Hip Service
By Julian Malek

The zeal of cobblestone tolerance arrayed in fashionable hues masquerading as crimson secrecy, elevates the tide of man but some boats leak in their foundations. Therefore a cork to every exuberance and a triumphant torch for every sorrow lives onward in collective time. Larks that abound because prescience and PUGET sound, that brown has become the new orange which in turn prowls as a concealed swarthy black. To antagonize the willful and frenetic pace, a prodrome of lasting but memorialized disgrace. Should I move to a state by first or last name, or is the final appellation worthy of much more lasting fame. I scurry down the aisles, bemused by shimmering tiles and the beguiled audiences who see much in my limitation but doubt little about my debited elation. Ringmaster Barnum, how much horticulture is needed for assured superstardom, how many cloisters must we evacuate from the incendiary plumes of a metaphorical Harlem..  But know that no virtual reality can supplant the reality that does truly exist, or at least our time is too infernal and purblind to resist. Carrey the tops of mountains in the humor of wellsprings and fountains, we engage a menagerie of egos lilting of an etiolated pragmatic concern. Evicted from paradise, littered with say-cheese demise ensnaring three blind mice eaten alive by snake-eyed vice. To feel good without incorporated tyranny, we must see blue and red as alternatives to the same destiny. A world that reckons with the futilitarianism of pacified malcontent and astroturf monikers that lead the impressionable into a slaughter shed. Established or not, any enchantment under the sea must include fishes once a pastiche of me, but to them I avoid their courtesy flush and never even faintly blush as my egalitarian statements are lavish thrush.

Five TO Won baby one in 99, everyone here aboard the titanic stays alive, you got your boat baby and I got mine, gonna make it with babies numbered in surreal primes. Halt the slots game the nines, a stitch in time is going to turn out to be Mine. Flanger goals, girded piles, liminal like an aborted Harry Styles, we climb mountains we issue tithes, and the turmoil is etched into 45-notched bludgeons and two-tucked knives. Excuse you, where have you been all day, have you been sauntering in a gentle rain or a genteel pain, have you wallowed beyond the mires of doubt and ranked above David Blaine. I hope you tell me of your magic tricks, rather than your other flicks endeared I stand to fight an ineradicable itch. But if not, you placid pond dented by so many rocks and so many ripples give your heart over to me, before I clinch the special Olympics *******, we ran, we span the homespun garments of your left and right hand, but death is a specter that ghoulishly carouses along the carousel terminal disease we call life. I beseech your deepest affection and want to console you for your deepest struggle, to be there every time wed with time rather than a throttled scuttle. Moons make you guarded but maroons leave me desiccated, don’t ever let that wilted flower die, always water it with a rich but gentle ties and widened deck for all to at once marvel and pry.  Monsters of Mars Attacks once flanked my bed, as though the **** brain scared every gooseflesh and restrained every frisson of mystery. I lampoon myself for those cold Dark Knights and the protection ended by the plight of the poor mattering nothing to the deliberately internecine rich. I struck gold in a valley somewhere, an oxymoron of paradox that now you have the privilege to dock, to stay aboard to be a vessel of peace less widely deplored. Even if we don’t sprout wings, we garner the exactitude of measured things and our glass elevator though easily shattered by the glower of enslavement is actually our vista to heaven or listening to brethren tingles for rich mans trinkets and other things. For humanity deserves a legend and a princess, a regimented desuetude and a flanged lust but in our mistakes wildly flouted in momentary moments we become purified by the temptations of an alabaster palace.

***** the left-field wisdom of a pragmatic paragon ellipsis in prison, slip between the cracks and let my suburban muse become your urban ruse. To enchant a caged world beyond a reality delicately and deliberately unfurled. Squirming toads on highways enchanted but dead, are graves for the blue becoming purple in every dignified red. Gainsay assaults me with platitude, a repeated hitter quit on the first bunted ball into foul-line territory. Those gripes are swiped right in all circumstance no matter the plight. The pronged hearing of a trident sensitive to ambient collection, and suddenly we are all in the mad house even though the house of profaned pain is much worse. Glimpses of gambits that gambol for nickels in transit as occult grenades and known dice waddle through without artifice or device, and the laughter and slaughter that trains collegiate minds, differs no more than the tropes of a glamorous violence articled in sordid rhymes. This surfing movie means so much more than Surf Wax America pristine in limited but sacrilege nirvana. Teen spirits smell muskier than 90s pop dreams, the grasp and grunge of gouged eyes becomes a mummified staid, a scarecrow to those who disobey. Childhood flashes with blinding light, and new sight illuminates darkening blight, A blight eradicated only by two magazines and including one that houses the bullets that ***** themselves between death and comatose dreams both within astral sight. Littoral harbor on a seaside town, a shanty with a brackish gown that glides the gourmand to the cosmopolitan eatery on the outskirts of lost & found. But forever lost in embonpoint and forever gained in chavish that exonerates the gaunt, the etiolated prince in heart becomes irrefutable marrow in minded souls.

If I am a spy you are an ESPY, and if I cry than you are a baby,but since neither are the case my wiseacres will cultivate lava lamp dreams for a new generation and suddenly Boston bets on Harvard, but who knows of this piped blather squirming for relevance rather than voguish but temporary chatter. My regatta knows how to swim, my life now knows how to cringe and yet still win and in stilted plays of bungled sincerity the God of peace reminds us of our transcendent personalities. That we in sincerity top the barnacles of invention a novelty but a rarity. But the guillotine quill of emboldened unscripted parvenus ruthless in their eager dues, outdate and outlive the sued swayed blues that indemnify Clinton and make the atomic dog an amazing Winston hill a church often in sheltered disuse. Imps and urchins sting the sentiment, cloy the alimony of repentant betterment, but neither touches the gilded skies of pleonasm striving for raspy disguise as to dissuade further diatribe investigation. Lurking in those scared days of youth, the gore of unalloyed horror scourged me with a limp, that compassion itself could ever become a gimp. Now years later athletics better and scoring goals making the mildew sweat and the years wetter, not a global warming that can be alarmed by global mourning. Take peace at heart if distanced spears of separation make Idiocracy as a pastiche look exceedingly smart. And spar only with the true antagonists bridging malevolence with expedience. Killjoys sure, will joy even more sure, but still boys fluttered heart stopping dead at a stop-watched alarm the worst tragedy of our sordid sort. Give an African Child a real home rather than a spatial roam, a palatial desiccation of momentary Jonas Brothers snapping back at captives with sexualized foam.

Narrative blinds shuttered in an Island among mountains hardly ever wiser to sanitize the sanitarium among the wasps of stung power. Police crumple their uniforms as they prowl down the avenues, looking for misfits and widened platitudes. Somehow that the vigilance of those corrupted by their very career choice, look even worse when megalomania of private is the limelight of public, to their defense few turrets I can muster but castles in the sky will be the apartheid judge. Those that cling to virtue to eradicate Porsche-driven faked or real deaths at the most breakneck speed, that Fast & Furious operation if disclosed completely would turn the Shire of the ring into the hatred curtailed by a song in Sing-Sing. Immunity must not Yoda implore, that livery Liverpool marooned on islands can also to deplore the R.E.D. and still whet the sharpened stead and the fly-by-night Manchester United alights like militant peer pressure for wranglers in tights. But beating the Beatles at a game of Walruses and egg-shelled eyeful towers likely impedes rinkside hockey from anything over bellicose ballyhoo…it exists as a transient fixated glower. But who knows about soccer speculation when love is the transcendent temptation, when nest-egg hens rather than neglecting rig Bens of clockwork and clocked words designed arise better for their token ken. Do I must repeat the subtext of submarines, yellowed as though ugly unused as though unseen, as though the quixotic earthquakes of tintinnabulations Avatar dreams. Wafted souls console the disheartened thoughts of a dashed dream that Berlin hates more than a Furor’s unbridled and useless scream.
Demotic clips slinging from the bedridden silence of a token moon and its token friends, swimming in a shore of ambiguity whether history mellows or whether its furor melts away momentary doubts. I want to avoid the sting rays exorcised by due providence and become the amalgamated talents gentry and of course the upstart swagger of Jack Dawson. But with the psy-op going on, the people manipulated on all sides of a gray picket fence will the relationship bloom without muttered dissent or pretended smiles. Will we take upon the shuffled shuttle and dig with shovels deep-rooted Christmas trees and toast our lives to Dos Equis. We may never go out of style, but the treacle of illuminated imagery when divorced from sentiment bristle shows a swagger that prioritizes rather than amalgamates all love. I love being brash and brazen and honest because when she finally ditches the grandstand of delayed frenemies fandoms of other tinsel decorations without any substance beyond meretricious thrill. You want a roller coaster on some days, but most often you want the nutcracker to elope to secret hiding places. Swim with adventure not just in love, not just in affection with the starlight now matter how luminous, sixpence all the richer is no centuries any poorer and we could be that gilded couple of star and screen and if we ever have to scream, let our screams unite us in passion, rather than a milquetoast deference to pedestaled beauty. but of course the end times don’t laugh at your crumpled wizened relapse. Not out of convenience wed by a discriminating genetic harvest moon but a deeper engagement that flatters when stylish and bristles when romantic but never defiled, never riled of specious pretense. Promise me that you will always remember me in my flaws and my faults, in my scause factory destructions and the penults of PEN-ULTIMATE wisdom that comes before the grace of God in the annihilation of passion for eroded omission. If your goal is to be remembered, check that out…but the most admirable goal is as the propinquities of souls dusted in the wind returning to a spring equinox of passion and if you find in yourselves reservations do not depart from sacred land, and never jilt me because of a boisterous and menacing friend. You are everything to me right now, and I Hope this persists despite the vicissitudes of star-favored afflictions mixed with utter benediction without the pontification of stilted Benedictines  or rather the hyped ludic effrontery of termagants being made of younger and younger women. Leave it at this ,32 leaves the royal secret in royal hands and the Knights Templar and us we altogether hold hands, if only a prelude for a masquerade ball. But the stilted embarrassment of crestfallen time, let that be relegated and emphatically lets embrace what is like to not ever need a real white horse to get back into your favor, because we never go out of style we can brandish the best elements and reject the sentiments of the too newfangled and the too stodgy. We in our crenellated pleonasm can eager ride the lightning to another tomorrow and another yesterday and if even not that, we virtually make an indelible impression of embroidered love not too distant in ivory towers and not to vulgary( catering to popular sentiments) to become a trash glam movement. We soar, others deplore but let their purblind doubts render them blind to our burgeoning love.

Forget the brisk trees dangled in the wind on winding paths through haunted forest or remember them because of ghoulish fortress but with our apotropaic lamp we can avert most evil and call the rest fun and gains and shun but fames never profaned, never inalterable a destiny to magical to be some whimpered catcall. Or we could linger beneath lambent street lights disguised as though wilted garb, attrition of circumstance waiting patiently for the matinee and the vintner to escort us beyond the garb of pretense in a city so abundant with it that it deserves castigation. But I digress, a beachside cliff overlooking tepid waters tumultuous in their power but august in their noises, the cadence of love will sing a half-moon bay on full-moon nights and we will frisk each other like grasping at straws of permanent tracks trammeled of the elite and a sidetracked basque bet. Trim those antlers and instead grow metaphorical wings, to us we all sing but few can match your elegance and everyone would be crazy not to see your ennobled age and together thrilling songs to emulate thriller in sales we will collaboratively sing.
Haughty sneers from lifeless lycanthropy straggling furtively along the pastiched sidewalks of grime, livid because they can’t share the lingering limelight, with as many guarded perks of privacy clambering like a hive of snarky sharks. Lets ditch the big town dreams in terms of posh and stature if only for a caressed moment beneath the unadulterated stars and if you find spars **** to the extent they are amiable than I say guess what my name is Lars! Or wait a second, paused in the big city spotlight our stenciled hearts will guide whatever progeny is yours or mine or ours together we will sing the most comforting lullaby, and caves no longer must we abide. Yearn and earn every inch, as I gripe with my delicate saddened pinch but I think the innuendo speaks . Ripen with our trips to Napa, long afternoon sunsets swim in our hearts as we taste the vanguard’s toast on elegant wine.I console with entreaty to disavow the omen of that San Franciscan church October 2008, the doom implied by Einstein, the raillery of a world grinding down the endless decadence of a railed future inalterable in destiny or partialy amenable to widespread coquetry.

Forget those rumbles in your past that made you feel partial to insecurity and learning the ropes you transcended all and live in all eternity. Thimble and brook, tolerant of all those tokes I took your rebellious side flattens the yeast of Exodus raspy in its begrudged clapping. But the Pharaoh of the modern world sheltered me under his prickly thorns, shielded me from the sickly things that life adorns. We have the numbers on our side, the weight of destiny on our shoulders, dedicate yourself to yourself and I will preen the most vibrant wisdom and love will leap like Apollo across all borders not for camel-****** hoarders. We are culminated destiny in the wings of the best daydream

I bounce a volleyball as I walk to my dorm
just to hear that delightful sound, that satisfying, clean thud off the cement.

look up, see you in that grey hoodie that gives me bad dreams
and curse under my breath, eyes darting like a cornered fox,
            there is nowhere to hide.
we almost exchange eye contact, I almost taste blood in my mouth
            I hate how familiar you are.
you look down, cough;
I murmur a dusty hello-goodbye into the ground, hold my volleyball tighter
against my chest –
and hurry on, court sneakers straining on the pavement, trying too hard to forget your cracked smiles.

--

I remember how we used to pass for hours
no sound but the volleyball slapping against our forearms,
brushing off our fingertips,
echoing through that Choate gymnasium, that cold spring;

My head had barely reached the middle of the net,
but you were tall and brave and handsome, my Prince Charming, and
I was a freshman girl with her heart on her sleeve, who
hugged a warm volleyball to her heart and smiled,

thinking herself lucky.

--

Spring thawed your heart, eventually,
and you let me hold your hand;
you had long fingers, cold to the touch.
you taught me how to set, complimented my hands,
trained me to cradle the ball with my thumbs like it was made of glass,
your hands around mine.

I was braver than you were,
because everything felt fresh and exciting to me, like the
smell of crushed pine needles in the air;
you kissed me (I kissed you?) on that night
and I leaned forward, curious and eager, and wrapped my arms
around your neck.

--

The days melted into one another,
and we became
like chalk drawings blurring after rain,
like floor burns from sliding to save a falling ball –
but missing it, all the effort gone to waste;
the burns will still burn and still scar, for nothing.

May to June, June to July,
I hugged you and laughed, but my eyes
were cold; you said I love you
And I tried to say it back, but I couldn’t without
sticking a used to before the love –
            the honey words stuck in my throat.

Our kisses were routine, stale
like the crackers I left out the night before;
I tapped my foot and
tossed the volleyball quickly behind my back with nimble fingers
and counted the seconds before it was acceptable to pull back;
I had homework and volleyball practice and quizzes to study for, you know – I tried to smile but
it felt so wrong, I stopped –
you asked what was wrong, I shook my head, there are no answers for some questions.

--

It’s been four years since we’ve spoken,
shared secret moments under solemn oak trees, behind library bookshelves
that promised to keep us away from prying eyes,
smiled into each other’s lips,
blinked stories into each other’s eyes.
It’s been four years since people have teased you for not
hitting the ball when we passed – you gentleman, you –

I will not say I miss you, because I refuse to lie for your sake;
but sometimes as I set a ball perfectly to a hitter
I think of you for a split second, wonder where you are and if you remember as much
as I do, which is, honestly
not very much.

--

she writes letters to him and then burns them all, the smell of smoke fills the room.
It’s as if she is stealing the fury of the sun, which is cooling down, melting into lava at the horizon –
it will be another cold winter, there is already frost in the grass, the air smells chilly.

Dear you,

I broke up with you as nicely as I could –
there was no reason I fell out of love, the same way
there is no reason people fall in love.

you have no right ******* me out on the internet the way you did.
Every time I hit a volleyball I imagine your face on my palm, and I hit harder.
I will never forgive you for the things you wrote,
and I don’t know if I ever loved you at all,
because you are despicable.

Goodbye,
the girl of your dreams.

--

it’s the beginning of the end of July, everything is so hot.
the pavement is baking, the volleyballs are flat,
her arms feel weak and limp like overcooked noodles.

it’s hard to think straight. She can hardly remember
her own name before remembering that she has a boyfriend.
He calls, he says I love you and she tries to choke out that well-rehearsed lie –
what was it again? something like I love you too?

But it’s too hot, and she
can’t do it anymore –

she swallows hard and grips her volleyball tighter,
her hands sweating against the weathered sphere that has been through so much with her
as she prepares to say goodbye.

Once upon a time.
In a land far far away.
Their existed a rhyme,
About the greatest game ever played.
This is the said rhyme 
preserved from the acclaim the game has gained.
Passed on to generations about the game at it’s prime. 

A game that should be reclaimed from the fame its gained at the present time.
This game came from the brain of a person
who aimed to have the time of his life. 

Town ball was for all. In any season: spring, summer, winter, or fall.
Town ball was a ball for all: no despair, grief,  or strife, could spawn.
The rules were simple
Hit ball: bases touch all. 

Teams were never full. 
And the field could sprawl.
Everything was in play just like everyone could play.
No obstacle was in the way, no direction out of play.
Yet, according to the natural law of capitalistic America,
An evolution began to make money.
**** you Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet!!
You may have nothing to do with baseball, 

But you spawned the evilest idea of them all. 

That evolution is caused by natural law, 

and the evolution of baseball is the downfall of all that is America.
Baseball was at one time a game of fun; 

good times shared with one another under the sun. 

Eventually they agreed to decree the official rules, 

And it was not Abner Doubleday who would have the last say in history,
for that story is a myth that we should flee from like fools.
Instead it was Alexander Cartwright who penned the knickerbocker rules.
These rules spread to the rest of the clubs,
and eventually it was coined the New York game. 

No longer could anyone play but only the ones who could slug.
If you wanted to win, it would be a sin,
to put in the has been who brought the game shame.
This game spread during the civil war. 

In down time to escape they played for fun instead of being bored.
The game spread like never before,
and soon the game covered the entire eastern shore.
The N.A.A.B.B.P was formed and by 1867 four hundred teams were born,
and in 1870 the Chicago Cubs actually won!
They actually were good before 1908,
heck some people might even say they were great. 

I don’t mean to taint their slate or bait your hate.
I just wish to point out that its been some time since that date,
and you Cub fans still must await.
Meanwhile these gentleman clubs would compete in the heat,
for they wanted to prove they were the ones to beat. 

Yet promoters wanted money so they charged the food you eat.
Then they fenced in the meet.
No longer could you watch the teams compete from the street.
If you wanted to know who would defeat you must enter with a receipt
to show that you payed for your seat.
There you would meet, eat, and greet,
and keep track of the game on your score sheet
Eventually the wood frames turned to concrete

in order to hold more people inside their games.
And the players started to earn fame.
And eventually everyone knew their name.
No longer was the game a game for games sake,
instead it was meant to entertain the fame-craved.
All that matter was the money made at the gate,
and since then the game has never been the same.
Before players would score more and their would be less of a bore.
Fielders caught with their fingers the stingers thrown,
but for catchers that was absurd.

Before, fans would abhor to the idea of a fielder with a glove adorned,
but eventually the planted seed, grew steadily, and the fielders glove was born.
At first their was no web extended between the finger and thumb.
Because that would make it so easy to catch it would be just dumb. 

Yet, somehow the web spread and eventually it won. 

Now any *** could catch between finger and thumb
and the hand would not become numb.
This lead the dead ball era dread at the start of nineteen hundred.
And ego went to Owen Wilson’s head as he lead the league with triples.
Thirty six triples the record was set
and will never be broken it has been said.
But instead its embed into the unread
record book for others to go ahead and try to break with dread.
There were several reasons that lead to the dead ball.
First of all, the same ball was used until it started to unravel.
Second, was that you would draw a strike for every foul ball,
And lastly was the spit ball which would dance to any squall.
All these reasons made the pitchers un-hittable. 

And batters seeing their batting average fall
would take a bar crawl and bawl.
But then a savior came to us all. 

This man hit the ball so far that it would fall somewhere past Senegal.
The claims were esteemed that this man was best of them all. 

Yet, he was traded for money to fund a curtain call. 

This man’s name was George “the Babe” Herman Ruth. 

A pitcher turned outfielder because he was a great hitter is the truth.
The great bambino or Sultan of Swat,
nothing could stop him when he was hot. 

And he hit the dead ball era out of the park and it was forever lost. 

He had more home run’s as an individual, than any team,

Except for the Phillies who were good it seems.

Babe was the hit man

Pitcher he was no longer

The same change came

With this emphasis:
Babe Ruth symbolized what was

the rest of the game. 


They said pitch no more.
Sluggers are what fans adore
outfields became small. 


Power was the talk

Every team must have a guy
who hits with power. 


George “babe” Herman Ruth
and Lou Gehrig, the Yankee’s
became the very best.

Then the depression came and rained on the parade of the baseball game.
Yet, families with radio’s would listen to the games as a sort of hope. 

To escape from the world that they known. 

To escape to a game that reminded them of better days.
Then WWII came and stole away the players. 

Baseball’s talent level was now in multiple layers. 

and because of lack of talent Ted Williams batted over .400 percent
and Joe Dimaggio hit the ball again and again. 

for 56 consecutive games he hit the ball back to where it was sent.
Yet, eventually the players would return and baseball would mend. 

But not before the ladies got their own league. 

and men it did intrigue.
Is this for real?
Or a joke?
They would laugh.

Then they would choke. 

When they saw that this wasn’t just an act.
The girls continued,
“Everyone used to be able to play the good old town ball game!
“This is no longer town ball,” the men said, “the present game is not the same,
Instead its now played for money and fame.”

Oh how the good old days always change.

“Give us money” the women exclaimed,
“We’ll take your fortune we’ll take your fame!”

Some men said, “you complain! Its not the same,
you have to be good to play this game,
you can have your separate league if you need,
But this game of fame is only for white men of age!”

Oh how problems never change
Instead they always stay the same.
Yet, it wouldn’t be long
Before the trumpet would sing its song. 

That segregation would possibly end. 

Not for women but for African Americans. 

Segregation had always gone on. 

***** leagues rose up, but finally segregation’s time was gone 

due to a man named Jackie Robinson. 

And in 1947 he broke through with the Brooklyn Dodgers.
Because his team was convinced they’d make more money by Lou Durocher
Yet it came with its troubles because Not everyone on the team was happy 
And some fans were just down right ******.
Some teams such as our beloved St.Louis Cardinals even threatened to strike. 

They were not going to play if Jackie played because they had that much dislike. 

But Jackie and the Dodgers pushed through all the hate that spewed. 

Other players, managers, and fans  were rude, crude and would start feuds. 
Then they would brood every time Jackie’s name the roster would include.
But after awhile people would conclude that he was actually very good.
And after review others would start to include rather than seclude,

But this integration was long over due.
30 years till segregation could be totally subdued.
The lessons we learn are hard ones that is true. 

And it takes awhile for an entire nations perspective to take a different mood.
Now with baseball integrated the game be televised. 

This allows the money in the game to rise. 

The league now expands west; 

New markets they must test.
But hey! the players want some of this. 

They want to start a free agency. 

But this is the last thing the owners need! 

But the players want to be able to move between teams.

The players want money. Oh how things never change.
But the players got what want. 

They now can negotiate and the owners this does haunt. 

The game now is wrapped inside this twisted shame of money. 

Thats all any body wants so they find ways to scheme. 

Thus steroids came to the scene. 

Players now could be payed more if they played well. 

This meant that to hit the ball far, big muscles they would have to build.
In order to get that edge over everyone else. 

These players used steroids to get their help. 

Yet that was not cool with the public 
Because steroids put you at risk. 

They are dangerous at best,
and the league didn’t want to run the risk. 

Plus what about records that have stood the time test?
Are they going be broken now and no longer exist?

All because someone drugs themselves to have a bigger biceps and chest?
Someone please lay this all to rest! 

Baseball today is such a shame. 

Its boring with all of the commercial and pitcher change breaks. 

Something needs to change. 

Because its been turned into a sideshow. 

Thats the only reason why kids even go. 

To see the park, get hot dogs,
and baseballs that when put in the dark they glow. 

Then when you get home. 

you ask them what they remember about the game 

and they say, “I don’t know”. 

This game used to be interesting. 

But now I find my channels flipping. 

Even Golf is more fun to watch. 

at least they hit that ball a lot!
Baseball should but I doubt ever will, 

Get rid of all the pitchers it has to refill. 

No more pitching changes; That would increase the thrill!

Maybe players could hit the ball if wasn’t coming 100 mph every throw. 

and instead of pure talent pitchers had to use strategy,
of when to and not to throw 

That 100mph hour fastball.
Get rid of the sideshow. 

Then maybe kids would go. 

Maybe then we’d go back to being enthralled. 

Back when Baseball was actually Baseball. 

But I doubt it will because money is what matters now.
Sideshows make money so its always going to be allowed.
But I’d like to disavow
I’d like to dropout. 

I never really watched it much in the first place. 

but now I know of a better game.
Oh and one final thing to say. 

We should just go back to town ball. 

That game sounds so much cooler than baseball. 

You could really make some unique obstacles

Put in a fountain or maybe even a wall.
It just sounds like a lot of fun. 

I plan to play it this summer some. 

Everyone will be welcome. 

And we’ll have fun under the sun. 

And it won’t really matter who will win. 

Because its about having fun, building character,
and growing relationships
The end.

Childhood was the greatest time for Timothy, and he remembers it that way. No disposition on the fact that his parents divorced when he was eight. Just old enough to develop a mental connection with the idea of a union. So when he was ten, his father remarried, moved to a farm in the southeast, and tried living off the land. The topic of an ecological environment had hit the internet heavier than global warming hit the ice caps. And everyone was pursuing happiness with steep drops in city living, and an up swing in rural living.
Timothy's mom refused to believe it though. She wrote about such cultural climates, the invasion of neo-british pop boy bands, the decline of football, and the hippie lifestyle clawing its way back up the columns of big city papers. So when the recession hit, and it suddenly became cool to dress like a homeless person, she saw the disgust, moved overseas and focused on the world-political spectrum.
“Societal fads be ******! I'm going to do something that actually matters.” And she did.
Timothy Glasser, age 82 looks back on that moment with pride.
“There was a sense that she had the ***** to change the world. With Russia building up Imperial popularity, it was cool to be big. America was on the decline by the word of all the heavy-hitter magazines.
“That was when I started to take my life serious. She had shown me all the would-be Bob Dylans, Lennons, Hunter S. Thompsons. She would say, 'These kids have all the brass words of a ****** who can bite down ******* the world, but they don't have the actual brass. Men who are not recognized for what they've done have the brass. Hell, women have ten more pounds of that kind of brass!'
'I would laugh, but she was serious. I think she thought I was too masculine to understand what she was saying.”
When Timothy's father moved him and his little sister, Sunni Glasser out to the backwater community of Oggta-Cornelius, there was a certain relief in his demeanor. In a matter of months the country way of living had worn down his impatience to a sluggish pace.
“Greg was my father's name. He's been raised in a similar place in the Midwest, but the slowness of that life got to him in his teens so he left for the city. I guess when he met my step-mom he found the good ol' girl that he'd been trying to cling to since he left home. And it was Sunni's choice to come with us. She always had the same kind of 'brass' Mom had, but there was a closeness she shared with Dad that adventure couldn't break. It's a **** shame too. But once the slow pace of the backwater hit Sunni, she rebelled. It was a catastrophe to watch her and Dad argue over the most petty things you've ever seen. The way our step-mom, Claire would fold clothes or how early she had to wake up in the morning for school. Five o'clock, five days a week, and sometimes Dad would wake her on Saturday just to punish her for talking back. There was always blood in the water.”
Timothy's face settles, his lower lip curls, and his eyelids clinch for a moment before he changes his position in his chair.
“Is everything okay, Timothy?” I ask.
There is a pause, almost as if he is reliving what he was just describing.
“**** has always been real, you've been fantasizing.” I hear him say. He refuses to look at me, let alone answer my question.
“Mr. Glasser?” I ask again.
He exhales suddenly, eyes watery, and lets out a sigh.
“Let's talk about Sunni. I never really talk about her much, and I think now is a good time. Don't you?”
I nod in agreement and try to give him a smile.
He still refuses to look me in the eye.
“When Sunni was in first grade, she was beginning to prove to be a bit of a handful. There was a small patch of corn out back. Maybe half an acre Dad keep for us to put up for the winter. Sunni was about seven years old around this time and she had the idea to make crop circles. Now I was out with my friends, played football in those days so I didn't have the time to be home all the time. Dad and Claire kept themselves busy with the work about the place, so Sunni got bored real fast. One day during the summer, Dad went to the store to get some groceries. A friend of his came up to him and said, 'I was up in the plane yesterday and I saw something strange in your cornfield. Like some kind of crop circle. Weird ain't it?'
“This rattled my Dad's brain for a few minutes until he got home and saw the two-by-four with rope tied to either end of the thing. Sunni was staring at the clouds and Dad walked over to her, and yanked her up off the grass. 'What are you doing flattening my corn for? Don't you know that's goin' to save us money in the long run?” She just stared at him. Not dumbfounded, just intrigued.
“That was kind of the starting point of their bickering. She had blonde hair running to the base of her skull brushed down neatly. A subtle blush in her cheek from the sun. And she always wore a dress, especially if it had sunflowers on it. She brought life to that house.
“On her tenth birthday, Mom sent her a touch screen phone, an iPhone, I think it was called with a two-year contract. It was so long ago minor facts like that seem to hang on for no reason.”
Timothy shuffles in his chair. Then clears his throat.
“Would you like to take a break, Timothy?” I ask him.
“I ignored most of the arguments Sunni and dad had after I graduated high school. As soon as fall semester started at Cornelius College I fled the backwater and started by life near the OceanFront. Oggta-Cornelius was divided into two sections: the Backwater and OceanFront. And like a sports rivalry there was always trash talk about the tax bracket you were in or how much you worked. After the first few weeks for sneaking into bars and partying on campus, the fun died down because of the arrests. I almost got caught twice, but my sixth sense for trouble tingled at just the right time. When the middle of the semester hit I was over-booked with mid-terms and reading assignments. I actually lived in my dorm then. Never really left the place. And soon fall semester was over. Nothing worth mentioning now. Sunni and I texted often, but she had become a brat and I wanted alone time to learn what I'd read. For everything literary to go beyond just test and quizzes.
“But right towards the end of the semester, one morning I was walking to an early exam and on the ground was a kid, a little older than me lying there looking up at the sky. I had the urge to walk up and ask him what he was doing, but it felt too rude so I left him. I kept walking and heard a voice call back to me, 'Hey, guy.' I turned around, 'Yeah you, come here.'
“I walked up to him, he motioned for me to kneel beside him.
'What day is it?
I told him it was a Monday.
'Really? Wow, must've fell out watching the stars with this gir--'
He reached to his other side, feeling for a body, but no one was there. He never broke eye contact with me.
'Well, with his lovely imaginary girlfriend I have. Her name's Elsie. She's a charm.'
I helped him up and he left without much of a goodbye. A disrespectful mysteriousness. And I didn't see him again till the weather warmed up in the spring semester. Which was a repeat of the fall.”
Timothy asks me for some water. I started to feel like I'm one of his grandkids. How far in the trunk of memories is he going for this information?
“Thank you. Now the next time I saw Alan was in a smoking gazebo along a walking path on campus.
'Hey, guy!” he shouted, getting my attention. I walked back to the gazebo, coughing as the smoke roughhoused it's way into my lungs. He had those circular shades on, like the one John Lennon wore back in the day. A tie around his head, a light blue button up shirt that hung loose off his think frame. His hair was long and parted, and he sported a straggly red and black beard.
'Top of the morning, ta ya.' he said, putting out a cigarette on the tray. I opened my mouth, but all that came out was coughing.
'Course, the Irish don't really say that. It's actually quite racist, but I'm half Irish so no skin of my knuckles. I'm a mutt.'
“He smiled with such pomp. The arrogance was so natural, it fit him like his face. Other people around him were having conversations about Samuel Beckett, John Irving, Stephen King, and Jimmy Hendrix tripping acid together in the great T.A.R.D.I.S. in the sky. I remember laughing at that. They were all smiling at the ludicrous actuality of it happening. And it was late evening.
'Stay! Be silly and merry with us!” he shouted. I held my breath and sat down. I never made it to the rest of my classes that afternoon or for the next week. Alan and I chilled in my dorm, burned incense and plotted a protest. The whole time I was telling him he had to be literal with the cause. It couldn't be just because the college bookstore sold shot glasses, but confiscated any paraphernalia they found in the dorms.
'*******,I say. It's hypocritical and a scam. Like police pulling you over for going two-miles over the limit because they need to feed their kids. It's a Darwin rip-off.'
“Later that week he took my phone while I was sleeping, got my number, and Sunni's too. He never asked if he could come over after that night. He just did.
'I thought it was cool since we had a good time.'
"I didn't know what to say so I let it continue. His reason for stealing Sunni's number still baffles me. He said he thought she was a girl I was into. She was my sister, he was right in his own way. It was a while before he ever texted her.
“The next time I saw him he told me, 'I feel like a clockwork man running on thousands of gallons of caffeine.' I laughed at him and told him to stop reading Burgess.”
I stop Timothy for a moment. “Anthony Burgess? The author of A Clockwork Orange?” He nods and goes back to the story.
“You know, with the Second Cold War flaring up again I don't think it's wise to be worrying about an old man like me. This has been a century of second fillings. There are still Hipsters running about. This makes me feel no better. I want to go home.”
“Alright Mr. Glasser, but can we reschedule? I need to finish this article.” As he rises out of the chair, he agrees and goes for his coat.
“One more question, Mr. Glasser. Can you give me another quote from Alan? A bit of closing for this bit?
He turns around and looks me in the eye for the first time since the beginning of the interview. He squints his eyes at me and says, “When we would hang out at the gazebo where we actually met for the first time, and after that week I got back in the habit of going to class and doing my work. As I would leave I'd say, 'Alright man, I'm off to class, to learn and stuff.' He'd moan about it, and say, 'Look at him now, growing old and dying young.' Behind that same pompous grin."

stirred deeply with joy
enthralled with the spirit
we return to Elysian fields
to live autumnal reveries

we prance once more
onto blue sky diamonds
with hometown heroes
to pitch perfect games
knock long grand slams
to honor and embrace
the semblance of siblings,
parents, lovers and friends

life's teammates
our dearest playmates
passed and still here
sustaining our spirit
filling the void of
riven hearts
with nothing more than
a smiling presence,
compliant ear
a warm embrace

keeping a
season of sunshine
alive for one more
golden day

in a resplendent moment
Measy’s youngest son
stood before me
as if it were him
five decades ago

his impish smile,
mischievous eye
and olive skin
wrinkled when
he grinned

your Old Man
was a hell
of a ball player
a great hitter
he always swung down
at the pitch, hitting
nasty line drives

I remember that
summer afternoon
when we first met on
the Washington School
Merry-Go-Round...
Measy just up
from Carolina
he spoke with
a slow Tar Heel drawl
we didn't know what
to make of him
so we made him
our friend

Sifford's Esso, B&D;
and Bulldog teammates
I marveled at his athleticism
but the thing I remember
most was the soft joviality of...

“ ah hoot,
ah hoot.
ah hoot”

his laugh would send
a soft almost *******
shudder through his body

Measy lives in me,
forever in my heart
I embraced young Roy
touched his cheek
a transcendent moment
that spans a half century

At first base
Gail “Peppermint Patty” Q
was scooping up grounders
and not letting anyone past her
without giving them a smile or a hug….
asking each player if their shirt fit right…

the way Gail played
she could start for
the Lady Gaels today...

on the mound
Moons was wearing
a Schmeds shirt
lobbing lollipops to the hitters…..
making sure everyone got on base…

at short Screwball
covering half the ground
he once did..
(never a ss but a classic junk baller,
never threw a pitch that you could hit)
but on this day his heart was filled
overflowing with the karma
of good works and his love for
Rutherford and its favorite
sons and daughters
who have gone on before….

other stars abounded on the field and off…
Noons cracked everyone up
with an endless stand-up routine
Skip walloped a few dingers
BL looked sharp in his Foster Grants
and Andy was looking good
destined for the next cover of GQ….

Coach Way gave a resounding pep talk…
the need to grow up and show up
with an attitude of gratitude will
always make one a winner
regardless of the score

in the stands I heard a hundred stories
about the prowess and foibles of departed friends…

Bay Bay’s HR smash that put Flash Cleaners
into the World Series

A cool Moose bringing the ball across
half court, driving and dumping one off to Head
for the go ahead points against Queen of Peace

Minnow ruling a territory that included Morse Ave,
Wood Street up to Chopper’s House and
half of the Washington School playground

Fic being the smallest Bulldog with the largest heart
ran over linebackers and tackled fullbacks twice his size

Weehawken Joe draining a jumper
from the top of the key to keep it close
at the Union Hill pit…

as the list of the departed was read by Gail, Pat, John and Jimmy
the depth of our loss was only exceeded by the magnitude of love
a caring community extends to one another….
Rutherford is indeed a very special place….

so many caring friends
so many good thoughts
the blessing of friendship
the grace of presence

as I turned to leave
I thought I saw
Nick and Joe
hanging with
Sweet Lou
the hog was
humming
his red bandanna
was flapping
in a rising breeze

Aaron Copland:
Our Town

Righteous Brothers
Unchained Melody

Whitney Houston:
I Will Always Love You

Oakland
Dia De Muertos
2015


Thank you Pat Francke, Jimmy Noonan, Gail Wilhelm Quinn and John Mooney for putting this beautiful event together….

My apologies for not mentioning all the beloved souls so honored at this game…..Know that all are deeply loved and equally missed…..

If anyone has a memory they would like included please add in comments section and it will be incorporated in future versions…..

Also if anyone has a list of the names would like to add that to this….

God Bless

I remember the time you came over.
You stayed for the weekend
We sat on my bed
Ate all kinds of food
Listened to the radio
And talked about everything.
Girls,
Boys,
Dreams,
Desires,
Nightmares,
Souls,
God,­
The Devil,
Heaven,
Hell
And everything inbetween.
I remember when my sister bursted in
Through the door
We were being silent
Just looking at each other
My heart was racing
I wanted to grab your face and
Kiss you.
I'm not sure what you were
Thinking about,
But it seemed like you were thinking the same.

I remember how she turned up the music
Because a song came on.
They both knew the words
And I sat there,
Mesmerized
By the way your lips moved so
Rhythmically
To the words
How they just flowed out of your lips.
I remember how your
Eyes were closed
So you could really take in the song.
You started smiling
The song made you laugh
You have every reason to be happy.

I think I now notice why the Album to that song is called "Recovery".
Even though it may be about drugs or even getting out of some sort of trouble,
To me it means being recovered from love,
Because love can be so easy--
And a hard hitter
When it's sitting right in front of you
Singing beautifully to a song
You've never even tried to like before.

Rocketship
Pistol on my hip
Quick Shooter
No Hitter
One Hitter
Quitter

Express the depress
in your chest
scribble scrabble
blither blather
doesn't matter.

I can hear the rush and whistle of the trees
My skin is so chapped from the Colorado
Wind
I’m not sure how to
Make it feel soft again.

I slept hard and pretty at peace
Hoping the sun will come out
On this final day
Of vacation.

To vacation
A thing I convince myself I deserve
Those closest to me reassure me
I in fact
Do.

I let my paranoia and the awareness
Of the lack of support I feel
I acknowledge
And decide to let it drift up and out of the window
Of my air b n b
Bedroom.

He’s got staple guns
And a bottle of ambition
I told him on the phone
I don’t wanna get in the way
He said you are no distraction
I give advice when he asks for it
Dreaming up plots and fantasies
He made a comment about adventure
Rope, he mentioned rope
I miss him dearly
I know he misses me too.

I too, let that float out of my
Air b n b
Window.

I’m broke again now
I should have budgeted better
Spending my money like a drunken
Or better yet
High as hell
Sailor.

How will I get by on this last day?

I drink coffee
I sat out on the patio
Ignore emails
It is nearly time to pack up
To think on all I have gained and learned.

He won’t be there when I return
His journey with cameras and fire
Is only just beginning
But I close my eyes
Let it drift out the window
And try to trust
For once in my life.

I smoke cigarettes
I drink ***** straight
I party with the suffragettes.
I have no job.
I have a car.
I have a brand new, spanking guitar.
I'll sing a song,
so sing along.
I'm a born-again, ***** brunette.
*******, where's a cigarette?
I write some lines.
I've got some fines.
I snort a line,
I'm doing fine.
Poet,
know it,
*****,
snitch,
girl,
hurl,
finger,
singer,
love,
glove,
me,
b­e,
book,
hooked,
see?
three!
And now you know,
my tale, insane.
It's not quite told,
I'll try again.
****,
Greed,
'strology,
Blasphemy,
Gay/Straight,
don't hate,
quitter,
hitter,
fool,
cool,
won't get me in a swimming pool.
delusional,
confusional,
blankets,
spank it,
pillows,
billows
out the car into the night.
Taurus,
chorus!!
Oh, won't you be my Valentine,
Now you've seen into my mind?

I should have been a boxer....the way I stick and move when I write.  The only person I know that can make the sun shine at night.  

I should have been a boxer....the way i fight with words to paint a picture.  I'm using the jab to set you up for the knockout blow.  I'm looking for your tendencies and when i spot it......down you will go.

I should have been a boxer....float like a butterfly sting like a bee.   A sign of honor to a fellow poet.....and inspiration to me.....Muhammad Ali. I should be a boxer the way i study my craft and observe the legends of the game.  It's all all about the passion.....I could care less about fame.

I should have been a boxer.....you can't be good unless you train.  I have my book ....my pen .....ideas in my brain.  I have so many thoughts I may need another brain.  I'm on the speed bag so my brain is quick with the flow....switching styles like a southpaw.....which way is it coming? I guess you will never know.

I should have been a boxer....because i really like to fight.  Instead of gloves I utilize my pen to pulverize the paper and annihilate those foes and lost loves....father's who left their children at start.  They couldn't finish the fight .....was he a coward or a scarecrow.....born without a heart.

I should've been a boxer.....because my defense is always up.  I hide my poems inside a book .....it's highly guarded so don't try to look.  The thoughts inside are g14 classified....so I'm hiring security guards.....if you want to gain entrance.....you must present an identification card.

I should've been a boxer....because I'm always fighting.  My thoughts are knocked to the paper and bleeds black or red.  I write about life .....because I know nothing about being dead.  Although, I been knocked around .....and have had to take a standing eight.....I leaned on the ropes and learned to wait.  Still working the jab......which are the words i write.

I should've been a boxer.....one hitter quitter and then it's time to say "Goodnight!"

Ladies and Gentlemen......we have a unanimous decision.  The new poetic champion of the worldddddd!!! ......I should've been a boxer.....Yeah right.

Skating on thin ice my whole life like a figureskater.
First price on sight but the stripes, resembles a broken picture.

A golddigger... Go figure.
Writing straight from my heart so every bar tender. I remember a night in december,
from a walk in the park to a shot in the dark, I wasnt that cleaver.
Pretended to be concious and smart but now the scars on my arms shows that Im a beginner.
Sober for 3 years yet addicted to your liquor.
Sparked my transmitter when ladys slipper fell off after our first dinner,
But I never knew cinderella was a heavy hitter.
Couldnt connect the dots so now im on the ground with seven stars above my head like I got hit with the big dipper.

PTSD...
But **** all the modesty, I just need honesty...
My writtens a blasphemy (blast for me) but I can't be myself anymore like broken prophecy so God,
accept my apology, beacuse there's a monster inside of me that produces sick thoughts like it knew biology.


Some might say im insane but **** my brain, my heart is always by my side. Deranged thoughts but love tells me when its a lie.
So stay in my lane and embrace the fact that we all are going to die or live to busy and miss the heartbeat that takes you to the otherside.

Magnificence blasted

I came to this with a title and then formed an Idea then got out the heavy hitter books all founding fathers thought it would be
A good touch to reconnect with our country and it history at this time of the year well it didn’t proceed that way I did find the very
Word that serves as the title in G. Campbell Morgan’s book an exposition of the Bible don’t get excited I will just use that to set the
tone and it will give you a head start on what I want to deal with the place where life is at odds with our peace and well being He starts
the first chapter of Job now he is one that can at least give us a great example it’s all about winning getting the results we need instead
of the pain of failure (In magnificence of argument and beauty of style this book is one of the grandest in the divine library the story
of Job is presented in dramatic form) I want this to serve two purposes give understanding to the point we all can use these stories
to make us victors and in a very small way have a readable escape from drudgery or outright problems to that end I will start at this
Point I already wrote about the Dutch businessman who got fed up chucked it all started a journey to circle the globe by human
Power alone so to that end he made a boat that by pedaling and that alone would be what would propel him through great waters and
Grand adventures but for this one were going to stay on land I did meet a eastern traveler years ago from New York he was on this side
Of Shelbyville his ultimate goal was the west coast I think he had been at it a little over a month and he was on horseback we talked
but way to briefly to be able to use it here so go to one I know a little more about Jack Kerouac he was in that idea and wrote the
Book on the road first problem the guy had very bad language steeped in the sixties drug culture an iconic figure of the beat
Generation but he was human as we are and when you get down to the soul you catch the part I want to use this is going to play
Like an old family recipe that is hardly readable and the family is the human family but Jack was a writer a full blown saga that had to
Be read had to be listened to a solitary seeker a poor outward drifter who was deeply lonely man a sad melancholy drifter one writer has
Said “and if you read the book closely you see that sense of loss and sorrow swelling on each page” another penned why Kerouac
Matters he matters because he is one of us he ran the course with large gains and ultimately ended with his magnificence blasted.
Taking the cue from Jack I will take you on the road to another life of magnificence Steven Beckerman he was a neurosurgeon I met
And worked for well his wife Sandy she was such a tragic figure she was so fragile high strung would be a good description if you didn’t
Know better you would think she saw the future the first blow to this couple was there pricey home was gutted by fire everything was
Replaceable but the two Doberman guard dogs and another dog that was their family they were childless but before this fire Steven
Was not a snob but he was only a few degrees higher than Sandy on the fragile scale he had these beautiful hands he seemed to
Always be guarding them he would walk in the back of the house down by the fence always faraway I’m sure he was thinking of
The patient and the operation that waited on him at the hospital he had a vulnerability he entered other peoples troubled places and
Gave them back their lives but his own he couldn’t seem to walk divided it was all their concerns and needs.Their dream was to leave
The Bay area where neither was happy and go to the southwest New Mexico where people were laid back the pace was slower
Then the fire happened they weathered that resumed life then Steven was near home a car accident this wonderful gifted surgeon
Was left a paraplegic he went to the bedroom placed the gun between his legs then with those fingers who helped so many others
Pulled the trigger on the shotgun his magnificence was ended he couldn’t overcome the reality and fact of his situation he could have
Became a teacher so many things could have been we need to take from this a lesson of guarding our mind and heart we don’t know
What the future holds if only Steven would have measured his worth kept and made a powerful ally as Job had, his magnificence
Would still be shinning today to finish up the last piece talked about Yvette being shot with Zack in the desert her injuries included
Right side nerve damage a metal plate in her head that prevents her from getting private health care we heard what her dad said about
The Grisly listen to the wise words of her mother her mother said you have to mourn the person you were before up to the time of the
shooting that person is gone you need to turn and start a new life she did that as much as possible started out to do sports casting found
It totally unsatisfactory changed to law and now is a lawyer and victims advocate she said she never tells her story to her clients but
She has a compassion for them she found her way through giving and serving others to keep her magnificence stellar.

This poem is a Google Adwords ad,
Intruding into the sidebar of your heart.

It’s a 1-800-LAWYERS commercial
Making you money off your personal injury.

It’s a brutal, ****** UFC bout,
Weak in its ground game but knows its Jiu-Jitsu
And it’s got you on the mat, begging you to tap out.

This poem is *****,
a SNAFU waiting to happen.

It’s the sarin gas Syria used against its own
And it’s the attack America will be responding with,
Using ****** to punish murderers.

This poem is a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken
Getting your finger-lickin’-good fingers nice and greasy.

This poem is yet another poet writing yet another poem about poems,
With the word poem repeated ad nauseum.

This poem is a bunch of awful band names,
Like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Tapes ‘n Tapes, and Chunk! No, Captain Chunk!.

It’s a summer blockbuster and a teen dystopian trilogy.

It’s riding *****
In your ex’s car.

This poem is anthropogenic global warming
Whose CO2 emissions are dangerously high and climbing
While its polar bears are stranded on the broken ice floes of its verses.

It’s a baseball crowd speaking the words “no hitter”
In the midst of a no-no
Which itself is a no-no.

Its bad grammar, who’s comma’s are all, out of place
And its’ apostrophe’s, are meaningless.

This poem is Zooey Deschanel,
Who will not marry me some day, any day, in the future.
In fact, it doesn’t even know I exist.

i think
i once read
salvador dalí
dreamed of worlds
full of divine creatures
that fell from the sky like
comets falling from the heavens.
and in his dreams, these creatures
appeared to be different from others.
they reflected a new beauty, a new way
to see the world.  and although he attempted
to create art so that others could see what he saw,
many thought that he was a madman.  many thought
that he was seeing a world that didn't exist; that couldn't --
but if you see it, who are we to say it doesn't exist; who are we?
salvador dalí once claimed to be both an anarchist and a monarchist.
i like to believe this is possible...if one believes in a world full of kings.
people probably thought dalí was viewing the world through drug-filled eyes,
but dock ellis pitched his one and only no-hitter while under the influence of LSD.
dalí saw, and created, surrealism because there is no other way to see and create the world.
but dock ellis pitched his one and only no-hitter while under the influence of LSD.
people probably thought dalí was viewing the world through drug-filled eyes,
i like to believe this is possible...if one believes in a world full of kings.
salvador dalí once claimed to be both an anarchist and a monarchist.
but if you see it, who are we to say it doesn't exist; who are we?
that he was seeing a world that didn't exist; that couldn't --
many thought that he was a madman.  many thought
to create art so that others could see what he saw,
to see the world.  and although he attempted
they reflected a new beauty, a new way
appeared to be different from others.
and in his dreams, these creatures
comets falling from the heavens.
that fell from the sky like
full of divine creatures
dreamed of worlds
salvador dalí
i once read
i think

it's ridiculous that we say "bless you" when you sneeze and not when you cough.  i'm pretty sure coughing is a sign of a much more grave illness.  when is the last time someone died from sneezing?  (june 24th, 2006 -- anthony dean rice)  it's ridiculous that dock ellis pitched his one and only career no-hitter while under the influence of LSD.  i wonder how often he dosed before games.  it's ridiculous that being hit by my father has turned me into more of a pacifist than i ever thought possible.  it's ridiculous how much someone can love a man that made him or her feel more physical pain than anyone ever has.  it's ridiculous that being family allows you this nearly unconditional love.  it's ridiculous that my goal has been to love everyone unconditionally.  it's ridiculous how hard this truly is.  it's ridiculous that people cite the holy bible as evidence for why homosexuality is "unnatural" and yet fail to recall that eating shellfish is an abomination.  it's ridiculous that anyone can be against the marriage of two loving people of the same gender while having no problem with laws that allow marriage between a convicted child molester and a person who cheated on his or her first three spouses.  it's ridiculous that i even have to point that out.  it's ridiculous that michael phelps lost more endorsements after being photographed smoking marijuana than he did after pleading guilty to driving while impaired.  it's ridiculous that driving drunk, hopping a curb, and hitting a mother walking home can earn you 20 years in prison while driving drunk, hopping a curb, and hitting a mailbox will only earn you 2 days in jail, 3 years probation, and a fine.  the only difference is one person had better luck -- both were still driving while intoxicated.  it's ridiculous that i was born into such a loving family.  why do i deserve such favorable moral luck?  it's ridiculous that people don't seem to understand that borders on a map are just lines...not  lines indicating some moral difference; not lines indicating you are worth more than the person in the country across the globe; not lines indicating that we matter and they don't...they're just lines.  it's ridiculous that i walk around with my eyes closed for no apparent reason.  it's ridiculous that i fell and got a concussion while trying to jump over a sign.  it's ridiculous that this hasn't stopped me from continuing to jump over almost anything in my path.  it's ridiculous that i was so confused after hitting my head that i cried and had to sit still and wait for my friends to find me because i didn't know what day it was or where i was.  it's ridiculous that the last time i cried out of confusion was when i was four and the elevator doors closed before my mom realized that i hadn't followed her out of the elevator.  it's ridiculous that i can fall in love with your smell...even when you haven't showered for a few days.  it's ridiculous that i feel a strange sensation in my right hand when i am exposed to a beauty i know i can't have.  it's ridiculous that i feel that when i am around you.  it's ridiculous that you are so beautiful it makes my heart feel like it just might explode.  it's ridiculous that i have no doubt that giving you everything would be the best decision i ever made.  it's an easy gamble to make because i know you would give me more than i ever started with.  it's ridiculous that you move my heart more than anyone ever has.  it's ridiculous that you become infused into every aspect of my life.  it's ridiculous that this began as a letter to anyone and turned into a letter to only one.  it's ridiculous that some people reading this still think i am listing things worthy of ridicule.  perhaps these things are all still absurd...but i have stopped laughing.  it's ridiculous that even with a broken heart, i will never stop loving people.  it's ridiculous that anyone would even think i could.

the smoke it pours slowly out
my shadow seems to be following a little further behind
I'm loosing my grip on this steering wheel
Swivin in and out of traffic
I see Minivans and 18 wheelers
honking and blazing thier horns
I'm struggling to stay awake
but only 2 more hours and I'll be home
I dig in my glove compartment and pull out
a pre rolled cigarete and my Oney Box
I spark the cig and pack me a little one hitter
puff them both down fast
and drink my 3 hour old coffe I got at some rumie gas station
its cold as ****
but it'll do the trick
I scratch my eyes and my *****
and turn up the radio The Current is a little to Indie for this night ride
So I put on 93.6 The Blaze and listen to some As I Lay Dieing
Ironic I have'nt died yet....
I listen and tune in
and then I tune out as the white dotted line
directs me towards home
where my dog awaits
to greet me
it's been a long trip
yes it has

He was a good runner;
And one hell of a stunner;
Your stop-glass picture for a lightning vision;
And a start-pass winner, a stunting gold finisher;
A heart cold hunter, he was my knock-out hitter;
He was a K.O. Rider--
He was a collider: on one collect collision course;
Of course, the beginning was when it began:
Between the specific sheet of force
With a good measure...
Had me landing on all fours,
Reveling in it again;
To rev up was the plan.

I Wanna Be A Poet

My writing is very strange,
no one has more range.
I've got my pen, in hand,
my poems are, in demand.
I use paper, it's my source,
I'm a pppppoet, of course.
I wanna be a poet,
and you can be my poetess,
I'm the best you all must confess.
Writing on the paper,
planning my next caper.
Follow me on Twitter,
on Facebook, I'm a heavy hitter.
Writing in my notebook,
figuring my newest hook.
I feel so **** *****,
can't help but being flirty.
I wanna be a poet,
and you can be my poetess,
writing will always be my business.
Feeling like a here,
I used to be a zero.
Six pens on my side,
in case some get dried.
Smoking my favorite cigarette,
listening to music on cassette.
Blowing rings with the smoke,
how it ***** being so broke.
Somewhere over the rainbow,
is a *** filled with green dough.
Other poets on the warpath,
because they always feel my wrath.
I wanna be a poet,
and you can be my poetess,
my rhymes have been known to cause dizziness.
My name is Fred,
and one day, I'll be dead yo yo.
Boys Don't Cry, was a one hit wonder,
I just gave that song some poetic thunder.
I used to love that silly song,
Youtube the video, and tell me I'm wrong.
I wanna be a poet,
and you can be my poetess,
my only goal is to simply impress.

GRAMPA THE SOFT BALL PLAYER
                ………by Jerry Howarth
                             5/26/16
Grampa is a legend in the softball world
He was voted into the Softball Hall of Fame
When ever  Grampa was scheduled to pitch
It  broke the attendance record every game.

Grampa was a  fast ball pitcher
For the Perry Baptist church team.
He was having fun, just messing around,
But with every game Grampa picked up steam.

He began to experiment releasing the ball,
making it curve left & right, drop and rise,
He even learned to make a  slow pitch,
Making it difficult for the batter’s eyes

Grampa had a favorite trick he loved to play  The crowd thought it was super great!
The ball started out fast then changed slow
“How slow did it get Grampa?”  “So slow
the batter swung three times before it crossed the plate.

Well Grampa’s pitching became so well known
The  major leagues began competing with                   many others,
Offering Grampa  Millions of dollars.

Grampa developed a fast ball so fast that…
“How fast was it, Grampa Parson?”
It was so fast it was beyond measur’n.

Now Grampa had what he called his
Roller coaster pitch that no one could ever hit
It was such a crazy pitch, he had it patented
So no one else could copy and use it


Grampa was now playing  on a professional team, making over a million bucks a year,
His agent made a deal for $20,000 a game
Every time he pitched a no hitter


Every game he played was a no hitter,
Thanks to his patented pitch
At $20,000.00 a game
Grampa was getting really, really rich!

But back to Grama’s special  pitch,
It was greatly irritating to every batter
They were determined to knock that ball
Right down Gramp’s kooka-defrater

Hear the crowd yelling, whistling, and clapping
Coming up to bat is the world home run king!
Here it comes, that, fast, slow pitch
The home run king gives three mighty swings.

Three strikes an yer out, the rules of the game
It’s the first time in the history of soft ball fast pitch, that a batter strikes out  on
just one pitch

This poem cannot end without a mention
About Grampa batting power  
That’s right, Grampa hit a ball so hard,
It sailed about a thousand miles or so
It broke out a window in the Trump Tower.
YEAH It did! And broke Donald’s  favorite champagne drinking glass.

Well this is enough humble bragging about
When Grampa G. E. Parson was a Grandson
And I hope the reading of this poem
Was a lot of fun !
                              -Grampa G.E. Parson

Three children sit behind a dumpster
outside of the Pier Pizza Parlor
unaware that they are children
Seven years later walking past Bridge Square
a girl remembers

**** we're out of cigarettes
and my mom's fucken car is locked. man.
and joints rolled with single ply toilet paper
burning through precious *** in the seaside woods where Indians
used to die

She, curling hands,
flattens a photograph of three kids in swimsuits and baseball caps
crouched under the rainy eaves of a waterslide
lighting a one hitter and gazing at their tiny dying world
now like a centerfold
it's covered in lubricant sweat and spittle
after too much time under the wrong beds

She sits on this small fountain
wistfully blinking and ******* down the cigarettes she wishes she could lock back up
kneading her dead legs and wondering
if it's better to have a past smudged by erasers
or mottled with bruises

My whole life,
I've been a third string hitter
For a fourth string team
In a no-string city
With nothing to offer
But the glow of the city
In my childhood bedroom window.
I was the batter they brought in
When they wanted to avoid invoking
The mercy rule
Otherwise, they mercifully let me
Stay on the bench.
Swing, miss, swing, miss,
I haven't had so many strikes since
I went bowling at age 12.
I had six of them that night
It had been so long since I'd hit the ball
That I had forgotten what home plate looked like
It's becoming a nasty habit,
Forgetting home.
Every umpire shout of “you're out”
Made me glad I didn't try to go back much.
But then I met you
A greased lane lady
Looking for a ten-pin king
We started talking over a ******
Paper boat of nachos in the 24 hour bowling alley
I had stumbled into after the bar kicked me out.
I knew I wanted you when you finally
Explained what those little air vents
On the ball return were for.
“For drying your hands” you said,
Demonstrating.
I used them all night, partly to
Seal their use into my memory,
And partly because no one had ever made
My hands sweat so much.
You beat me, badly.
You blamed it on the liquor,
But I knew the truth.
Just another game which I shouldn't be playing
But you fought me on that.
You followed me out to my car
And took a cigarette from me
Even though you didn't smoke,
Because you wanted a reason to stand outside
While you assailed me with logic.
Too tired and drunk to argue,
I conceded that maybe I just needed practice.

So we practiced.
Every day, my baseball contract
Long since expired
Voicemail boiling over with
million-dollar egos shouting
I'd never work a plate again
Let 'em have their foul *****
And line drives.
I had a greased lane lady
And I was a ten-pin king.
Strike, strike, spare,
Seven ten split,
Pick it up!
We wore a groove in the lanes
We threw more ***** than Elton John,
And our palms stayed perfectly dry.
The problem wasn't me.
I always thought I was a defective unit
A fluke in the system, a glitch.
No, *****.
My problem was the green and white world
Shoving juice-syringes and Nike contract promises
In my face
When we both knew
But wouldn't accept
That the diamond wasn't my home.
I should be on the lane
Picking up an impossible split to take the frame
And feed the flame my fame fans in the alley
You showed me where I belong
You taught me how to play.
Now maybe it's my turn
To show you my heart,
To teach you it's name
But only if you promise me
You'll always be up for just one more frame

So It’s Clear That I’m...
A Poetic HEAVY HITTER... !!!

Because My Rhymes...
Hit HARDER Than ******... !!!

See What I Mean... !!!

I Hit Ya Like Mike...
Did To Yup... Mitch Green... !!!

So... That’s Right...
Just Like Mike Tyson...
My Ferocity Is FRIGHTENING...
When It Comes To Poetic Writings... !!!

That Are DARK Just Like The SHINING... !!!

NO Nicholson Or Simpletons...
Can Hit Ya Like The Diction...
In Things That I Have Written... !!!

From End Back To Beginning...
My Wordplay Is HARD HITTING... !!!

It’s CLEVER, SHARP And Deals In...
… EXPOSING Societal Villains... !!!

So YES Is UNFORGIVING...
When It Comes To Criticisms...
That Big Virge Verse Be Giving...
To... ALL These Politicians... !!!

Whose Policies Are Driven...
To Cause Human Division...

And Visions That Have QUICKENED...
The Loss of Life For CHILDREN... !?!
Because of Guns And AMMUNITION...
That Send Some Youth To Prisons... !!!

BEFORE They’ve Found Positions...
Where They Can Make A Living...
That DOESN'T Deal In KILLING... !!!

Like Historical Colonialism...
That Western States Like Britain...
Used Like BRAIN ANEURYSMS... !!!

To Leave A World of VICTIMS...
In Various GLOBAL Regions... !!!

A Legacy That’s WEAKENED...
And Caused Human Submission... !!!

To A Mission So Hard Hitting...
That Many Now Are Living...
In A World of REAL Pulp Fiction... !!!

WITHOUT Any Shepherds...
To Teach HARSH Lessons...
To Heads Still Attempting...
To Maintain Oppression... !!!

While Me I’m UPSETTING... !!!
Through The Usage of Letters...
Like... Lee Scratch Perry Fellas... !!!

Cos’ I’m NO PRETENDER...
Or... Cellared Marcellus... !!!

I Hit Like HENDRIX' Playing A FENDER..................
STRAT That Attacks Like The Best Rock Tracks... !!!

Or Societal Raps That Are FAR From WHACK... !!!
Because They Deal In FACTS That Crack The Backs...
of Crackers And Slackers And Racist Attackers... !!!!!!!!!!!

That’s Right Like Police And Political Fiends...
Who Hit Ya Like FREAKS... !!!
... Know What I Mean... !!!

While Me I Come STRAIGHT...
With The Type of Wordplay...
That UPSETS These Strays... !!!

Who’ve Embraced A New Age...
of... CANCEL Brigades... !!!

Who Seem To Be Dishing...
MORE Than... Criticisms... !?!

They’re DESTROYING Peoples’ Livings... !?!
Because What Once Was HIDDEN...
Is Now Something Positioned...
To Be On... Televisions...
And Fed To Very Young Children... !!!

Like **** Paedophiles Be Giving...
To Boys And Yes Young Women...

That Should Now Be Forbidden...
Like Visions of... RACISM... !!!

So That’s Why I Now Write These Rhymes...
Because These Days I’m SICKENED... !!!

By MUCH That I’m Now Seeing...
From This New Virus Season... !!!

From... Sambos' Now In Vision...
That’s Right These Blacks Are WICKED... !!!
And Really Need DISMISSING... !!!

From Politics CONDITIONED...
By Modern... COLONIALISM... !!!

That Line Is One For THINKING... !!!
NOT For The Ones IMPRISONED... !!!

Because They DO NOT LISTEN... !!!

PAY ATTENTION Or Do READING...
On Those Who Now Are LEADING...
Until Their Position’s WEAKENED... !!!

Because of LIES They’re Feeding...
In All Their Public Speeches... !!!

It’s A DIFFERENT Type of FEATURE...
That Now Needs MORE Than SCREENING... !!!

Their Houses NEED DEEP CLEANING... !!!
Which Is Why This Verse Your Reading...

Is A... Lyrical Algorithm...
That Is Built To Be HARD HITTING... !!!

Because UNLIKE All of These Shape Shifters...
My Words Confirm That I’m A MAJESTIC POETIC...

Wordplay......

..... “ HEAVY HITTER “..... !!!

I may never be a Nolan Ryan fastball pitcher,
But I can play any position the coach asks of me and I’m a helluva hitter.
Try to be a sponge in everything I do,
Resourcefulness, Adaptability and Work Ethic are your conquest clues.

So make every second count young person!!
Wear your heart on your sleeve..express yourself for all to see!!!
And as Dale Carnegie once said…Be the better person and don’t worry about anyone talking incompetence
Cause “Unjust criticism is often a disguised complement”!

-K.E. Carman
Dale Carnegie – How to win friends and influence people

I issued a challenge to my newly formed group,  It went basically as follow.  Choose a poem that you read but did not write and use the words from the word list at the bottom to make a new poem the words can be changed for instance winter can become wintery and swim can become swam You can make one up to and submit it if you want my group is for every poet and every kind of poetry.  Here is mine.  

Why, Thank you
by Elise Cluster

Words
Used in this poem
stone   instead   free   left   grey   wisdom   redeyed   tears   filled   forgotten   tongued   thank   heart   blue   old  


Getting ****** and redeyed
Feeling the wisdom of the old days
And of old people
Laughter comes freely
I have forgotten so many things
I filled up another one hitter
And lit it up
Filling the air with blue grey smoke
I tongued the hitter to feel the heat
I don’t have the energy for tears
My heart thanks the grower
For peace and quiet
And the ease of reflection
I breathe in inspiration
This is great

Billowed and pasted, rollicked and wasted,
the night takes hold and Samantha, you remember her,
she's smoking again. This is her last pack though.
Drinks poured. Drinks spilled. Kate and I are talking
like people with scheduled late afternoon love affairs. There's
a car alarm going off in the distance. I love this blouse. Is it new?
No. It looks new. I love your perfume. You aren't wearing any?
Must be a natural—and the first to arrive at the party, Chris and
Evan, they're the first to leave, and we listen intently as one, or maybe both, tumble down the stairs. There should be waivers for second floor
apartment parties. Kate, you deserve so—I know. I know. You've got this light. Jesus. I'm just saying. Is it radiant? Yes, it's radiant. And they're lighting their drinks on fire now in the kitchen, some concoction of amaretto and 151 and a kickback of Coors. The flames reflect in their eyes, their cheeks a soft amber, and most of them are smiling, not sincerely, but when was the last time you could give yourself over completely to joy? There's a siren in the distance. Someone says they're coming for us. I'm going to the bathroom. Do you need help? And there's this ceiling fan with LCD Christmas bulbs strung around the blades. A myriad of claustrophobic yellows and whites and blues. Have you seen that video of the ****** having a baby? And he brings it up on his phone. Someone says, Oh my god I love this song from the bathroom. I hadn't noticed the music before now. Drink this. What is it? You'll see. And Samantha she says she's got to step outside for a second. And someone drops a hookah coal on the beige carpet. There goes the deposit. There's incense. There's a Scentsy. There's Febreeze being sprayed liberally. Can you drive? Can you? Do you want to? You know? I've ate a lot today. The songs keep getting skipped. Parquet Courts, Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, Chvrches, Miley Cyrus—wait, wait put on some SWIFTY. We're going to fire up in my closet if you want to join. It's a walk-in. Evan's back now. He kicks a mirrorball across the kitchen tile with Chris, who's also back now. Where's Samantha? She's smoking. She shouldn't be alone. You remember last—That won't happen again. I'm just saying. Well, you can stop saying. Sirens again. Closer. We're in the walk-in. Kate tugs on my sleeve. I take a pull off the bronze pinch hitter. Do little circles with my head. ****, she says. What? It all starts fading out, the rush of dark, the rush of light. Someone says trash can. Sirens. I'm just trying to—Shut up. I'm just trying to—Shut up.

ready?

do you wanna go together? come, lets hold hands.

no?

alright.

all that matters is that you do it, okay?

.. are you sure you don’t wanna do it together?

alright..  !

each of your feet slapped flat and hard against the white dusty cliff until your skinny frame shot itself into the sky. we were half naked and suspended above an unfamiliar lake somewhere in texas. well, now it was just me. night was rolling in slow as all hell. the habitual hit from the one hitter didn’t soothe my nervousness. to be straightforward, tossing my body into the abyss is not my thing. i like the ground. i like the stability. planes make me cry. roller-coasters make me cringe. i like to just sit and watch the sky roll over the lake, not risk being harmed by one of its unseen watery perils..

an oval of water burst upward from where you carved into the lake- the explosive hiss of unhappy water yanking me from my brain. sheepishly i gazed over the edge to see what became of you. it appeared you had survived- treading water with one eye locked in an accidental wink, peering up at me. you smiled big and echoed gentle encouragements into the cove below in a soft-spoken southern accent. the hair on your head matted itself to your forehead in strangely stylish curls. “1,2,3, **** it! ”. you kept spitting out deliveries of lake water between wide toothy grins.

minutes were passing and i had hardly moved. talking to myself anxiously, trying still to remain some degree of coolcalmandcomposed while facing these subconscious shadows publicly. i felt sickened by the symbolism of my inner demons confronting me with such an unoriginal yet classic scene. your smile was fading gradually due to your legs growing tired, even though you didn’t let on.

fear, my constant constriction. my choke up. my backout. my way out. but this time i knew the only way out was through. my feet betrayed my brain and ****** me forward and up and off.

i had toyed with some ideas about what form i’d take prior to jumping, but none of them panned out. i claimed an awkward and ungraceful pencil dive and held my nose prematurely. the fall was eternal. the seconds were looping. i could hear everything for a long time. your holler bounced off the walls of the cave. my body heaved into the oblivion of the luke warm lake.

when i emerged i was concerned with my makeup. a tell tale sign i need to work on my priorities.  you were there with me, once i smeared the uninvited water from my eyes, grinning and congratulating me. i felt silly getting praise for something so seemingly simple as letting go..

you held me near in the dark choppy water as we clung to the cove walls of the cliff. color flood my face. maybe adrenaline feels a lot like love.

i finally felt close to you.

i wanted to stay down there a little longer. where there were no distractions. no phones no cigarettes no coughing no traffic talk no sleep no *** no drugs no radio. we couldn’t hide from each other. i wanted to stay and swim and look into you, unabashedly wet and ****** and well-intentioned. graze pale loving bodies beneath the green hue of the lake. but you grinned, cleared your throat and talked to yourself about your footing as we sought a way to scale the rocks back up.

i’m sure i could have said something.
told you how i felt.

but that fear thing..

Real Diva=A petulant Proven Mega Talent
Watered down Diva=A rude Hoochie.

Real Diva= A self Centered Proven Star.
Fake Diva=A Schmendrick. Cant punch out of a wet paper bag.

Old-school (Real Diva)=A Socialite.Proven ,Heavy hitter,Show stopper.
Skin Diva=T & A Poser.Head Rattles when she Shakes her Diva.

Iron Clad Diva=Cant miss,sold out two years in advance.
Bone Retrieva Diva= Cant spell CAT if You spot her the C and The A.

The list goes on.........

Nawmean ?

My summer sweats bloom from a grass rag,
Scratch another hardly blasting out a calibrate,
Can I break, strap out hacker doozy bluemoors,
Caught from an out sound, an out frowned
Blackening the coffin sweet cough lubricate,
Shackle high tops on pipe dream loft shakers,
Clover feelers, four hitter on lucky seven collar,
Depth sin protector, **** I ain't wrath looter,
Nor do poppa sizes on some puke lips locker,
Key switch for gates hellish donor, back loner,
Course you see, I seek seep suckled *****,
Not some subtle soul (gap in skirt) poker,
Forever reaching lines, bust knuckle lifters,
Cracked rage like Nile is flooding wealths curlers,
Jewel duplicate for ruby cuts on roofless lust,
Symbolise another and I'll grabble force an honour,
Sober up soppy crotch rummage coper,
Scan cell prison ament Scholar's "repent!"
Mace battle X axel swop blunt round passel,
Cost more on pepper rubber rock relation,
Patient prep operation, cramp dilation,
Dial engage **** sudden blocked injection.
Cast nocturnals ominous above monuments,
Men fall like weak's race for joy's division,
Attend pro's vision, pure as skies probations,
Pack pampers protection tracks premonition,
Flat lines before lap times, clenching half rhymes,
Hop hotter than blues croft in dusks knots,

The best of dying is
nil by mouth
morphine the last delirium then
laid out to rest,
he ain't the big hitter  now.
Stella the shirtless got meaner
down by Cirrhosis avenue.
King's for the Christmas duration
profaning in Erse
we all thought he was an Englishman.
The leaking mercury fillings
or Toxoplasmosis Cat dishes
should have made him more paranoiac,
the statute of a Man
unprotected.

to write a poem about you
the fleeting, unknown presence of you
a seeming hippie in flight
dislocated to these locked lands of 'might'
i might, i may
you are a presence of try and some day
a enforcer of push
and hitter of that beautiful, blossoming kush
you will bleed from these layered grasses of country sorrow
off to a greater and better tomorrow
rooted in a new proclaimed essence of you
those lands will wash and embed your coded hands of can do

The darkness fades the embers re-lit
keep on truckin or will you quit?
horizon is right above those hills
so don't reach for the alcohol or the pills
life's not for one hitter quitters
life's about love, the jump that kills
the feelin that shoots down your spine
Chills

cool, just call me , we are juggling our sanity and the days like paper lanterns on rivers being used as paper weights for a days wages never paid,

and the walking dogs have all their leashes in a knot, but do not fret, I got this thing on a bet and a prayer,

with some help from good friends and one heck of a pinch hitter,
who brings the cows home on the bases loaded and the football bat is all out of whack and did it with a whiffle balled mad  hatter.  

as we are all a tasted disquieted and alarmed silently outloud of the load of horse **** and bravado  of the slightly deranged considerations to any being ******* the dead for their secrets ,

so yeah. But with our werewoof feet , Mohawk eyebrows in the alias mode of method of obfuscation uni-brows and mustaches, cause lets face it, with such stage as to fain the rain of a stain,

we need to rewind the kine and uncage the page of line after line of sweet *** whine, wine and more time blaze all the rage when beards don't do the trick in landing the babe with the need for a tree of good root and a wild spine eyed fool all hillbilly and too schooled in the dark arts of **** knuckling bad ways and stays into a gifted consorted construct while she sigh the not so **** shy, yes dizzy and high, and say, oh ****, who whoulda thought,

,, still I thought you would have been bigger,, like road house in the dancing days of rolling thunder and pouring blames mane all to educate mine eyes and teeth as to what is real to eat and all that is plastic fruit looking all to bitter sweet,  

including all the critters of varied skill, poise and swinging lawn mower blades like, biscuits and mustard, pathfinder style, calculator not needed but ****** is optional, and never forget the nuts that bolt all us fools into a clustered fuckery all betty crocker and country **** legs spread , I can't believe it's not butter said in the voice of Otis Redding ,

Signs of that sweet smile and of **** some body going to get a ******* tonight look in them eyes as they tool away and hint to my silly day and keep me on point like the six tossing a bloodhound a big round steak of shhhh, we are hunting rabbits here,

never mine us six foot white rabbit all werewoofed and donnie darkoed in our get the show on gear, lol, but ****, all that in such awesome packages as the friends and things in my head, all keeping me fueled in the art of war on the undead.

now this my friend is a day in the life of the It Squad, and we hit the **** like you cant quit the **** sqaud, so have a coke and a smile, laugh a while, we got this ****. ;-)  

What, I'm just shakin a spear at a bad bacon boy all francis nancy like... so funk yo skunk up son.

oh, da boy got the lo hold on the roll Soul, ****, son, swing lo sweet chariot, commin for to carry me no mo alone and in a **** good tone with a nice private home to give the good dog a bone.

So, yeah, weak like a good weeks hard glazy nights, all sir and silly, but you cant call me a lil *** ***** with my good hillbilly goofy eyed and swilly, Mooooon Shine on me .

Say love son, Yah to the Jah , Alma. cause you got tha soul sols, and if ya don't get this, then you don't have it. but we workin on that, right?