"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."

I felt his coarse hands grip mine, too;
I lived through Mr. Hooper vicariously
as I looked down at open palms
spread to the heavens,
illuminated in the flashy brilliance of the glare.

I saw wrinkled, calloused eyes peer into mine;
I stood on that rickety old dock
in my fitted and worn wool cap,
faded denim shirt matching pants
and dingy white tennis shoes.

"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."

My ego crestfallen as well,
pride in my intelligence proven in the Academia
withering, as the gritty gap-toothed
leery-eyed barnacle of a sailor
peered inquisitively into my soul.

He saw the smooth hands--
ah, but the callouses engraved deep between joints
on my fingers; a musician!

His eyes grilled, "In bourgeois leisure,
smiling meekly dwelling within milquetoast afternoon hours,
or,
from downtown haunts sweating jazz in the midnight hour,
dancing screaming cursing moaning lovingly?"
My eyes cast down again.

But I know not of the city as my abode!
I know the ****** and the farmer
more than any contributor to painted landscapes, nay;
they are my acquaintances, neighbors, cousins, brothers, and sisters!

For I have lived on the water;
I have eyed the vessels
commandeered by the gritty, grubby,
greased captains of my soul,

as I float buoyed in their wake,
eager to catch a semblance of the waters
that trail before them.

I live treading their wake,
eyes open and pencil in hand.

And lo;
I found sanctuary in the vast fields of the rustic farmer!

For I ate breakfast of the freshly-slaughtered calf;
I drank its mother's milk,
eggs fresh from the poultry den--
I squawked along with the mother hens.

I took in the bucolic smell of the country
atop the rugged tractor,
eyeing squinting
grimacing like a smile in the sun
burning burning down upon stiff backs
and leather necks--

I, the leaves of grass scattered
in the wake of the farmer,
I, the bails of hay furled tightly
sitting patiently in the once golden meadow,

I watched the tractors and their commandeers
disappear in the bombinate horizon;
the sound of insects ushering in the night sky

like unrolling the starry-eyed carpet
before the hazy late afternoon moon.

I watched, I lived,
waiting coiled in their wakes
eyes wide open and paper clenched in hand.

I lifted my eyes to once again
hear his curt admonition:

"Y'got city hands, Mr. Rhine."

So the lads decided to head down the town one day
(it bein' a great stretch of sun, especially for here,
and playin' Fifa tournaments and
actin' smart were losin' their charm)
Anyway,
Miles had his eye on this young one, and Giro and Hooper
bein' the friends they were riled him up no end about
what he was goin' to do once he got his chance with her, y'know, the usual stupid teenage macho lad crap.
But sure, poor auld Miles, as he was back then, was a sensitive sort
and although he was the handsomest of the chaps at that stage
-with the boyband cheekbones and
the butter-wouldn't melt bring-me-home-to-your-mammy-she'll-think-I'm-Lovely exterior-
he was just a bit too shy to get taking to her in the square that day,
the two of 'em were both awkwardly just sat on opposite benches
with their eyelashes flutterin' in the wind.
And sure didn't the boys make a holy show o'the chap by shoutin' "D'YOU WANT TO SHIFT HIS FRIENDS" at the young one's mates, and them visibly horrified,
with the precious stuck-up Loreto girls' mouths dropped in mortification.

They were somethin' else back then, alright.

But here's the thing,
He's marrying that girl next weekend. (-The same one?) (-Hardly?!)
Swear on me Granny's grave, got sent the invitation on Facebook and all!
Meself and Tracy are goin' to it, obviously, but I barely seen the chap since he moved up to Dublin that time, but the girl is friend's with Tracy's cousin.
Danielle is her name, she works as a graphic designer.

(-She designs games?) (-No, ads, posters and stuff, you ****)
(-Well, I extend my heartfelt apologies
to Mr. CAO himself over here)
(-G'way you, the last time you heard tell of the CAO
was when  you used it as a farewell greeting to
the sub-teacher you fancied when you
handed in your pass maths exam.)
(-What's he doin' again?) (-He works in KPMG)
(-...Sorry I asked)

Apparently they had lost track of each other, but then randomly met out one night and rekindled the old flame. (-what, the old premature pubescent horn?)
My point is, doucher, that you cant keep a good man down...not the greatest choice of words given the context, but, y'know,
fair ******' play to him anyway.

On the other hand, I saw Giro in Mooney's there last weekend,
back from Canada after only six months over there.
Hated it apparently, plasterin' walls in a city that was
only bein' built up for the first time, nothin' to do on the weekend
but drink **** beer and go fishin'.  I told him he should have gone
to Vancouver but he wanted to head where Hooper was goin'
-Those two were always the same, they'd manage to waste each others time if they got to the moon.

There Giro was, all he got to show for himself for goin' to Canada
was a flannel shirt, a snapback hat and a beard like one of those
grizzly lads from gay ****. (-What would you know about gay ****?) (It's an metaphor, genius, I don't need to know anythin' about it in order to make the connection.)
(-Sounds like the only expert piece of information you've given it all night) (-Here, your Da hates ya, go home)

But I suppose, at least a lad like Giro, totally directionless, still has the ability to laugh about himself.
He'd say worse things about himself that I would and laugh away at it, no bother.
But that's it, isn't it? Being able to laugh at the lads and at yourself when you deserve it, to own up to your flaws and forgive them.
That's what it's all about.

The Helos hovered silently
as the Seals roped to the ground.
They touched down on Sesame Street
where the “Big Bird” could be found.

The C.I.A. had tracked him
Using feed from P.B.S.
President Mitt o.k’d the hit
when we tracked him to his nest.

A blue grouch in a garbage can
liay bleeding on the floor.
That **** named Cookie Monster
won’t eat  cookies anymore.

Ernie, Bert and rubber ducky
Were in the bath they say
When Seal team six broke through the door
and blew them both away.

Big Bird hid in Hooper’s store
While all this had transpired.
Then he laid down suppressing fire
With a weapon he’d acquired
Several Seals lay silent
in that sleep that isn’t sweet.
Snuffleupagus opened up
and forced a Seal retreat.

A stealth Helo exploded
raining wreckage on the street.
Maddened Muppets hurling Bricks
compounded Mitt’s  defeat.

As of today Big Bird’s at large.
Him we couldn’t whack.
The briefing failed to tell us
That a Liberal Bird fights back.

Edward Hopper Painting


Badly lit street, through a partly steamed up
café window I can see an Edward Hopper
a man dressed in a brown suit and hat which
he keeps on while eating fries and drinking
black coffee, trying to slow down time.

Wears his underwear too long, doesn’t
change beddings for months, his depressing
rooms are unaired and a smell of loneliness;
middle aged and divorced he just exists, and
has a loser’s look of unspoken despair.

i exist somewhere between the kick drum and the snare

i am the blood thundering in our veins

i am the rhythm that gives us life

i am the 375 nanometers of ultraviolet light shining down on you

i am the space between the notes and the silence before the drop

i am oscillation, reverberation, undulation of bassline

i am rattling ribcage from excess decibels

i am titinnitus waiting to strike.

3,4-methylenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine,  Lysergic acid diethylamide,  tetrahydrocannabinol, ethanol, benzoylmethylecgonine; choose your poison so that you may enjoy me better

i am the sweat that slicks our skin and keeps us cool

i am the longing look that leaps from eye to eye

i am mellifluous melody, motivator of movement, master of mind.

i am the sea of strangers you find yourself lost in, minimally clad bodies moving in ways you didn't know were possible.

i am the fire-poi spinner, the LED hula-hooper, the melbourne-shuffling madman, the obnoxious bro, the ancient hippie, the obviously underage girl, the idiot overdosing in the corner, and the person wearing more pony beads than clothes.

i am the rave.

Finding love in odd places
Conventional beauties and non
Voices like molasses,
Faces like home
Memories like first grade dreams
A playspace without windows,
limitless
Running on the floor I see myself,
My first out-of-body experience
Run-crawling naked past
Mrs. Hooper with short gray hair watching kindly
I want to walk into inhuman nature with you
Dust off the polished seashells of past lives
And feel your heartbeat just once

The west rests alone at moments of rise,
while holeproof hosiery and midnight rhymes
        were built in these momentous afternoons.

we won’t look to the west when the sun comes to rise,
  instead we’ll stand staring at white lined horizons,
      with hands and breath held
               as if this moment would transcend time,
                                                     leaving us there,                 on the roof top, forever.

                                                     And all too often
                                               In the dark we’ll dance
                                                        too blinded by
                                                    pollution of light
                                                             to notice
the stags in the corner.
No one ever looks to the west during a sunrise.

We won’t look to the west when the city stirs,
                                        no, not when the dust rolls in
                                               covering our lives like
                                                 Father Hooper’s veil;
separation from the world,
                             but drawing closer to its ways and evils.
                                              We’ll talk about change,
                                                                 hopes
                                                           and dreams,
                                      And feed our kids the same ****.
they’ll know right from wrong,
but no one looks west when the city stirs.

We won’t look to the west ‘til the sun fades,
                             And all existence is demanded its notice.
                                        Our cities in darkened silence
                                               forgotten, as brilliant
                                          flashes of red fill the sky.

                                                These aren’t the songs
                                                for future generations
                                               To sing, or sing about.                                    
                                           These are songs that begin,
the time we turn to the west to watch the sun fade.

The big dare:

Define reward to an organic automaton.

Make a point that rewards. Reward me for leading you on.
or, what´d´yḱnow?
Eh,
pop my bubble, but it appears

Dan Hooper,

knowledgist conimpeered reviews, knows,
scienticical as anything you can imagine, he
knows he believes knowable things,
which
I
don't know knowable, much less,
do I know them known knowns.

I do know I don´t know how a mortal can know

for sure, but it was likely something
was going to happen any way.
Words work, they make ways, truth be known.

It was, before time, impossible to know right? rrrr
ight is a tough concept to even, even, level, equaliated samesave
valuewise
smooth, no creases, no bumps
but
heavy, who knew? One door or many, you and I in the realm where
mortals claim to know, among other secret things,

What Happened At The Beginning Of Time?
- with Dan Hooper (Royal Institute Youtube)

But, I agree, a good rule for life is:
Imagine the speaker knows the exact same meaning for each

word he breathes,
that you may define with your connection to all known word definitions,
so you know what he means
the ex-act, out-active, meaning

intent to cover the chaos empowering the ever expanding universe,
and make it plain, so they may function
knowingly,
like a smooth running system creating slight
ripples
in the gospel truth reality in
which I find my treasure of once idle words, now accounted for.

ah, periods,
breathing commas, are such a wise invention.
The engines of our warfare are not carnal, meaty, muscled to push or pull,
**** and tear,
rubbed and scraped to
sharpen, push
gentle awl,
of any hard thing, pointed
through a poking
meme
to make a point. A once.
In time, a been.
A place to hook a silken thread,
as
I swing by on a whim, to hear

Point. Truscore.
****, proof.
We won

On with the show.
Upon such pointed slivers from actual out perience,
we agree, we join our extra ef-fort to ward
the newborn babe, effectually, fervently demanding

input, input, input, expel, expel, what! THHISMUSBEEHELL!

Burp. Not all gaseous beings belong in you.

Pat yśelf on the back, be kind to yo logos, yo logos be kind t'me.
Then, in the book of life, now on,
we
did that.

Set a landmark, what they called a breadcrumb,
for navigating stateless spaces,
in the early days of hyper text,

did I not hear a voice say outside?
color
outside the vector of time

oh, yeah. I know the tie in.

Re
ligate this to those old guitar god souldsoul
crossroad stories forming
a somewhat searchable
substructure to science, sci, with known uses,

conscience. Things we think we can do and do,
by virtue of knowing we did.


as far as this ever expanding state,

this bubble of being, we live and breathe in,

here, your role was dear, reader. Next is yours, to make of it all you will,

unless Sam Harris is right, and yoou have no will of your own.

I am bound to wander off into the confusion,

in search of lost boys, wombed and un, trapped under one of those spinner

things that seems too orderly to be random. Your reward,
activate this word:

rescue (v.)
c. 1300, from stem of Old French rescorre "protect, keep safe; free, deliver" (Modern French recourre), from re-, intensive prefix (see re-), + escourre "to cast off, discharge," from Latin excutere "to shake off, drive away," from ex "out" (see ex-) + -cutere, combining form of quatere "to shake" (see quash). Related: Rescued; rescuing

Perfection is a necessary evil
but even with the ****** hand gone
her black veil still rests neatly upon her face
for her eyes remain covered reminiscing
in the darkness of her own secret sin
he sees this flaw, this empty husk of a woman
Death
still freshly pressed against her lips, stealing her last breath
she will never awake
he still sees her secret sin
if either man had achieved a profounder wisdom
they might not have flung away their happiness
for the pursuit of purity or science
yet quietly they craved the things so swiftly tugged away from their grasp
a sin still stains the hidden face of man
an indelible mark upon both the afflicted faces
so aged from bitter greed
wanting
needing
Perfection
Still grasping in the time of defeat
so prominent on the face of the man who shows his veil with cloth
with creepy crepe
“Have men avoided me, and women shown no pity...!”
The man cried
The girl Georgiana whispers of her impending mortality
while Parson Hooper rages into the dying light
with quiet longing the mister wanted to be seen
with the black veil married to his face
he accepted it- why could he, the scientist, not,
he still hides
dying for the sake of perfection
and living for the sake of hiding
Grasping at what could never be done
To rip the veil from upon her face
The ****** hand now gone,
He still craved more,
As their eyes close reminiscing in the darkness of their own secret sin,
The hands of all still,
Grasping at the veil,
To see the shame underneath.

She creeps in at midnight
When nobody knows
Ever so lightly
On her tip toes
She knows she shouldn’t do it
She just can’t keep still
Something inside her finds it a thrill

From bed to bed she hops all night
Beneath the covers
Out of sight
The warmth of the bed
It can be of any kind
Bunk bed
Double  
She really doesn’t mind

You see Leggy is a girl
Who’s playful and sweet
She just finds it hard
To settle down to sleep

One night on the hop
She went a bed too far
Out the front door
Past the car
She stumbled into the neighbours
Who owned a great big cat
Huddled down beside him
On his big fat mat

“My word,” said the neighbour
“What have we here?”
When she woke to find Leggy
Asleep by his ear

With a hop skip and a jump
Leggy woke with a fright
“What did I get up to late last night?“
She ran to her mama
“I promise,” she said
“From this day on, I’ll sleep in my bed!”

“ After decades of measurements and debate, we are now confident that the overwhelming majority of our universe’s matter – about 84 percent – is not made up of atoms, or of any other known substance. Although we can feel the gravitational pull of this other matter, and clearly tell that it’s there, we simply do not know what it is. This mysterious stuff is invisible, or at least nearly so. For lack of a better name, we call it “dark matter.” But naming something is very different from understanding it.  Over the past 15 years, for example, experiments designed to detect individual particles of dark matter have become a million times more sensitive, and yet no signs of these elusive particles have appeared. And although the Large Hadron Collider has by all technical standards performed beautifully, with the exception of the Higgs boson, no new particles or other phenomena have been discovered.”
Dan Hooper, Associate Scientist in Theoretical Astrophysics at Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory and Associate Professor of Astronomy and Astrophysics, University of Chicago.
I am indebted to EarthSkyNews and its writers and editor Deborah Byrd for their inspirational articles that set an imagination afire.

                           Looking For God
                  (a personal interpretation)

Oh, my goodness, Halloween.
Secular as we’ve become we search between
The stars for something we can’t find -
Something way, way, way behind
(or maybe not), for calculations more than hint
At something there.  Something here
And all around,
Something we can measure,
Possibly a ground of being -
Universe the metaphor -
Or should one say ‘universes’?

Utterly enchanting this research,
For ‘re’- means ‘one more time’, afresh, again;
We’re looking all the time and then some.
‘Search’, its origin in Latin’s ‘circle’
We are going ‘round in circles
To complete a circle, time and time again.
Looking for design and pattern
Palpable, its charm disarming
And perhaps alarming,
If we ever find it.

Looking For God 10.31.2017
Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Reality; God Book II;
Arlene Corwin
I am indebted to EarthSkyNews and its writers and editor Deborah Byrd for their inspirational articles that set an imagination afire.

Lost the flow on the last one
Grateful for DVDs
Gratitude for Facebook
Wind in willow trees

Rabbits, little rabbits
Peaceful, not much to do
If you wanna view Paradise
Just enjoy the view

Summer of cinema
Misty grey day rain
Have been to Baltimore
Probably won't get to Spain

            Whalesong plane ...

Show me where the Atlantic ocean befriends the Irish sea
Golden eagles fly over head
Majestic creatures soaring over the coast
Ginger squirrels rebounded and came home to stay
They thrive like the Hooper swans
Extraordinary creatures in the waterways, the trees, and skies
We have much to admire and learn from them
They are all precious and vital
Enjoy museums, History, and live performances
No need for alcohol or baking in the sun
Let me walk on beaches and climb rocks
Epicurean in restaurants and joints
Not fancy linen tables or Stemware
No five meals a day
Cooking lessons and out of the way tastes and places
Maybe a cruise to Alaska to sea the Polar Bears and the Whales
The journey continues on a tour bus or by foot
The friendly skies know I will fly when the time is right
This Brooklyn born lady is one of Mother Nature's daughters
Thanks Henry David and Walden
With spirit and camera in hand
Reasons fancy cruises are not for me

C@rainbowchaser2021

Writer of these words,
a former Lower Providence inhabitant,
who dwelled within darkest depths
of Dante Alighieri's inferno
for most of his outlandish, impish,
and devilish growing up years
witnessed microscopic scrimmage,
where spermatozoan with most forcefulness
muscled itself handedly,
magnificently, and splendidly
envision unicellular olympic competition,

yours truly swimmingly
begot during the heat
of parents being passionately fruitful
courtesy diploid erogenous frisson
between my then searingly
robust virile father and fecund mother
~ late March/early April 1958
ushered seminal moment
post ova fertilization realization
courtesy male gamete

penetrating zona pellucida
a glycoprotein layer surrounding the oocyte
triggering cell bait multiplication
subsequently yielding male
gendered offspring and sole son
hashtagged as uber twittering, snapchatting,
shutterflying super duper
cute little boy with short strawberry blond hair,
whose solitudinarian nature
became quite evident when he displayed
acute social withdrawal

upon off fish shill commencement
getting schooled as a grouper
by mister Hooper,
who made his debut
appearance on Sesame Street
November 10, 1969
as storied and staple long time resident
on above named television show
until March 18, 1983,
beloved by adults and children alike

within make believe community
(a conglomerate of real and imaginary locales)
peopled with proprietary named characters
for any of a number of humorously grotesque
glove or rod puppets and marionettes,
chiefly representing animals,
first popularized, idolized,
dramatized, capitalized, and actualized
by the children's television programme
Sesame Street (1969-) and more recently
in The Muppet Show (1976-80).

Also: a toy made to resemble one of these
ingenious brainchild of Jim Maury Henson
an American puppeteer, animator, actor,
and filmmaker who achieved worldwide
notability as the creator of the Muppets
which series originated as two pilot episodes
produced by Henson for ABC in 1974 and 1975.

Henson's shocking, sudden death occurred on May 16, 1990 of ***** failure resulting from streptococcal toxic shock syndrome. An emotional memorial service was held five days later at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City.

Lying in a chair and shading from the sun
Don't think so
Not a fan of alcohol
Epicurean not a buffet devotee
Want to go where the Atlantic ocean befriends the Irish Sea
Others places like this are for me
Golden eagles fly above
Majestic creatures soaring safely and free
The coast hears their gentle cries
It needs to be heard and respected
Ginger squirrels are back and thrive
Hooper swans in the waterways
Human and natural History make each other better
This is all precious and few
Extraordinary vistas so vital
We have much to admire and learn from
Journey continues to museums, live performances, and restaurants and joints but with a camera in hand and a grin wider than to be believed

C@rainbowchaser 2021