at last -
our routines collide;
a daily walk, kiss, sweat,
our letters turned post-its
phone-calls to real life sound waves
bounding home.
The strange comfort
of arguing - knowing you're in the next room
not the next stretch
of foam-etched ocean
away from a 'sorry'


and knowing
it still grows, away from the distance
the aching, the halflife,
it's growing,

maybe more than before.

my yang
is a yearning
i can never fulfil
ive tried many times
to find the match to my sigil
whole is a concept unknown to my soul
i am one alone in my darkness
inviting dawns oblivion

My chemical imbalances
Make me unstable
Releasing pieces of my mind
So I'll become stable
Still calculating the halflife
Of my sanity
Alpha, beta or gammma,
Would not catorize me

Clouds of white March mornings
Surf inside this smokechamber I call a brain.
I was twelve and you were thirteen
Both separate rigid crystals growing
In the back of Mom’s awful red minivan.
We stained our fingers with Oxnard cherries
And got high on orange and eucalyptus.
Sand behaved like molasses.
My Walkman was full of ants
Who hated Third Eye Blind with a vengeance.
I had a pimple on my chin
Which I tried to hide with makeup
And I really hoped you’d notice
My cotton candy body splash
I got it because you like
Juicy Fruit gum and
That smells like cotton candy to me.
I chunked down short white shanks
On the red crabbed beach towel
Hoping you wouldn’t notice the ricotta billows
Developing on the upper thighs
Between slushy rivers of purple lightning stretch marks.
I couldn’t deal after ten minutes so I got in the water.
I laid myself across submerged tidal-pool boulders
Near-floating on the frigid little water-pyre
Congealing my skin like vanilla pudding
Bogging me down like a sea sloth.
It took me a halflife to figure out
That while I miss those mornings,
I do not miss you.

when
we
stop praying
the
soul
starts decaying
when
we
know
the
halflife
of
the soul
every soul
is a temple

Cut the ties that bind you to strife
Be rid of the ones that hold back your life
Slice the umbilical cord with your knife
Put an end to them before your halflife

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.

to become affianced to the grim reaper,
who never promised me a rose garden
nor crystal clear pool of fragrant delight
to accompany last living breath
before succumbing into black hole sun
re: the void of nothingness
with absolute zero remembrance of things past.

Suicidal ideation in tandem
with purposelessness
(nihilistic existentialism exponentially
increasing since my halflife ago),
and most importantly
cursed with flat limp hair,
which serious crisis undermines reason
to write reasonable poetic expression
spurs the notion to traverse consciousness,
and painlessly segway
into the hereafter
(and maybe reincarnated into a heifer)
on a broken wing and a prayer.

No glorious notion of heaven
(nor belief in some omnipotent supreme creator,
who will be instrumental
uniting those meeting their demise)
with dead souls doth explain
zealousness toward what happens to human body
very soon after they – give up the ghost
(second person singular) and die,
yet intimation fostered
linkedin to dulling senses of mine,

that allow, enable,
and provide means to see or hear,
cuz already at threescore and five
revolutions clocked around the sun
post January thirteenth
two thousand and twenty four
increased insightfulness brings to mind,
a quickening uptick courtesy senescence
whereby aural and visual deterioration occur
at what appear faster clip

than when I happened to be younger
within the lovely bones of this sensate being,
who finds himself sensitive to loud sounds
discovered audiological test administered
hearing loss at extreme high and low ranges
similarly recognizing even the largest sized letters
on the Snellen eye chart
fraught with greater difficulty
particularly without wearing corrective eyewear.

After querying Google concerning a medical term for hearing loss of high and low frequencies, the closest response came back as follows.

While there isn't a single, universally accepted term for hearing loss affecting both high and low frequencies, it would typically be described as a "mixed frequency hearing loss" or "broadband hearing loss" on an audiogram, indicating significant hearing loss across a wide range of frequencies, including both high and low tones.

Before acquiescing to the afterlife,
I bolster maximum body, mind and spirit triage
aware declining senescence
affects physical, mental and spiritual well being
what fluke roll of the genetic dice throw
wrought yours truly (me),
whose latent potential
hijacked (to Cuba) thyself,
an anomaly sexagenarian

forever stunted socially courtesy
courting The Pale Horseman
when just a lad
of approximately a dozen years
of longevity since being born
thirteen days into
the first month of nineteen fifty nine,
when according
to most Western cultural interpretations,

being born on January 13, 1959,
would not be considered
particularly auspicious or unlucky;
it's simply a regular birthdate
with no inherent positive
or negative connotations
associated with it in mainstream beliefs.

Perhaps, cuz I (the male offspring
from both deceased parents,
especially my father –
the renown Chemist B.B. Harris,
and to a slightly lesser extent
the late culinary cuisine queen
Harmit Harms Kuritsky -
the gal whose troth he pledged
while holding some
bubbling sinister looking flask in hand
on their first guinea pig type date
encouraged incurred genetic yen
that burned from without the buns of this son)
possesses a pyromaniacal streak,
no surprise cremation would be my choice
of post life treatment videlicet
mine grateful dead as a doornail
cadaver formerly yours truly.

Believe it or not, a dead doornail is actually a thing. It's a medieval carpentry term for a nail that's been “clinched” — hammered into a door with any protruding part hammered flat. It wasn't going anywhere, making the doornail “dead” and unfit for future use.