My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.

My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.

A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.

A devilish ******* of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.

Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.

A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.

Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.

Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.

Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.

A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.

A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)

A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.

A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.

A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.

An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.

A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.

A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.

Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.

A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.

Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.

Ghosts walk these streets
The remnants of conflicts
of the past
Blood was spilled for soil
and the spoils
of war are baked beans
hotdogs
hamburgers
and coleslaw

The ghosts smile at the
peace,
passing through the streets
filled with the smell of
food and good times

These ghosts fought hard
and died well

Never let their egos swell
past the pins and medals fastened
to their chests

Never sat in judgement over
the mirth and laughter had
at their expense

Never reveled in boastful pride
or worried whether anyone
remembered why they died

But to be happy in their deaths
that the living could be
thankful
greatful
and speak kind words with their breaths

For judgement about how
someone spent a Sunday sulking
to the extent
of how history would affect
the macaroni and cheese
was for the living to worry about

A lot could be learned from a ghost
if we stilled our beating hearts to listen
if we let those be what they will be
and worry about me
instead of thee

Some light candles and say a prayer
Some light grills with no frills.
Some put their feet up and sleep
happy for the extra day off.

These ghosts smile similarly
upon all of them contentedly
happy to see
that they died a death of honor
so that we could live free.

My adoptive father
(A week younger than I)
Who once dated my adoptive mother
(4 months younger than I)
Took us out to a posh joint in New Town
Where both of us took turns in being the clown
Taking the jester's, drama queen's crown
And taking down
Our Spanish waiter
Not sure if we did cater
More to them than they to us.
The racket, the drama, the jokes, the fuss,
My Instagram, and A.'s.
I remember his attempts to chase
Us, to gain to our level, to chat me up - make me leave trails
Of mirth tears, too, not just vinaigrette. "If the lady would give me her details...
Have my heart..."
(Serving four of a chicken on my plate)
"You broke my heart."
(Agreeing to and pulling off staging a "stage kiss" with my mate)
And they both admired my guns - He knew not to cross
Us. We're a dream team, my school-dad and I, no loss
For us, though we take Ls with smiles on our faces:
We'll keep on joking, laughing, irreverently, untying your laces,
Tripping up on our own but still making the trip;
And when the bill finally came, it was more than worth it, even the tip.

Ghosts walk these streets
The remnants of conflicts
of the past
Blood was spilled for soil
and the spoils
of war are baked beans
hotdogs
hamburgers
and coleslaw

The ghosts smile at the
peace,
passing through the streets
filled with the smell of
food and good times

These ghosts fought hard
and died well

Never let their egos swell
past the pins and medals fastened
to their chests

Never sat in judgement over
the mirth and laughter had
at their expense

Never reveled in boastful pride
or worried whether anyone
remembered why they died

But to be happy in their deaths
that the living could be
thankful
greatful
and speak kind words with their breaths

For judgement about how
someone spent a Sunday sulking
to the extent
of how history would affect
the macaroni and cheese
was for the living to worry about

A lot could be learned from a ghost
if we stilled our beating hearts to listen
if we let those be what they will be
and worry about me
instead of thee

Some light candles and say a prayer
Some light grills with no frills.
Some put their feet up and sleep
happy for the extra day off.

These ghosts smile similarly
upon all of them contentedly
happy to see
that they died a death of honor
so that we could live free.

Please tell me something beautiful
I want to feel alive
Like stars framed in the sky
Out light extinguished long ago
But the ethereal traces of us can still be
Observed dancing throughout the galaxy
And with every glimpse of those lingering memories
My heart grows colder and more distant
From this world
And travels further, expanding continually
But finds no solace to fill the void it irreverently leaves
Please, forgive me

I have tried so hard
to remain in my particular status,
duly occupied and irreverently busy.
So that now I am tired;
cracking like dry mud.
Or like a shattered pane of glass
I am spread out along the street,
Being carefully stepped over
waiting to be swept away.

My body is not beautiful -
it shows every row of dirt plowed,
every callous axe handle held
irreverently between the hands
that are swollen and cold;
my fingers, the puffy soldiers who smoked
one too many cigars in the
valleys of their webbed hills.

My body is not beautiful -
it is pitted with dirt entrenched in my pores
and craters of microorganisms
embedded in my flesh,
sending red fires into neutral skin,
a war beneath the surface
with smoothness being a casualty.

My body is not beautiful -
it has hair growing in places I hate,
thick layers of clinging calories
and expanded fat cells that
refuse to expire no matter how many
suicides I run or deaths I die
daily in an attempt to flatten them.

My body is not beautiful -
it is strong as hell.

My shoulders, firm and balanced,
tauntingly mock Atlas for complaining
of holding the world on his -
what he calls a tragedy, they call Monday.
My back has always carried whatever
burden I laid on it,
and though it's strained and torn
has yet to break beneath the weight
of the sorrow and the memories
living has given to me.

My legs, short and wide,
have lunged with mountains
by their sides,
moving forward through infernos
I can only describe as
"liquid fire as heavy as lead,"
traversing continents
and rushing rivers
knowing they were not going to give.

My arms are atlases,
traversed for countless miles
by vein-y highways
that lead to the ghost towns
I've gotten tattooed on my skin
to remind me that my
vagabond blood is pure
and my bones are made
of wanderlust.

No, my body is not beautiful,
but it is strong;
it has been places,
seen and done things.
It allows the universe
to make its home in my spinal
chord,
midnight to seep into my pores
and sing my heart to sleep
with starry melodies,
to leave behind the cement parking lot
I was born and raised in
and chase the horizon
no matter where it leads.

My body is not beautiful,
but it still deserves respect
for all it's done,
and all it holds,
regardless of my cellulite
or fat rolls.

The  sky hung full of ******, above the execution bell.
The crow circles overhead irreverently, dressed in his Sunday best.
In the bar the dead men fought.
From the counter outside they flew.
Spilled into the street in front of a few.
Two cowboys, guns in both of their hands, wrathful and vengefully meeting demands.
The young lady with the mess of blonde hair, was heard to squeal,
"Oh Jimmy, fight not over me, let him go, let him go free".

The lady in the emerald hat cried "Jimmy and Jason, please stop that."
I hate it when you play with guns.
One of the problems when you have stroppy twin sons.
Their weapons discarded into the bin.
After the gunfight that no brother won.
(C) Livvi

They anticipate she writes
when insult their cat o' nine tails
and an officer with a retort
but yesteryear she tucks away her blues  
and she's an inspiration with Jedediah
for a casual acquaintanceship inherently  
or irreverently entwine anyway
as any foibles of hers are bare
with clement she need to see there
far and away ever a man alive again.

On a wood slat bench near City Park Lake,
I blew dusk into darkness on clouds of an exhausted Cohiba.
Dry, starless, midwestern summer shadows
sound like one-handed applause wrapped
in padded outrage. A rogue drake stirs unseen behind
nearly visible bushes at the water’s edge.
The rest of the tacet brood turn
condescending beaks at his faux pas.

It is the silence of trespassing,
disregarding closing time,
defying petty ordinance
to the tune of two frogs and windsong.
The empty side of my lips
curl in half a smile.
The appall in a proper rent-a-cop
would be irreverently rewarding.

Life doesn’t get any better than this…
At least it feels so now in the dizzy,
near fainting, larger-than-normal ****
on a larger-than-normal cigar. Regardless,
it’s a fine moment in time.

How many faces
do you pass by
with broken dreams
and lonely eyes?
Lives and men you
have brought to their knees.
To adore you and love you
until you discard them
without a second glance
or thought
again.
As you cast your eyes away
because I will not cast mine,
as you cast your stones,
and I will not cast mine.
And you pass by,
telling yourself you don't love me.
You do,
I tell myself.
What trails of sadness and
regret
do you walk?
How many people can you step
on to get to the next
and the next and
to deride and discredit
their being as humans?
Do you stumble and fall
as we do,
or are you as sure as the
earth and fingers you so
irreverently step upon?

And so you pass,
with your silence and haste,
with your shrinking and bowing,
and your eyes cast and face of stone,
I find that my answer is
many
and that I am but
one.

Jenny it’s getting dark and
             I should really be getting home,
                                                But I’m in New York City,
And I’m drunk,
And I don’t know what I should be doing with my hands but
I wish I could hold you in them.
Just so I’d know what to do with my hands.
And they wouldn’t feel so weighted,
        And there’d be something in my palms
To keep them from balling into fists.
         I wonder if you were here
If you’d even see me at all;
Now that I’m such a New Yorker.
          And do all these things I’d like to say I hate
But love.
        Irreverently.
                       Passionately.
                               Painfully.
I’m not not myself.
        On the contrary actually.
  I’ve just finally discovered the tools necessary
To make me who I’ve always been.
  I was not who I was.
And you were not who I thought you were.
Or maybe you were.
                     Who am I to say.
I’m just a man you never knew who is deeply, foolishly, and                   completely irresponsibly in love with you.
And who wishes you were here
So he could hold you
And keep his hands from balling into fists.

Emotions--tied together in rings of camouflage,
building up in a series of songs and sighs;
As the heart beats mysteriously, irreverently,
while hopeless tears explode from captive eyes.

Portraits--of sinister solutions surely project,
the wanton hurt of many passionate moments;
Cries from the soulless, the mastermind falling,
as drifting snowflakes dissolve from missives sent.

Fear--those wordless notions of discontent,
built like pyramids to last in the eternal sphere;
Gravely woven into a faded, jumbled tapestry,
weakened by Fate, holding on with pride revered.

Words--how they burden us with legacies,
descriptive and expressive but not always right;
The ghosts of our past seem ever-present now,
as they seek what's meaningful in spirits of the night.

Smeared across a highway,
organs glitter like rubies
ripped from a young bride's riviere.

a mourner dressed in the black plumage of grief
Keeps vigil in silence.
With his beak, he carves out last rights into flesh.
The pallbearer of countless souls
snuffed out on an asphalt ashtray.

Wrinkled head bent low,
he walks with the shuffle of a tired custodian,
as others rush past offering weak condolences
with the throaty warning of a horn,
at some somber procession
that dare interfere with more important lives.

Around him, Cars spew profanity from bubbling engines,
as they hurtle irreverently
through a slaughterhouse Crafted from indifference.
The serrated edges of busy lives
cutting through meat and bone.

The loneliness of a lifeless pond
it is
so easily stirred

a single pebble, tossed irreverently
creates
for a brief moment
a violent rush of ripples

in time it will slow
it will return
stillness will beset it once again

Slaves, slaves subscribe to misery
Hordes, hoard what can't be stockpiled
Stock-pilers scale back and bone up on bonuses
Lords, they lord skyward to deflect the immersing night
Cults, that retain cult-status, hail ****, the **** of our Earth
   the perimeters lengthwise and likewise permeate    
   and grill without toasting
   additionally write without ghosting
   haphazardly glide sans skid-free coasting
   irreverently guide us with preachments boasting of
Serbs & Croats who speak Belarusian
And who'll raise not a hand when a foot'll do
Call Debby, the podiatric surgeon, once your toes go webby, yeah!
Hold down unroped things when your rope runs out
Bleed white unbled things when your blood runs out
Sneeze red when your nose breaks open
Corn, corn makes for corny gasoline
   tomatoes start off green as do green peas
Call, call the ships by phone
Phone, phone the ships on call
Gore a fruit called Albert
Mail in your terms of surrender
Become the itinerant, high-yield lender
Pull down your pool like a big-time pretender
Sing like that dead Mexican: Freddy F. Fender
Sell it as new when you know ****** well it's not
Bony women in closets emerge!
Resurrect Love Gods in Leisure Suits and Gaye Bykers on Acid
Spare me the histrionics from the goodest book on ebonics
   on groovy chicks of the Tropics
   on praxic strictures less exotic
Spare me the smell of dog-**** as with dog-**** I can't smell it
Let's groove with Typee chicks close to the ocean on the beach
   or play grab-*** with them from the tops of cocoanut trees
   or direct them into clinics for pre-emptive mastectomies
   or tap them as tappers tap maple trees tapped for tapping

Germane generic geeky guy
five sixths enroute
to complete lxiv luxurious Earth orbits
experienced chronic, demonic,
physiologically hegemonic...
irritable bowel syndrome
without shadow of a doubt,
yet aforementioned plight
the following lines of poetry
will not be about
problematic posterior plague.

After contemplating discomfort
linkedin with said medical condition,
yours truly realized aftermath
of Hurricane Ian concerning
those who weathered category storm
suffered a fate much worse
subsequently, I took a brief hiatus
typing lines of impossible
to understand questionable verse
challenging proclivity of one
yawping wordsmith being terse

yeah right you probably think
crowning glory upon
mine nonestablishmentarian literary endeavors
hands down majority of anonymous readers
would immediately qualify
his swiftly tailored prolix harried style
unquestionably, obviously, and irreverently
imposing expansive vocabulary as perverse,
no doubt hurling expletive donned curse
at me with every stinging breath they took.

The previous writing endeavor
attached catchy title
at outset intent to brook
unspoken protocols analogous to river,
which overflows banks swallowing
entire metropolitan areas
categorized as biblical flood
believed to occur once
every five hundred year
exhibiting impact greater
than storied facebook
(as personal side note,
said creation a markedly popular

social media platform)
influencing great swaths of populace
allowing, enabling, and providing
user trademark friendly look,
which ineluctably draws innocent naif
into webbed wide world,
where coders fashioned
innocuous virtual pitfalls
many a stalwart devout
online interoper figuratively snagged
courtesy tempting virtual,
lock, stock and withal
ingenious (some might chime in –
nefarious, opprobrious, pernicious...) tailhook.

Ever since a young lad
irritable bowel syndrome
in my humble pinion wracked
lower abdominal area
gurgled and ballooned gastrointestinal tract
(similar to following Colonoscopy preparation
slated for January 24th, 2024
at Phoenixville Hospital)
posterior issuing
vis a vis borborygmus crooning
in tandem and/or subsequent expulsion

eliminates ***** waste
witnessing sprinting to bathroom, this scribe
(against time) and jet propulsion
of sphincter muscles'
spasmodic desperately raced

unpleasant symptom of anxiety/ panic attack
twas a stranger to this rhyme stir,
who now finds himself barrack
cay did, and held hostage, where thoughts
about mooning doth not crack

a smile, or baring derriere tubby more exact
me up - matter of fact
no source of laughter, nada one ha intact
(despite usual presence of chuckles
from this fan of good humor) high jacked

for what seems a maternity leave
from all mothers tub be
thus envision, a bevy of pregnant gals
aching with cramps he
ving (times square of the hippopotamus)
with ****** fully dilated key
ping alert, when mother nature ready
to pull up all stops (via umbilical cord)
to deliver nee,
sans bundle of joy, followed
in quick succession with after birth re:
placental sack, hence
said effort to expel newborn
the closest scenario
experience ill suited to dance
afflicting this anxiety prone
lovely bones, an all expense
paid (seat of the pants)
accursed bane of proletariat grants
no truce to attend finds me
pampered asper this rants.

Germane generic geeky guy
about one twelfth (knight) enroute
to complete lxv luxurious Earth orbits
experienced chronic, demonic,
physiologically hegemonic...
irritable bowel syndrome
without shadow of a doubt,
yet aforementioned plight
the following lines of poetry
will not be about
problematic posterior plague.

After contemplating discomfort
linkedin with said medical condition,
yours truly realized aftermath
of Hurricane Ian concerning
those who weathered category storm
suffered a fate much worse
subsequently, I took a brief hiatus
typing lines of impossible
to understand questionable verse
challenging proclivity of one
yawping wordsmith being terse

yeah right you probably think
crowning glory upon
mine nonestablishmentarian literary endeavors
hands down majority of anonymous readers
would immediately qualify
his swiftly tailored prolix harried style
unquestionably, obviously, and irreverently
imposing expansive vocabulary as perverse,
no doubt hurling expletive donned curse
at me with every stinging breath they took.

The previous writing endeavor
attached catchy title
at outset intent to brook
unspoken protocols analogous to river,
which overflows banks swallowing
entire metropolitan areas
categorized as biblical flood
believed to occur once
every five hundred year
exhibiting impact greater
than storied facebook
(as personal side note,
said creation a markedly popular

social media platform)
influencing great swaths of populace
allowing, enabling, and providing
user trademark friendly look,
which ineluctably draws innocent naif
into webbed wide world,
where coders fashioned
innocuous virtual pitfalls
many a stalwart devout
online interoper figuratively snagged
courtesy tempting virtual,
lock, stock and
withal ingenious scandalous tailhook.