Hooping to me is bringing everything to the court
Basketball is a passion, not an ordinary sport
I play defense like a soldier, defending his fort
You have to go hard no matter what, if you shooting a lay up or a three
When I'm on the hardwood, I lose my mind and go free
I imagine myself not Eric, but the man who wore the Bull's 23
I won't be in the NBA, but I'll be the backyard Kobe Bryant or The City Park MVP

There are those that want it
to come to a complete halt,
frozen solid and white,
like an ice sculpture
stuck in a peculiar pose.
This is the only way
to stop that heart-wrenching
moment,
that robs them of their blue skies.

Then there are those that want it
to quicken its footsteps
and flip by, like the pages of
a notepad giving motion
to squiggly drawings,
in order to get the next paycheck
or start that dream job.

Me? Every now and then I want it
to make a stop by the side of the road
and enjoy a leisurely doughnut,
maybe join in on the freckled giggles
of the little girls hula hooping
on the concrete pavements,
and sing nursery rhymes of
broken eggs and fiddles.

But sometimes I just don't care
whether time shoots up the skies
or gets weighed down with iron,
especially when I've got
my favorite chicken goulash
served with fine couscous
on an afternoon such as this one,
where the sky frowns with dark clouds
and spits angry beads of rain.

As far as I'm concerned,
the brown-eyed little boy
on the corner of the street
could be the keeper of time,
making sure it walks on nonchalantly,
with no regard to people's wishes,
leaving in its wake footprints of
sadness, joy and everything in between.

We will calculate
the weight of your last few months
by measuring the angles
of afternoon sunlight—
fiber-optic puddles with receding shorelines,

and we’ll rain dance every night
for more time.
In my quiet house, I’ll make you
a deep bed with seven layers
of patterned sheets and pink pillows.
Those little bunk beds
that dad built for us,
remember? That we kept
well after our feet dangled over
the edge.

I’ll say to you, remember
hula hooping until our hips bruised.
Remember sneaking out in our pajamas
to the night grass
and calling after constellations
who were not yet born,
who would never be.

Sitting in my backyard
Soaking up the rays and watching the ants
Suddenly beside me was an ant who could talk
Sure as can be he asked me if I would like to see where he lived
Sadly I said no I needed to practice my cart wheels and hula hooping for the evening circus
So what did the little ant do?
Shouldered me upon his back and marched down a hole that opened before us
Small now I could not believe he had abducted me
Sorry I forgot my hula hoop as perhaps my skill might help set me free
Singing with his ant friends, I was led to the chamber of the queen ant
**** and sleek was this producer of her community
Smile!
She comanded
Silly, I grinned and did a dance
Sigh
Slight of her hand she waved me away
Seems I didn't impress her a bit
Shunned, I was escorted back to the doorway
"Stupid human," an ant squeaked
"Surely with your circus skills we expected much more entertainment."
Softly he put me back on the grass
Some time passed before it sunk in
Stolen by an ant, on a sunny afternoon, was really quite super

let me love an artist so we can breathe in each other's fumes and get high off of creation and wonder.
let us spill out paints and ink and words and ideas onto a wooden floor and watch as it's corroded and falls away, level by level, until we're so deep that we're reaching into the dirt that surrounds us and slapping it on canvass like cavemen once did.
let you see me fully and not as the crazy girl who can't stop hooping and dancing and moving long enough to see straight, understand that when i run from face to face it's not because i don't want to love you so hard that i'm exploding, it's just that if i don't look into new eyes once in awhile i shrivel up and begin to fade.
let the world look at us and understand nothing, but feel a strange sense of desire to be so unique and drenched in the secrecy of the tiny universe we've created between us to house the wild way we wander over this earth, documenting piece by piece through our hands, eyes, and hearts.

I always lose my shoes. I eat a bowl of popcorn every day and never put the bowl in the sink. My hair doesn't always stay in the right side. I told my sister that I wish she killed herself the other day. I have terrible attendence. Deodorant covers up my smell but not my stains. I don't write good enough. I don't like sleeping at night. I'm lonely and I make people leave.

I love deep. I can make kick *** deserts. I tell funny ****** up jokes. I make a mean *** of coffee. I like to swing. I like to dance in the rain. I know every word to the frozen movie. I have good taste in music. I'm impulsive. I like coffee and mini golfing and ice cream and hula hooping in the store.

If you hear me when you are crying wondering if you'll ever meet her. If you need a lover a friend a companion. If too sensitive and slightly child like makes you smile. If your heartstrings play music when you read my words.

Then love me back as much as the moon loves the sun. As much as my galoshes love a puddle. As much as a smoker loves the taste of the inhale. As much as I would love you.

I would love you.

What makes a monster a monster?
Is it his surroundings or maybe it's just life?
Or does he remember graphically the day his mom was knifed?
She said he'd live for greatness as her breath she gave her last.
When no police around because response time wasn't fast.
Police barely even came unless they're trying to **** a culture
Am I a monster because I'm black? And why must your gun leave its holster?
Do I look like a threat when I just came from hooping?
Or do I just look stupid because the books you gave were useless?
Was it because of dreads, you thought I rapped, sold drugs, or used em?
Are did you see I would get my degree and later become a nuisance?
To a system designed against us but you swear this land is equal.
When the only thing that's equal is the way you **** my people.
Give em toxic music and train em to watch the tv.
Watch the youth reduce to fools while we control the things they see.
And we control who they can be.
But I then peeped the game and all the chains that make us "free"
A dog don't need a leash, beat him good and he will listen.
Then give illusions of a freedom while subliminally in a prison.
What makes a man a monster before his life even begins?
When us blacks just want equality thank god it's not revenge.

There must be a cheat sheet
There's gotta be a clue
Is there book on Y.I.Luv.U?

There have to be a problem
There have to be something wrong
Can I fix this problem of "thinking about you ?..umm.

Man I need some answers,
To all my questions!


What if ..Why do I love you is a clue because thinking of you  is my problem wait are you answering my questions?!

Okay okay okay calm down Steve
There's no one there
But I could of swore I heard..Na maybe it was just a bird.
But I still feel like there's someone thar..
I mean there.

Well if you're there Why Do you care?
No wait why do I care
Who ....

Hello?
From the outside !! Lol HAHaha okie okie.. Oh
Wait

(Phone rings)
"Aye Steve are u coming to church today then after we're hooping?"

Sure bro
Okie
..no you hang up ..no you hang.. Ohh okie well.

I'm here. Bruuuuuhhh what is that??
Ugh okie ur getting on my nerves!!

Who are you..

something chasing after me, saltine
biscuits trailing my feet, salty tears soaking
them through their flaky meat, lotus dreams and
finite weeks, never running away from time, instead
waiting for it to catch up to our heels and
leave crumbs behind

time was sluggish and easy when I took it into my arms,
pliant when I bent it around my arms, hula hooping
lifting me to the tips of my feet, time knew me
better than the parents I’ll never meet,
dusty paths and soles of feet pattering on
sizzling concrete

time tells me that I should have been a runaway
ennui says I’m ***** souled and
listless and too far away
sugar in gas tanks and fingers plugged in ears kind of thing
chasing cheap thrills to kingdom come
until the moon is a gleam of white and
mixes and melds with the lines of
empty candle wicks

pop bottles popping off, night breezes, a kiss under palm trees
(ennui uplifted momentarily)
southern Arizona and cool synths, runaway dream
onomatopoeia making a home in our daydreams
furtive eyes seeking to find God, but
reality crashing down around me

Join us!
Join us!
We think you'll like our mission!
We're looking for new members
in the sad girl coalition!
We prefer girls with anxiety
and an affinity for plants.
Feminist views a must,
and a willingness to dance.
Gear needed to fit in here:
a rescue cat, a hammock,
an emotionally damaged cactus,
yoga, knitting, hula hooping,
or some other quirk you practice.
Duties are quite simple;
Defend your girls in online rants
about the current state of the nation.
Comment, "love the yoga pants!"
when a sister nails a headstand.
Click love instead of like
when a member shares the anthem
and keep adding to the ranks
of the sad girl coalition!

remember when mourning doves
used to loop their song,
hula hooping chorus grooves
flooding dew drops at dawn.

feet wake dancing under sheets,
restless legs stretch long
upon shaky knees
preceding rush hour like fawn.

metropolis blues
beat twenty four seven
like hotels and hospitals,
their pulse.

Most of my Lix spittle
+ four anniversaries
since exiting birth canal
as full term newborn
re: minimally viable existence
post doc severance umbilical cord,
nevertheless yours truly

found himself figuratively
linkedin and tethered to lifeline
particularly in formative years
(primarily academically) adrift,
and malfunctioning blinker
analogous to a boat
without an ankh (clawing

away to stay afloat)
aimlessly bobbing -
and drowning akin
to a besotted drinker
just out of rest to be
rescued by Mister Rinker
sea ming lee without
any hook, line and sinker

despite being gifted with
an above average thinker,
(who calls Lake Wobegon
his birth place)
from without, where two
brown myopic ocular
orbs shutterfly, twitter and winker.

All thru academia
just barely passing grades
nsync with avocations
such as: jigsaw puzzles,
photography, playing piano
weight lifting with free weights
and other endeavors metaphorically
suffered from anemia,
and at my nadir,
thy prepubescent psyche
plummeted lovely bones

into grave state,
courtesy anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
shot thru through with
healthy dose of dysthymia
captioned tinker tailor soldier spy
kept awake with insomnia
peppering cerebral
cortex with monomania
buzzfeed ding somnambulant
zombified condition

with a burning
desire toward pyromania
nsync with unmanageable
raging (red dee
and bull lush) testosterone
spawning (when libido
ran rampantly amuck)
satyromania, the above particularly
accentuated, and cresting
with accursed triskaidekaphobia
most agonizing, when

orbitz around Earth
demarcated ten plus three
month date on a Friday the thirteenth,
hence death be not proud
sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
if I Willoughby
able to sprinkle
cremated ashes across Xenia
after Dayton death.

hovers over 100 seconds to midnight
as of January 2022,
which apocalyptic prognostication
established by the Bulletin
of Atomic Scientists
maintained since 1947,
the clock quantifies a metaphor
for threats to humanity
from unchecked scientific
and technological advances.

Very thin sliver of time remains
before zero hour realized,
but countless heroic measures attainable
prior to Doomsday Clock striking midnight
(witnessing global annihilation unleashed
courtesy malevolent forces
wrought by egregious
ingenious narcissistic mankind),
whereby civilization inextricably linkedin
ominous quaking storied unsettling webbed
wide world harbingers  
vitiated by weapons of mass destruction

loom ever closer unless
**** sapiens can unite,
whereby at least one obscure Yiddish word
Ongematert (tired out,
albeit psychologically wracked)
will render nuclear stockpile superfluous
(the idealist trumpets long live
The Naked Ape a 1967 book
by English zoologist
and ethologist Desmond Morris  
chronicling humans as species)
proving supremacy of virtue

versus nipping in bud everyone
wishing their kith and kin  
final fare thee well upon
debacle potentially fateful genocide
describing, horrifying, liberating Gaia
of peopled pestilential maelstrom,
(hence purchase front row tickets now)
visible clear across thee solar system,
which could theoretically occur tonight
before betokening apocalyptic sight
'course one must go about
her/his business – right?

Rhetorical question troubles
existential nihilist (me)
how to shrug off monstrous plight
(ghastly hellacious towering
mushroom cloud infernos)
analogous to punishment allotted Atlas
re: to hold up earth
on his shoulders for all eternity
at last count oblate spheroid
weighing a whopping 13 thousand,

170 billion trillion pounds,
or 13,170,000,000,000,000,000,000,000
impossible mission quite
challenging, where one
brother grimm ponders plight,
when with instantaneously "****"
jump/kick starts irrevocable dissolution
of fledgling acquaintanceships
and long established friendships
within eye blink

(think snapped fingers) outright
regardless, whether...
perchance we ever
cross paths long daze
journey into night,
and met under virtual reality moonlight
ah... methinks the mere awareness
of poetess transient existence
metaphorically found modest, mercurial
mellow male within limelight

oy vey admittedly one
rusty Ongepatshket knight
fumbling in the dark with
his unreliable sputtering jacklight
hooping aforesaid gal, whose eyes alight
upon mine genuine words doth newt
**** sitter me laughable, nor impolite,
yet accept hard virtual reality to highlight
and/or _ underscore delight
full dame online - each of us,

an infinitesimal jot of granulite
within vast cosmos given finite
minuscule time to excite
our senses trending utmost delight
during brief unique
deoxynucleic chromosomal copyright
til death do us part,
whether natural demise
doomed to huge sinister clouds
speeding, spelling, spewing radioactive blight.

Uneasiness far greater
to confront atomic augury
than pernicious penury
which ceases within eyeblink
certainly far more serious than perjury,
(which yours truly never guilty),
nevertheless afflicting me
with psychological injury.

Personal finances pitted
me deep in hock
into red zone, yes
quite a shock,
to absorb - now finds yours
truly poorest oldest
curmudgeon goofy "kid"
in sexagenarian body
on the senior citizen chopping block
within Lake Woebegone
hard space and rock
as inevitable doom
each second - coming inevitably
approaches closer tick tock.

Most of my iv + Lix spittle existence
found me figuratively
(primarily academically, emotionally,
psychologically, sexually, socially...) adrift,
and malfunctioning blinker
analogous to a boat
without courtesy picture
an appalling Cap'n Ahab
ankh caws away!

aimlessly bobbing - treading water
analogous to drowning sailor akin
to a besotted drinker
just out of rest to be
rescued by Mister Rinker

sea ming lee without
any hook, line and sinker
despite being gifted with
an above average thinker
from without, where two
myopic ocular
orbs did winker.

All thru academia
just barely passing grades
metaphorically suffered from anemia,
and at my nadir,
thy prepubescent psyche
plummeted lovely bones
into grave state,

sans anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
shot thru through with
healthy dose of dysthymia
cap (tinned em man hint mettle)
kept awake with insomnia
peppering cerebral
cortex with monomania
buzzfeeding earthlinked somnambulant

zombified condition
with a burning
desire toward pyromania
(nearly burned down the house
at 324 Level Road)
nsync with unmanageable
raging (red dee
and bull lush) testosterone
spawning satyromania

the above particularly
accentuated, and cresting
with accursed triskaidekaphobia
most agonizing, when
orbitz around Earth
accompanied by 756 full moons)
demarcated ten plus three
on a Friday the thirteenth,
according to Gregorian Calendar,

hence death be not proud
(originally titled
a fourteen-line poem,
or sonnet, by English poet
John Donne, one leading figure
in the metaphysical poets group
of seventeenth-century English literature)

sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
if I Willoughby
able to sprinkle
cremated ashes across Xenia.

signaled one hundred seconds to midnight

A couple years ago
similarly titled poem I did write,
yet looms as harbinger unless
**** sapiens can unite
one non Yiddish speaking
Ongematert wishing ye
fare thee well tonight
before betokening apocalyptic sight
'course one must go about
her/his business - right?

Rhetorical question - yet
impossible mission quite
challenging, where one
brother grimm ponders plight
Cosmofunnel favorite fan
Katina Borgersen "****"
our acquaintanceship dissolved
(think - snapped fingers) outright
regardless, whether...
perchance we ever
cross paths long daze

journey into night
met under virtual reality moonlight
ah... the mere awareness
of her existence
metaphorically found modest, mercurial
mellow male within limelight
oy vey admittedly one
rusty Ongepatshket knight
fumbling in the dark with
his unreliable sputtering jacklight
hooping aforesaid gal whose eyes alight

upon mine genuine words doth newt
**** sitter me laughable, nor impolite,
yet accept hard reality to highlight
and/or _ underscore delight
full dame online - each of us,
an infinitesimal jot of granulite
within vast cosmos given finite
minuscule time to excite
our senses trending utmost delight
during brief unique
deoxynucleic chromosomal copyright

til death do us part,
whether natural demise
or... huge mushroom
clouds radioactive blight
unimaginable nightmarish scenario
impossible mission to close third eye blind
webbed global haunting spectacle
mortal creatures linkedin to ill fate
including yours truly,
a generic, garden variety
hermetically sealed cell bit anchorite.

Uneasiness far greater
to confront atomic augury
than pernicious penury
which ceases within eyeblink
far more serious than perjury
nonetheless afflicting me
with psychological injury.

Personal finances pitted
me deep in hock
into red room zone,
shining thru the mist
story, yes I experience
quite a shell shock,
to absorb inconvenient truth
great swaths of Gaia
analogous to dead zone,

nevertheless, now finds yours
truly poorest, oldest, and nerdiest
curmudgeon goofy "kid"
on the chopping block
within Lake Wobegon
hard space and third rock
from sun as inevitable doom
inches closer as each second elapses  
insync with inaudible tick tock.

My aggressive urges scare me
Something in me needs to fight

My brothers have it too
Maybe Irishness in light

My life is mostly boring
But John keeps me talking

Late at night I'm hooping
In the morning I am just walking

                       Thank you.

Apalachee High School,
located in Winder, Georgia
witnessed an active shooter,
whereby the alleged lone gunman
(actually just a teenager of fourteen years)
killed four people and injured nine more
the latter hospitalized with injuries
after a shooting Wednesday
(June 4th, 2024) morning.

His (the lad who pulled the trigger
on the firearm – an AR platform-style gun)
father and mother must be held culpable,
and similar to the slain victims
surviving kith and kin
probably experience immense grief
(at least I would hope).

Yours truly (me),
a married sexagenarian and proud papa,
whose two grown daughters;
a twenty five old, lives in Bend, Oregon
and eldest - almost twenty six months
her kid sister's senior
resides within bucolic Ithaca, New York,
whereby he himself
dwells at Highland Manor Apartments
smack dab within the heart of
Perkiomen Valley, Pennsylvania
nestled here within suburban
southeastern Montgomery County
deeply affected by the tragedy
(as well as most previous occurring
violent, nasty, and brutish ****** crimes.

The Second Amendment of the United States Constitution protects the right of Americans to keep and bear arms. The original text of the Second Amendment is:

“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed”.

The Second Amendment was ratified on December 15, 1791. Its origins can be traced back to ancient Roman and Florentine times, and to the late 16th century in England when Queen Elizabeth I required all classes of people to take part in a national militia.

I (a slight baby boomer at approximately
seventy inches tall from stem to stern
targeted as "scapegoat" during boyhood),
no longer a ticking time bomb harboring
rage against the machine,
would never buy nor use a weapon
intended to fire rapidly
loosing countless bullets,
nevertheless writer of these words
empathizes, sympathizes and telepathizes
third-person singular simple present
indicative forms of empathize,
sympathize, and telepathize respectively
with the predictable cited suspect,
who frequently trends toward being
a quiet natured, nerdy lad
at the receiving end
of verbal and physical harassment.

Still back in the day mean kids
indiscriminately name called me
attendant with closed fists
mere inches from my face -
both boys and girls made a point
to assail introspective
severely shy Matthew Scott Harris
pleading with cruel, fiendish, imps -
of the pervert please don't hurt me
and repeated the following saying:
sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me
(or so the playground adage
wants us to believe).

Words do hurt and the shame
those words can instill in us
have a way of instigating and
perpetuating inferiority complex
in our minds and our bodies.

Easy access to high powered military grade sophisticated woud find blunderbuss quaint.

     More often than not such brutal and nasty (short lived) nefarious schemes directed at humble lettered people (like those comprising my home town of Lake Woebegone) minding their own p's and q's, when out of the blue a sudden bitta bing bitta bang rings the terrorist catcall followed by red tide and river of blood.

     Thus occurs yet another staccato sinister sonic soundcloud boom across the pearl gray slate of some formerly anonymous place-name. which blitzkrieg of shells shattering (at shutterfly speed) the democratic rubric of society with senseless slaughter, whereat somber silence echoes the wails of agony.

     This epidemic re: murderous love affair with gruesome morbid fixation allowing, enable and providing the terrifying trappings for angry person to maniacally gun down (in slo mo) a milling crowdsource (perhaps pathetic plan premeditated) employing coterie of odious loading incendiary fiery clips.

     Suicide bombardier seeks to slake thirst to take aim with deadly precision, and spray with pump posse city, a congregated engaged group of people), with egregious fulfillment to mow down slew unsuspecting victims, which bring revulsion to this American citizen.

     Death be not proud, nor ought airtime allocated to these heinous cavalier avengers.

     Foe tee eight hour special proffers especial easy access to sophisticated high caliber compact offspring of rapaciously lethal gimcrackery cutlasses.

     Sorrow soulful songs sung by the likes of death cab for cutie in tandem with foo fighting beastie boys pay homilies and homage to grateful dead.

     Fetishistic martyrs wannabe set sights of sister and brothers of their same simian species.

     Once target(s) locked and stocked per skull and cross bones, the ammunition barrels at greased lightning speed dead set upon unaware persons. the final minutes/seconds of various lives instantaneously cut short, when instagram cross hairs seal the fate upon avast group of happy go lucky men and women.

     Instantaneous re: within the blink and/or flickr of and eye, the gallivanting live capital one progressive pinterest-ting human hulu hooping unwittingly accompany the grim reaper as riders to final resting place.

     Ribald exhortations and allegiance gifted from he/she who ushered in bereavement, where grief experiences a field day, whence pandora gorges philabundance like, as incalculable forsaken emptiness doles bleakness upon a grim outlook brought about per spilt blood, sweat and tears tallying the cost.

     Mortal kombat rues unfathomable payless priceline, which induces adrenaline to course thru the melee, where survivors sprint non selfie ish lee to a safer outlook, where moments before the collective asylum seekers indulged in a joyus fancy feast per vanity fair, whence diehard fanatic (attired inconspicuously like some dishabille schlepper of an outlier) pulled the trigger releasing high powered voluminous ammunition loaded murderous mass homicidal instrument.

     Netzero escape for those unfairly killed in ceaseless undeclared warfare, whereby killer (ofttimes a pissant punk) cooly unleashes fearsome fusillade from out the barrel per his/her lethal methodological munitions.