We’re all different
A fact that some will take with stride
And others will take out their black & white boxes
Trying to cram you into margins that you’ll never fit into

Labels
Just another way to categorize us as objects
Smashing our individuality with a hammer
Until we are all identical, with no more identity

Freedom
Something we are considered lucky to have
Where other countries struggle day by day
Fighting to stay themselves

Yet in our free country
I still find myself fighting for liberation,
Scratching at the cement surface
For endless years

Walking around, trying to be uniform
It’s meant to make us comfortable, but makes me die inside
We all walk in straight, marching band lines like militia members
And walk on forever without a second thought

Individuality
A gift given to us all that we must cherish, hold onto
Accept everyone around you for their good and bad habits
Accept people for who they are, whether you like them or not

One day, I will break free
Run in the opposite direction
With my arms spread out wide
Feeling like Rosa Parks when she claimed her seat

One day I will not be scared of my freedom
One day I will not be scared of trying to explain to people who I am

I will never be scared of friends
I will never be scared of strangers
I will never be scared of family
Boys, girls, adults, parents, siblings

One day I won’t be scared of myself anymore
Scared of making the wrong decisions
And letting everyone around me down
The weights of expectations always make me hide in the shadows
To where I feel I’ll never be good enough

But today, I smile at all my obstacles
With my mind set on “Dare To Be Dangerous”
Because exploring everything around me
Has been a roller coaster of joviality that I’ve always needed

I’ve made new friends this year
Gotten very close to others
But I learned an important lesson

I love who I am
And I will come to accept the future me
But for now I’m different
And that’s all I ever wanted to be

stirred deeply with joy
enthralled with the spirit
we return to Elysian fields
to live autumnal reveries

we prance once more
onto blue sky diamonds
with hometown heroes
to pitch perfect games
knock long grand slams
to honor and embrace
the semblance of siblings,
parents, lovers and friends

life's teammates
our dearest playmates
passed and still here
sustaining our spirit
filling the void of
riven hearts
with nothing more than
a smiling presence,
compliant ear
a warm embrace

keeping a
season of sunshine
alive for one more
golden day

in a resplendent moment
Measy’s youngest son
stood before me
as if it were him
five decades ago

his impish smile,
mischievous eye
and olive skin
wrinkled when
he grinned

your Old Man
was a hell
of a ball player
a great hitter
he always swung down
at the pitch, hitting
nasty line drives

I remember that
summer afternoon
when we first met on
the Washington School
Merry-Go-Round...
Measy just up
from Carolina
he spoke with
a slow Tar Heel drawl
we didn't know what
to make of him
so we made him
our friend

Sifford's Esso, B&D;
and Bulldog teammates
I marveled at his athleticism
but the thing I remember
most was the soft joviality of...

“ ah hoot,
ah hoot.
ah hoot”

his laugh would send
a soft almost *******
shudder through his body

Measy lives in me,
forever in my heart
I embraced young Roy
touched his cheek
a transcendent moment
that spans a half century

At first base
Gail “Peppermint Patty” Q
was scooping up grounders
and not letting anyone past her
without giving them a smile or a hug….
asking each player if their shirt fit right…

the way Gail played
she could start for
the Lady Gaels today...

on the mound
Moons was wearing
a Schmeds shirt
lobbing lollipops to the hitters…..
making sure everyone got on base…

at short Screwball
covering half the ground
he once did..
(never a ss but a classic junk baller,
never threw a pitch that you could hit)
but on this day his heart was filled
overflowing with the karma
of good works and his love for
Rutherford and its favorite
sons and daughters
who have gone on before….

other stars abounded on the field and off…
Noons cracked everyone up
with an endless stand-up routine
Skip walloped a few dingers
BL looked sharp in his Foster Grants
and Andy was looking good
destined for the next cover of GQ….

Coach Way gave a resounding pep talk…
the need to grow up and show up
with an attitude of gratitude will
always make one a winner
regardless of the score

in the stands I heard a hundred stories
about the prowess and foibles of departed friends…

Bay Bay’s HR smash that put Flash Cleaners
into the World Series

A cool Moose bringing the ball across
half court, driving and dumping one off to Head
for the go ahead points against Queen of Peace

Minnow ruling a territory that included Morse Ave,
Wood Street up to Chopper’s House and
half of the Washington School playground

Fic being the smallest Bulldog with the largest heart
ran over linebackers and tackled fullbacks twice his size

Weehawken Joe draining a jumper
from the top of the key to keep it close
at the Union Hill pit…

as the list of the departed was read by Gail, Pat, John and Jimmy
the depth of our loss was only exceeded by the magnitude of love
a caring community extends to one another….
Rutherford is indeed a very special place….

so many caring friends
so many good thoughts
the blessing of friendship
the grace of presence

as I turned to leave
I thought I saw
Nick and Joe
hanging with
Sweet Lou
the hog was
humming
his red bandanna
was flapping
in a rising breeze

Aaron Copland:
Our Town

Righteous Brothers
Unchained Melody

Whitney Houston:
I Will Always Love You

Oakland
Dia De Muertos
2015


Thank you Pat Francke, Jimmy Noonan, Gail Wilhelm Quinn and John Mooney for putting this beautiful event together….

My apologies for not mentioning all the beloved souls so honored at this game…..Know that all are deeply loved and equally missed…..

If anyone has a memory they would like included please add in comments section and it will be incorporated in future versions…..

Also if anyone has a list of the names would like to add that to this….

God Bless

If your silky lavender eyes choose not to meet mine
That’s fine.
Fantasies live and then die.
But for you, I'll try.

A man whose eyes hold only yours,
Sweet, lavender gazing privately,
Other sight blinded by joviality.

Uncontrollable emotion,
A shotgun blast from dad,
Deters no serious man.

A princess,
A jewel,
An emerald,
A girl.

Not an object,
But a privilege.

A man not centered on ***,
Relationship not just in the bed,

Kisses on tangerine cheeks,
Through rain,
Foretelling lifelong love.

Soft skin swims,
I touch with permission,
We laugh and love,
None other.

Flawless beauty,
Like diamond,
Like velvet,
A wonderful image.
Thus you.

This poem is a creative response to
The Yellow Wallpaper
by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

Alone.
Three years gone, all
Spent in this room.
I barely leave, I don’t try. I
Know I am desolate. I see it
And so do they.

I live, but I don’t feel alive.
Why eat? I don’t deserve food.
I don’t feel the need to indulge
in the senses. I merely don’t crave it.

Every night...
I stay up staring at the dimly lit Walls.
Every day...
I Lie awake while the sun peaks
Through the cracks in the blinds
Illuminating my only companion.

I gaze into the eyes of the Walls.
They stare back
Watching me struggle.
Laughing at my regression.

What is happiness? Joviality?
What is a gleeful day?
A happy thought? I
Wouldn’t know. Because I...

Well I am nothing. Nothing
To him, and nothing to you.
I am repulsive. Who could
Stand my reflection, it’s
Repugnant.

I have removed the mirrors
In the room that holds me
Captive. Like my self-esteem
They are shattered at my
Own gross reflection.

Gave up.
I gave up long ago,
I’m hopeless. Incurable.
I have become nothing. And
Like the rest, my Husband
Will leave me soon.

I don’t concentrate. I can’t.
I used to pulse energy of
Knowledge to minds that
Drank the gulps of enlightenment
Making their brain’s throb.

He tells me; I’m sick. I
Tell him; I’ll cope. He gives
Me a pill once a day,
I keep it under my tongue.

He repeats over and over…
‘I am a Doctor, and I will help you.’

He’s not helping me.
It’s for himself. His own self
Appearance. He wants to look
Proficient to his patients. If he
Cared he would listen to my words.
He would have heard the cries
In the script I taught and wrote.

My friends are gone, they
Left me to wallow in the
Eyes of the paint that covers
These Walls.

Sometimes I’m disillusioned
That people care when I speak,
Until I realize that we are all
The same. In small groups
That my Husband leads we talk
About our lives that are left in
Shambles…

We discuss our own
Worthlessness. Utter forlorn diction
To one another. We understand
The lexicons we produce. We are
All alike. We write our thoughts
But no one cares.
Together we look for Happiness,
But she hides from our group.

My Husband, the Doctor
He pries when we talk.
Pries for more. He questions me
About the Walls. He thinks they
May be alive, in the eyes of myself.
He thinks they talk, he thinks I talk
Back. But the Walls can’t talk;
The Walls can only judge.

They judge my dreadful appearance,
They judge my inability to change.
The Walls deem me an unfit wife,
A Mother of nothing, a friend of
No one, a tragedy to this World.

He thinks I misplaced my Sanity,
As if I’ve gone madd. I may see
No light in the day, for I am
Not blind, I am just alone.

I have made the attempts
But I have never set a plan.
I don’t have the capacity to
Project my future, I can only react.

Reacting is what I did... What I’ve
Done. I reacted to the Walls constantly
Judging me. I reacted to a three year
Aversion to the outside World.
I reacted to *my reality.

The only way I knew how, I
Reacted. The Walls think they
Can judge me? Now the Walls are
Judged. It was your fault, your
Eyes pierced my soul, and
Stole the breath from my lungs.

I was not deranged, my faculties,
Were never vanished but my heart was.
I lost my smile, I lost my life... everything
I knew... I reacted. I left my body contained
To those Walls that judged my dreadful display,
I rose above and looked down... And I saw a smile.

only one word prompted me: szło,  i.e. as it went...
urgh... phobias for slavs.... she was drininking tango...
(strachy na lachy, piła tango; czarna bandera! i or spanish y,
janosik! hula huj! niby, oby, nie prawda).
ugh, i sat there, on the throne, with my **** eager,
i felt sick more about a ******* relationship than the actual
taboo infested act... family via ****, what a dross!
back to level 1 of art, heterosexual, and onan,
                it was alway going to be
akin to history, and the caurosel... bilinigual "dyslexia" -
carousel... kabbalah in the moment, loss
of fixation on the tetragrammaton...
and i woke up today, fiddling with my hands
like a blind buddha...
that handsignal he is understood to "wave"
about in statue form, how the ring finger
bends and touches the thumb's nail...
and that's to represent a family,
index woman, middle man, pinky a child...
and why we use acronym base
for putting on a ring onto the ring finger,
touching the tip of thumb,
meaning Caesar said: all good...
outside the coliseum...
so that's what blind buddha said...
and like i already said,
in the future philosophers were sellers
of dictionaries, and lawyers were
sellers of thesarus rex...
you mention the dinosaurs,
and i'm supposed to say: you're the lucky un.
i drank in order to remember
that i must forget...
but still my previous life was flashing
before my eyes...
like i was about to engage in
re-imitating it... a *******'s load of hope
groping the eyes of those who,
stranded in the desert, suggested an oasis...
as the title suggest: always about
cliche, about a faux pas... and yes:
an opera...
  i want to be the linguistic orginating in
chemistry, seems i am,
how the english tongue took to
late christainity, the un-orthodox mention
of st. thomas' gospel unearthed from
an egyptian desert... 30 miles south of Cairo...
or so so...
            i might like to read an existential
novel of the children bound to feminism
and i.v.f., and how horrid it was to live
with your parents, and economy,
   and how the shame came,
in pakistani format...
                 just thinking...
my **** said much more 30 minutes prior,
but the i.v.f. narrative and how our nature
was dislodged by our power to overcome
our foundations, and still people died
in earthquakes and tsunamis...
                 but indeed, szło:
how it went...
                and thus my reason to give it ***...
like learning french, masculine and feminine forms,
of the said word,
  szła = she went; szedł = he was dasein / walked,
ergo revision szła = he was dasein...
   and that's the reason i didn't really
love my russian girlfriend, she said
polish was primarily defined by
   ш ш ш, i said huш, she said: шut up!
   the last love and the only and the end, of a concept
and matrimony to fiction.
let's deal with realities... play marbles,
talk about gambling and gamble...
**** it all away... flip coins and
do whatever is necessary, having found love
is rare more than a peacock feather for a quill,
and let's just, grow up.
every, single, time, that jewish ghetto freak
of a god comes up, an all encompassing word,
that can encompass mere noun, from mere sound,
from mere onomatopoeia, into a verb,
   a lament configuration that just encrusts itself
into the concept of a noumenon...
past terms, present terms, future terms...
and sexuality...
  szła шedł szło...
     three sexes, one, the last, neutral...
               and when psychology comes along to play
the game of anthropology you'll say
what i said... she dasein, he dasein,
   it, the world, happened...
                             and that's a thank you
to a philosopher of lore (20th century) for being
able to complicate my life, and
   celebrate the ghetto god of Jews...
  nah, they can keep the crucifix and their
Judas reward like altars...
  all that gold needs the stink of prayer
and sycophancy... like they do in Russia:
priest stands before the altar, reads an orthodox
verse, his back against the people kneeling
behind him, as the depiction of Judas
in the scenario of the last supper...
and you can't even sit and listen to the choir
doing a rendition of Bach... some church
attendant tells you to not sit...
and appreciate the choir...
"modern" Russia for you...
   what's with this cult of modernity?
we are living in times where modernity is cult,
it's nothing but cult, or the limit...
modernity is a cult of journalists...
they're almost anti-darwinist in their expression...
poetry, poetry has to, attack journalism...
i see no other way to go about it...
   marriage... hmmph! шło, how it went...
well... it went like this:
siała baba mak, nie wiedziała jak...
chłop powiedział.... i to było tak:
   an idiot mongolian played the imaginary
harmonica doing motorboat with
his lips and moving his index finger
up and down against the "slur" of excess phlegm...
(a woman was sowing poppies,
she didn't know how,
a man said: like this... and both became
Glaswegian ****** junkies to "feel" good)...
   i broke up with that russian hyenna
just before she embarked into m.d.m.a.,
yes, i'm a happily alcoholic concept of
sanity, for what sanity's worth looking
at other people claim their rites of passage
beyond religion, beyond anything,
as said: only choice, and subsequent regrets
and joviality: if prominent on the faces
of some you encounter in the fudge of
modern grey matter / area.
i can only say that this current transgender
movement is almost as prominent as
what's inherent in the english language,
how words like table, chair...
pineapple, do not have gender in the language
per se, there's no masculine or feminine
conceptualisation of simple things,
someone who's french might say
a chair has male qualities,
   and a table has feminine qualities...
it's subtle... refined to a very slight
           chance of spotting a variation of spelling...
e.g. шło (how it went), and the two variations,
one for man (шedł), and one for woman (шła)...
evidently the anglophone language has too
much money, and even more spare time,
to actually un-poeticize the nag hammadi library...
i mean, everyone is killing poetry,
but this sort of ****** is beyond any worth...
the genesis of this story begins with
psychiatry and the 1960s, primarily a Scot,
a Glaswegian, r. d. laing, coming straight out
of c. g. jung.... freud is for rich people and
the only oedipus: Wilhelm II of german...
it must be a luxury, it can't be anything but,
it must be a luxury to have dreams
and to also have an interpretation of them,
right? they call them the snowflakes generation...
i just call them freud-tards with their toothpicks
for trees forests of "depth".
looking at the way jesus is depicted, with a
void black halo around him:
i'm suspecting we wasn't a big dreamer,
to lift the veil: an imitation of Joseph,
seven lean years, seven bountiful...
   and how so few of us actually have a rich
dream life... we don't, not everyone is invited
to lead such a double life...
  some do, and they have recurrent dreams,
well, one dream over and over and... what a boring life.
i dream sometimes, but it looks like scrambled eggs,
too many: dreams within dreams...
   then again, if i followed the diagnostics of
w. burroughs, i'd probably feel embodied in dreams
if i shot up ******... or smoked it...
  but i prefer a rested body anyway.
so yeah, a bit quasi-etymological,
those "idiosyncratic" but rather specific words:
шło... id.... that it went / how it went...
  and so it went...
english doesn't have a *** in language,
   nothing to decipher whether a man or woman uses
it, unless you congest it with
   excess pronoun shrapnel...
          excess pronoun and conjunction shrapnel...
the only thing that resembles saxon in post-Hastings
french viking invasion are the way chemical
nouns reflect what a german makes of
antidote to claustrophobia:
                  habbeschneizergoo, or thereabouts.
let's just say: language as theory.
   this is mine... what do you have?
ah... right... a concrete heart, an empirical heart...
does that allow counter defining an origin
not related to the big bang, but a meow or a woof
of knuckling a tree... i.e. extracting sounds
and later appropriating the invocation of sound
to later state pointless mantra, and otherwise
read more, see less?
   if we're talking sounds, or the big bang
is my idea of the φoνoς, look... the ancients
beginning with Heraclitus had logos...
or word, until that concept became ghetto...
now we have so much music, and that one
defining "sound"... i say φoνoς, to counter
the science of the bang... and yeah, it's apparently "big"...
just learn a science to a degree level,
and then relax unlearning it writing philosophy...
you just might spontaneously write poetry,
     and gave a libido of a Solomon, but no harem;
gents! handshakes! handshakes!

I sit here
Trying to read meaning into every missing second
Every little blip that it took you to think about what you just said…
Doubt? Restraint? How best to lie?
What flies
Through your mind?
Does it have anything to do with the fact
That you told me that you loved me
And then apologized…
What of that?
I apologize for nothing
I regret not a single thing done
I take back not a smile, a laugh, a song sung
In joviality…
Somehow our love was just this odd joke
That we entertained off and on
We were thrown into chaos when it broke
Over reality…
Like an egg cracked on top of a globe
It encased our small, narrow-minded world
Made it slip out our fingers
Made it roll, made it whirl.
Now we sit here with this
Slimy, newborn thing
Not sure whether or not to laugh at such a preposterous idea
And fling
It from us…
Or to examine it, seriously and closely
Think about it for a while
Pick and choose what we want
Contemplate the weight of denial…
If you really just want someone to always be there
Someone to watch movies with
Someone to laugh with
Then I guess I don’t really care…
I just wish it hadn’t been said at all…
A ball
Will roll if you push it…
An object in motion will remain so
Until something stops it…
But really,
Your apology has gone and done what it ought…
It has successfully replaced and retracted
All that was thought…
I’m sure we’ll be great friends
Until you slip up…again.

postulate carnivals festivities ferris wheels unicorns
tooting horns laughs squeals of carnivorous
joviality held breath heights scary games of chance
winning all today
it is our day
to  populate reality
with
fairy tales or obliviate insanity send notice
from highs cry together deny no more the obvious
sobriety holding in that hit wary of getting caught
losing it all
so say with me
I believe
in fairy tales

Today we didn’t talk at all.
That was har,
But they say it will be good for me.
At least when I know in full how far I fall
From your graces.
Looks like I’ll be up ‘till around three.

The night gives no mercy to the sad,
No rest for the weary,
Only deepens the soul searching thoughts that
Always seems to mix the good and bad
Within the dark.
So sleep flees as the mouse from the car.

It’s him isn’t it? He has me beat.
What about him
Compliments you so well? Where do I fail?
Does he bleed ink for you upon a sheet
of paper? Past open
Red. Reading of a future that slowly grows pale.

I bet this is all just self fulfilling prophecy,
That I **** us with my pen.
Tell me, where is the problem with love at this age?
(****) there, that word again, it keeps coming up from the sea
Of rhetoric in me.
Just appears in ink; dark as death upon this page.

If I don’t understand, how can I feel it?
There is little reason,
At least that is how it now appears.
No don’t get up and go away, please, just sit
And hear me out.
Just very quick before it all disappears.

People say many things about what beauty is not,
But not what is it.
We are, thus, confused for a while:
They stop at what the zeitgeist calls 'hot,'
Never looking further.
Or perhaps going just far enough to see a smile.

If it were your smile, that would suffice,
But you don't stop there.
You open up a past that is hard to bear,
And yet every day you go on, not being tempered like ice.
Not everyone could do that.
That one time I dyed the roots of your hair,

You saw a small piece of my soul,
And showed me tender eyes.
Hope rustled in the fallen, dead leaves of my past.
So you started to fill in, bit by bit, the hole
I've had for years.
That weekend we started something I hop'd would last.

But back to beauty, you are its personification--
and I a troll.
You always worry about others, not you.
People flock to you for a feeling of elation,
Fulfilled for a bit.
You have a joviality of spirit that is so true

As to turn a gray sky blue again.
Why you? Why me?
Why and how did it ever come to this?
It seems you are a Muse to me, all this from pain.
Always you asked
If I was fine, I lied and told you all was bliss.

Is it unfair to ask you if you will be mine,
that I may be yours?
I know I said December, but it hurts too much now.
Don't answer yet. Until you do I can pretend it's fine.
More to say that you should know,
But don't let what follows change how

You answer. At least feel no guilt or fear.
I won’t lose you.
But until next year I might have to leave, go away--
Excepting your play, I hold you to dear
to miss that.
When I'm ready I will come back, one day.

If you need me in that time, just text me
saying so.
Or you know where I live, my door's open.
God, this is hard, I can't just flee.
But I need space...
Not that you have held me in any pen;

Just that I'm a fool and wait for
any response from you.
It would seem I am bad for us...

Since the very beginning of joining the *ELEPHANTS TUSK CLUB".  He wondered whether others might make fun of him,   and sure enough,   every time he put on his Hide Coat and his Tusk crown,   joviality seemed to pour out from the walls.   "HARTY-HAR,,,HARTY-HAR,  laughter and mirth he heard from near and far.  But, that didn't deter him from his Delight in being a Member in the ELEPHANT -TUSK club.   Just about everybody desired the benefits the Club membership provided.    Here listed are some most asked  about:   TWO years Free cleaning for your Hide coat,    Two years free shining of your Tusk crown,   Two years of *Bellowing training at the unheard Price of only 10.00 per class,   based on attending 9 classes a month,   instead of the standard price of 25.00  per Class of *Bellowing training,   Two years of Free Circus tickets,  for those events not occurring in your home town,   Two years of Hauling feed and hay training for the low,,low price of  25.00 per class, for 4 classes,        *YOU would not believe the waiting list for Membership in the *ELEPHANT TUSK CLUB ! !  Filled with folks from "ALL"  walks of life.    "SIGN UP NOW" and receive THREE (3) grades of memory chips,,#1= everything for last 40 years,   #2= the last 20 years,   #3=- last 10 years  !  AND,  that means  memories of everything,  FULL descriptions played over and over until you "Click-Off".     ALSO,,includes Memory of Elephant,   Trainer,   Tusk Remover.   Each time you click on- the memories will be played over and OVER AND OVER ! ! The fee  "AT MANAGEMENT- IS ONLY 5.00each replay.     " W O W " ,,,,Y O U, yes YOU,   will Not forget anything !         THAT IS WHY YOU WANTED TO JOIN THE CLUB,   ISN'T  IT ? ?

among the people that i hold accountable to suggest
someone has lost touch with reality:
    well, apologies for not engaging in your
  cinnamon-laced *** life - i sought other spices:
as in chilli for the tongue, and salt for my eyes,
and pepper for my nose - because that's what's
being debated: when philosophers come back
from their adventure i'll let you know what reality
actually is - then the cathedrals will crumble,
   then the neo-Babylonian extracts from modern
architectural preferences will become less neo-Babylonian
English and more: Glaswegian dialects
surrounded by Croat diacritical markings -
    as if drawing hunting antelopes in caves
   giving us "more" clues about the one inhospitable earth:
or are we truly surrendering to Darwinism
rather than carpe diem? i'm i'll ******* chirpy
given a dinosaur bone, and the timescale -
             and given that we turned Cartesian duality into
a dichotomy, everyday seems challenging:
a blimmin' boxing match 'n' all...
                                    i can't remember how many times
i've been k.o'ed (knocked out) in my waking moments
(conscious or, rather mourning? don't know).
      i still find it staggering they (no paranoia collective:
simply scientists) came up with the fact that the sun
(or any star) is a reaction of helium and hydrogen:
do people really explode into chipmunk joviality when
   doing a b.b.q. of their bodies on a beach?
             (asking questions becomes a ****** syringe
after a while) - and yes, use the term joviality before it
becomes archaic, you never know when it might
unearth a wormhole of Hades and **** the fact out
and flush it into oblivion.
              and some don bowler hats and use folded
umbrellas as walking sticks, perhaps the monocle,
but definitely the bow-tie: and make rhetoric of language:
airs, courtesy (court-t'eh-c vs. curt-see): herr chirurg!
how do you insert the scalpel into the rhythmic expression
of dribbling that kauczuk? (rubber ball).
      (cow- -chook).
           i mean in Cockney: how do you juggle that word
properly while balancing an oyster on your tongue?
and yes, i'm starting to believe Polish (as a language)
borrows too much from German - of the few slavic languages
i also say Kaiser bun -          she's called a variant of
antoinette, i.e., a kajzerka, or Wilhelm (dressed as a little
girl, all hurly burly) akin to philippe duke of orléans;
someone say lace stockings?
      i could write out this ******* in chauvinistic bravado
aesthetic: or i could smoke a cigar...
     and sooner we realised that crows never prayed
but croaked -
        that pigs grunted and never prayed -
that pigeons cooed, and never prayed,
       that monkeys did the mambo knock-knock joke -
that woodpeckers were the original carpenters and
                invoked the existence of the machinegun
and the rattler.
so there are people (sophists) who wear
bowler-hats, smocking, monocles and disdain:
rather ardently -
                 and then there are those that spontaneously
explode, from out of nowhere,
and dress themselves in rags and never rags to riches
sort of attitude - because appearances are deceptive
and too can be gambled with and neglected and seeing
a decay of a royal house: is much fancier than seeing
autumn...     because aren't the Windsors
                                         vacating Buckingham?
as in: from rot -                 apple and pear sweetness.
(at this point the poem should end) -
       not always the case of: less is more...
speaking on behalf the man who read the karamazov
brothers and stuck a leaflet on the back
of the book that read: the hash marihuana & hemp
museum - oudezijds achterburgwal 130 amsterdam
                    (next to the 'sensi seed bank' grow shop
   www.hashmuseum.com).
i mean you have read something equivalent of a brick
these days, at least one brick within that distractive
paradise of poetry - either the already mentioned book,
or war and peace, or in search of lost time,
or bolwesław prus' the doll - and they said
that life's short... not with these books being read it is...
life becomes a snail-paced traffic jam -
            it's what mystics aim at, across all religions:
the carpe diem momentum.
            it's not even boring, it's just a tedium-ladden
misanthropy: that suggestion is mainly aimed at seeing
an afternoon sitcom about 0-hour contract jobs...
       which is applauded by the terminally ill who
might say: thank **** it's not me.
            so we're all agreed - what the collapse of
communism left behind was a chance of a pension,
        given that all the western countries sold their remnant
versions of tribalism to stealth upper-tier formulations
         of "we're in this together" as otherwise know: companies...
we're not accompanied -
                   cold and wet and ***** -
                            which is odd why we'd think it
necessary to cause upheaval in iRaq...
                           given that the origins of communism were
in England, tested in Mongolia and then ingrained elsewhere...
ah, but of course, the profit margin: it's hard to
automate people surrounded by machines
        it's like olympians competing with para-olympians
where's talk of golf and the handicap?
              not here...
                       but i'm wondering, how can i redeem myself
after having stretched the poem for too long?
     point being: i can't change the status quo, and don't
intend to - and is that hypocritical or simply being
honest? well: if i managed to fit the concept of the big bang
into my little head: i'd choose the bullet every single time -
   we've established a majority, we've become as deluded
in our hopes for individuality: as was once deemed worthy
of the idea of god; we simply have established a constant
supply & demand parameters;
or what Heidegger calls: the perpetuated "ineffectual"
(well, not really him, my wording) -
                  basically a state of panic and
how different does concern compare with anxiety?
   a woman would tell a man that crimson is very different
from burgundy, as man would use the crude sigma:
red, red. n'es pas?

*i wish i could write something within the framework
of universal appeal; something simple
   and easily digested: like baby pulp, or simple
pulp of any fruit, mashed up and regurgitated
as if a seagull feeding its chicks... alas! not to be.

I'm so glad you never knew me then,
When I wrote out my pain
With more than my pen.
Bravado and brandy,
Always going dancing.
It was fun until it wasn't.
I was fun until I wasn't.
I was young until I wasn't.
I'm trying to de-age,
Find some youth,
Grasp some juvenile joviality,
Iron out the wrinkles despair and desperation
Have etched into my face.
I wonder if I met you then,
Would we have ended in the same place?
I was sprinting in a marathon of my own design.
I know you could have kept pace
But would we have had the time?
You say you would have died
And that means I'm meant for you.
But are you sure that loving me,
Even in the Now,
Isn't killing you too?

…i have learned my lesson / One should not give the impression / of being too happy / as you don’t do

happy / you and angry / are comfortable / misery / your longtime friend / but with happy / you are

unacquainted / and / too much joviality / for too long a period / puts the proverbial underpants in a bunch /

too much free-range fondling / and unnecessary emotion / is a commotion / that puts the Neanderthal in

you / into uncharted territory / off the clear and obvious path / with a virtual stick / banging the bushes of

my spirit / waiting to see what emerges / and surprisingly / you are surprised / that what emerges is /

seldom what you expect / but what do you expect? / That i will continually ride this / histrionic

rollercoaster? / apprehensively peaking hills? / uncertainly braving valleys? / stop the maniacal ups and

downs i think i want to get off / on you / and with you / but that just wont do / cuz you / fail to realize /

that I am / percolating and oozing / straight inundated with / sweetness / and to get the full overflow / of

said sweetness / is a privilege… / and not a right… / therefore / to the benefit of no one / and as a

consequence of your / vacillation and inconstancy / i have made the determination / to Cap this most

fundamental Well / sadly / i have learned my lesson…

get up early & open the windows to get that
fresh balcony air from the slow-waking city
whisky claws still in my scalp;
smell of last night's stale smoke inside from the girl sleepin' upstairs
and her after-glow cigarettes down on the couch.

nothin' quite like cooking up
some eggs in a greasy skillet,
-- big hot mug of stiff coffee.
(the way it sits like oil in the stomach)
slouched at the table by the window
in longjohns and
an old familiar shirt (no sleeves/girl playin' baseball)
might go smoke in the rain, talk to the neighbour who
feeds the pigeons ...
then pad upstairs and wake up miss new *****
for a little *joviality.

I

We visited that abandoned house.
We shouted our names for nothing.
We ran through streets before nightfall.
We hoped not to become that being.

Yes, ephemeral was our childhood
therefore I tell it with such elegance.
No, it wasn't a wastage
neitheir became an addiction.

Many envied our joviality
as well as our age.
Many planned our future;
always good and bad, never pure.

II*

They disappeared with his yearnings.
They kidnapped her dreams.
They burned my memories with a candle.
They marked out our soft skin.

In all those years,
I never imagined which getting old
was a problem to solve.
And, looking back, I see us as insane.

Well, we are grown up now
and childhood must become forgettable.
However, it will never be possible...
Remembering all won't be a delay.

.it turns out German, is a language worthy of opera... but, my god... to my surprised liking, who would have thought that Peter O'Toole could play a baddy, in the **** fetish TCM film from 1967... the night of the Generals... great... but i still think movies were better in Technicolor... i haste CGI... give me a Technicolor film and i'm like: agape... someone telling me to shut my mouth, so that a passing seagull cannot drop a dump into it... yeah yeah, Jack Lemon, Shirley MacLaine (god, she was hot... those dreamy eyes, akin to Claire Forlani) in the Apartment... but the ultimate Technicolor classic has to be Bell, Book and Candle... James Stewart, Kim Novak... sure, sure, the coloring seems excessive, but it's the excessive aspect of Technicolor that's so... comic book... eh... modern films... like the Artist or Schindler's List attempting to revive black & white... how about... reviving Technicolor?!

a recurring theme of internet usage...
lately i've been having
a problem taking a **** in one
sessions...
    oh god, i tried playing video games,
listening to music
while reading some Heidegger...
but it's like... i need to go back,
and sit on the throne of thrones...
and expect some inverted **** ***...
mind you...
i really admire the homosexuals...
i wouldn't have the ***** to ****
****, or there lack of...
kudos gents, kudos...
         but the whole drama ends while
i massage my **** while sitting
on my heel on a windowsill...
ha ha! that rhymes!
        and i obviously need to do the following...
preliminary drinking...
a beer, two shots of ms. amber,
another beer...
   and some alt. media political
commentary videos...
       and when i'm done... the menu comes
to my attention...
  and that sweet, sweet grand release
of not giving a **** about freedoms like
the freedom of speech...
crescendo cascada...
   cascade of sounds, ambivalences...
music becomes water...
   ars musica, est aqua repraesentatio...
you'd think of ventus...
how European music could be
described as representing the winds...
well... prior to the African-import
revision and incorporation of the drums...
you could see it as such...
but...
    when you counter the H'american
freedom of speech...
                 argumentation...
        and listen to some of the internet
commentaries...
  have enough drink in you...
and abruptly put on some Beethoven?
the ******* dam bursts...
   aqua, anti claudo...
                    so while the Africans are
all smug about their melatonin
concentration, their perfected skin
not riddle by acne...
           who's who in the lactose race?
you can contain almost all other elements...
but water?
    compared to these internet
commentaries, with a shy intake of drinks
in me... i put on Beethoven and
explode into a fury of joviality and hope...
music is the representation of water...
oddly enough...
with all the brass and woodwinds it
ought to be wind...
               but come the crescendo...
what do i see?
  or a preliminary crescendo teaser
without the choir, in Beethoven?
                    the bursting Hoover dam...
oddly enough... the addition
of the African accent of excessive drumming?
i think loop, i think tornado,
i think...
           there story of the reel...
repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat...
the end sounds just like the beginning...
with some sort of variant in the middle...
well...
   here's to that second beer.

Since the very beginning of joining the *ELEPHANTS TUSK CLUB".  He wondered whether others might make fun of him,   and sure enough,   every time he put on his Hide Coat and his Tusk crown,   joviality seemed to pour out from the walls.   "HARTY-HAR,,,HARTY-HAR,  laughter and mirth he heard from near and far.  But, that didn't deter him from his Delight in being a Member in the ELEPHANT -TUSK club.   Just about everybody desired the benefits the Club membership provided.    Here listed are some most asked  about:   TWO years Free cleaning for your Hide coat,    Two years free shining of your Tusk crown,   Two years of *Bellowing training at the unheard Price of only 10.00 per class,   based on attending 9 classes a month,   instead of the standard price of 25.00  per Class of *Bellowing training,   Two years of Free Circus tickets,  for those events not occurring in your home town,   Two years of Hauling feed and hay training for the low,,low price of  25.00 per class, for 4 classes,        *YOU would not believe the waiting list for Membership in the *ELEPHANT TUSK CLUB ! !  Filled with folks from "ALL"  walks of life.    "SIGN UP NOW" and receive THREE (3) grades of memory chips,,#1= everything for last 40 years,   #2= the last 20 years,   #3=- last 10 years  !  AND,  that means  memories of everything,  FULL descriptions played over and over until you "Click-Off".     ALSO,,includes Memory of Elephant,   Trainer,   Tusk Remover.   Each time you click on- the memories will be played over and OVER AND OVER ! ! The fee  "AT MANAGEMENTS- IS ONLY 5.00each replay.     " W O W " ,,,,Y O U, yes YOU,   will Not forget anything !         THAT IS WHY YOU WANTED TO JOIN THE CLUB,   ISN'T  IT ? ?

i beg as if in need.
an infatuation,
a connection,
between today and me.

holding out my hand,
i see not mine,
but the person
"yesterday and tomorrow".

the pillowman screams
messing and mixing
with who i ought to be-
tonight is no different.

i walk in circles,
in melancholy,
and fraud joviality,
never to be anything.

-eozyoh. 14.03.17

gaiety and happiness
reside in the bush this day
the birds are singing
in a bright and joyful way

their songs so up lift
and do inspire thee
with an enormous amount
of bubbly glee

their tuneful melodies
can be heard everywhere
they are filling the bush land acres
with such sweet fair

thy heart feels so elated
and replete with joviality
thanks to the birds
singing their songs of felicity

If Santa saw us now,
His copious joy might melt
And stain his white palace black.

Oh, if the jolly fat man saw us now,
Our black bells ringing scarlet,
The white snow-globe flakes flowing ******,
And the consumerist *******
Selling love for slick green and silver;
Oh, if he saw these rabid dogs,
Chewing flesh and spitting bone
for an iPhone,
His joy would end right there.

If Santa came down off his throne,
And saw our minty venom saturating sacks
Staining toys meant for joy,
His steel boots rusty from snow;
Oh, with this glance he takes upon us,
Witnessing a competition of hate,
He’d scribble his two lists black,
And his red joviality would pierce homes,
With death,
And holiday.

How is it that I long,
No, yearn,
For a place I've never been,
Never seen,
Never touched
My toes to its land?

How is it that I pine,
No, crave,
For a home I've never lived in,
Never sat down in,
Never woke up
From peaceful slumber in?

How is it that possible?
To be so full of feeling
For that which I have only ever imagined:

Home where tranquility prevails;
Home where joviality reigns;
Home where love utter saturates.

Home where
My hands know their crafting dexterity,
My feet know their dancing steps.

Home where my heart beats.

How is this feeling more real
Than that which I have lived through?
For it is;
This longing tells me it is;
This yearning proves to me it is;
This craving solidifies its existence.

I want the intangible to become tangible.
I need the imaginary to be reality.

Everyone has unhappiness
A paroxysm of distress
Humans want to cover their unhappiness
Beyond joviality
Beyond laughter
Beyond music
Behind the roistering jubilation
We suppress our sadness
Underneath our liveliness we're stoic
Our hearts don't love sadnesses
We try  to laugh now and again
We ought to laugh for living
We ought to live for laughing

I saw the other side of you today
The flip side to your coin 
Beneath the sparkle of joviality and passion
When we strip away the gloss of illicit corners and barely touching hands
Rinsing away the heady throws of passion and your alcoholic aftertaste 

I saw your rage
The underbelly
There was no beauty in your hurricane 
Only fear and anger 
The constellations I once saw in your eyes turning to pitch 
Maybe they were just reflections of my own

I saw you change. 
I don't think I know you anymore 
I'm not sure I ever did

The sputtering world of eudemonic merriment often times feels very illusive. Just as you begin to feel nestled in equanimity with the essence of sunny joviality, blustering winds topple you off your blissful leisurely swing and back to the gravel strewn floor of reality.
Happiness is something I insatiably seek, yet happiness isn't a tangible thing, but rather a spell of beatitude enshrining my body in gold, aligning the world to the euphoric filter of my desires.
Happiness spurs a smile so fervid that despair can be muted if only for awhile.
Happiness manifests in various forms percolating through all stages of life like some iridescent amorphous syrup.
I must accept that happiness intersperses through all things as the duality of our world is etched with ebb and flow.
With that being so I can't deny the reverberating enchantment of this moment.
Your scintillating broad smile eradicating all laws of gravity leaving me buoyed in the milky sky of pooling happiness.
I am here, as are you, flesh robed orbs  radiating in saturated pools of happy.  two pulses united among the masses.

We are here now
now is good,
and this is happiness.

In some odd, conjured up way, I might say under
a lethargic light of a dream, as if a housing roof-beam,
that underneath it (mine, of course, the dream), you are
a carefully placed furniture and around you, children scram
for joviality, passing and crossing the shadows that blot
on the floor, where most of your stagnant life, you have breathed
under me, in the same net of which nothing is cosmically related
in some way or metamorphosis, under me or you so quite new
possibly, consciously aware of each other’s settings and adjustments.

The Goddess of Love


The exuberant fire that burns within my soul,
In that first embrace of a lovers smile,
Shall forever be held, in equality to the power of love.
Her servant shall forever wish for her luminous, infallible, tongue,
Which speaks of true love without a word conceived inside a lie;
For immortal shall be our love, until the end of days, to the grave.


In her face I can see God’s grace; the innocence of a babies cry.
Such trust can be forthcoming, towards this woman; this play.
This story of our lives, entwined hearts beating together;
For in her presence I find Heaven and shall be content forever.


This guiding star; the singular, most radiant concubine.
The love of a life, until the end of a destiny in the making.
Such joviality to be found, wherever she may go, in any loving line;
For this fugitive of love, shall wait forever to become her king.


She ignites an intense feeling, like a perfect literature.
Such a word of beauty does not exist,
To describe my love for her.


Her eroticism is the petroleum, tossed onto my passions fire;
For she is perfectly, but never overly, garrulous.
She could talk for England, about the condemned boy; her desire.
The one who speaks truth from the buxom and is never fatuous,
When speaking of her, for every syllable is bold and required;
For in her eyes, this ambassador of love has become enthralled.
I have fallen in love, for my soul speaks from the heart, undying;
Eternally worshipping this idol.  This Goddess of forever more.


A forever love, or just a target for a cursed tongue?  Who knows?
Nevermore a word of harm, spoken to the exotic Queen of future.
For I am her ardent follower, into the abyss of the blackest hole;
An uncertain, unattained as of yet, unknown destiny of this suitor.


For she sees my insides, and in her bed I cannot lie;
I cannot deny my adoration and fixation for her unchaste mind.
For intoxicating is her smell, her natural scent of amore, my diet.
Her lust is my need and in her soul I must become a requirement.


She has fallen from the stars and landed in my arms;
For in her I have found religion and immortality, for she is genteel.
She is reminiscent of happiness obtained, she is optimism itself!
She is hope, glory, blessed, sophisticated; true to me and for real.


I can trust in her words to never bring death to my door,
For suicide is no more welcome here, for I have perfection; behold!
My freethinking words, simply speak of devotion to my superior;
For her intellect shows obedience, to all Gods of love.


(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.