there are so many places to hide,

in my home at 17th and South screaming death threats at my roommates laughing diabolically playing  videogames and Jeopardy cooking quinoa stretching canvas the dog going mad frothing lunging  spastic to get the monkeys or the wookies or whatever random commandments we issue forth  drunken while Schlock rampages the backdrop,

at my uncle's row house on 22nd and Wallace with my shoes off freezing skipping class to watch March  Madness unwrapping waxpaper hoagies grimacing with each sip of Cherrywine or creamsicle  soda reading chapters at my leisure,

in the stacks among fiberglass and eternal florescent lima-tiled and echo-prone red-eyed and white-faced  caked with asbestos and headphones exhuming ossified pages from layers of cosmic dust  presiding benevolent,

in University City disguised in nothing but a name infiltrating Penn club soccer getting caught after  scoring yet still invited to the pure ***** joy of hell and heaven house parties of ice luge jungle  juice kegstand coke politic networking,

at Drexel's nightlit astroturf with the Jamaicans rolling blunts on the sidelines playing soccer floating in  slo-mo through billows of purple till the early morning or basketball at Penn against goggle- eyed professors in kneepads and copious sweat,

in the shadow tunnels behind Franklin Field always late night loner overlooking rust belt rails abandoned  to an absent tempo till tomorrow never looking behind me in the fear that someone is there,

at Phillies Stadium on glorious summer Tuesdays for dollar dog night laden with algebra geometry and  physics purposely forgetting to apply ballistics to the majestic arc of a home run or in the frozen  subway steam selling F.U. T.O. t-shirts to Eagles fans gnashing when the Cowboys come to town,

at 17th and Sansom in the morning bounding from Little Pete's scrambled eggs toast and black coffee  studying in the Spring thinking All is Full of Love in my ears leaving fog pollen footprints on the  smoking cement blooming,

at the Shambhala Center with dharma lotus dripping from heels soaking rosewater insides thrumming to the  groan of meditation,

at the Art Museum Greco-fleshed and ponderous counting tourists running the Rocky steps staring into shoji screen tatame teahouses,

at the Lebanese place plunked boldly in Reading Terminal Market buying hummus bumping past the Polish  and Irish on my way to the Amish with their wheelwagons packed with pretzels and honey and  chocolate and tea,

at the motheaten thrift store on North Broad buried under sad accumulations of ramshackle clothing  clowning ridiculous in the dim squinting at coathangers through magnifying glasses and mudflat  leather hoping to salvage something insane,

in the brown catacombed warrens of gutted Subterranea trying unsuccessfully to ignore bearded medicine

men adorned with shaman shell necklaces hawking incense bootlegs and broken Zippos halting conversation to listen pensive to the displacement of air after each train hurtles by,

at 30th Street Station cathedral sitting dwarfed by columns Herculean in their ascent and golden light  thunderclap whirligig wings on high circling the luminous waiting sprawled nascent on stringwood pews,

at the Masonic Temple next to City Hall, pretending to be a tourist all the while hoping scouring for clues in the cryptic grand architect apocrypha to expose global conspiracies,

at the Trocadero Electric Factory TLA Khyber Unitarian Church dungeon breaking my neck to basso  perfecto glitch kick drums with a giant's foot stampeding breakbeat holographic mind-boggled  hole-in-the-skull intonations,

at the Medusa Lounge Tritone Bob and Barbara's Silk City et cetera with a pitcher a pounder of Pabst and a  shot of Jim Beam glowing in the dark at the foosball table disco ball bopstepping to hip hop and  jazz and accordions and piano and vinyl,

in gray Fishtown at Gino's recording rap holding pizza debates on the ethics of sampling anything by  David Axelrod rattling tambourines and smiles at the Russian shopgirl downstairs still chained to  soul record crackles of antiquity spiraling from windows above,

at Sam Doom's on 12th and Spring Garden crafting friendship in greenhouse egg crate foam closets  breaking to scrutinize cinema and celebrate Thanksgiving blessed by holy chef Kronick,

in the company of Emily all over or in Kohn's Antiques salvaging for consanguinity and quirky heirlooms  discussing mortality and cancer and celestial funk chord blues as a cosmological constant and  communism and Cuba over mango brown rice plantains baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies,

in a Coca Cola truck riding shotgun hot as hell hungover below the raging Kensington El at 6 AM nodding soft to the teamsters' curses the snagglesouled destitute crawling forth poisoned from sheet-metal shanty cardboard box projects this is not desolate,

at the impound lot yet again accusing tow trucks of false pretext paying up sheepish swearing I'll have my  revenge,

in the afterhour streets practicing trashcan kung fu and cinder block shotput shouting sauvage operatic at  tattooed bike messenger tribesmen pitstopped at the food trucks,

in the embrace of those I don't love the names sometimes rush at me drowned and I pray to myself for  asylum,

in the ciphers I host always at least 8 emcee lyric clerics summoning elemental until every pore ruptures  and their eyes erupt furious forever the profound voice of dreadlocked Will still haunting stray  bullet shuffles six years later,

in the caldera of Center City with everyone craning our skulls skyward past the stepped skyscrapers  beaming ear-to-ear welcoming acid sun rain melting maddeningly to reconstitute as concrete  rubber steel glass glowing nymphs,

in Philadelphia where every angle is accounted for and every megawatt careers into every throbbing wall where  Art is a mirror universe for every event ever volleyed through the neurons of History,

in Philadelphia of so many places to hide I am altogether as a funnel cloud frenetic roiling imbuing every corner sanctum sanctorum with jackhammer electromagnetism quivering current realizing stupefied I have failed so utterly wonderful human for in seeking to hide I have found

in Philadelphia

Have it your way Robert you want distance and to be poor white trash in the streets of Nashville with no health care, no home of your own accept the men'mission and theroom in the inn at 705 Drexel Place. You want to be a Peter Pan, awomanizer, anda want to be musician which has not transpired into anything. You are a vagabond hobo and just because you have a a stretch at Clancy's Cafe does not guarantee yoy a place the lime light' You donot acknowledge m[y little tokens I sent you have it your way. Karma will get you I promise one day. I will not even try  to reason wirth you. I hope and pray you are happy with street ***** you pick up on-line and they find out all about you and kick you to the curb.

Today marks fourth anniversary of tragic deaths
an aching breaking heart – mine
remembers four extinguished breaths.

(dashed – not while riding off
in a white horse open sleigh,
but upon learning untimely demise
regarding prosperous family, whose small
plane crashed August 8, 2019.

They lived ~ three doors down from us
farther than one can toss a Buffalo nickelback.)

The victims included;
Jasbir Khurana, 60
(a professor of pathology
and laboratory medicine
at Temple University's
Lewis Katz School of Medicine);
Divya Khurana, 54 (a professor
of pediatrics and neurology
at the Drexel University
College of Medicine,
specializing in pediatrics, sleep) ;
and the couple's youngest daughter
Kiran Khurana 19 years old.

No words can assuage the deep sorrow,
this once upon a time neighbor
(I lived at 1148 Greentree Lane) experienced
disbelief, numbness, shock...
attendant by an irreparable loss of beloved,
and vacillated how to communicate
heartfelt (I cannot ex spleen) sympathy,
where words superfluous,
yet... if for that challenge alone,
an affinity with language

spurred impulse to focus upon
bountiness of joie de vivre
imbibed years gone by,
when every now and
again chance encounters
found yours truly (me)
in delightful company
regarding persons whose presence
imbued benevolence, kindness, warmth...
facilitating emotional philanthropy

influenced long term positive memories
to one experienced being
outcast, ostracized, offensive...
courtesy unfortunate series
of circumstances beyond my control,
which voiced unwelcome tension
sabotaged reaching quality politeness
displeased at unfriendly reactions
reflexively, maliciously, impetuously...
did little or no justice

toward conflict resolution
which altercations nearly,
quickly did segway profoundly
into unpleasant standoffs,
yes bias, bigotry, bitterness
begat bisel meshuga
acutely aware I loathe
uncouth actions regarding myself
and strive to remain
affable, cordial, friendly...,

hence an object lesson,
(albeit ex post facto)
to abide by my inner integrity,
ethos, dogma politesse...,
especially when pitted against
unsavory electric acid kool aid test
tis then urgently vital to remain
steadfast, and figuratively
turn the other cheek
particularly when populace

under severe duress
re: instigated by pathologically
belligerent, ill mannered, rude...
former president whose
set abhorrent precedence,
whereby people of nation follow suit,
yet this nonconformist only hopes
to affect positive within
webbed wide world at large.

Impressions of Philadelphia: May 20-8, 2023

A masked saint dressed in dollar bills. Stuffed rice *****.  Cannolli. Italian street  festival

Bentley and Porsche. Bright sequins everywhere. Side-slit, backless, plunging. Metal detectors. Prom night downtown.

On the median, a barber and a man. Haircuts for the homeless.

Black tattoos, ankle to cheek. Dark lips. Green and blonde hair.  Who needs a bra? City girl, Philly girl.

Bike paths everywhere downtown. Few bikes but lots of scooters.  Lancaster county too.

Belly button here, belly button there, here a navel, there a navel, everywhere navel-navels. Philadelphia Innies ‘n outies.

Bright colors, weathered colors. Loving, nurturing, and plain strange.  Gayborhood murals.

1st post master, mapped the gulf stream, lightening catcher, 9 Atlantic crossings. “I never discovered anything, I just made it useful”. Ben Franklin.

Overnight parking $300. At the Delaware, across from Camden.

The Rocky statue outside the art museum, golden Diana within.

Statues hanging from every other building. Avenue of the Arts.

Drexel, Temple, U-Penn. Unsolved murders. The campuses.

ATV rodeo every night. Rrrumm, rummm!  Broad Street after 6.

Phillies 12 - Cubs 3. $8 hotdogs. Citizens Bank Field.

“All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia”. W.C. Fields