaimed the paper-cutout placard on the table:
Clothless gray plastic-surfaced round.

In this immense faux-stone (concrete?)
Faux-English country house
We escape to the top of the stairs:
The no admittance sign is no deterrent.

The iridescence of your skirt is captivating
But all I can remember is living in a castle like this one
When I was a little blonde nothing
And feeling the way I do now,
As if there's been no transformation, no progress.

Maybe there has,
And this band must be pretty great
To keep this many old white people dancing so enthusiastically
For such a long time:
An ancient one with a Christmas-themed vest
Foxtrots with a once-lady in a polyester pants suit
Thin hair dyed roofing-tar black, suede kitten heels clacking.

The world's a **** strange place.
Even if we feel like we aren't quite awake,
We'll adjust our stockings and fill our plates
With that mystery-shrouded gelatinous citrus dessert
And our plastic cups with apple cider, light beer, 7-Up.

Endure a few more minutes on this rented dancefloor with me
Because they're playing love shack
And who doesn't smile at the mere notion of the B-52s?

These bangs make me look up
Already make eye contact,
like a boss
Friend days "sup?"
I say "wuddup?"
I hear "go hard"
What does that mean?
Do your best
Through what I see,
It is keep on keeping calm
And keep on singing songs.
Whatever makes you happy
Corny as ****, whistle a tune
Not give a ****, or a ****
Or a promise
Viewed from your lips
If that's what it is, ****.

Let's go skate, I'll  meditate
Everyday, against a current
Staying strong and keeping along
In the present day
What do you all say?

Fall asleep on a still ocean
Wake up on a cloud
Still dreaming
Wake up on a star
Almost there
In the darkness

Open my eyes and I finally see planets, galaxy
around me

Whatever makes you happy
In your dreams and overcame fears.
Never stopping 'til the heart is content, transpired peacefulness through energy.

When sleeping, my hair is up above me
If this is when I am free in the end...
Hair cut? Thinking so, why not?
Allow it to go because it'll be too hot to touch the shoulders
Longing to be with the fresh palm trees,
Fresh springs and great eat.
Frizbees, mountains, deserts heat is where I need to be.
Squishy feeling
underneath my feet.
and again more trees
Keeping me on my way
Trucking' along
Singing more songs
in the summer's rain
Tap dancing and I'm gone.

What is truth?
That's an easy question
Actually, that's in a different demention, with words spinning around it, like a universe.
From chest, lips to ear, the hearer is not relating from the original scene.
You "had to be there" moment is what's very keen to truth.
The truth is inside of you.
That means that you and I or me and you, don't know what its like, inside each others life.
But here I am
And there is you
First site may be the end to some
But judge not because I am just one
"I am a Soul and Have a body"
A wise man Gar, once said.
I know we go on
there is no end.
Live life to the fullest
If not Yolo was dead...
Plenty of lives ahead
To the top of a pyramid
Of whatever we are
A cookie crum lost in space
The light of a burnt out star

Anything is possible
Dream among the starts
Is said because we are the sky

Our roots hold us down
Pressing soil away
Growing through the pain
Rocks as anchors
Til they are ripped away
The once hurtful thing
Getting in the way
Grasping on and taking hold
Foundation for home
Up-rooted and move
"It goes on" a poet once said
So I say, look ahead.
Life may be fast but it's not short
Choose a path to walk, grow, learn,love, glow.

Alone within my emotional wilderness

A reverie along memory lane when, this lviii sea sunned
row man (stills paddles in oarlocks and serenely quizzically,
lackadaisically, and harmoniously drifts) along the slip
stream of time. Awash on his figurative manual navigated
opportunistic prideful quintessential schooner reflects,
regales, and revisits ebbing lapsed instances (fast receding
into the past time, when psychological instability grounded
fragile my self esteem (generated venting, steaming, and
piping hot brickbats). As a newly minted harrumphing,
grubbing, and floundering dada enmeshment (analogous
to a fish caught in a net, hence quickly ricocheting, rabidly
splashing, and sloppily thrashing) predicated my foray
into das fatherhood. Aye experienced nearest approximation
Bing battered, rammed, and torpedoed from glomming
(par for the course riot ting heaps) necessarily imposed
adult responsibility. Such metaphorical motoring across
avast Battle Creek with no landfall in sight, this then nada
so Grand Turk (key in the straw) Otto man continually
snapped, cracked and popped. This human ping-pong
fitbit part player papa felt akin to subjection re: thralldom).
At this juncture in me cross currents of existence I can
harken back to those most exhausting, fatiguing, and
grueling endeavors. Hindsight offers this aging baby
boomer the luxury to cast astern. Retrospective leisurely
trawls along the shoals throes of fatherhood allow,
enable and provide and opportunity to scrutinize per
chance, where arises this on account of the empty nest
syndrome. Ordinarily the wife (i.e. missus to appear
more formal), would caw out my name nonstop….
”Matt”…”Matt”…”Matt”…, but she opted to organize
the cluster of assorted household items at the apart
ment (located in Crum Lynne – Ridley Township),
we hope to move within a fortnight. Thy spouse
volunteered her own mini reprieve by setting order
to the miscellaneous fixings gradually amassed,
appropriated, and gifted thru out the twenty plus
years of marriage, which hodgepodge of personal
possessions downsized whence circumstance dictates
evaluating goods having keepsake meaning versus
anomaly of belongings to be unloaded, repurposed
for someone else, or ordained as unworthy to schlep.
Alone asper like a very brief sabbatical from marriage
finds stillness amidst the white noise of the whirring
fan. Thus, I sit here ruminating how to dredge up
some idea for a poem,  (non) fiction or essay. This
husband became acclimated, conditioned, and em
bossed with a mate a tete for two plus decades,
whereby both thee dos delightful daughters on
Track 742 heading west. Honest to dog, I miss
the role of fatherhood when either off spring
(with an age difference of approximately twenty
five plus months) romped, scampered, and trotted
as toddlers, and upon childhood, thy little girls
found exultant excitement dashing higgledy-
piggledy, hither and yon, to and fro across the
playground as most glorious human indulgence.
Despite the plaintive wail vis a vis Juliet saying
goodnight to Romeo (…parting is such sweet
sorrow) haint pleasurable atoll. Hitherto un
known that during the most vexing, trying,
and quaking bouts when both kin of thy ****
fought like angry cats would there transpire
the occasion of sincere tearfulness ululating
vain warbling. Now a pang of nostalgia arises
when I drive past their happy go lucky stomp
ping turf, or reflect on answering the trumpet
call to chauffer one or thee other to amusement
park, play date, mall, favorite toy store such as
Fivebelow, birthday party, et cetera. Even
certain tunes recalled to mind and/or heard
being broadcast across the audio logical spec
trum a cause for moistened tear ducts. Wince
with sadness also mixed with sigh lent bundled
expostulations of joy. Both progeny metamorphosed
into able bodied, minded and spirited lasses,
whose attainment far exceeded any projections
internally forecast. Initial onset of parent role
found me all thumbs. Prior to begetting two
darling dames, this chap spent disproportionate
number of hours sequestered within some hide
away, which frequently happened to be the
designated bedroom at 324 Level Road, College
Ville, Pennsylvania, 19010. Never did thee major
rit tee days of mine life point to babysitting or
working with that chronological demographics
comprising the adoring blessed innocence,
murmuring newborn obliviousness, that bespoke
penultimate unsullied, utmost virtue necessitating
interaction with tender infants beckoning being
cradled, endearingly fondled, demonstrably easing
fondness gripping heartstrings issue jetblue kinks.
Aye felt pitched headlong into this foreign territory,
and initially experienced utmost awkwardness when
attending, pampering and pulling (albeit gently)
upsy daisy, the nascent hint of autonomy. Remembrance
and recollection of élan, joie de vivire, and yea those
ear splitting threshold of pain screaming tantrums
all boxed into tidy wholesome Zen announcing
nuggets of greater meaningfulness and absolute
value. The above long winded reverie intended and
meant tubby a semi biography, but leave hit up to
his hie n hiss, he went way overboard, and will give
a one line summarization to describe his i.e. yours truly
life sentence fate decreed. He (this Anglophile chipper
chap lived under duress of extreme anxiety, obsessive/
compulsive behavior, panic attacks and essentially
schizoid personality disorder for the greater part
of his life and hard times, which raw bits would
warrant fleshing out to extrapolate how these psychic
pitfalls represented critical factors at various and
sundry turning points in his life.

How should I praise thee, Lord! how should my rhymes
Gladly engrave thy love in steel,
If what my soul doth feel sometimes
My soul might ever feel!

Although there were some forty heav’ns, or more,
Sometimes I peer above them all;
Sometimes I hardly reach a score,
Sometimes to hell I fall.

O rack me not to such a vast extent;
Those distances belong to thee:
The world’s too little for thy tent,
A grave too big for me.

Wilt thou meet arms with man, that thou dost stretch
A crum of dust from heav’n to hell?
Will great God measure with a wretch?
Shall he thy stature spell?

O let me, when thy roof my soul hath hid,
O let me roost and nestle there:
Then of a sinner thou art rid,
And I of hope and fear.

Yet take thy way; for sure thy way is best:
Stretch or contract me, thy poor debtor:
This is but tuning of my breast,
To make the music better.

Whether I fly with angels, fall with dust,
Thy hands made both, and I am there:
Thy power and love, my love and trust
Make one place ev’ry where.

A crum from the donut
A piece of toast
That's all it takes
No need to boast?
A scratch on the ear
A pat on the head
A quite "good doggie"
No more said.
A walk in the park
A ride in the car
No need to go fast
no need to go far?
Always there
Happy and content
A tried and true friendship
No need to invent.

Lottie lived in an old pebble-mashed cottage in the middle of nowhere, with a ***** muzzle tree in the garden. She always wore white glubbs on a Sunday, and going to mumble sales was her favourite pass-time.

  All year round a lyre would smoulder in the gate, as the house was not connected to the lucidity grid, which Lottie considered the work of the davel. She liked to recite Shakespeare to her clogs but as she got older would mix up her worms and get her lettuces in the wrong order. At times I was the only one who could stand on her.

   There was a lovely orchard out the back in which all kinds of baffles, tums, bears and cheeses grew. She made the best crum plumble you never tasted.

  She loved her macaroni wireless, the old type powered by molluscs, although in latter times she accepted my gift of an up to date transittor with a built-in bat pack.

  We would ***** away many an hour as she reminisced about her youth, when she had traveled far and wide in the grand old days of steam *****.
  
  Lottie kept all her marbles right up to the end in an old sweet jar, kindly leaving them to me when she passed. So now it's up to me to carry the mantelpiece.  Dear old Lottie was unusual, but I liked her concentricity.

There's no one quite like Lottie
I'm sure you will agree
To some she didn't make much sense
But she always did to me

I feel it as I sit I feel it when I lay ...
The itchines inside me is fighting me today
stomach fightin pain thats always here to gloat ... yet itchiness takes over
a grin and not do bear ............

Carbs are overloaded yet count away we go
sugar fix awaiting to pain my bigger toe
spots are so a wantin on way to sprout my skin
the ******* even get me where!!!
privacy begins

Dia ..Dia ....betes leave me well alone
pick on someone evil
and make a happy home

Dia ..Dia ..Betes ...let me have some fun
maybe just a choccy bar or scrummy apple crum!!
dip a stick to 6.9 after loads a buns
Dia ..Dia ..Betes got ya on the run

it's funny how another friend changes situations
we used to be tight now he's the bread i'm the crum
drop it on the floor let it soak in the sun
rats come and nibble smell of urination

i've seen some foul **** in my life but this was the one
can't contain your jealousy let the evil coma come
never seen you make a face like that
you look so ****** dumb

i got no respect for you
you musta been drunk on ***
or blowin the coke out your nose
how long did it grow
your heart musta rotted
cuz it didnt even show

it's sickening how your money glistening
but your spirit ugly

i'm broker than ever but still happy in love
you couldn't take to see that so you smug
you just a jealous *** punk *******

i learn my lesson who my real friends are
it don't matter or not whether you drive fancy car
love unconditional no matter how successful you are
not get jealous when they see you as a happy rising star

I gazed at her, the warrior woman,
standing on the hill
where crum'bling stones of castles made their home.
Her form against the solemn sky stood noble, tall and fierce;
tenacity bespake her ev'ry stride.

The clouds before her only served
to frame her fairer still;
through richly dark, they parted just enough
to filter drops of sunlight to where she stood like the moon;
an argent gleam shone in her mane and eyes.

I frowned at her from where I hunched,
longed for her iron will,
clawed my lackluster hair and tore my heart.
The flat grey fog above the hole where I shrank in the dust
had only seen me cower, curse, and cry.

As we prepared to march again
I struggled up the hill
in hopes that I could find what grace she knew.
I didn't know she was still there, her back against a rock;
I caught her eye and realized

she had been crying too.