My father's old Cadillac,
"Betsy", was an old champagne color,
With fabric that hung from the roof
As Betsy carried us
From our small East Texas town
To a slightly bigger town that
Actually has a Luby's

Garrison Keillor's "Prairie Home Companion"
Is coming through the dulled speakers,
As it does every Saturday evening.
I lay my head against the cool glass of
My window in the back seat and
Close my eyes and listen to Keillor's
Crooner voice softly and gently take
Me to the shores of Lake Woebegone.

I loved the stories of Lake Woebegone
Before I knew it was not a real place.
Before I even realized the name
Was itself a pun.
I still do,
But back then I would listen
And imagine moving and
Living there one day.

My father eventually
Sold Betsy to the only
Place in town that would
Take her,
A junkyard.

I'm not sure what he saw
In that old Cadillac
But whatever it was
Stuck with him.
Betsy's hood ornament sits
On his mahogany desk in his office and
Overlooks the bay.

it's four pm sunday afternoon
and in an unforeseen
turn of events
i'm awake

guess i've slept so long
i couldn't nap away
one more
afternoon

remembering how on friday
waiting at the bus stop
a library employee
walked up to me and said

"would you
like a poem?"
and handed me
a note card

and on it was printed
a poem
and a reminder that
april was national poetry month

it reminded me
what i've known for far too long

that there are words inside me
clawing tooth and nail

trying to get out
and i have to let them

so today it's
sunday afternoon
and i'm thinking about how
sunday afternooons
aren't what
they used to be

they started out in
the backseat of a
blue dodge van
crammed between my brothers
npr on the radio
i hated car talk
but loved to hear the way
my dad laughed at what
couldn’t possibly be jokes
not since it wasn’t funny

but after car talk came
prairie home companion
garrison keillor's gravel
serenade of life in
lake woebegone
static bluegrass
the drama
of guy noir
the hilarity of
tom keith and fred newman
playing ping pong with
airplanes dive bombing overhead

winding up around the lake
through the corn fields
until we got
to grandma’s house

afternoons turned into
evenings and i would fall
asleep in the backseat
on the way home
staring upside down out the
window at the incandescent
orange street lights
barely bright enough to cast more
light than the stars
treetops dissolving into the dark sky

i always thought it was
fascinating how it everything
looked different from that
angle in the dark

sunday afternoons turned into
dashing around
the church grounds
unattended
picking up deer bones in the
back lot and throwing them
into the pond
eventually removing screens
from windows and
climbing out onto the roof

we got older
turned into teenagers
lazy summer days
a memory so
soaked in sugary
pink lemonade mix
i can't help but scrape my teeth
remembering the taste of
citric acid and innocence

how we thought we were
so grown up
but i'd give anything to be
that kid again

i wish we’d gone
on more trips to the mall
before the shops were dead husks
a fallen ozymandias
to the promise of capitalism
when there were shoe stores
and book stores and a
radio shack and a gertrude hawk

we would spend ages in the
bath and body works
smelling and calculating
how much body spray
we had to buy between ourselves
to get the most out of our coupon
exchanging the bills and bottles
in the food court across from the sears
years and years
before it would become a post
apocalyptic vaccination center of
folding chairs and masked queues

before i lost them
to the split paths
adulthood takes
us all down

i wish i'd known what
i know now
that no matter how bad
it feels in my own head
it's never a death sentence
it will come and go

i wish i’d known
that none of it would last

sunday afternoons
the in-between
washing my hair
while my friends
went with my parents
to church

i don't go to church
don't think i ever will again
even though i wonder
if the sense of community would help

it's sunday afternoon
but it's not how sunday
afternoons used to be
with johnny cash on a loop
as i lost myself in
empty cardboard boxes
straight lines of
dusty wine bottles
shattered pints of
gin on gritty concrete

sunday morning
coming down
but it never felt like
coming down
it felt as close to peace
and quiet as i could get

sunday afternoons
turned to hazy piles of
navy duvet and
dr teals scented sheets
but i can’t do that anymore
i’ve wasted enough time
trying to sleep out
my own thoughts

so i'm trying to
let myself remember
let the words out
one afternoon at a time

something about this
sunday afternoon
feels like how
they used to be

an indigo country playlist
on the tv
all alone
with my herbal tea
the candle burning is
lilac and violet
i'm starting to think
i could find a way to heal

i'm not writing this poem
for it to be good
i'm writing it because if i don't
i might slip down with
the raindrops into the drainage grate
never to be seen again

i have to let my past
wrap itself into my future
or i'll lose the parts of
myself that brought me to here

there’s something about
having the window open
while it rains that tells me
it’s going to be all right
something about how the
library bells still ring
just off the hour
that reminds me

how time passes
how sunday afternoons
have changed
and i’m sure they
will change again soon
and what a relief that is

Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something.



(sonnets #MMMMMCCCXXXII and MMMMMCCCXXXIII)

I


Bukowski. If I'd known--and there must trail
Off seeking an excuse to bother hence
With aught. Nor should I have writ these his sense
Of our supposed age could acknowledge bail
For, since his voice kills any spirit's frail
Hope of existance, while he coughs from thence
To fiercely say the madness dictates whence
As chopped, clipped phrases whereby he'd prevail.
And Shelley, who saw further than now's poor
Horizon, said art veils her glass whilst through
The centries curs as ole Bukowski tour--
To vanish, sans a note. Yet here all who
Aspire think vile is tops, our work as twere
In vain and refuse. Cuz such never knew.



II


Lo, ******. Surrey, Wyatt, and aught hence
Who bowed themselves to Petrarch's mincing scale,
Yes, "polished our erst homely," ruder tale
Of lines and poetry, whose manners thence
Became refined thus as we yielded, whence
Far more rebelled than dared submit, t'assail
What set us 'part from beasts as if in frail
Excuse to cavil suited their intents.
He said the "mountaintop" was mine as twere
T'enjoy, but if I wanted friends maunt do,
As they all wallowed in the mud, each boor
Disgusted save by filthy scents. Sans clue
Of our high calling meant to raise th'obscure
Light for our fellow man, ye can't, who knew.

24Dec15c,d

I was pulled from the comfort
of sleep and warmth by my
father's voice from the floor
below. "Double-time girl,
we're going to be late!"
I hurried down the stairs
of our home to slip into
winter boots and zip up
my puffy winter coat.

In the garage, my dad was
already in his gray van.
I opened the passenger door,
climbed up over the rusted
rims and plopped into the
seat next to him. The cold
raced to reach my body. I
buried my bare hands in my
sleeves and prayed my wet hair
wouldn't freeze into icicles. I
could feel the stitches of the
leather pressing through my jeans.
Even they were cold.

My father's figure sat hunched in
the seat next to me. He gripped
the steering wheel with black
gloves. Staring forward,
he considered big things:
chemical structs and his
wife's lingering debt.

A familiar melody began to
waft out of the radio. Oops.
That meant that I had made
us  late to school...again.
At 7:35 each morning
Garrison Keillor's voice
spoke on something my
parent's called the Writer's
Almanac. I listened with
fascination to his voice,
which seemed to promise
each listener an afternoon
backstroke through the
milky way and the strength
to land, with grace, on Earth's
hard ground.

Out my window,
I watched the early-morning
breadwinners rushing to buy
their fuel: gasoline
and coffee. I wondered
if I could ever be good
enough, worth enough to be
mentioned by Keillor.
What could I do? What
would make me special?
Should I write poetry?

The episode came to a
well-known, comfortable
close: "Be well, do good
work, and keep in touch."
I hoped to do just that.

My dad's sudden voice
brought me back to his
shaky van. "****."
He too had been
wondering.

I was going to share a poem
today written by a famous poet
with brilliant use of language
great rhyme and rhythm,
funnier than a trunk full of elephants
wiser than a milliion monkeys
and the word phizzog no where to
be found.
But I left the book containing
this prize winner at home
sitting on my bed open to page 77
now that I'm on the internet
at the pretlow branch library
I can't remember the poet,
the poem, just a page number
and Garrison Keillor
must have been some good poem

writing for non-recognition**

“It was exhilarating to get the chance to be useful, which is always an issue for a writer.”
          Garrison Keillor


a hundred readings, so flattering,
the heart tickled, nicely fluttering,
then one day it is a thousand,
and the crushing soul flattening
has set a new higher,
a low base needs an achieving
in every thing

**** writing for recognition,
need a few thousand, ten will fill the bill,
now
to consider myself ok average,
which shhh,
I know I am

now have to choose each word
with great daring caring,
worthy of the great writer
whose devotees demand,
offer a simple choice, want want
pleasured ooh ah's of perfection or
face sacrifice
on the poetry altar
of the Feed Me Seymour plant of
being ignored to a
vegetative death

**** writing for recognition,
you want my I-curse,
steal my purse,
reach in, take my cigarette styx,
exhale a **** poem

**** writing for recognition,
please don't read my hand crafted,
diamond cutter designed,
succulent crap
go away, don't like me, and for god's sake
don't dare love me,
that's a killer,
then my busted ballon ego can't be taped
back together again by Humpty Dumpty's men

after this will never revisit the prior past,
that will not - shall not exist

one anonymous poet
spilling with unfazed unglued fluency
disregarding what pleases,
writing spilling that which surged
that electrify
my soul
and then never
to them return

**** writing for recognition,
no more subbing
no more sinning
no more using
just me using me
up

Garrison Keillor once said
that what he most hopes for
when his life is said and done
is that the people of his beloved
St.Paul/Minneapolis, Minnesota
will be more proud of him
than embarrassed by him.
He then added, with genuine
humility and honesty:

I think it's going to be a close call.

For many years
I used to listen to his show
The Writer's Almanac
very early in the morning
on my way to teach my
7th grade English class

He is famous, and I am not;
but we share much in common.
He loves music; I love music
He loves poetry; I love poetry
He is God haunted; I am also.

Though I love 3 writers he
- let's be honest -
at times envies:

Bob Dylan, T.S. Eliot, and Herman Melville

Nevertheless, his statement struck me as quite sincere.

So, Mr. Keillor, here I'm a stealer:


I don't have a hometown because I've moved so much; however

Despite my sins, faults, and failings (which are considerable)

When my life is over, I hope that the people in the places where I have lived (too many too list)
would say I made a contribution, resisted the Absurd, played a positive part -

                    If only small.

                 It's a small world
                        after all.

George Saunders is a better writer than I could ever be,
Such an incisive observer of the modern condition,
So witty and urbane,
A satirist with staying power.
Everybody loves a writer who’s legit funny.
It’s the Cinnamon and sugar in the oatmeal of reading.

George Saunders is smarter than me.
Dude is a bona fide scientist
Who earned a degree of geophysical engineering
From one of the STEMiest of STEM schools.
I was an English Major, and even English Major nerd god
Garrison Keillor rags on us as likely to someday ask
If you’d like fries with that.

George Saunders has lived a more adventurous life than me.
He was an engineer who worked on pipelines in Sumatra
And regales NPR types with his tales about venturing
Headlong into a monkey ****-contaminated river.
He’s thatched roofs, pulled knuckles at a slaughterhouse,
Rang up purchases at a 7-Eleven.
Saunders proposed to his wife after three weeks.

George Saunders is more distinguished than me.
His list of awards is endless.
Guggenheims, MacArthur genius grants, PEN/Malamud Awards,
A gaggle of National Magazine Awards,
The ******* Lannan Foundation.
Everyone has honored the guy.
I've got a bronze pig and some plaques.

George Saunders is more beloved than I am.
He addresses graduating classes all over the country.
Everyone man, woman and child has read “Sea Oak.”
Every man, woman and child loves “Sea Oak.”
It’s taught in every college in the country.
It’s about as perfect as a short story can get.

Realistically, I’ll never be as good a writer as George Saunders,
Yet the brilliance he pours forth into the world
Inspires me to write.

I went to the Bookstore today
    (can't do tablets or laptops
    when smoking cigars
    and
    ...also hate tv...don't like
    the way it makes me feel
    or other people look)
In downtown Boulder, Colo
Which, if you've never been
Displays fresh prints of Dave Eggers
And Edward Abbey
    In an 1899 erected structure
        That formerly hosted
            Ballroom dances
                Orchestras
                    And secret societies
It's not Powells in Portland, Ore
    (old school state abbreviations...
    deal with it)
But it's better for me
    Because I'm here
And it was a beautiful day
Even after losing at chess
    to a brilliant fool
    just outside
I couldn't help myself
    From browsing the poetry section
        In its entirety
(Only here for the $3.75 copy of the Poetry Foundation's monthly)
And I noticed an increase
    In fresh copies of Hafiz
    Same for Bukowski
    And Ginsberg
Keats was nowhere to be found
Typically, Shakespeare, Whitman,
    Wordsworth...are everywhere
I wondered if the American compilation
    by Garrison Keillor
    is worhwhile
There were dozens
    And dozens
        Of masters
            That I have not spent time with
Not "spent time"
Perhaps read a bit
    But not, connected with enough
    that I could say...I got it
    Not a fully aligned get
    But an education
        And appreciation
            To one who has pushed the craft
            in their own way
Or left me weeping
    at brilliance of love and language
But I resisted said temptation
    Of rampant reckless bookbuying
        And got my magazine
But on my drive home
    In the far East reaches of the county
        (Boulder's real estate no longer
        grants us commons much access)
    I stopped at tiny used book shop
        Bought an old copy of
            D. H. Lawrence poetry
                for a few bucks
And by the time I got home
To take inventory of tea
    Of coffee
        Of wine and cigars

I was rather pleased
    Pleased with myself
For I looked forward
    To the read
        To the sky
        To living soul free
            Once again

Let us now ****  famous men
for their low morals and cruel cunning.
This witch hunt is different from all the rest;
now the witches hunt and the men go running.

From out  of the woodwork the women come;
victims, opportunists or jilted lovers?
Forty or fifty years have passed.
Their denouncers are mostly young grandmothers.

Now Garrison Keillor has joined the ranks
of venial men obsessed by lust.
He has been banished from Lake Woebegone
Where the women are Strong, the children are bright-
and the men look no better than any of us.

Man walks into a bar
With a big plie of dog turds
In his hand
And says to the bartender:

Look what I almost stepped in.

It’s the birthday of poet Czeslaw Milosz (books by this author), born in Szetejnie, Lithuania (1911). He grew up in a Polish-speaking family. His father was an engineer for czarist Russia during World War I. The family traveled all over the country as his father helped rebuild roads and bridges. Milosz was fascinated by all the different religions in that part of Russia, from Catholicism, Greek Orthodox, and Protestantism to Judaism and pagan mysticism. He loved listening to village folktales about the Lithuanian lakes, rivers, and forests, and these tales later influenced his poetry.

The family eventually settled in Poland. Milosz studied law rather than literature in college because, he said, “There were so many girls studying literature it was called the marriage department.” In 1931 he co-founded a literary group that was so pessimistic about the future it was nicknamed the “Catastrophists.” The group predicted a coming world war, but nobody believed them. He worked for Polish Radio for a while, but he got fired when he let Jews broadcast their opinions on the air. Another radio station sent him to cover the invasion of Poland by **** forces in 1939. After the invasion he found a job as a janitor at a university, secretly writing anti-**** poetry for underground publications. He witnessed the genocide of the Jews in Warsaw and was one of the first poets to write about it in his book of poems Rescue (1945).

After the war Milosz got a job working as a diplomat for communist Poland, though he wasn’t a party member. One night in the winter of 1949, on his way home from a government meeting, he saw several jeeps filled with political prisoners, surrounded by soldiers. He said, “It was then that I realized what I was part of.” He defected in 1951, and made it to Paris even though his passport had been confiscated.

Most intellectuals in Paris were pro-communist at the time and they thought of Milosz as either a traitor or a madman for leaving Poland. The poet Pablo Neruda attacked him in an article called “The Man Who Ran Away.” In 1953 Milosz published a book about communism called The Captive Mind in which he argued that people were too ready to accept totalitarian terror for the sake of an imaginary future. He moved to the United States and began teaching at the University of California at Berkeley in 1960. He had mixed feelings about the United States: he wrote, “What splendor! What poverty! What humanity! What inhumanity! What mutual good will! What individual isolation! What loyalty to the ideal! What hypocrisy! What a triumph of conscience! What perversity!”

He kept writing poetry in Polish even though almost no one was reading it. His books had been banned in Poland and his poems weren’t translated into English until 1973. Then, in 1980, he got a phone call at 3:00 in the morning telling him that he’d won the Nobel Prize in literature.

Czeslaw Milosz said, “I have read many books, but to place all those volumes on top of one another and stand on them would not add a cubit to my stature. Their learned terms are of little use when I attempt to seize naked experience, which eludes all accepted ideas,” and he said, “Language is the only homeland.”

And finally number 10, the B52 of farts:


The kind that carry a load.  :)

Life is characterized by its kindness.

You walk around a room.

Man walks into a bar
With a pile of dog turds
In his hand
And says to the bartender:

Look what I almost stepped in.

No, Mr. Keillor
Life doesn't get better and better
The darkness finds the light

I might like Novalis
Don't like Sein und Zeit

Don't like Martin Luther
Kierkegaard's alright!

Do like Bavarian pretzels
Abgeschiedenheit

               Heidelberg!

Painful, lonely, maybe meaningless (join the club)

Ha!

Human (rat) race doomed!

Foregone conclusion hashtagged,
linkedin, predicated, et cetera, cuz
overactive derrière of yours truly
(no names mentioned, nor fickle
finger of fate pointed), and writer
of these words and one among many
riders (he adores) on the storm –
referring to brewing, looming, and
quaking potentially severe economic
fallout shattering The "debt ceiling"
or "debt limit"recommends ye dear
unknown (anonymous) readers bid
thee toodle loo  to civilization
and its discontents.

So much for hyperbole!
    
How axiomatic, ironic, quixotic, zoologic
that thee unavoidable ****** urge occurred
while in the midst of writing about that
vitally important ****** function, which
for any other Tom, **** or Harry would
be safer endeavor at least within their home.

That margin of err rear harmlessly doth
NOT exist within the rented domicile
of this twenty six plus years a married
(lighthearted) middle aged man.

What requisite non-forceful,
essential, dutiful call visiting
the ***** to purge the body electric
of supposed waste matter
(quite efficient machine ****
Sapiens anatomy), regarding
said expelling solid, loose, liquid...
thru **** ought to rank as
minimally risky private business.

Imagine matter of fact saunter
to the loo fraught with Uriah heaps
of danger that could imperil
the very existence of (in this case)
myself, and the rest of humanity.

Upon attempting to amble
very short distance, (perhaps
half a dozen paces), an
immediately deleterious,
hellaciously luminous, and
perilously serious threat
(unsurpassed even by hooliganism  
signature destruction forever
enshrining Gothic or Vandals –
if such peoples lived today and
occupied this apartment unit),
loomed as a far more impossibly
harrowing mission any combination
of maximum strength (Excedrin
would be superfluous) supposed
major natural disasters all rolled
into one frightful maelstrom.

Oft times the powerful need
to relief thyself disallows any
preparation H(abiliments), thus I
am forced to make a quick dash
to the toilet, BUT between
the cozy comfort of this easy
chair and the durable material
designed to suction even the
baddest, biggest, boldest BM
belies a trail and mountain
far more of wicked bewitched
crossing then say the now defunct
Fukushima Nuclear Power Plant.

Though this comparison may seem
like an exaggeration, the higgledy
piggledy hewn heap of fetid foul
fermenting faecal matter poses
dangerous, death defying diabolical
(DO NOT ENTER) dump.

No other option existed for me
to eradicate, expel, exorcise, et
cetera potential ***** matter except
to strike out toward barrier reef
of noxious, odoriferous, pestilential,
queasily revolting sky high (declared
SuperFund Site) to  enjoy simple
pleasure, whereby Gluteus Maximus
dispenses with human toxins.

The urge to let loose a stool sample
overrides any time to pen loving
note to surviving family members,
which (two darling grown daughters
seem like foreigners (or survivors
on a desert island) as each precious
Punim pursues autonomy countless
miles, whereby the eldest then
a Junior at The University of Pennsylvania,
and the youngest offspring plane
and simple sailed about seven
years ago to become
seasoned student abroad.

Though a tenant at this subsidized
(and quite agreeable accommodations
nestled within Perkiomen Valley,
Pennsylvania), no exaggeration necessary
to describe daily cataclysm perchance
spelling doom and downfall of this
dry husband and loving father to deux
progeny, who would hate to leave said
special offspring behind under
the sheltering sky.

Thus every onset to traipse
so few feet to flush out
thine flotsam and jetsam,
(when stream of ***** sprays
like a hose) to pay obeisance
and homage to modern
plumbing, the flash of mine
lxiv years zips thru me
memory, particularly when
carefully, gingerly
lumbering ridiculously slow
(lest mishap finds ambulance
siren wailing destiny of this chap
(most likely pronounced
dead on arrival), whereby tell tale
sigh of turgid tummy
would automatically inform doctors
that obstruction preventing quintessential
rear supply tubby
undisputed venal wickedness.

Tis at  unstoppable twitches
to defecate, (which sharp
saber rattling ****** spasms)
denote common urgent irrepressible
need arising within bowels),
when mental gallows humorous arises.

Such an embarrassing ending
(post eerie er) demise re: conclusion
to my rather ordinary life – (visa vis
being constipated, deprived
or hindered freeing offal,
would put to shame “windbag”
i.e. google as  proof positive
of blocked means to eliminate waste).

Also in tandem (though very
slightly tangential to above
distressful horrible likely presentiment,
this xMan bemoans being
swept off my yam bic pent
tam meter feet (literally)
by gigantic hands of she
(thee divine Gaia, who now
scatters defecated detritus
damning ability to access
commode constitutes reflection
on remaining Norwegian
Bachelor farmer from Lake Woebegone.

How trajectory of one measly
mortal primate webbed
whirled wide eyed schleps
along boulevard of broken dreams
(he may as well live planets,
galaxies or universes apart
worlds) ever shared
an intersecting vector
with another continues
to confound this crossword puzzler.

Again that sneaky sobriquet
irony doth mettle with
steely goatherd drivers
goes Pasteur ****, where gin
till lit tee lives.

Long story short described below.

Circumstance found this then
quite content solitary
son of the soil invited
to admirable, estimable, inimitable
estate listed as “Glen Elm”
within  National Registry of
owned properties within
Collegeville, Pennsylvania.

Garrison Keillor slated guest of honor.

He possessed je nais se quois
ability to tell tall tales,
whereby audience members
became rapt with seduction,
usurpation, and wide eyed yearning
to lean in so as to hear the suspense,
which increased in magnitude
in direct proportion as
his home spun voice became softer.

Unbeknownst to this
poor country bumpkin, when
he took bathroom break
during impromptu intermission,
a gal in her mid thirties
livingsocial with her parents
within the Mainline
(very wealthy enclave of residents
within southwestern Montgomery
County, Pennsylvania)
agreed to follow Jewish tradition,
asper prearranged marriages.

Though neither of  Semitic peoples,
nor the least bit familiar
with one of the oldest Religions,
thee family, whose youngest daughter
hinted of spinsterhood, their
open minded kindred ideas
generated exception to  
dictum remaining steadfast
to pinpoint “a nice Jewish
Kosher Boy”!

As frequent attendees
at this Leiper Mansion and
storied magnet for literati,
the accidental chance encounter
found thyself and unfamiliar gal
(fate decreed as thy bartered bride)
happened to be awaiting use of water closet.

As tends to be the predilection
of so called fairer gender ***,
this petite and attractive dame
introduced herself, which subsequently
found us becoming more
curious about the other.

The natural order of two
heterosexual individuals
(one male, the other female)
allowed basic instinct of
attraction to engender
fledgling friendship, that quickly
leapfrogged into
a sexually intimate dalliance.

Without any precautions
qua birth control inevitable
outcome of hitting
the figurative bullseye linkedin while
listening to the rhythm method occurred.

This reality determined
tepid reception courtesy
future parents in law to marry gal,
whose youngest daughter's
future child I fathered.

Even from this fairly commonplace
getgo dynamics wildly described
along seismograph of 10.00 earthquake,
one category 5 hurricane,
and an F5 tornado thrown in
for good measure for measure,
these tidbits totally hyperbolic,
thus equal much ado about nothing relative
to the interpersonal juxtaposition
of our quite rapid tête-à-tête,
that continues (to much lesser degree –
analogous to subsiding
storm of the Century 21) to this day.

After surviving approximately
two and a half dozen plus years,
(the marital inflictions
unquestionably more harrowing,
strangulating, and threatening
life and limb) battle scars
(many broken bones begot
by innocuous shuffling to
bathroom) populating neary
every square inch of this
ordinary chap deserves a medal of honor.

(today February nineteenth
two thousand and twenty two)
helps me to become more adept
crafting literary endeavors.

Remembrance of past circumstances
and/or happenstances,
which trials and tribulations
(particularly warm fuzzy memories)
brings to cobweb riddled mind
a quaint uncomplicated existence,
where childhood excitement arose
simply acquiring library card,
thenceforth selecting choice books

idling away leisure hours
mainly during twelve week long
summer school break
blissfully reading away,
the closest approximation
one strawberry blond Unitarian lad
experienced seventh heaven.

Ever since ability to read taught me
courtesy mother dearest,
I (when a happy go lucky little boy)
found pleasant escape
thru webbed wide world
of mine imagination
insync with printed words on page
which aforementioned attestation
declaration, habituation, mention,
situation, and zonation
bred fervent quest to quench
insatiable thirst for knowledge.

Fast forward when yours truly
experienced emerging adulthood,
upon which stage of mein kampf,
he began to cobble, dabble, scribble...
crafting poems about hardscrabble
emotional life challenges in Lake Wobegon
(I tip figurative hat to Garrison Keillor).

These averred literary endeavors wrought
usually comprising about dozen lines
cautiously, deliberately, extemporaneously,
noisily, obviously painstakingly keyed
courtesy Underwood typewriter brand
qwerty alphanumeric character arrangement
visualize index finger accessing
sought after hunt and peck method.

I exerted mental effort,
(and still put creative juices
thru their paces) to apply
words and punctuation
application of colon
and semi;colon quite nettlesome
resident with the English Language.

Upon espying a signature poem of mine
forces unleash mental processes
(triggering gears and cogs
to turn slowly within noggin)
scrutinize early feeble
linkedin with pervasive pre
ponder ring lurking predilection
tib hush anonymous re: dears
(dares) adventuresome mettle
taking him/her to the brainy
(briny) deep brink Icon fess this

(NON FAKE) pretense,
why aye metaphorically express
courtesy medium of ordinary
Anglophile alphabetic wonton poetrysoup,
or figurative egg drop bubbling broth
(el) doth brew) pronouns Sibyl affectation
affliction sans plethora,
where each ladle full adrip with
richly flavor Times New Roman
Font size twelve
sincerely textured vocabulary.

C.S. Lewis on the 16th Century
Better then the Problem of Pain
Magic may be real
So may Purple Rain

Only in Minneapolis once
Sorry, Mr. Keillor
She and I, Life of Pi
Am I a Wounded Healer?

Smalltown USA
Used DVDs
Someone for to say
Please, baby, please

Oxford, Harvard, Chicago
Me in Paris, France
Arthur Edens calls
Shiva does his dance

My sons more than me
Fire more than water
3333
2 beautiful daughters

           Taught her?

               Taut her?

Dr. Cohen calls Shakespeare's plays a gift
Surely he is right
Rene Thornton as Prospero
I launch the car into the night

Brutus is deluded
King Lear is a Fool
I am Cinna the Poet!
I taught at Sage Ridge School

God bless Garrison Keillor
And the Writer's Almanac
God bless Andy Samberg
And his snack attack

Desafortunadamente
My favorite Spanish word
Hope for la Gente
Wonder if she heard?

      Yo soy un Theonerd.

Garrison Keillor meets the Pope
Ping pong popcorn funny

Latin ATM
The Pope takes out his money

This was many years ago
Before Francis did arrive

The Church dies many times
Then rises to thrill and thrive

Buenos Aires is Argentina
Italy is sunny

Throw me to the lesbians!
(But first dip me in honey)

53 and falling
Not one step closer
Rain all day today
Ice upon the trees

Not much hope
I'm kinda ridiculous
Wishes that don't come true
Please, baby, please

I wish you well, Mr. Keillor
The Writer's Almanac is wonderful
America is not chosen
I ponder cosmic seas

Trappist 1, my sons
Extrasolar water
Please protect her daughters
My life one long disease

      But good things come in 3s

Still no word from Backstreets
Maybe further up the road
Robertson Davies books
And the Ghost of Old Tom Joad

Beautiful sunlit day
Pizza, Diet Coke
Garrison Keillor wheeler
A little bartender joke

Never drank much
Don't like to smoke
37 cents
Postcards provoke

Lonely, telephonely
Basketball tonight
1 red sweater
2 green lights

     Sor Juana's mystic flights

I was in Poland once
Warsaw saw war
Temple of the Dawn
Muay Thai and Thai ******

53 and falling
I now live alone
Red Pine's Road to Heaven
The Nameless, the Unknown

Prayers for Garrison Keillor
Gracias, New York
Vegetarian sausage
Vegetarian - no pork

Quiet Toledo, Ohio
My mother's gentle grave
The Man of La Mancha
Susan Meek to save

         City of Ember:
       Leave the Cave ...

The world may indeed be divided into doers and dreamers, Mr. Keillor, but in America the doers are almost always racist scumbags.

I've been to London
And I've been to gay Paris

Seen the Galway Girl
And sunlit Florence, Italy

It seems quite true
Life like a misty, momentary dream

35 years have passed
Still remember my high school basketball team

Garrison Keillor, I'm grateful
You have at times a unique way with words

Humor is celebrateful
In this Meaningless Spinning Absurd

My oldest two were C-sections
But homebirth for the third

California Dreamin' still
(and I'm a Ms. Meekgeek former theonerd)

I need to give up the extraordinary
Just live my daily life
Hope for the Flowers
Wisdom in the strife

In my solitude
Sleep perchance to dream
I miss her energy
I miss my basketball team

Once saw Garrison Keillor
Once Vienna in snow
Old MacDonald had a farm
E I E I O

It had to be poetry
Long live Robert Frost!
I am back in childhood
In the Land of the Lost

Those aren't poems
They're diary entries, he said
But, Mr. Keillor,
Is there really a difference?

Basketball lamp
Her naked body
Trinity Episcopal, Boston
Let us rise and go hence

The Path of Solitude
Mystics on Mountains
Yon cool crystal fountain
No need for Mike Pence

Andrew Greeley, Irish Rebel
Patience
Persistence
We Leap the Fence

             Future Tense Tents

Greetings reader from a cross between an aging seventy inch long (ringing ding ****) haired pencil necked geek and a Norwegian bachelor farmer wannabe; meaning yours truly actually a virtually married Pennsylvania man, who crossed his sixty fifth year young threshold on January thirteenth 2024, nevertheless despite rancor from the missus who frowns on me favoring female for acquaintanceship/friendship ideally while taking a ride On The Good Ship Lollipop.

if nothing else germinated
adult language affections
inexplicable tummy why
(approximately three quarters
of my lxiv roy hull orbits ago),
I can still vividly recall
names of girls from mud
trickle hull hating as a Methacton
High School graduate,
plus the two semesters completed
at Montgomery County Community College,
which diploma worth less than
the paper certifying completion
of requisite credits.

Unbeknownst tummy if
(Susan Bishop, Cheryl Hahn,
Judy Jacobs, Donna Keckley,
Fay Landis, Sandra Ray,
Julia Ward, and a handful of others)
gleaned any hint that an intense desire
shutter flying within thy solar plexus
to blurt (in a bumbling fashion)
even a feeble hello
dogged each day of classes.

Nothing about this then
awkward, blimey clammy, dorky,
edgy, friggin gawky, *****, ipsy,
jumpy, kooky, loony, moody, nerdy,
okay, plenti quirky, ratty, sulky,
timidly undersized very withdrawn,
xpn yankee Zeusian.

If familiar during my prime numbered days,
with either powder milk biscuits
(which according to Garrison Keillor -
gives shy people the courage
to get up and do ***** deeds
done dirt cheap (in honor
of the late Malcolm Young,
the pulse of AC/DC),
or raw bits, and additionally
adroit crafting, expostulating
gross iniquities keeping maidens
overly questing regarding taming
uber vibrant ***** wonka
your all time cerebrally enlightened,
guy initially kindling manifold
oppressed quaking ****** undulations
wracking yawping aspiring
corpus dictionary epicurean.

Yes, that tis quite a mouthful,
but then this ardent devotee, gamboling
jousting literary nonsensical
philosophical reader, tenderly tinder
verizon wormy yakking arboreal
cloven earmarked, graciously intelligent
kibitzer, modest opportunistic
questioning statecraft,
unpretentiously warbling bupkis.

Though verb boss this poet manque
doth strive tubby re: noun,
or at the least beak comb knighted
among his majesty (HMS) –
cutting (thru the figurative iceberg) crew,
which pronoun smint foments
hostile interjections, whereby
grievance addressed by my
reciting constituent articles comprising
English Language.

As a result of assiduous, copious, exodus,
grammar grappling, inchoate knowledge,
mastery of quirky syntax
underscored unpretentious
versatility with words.

Adverb beal concupiscence endowment
grows ineluctable kickstarting
my obvious quest shunned unfairly
without your adjective choice
entirely granted.

Infinitives key mordant obscures
quasi rhetorician traversing ultimate
vernacular wordsmith zeroing
at becoming catapulted
**** eminently fructified.

Caterwauling causes
champion colleague Collins collision,
collusion, conjunction conspiracy,
demanding expulsion, forthwith
groupie Harris insinuating, juxtaposing,
keeping lowest mediocrity necessitating
one principle question.

Reddit slated tenure unified vicars,
wherein xfinity yielded zing along.

Depression, Bitterness leave me be!
The sky true blue today
American music on the radio
For which I say Xie Xie

Runnin' the break in Tucson
Chicago Alley Oop
Into Darkness, J.J. Abrams
72 y soup

Prayers for Mr. Keillor
Slowly guacamole
Mr. Marvin Gaye
Singin' Wholly Holy

Got my Batman hoodie
My Cabela's jacket is black
Everything dies, ain't no lies
But maybe baby it comes back

               Back in Black!

I keep writing to Garrison Keillor
He doesn't write me back

I truly hope that China
Taiwan does not attack

I sing but only quietly
I eat a midnight snack

It's 3:15 a.m.
Peace is what I lack

Emily Dickinson: half-cracked.