Canto I. Long ago and far away...

Under the bridge across the Kankakee River, Grampa found me. I was busted for truancy. First grade. 1946.

Summer and after school: Paper route, neighborhood yard work, dogsbody in a drugstore, measuring houses for the county, fireman EJ&E railroad, janitor and bottling line Pabst Brewery Peoria. 1952-1962.

Fresh caught Mississippi River catfish. Muddy Yummy. Burlington, Iowa. 1959. Best ever.

In college, Fr. ***** usually confused me with my roommate, Al. Except for grades. St. Procopius College, 1958-62. Rats.

Coming home from college for Christmas. Oops, my family moved a few streets over and forgot to tell me. Peoria, 1961.

The Pabst Brewery lunchroom in Peoria, a little after dawn, my first day. A guy came in and said: "Who wants my horsecock sandwich? ****, this first beer tastes good." We never knew how many he drank. 1962.

At grad school, when we moved into the basement with the octopus furnace, Dave, my roommate, contributed a case of Chef Boyardee spaghettios and I brought 3 cases of beer, PBRs.  Supper for a month. Ames. 1962.

Sharon and I were making out in the afternoon, clothes a jumble. Walter Cronkite said, " President Kennedy has been shot…”. Ames, 1963.

I stood in line, in my shorts, waiting for the clap-check. The corporal shouted:  "All right, you *******, Uncle and the Republic of Viet Nam want your sorry *****. Drop 'em".  Des Moines. Deferred, 1964.

Married and living in student housing. Packing crate furniture. Pammel Court, 1966.

One of many undistinguished PhD theses on theoretical physics. Ames. 1967.

He electrified the room. Every woman in the room, regardless of age, wanted him, or seemed to. The atmosphere was primeval and dripping with desire. In the presence of greatness. Palo Alto, 1968.

US science jobs dried up. From a mountain-top, beery conversation, I got a research job in Germany. Boulder, 1968. Aachen, 1969.

The first time I saw automatic weapons at an airport. Geneva, 1970.

I toasted Rembrandt with sparkling wine at the Rijksmuseum. He said nothing. Amsterdam International Conference on Elementary Particles. 1971.

A little drunk, but sobering fast: the guard had Khrushchev teeth.
Midnight, alone, locked in a room at the border.
Hours later, release. East Berlin, 1973. Harrassment.

She said, "You know it's remarkable that we're not having an affair." No, it wasn't. George's wife.  Germany, 1973.

"Maybe there really are quarks, but if so, we'll never see them." Truer than I knew.  Exit to Huntsville, 1974.

On my first day at work, my first federal felony. As a joke, I impersonated an FBI agent. What the hell? Huntsville. 1974. Guess what?-- No witnesses left! 2021.

Hard work, good times, difficult times. The first years in Huntsville are not fully digested and may stay that way.

The golden Lord Buddha radiated peace with his smile. Pop, pop. Shots in the distance. Bangkok. 1992.

Accomplishment at work, discord at home. Divorce. Huntsville. 1994. I got the dogs.

New beginnings, a fresh start, true love and life-partner. Huntsville. 1995.

Canto II. In the present century...

Should be working on a proposal, but riveted to the TV. The day the towers fell and nearly 4000 people perished. September 11, 2001.

I started painting. Old barns and such. 2004.

We bet on how many dead bodies we would see. None, but lots of flip-flops and a sheep. Secrets of the Yangtze. 2004

I quietly admired a Rembrandt portrait at the Schiphol airport. Ever inscrutable, his painting had presence, even as the bomb dogs sniffed by. Beagles. 2006.

I’ve lost two close friends that I’ve known for 50-odd years. There aren’t many more. Huntsville. 2008 and 2011.

Here's some career advice: On your desk, keep a coffee cup marked, "No Whining", that side out. Third and final retirement. 2015.

I occasionally kick myself for not staying with physics—I’m jealous of friends that did. I moved on, but stayed interested. Continuing.

I’m eighty years old and walk like a duck. 2021.

Letter: "Your insurance has lapsed but for $60,000, it can be reinstated provided you are alive when we receive the premium." Life at 81. Huntsville, 2022.

Canto III: Coda

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time. The thin comfort of fading memories. Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes. Not often, but every now and then.

(Begun May 2016)

“The curiosity of the city rings with the death deliverance of grieving mothers and drunk fathers and optimists who claim the world is made, of more than just those two people. This is the Republic and the gates are open for service. Comedians were once serious people like all the rest who were mocked and remained vigilant in the face of despair. Life and death are part of our lives, but not the entirety. Grave markers have no grace for that truth. Summing up our choices to dashes in metal or plastic. What about the singing in the shower? The embarrassing time we were caught ******* or with ****? The overall fear of death creeping over these moments. Where is the answer? I wish Philosophy had a wick, something tangible to grasp onto, but it is no different than alcohol or drugs. Even that is no different than the dash. It only sums up our existence in simplicity. Labels of any sort do no justice to the comedians, mothers, fathers, republics, cities, and or life. In short, this land is the Atlas-cyst.
I look up at the clouds and see the impression of silver cherubs sitting on  flying horses. If they were real, they'd stab the hearts out of lovers from their aluminum vessels.
We are kings and queens of too much.
How many people have died for something that was not the cause—martyrs labeled as abolitionists. But to the illiterate-pop culture they are the heroes. Zealous posters written by apathetic authors trying to call back to the glaciers till the chimes of apocalypse come. The sad songs are true. Pity is polio too sick to bend and too accustomed to power. More than anything it is the simple moments that make the best music."
I remember telling Kaitlyn all that after we had ***.
"Should I continue?" I asked.
"I guess. I do like listening to you." she said.
“Your name is a word, but I think it is a culture.”
“The dark is a force,” she said, “But it is a child  too.”

She was the first one that made me realize that romantic tendencies are as hollow as realistic ones.
She laughs and I laugh. We are slaves beyond truth and defiance.
I can almost hear the old people that were friends of my granddad saying, “Remember your path.”
A failed proverb. Now as my sneakers hit the black top at night I see a messy web in the gutter belonging to a black widow. Every town in America should have a street named after Leo Szilard, the idealist father of the atomic bomb. I wish the one I was walking down now was named after him, but instead it is named after Hemingway. Hemingway St.--
“Everything I want and I couldn't be happier.” Kaitlyn says as she rolls away from me. Almost in cinematic beauty.
Now Sedans pass by playing catchy music--reminding me of the same melody earlier in the day when we were on our date at a local pizza place. The waitress was late with our order and we were making fun of Communism and Southern women on verandas.
“Oh Charles, I don't know nothin' about birthin' no babies!” she impersonated.
I laugh, gather myself, and add, “frankly my dear, I don't give a ****!”
Our giggles and bursts of laughter spawned our waitress in record time.
Later in the night, a ***** sock is still on her door as I leave her apartment. There are things still to be done. We aren't married after all.
I hear sirens in the background, downtown and I laugh to myself.
“Avoid the police! Avoid the police!” I promise myself I'll tell her tomorrow.
As I cross the street and the stench of wet dog in the night becomes second nature to me I add a conclusion to the communist joke from earlier. Imagine nowadays walking around Moscow passing out pamphlets about Communism to Russian citizens. The punchline sets in as lame like a worn lobotomy—no one would get the joke or take it too seriously. It's one of the commodities of sanity.
“You're never angry with me and I like that about you.” I told her once our pizza was delivered to our table. That statement cleaved the conversation to a halt and all we did was eat for the rest of our date there. She is the perfect bride I may never marry—a wedding in a box. Other than that she brings  spinal traction in this rough world—I feel like a man.
3:55 am brings ego death from acid. Not a song for the kiddies, but it is a recycled song for the college kids down the street. Even though the closest college is two hundred miles away. I call Kaitlyn up, she too can't sleep.
“How many times can a woman scream after *******?” I ask.
She exhales heavy when she smiles. “As many as I can.”
I do the same when I smile.
I imagine it all again: “Being absent on death's radar for that one moment. Teenagers dream about it, preachers scold it, tv promotes it, children have no idea what it is.”
“You make it sound so bad. Like ****.”
“It's not bad. It's a faith in a white flag.” I say.
“Of surrender?”
“Yes.” I reply.

The next time I blink it's breakfast, over at her place.
“You have the most fantastic beard.”she says.
The compliment goes down good with eggs over-well, bacon still moist from grease, golden toast, sloppy grits, and hashbrowns flat like a sandwich. I need a cup of coffee to level out her perfume.

No one knows I'm unsure if I'm the one she wants. But I would want her, no breakfast, just her and her aroma steeping in my life till my body runs cold.

“I surrender.”
“What?” she asks.
A torn piece of white fabric lies on the table.


The wine still lingers in my throat an hour after New Year's. The burn creeping down my esophagus much slower than the glistening ball in New York on tv. I taste blood. I wonder if it will last the year. The white flag is now starboard. And there is an opera in my fingers.  That last sentence makes no sense.
I know I am a man with hairy feet, a bruised heart and young. As Ivy Compton-Burnett says, “Real life seems to have no plots.” But it does have star-crossed lovers stuffed in suitcases beside heels and breeches. Traveling along the serpentine east coast watching the world in anticipation. Death can wait. I wonder if the same two people can live in perpetual amazing-ness apart?
I don't know. I can't wait for the answer. I begin, end, and live my life around the words 'and' and 'more'.
She doesn't know I barely move from my bedroom.

It was a Wednesday
The September weather impersonated summertime shine
But my eyes were barbed wire to the shimmer
Twisted and tied shut to the summer
Refusing to adjust to the glow
I entered that classroom alone
An intruder
I thought we were all intruders there
Social Work 1140- Minority Perspectives
Peacefully confined to the classroom blackboard
Caged up reality for protected heads to understand
We all sat situated in straight lines
Staring at chalk too bright to comprehend
Silent minds creating the kind of noiselessness only known to tiptoe
We all tiptoed there
Wiggled into tiny seats small enough for suffering
Yet large enough for complacency
The pseudo-summer heat peaking through the curtains
Draped over certain advantages we dare not speak
We all closed our eyes in unison
Wondered when the suffering began
Wondered when the wondering would end
Avoiding chalkboard glares and awkward eye contact
But the chalkboard glares started staring contests
And the eye contact was too awkward to ignore now
I was a sophomore
I wore freight train headlights
I was a trojan warhorse in broad daylight
I was an intruder there

My professor excused our intruderness upon her entrance
Transforming foolishness to fuel the mood
She must be an intruder too
It was noon
And this room of undercover drummers
Marching to different tunes was nothing new for her
She saw the truth in us
Stared the vulnerability away
Spread sunlight sanctuaries through our brains
Our eyes no longer wandering through oblivion
Wondering when the wondering would end
It all began when she said
I think it's time we all open our eyes
We looked confused
Eyes expanding to bite size balloons
Placing helium time bombs at the foot of her news
I stared at the fuse
And she stared at our staring daring us to make the next move
But we refused
Cause it was barely noon
And that's too soon for collective movements
No time for any inch of improvement
We all refused to move
Thankfully she resumed
I want you to look around this room
And understand one thing
Your story is the only proof you bring here
The only sword you swing here
And this is no home for fresh bruises
We are all safe in this room

I sat there in silence
I've always been an overabundance of riches
A treasure chest filled to the brim
But in this moment my gold is good for nothing
My sword is null and void
Skull and crossbones to understanding
My Excalibur belongs permanently stuck in stone
I never opened my eyes that way before
Only saw what I assumed was true
My once royal empire collapsed around my desk
Tears dropped like fallen gemstones crashing the class discussion
I sat there in silence
I sat there alone
Refused to tell my story
Refused to feel so low
It's a tough pill to swallow
Acknowledging you have lived with privilege your entire life
So I sit here in silence
Choking on my silver spoon
Looking for the way to say
I don't want to be an intruder anymore

Feathers torn from the gaping napes of wind began to dwindle and resist in spite of the gravity crushing tsunami.

Trapped in a facade of  impersonating flowing rain every feather dived to their unplanned descent.

All drowning in the nightmarish truth of actually being smothered in tears of a blue eyed-giant as they fell from the sky of that big blue eye’s, dead decapitated face.
A face severed on a head that hid a heavenly chateaus inside a false impersonated globe forever resting among the stars.

Inside housed all kinds of dimensional beings rarely ever seen but all known to possess legendary archaic features.
They mastered all the realms and lastly rule our skies.
They are cold warriors of combat- handled by their deadly grace, poisonous envy,  blinding halos, and suffocating wings…

Oh such undeniably divine things!

First plucked from you, then stolen from me!


A conscious belief known only by those who wish to remain unseen

as we become the common theory of all your pretty inanities.

Try to hide it;
Do all you can to fake it;
Mix with the trend
And come out as perfect;
But you know that ain't You

Faux perfectionism,
Impersonated personality
But within you're frail
Only trying to look fly
Why not come out clean and admit the truth?
Quit painting reality
And embrace the real YOU!

How did this all happen
Was it a past lover, seeking revenge
Was it an impersonated new friend
Either way, it doesn’t matter
My mind has overtaken and I have succumbed to the dark
I take two steps forward feeling you holding me back
The jokes on you though
I have been in the valley before, many times
I might stay there a while, laying, resting in the grass
When I am ready though, I pick myself up and tell the world to kiss my a!
I am strong at heart
I have a strong will
I will rise above and thanks to you
I will be more than I am today
I will be a better mom
I will be a better woman
All thanks to you, don’t you feel like an a now???

fragmented truths split the porcelain dolls posing in the next room
forever waiting on the badly impersonated wood shelves
for someone to break them
to save them from this torture
and they begin their well rehearsed lines this night
that will lead to raised voices and vile threats
that will lead to loss of control
loss of dignity
and something will get thrown
a glass, a spoon, a plate of salsa and chips
she will work her way to the bottom of the stairs
and allow herself one final scream before ascending
to her room
she will contemplate the porcelain dolls
as she catches a glimpse of them within arms reach
and they secretly plea for her to do it
but in their simple quiet beauty
they hold the only bit of sanity she can still touch
her only reason to cry

Pet’s Revenge
For example a Dachshund dog was thrown 5 floors to his death
The owner photographed this and posted it online
His dog looked like he was sleeping but was dead

I tracked the Dachshund Dog’s Killer down and killed him
I put him in an 80s violent video game with block graphics
I hit him with a stabbing dagger in both shoulders
Then machete chopped half of his pinto skull off
Finally finishing him off with a flick knife in the gut

Next there was the case of the animal rescue centre
9 pussycats were murdered for no real reason
Except they were living in the centre

I drove up to the animal sanctuary in a Technical
I beeped and they opened the gates and I saw him
The Pussycat Murderer who swaggered about like a real man
I aimed my remote control 50 Cal gun with my PS2 controller
And popped the ******* with a hundred 50 Cal Raufoss rounds

A woman cut the foot off her dog with a machete
Because the dog annoyed his owner
All this was filmed and posted online

I found the Limping Woman who made her dog painfully limp
I said Hi and smirked then tightly tied her up
And had my way with her 25 times in a calendar day
Her ***** was sore and needed stitching due to the table leg
As did her feet when I sliced off all her **** toes

Most bizarre of all was the small dog
Who was partly skinned alive by his owner
This dog was rescued and given treatment

Dog Skinner was a hard man to find but not hard in a fight
I threw him a knife and said, ‘Skin me or be maimed...’
His lunges were slow and unskilled and embarrassing
I blocked them with one hand and closed my eyes
I snapped his spine with one single side kick

And a man drove his car and threw out his dog
Like a bit of trash with duct taped up feet and muzzle
The cops rescued the dog and jailed the man

I impersonated a Police Officer and ‘apprehended’ the suspect
Who had just been released from jail for leaving his pet dog for dead
He let me into his house and I Tasered the ******* and duct taped him up
I dragged Dog Duct Tape Man to my fake squad car and put him in the trunk
I drove him to a secluded spot and did a very enjoyable EJK

I enjoyed each and every act of Pet’s Revenge and ******
This is my new job and I always enjoy it and get away with it
I have backing from Big Brother and the Illuminated People

Upskirting Venus.


                                  *

           (

    Our crescent moon was a

    concave optic, suspended

    beneath a visible Venus in

   the twilighted sky, at sunset.


On the horizon, a ship at anchor

impersonated a perched village,

shimmering in a desert of darkness.


Lesser stars arrived and peered

deviously through perforations of

the celestial colander, because it

was officially by then, nightie time.



7:pm West Coast Sardinia

    23rd March 2023.

Upskirting Venus.


                                   *

            (

     The crescent moon was a

     concave optic, suspended

     beneath a visible Venus in

    the twilighted sky, at sunset.


On the horizon, a ship at anchor

  impersonated a perched village,

shimmering in a desert of darkness.


Lesser stars arrived and peered

deviously through perforations of

the celestial colander, because it

was officially by then, nightie time.



7 pm West Coast Sardinia

        23rd March 2023.

.                                 M     S      M
                          Mono Sanitised Media

I am frequently asked, Ryan, what is your news source,

you have a very different interpretation of world affairs

than the majority of people? Before I delve into replying

first I feel it necessary to let you know that I am and have

been a (organic) vegetarian for almost forty years now.

Perhaps you are wondering what this has to do with my

daily diet of political commentary and current international

affairs. Well, right now this minute 17:42 pm 10/11/2024

I am house minding in Bourn Cambridgeshire. There is a

local shop, but it is not organic, so, I go by bus twice each

week to Cambridge where there is an organic store and

also bio-bread, I like sourdough brown heavy bread, not

the anaemic sliced impersonated supermarket *******.

We are getting close to an answer now, bear with me SVP.

When I was living in Mallow County Cork, I went twice a

week to Cork city by bus or train (30 minutes) to buy my

groceries at Quay Co-Op which is an organic city store.

Incidentally, Cambridge is 30 minutes from Bourn also.

                                  <>

Ok, here we go. Just as there is nothing in supermarkets

for me ( with the exception of toilet paper ) I can say the

same about Main Street Media. I am now going to give

you a shopping list of my media preferences. But do be

aware, just as I have to put a ruck sack on my back and

go search for organic produce, the same applies to these

names I am about to give you.

                                  <>

Democracy Now

Eoin Jones

John Meirsheimer

New Atlas

Dialogue Works

Max Blumenthal

Middle East Eye

Kernow Damo

Through The Eyes Of

Scott Ritter

Colonel Douglas MacGregor

Norman Finkelstein

Noam Chomsky

Redacted

Chris Hedges

Judge Napolitano

Lowkey

George Galloway

Ezra Levant (Rebel News)

Eva Bartlet (Electronic Intifada)


                         <>

Ps

I can tell a MSM person in 30 seconds of meeting one and in

case you happen to not know what MSM actually is, then you

will never comprehend why non pesticide herbicide fungicide

food is so important to me, but do be aware that we are what

we think every bit as much as what we consume. Let me start

you off by asking you to google Eva Bartlet and read what WIKI

has to say abut her, then try M.O.A.T.S. which is well worth

subscribing to, Mother Of All Talk Shows, George Galloway.


Ps x 2

Hopefully this answers your question.

Ps x 3

The only piece of literary value in most

MSM is the date.