i.
So tonight we are alone
at the park, and tonight,
the moon is at its biggest.

ii.
It’s fun to think of the universe
how she works undiscovered,

going one with nature:

iii.
look at the leaves: falling
like cherry blossoms. It is not
autumn, but still they fall

hard like the ground
had called them.

iv.
Hear the branches rustling,
shaking because they can’t

contain the blood rush
of a romantic scene shown

through klieg eyes.

v.
Midnight wind whisper
serenity: no city lights,

no commotion. Only dead
stars flowering above us
and the grass kissing
our feet.

vi.
Under the moonlight,
you disappear like smoke
arising from almost-used
cigarette—

like an angel, called
by God, claiming

your mission is
over.

vii.
I look at the moonlight.

A river ripples a reflection
on muddied puddle.

I swear that night
is the holiest.

She noted, grimly cognizant of though unamused by the irony,
That her likeness, or something akin to that,
Appeared on the poster—a gray-clad strong and vibrant woman
Reaching, in concert with her comrades
(One woman in a white coat, a man in overalls and requisite cap,
Still another androgynous figure in a futuristic ensemble
Resembling some cross of a Western science fiction movie
And some cheap Petrograd-made tin foil)
Toward a hammer-and-sickle adorned moon
Soon to be conquered by a similarly festooned rocket ship.
She is no scientific apparatchik, no technically gifted party functionary;
It is her job to feed the canine occupant of this mission to the cosmos
(Two mutts from the Moscow streets, she confides to Ilysa,
One of the few co-workers who can be trusted with such a statement.)
The dog, she notes without any trace of rancor, eats quite well,
Better than she does in truth,
But it is a series of last meals for the condemned,
For there is no secret as to the dog’s eventual fate
(Poor cur, he has no idea he is doomed,
One of the scientists clucks sadly,
Though she simply shrugs in reply,
Knowing a test or a trap when she sees it,
Though she thinks to herself He is far from alone)
And, after she has cleaned up the remnants of the dog’s dinner,
She heads back to her one-room flat on the Yaseneavaya Boulevard,
Noting ruefully, as she ascends the crumbling, unsteady steps
Leading to her blocky, faceless building,
That the omnipresent klieg lighting of the street lamps
Serves to obscure any trace of the heavens in the night sky.

This was last Christmas - 39 days ago - doesn’t that seem like ancient history?
We were in Lisa’s (parent’s) 50th floor flat, in Manhattan. It was mid-morning, we’d done the present thing, and it was coffee time. At 42°, the city was surprisingly warm, drizzly, and the weather service had issued a dense fog alert.

I had wanted a white Christmas and there it was, about 20 stories below us, a vast, dense, whipped cream sea of white stretching off into the holiday. The fog's surface wrinkled gently in places, revealing glimpses of the Hudson River, like an artist's fleeting brushstrokes. The pea soup brume undulated, like lava or a living thing and reflected the murderous morning sun like a mirror, making it klieg-light bright. Glare gives me headaches, so I had to avoid looking at it.

Lisa (one of my college roommates), her little (14-year-old) sister Leeza and I were spread out, under beige, vicuña throws, on one angle of their huge, white sectional couch and Lisa’s grandparents were nestled on the other.

A ‘Style Council’ playlist was playing on the room's sound system. Leeza had picked it and it was a great groove.
When “The Story of Someone’s Shoe’ ended, Lisa said. “That song’s so beautiful, honestly, it’s really lovely.”
“On God,” I agreed, (I’d introduced Leeza to ‘the Style Council’ last fall).
When Leeza said, “I forced you guys to like it, and now you do,” I just rolled my eyes.
“Well, your taste is usually so awful,” Lisa pointed out.
“My taste doesn’t need targeting here,” Leeza said defensively.

We all had our tech out - we young-ins were on our laptops; the grandparents were deep into their phones.
“I need to pick an elective,” I said, scrolling through the class catalog, “any ideas?”
“I took psyc 275 last term,” Lisa offered.
“Learn anything interesting?” I asked.
“Well, apparently Freud’s mom was hot,” Lisa said, distractedly focused on her laptop.

A moment later Lisa reported, “Texas Republicans are banning books about *******, because who does THAT anymore?”
“Women are getting ******-on by Republicans,” Leeza pronounced, and her grandma flinched as if slapped.
“Revelations,” I agreed. “We’re definitely getting ******-on by republicans,” Lisa undogged, while stretching.
“I think Republicans are the American Taliban,” Leeza pronounced, as if she spoke for all of Gen-Z.
“It’s a continuous topic on campus,” Lisa acknowledged.
“I’m not ON campus,” Leeza reminded us.

For a hot minute, no one said anything.. then.

“This is just my year, of, like, realizing stuff,” Leeza said.
“Oh, she’s realizing stuff,” Lisa moaned in fake sympathy.
“Her tenets are forming,” I commented dryly, like a news reporter.
“A year of realizing.”  Leeza reiterated urgently, like that was forEVER.
Then, refocusing on her laptop, she said, “I’m picking a song!” and ‘Water’ by ‘Tyla’ began playing.

Our solitude is always set to music.

All Joe king aside

Humor iz vital stove topface
component to survive the cares
and concerns oven uncertain
culinary future, that presages

over heating of this planet
concomitant with extinction
per the human race. Many
gauges point toward an
irrevocable debacle where

the evolutionary timer seems
to tick, head, and (hmm…
more like barreling) toward
becoming a cooked goose.

An ear splitting ruth less
buzzer will be an impossible
mission to clap quiet while
steam issues out the airwaves

from stymied paunchiest pilot
light buck kit brigade. If and/
or when such a fiery fate befalls
this arrogantly bombastic,

conceitedly egoistic, forlorn,
grievously hapless, irascibly
jangling, kookily middling
luddite, he hopes his demise

will be brutish, short and nasty
while surviving foreign legion
members of locked humanity
hob bull along the blitzed
boulevard of broken dreams.

Whatever provokes a maniacal
person to laugh as the world
turns tumultuously affecting
a surreal ambience akin to the
edge of night (especially with

dark shadows) may appear
wantonly vapid unspooling
threnodies sotto voce.
Rational quartermasters
promulgated outlandish no mans land.

Knowledge jackknifed ideal
humane gentility. Febrile earth
lings’ dragnet cleaved bona fide
actualization. What other option

available to tinker, tailor, soldier
spy except to chuckle at the folly
gingerly loosened upon the terra firmae?
Nothing short of an uproarious chortle

would be prescribed from doctor
demento to ameliorate the tightly
wound tension arising from local

or global aggression arising from
bullies calling their bluff fed goat
bluster, division by the zero
sum game of thrones. Thus,

this mechanically nonsensical,
pop sic cull *** purée to throw
fire retardant on the conflict frission
intonating loopy outré playfulness

with words hoop ping quadratic
equations totally add further
meaninglessness. Hence **** friend,
aye axe hew, how does humor get decided?

Laughter versus humor All Joe king aside.
Jest parody offers funny types of humor.
Seriously folks. What spurs this laughter?
Repression of natural mandated libidinal
kickstarter jammed in high gear feeds

e-z dropsy clodhoppers bursts of hyena
sounding eruptions! The cervical contractions
puffed up like jiffy pop laced pompadour,
increased with greater frequency and

intensity asthma due date approached
(which felt like violent shaking of the
biological ***** re: me), especially
prominent when “mother” gracefully
described Arabesque. She gravitated

to modus operandi sans professional
ballet dancer like a duck would drake
to water, and salve and duff heat whirled
pool ache kin to preparation H - soothing

the pain in the *** of hemorrhoids. Hours
elapsed with incessant stretching (while
in a standing pose) blithely drawing one leg
or the other up against those roseate ****** cheeks.

Even when quite progressed along
the family way with yours truly, thy
status while in utero where ******
stretched akin to a taut rubber band

near ready tubby (or knot tibia) snapped,
like ballet slippers suspending balanced
***** of toes pointed to maximum flexion,
or inflated balloon ready to pop beyond
capacity or, bulged in utero, she maintained

a fanatic, maniacal, and slavish veneration
asper the rigorous being a choreographed
top notch ballerina. This passion to bend
body electric defied laws of fig newton’s,

finagled parallel dimensions, and hugged
joie de vivre limbs maintaining nonchalant
passion recognized talent unbridled versatility
waiving youngest attaining burlesque,

Churrigueresque dramatic elegiac fluidity
transformed thine mama into a holographic,
kaleidoscopic, and opportunistic piquant
rondelet thru vitality, whimsicality, and zealotry.

Gracefulness hove spectators to behold defiance
asper flexibility of muscles in conjunction with
defiance of physics. Once immersed in a classical
routine, thee supple rubbery form assumed

by thine mother ******* focused klieg lights
upon wondrous kinetic magic. An audience
member vicariously experienced dalliance
of some mind-numbing narcotic minus
the addiction. Stupefaction trans fixed gaze

upon the dynamic parameters of space
and time to present an enchanting move
able feast replete with operatic poetry,
quixotic romanticism, and sculpturesque

statuesque totemic union verging on affects
cast by a singular whirling dervish. A
heightened indoctrination of jubilation
radiated from every cell of this artiste

in motion. Pirouettes cast grotesque dark
shadows and etched the faux edge of
night scenario with gigantesque ghoulish
phantasmagoric veterans of many tragic-

comic composers long since vetted into
the storied ballroom of fame. No surprise
then that when mine exit from the berth
canal of stage nom de plume Harriet Harris

witnessed by a full house, my denouement
propelled from the tender vittles tulip ruffled
private naughty bits induced balletic movements.
Meanwhile me mum (real name christened Chrys

Anne Thumb) busily intensely engrossed herself
(terrifically totally tubularly) within whose inter
twined arms and legs that emulated an analogy
to a pretzel held me snug as a bug in rug. A pause

(which many interpreted to initiate an applause)
sprung a contagion of hand clapping that drowned
out the impetus signifying the first breath of
this wordsmith. Only as the slap happy flesh

diminished did ardent hard fans of a triumphant
fancy feast and foot loose Gangnam style winged
goddess take stock of the starlit cradling a newborn.
Frightful faces and peculiar sounds appeared scary.

Thence spurred via submit able exertion climaxing
with a riveting acrobatic contortion (essentially
forcing this now grown baby boomer former chap -
lain cocooned for nine months within the womb),

thyself made headway into an alien world, whereat
this full term new born did provide his own wailing
lyrics (even at that tender infant hood, an iconoclastic
antiestablishmentarian). This now grown baby boomer

chap lain cocooned for nine months within the womb,
who sought nothing more nor less than that which
necessitates being swaddled, pampered, mollycoddled,
cuddled, bundled, and held close to the *****. As

grown middle-aged madman (albeit married to
X-Files rabid fan) still craves, desires, and gloms
toward picturesque pairs of pendulous pliant plump prized
politically incorrect breastworks.

Constellations fling stars through
What becomes of me and you
The echo of colors; the first we knew
The blues and reds of avenue
What song sings the drunk, the
Bleary eyed shrew
That wretch with sizzling breath
Staring us in two
What but Time is the disease
That wrecks the view
Swinging with Gravity until
The choir sings Hallelu
Tick tock, tick the menus
And klieg lights and residue
Humanity is a sunset
Its venom, true

Paris is so beautiful, that it’s emotional,
like the red tile roofs of Rome,
or the Kenroku-en gardens of Japan.

It’s a relatively large world.
Whenever you can fly over an ocean
you feel limitless, and godly,
like the world is there for you, on demand.

Speaking of God-like views, I’m headed
to Lisa’s (parents) Manhattan highrise again
this year for Thanksgiving—six, very-long days
from today—and I have to wait—but I can’t wait.

I’m starting to stuff things into my bag, like a turkey.
There are so many holiday things to do in Manhattan.
Things that invariably whip you up for a sparkly Christmas.
But these are only commercial attractions—planned distractions.

One frosty November-break morning, two years ago,
a tide of clouds had rolled in, like a trillion tons of cotton
candy had been dumped on New York city, overnight,
filling it up to the 42nd floor. It glistened there, below us,
in the klieg-bright sun, like Tiffany diamonds on cotton.

So, imagine that, then add a flock of geese, in military-like
v-formation flying just at the crest of the glitter, like dolphins
hopping in and out of the waves, as they passed above the
insignificant works of man. It took my breath away.

So, naturally I grabbed for my fancy phone with its super-duper,
high-res camera. The snaps did the glorious scene poor justice—
the majestic, wild geese came out as dots on glare.

I’m watching things carefully this year, not just the multicolor, cachet, window displays on Fifth Avenue and the decorations at the Chelsea Market (where Oreos were invented). I’m going to capture this year
—every intense, emotional second—with that most unreliable, 3D
gadget of all—Memory.
.
.
A song for this:
Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham

POETIC PREFACE:

An inner conflict dust brew
within this scribe, who offers ye to chew
(like sweet treats metaphorically) thee do
tee incumbent, when Doomsday clock
counts down minutes few
according Al Gore rhythm
unstoppably ticking,
when life gets turned to global goo
tenderized viz Doctor Zeus
if not Horton Hears Hoo
then most definitely The Lorax

(couching urgent morals underscored
by satellite photographs
showing melting ice caps or igloo,
which planetary sos, sans in extremis
requires joint effort of Gentile and Jew,
plus every other sectarian credo,
dogma, ethos, faith...knew
clear family, and whatnot
to become linkedin with Linda Loo
yes, we moost not forget

Old MacDonald with his moo
moo there bovine creatures
agedly hobbling along, or new
lee born, cuz juiced one day
per three hundred and sixty five
(six with leap year -
imagine dragons festooned leotard
with brand name Oroblu)
or poor ole Winnie The Pooh
eternally stuck in Rabbit's
hole sum Hutch as a queue

doth loosely form dreaming up and rue
mien hating solution
to eradicate toxins humankind doth spew
into the atmosphere
(burning the midnight oil) true
lee trying to remedy plight
of said bear character,
perhaps unstated message being woo
king in tandem solutions to resolve
wretched condition of world wide web
possible by bridging differences
between me and you, and you, and you...

Earth Day 2021 – Thursday April 22

Every day ought
necessitate reverence towards Gaia
a vibrant living and breathing planet entity
experiencing upon her land and seas.

Bajillion banshees scream ****** ****** methought
upon Biblical (lionized) forebears stalking heads
birthed courtesy accursed beasts hood besought
winds howl across the oblate spheroid
methinks courtesy **** sapiens horror wrought.

Climate change/global warming siren song
Adam event since time immemorial against
sacred covenant doing Mother Nature wrong
April 22nd waning hours warn us King Kong
antithetical, egotistical, & heretical caretakers
over populated quintessential rowdy sinning
rawbit & powdermilk biscuit munching throng.

Antiestablishmentarian gambit voiced, I tootle
(albeit figuratively), and feign playing trumpet
challenging when born with submucous palate
lamely feeble attempt made tinkering with words
aware crushing humanity legacy takes Herculean
effort to implement global revolution, staging and
coaching proselytizers to shine klieg lights where
industrialization tattooed unseemly sights land
once (unimaginably) pristine acres irrevocably
repurposed into grotesque disfigured terra firma.

Fifty one years ago come
(The First Earth Day in April 22nd, 1970)
courtesy Senator ******* Nelson
orchestrated first metaphorical telescoping
lens zooming close
far more horrible than
"fake" special effects we
as collective species
impacted planet harkening
back when nasty, short
and brutish proto humans

mastered steely ironic
mettle to fell one after tree
after another, I need
not axe the question if queasy
induced state imagined
envisioning yourself, née
Pandora's box (purported
inventiveness) suddenly vaulted
and unhinged inkling,
when beastie boys plus goo

goo dolls loosed goods
no longer under lock and key
i.e. raw materials to fashion,
whatever struck fancy
re: innately "gifted"
descendent afforded momentary
recognition (nameless
naked apes) that hit upon idea
way manifold generations
before iconic light bulb lit

western civilization taming
current of (ohm my dog)
flow of electrons to supply
amply charging electricity
countless intervenvening
millennium one after another
survival of the fittest likely
accidentally melded insight
with (then) near infinite
natural resources labored away.

Unbeknownst, when chance
cerebral serendipity gave way
where inchoate deliberation,
how ardent smarts applied today
gave dawn of consciousness
quantum leap launching landlubbers
****** into the seven seas eventually
marshalling routes to unknown,
nevertheless pirated quay
zee whirled wide watery web
long ago hushing nay
saying doubting Thomas
(English muffin chomping chap),
especially at financing
and cost courtesy bourgeoisie
the same old bay...
sic yacht ta yacht ta yacht ta.

caricature sketch of person best known to yours truly

What began as an honest
to goodness attempt
to craft personal truthful profile
evolved into a fictional poem
manifested into the following.

Despite the onslaught of paparazzi,
I (an eccentric kindhearted sexagenarian -
born January xiii, mcmlix
at The Christ Hospital
within Mount Auburn, Ohio)
instantaneously shied, blinked away
from the spot (klieg) lights,
and avoided crowdsource
most of my iv and lx orbitz

round the earth mainly on account
of being gifted with introvertedness
somewhat minimized by bottle fed
powder milk then subsequently
licking, gnawing (actually gumming),
and chomping on biscuits,
which magical and top secret ingredients
(heavily guarded courtesy

Norwegian bachelor farmers)
gave this once painfully shy person
indomitable, formidable,
and creditable courage
to face fearful fixes
such as getting up out of bed
first thing in the morning
and crafting a poem..

Posthumous fame and fortune
will launch then rocket
one veritable unknown
aspiring, inspiring, outgoing
and unflagging wordsmith
(legend in his own mind)
unwittingly slated to shunt
next of kin into the pantheon
of storied poets even feeble attempts

at his mediocre reasonable rhymes
feebly attempting to communicate
a not so stellar existence punctuating
(while dragon coccygeal tailbone pronounced
along the boulevard of broken dreams),
a battle of life waged
against being trumpeted
as some freak of nature
(a controversial incontrovertible

standard compact prodigal son)
birthed courtesy éminence grise
famous prolific father,
who begat him -
unnamed de jure heir
to the family fortune/empire -
longevity of libido potion,
when said parent a centenarian
far beyond (where's the beef)
viz chronological virility age

severely testing scant minority,
when seething hormonal fluid
loosed into chamber of secretes
(think fecund female) and pushing
biological envelope in situ regarding
outer limits when males can still procreate
versus majority doddering, hobbling,
and lobbying along lovely bones,
when their get up and go got up and went
into those twilight zone of years.

Invariably many an older gent
sought to lay claim as doppelgänger
of humble fellow, whose countless progeny
incorporated a zip code unto themselves,
and for an unnamed dollar figure
(one comprising many zeros and commas)
small dollop would be sold to highest bidder.

Meanwhile, or until
that futuristic manifest destiny
I currently sequester myself within
cupboard workspace
within one bedroom man cave
labeled b44 as flickering candlelight
casts dark shadows across the outer limits
of the twilight zone
soon to silently pronounce
the figurative curtain call

on another mundane day,
no different than previous,
nor promising variation
on a theme of ennui
(self quarantine against 10000 maniacs)
following twenty four hour time frame
witnessed by mine feeble scratchings
across the rocky surface doing double duty
as crude table and writing surface
since yours truly lacks
for paper pencil or electronic device.

Lack of formal education
found me forced to teach yours truly
reading, writing, and arithmetic
while I hibernate until the conclusion
of total mortal kombat
allows, enables, and provides me
chance close encounters of the third kind
ideally to be fruitful and multiply
amidst dystopian landscape.