The sun is out in Jacksonville
Me oh my goodness gracious alive
Now that the Richter scale has calmed down
I'm happy to say, we've all survived

Hoping from the beginning we'd go extra innings
And that our side would win
Between the Suns owner and the fans who are moaners
We are now the Jacksonville Jumbo Shrimp

So batter up you people
No need to be steamed it's just life
Though can you imagine the jokes from all of the folks
Might make us so boiling mad we could fry

And then there's the question of Southpaw
What's that mascot still doing here
I'm sure he can fetch but that's about it
Something smells fishy in this sailors beard

But I digress from where we should be
The theme is the name of the team
And I might be in hot water if I go any further
Without explaining what I really mean

Though you may not find
It very a-peel-ing
The way the owner did
In this fishy dealing

It might be to late but it's only a name
Try if you can to chow down on this
The teams still the same so come out to the games
No need for you to be so shellfish

Though he was restrained, David Bush, 61, is believed to have strangled himself with a cord from the wall attached to the call button, according to Jacksonville Sheriff's Office Chief Annie Smith. After being taken into custody on Friday for Possession of a Firearm by a Convicted Felon, Bush was taken to U.F. Health under the Baker Act for potentially being a danger to himself. Smith said Bush had a history of mental health and substance abuse problems, as well as a past criminal history. G4S is contracted by J.S.O. to monitor inmates in the hospital and Bush was to be checked on every 15 minutes. Smith said J.S.O. is still in the preliminary stages of their investigation and needs to monitor the security logs and interview those who were monitoring Bush. Smith said no foul play is suspected at this time.

and the ground is soft as it should be here,
eleven minutes past midnight on new years eve.
you've seen me for who I should be,
in all my sweaty palms, broken stars, and pillowed moons.

and I see you for who I could be,
a kind hearted, celestial, tall glass of admiration.
ending and entering more years that could be
more ours if you'll so thoughtfully see through.

and if you'll still smell your tropical breeze best
singing in the Honda with me as we will be
in the next years I can drive you to the airport
as you kiss me down where we should be,

humming old jazz tunes like we could be,
and I'm telling you that we will be
on the hard grounds again
in Jacksonville, Florida.

Empty promises and carefree living
Hazy nights and forgettable days
Chasing pleasure wherever it can be found
Never remembering those who once stood besides you
Bitterness is poison, a slow killer slinking in
But I can't help but feel as if you abandoned me
The first chance you got, without second thought
You'll never find someone else like this

People live forever in Jacksonville and St. Petersburg and Tampa,
But you don't have to live forever to become a grampa.
The entrance requirements for grampahood are comparatively mild,
You only have to live until your child has a child.
From that point on you start looking both ways over your shoulder,
Because sometimes you feel thirty years younger and sometimes
thirty years older.
Now you begin to realize who it was that reached the height of
imbecility,
It was whoever said that grandparents have all the fun and none of
the responsibility.
This is the most enticing spiderwebs of a tarradiddle ever spun,
Because everybody would love to have a baby around who was no
responsibility and lots of fun,
But I can think of no one but a mooncalf or a gaby
Who would trust their own child to raise a baby.
So you have to personally superintend your grandchild from diapers
to pants and from bottle to spoon,
Because you know that your own child hasn't sense enough to come
in out of a typhoon.
You don't have to live forever to become a grampa, but if you do
want to live forever,
Don't try to be clever;
If you wish to reach the end of the trail with an uncut throat,
Don't go around saying Quote I don't mind being a grampa but I
hate being married to a gramma Unquote.

The tints of yellow and brown,
Tis' near the fall season now.
See, the parks so beautifully donned
With falling leaves and gentle wind.
So put on light jackets and get comfy
Gear up, set the bed and get ready
As we watch for the Jacksonville Fall Home & Patio Show
With a hot soup bowl, and waiting for snow.

Curiosity got the better part of me as thine swiftly splaying fingers
typed Matthew Scott Harris (yours truly) into the google search bar,
lo and behold, and much to my chagrin and amusement,
others with mine namesake constituted roles in various walks of life carrying out their wonderfully wicked whiles and ways,
sans existence covered the gamut earthen realm
from administration of President Dwight David Eisenhower
the celebrity circuit, where his claim to fame and fortune
as movie Producer (born in Jacksonville, Illinois)
for silver screen cinematic debut enterprise finished regal Dimension far off beaten track pocketing a degree (from University of Illinois)
in Civil Engineering, After practicing as an engineer for several years,
a decision made to open a restaurant in Chicago
with nary a harbinger - After operating popular eatery for more than ten years,a whim directed destiny viz hit time to make movies
arced renown sent same nom de plume doppleganger
quest skyrocketing
analogous to aligning skill sets into stratospheric isobar
which exertion pitched head stone carvers to acquire vital context
where next of kin content with obituary hiz death
unexpectedly Tuesday morning, Feb. 24, 2015 of Loudonville),
tomb epitaph incorporated passion as avid outdoorsman,
who loved fishing, hunting, and canoeing. I aced as supervisor with telecommunication company, Telecom Towers Inc.
yet by some stroke of premature pronouncement,
whence during funeral the coffin lid rise a jar
scaring the s**t out the backsides per mourners,
where demise found sights drawn to undertake
a totally tubular career as graphic artist from Buffalo
(Educated at RPI), who constantly looks for work today, and to mar
row, out of necessity to pay bills, as prodigy with plugging numbers and spitting out calculations
attained plaudits as financial solvency ****, and par
for the course irresistibly tempted forging credentials -
with a self crafted faux pas star
re: expert as a fraudulent Loan OfficerNMLS # 240801 -
but Youngblood’s hired fretful dexterous dude for extra cash tip play *** tar, while police got tips from wagging tail, and unfortunately butter field bursar ruse landed rising star into clinker
sans Cook County Inmate at age 49
CB NUMBER 19043182, when arrest occurred Tuesday,
January 13, 2015 11:53 AM, and released the next day due to first
time misdemeanor plus absent recidivist incarceration possession
of 5000+ grams of Cannabis, which exposure to magical, miracle
and mystical herb set sites to become a professor
Clinician of pharmacology to help fight the so call "drug war".

Cracks in cover let
Sun in hits like
Bullets

Unwrapped window
Gives solar epiphany
To cocooned child

Flee fluorescent,
Flee faux verve
Doorframe: portal
Extra-terrestrial
World through eaves
Like bug zappers
See-through walls
Most envious glass
****** passage

Cold shoulder, concrete, masonry
Phosphenes gleaming, staggering
Hotfoot, addled eyes
Inverted wavelengths
Gravel clinging, unwise
Scrutinized steps to grass
Great big sigh
Saluting sky
With micro pupils
Torrid shell
Swollen locks
Rejoice

Westside: Central Avenue
Pack up, load up
Truckpower to State Street
Beer, veggie dogs
Corn-on-cob
Bag-of-fruit
Checkout scandal

Three-in-the-front
State to thirty-three
Thirty-three to thirteen
Chauncey, Jacksonville,
Trimble, Glouster,
Bonnie’s Home Cooking
Opposite British Petroleum
Exhausted loan office
Opposite Coal Miner Emeritus

Burr Oak: closed
Margin parking
Bathroom clothes
Tasteful vest
Bathroom tissue to brim
Feet welcome
Pass up close up camp spots
I feel a pull to the valley
Clearing: stop, rest
Crack, chug, more wood
Fire, crack, chug, more wood
Chat, crack, chug

Copper detuned chime
Of that ephemeral vibrato
Drone of nine-volt synth
Into kaput tape deck
& we sing & chant & cackle

Campfire chatter:
Bitter pill
Naïve philosophy
Crack, chug
Empathy
More wood

“So when I was seventeen still going to church there were these events they were called “lock-ins” we stayed the night at the church they took our cells our watches took down every clock & covered the windows so we wouldn’t be aware of anything only God & so there would be lectures & guest speakers & bible readings and discussions & also these ******* bizarre activities like they would turn off all the lights light a **** ton of candles & they would blindfold us and give us a little piece of paper and a little pencil and they’d tell us in a omniscient little voice to write down one sin we’ve committed on the little piece of paper fold it & nail it (still blindfolded) to this huge wooden cross with this little hammer & I guarantee every one of us wrote down *******.  

Now that I think of it the whole thing was about ******* every speaker had some story of how they used to ******* all the time and how they were released of the devils hold and that ******* is a sin and will send you to hell and all of us kids were boys and every single adult was a woman they all looked at us like they read our paper like we were sinners like we would always be sinners just slimy ******* who would always ******* (like we would ever understand what it felt to be a woman or what a woman felt like) & their eyes were gleaming with such shallow sympathy that you knew they were true god fearing Christians”

(All at once)
Stab, chug, crack, chug
Stab, chug, crack, chug
Stab, chug, crack, chug

Bliss

A mountain of light,
It seems to me,
Rests upon the ground.

And here am I 
High up in flight 
Up here looking down.

We rush beyond
That shining hill;
Inhuman speed.

Furthermore 
Rivers of light 
Upon the earth I see.

My whole adult life,
I've been running into people
unexpectedly on street corners
and having somewhat profound
conversations in odd languages.

Consider the guy I spoke with in broke *** English
at the bus station in Jacksonville,
or the girl from Kiev I happened upon in
a very expensive gentleman's club in Seattle.

Herat was also a very strange place to find
oneself in, Dari and Pashto and Russian and God
knows what else might be run into.

The wonderful thing about all of the
ridiculous places I've found myself in at
one time or another over the very hungry years
is that no matter what language or background
we came from, if there was ***** we got along.

~

there is a lighthouse churning
in the fury of the storm,
thirty-three for land are yearning,
loved ones waiting news at home;
a captain and his crew a'fight
brave souls that never cease to hope,
to bring their ship to port a'right
all pray for dawn that never comes.

fifty feet from trough to crest
she drops with groan to valley low,
to rise again with frothing peak,
her wild plunge from stern to bow
she is no place for wearied souls,
provides no quarter for the weak;
no port in sight, for thee no rest,
yet braver souls we need not seek.

her vessel old is wearing thin,
her searchers all but losing hope;
as only remnants one by one,
in bits and pieces still afloat
leaves watching world a sense of dread;
alone remains a sheen of grief,
these waters won’t release their dead;
El Faro won't you speak?

did you break apart in final hours?
or did you roll into the deep?
listing near the Crooked isle,
your precious cargo now we seek;
even one to tell your tale,
are all now lost; is all forlorn?
of those that stepped aboard to sail
will no one living come ashore?

though wreckage lost into the deep,
though family arms now torn apart,
in waves awash the mem’ries heap,
your tale lives on in untold hearts!
your souls cannot the ocean keep,
for fathers, sons, daughters, lovers,
unknown eyes for you now weep,
your names in prayer a world now utters!

all that to these waves go down.
you that ply this furied sea;
you, the brave, though lost have found
a harbor’s safety from the storm,
a port that offers welcome,
hope from strife forevermore,
safe in everlasting arms,
now rest eternal; peaceful be!

~

*post script.

this news story has increasingly gripped my attention since first breaking early last week. i began putting thoughts together earlier this week, but had hopes of publishing instead a writ ending on a joyous note.  with the Coast Guard calling off their six-day search this evening, all are now being declared lost at sea on Oct. 1st, 2015.  no joyous ending, no happy reunions... only sadness, like a sheen of grief over the Atlantic.

she was  just shy of 800 feet in length, El Faro (the Lighthouse), a US flagged cargo vessel, en route from Jacksonville to San Juan; she carried 28 Americans and five Poles, to the depths near Crooked Island, Bahamas; her last transmission- “propulsion lost, listing 15 degrees”.  

her tragic end, succumbing to the fifty foot seas of Hurricane Joaquin, leaving no survivors, none to tell her final hours; only one life ring and a body of broken evidence amongst the flotsam midst the waves.

rest in peace you brave souls thirty and three!
with your families we grieve!

I smoked my first and last cigarette on your porch after consuming six nameless beers (that made me too drunk.) I thought: this is how I die. I thought: I’m not going to die. And I remembered that

I created this memory before it happened. You sang notes in your soprano my alto was jealous of. There was no grass, but cement and I had wished that you told me you

lived in the ****** part of town. A man came up and asked for our butts. I giggled, take the rest. There was a mason jar of damp butts and he stole them from you a week earlier. I

wanted to finish the eighteen pack but my body was so full and there was only one night to sleep on your mattress on the floor with quilted murmurs. Can I remember the ghost and the German Internet boys? I woke up still drunk and you drove me to Jacksonville.

This body;
This temple of one;
Cursed to some;
Sinister to many.

This body;
This temple of one;
Scarred by struggle;
Consumed by fear.

Conditioned to be wary;
Scavenging at the weakest links
Of destiny's food chain.

As the lions roam free,
Higher up.
Raising kin to be kings,
To break this body;
This temple of one,
With impunity.

This body was lynched in Montgomery,
***** in Rome.
Poisoned by Derby's dose
In Montego Bay.
And fed to bull gators in Jacksonville.

This body was stripped in Rio;
Feathered in Saint Kitts;
Beheaded in Berbice;
And tarred in Tennessee.

This body was shot In Chicago;
Shot in Charlotte.
Shot in Missouri.
Shot in the Bronx.

Shot.
Shot.
Shot.
Shot.

This body;
This temple of one;
This ******* child of the universe
Is sick of being
Shot.

Of dying young.
Of rotting in cell block 9
And sealed boxes underground.

While the lions roam free,
Higher up.
Raising kin to be kings,
To break this body;
This temple of one,
With impunity.

~ P
#This_Body
2/10/2017

If you see her will you tell her I said hello
And that things haven't changed that much
I'm still alone down here in Jacksonville
And yes I'm still in love

Will you tell her I cry most every night
Because things haven't been the same
Since the wind blew her into my life
And that same wind blew her out again

If you see her will you tell her how hard I tried
To move beyond what it was we had
Perhaps I would not have given my all
If I had known it wouldn't last

You can tell her if she tries to look me up
I went and changed my name
I'm no longer Mr. Happy Go Lucky
I'm now Down In The Dumps Again

You Know What...

If you see her tell her I said hello
And that everything is fine
That I've been living life so care free
She's not even crossed my mind

If that appears to make her saddened
It might just break my heart
Because my friend you and I both know the truth
I've not been the same since we've been apart

Road Trip

the days are getting warmer now,
the sun is staying up later in the day,
the trade are winds blowing, and somehow,
I have to find me another way,

I want to get on my bike and ride,
ride my Harley into the western wind til night,
down I-10 out of Jacksonville, my shiny Elektra Glide,
hair blowing in the breeze, muscles flexing, grip tight,

the road changes to route 90 thru old Baton Rouge, LA,
heading all the way to Houston by sunsets fall,
finding a place to rest my weary soul today,
tomorrow will bring the curtain call,

heading north on 45 up to Dallas,  big “D” they say,  
now its I-35 to the destination in my mind,
she does not know that I am arriving this day,
I hope in her heart, it's love I find,

we've been friends it seems, like so very long,
never thought this time would ever ever be,
I've written just for her, this very special song,
OK City it says on the sign in front of me,

now I pull up to her place, anticipation I can feel,
taking deep breathe, to gather up my self,  
brush the dust off, hoping I can close the deal,
remembering her picture, on my shelf,

she opens the door, with that smile, cuter than a bug,
I stare at her in disbelief, my jaw dropping low,
I reach for her, with my arms wide for loving hug,
her sweet kiss on my lips makes my body glow,

and so this road trip ends with happy heart,
we spent all night talking about the future plans,
never again will we spend a night apart,
melting hearts, as we speak each others name

Gomer LePoet....

Life, four letters that mean everything.
Clearly, without life who would write?
Who would see? And clearly nothing would be.
This world would be empty, and boring.
It would be without color.
Does color exist if no one is there to see it?
There would be no action nor compassion.
Everything would be still and blatantly lifeless.
The bird would not chase the worm,
Nor would the caterpillar rest it's head upon the soft flower.
There would be no countries, no math, no science or sizes.
France the size of Texas, Jacksonville and Paris,
All would be nothingness, nameless, and void.
No fetuses to grow in to babies,
Naked without knowledge.
No balloons to fly at the end of the parade,
Let go by young Marry, with her father John.
No! Without life there would be nothing.
Nothing to evolve from nor too,
Fish to monkeys to me and you.
Four letter word, that means literally all of the above.

JACKSONVILLE -- A man who was taken into custody by a S.W.A.T. team on Fri. (9-13-13) was found dead in his hospital bed at U.F. Health at Jacksonville Mon. morning. Though he was restrained, David Bush, 61, is believed to have strangled himself with a cord from the wall attached to the call button, according to Jacksonville Sheriff's Office Chief Annie Smith. After being taken into custody on Friday for Possession of a Firearm by a Convicted Felon, Bush was taken to U.F. Health under the Baker Act for potentially being a danger to himself. Smith said Bush had a history of mental health and substance abuse problems, as well as a past criminal history. G4S is contracted by J.S.O. to monitor inmates in the hospital and Bush was to be checked on every 15 minutes. Smith said J.S.O. is still in the preliminary stages of their investigation and needs to monitor the security logs and interview those who were monitoring Bush. Smith said no foul play is suspected at this time.

Concerning crimes of homosexuals, from FEMINISTE: The Justice Department reports that prison **** accounted for the majority of all rapes committed in the U.S. in 2008, making the United States the first country in the history of the world to count more rapes for men than for women.

It's societally suicidal to empower perverts by legalizing *******
******* great-granny to spite grandma is grand criminal diversion
Burning Bibles while wolfing salted pork ain't religious conversion
Napalming Fallujahan infants is a prosecutable war crime incursion


B.B.C. news article: "...Bin Laden left Saudi Arabia in 1979 to fight against the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. The Afghan jihad was backed with American dollars and had the blessing of the governments of Saudi Arabia and Pakistan. He received security training from the C.I.A. Itself."

Re: ah... what better way to while away the countless leisure

hours,while coronavirus (covid-19) assails humanity across thee

globe? (covid-19) assails humanity across thee globe? he answer to

that question my friend... explained within attached gobbledygook

(safe at any speed to open without latex gloves, nor face mask)

courtesy - Curiosity got the better part of me as thine fingers typed

Matthew Scott Harris into the google search bar lo and behold and

much to my chagrin and amusement, others with mine namesake

constituted roles in various walks of life carrying out their whiles

and ways sans existence covered the realm from administration of

President Dwight David Eisenhower the celebrity circuit, where his

claim to fame and fortune as movie Producer (born in Jacksonville,

Illinois) for silver screen cinematic debut enterprise finished regal

Dimension far off beaten track sans degree (from University of

Illinois) in Civil Engineering, After practicing as an engineer for

several years, a decision made to open a restaurant in Chicago with

nary a harbinger - After operating popular eatery for more than ten

years, a whim directed destiny viz hit time to make movies curved

renown skyrocketed quest analogous to aligning skill sets into

stratospheric isobar which exertion pitched head stone carvers to

acquire vital context where next of kin content with obituary hiz

death unexpectedly Tuesday morning, Feb. 24, 2015 of

Loudonville), tomb epitaph incorporated passion as avid

outdoorsman, who loved fishing, hunting and canoeing. I aced as

supervisor with telecommunication company, Telecom Towers Inc.

yet by some stroke of premature pronouncement, whence during

funeral the coffin lid rose a jar scaring the s**t out the backsides per

mourners, where demise found sights drawn to undertake a totally

tubular career as graphic artist from Buffalo (Educated at RPI), who

constantly looks for work today tomorrow, out of necessity to pay

bills, and as prodigy with numbers attained plaudits as financial

solvency ****, and par for the course irresistibly tempted forging

credentials - with a self crafted faux pas star re: expert as fraudulent

Loan OfficerNMLS # 240801 - but Youngblood’s hired fretful

dexterous dude for extra cash tip play *** tar, while police got tips

from wagging tail, and unfortunately butter field bursar ruse

landed rising star into clinker sans Cook County Inmate at age 49

CB NUMBER 19043182, when arrest occurred Tuesday, January 13,

2015 11:53 AM, and released the next day due to first time

misdemeanor plus absent recidivist incarceration possession

of 5000+ grams of Cannabis, which exposure to magical, miracle

and mystical herb set sites to become a professor Clinician of

pharmacology to help fight the so call "drug war."

Your music is still as dark as your soul.
You stand up on the passenger seat to play guitar in your new video
                                and
It makes me remember the time you begged me not to tell anyone about our conversations.
You deleted me out of your life.
I made you hate Florida.



Well..


Joke's on you because...



You have a tour stop in Jacksonville.

Enjoy Florida, you *****.