At the mailbox, again:
“Who loves me, baby?”
Well, let’s see: there’s a flyer from Mercury Insurance,
Reminding me that most middle-income customers
Save an average of $4 million smackaroons when they switch too.
The Penny Saver USA.com is here,
Thank God, almighty!
So now I know that Thomas Roofing & Paving
Is having a special on 20-year leak-free flat roofs;
"All work guaranteed & insured.
No job too big or small.
Free estimates/Emergency services/License # I8U-69."
And thank you, Jesus,
For another $4.99 Farmer Boys 3-Egg Breakfast
Combo with Coffee coupon, and that
Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready, $5.00 cheese or pepperoni,
Mae-West-“why-don’t-you-come up and see me sometime?”—mailer. And, of course, another technology Siren’s song:
Verizon FiOS delivers entertainment this big,
Dish me up some dish NETWORK, $19.99 a month . . .
Are you ******* me?
For 12 ******* months?
AT&T;: whack me off on 120 channels.
DIRECTV.com - DIRECTV® Official Site‎
Worry-free 99.9%  . . . cue Joe E. Brown,
"Some Like It Hot“ Osgood:
"Well, nobody’s perfect!"
Time Warner/Sprint/T-Mobile;
And ******* Leather, Polk Street, San Francisco.
******* leather?
Must be for my neighbor: that ***** ****!
And here’s the weekly 8-page color fold-out from Stater Bros:
Lowering prices every day, large cantaloupes
(Jessica Lange, are you back?)
10 for $10.00, 32 oz. Gatorade
Or 24 oz Propel in 30 assorted varieties @ 79 cents
+ CRV: California Redemption Value?
Nice euphemistic cover-up for a TAX.
Nice, nice, very nice, CA elected state officials;
Nicely done, Sacramento.
Everywhere else in the country you get real money—
A fixed number of pennies, nickels, or dimes—
For your plastic bottles and aluminum cans.
But in California, the licensed recyclers
Get to pull the market price out of their *** each morning.
California Redemption Value?
What ******* genius government kleptocrat thought that one up? Conspiracy Alert: who gets all that CRV money?
And what are they doing with it?
Feeling plain, Jane?
Marinello Schools of Beauty, want you,
Offer you hands-on training in cosmetology,
Skin care esthetics, manicuring and vaginal deodorizing—
Just kidding, Babaloo.
Food tip for the Third World:
Never try to write poetry on an empty stomach.
Sizzler 6 oz juicy & succulent.
RENEGADE DEAL:
El Pollo Loco guacamole chicken sandwich,
Coupon free, small drink and small chips,
When you purchase a guacamole or jalapeno sandwich,
includes pepper jack cheese and a southwest sauce.
Gardenas sandia con semilla, 7 lbs 99 cents.
GARDENAS: “en precios, servicio y calidad, nadie nos iguaia.”
Bud Gordon’s Quality NISSAN:
One at this price after a $1500 factory rebate.
TERMINIX: get them before they get you!
The Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Arthropoda, Class Insecta
Bug up my *** again.
And a form letter from the VA
Asking me to please update my whereabouts.
And a form letter from the VA asking me
To please update my whereabouts.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Bite me, Mr. Frost!

An outing, at last.
I am going for a walk around the inside of my gates.
I live in one of those gated over-55 lunatic asylums.
There are gates. It is gated. Get it?
GATED! We feel safe here.
Probably a good thing at our age:
Self-imposed institutionalization,
Putting oneself in an asylum to ferment and die.
The fact that so many of us
Need it so bad at only 55
Says something itself about the current state of
Baby Boomer metal-fatigue.
I am now standing at the far end of the golf course.
I wait at the far end of the 18th Hole.
A ball bounces past my head and
Rolls off past the green into the far rough.
The 18th Hole is perched atop a small plateau,
Out of sight, far above the horizon for anyone teeing off.
I am Puck, invisible and impish.
I pluck the ball up.
I scamper to the green.
I pop the ball into the hole.
Which is better than popping a hole in the ball,
Surely, kind of a drag,
As we were once fond of saying.
Deflated Ball.
Deflator Maus.
OPERA can be ****.
Bodice-ripping corsets, whorehouses and naked ******!
Hardly what you might expect from
A night with the Welsh National Opera,
But they found their way into this production of "Die Fledermaus."
Ripe language, contemporary jokes and
Toilet humor thrown in, adding immensely
To the pleasures of Strauss’s operetta.
"Die Fledermaus," or The Bat’s Revenge,
Is all about drunkenness and adultery.
Despite being written in the 1870s,
It remains equally pertinent to today’s pub culture of excess.
Daring; Colorful; ****: PGA golf.
I steal a golf ball on the far end of the 18th Hole.
I pick up the Titleist and stick it in the hole
(Steady Jessica, not yours.
I hide behind your bush.
(Cue up PSA, First Lady Bird Johnson’s 1960s
Nationwide Beautification Campaign:
“I want everyone in America to plant a tree,
A sherrrr-rub, or a booosh.”)
The golfer now searching frantically:
Why is the cup always the last place they look?
Then, wham, bam, he looks:
A legend is born.
A hole in one,
His name forever immortalized
On a plaque over the bar, the proverbial 19th Hole.

As you know, I speak for all mediocrities,
Safe in my 55+ gated-community.
I go next to the Club House,
"The Lodge" as it’s called.
Each afternoon, the usual suspects
Claiming first come/first serve tiered mini-theater seats
Where Netflix matinee gems are screened.
It is two minutes to DVD show time.
I walk to the front of the room.
I stare at my audience.
I count the house slowly,
Making meaningful eye contact with each wrinkled face.
I cup my hands behind my back and speak:
“I assume you are all here for my lecture on Kierkegaard.”
No one reacts.
I turn to leave but do a double-take and smile.
One old woman in the top right corner of the amphitheater laughs, Perhaps the one other human being within the gates
Who has also smoked a joint today.
For an instant, I am overwhelmed with paranoia,
Perhaps I’ve gone too far over the line:
No longer “oh-he’s-a-character;”
I am now “that creep is ******* nuts.”
Is it time for someone to approach my family,
My next of kin, my “who-to-contact-in-event-of-emergency” number? Who will make the call on behalf of the HOA—
The Homeowner’s Association—
The Tsars, the Duma, the Supreme Soviet in these parts?
They are the power inside the gates;
Those who determine the state’s enemies,
Who govern its community norms.
Power within the gates.
Law within the asylum.
Little Hitlers one and all.
Hopefully they reach my sister first.
She’s been briefed.
KEY POINT IN THE NARRATIVE:
The new narrative is non-linear.
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We grow more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen;
We become more intimate with a legion . . .
Did someone say a legion? SPQR:
Am I having some sort of genetic-linguistic seizure here?
Am I channeling Benito Mussolini again?
Il Duce speaks to me from the grave,
Still blowing smoke up my Hopi-Jew-*** ***,
Filling in my insecurities,
Plugging the holes in my character
With delusions of classical Roman grandeur, glory and empire. Hmmmm? Quite an appetizing pitch for the average *****,
A message so completely, so ethnocentrically slick,
Olive oily, and so seductive.
A non-Italian would have thought
American Legion or Legionnaire’s disease,
Or The Foreign Legion, The French Foreign Legion.
The French: a virulent, promiscuous people.
Do you want fries with that, Simone?
No, I don’t get out much.
Only an occasional brisk walk around the asylum,
In and around the golf course, around but inside the gates. (LINKS) Bill Gates. Daryl Gates. Billy Bathgate’s Gates? Ghiberti’s Gates? The Hot Gates? Thermopylae? 300 Spartans/700 Thespians:
“The noun causing idiots to think of
Two girls sloppily eating each other’s mighty vaginas,
When they hear mention of someone being an actor.” http://www.urbandictionary.com
Not even close.
No, I rarely venture out.
This is Hemetucky.
There are methamphetamine-stoked
Teenage zombies at the gate.
Note to costume control:
Perhaps camouflage clothing is the safe choice?
No loud red Hawaiian.
No garish Indonesian batik.
Fleet of feet are these Hemet tweakers,
These cranked up Riverside County teenage barbarians,
These Huns & Visigoths,
These amped up, ravenous jackals.
And why stop there?
These Vandals & Vandellas.
A Motown flashback:
“Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide.”
With or without Martha—
They remain dangerously lethal.
Yes, let it be camo clothes for me.
Those **** heads may be young.
They may be fast.
They may be able to run me down
On a dry grass dog-legged fairway savannah,
Tearing the meat from my carcass.
But the sons-a-******* have to see me first.
Besides, we know who are real friends are.
Hooray for our media peeps!
We become more intimate with a legion
Of television personalities on 125 different channels.
Most of these we know by name and context.
We know their families, their friends,
Their histories, their tragedies,
Their favored hyperbole and manner of speech.
Sometimes we establish intimacy with celebrities
Strictly on the basis of universal body language.
At times–in the absence of any other
Empathetic facility of identification–
We connect on instinct alone.
Instinct: perhaps animal at its core,
An animal kingdom affinity group,
Connecting on a bio-linguistic level,
Particularly when the Korean, or Spanish,
Mandarin, or Arabic,
Japanese, or even Hebrew language version is broadcast.
All languages cryptically alien,
A dense boundary, a barrio border wall,
Undecipherable, impenetrable concrete.
But we’ve never spoken to our neighbors,
Nor do we know their names.
Celebrities are the neighbors we know best;
Although the intimacy is an illusion,
Permission to invade their privacy presumed,
Tacit in the relationship between celebrities and their fans.
I am an independent contractor now,
An outside consultant to the NSA.
Try as I might I cannot crack the enigma,
Kim Kardashian remains far beyond my code-breaking prowess.
I repeat myself:
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We are more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen; we become more intimate with a legion . . .
Back to you, David Ulin:
“Sometime late last year—I don’t remember when, exactly—I noticed I was having trouble sitting down to read. That’s a problem if you do what I do, but it’s an even bigger problem if you’re the kind of person I am. Since I discovered reading, I have always been surrounded by stacks of books. I read my way through camp, school, nights, and weekends; when my girlfriend and I backpacked through Europe after college graduation, I had to buy a suitcase to accommodate the books I picked up along the way.”
Thank you, David L. Ulin.
I cannot help myself.
I grow more eccentric each day.
My eyeballs glued to that flat screen!

Cosmo Kramer: "The bus is outta control.
So I grab him by the collar, I take him out of the seat,
I get behind the wheel, and now I’m driving the bus."
Jerry: "Wow!"
George Costanza: "You’re Batman."
Cosmo Kramer: "Yeah, yeah, I am Batman.
Then the mugger, he comes to and he starts choking me.
So I’m fighting him off with one hand,
And I kept driving the bus with the other, ya know.
Then I managed to open up the door,
And I kicked him out the door, ya know,
With my foot, ya know, at the next stop."
Jerry: "You kept making all the stops?"
Cosmo Kramer: "Well, people kept ringing the bell!"
(Share this moment with a stranger.)

I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.
Boom Chaka Laka. Boom Chaka Laka.
Boom Chaka Laka. BOOM!
Isn’t it time Salieri tempted Constanze–
Frau Mozart–with a plateful of Capezzoli di Venere:
“******* of Venus.”
You had me at hello, Kidman.
I know you too well, Nicole.
I knew you from before,
Way before Tom’s Oprah couch freak show.
Listen to me, Nicole:
We are face to face
With the most profound question in American literature:
"What is the grass?
The flag of my surrender?
The flag of my disposition?"
I resort to Socratic maxims: Know yourself;
The un-****** life is not worth living.
Is it stress? Is it lack of conviction?
Everything Jeff Lebowski neither wants nor needs in his life?
I watched you *** in "Eyes Wide Shut," Nicole.
Now I know you with my eyes and your legs wide open.
Thank you, Sidney Pollack.
Sidney knew.
Sidney dealt us cards
From his Hollywood Tarot deck.
We are intimate, Nicole.
I watched you squat.

o que saia brotando do peito
inundava, invadia os poros da pele
entrava pelos cantinhos entre os dedos
por baixo das unhas, nos fios de cabelo

era como soda cáustica sobre a pele
um grito no vácuo, uma luz distante
um caminho de carvão em brasa
solidão.

pele morta, pele nova
era como (re)nascer
se livrar de um vício
assistir o alvorecer

contornar pro caminho de volta pra casa
com medo
era como (re)viver.

I

No intervalo do incessante
Para lá do perceptível
emaranhado numa zona incerta
quando a noite é mais de trevas
E um quarto bem estreito
é exageradamente infindo
ora ali o oniromante

De outrora letargo
de outro nome alcunhado
que agora desperto
aprende a dormir

recônditos respiros
rebuliços arredores
vasos sanguíneos
coléricas vozes
vislumbra o enfermo
sem remédio
sem cura
Um quadro preto
um naufrágio

II

Jaz adormecido
em cama de pedras
com colcha de espinhos

Lá dentro avenidas movimentadas sussurram verdades
cheias de  agudos
ângulos, retos, obtusos
com vértices nas curvas semicirculares

Um rompante inaudível
turbilhões de incertezas
de vozes cegas
emergindo da fresta tenebrosa
que brilha o **** cobiçado
de seios
de coxas
de longos cabelos loiros
de pele negra
de pele vermelha
de pele amarela
peles tão alvas quanto a neve
Uma avalanche de inseguranças
Correntes de ferro
enferrujadas
que rasgam a carne
com tétano
e o sangue escorre
num rio plácido
repleto de peixes e tartarugas
de ondinas e sereias
onde banham as musas
que cantam o canto de Morfeu
como eólia lira
que entorpece e inspira
o oniromante
que ali adormeceu

III

No sonho de um sonho
há um sonho esquecido
guardado a sete fechos
no fundo inflexível

de imagens arquetípicas
de desejos obscuros
de visões aterradoras
de um jovem bem febril

devagar vai adentrando
nessa estranha entrelinha
qual razão do desconexo
desconstrói o findo dia

tenazes vozes em seus ouvidos
reproduzidas como brados
brotam atroadas
de estrondosas trovejadas

Neste tempo sem um tempo
há tempos transcorrido
inesperados fragmentos
reprimidos e esquecidos

Por frações de um instante
trafegando entre a memória
dos dias das noites do futuro
do passado e das histórias

Clareiam-se como cruz
como carga no caminho
Cultuando a culpa a luz
jaz oculta na cova deslembrada

Estreitos fios a lumiar o teto escuro
tomam forma entrelaçada da aurora
Rompe o limiar do céu noturno
E abre os olhos pra não perder a hora




�

Beijou-me
e imediatamente senti seu gosto amargo
sob minha língua.
Tragava teus sentimentos
para um presente distante.
Não importava o ontem;
não importará amanhã.
Seu nome, seu número,
sua memória,
seu endereço virou canudo
e me levou pra outra toca.
A história, sempre a mesma:
Um curioso, um coelho,
Um papel, um chapeleiro,
Uma toca, o mundo inteiro.
Sentia meus pensamentos voarem;
de copo em copo, trago em trago, tiro em tiro,
mais e mais
pra aquele instante.
Por vinte minutos...
ou doze horas.
Não importa;
o doce sabor do seu néctar lisergia
não tocou os fios loiros da Aurora,
já não está aqui agora.

Singers on the Voice who can't sing
     TV stations showing cartoons twenty-four seven
      FIOS selling hearing aids
POPEYES  selling steak
       Cars running on soup
         Fencers with hockey sticks
Congress not padding their pay checks every year
   Puzzles that don't puzzle
      KFC selling burgers
    Archers with sling shots
Trees growing upside down
  Chickens in a conga line
A chess playing kangaroo
   Trees that hold leaves all year
     First class with no class
An eckco  that never comes back
    A bird that walks everywhere
       A tea kettle that cannot whisle
         Ducks that  skee
         Rain falling sideways
             Dogs that run backwards
       Cats that bark
       The Sun and Moon together
        Turtles that run fast

sinto tudo tão inacabado como se minha alma fosse uma obra com aquelas paredes de concreto com uma só mão de tinta branca com os fios das lâmpadas soltos em todos os cômodos de mim me sinto como a música no carro que sempre mudo antes de acabar porque sempre quero ouvir a próxima ou como a terceira vez que voltei pra finalizar esse texto como o último abraço que dei no meu pai e nem levantei da cadeira o caderno da minha aula de arte moderna a mensagem que eu comecei a escrever no ponto de ônibus e não deu tempo o último beijo que eu dei em você e nem encostei a língua no céu da tua boca amanhã já vem e não conclui nada de hoje se eu morresse eu nem teria vivido

I'll hold you in my dreams until our first day.
I don't know your face, but I know your presence.
My heart has been yours since you first caressed my cheek
But seas between us have made me grow weary;
Will time be on our side?
Or will our shadows forever fade with the sunset?

Cumaidh mi thu na aislingean mi gus a' chiad latha againn
Chan eil mì eòlach air d' aghaidh, ach tha fios agam air do lathaireachd.
Tha mo chridhe air a bhith leatsa bho bhuail thu mo ghruaidh an toiseach
Ach tha cuantan eadar sinn air mo dhèanamh sgìth;
Am bi ùine air ar taobh?
No am bi na faileasan againn gu bràth a 'dol fodha le dol fodha na grèine?

pedaços de sujeira enfiados embaixo das unhas
sobre um vento quente passado metade de janeiro.

e os olhos ardidos observando com toda calma
a tela branca acinzentada e retangular.

narizes que coçam em momentos impróprios
e cães que aguardam pacientemente
mãos de pele em seus pelos sujos de poeira.

os pelos da coxa pintados de loiro falsificado
brilham na luz do abajur como purpurina no carnaval de Recife.

e aqueles fios de cabelo teimosos que caem sobre o ombro
tocando a derme queimada pelo sol
que
por consequência, os dedos impacientes não cansam
de procurar
para então removê-los.

After the axis mundi for the excellence of the Bern-Universe world, the engravings in all the memories of the Harpies became more cryptic, which even in its finished archetypal capital, moved between the cosmogonic footsteps of the gods with their spare hearts in frank nomadic architecture, rebuilding themselves with their new gods, with a consecrated aura. Conferencing the decreed dialogue to continue with the medallion in the drag chain that went under the draft of the ship, indicating the message to verify, resting on the preciousness of someone who can balance himself with his maneuverability, of a man with his chest open to the world, so that Zeus in this day of utilitarian morality, make it part of its infinite use, but of orderly practical use.

In this proportion Saint John the Apostle warns him of the sighting of Cape Koumbournous, approaching Prassonissi and not very far from these two appears the third, Karpathos, all this limiting to the south of Rhodes, in concordant uniform of his entire work, transforming itself according to the conception of Saint John for the predicaments of maximizing the weighting of his alliance with Vernarth; now become his dogmatic designer, placing Gnomic poetry to help his memory. For all the topics of wisdom and conversion in each stone on another, with a liturgy of building the temple that extended them in Patmos, in biblical intelligence explaining the versable maxims converted from prior cadence of his poetry books in sequence, and legacies of stanzas of wolves that save the lives of their hunters, with testimonies of prose delivered in the hilarious argumentative endeavors, but transgressing the expository towards a bernese-Hellenic poetry, with the rhythm and cadence of the hours of the day, which centuries make without questioning its cyclical beauty, Even if I walk on it in lost spree drama.

Saint John says: “The maxims, aphorisms and apothegms will be where they differ from their charm like the beloved fugitive that Werther from Goethe awaits, like those of Vernarth, commanded by his madness to escape the harpies, emitting in his apothegm“ His intensity does it is dignified or irritable, but it is abhorrent. " Vernarth is detested by large masses of clones of war comrades, who make of their apothegm, the young death at the hands of abhorrent old age, which falls into the tendencies of transient, conjunctural versologies that require doses of Ouzo on the levels of a classic apothegm, seated on a bald outlined wooden chair, on four Vetrubio legs, and a Rembrandt light back, all born equal and synchronous, at the dawn of a retro pseuda literature, which more than letters will be retractable symbols of his warlike artistic memory, which he carries in his reflective collections tabulator, leaving divine blood in the grip of the Griffin, which slices the blood of ****** wolves that block the light of red pupils, like that of Werther and Vernarth swallowing the divine gesture that differs from who is not prey to the erratic intensity of the wise wolf, who pursues his prey beyond cold and hunger, finely leaving his victim between his nearby hooks and neighboring gar family fios, antagonizing natural consanguinees. Here is each part of our challenge, in each reluctant use, matching our entire works since the trade winds put us in the best emotional mode, for those of us who live on the food of wisdom, beyond ourselves ignorant madmen, but rather by those who make their species our own species, the good moments that will be intense, but nothing that we cannot moderate with this greatness that small lux, but with great expressive mechanics, dissecting the interstices and sediment remains, which we have to rearm from the public ones voices of Messias, as a great orator, even of the apothegms that do not allow to be portrayed. We go here sailing slowly, with the force of the blows that drags us to Cape Koumbournou, to look from the highest peak where they can be seen, devoured by our own hope that makes us go beyond what we thought we achieved, as a foundational prize for the new religious laws, which we have to re-found, after the Olivos Berna phylogeny.

Not only the Greek landscape, it manifests itself to us from the mythical laws to be re-studied, also the mythical Berns, which make our overseas surroundings possible, on cliffs that fill us with brave temperance, towards one end of the stranded ship heeling upward, and towards the lavish waves that speak of coasts and white waters, on the same waves that sing verses nicknamed the renewed goddess Hera, and whoever is related by the glorified hero Vernarth. Neither illustrious nor villainous, but aristocrat of nymphs, muses, harpies, and the Hesperides sunbathing on deck in the tetracontero Eurydice, stealing goodness from the one who has just begun to rule himself with pious song. "

With mighty mouse and Hercules height
tried to retrieve sanity spread loose;
a faded unpleasant memory - even enlisting
decades old cartoon characters:
Natasha squirrel and Bullwinkle moose
flow of electrons the best-concocted juice
since the convection
of white bread or couscous
for without Fios, light and heat
the slow strangle via an invisible noose

gripped this bantam weight
hen pecked papa -
who tried to peruse
Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy
while buried under
blankets and towels - Toulouse
any and every molecule of heat,
yet frigidaire within abode
(technically about 455 degrees Fahrenheit)
went with Brad and Ray,
boot did not go vamoose.

Thine recollected diatribe
analogous to a rite of initiation
thru fraternity gauntlet -
no, not necessarily atchew
anyway, I sure hope ***** remission
asper any offal debacle choking bugaboo
which once malignantly plagued
your body, mind, spirit
as fowl existence doomed matt chew
for when countless full moons ago,
the force o mother nature drew

whipped out her scimitar,
where chaos such as
power n telephone outages flew
sweeping across bulwarks,
drawbridge over troubled waters,
and ramparts whereby
huge limbs and wires
Ole man winter with
a jude dish hiss punch did hew
indiscriminate to gentile or Jew
or one necessitating answering a call

to deaf ack ate while atop the loo,
cuz such fate occurred there
at previous residence
DCCXXIV Railroad Ave n new
where the lack of heat or phone service
induce sing expletives stronger than poo
but...during the blackout,
this papa read by flashlight huddled
under mildewed layers of clothes
n bland kits, and did rue
how susceptible n vulnerable society

to whims of natural faw iz - tis true
at least in my view,
whence this generic human
predicted he would become
apprised as fossilized,
immortalized, and ossified,
thence accidentally discovered
millenniums in future,
hence as frozen petrified representative
per twenty first century,
where wily fox prudent terrestrial realtor.

Now that yar brow didst I scrunch
possibly goot dealt
a similar meteorological punch
thus possibly lack king
for electricity i.e. the life source energy,
this then mister mom,
and taxi dad supposed back up hunch
hove (at that time)

two prepubescent darling daughters -
oft times thrilled as punch
to kibbutz with during lunch
when dire circumstances
imposed spurious silliness
to fritter away time –
for measly grueling fodder,
earmarked, ****** cold brunch.

Twas and still Liz
a blessing social networks
allowed, enabled and promoted literary trait
virtually contrived acquaintances of yore,
and usually visa vis discovery
(though transient got me I rate)
hull reflect on technological
modus operandi back
before bachelorhood complemented
and supplemented mein kampf

with an affectionately loving mate
many years, and even of late
though amity, comity
and felicity nestles this roost stir,
whose then newlywed bride
that's my wife, he DOTH no longer hate
and communicate emotions
across the whirled wide web
(i.e. - this example
between yourself and me) -

Noah intent to grate
now, internecine warfare usually all calm
on the western front
from hellish, gory figurative
ball of wax bollix
engineering denizens of fate
in tandem with banshees, gremlins,
and jinns out the box of Pandora rollicked
their elements of Strunk and White,
and pandemonium they did fiendishly create.

and despite remote chance
to channel small medium at large
metamorphosis I may witness
analogous to caterpillar
will transform me into a butterfly
otherwise Norwegian bachelor (batch chiller)
farmer will simply plow along
taking a stab writing "FAKE" horror thriller
airing available on Netflix starring
ghost of Phyllis Diller
stand up comedienne killer
brought down haunted/crowded house

witch sea hunt accompanied
theme song referencing Argonaut tiller
Greenwich Village location Barney Miller
lite precinct brewed fare of corpse
unearthed dead comedy duo Meara and Stiller
with surreal stalking candy corn canes
resilient blades of  rototiller
as bon appétit gnashing
gobbledygook filler
masterpiece yours truly created verisimilar
to literary endeavor of poet laureate.

Ice scream aghast with
hair raising blood curdling shriek,
cuz the dearth of satisfactory
****** FIOS shows bleak
willingly readying doppelganger
of mine to jump into polluted creek,
thus as death defying stunt,
I bury alive yours truly
except his sharp pointed beak
exhuming him after rotted

flesh doth reek
perfectly tricked out
for Halloween treat
masking trademark matted long haired
strongly resembling pencil necked geek
October thirty first when freak
most often makes his appearance
every other time of year
adopting nom de plume
alias Gadshill name of kid sister's

Bend, Oregon abode
(In Shakespeare's Henry IV
the scene of Falstaff's robberies) gadabout
versus me qualified poetaster
hood doth sneak
feigning antonym anthem of meek
oh my dog, I lyft hind
uber leg to take leak
hoop fully haint nobody dares peak
urinate kidding ma bladder weak.

I long since waved
channel surfing adieu
much prefer silence
meditating under blue
skies peering into
infinite space nary a clue
intellectual conversation many disvalue
perched edge of seat and hunched over
how riveting story doth ensue
ah... time for commercial break

culinary wizard abracadabra
whips up fondue
easy as pie (are squared)
with consistency of glue
methinks Elmer stole patent,
cuz secret formula Hebrew
what with identical hue
as aforementioned adhesive liquid
doubling up to keep igloo
air tight even against

global warming, anyway would Jew...
aye betcha already knew
yes believe Yahweh endowed Semites
like me with high ike kue
of course after dumping
a load (reed) I feel sue
per ream intelligence dumbed down
(mine), especially after using loo
naturally decrease smarts
stings like poisonous

scorpion size of Eee mouse,
which aforementioned papa's
poetic poppycock non issue
saturating plethora home entertainment
most people overvalue
linkedin - shoot all stemming from
"idiot box" I rarely view
even when supposed
best picture show over yours truly
silently exhales whew!

I politely ask for uncontested support
campaign contribution promoting me
an aging sexagenarian baby boomer
groveling by (and supporting the Frau
royal highness, (heretofore known as
the missus) solely courtesy social sic
(an abbreviation of the Latin phrase
"sic erat scriptum" - which means
"thus was it written)" security disability
which unearned and untaxed income
divvied up to pay Consumer Cellular,
Verizon FIOS, Hyundai Elantra auto
loan to Ally Bank, PECO, Apple Cloud
services, splurging on indulgences
Netflix, SiriusXM for commercial free
radio while we drive to and fro hither
and yon, plus my own valuable worth
the while to read (cover to cover) small
number of reliable socially progressive
publications such as TIME Magazine,
The Week, The Nation, Smithsonian,
and Mother Jones buzzfeeding yours
truly valuably indubitably reliable, and
currently, locally, and globally notable
events to keep abreast of impossible
mission characterizing changing mean
drama (nail biting action) played out
across the webbed, wide world stage
speculating how willing the average
Tom, ****, or Harry blithely gives
money to the political candidate of
their choice, but if I matter of factly
asked for money (even a measly one
dollar bill), a hooting and hollering
would ensue, nevertheless experiment
prompted me to broadcast an honest to
dog communiqué greatly beseeching an
anonymous reader to support your local
******, whose nest egg whipsawed by
egregious thieving unscrupulous fraudsters
posing as (fake) Apple technicians after
hacking into my MacBook Pro (Retina,
15-inch, Mid 2015) essentially hitting me
with a double whammy initially locking
access to become linkedin to stored data
unless I called a toll free number only to
unwittingly fork over a large sum of money
after being blindsided that Citizen Bank imp
ploy ease colluding to siphon every red cent
constituting checking and saving accounts to
this day approximately seventeen plus months
after I got royally bilked, fleeced, scammed,
et cetera, and no success after posting a blurb
on Gofundme, an idea got hatched just today
to adopt the guise of a political nowhere man
shaking figurative tin cup on the cusp of holly
days trying to elicit altruistic responsiveness
from any pair of eyes that peruse the contents
of my poetic plea gently plucking heartstrings
to finance life, liberty and pursuit of happiness
for one mortal male who shortchanged himself
more'n his halflife ago socially withdrawn from
the countless opportunities to risk saying hello
to a pretty little thang, which painful shyness
predated availability of powder milk biscuits
made from whole wheat raised in the rich
bottomlands of the Lake Wobegon river valley
by Norwegian bachelor farmers; so you know
they're not only good for you, but pure... mostly.