We WOPs respect criminality,
Particularly when it’s organized,
Which explains why any of us
Concerned with the purity of our bloodline
Have such a difficult time
Navigating the river of respectability.
To wit: JOEY GALLO.
WEB-BIO: (According to Bob Dylan)
“Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn in the year of who knows when,
Opened up his eyes to the tune of accordion.”

    “Joey” Lyrics/Send "Joey" Ringtone to your Cell

Joseph Gallo was a celebrated New York City gangster,
A made member of the Profaci crime family,
Later known as the Colombo crime family,
Also known as "Joe the Blond."
That’s right, CRAZY JOE!
One time toward the end of a 10-year stretch,
At three different state prisons,
Including Attica Correctional Facility in Attica, New York,
Joey was interviewed in his prison cell
By a famous NY Daily News reporter named Joe McGinnis.
The first thing the reporter sees?
One complete wall of the cell is lined with books, a
Green leather bound wall of Harvard Classics.
After a few hours mainly listening to Joey
Wax eloquently about his life,
A narrative spiced up with elegant summaries,
Of classic Greek theory, Roman history,
Nietzsche and other 19th Century German philosophers,
McGinnis is completely blown away by Inmate Gallo,
Both Joey’s erudition and the power of his intellect,
The reporter asks a question right outta
The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie:
“Mr. Gallo, I must say,
The power of your erudition and intellect
Is simply overwhelming.
You are a brilliant man.
You could have been anything,
Your heart or ambition desired:
A doctor, a lawyer, an architect . . .
Yet you became a criminal. Why?”

Joey Gallo: (turning his head sideways like Peter Falk or Vincent Donofrio, with a look on his face like Go Back to Nebraska, You ******* Momo!)
“Understand something, Sonny:
Those kids who grew up to be,
Doctors and lawyers and architects . . .
They couldn’t make it on the street.”

Gallo later initiated one of the bloodiest mob conflicts,
Since the 1931 Castellammare War,
And was murdered as a result of it,
While quietly enjoying,
A plate of linguini with clam sauce,
At a table, normally a serene table
At Umberto’s Clam House.
Italian Restaurant Little Italy - Umbertos Clam House (www.umbertosclamhouse.com) In Little Italy New York City 132 Mulberry Street, New York City | 212-431-7545.
Whose current manager --in response to all restaurant critics--
Has this to say:
*“They keep coming back, don’t they?
The joint is a holy shrine, for chrissakes!
I never claimed it was the food or the service.
Gimme a ******* break, you momo!
I should ask my paisan, Joe Pesci
To put your ******* head in a vise.”

The mountain Is an optical illusion
What we normally see
In front of us is a world
Of insecurities from a lifetime
Of forced perspectives
And a veil of fears obscuring
Our true faith & deepest potential
And when we attempt to rise
To live up to what's alive
within us, they say it's delusion
Ugliness planted so deep in the eye
All we see is the negativity
The beauty of our dreams is beyond
Recognition because it was buried alive

The mountain is toxic words,
So many times we've been told
How useless we are
How we were born not to make it
Even the most earnest of efforts
Cannot get us to the top
We've been repeatedly told
That the kid next door
Is better than us because he washes the dishes better and mops the floor
Now your confidence and self esteem has become so bruised because you placed it by the doorway like the mat they step on before they step on the tile floor

The mountain is society
We go to school & work hard
To get good grades but to what end?
Cause sooner or later
Society wants their servants
Who must heal the sick?
They convince you to become a doctor
Who must enforce law and order?
They convince you be a lawyer
Who must educate our children?
They force you to go teach the poor
Souls what you've been taught
So that the culture of conforming
To norms is perpetuated
And society can be at "peace".

But your soul dances to poetry
This they never told you
Your soul sings flawlessly
Like birds in flight in a cloudless sky
On a beautiful summer's day
This they never told you
Instead they keep on preaching about the endless cries on judgment day
You can paint a nation of beauty
All you need to do is just grab hold of a canvass and a brush
This they never told you
All they ever taught you was self-loathing and how to be harsh
On yourself but everyone around you.

The highest mountain, is yourself
You so often want to shift the blame
Because its easier believing
That someone else contributed
To your failure, otherwise admitting the fall would be a shame
For this I don't blame you,
Nor will I shame you
You see we've been told that the worst enemy is out there
So we go through life preparing for war, and spend the rest of our lives searching for HIM, and not find HER because she lives within us
We spoil her rotten because
You cannot conquer
That which you do not understand
And by the time we open our eyes to the real fight, we've already suffered a couple of blows and knocks from life
Grey hair and arthritic limbs cannot guarantee us victory over this fierce and lethal monster that you've become towards yourself

The mountain is nowhere, that's to say NOW-HERE
We look for greatness without
When true greatness lives within
Even the earthly mountain is not as high it appears, the real milestone to be reached, is the one within
So start today and climb this great mountain
To the pinnacle of the self
The climb is strenuous
But the view up there is priceless
All else is but an illusion
The real test is here and now.

Chapter Two

“I think of art, at its most significant, as a DEW line, a Distant Early Warning System that can always be relied on to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.”                Marshall McLuhan  
  
I attended Bucknell University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania because my father was incarcerated at the prison located in the same town.  My tuition subsidized to a large extent by G.I. Bill, still a significant means of financing an education for generations of emotionally wasted war veterans. “The United States Penitentiary (USP Lewisburg)” is a high-security federal prison for male inmates. An adjacent satellite prison camp houses minimum-security male offenders. My father was strictly high-security, convicted of various crimes against humanity, unindicted for sundry others. My father liked having me close by, someone on the outside he trusted, who also happened to be on his approved Visitor List. As instructed, I became his conduit for substances both illicit, like drugs, and the purely contraband, a variety of Italian cheeses, salamis, prepared baked casseroles of eggplant parmesan, cannoli, Baci chocolate from Perugia, in Tuscany, south of Florence, and numerous bottles of Italian wine, pungent aperitifs, Grappa, digestive stimulants and sweet liquors. I remained the good son until the day he died, the source of most of the mess I got myself into later on, and specifically the main caper at the heart of this story.

I must confess: my father scared the **** out of me.  Particularly during those years when he was not in jail, those years he spent at home, years coinciding roughly with my early adolescence.  These were my molding clay years, what the amateur psychologists write off with the term: “impressionable years hypothesis.” In his own twisted, grease-ball theory of child rearing, my father may have been applying the “guinea padrone hypothesis,” in his mind, nothing more certain would toughen me up for whatever he and/or Life had planned for me. Actually, his aspirations for me-given my peculiar pedigree--were non-existent as far as the family business went. He knew I’d never be either a Don or a Capo di Tutti Capi, or an Underboss or Sotto Capo.)  A Caporegime—mid-management to be sure, with as many as ten crews of soldiers reporting to him-- was also, for me, out of the question. Dad was a soldier in and of the Lucchese Family, strictly a blue-collar, knock-around kind of guy. But even soldier status—which would have meant no rise in Mafioso caste for him—was completely out of the question, never going to happen for me.

A little background: the Lucchese Family originated in the early 1920s with Gaetano “Tommy” Reina, born in 1889 in Corleone, Sicily. You know the town and its environs well. Fran Coppola did an above average job cinematizing the place in his Godfather films.  Coppola: I am a strict critic when it comes to my goombah, would-be French New Wave auteur Francis Ford Coppola.  Ever since “One From the Heart, 1982”--one of the biggest Hollywood box office flops & financial disasters of all time--he’s been a bit thin-skinned when it comes to criticism.  So, I like to zing him when I can. Actually, “One From the Heart” is worth seeing again, not just for Tom Waits soundtrack--the film’s one Academy Award nomination—but also Natasha Kinski’s ***: always Oscar-worthy in my book. My book? Interesting expression, and factually correct for once, given what you are reading right now.

Tommy Reina was the first Lucchese Capo di Tutti Capi, the first Boss of All the Bosses. By the 1930s the Luccheses pretty much controlled all criminal activity in the Bronx and East Harlem. And Reina begat Pinzolo who begat Gagliano who begat Tommy Three Finger Brown Lucchese (who I once believed, moonlighted as a knuckle ball relief pitcher for Yankees.)
Three Finger Brown gave the Lucchese Family its name. And Tommy begat Carmine Tramunti, who begat Anthony Tony Ducks Corallo. From there the succession gets a bit crazy. Tony Ducks, convicted of Rico charges, goes to prison, sentenced to life.  From behind bars he presides through a pair of candidates most deserving the title of boss: enter Vittorio Little Vic Amuso and Anthony Gaspipe Casso.  Although Little Vic becomes Boss after being nominated by Casso, it is Gaspipe really calling the shots, at least until he joins Little Vic behind bars.
Amuso-Casso begat Louis Louie Bagels Daidone, who begat the current official boss, Stephen Wonderboy Crea.  According to legend, Boss Crea got his nickname from Bernard Malamud’s The Natural, a certain part of his prodigious anatomy resembling the baseball bat hand-carved by Roy Hobbs. To me this sounds a bit too literary, given the family’s SRI Lexile/Reading Performance Scores, but who am I to mock my peoples’ lack of liberal arts education?

Begat begat Begato. (I goof on you, kind reader. Always liked the name Begato in the context of Bible-flavored genealogy. Mille grazie, King James.)

Lewisburg Penitentiary has many distinguished alumni: Whitey Bulger (1963-1965), Jimmy Hoffa (1967-1971) and John Gotti (1969-1972), for example.  And fictionally, you can add Paulie Cicero played by Paul Scorvino in Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas, not to be confused with Paulie Walnuts Gualtieri played by Tony Sirico from the HBO TV series The Sopranos. Nor, do I refer to Paulie Gatto, the punk who ratted out Sonny Corleone in Coppola’s The Godfather, you know: “You won’t see Paulie no more,” according to fat Clemenza, played by the late Richard “Leave the gun, take my career” Castellano, who insisted to the end that he wasn’t bitter about his underwhelming post-Godfather film career. I know this for a fact from one of my cousins in the Gambino Family. I also know that the one thing the actor Castellano would never comment on was a rumor that he had connections to organized crime, specifically that he was a nephew to Paulie Castellano, the Gambino crime family boss who was assassinated in 1985, outside Midtown New York’s Sparks Steak House, an abrupt corporate takeover commissioned by John Teflon Don Gotti. But I’m really starting to digress here, although I am reminded of another interesting historical personage, namely Joseph Crazy Joe Gallo, who was also terminated “with extreme prejudice” while eating dinner at a restaurant.  Confused? And finally--not to be confused with Paul Muldoon, poetry gatekeeper at The New Yorker magazine, that Irish **** scumbag who consistently rejects publication of my work. About two years ago I started including the following comment in my on-line Contact Us, poetry submission:  “Hey Paulie, Eat a Bag of ****!”

This may come as a surprise, Gentle Reader, but I am a poet, not a Wise Guy.  For reasons to be explained, I never had access to the family business. I am also handicapped by the Liberal Arts education I received, infected by a deluge, a veritable Katrina ****** of classic literature.  That stuff in books rubs off after awhile, and I suppose it was inevitable. I couldn’t help evolving for the most part into a warm-blooded creature, unlike the reptiles and frogs I grew up with.

Again, I am a poet not a wise guy. And, first and foremost, I am a human being. Cold-blooded, I am not. I generate my own heat, which is the best definition I know for how a poet operates. But what the hell do I know? Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon doesn’t think much of my work. And he’s the ******* troll guarding the New Yorker’s poetry gate. Nevertheless, I’m a Poet, not a Wise Guy.  I repeat myself, I know, but it is important to establish this point right from the start of this narrative, because, if you don’t get that you’re never going to get my story.

Maybe the best way to explain my predicament—And I mean PREDICAMENT in the sense of George Santayana: "Life is not a spectacle or a feast; it is a predicament." (www.brainyquote.com), not to be confused with George’s son Carlos, the Mexican-American rock star: Oye Como Va, Babaloo!

www.youtube.com/watch?v...YouTube Dec 20, 2011 - Uploaded by a106kirk1, The Best of Santana. This song is owned by Santana and Columbia Records.

Maybe the best way for me to explain my predicament is with a poem, one of my early works, unpublished, of course, by Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon:

“CRAZY JOE REVISITED”  
        
by Benjamin Disraeli Sekaquaptewa-Buonaiuto

We WOPs respect criminality,
Particularly when it’s organized,
Which explains why any of us
Concerned with the purity of our bloodline
Have such a difficult time
Navigating the river of respectability.

To wit: JOEY GALLO.
WEB-BIO: (According to Bob Dylan)
“Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn in the year of who knows when,
Opened up his eyes to the tune of accordion.

“Joey” Lyrics/Send "Joey" Ringtone to your Cell
Joseph Gallo, AKA: "Joey the Blond."
He was a celebrated New York City gangster,
A made member of the Profaci crime family,
Later known as the Colombo crime family,

That’s right, CRAZY JOE!
One time toward the end of a 10-year stretch,
At three different state prisons,
Including Attica Correctional Facility in Attica, New York,
Joey was interviewed in his prison cell
By a famous NY Daily News reporter named Joe McGinnis.
The first thing the reporter sees?
One complete wall of the cell is lined with books, a
Green leather bound wall of Harvard Classics.
After a few hours mainly listening to Joey
Wax eloquently about his life,
A narrative spiced up with elegant summaries,
Of classic Greek theory, Roman history,
Nietzsche and other 19th Century German philosophers,
McGinnis is completely blown away by Inmate Gallo,
Both Joey’s erudition and the power of his intellect,
The reporter asks a question right outta
The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie:
“Mr. Gallo, I must say,
The power of your erudition and intellect
Is simply overwhelming.
You are a brilliant man.
You could have been anything,
Your heart or ambition desired:
A doctor, a lawyer, an architect . . .
Yet you became a criminal. Why?”

Joey Gallo: (turning his head sideways like Peter Falk or Vincent Donofrio, with a look on his face like Go Back to Nebraska, You ******* Momo!)

“Understand something, Sonny:
Those kids who grew up to be,
Doctors and lawyers and architects . . .

They couldn’t make it on the street.”

Gallo later initiated one of the bloodiest mob conflicts,
Since the 1931 Castellammare War,
And was murdered as a result of it,
While quietly enjoying,
A plate of linguini with clam sauce,
At a table--normally a serene table--
At Umberto’s Clam House.

Italian Restaurant Little Italy - Umberto's Clam House (www.umbertosclamhouse.com)
In Little Italy New York City 132 Mulberry Street, New York City | 212-431-7545.

Whose current manager --in response to all restaurant critics--
Has this to say:
“They keep coming back, don’t they?
The joint is a holy shrine, for chrissakes!
I never claimed it was the food or the service.
Gimme a ******* break, you momo!
I should ask my paisan, Joe Pesci
To put your ******* head in a vise.”

(Again, Martin Scorsese getting it exactly right, This time in  . . . Casino (1995) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0112641/Internet Movie Database Rating: 8.2/10 - ‎241,478 votes Directed by Martin Scorsese. With Robert De Niro, Sharon Stone, Joe Pesci, James Woods. Greed, deception, money, power, and ****** occur between two  . . . Full Cast & Crew - ‎Trivia - ‎Awards - ‎(1995) - IMDb)

Given my lifelong, serious exposure to and interest in German philosophy, I subscribe to the same weltanschauung--pronounced: veltˌänˌSHouəNG—that governed Joey Gallo’s behavior.  My point and Mr. Gallo’s are exactly the same:  a man’s ability to make it on the street is the true measure of his worth.  This ethos was a prominent one in the Bronx where and when I grew up, where I came of age during the 1950s and 60s.  Italian organized crime was always an option, actually one of the preferred options--like playing for the Yankees or being a movie star—until, that is, reality set in.  And reality came in many forms. For 100% Italian kids it came in a moment of crystal adolescent clarity and self-evaluation:  Am I tough enough to make it on the street?  Am I ever going to be tough enough to make it on the street? Will I be eaten alive by more cunning, more violent predators on the street?

For me, the setting in of reality took an entirely different form.  I knew I had what it takes, i.e., the requisite ferocity for street life. I had it in spades, as they say. In fact, I’d been blessed with the gift of hyper-volatility—traced back to my great-grandfather, Pietro of the village of Moschiano, in the province of Avellino, in the region of Campania, Italia Sud. Having visited Moschiano in my early 20s and again in my late 50s, I know the place well. The village square sits “down in the holler,” like in West Virginia; the Apennine terrain, like the Appalachians, rugged and thick. Rugged and thick like the people, at least in part my people. And volatile, I am, gifted with a primitive disposition when it comes to what our good friend Abraham Maslow would call lower order needs. And please, don’t ask me to explain myself now; just keep reading, *******.  All your questions will be answered.

Great Grandfather Pietro once, at point blank range, blew a man’s head off with a lumpara, or sawed-off shotgun. It was during an argument over—get this--a penny’s worth of pumpkin seeds--one of many stories I never learned in childhood. He served 10 years in a Neapolitan penitentiary before being paroled and forced to immigrate to America.  The government of the relatively new nation--The Kingdom of Italy (1861)--came up with a unique eugenic solution for the hunger and misery down south, south of Rome, the long shin bone, ankle, foot, toes & kickball that are the remote regions of the Mezzogiorno, Southern Italy: Campania, Basilicata, Calabria, Puglia & Sicilia. Northern politicians asked themselves: how do we flush these skeevy southerners, these crooks and assassins down South, how do we flush the skifosos down the toilet—the flush toilet, a Roman invention, I report proudly and accept the gratitude on behalf of my people. Immigration to America: Fidel Castro did the same thing in the 1980s, hosing out his jails and mental hospitals with that Marielista boatlift/Emma Lazarus Remix: “Give us your tired and poor, your lunatics, thieves and murderers.” But I digress. I’ll give you my entire take on the history of Italy including Berlusconi and the “Bunga Bunga” parties with 14-year old Moroccan pole dancers . . . go ahead, skip ahead.

Yes, genetically speaking, I was sufficiently ferocious to make it on the street, and it took very little spark to light my fuse. Moreover, I’ve always been good at figuring out the angles--call it street smarts--also learned early in life. Likewise, for knowing the territory: The Bronx was my habitat. I was rapacious and predacious by nature, and if there was a loose buck out there, and legs to be broken, I knew where to go.
Yet, alas, despite all my natural talents & acquired skills, I remained persona-non-grata for the Lucchese Family. To my great misfortune, I fell into a category of human being largely shunned by Italian organized crime: Mestizo-Italiano, a diluted form of full strength 100% Italian blood. It’s one of those voodoo blood-brotherhood things practiced by Southern European, Mediterranean tribal people, only in part my people.  Growing up, my predicament was always tricky, always somewhat bizarre. Simply put: I was of a totally different tribe. Blame my exotic mother, a genuine Hopi Corn Maiden from Shungopavi, high up on Second Mesa of the Hopi Reservation, way out in northern Arizona. And if this is not sufficiently, ******* nuts enough for you, add to the child-rearing minestrone that she raised me Jewish in The Bronx.  I **** you not. I took my Bar Mitzvah Hebrew instruction from the infamous Rabbi Meir Kahane, that’s right, Meir “Crazy Rebbe” Kahane himself--pronounced kɑː'hɑːna--if you grok the phonetics.

In light of the previously addressed “impressionable years hypothesis,” I wrote a poem about my early years. It follows in the next chapter. It is an epic tale, a biographical magnum opus, a veritable creation myth, conceived one night several years ago while squatting in a sweat lodge, tripping on peyote. I

Amelia, our baby first,
in nine  months have grown a third;
no speech, no talkie,
all she wants is walkie-walkie.

Being our first we naturally debate,
on how best to educate;
dolls for girls and guns for boys,
what nonsense, toys are toys.

Will she a doctor, lawyer or housewife be,
I live long hope to see;
right now she is just naughty,
and breaks the dining cutlery.

Of food she is choosy,
and eats most daintily;
she is chubby and she is fair,
we only lament her lack of hair.

Every now and then a few steps she takes,
tip-toe grace does not a ballerina makes;
like all parents our hopes high burn,
to a swan, our little Amelia turns.

Knowing games played by Fate,
we have decided, now of late;
to take the profit with the loss,
to let nature takes it's course.

The things of value we provide,
the self-life chart she decides;
this happy burden, we dare say,
is gladly borne, day-to-day.

As we look on her behalf,
down life's long and winding path;
we can only say, with a sigh,
sweet dreams and goodnight.

A little girl looks up at her mother,
She says “when I get older,
I want to be a doctor, or a poet,
A dancer, or a pilot,
A lawyer, or an artist,
A designer, or a pianist”.
Her mother tells her sadly,
“Baby, I want you to be happy,
And do all the things I couldn’t possibly,
And be all the things I could never be”.

Lawyers crack down, with a thousand plus hours on studying criminal's-
The paradox of this study, half of the lawyer's and judges are criminal's-

A succesful lawyer is deeply and desperately mourning for his dead wife today. A robber broke into their house yesterday, took their money away and killed his wife who happened to be at home alone watching TV by strangling her to death. He blames God for his wife's terrible death and decides to convert himself to atheism.

A Mother has just got a terrible news this morning. Her son died in war yesterday. She blames God who let this happen and the goverment who sent her son away into battle

Neither of them has the slightest ideas of what would happen in the near future if their wife and son hadn't died.....

The lawyer's wife someday would be so bored of her husband's job that keeps him busy all the time and then start seeing another man. He then would find out about his wife's affair, confront her and after a fierce quarrel **** her by strangling her. After he kills the man his wife has an affair with he then shoots himself as well in the head...

The woman's son would return home on leave immediately  and accidentaly run into a very attractive mid-aged woman . Both would start seeing each other, to the woman's husband's dismay who then would end up killing them both before finally kills himself.

Things happens for reasons....
Life is like a river.... You change its course, it would come three times swifter than it should...

I know it isn't ordinary
Aware it's not necessary
Not a typical routine
And something you may have never seen.

But today is my birthday
Something I do dare to share

Because I remember it well

I am not sure where I was born
Was it in Texas ? Was it Vermont?
Was I raised in Brooklyn County? Or maybe another country

But for sure I remember it well

The street where I lived was amused
Or was it the street of Hermon?
*** I am a little confused
Where I lived after I was born

But I remember it well.

I exchanged messages with ***, the newsy,
Amalia and Dalia, Gallia and Talia
And Peter and Teddy, and Geter and Freddy
I met friends all over.
A poet, a lawyer, nice pictures, and posters
Young friends, sweet babies and also proud mothers

I remember it well

So Happy Birthday to me,

Poor little Peter Hawthorne the first Australian Erin boy




Life was tough for little Peter, you see he struggled day in and day out
You see he was not the family person that his family wanted him to be
And also none of the cool kids wanted to be his friend
Because they thought he was too weird
So young Peter Hawthorne had to settle with a ******* named Kyle
Who might I add is a real sports nerd, and mind you
He looked at fighting at the football as a way of life
And this was the way I will increase my mojo, what a joke
It wasn't really that he got into fights, no every kid does that
It was the fact he got into fights for saying stupid things like
Come on you ****** Norwood team, punch them in the face
And then when the umpire made a decision Kyle disagreed with
He would say, you take that decision back ya stupid umpire
All I will phone my lawyer and have him charge you with assault and battery
Which made no ****** sense at all
And he will invent words, like get off him ya ****** opposition
Or I will take you to the establishary court, and you will be behind bars forever
And Peter Hawthorne really wanted to know what a establishary court is
Kyle would say, it is where this ref and the other team is going if they ******* me
Then a penalty for the opposition from right in front, and Kyle yells out
Why don't you put your glasses on ya stupid ref
Or did you leave them in the coffin with your last fucken life
Ya stupid fucken ***** and Peter let out a little giggle
As if to say that Kyle was the biggest ***** known to man
And when some people started to hassle Kyle
Kyle said, leave me alone ya stupid *****, or I will call the fucken police
And I will, my mummy has a door open just for you two fucken wankers
And yes those dudes bashed him up good
And Peter Hawthorne sat their laughing,
And yes, heaps was coming out of his mind which made his laugh stronger
Like don't trust that Julia Gillard, she belongs in the mental hospital
And that Andrew Barr, he is the biggest ***** of the century
I like Tony Abbott, he will make those young bludgers redundant
Because they are teasing me, I will show them, I will vote for Tony Abbott
And also his words to me were your mad going to college
You should be out working like me and vote for the liberal party
Yes, when I was a boy, ya know Pete
And I stopped him and said, yeah Kyle when you were a boy
I was a boy too, so shut ya fucken gob ya fucken ******
Kyle was angry with Peter and said, I want all my presents I gave you back
You aren't a friend worthy of my gifts,so fucken give them back ya cunk
And Peter laughed at the fact that he said cunk instead of ****
That was so funny, thought Peter
And after the weekend where Peter and brother ditched waiting for Kyle
And went straight to the football, and made Kyle go on the bus by himself
Kyle said to Peter, don't ever do that again ya fucken ******
And Peter said back to him you are a ******, ya liberal ****
And that feud went on for months, and after 10 months
They were friends again, but mind you, Peter wanted out of this friendship
Because he had too much fucken baggage and he said all this to
His other mate, who decided that Peter was too cool for Kyle
And despite the fact that Kyle saw Peter having fun with his new mate
Who was Redmond, Kyle wanted Peter all to himself
And Redmond wanted Peter to gang up on Kyle
In a dark alley, because Peter wanted to rid this evil beast from his life
So he can be a normal person with normal issues
Well, the issues he had after the dark alley incident
Weren't like he imagined, you see Kyle threatening to take him to court
But to this day, he never has, which says the fact, he's all fucken talk
And no action, and Redmond and Peter are the best friends
Two peas in a pod forever, and they are finally rid of ******* Kyle
*******, *******, kyles a little *******, he's a little ******* kid
And the man came up and said he's a man mate
And Peter and Redmond said. He might look like a man, but he's a little baby kid
Peter and Redmond lived happy lives as best friends
And Kyle, Is not with them, and that suits them fine

My lawyer comes in

with a very thick folder --


and I lie in it.

He was always a little strange
Starstruck by his inability to interact with the majority
Blank walls became a canvas
Endless sand dunes
Soaring mountain tops
Became his paradise
An escapee from a pesticide reality
They don't exist out here
Saturating the night with lyrical cursive
A sirens song to those lost at sea
Far removed himself from corporate greed
Even though what an amazing lawyer, under the devil's wing
He could have been
Not all those that wander
Find their way home
Reaching out to brush fingertips over the softness of memory
His thoughts fade into the vast night of oblivion
Seeking refuge and inspiration

If I had a million dollars I would distribute it equally
I have 1096 friends on facebook
I have one friend in real life
I have my family
I have to juggle my family and my friend
My friend is my future wife
My problems are real
Going where the water tastes like wine
Born wealthy, my parents are divorced
I'm a human being
I'm a biologist
I'm a lawyer
I'm a doctor
I'm a helper
I'm anything you want me to be
I'm a Poet
I don't need a degree to see how much I shine.
If this world is hell I'm going to **** it in the ***.

Magnificence blasted

I came to this with a title and then formed an Idea then got out the heavy hitter books all founding fathers thought it would be
A good touch to reconnect with our country and it history at this time of the year well it didn’t proceed that way I did find the very
Word that serves as the title in G. Campbell Morgan’s book an exposition of the Bible don’t get excited I will just use that to set the
tone and it will give you a head start on what I want to deal with the place where life is at odds with our peace and well being He starts
the first chapter of Job now he is one that can at least give us a great example it’s all about winning getting the results we need instead
of the pain of failure (In magnificence of argument and beauty of style this book is one of the grandest in the divine library the story
of Job is presented in dramatic form) I want this to serve two purposes give understanding to the point we all can use these stories
to make us victors and in a very small way have a readable escape from drudgery or outright problems to that end I will start at this
Point I already wrote about the Dutch businessman who got fed up chucked it all started a journey to circle the globe by human
Power alone so to that end he made a boat that by pedaling and that alone would be what would propel him through great waters and
Grand adventures but for this one were going to stay on land I did meet a eastern traveler years ago from New York he was on this side
Of Shelbyville his ultimate goal was the west coast I think he had been at it a little over a month and he was on horseback we talked
but way to briefly to be able to use it here so go to one I know a little more about Jack Kerouac he was in that idea and wrote the
Book on the road first problem the guy had very bad language steeped in the sixties drug culture an iconic figure of the beat
Generation but he was human as we are and when you get down to the soul you catch the part I want to use this is going to play
Like an old family recipe that is hardly readable and the family is the human family but Jack was a writer a full blown saga that had to
Be read had to be listened to a solitary seeker a poor outward drifter who was deeply lonely man a sad melancholy drifter one writer has
Said “and if you read the book closely you see that sense of loss and sorrow swelling on each page” another penned why Kerouac
Matters he matters because he is one of us he ran the course with large gains and ultimately ended with his magnificence blasted.
Taking the cue from Jack I will take you on the road to another life of magnificence Steven Beckerman he was a neurosurgeon I met
And worked for well his wife Sandy she was such a tragic figure she was so fragile high strung would be a good description if you didn’t
Know better you would think she saw the future the first blow to this couple was there pricey home was gutted by fire everything was
Replaceable but the two Doberman guard dogs and another dog that was their family they were childless but before this fire Steven
Was not a snob but he was only a few degrees higher than Sandy on the fragile scale he had these beautiful hands he seemed to
Always be guarding them he would walk in the back of the house down by the fence always faraway I’m sure he was thinking of
The patient and the operation that waited on him at the hospital he had a vulnerability he entered other peoples troubled places and
Gave them back their lives but his own he couldn’t seem to walk divided it was all their concerns and needs.Their dream was to leave
The Bay area where neither was happy and go to the southwest New Mexico where people were laid back the pace was slower
Then the fire happened they weathered that resumed life then Steven was near home a car accident this wonderful gifted surgeon
Was left a paraplegic he went to the bedroom placed the gun between his legs then with those fingers who helped so many others
Pulled the trigger on the shotgun his magnificence was ended he couldn’t overcome the reality and fact of his situation he could have
Became a teacher so many things could have been we need to take from this a lesson of guarding our mind and heart we don’t know
What the future holds if only Steven would have measured his worth kept and made a powerful ally as Job had, his magnificence
Would still be shinning today to finish up the last piece talked about Yvette being shot with Zack in the desert her injuries included
Right side nerve damage a metal plate in her head that prevents her from getting private health care we heard what her dad said about
The Grisly listen to the wise words of her mother her mother said you have to mourn the person you were before up to the time of the
shooting that person is gone you need to turn and start a new life she did that as much as possible started out to do sports casting found
It totally unsatisfactory changed to law and now is a lawyer and victims advocate she said she never tells her story to her clients but
She has a compassion for them she found her way through giving and serving others to keep her magnificence stellar.

By Hell or high water I will have my say
he screamed as he parted the red faced array
this court is a farce and these lies not worth hearing
as he upturned the tables to riotous cheering
take note I implore you of nothing here said
and strike from your minds that the victim is dead
too true that they beat him and his body broke
but the story their telling is nought but a joke
they read him no rights no lawyer was sought
and his confession forget it it was paid for and bought
The witness their calling as since run away
and all of their evidence is merely hear say
so nothing and no one to here prove thier case
just look with your own eyes at this utter disgrace
they've stripped him and whipped him and all without cause
so just for one moment please won't you just pause
Think very clearly twelve wise men and true
just think that tomorrow this man could be you
so do not convict him for that's what they seek
show some compassion as he did the meek
if you must condemn him remember just this
he was only a scape goat sold out with a kiss
guilty I knew it you folk are all mad
you've taken away the one chance this man had
so take him and **** him for I wash my hands
in the blood of the innocent Lord of this land

Dear Carlos: Poet & One Man Band,

have heard these words so many times,
always bemused, trace~smile appearing,
but this time, it hit me like a Blue Mountain
extra hot, micro~window-waving cup of java Jamaican,
that is me, this was me, always, even before
I knew how to poem to music that I had always
head-heard, before I understood that these,
my songs were soul~pieces escapees, my…legatees

I leave them them in puzzle form, surely a piece,
or three missing, but no matter, each piece an
individual composition, standing alone, but the
big picture no one will ever see, understand but
that is the poet’s audience, his own one man band,
no bandwagon attached, a solitary figure quiet
contented with his disconnected discontentment,
a lifetime spent in refining, defining…refinishing

2 poem themes crisscrossed cross in my head,
interweaving themselves instead of becoming
two cells, one split apart, I call this process ruefully
reverse me~mitosis, blending that coffee with
a quarter cup of white milky, leaving me a caramel
colored confection, perfect in unity of trinity, that
combined cuppa plus my insides warmed, cozied,
the heat combined with the fire inside to write…one more

on the “two-to-write list,” in the “draft”y attic chamber,
were two titles, twins, now conjoined; the first, an
expose of why I choose to write these poems, and
the other, why I have a life of few friends, the few
chosen ones; the inherent conceptualizations differ but
cross the same forests and deserts, hid in my own Northwest Territory, rugged and inhospitable, where to survive, it required 
accepting lonely solitude, with a ragged welcome, & an honest mirror

an unequivocal, no equivocation permit, that telling yourself grand lies was pointless because you were a criminal on trial, prosecutor, defense lawyer, judge  and jury of your, ha ha, peers all rolled into one, there will never be a higher court wanting to grant an appeal, what is…well, is; a sad bliss but after decades of trial and many errors, wonderful and awful partnerships; it was modestly
perfected, dis-satisfyingly…satisfying

this goes on too long, like an intolerable avoidance of
answering, there, a phony confessional declarative; the whys un~provided, so fall back on that all encompassing
defense of temporary insanity that was locked in those
self-same sealed cells, carriers of my tainted DNA,
looking like bagels~donuts with holes, no, voids,
a central, air pocket of emptiness, with no surface to fill full,
or to adhere to, a drifter, an observer, never, a full participant

these empty holes, were just fried dough, sugar coated,
a fleeting life~lies of no substance, that I’ve spent
a lifetime trying to fill with worth, and I’ve written a few
moments of kindness, unqualified unreserved loving, but
too few to justify my existence to myself! That’s what
happens when you judge yourself, no defense strategy
can succeed, the fight is fixed, but I write on vaingloriously
hoping that there is yet, a flawless poem waiting within,
that a one man band, can both play and enjoy…

fav poets: Whitman, Hafez, Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Pradip and so many countless others on this site…

Court has commenced
Everyone is in court and the Jury is all set to begin
Grandmas Lawyer’s is ready
Santa is representing himself holding steady
The Judge has entered the court and the proceedings give begin in the gravel
Grandma is on the witness stand and sworn in
The Prosecutor asked Grandma to identify Santa in the room, and she points on the right
Grandma gives her testimony on what happened on the day in question
I had Egg Nog with a touch of Alcohol for the Winter cold for warmth before going out
Grandma explained as she walking, she was caught by surprise and run over by Santa’s Reindeers and Sleigh
The Prosecutor then responds to Grandma that she wasn’t alert in her right mind
Grandma’s Lawyer responds with an outburst bullying the witness
Judge responds with over ruled
The Prosecutor asks Grandma, Did you hear any jingle or bells in warning?
Grandma abruptly responded with NO
The Prosecutor then responds with, Grandma, I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, “You said you had Egg Nog with Alcohol to keep warm
If you were drinking that meant you were probably unstable
Where were you going?
Grandma stated, I was going to the store to pick up food and Soda’s for the Family get together on Christmas
The Prosecutor reminded that there were no witnesses and just you in the circumstance
You wasn’t sober, have no idea into whether you were run over by Santa’s Reindeers or a car
The Hospital records indicate that you were in fact intoxicated
There is no evidence that proves Santa and his Reindeer are at fault
It is now Santa’s turn to question Grandma
Do you have any personal feelings against Santa?
Grandma abruptly suggested, NO
Your remarks seem to state, that you are the one in question
Intoxication
Santa stated, I don’t drink, and always remain sober at all times
The shoe now is on the other foot
The Judge asks the Jury to deliberate their verdict
The Jury made their verdict as Santa and his Reindeers are innocent
There was no doubt because of strong evidence
Grandma needs to understand to be sob er and alert when going out
At the moment, appraisal from everyone in the court, but of course, Grandma was upset with the verdict
Grandma has a Drinking bout
Santa was cleared of all charges
Judge’s Gravel
Court Adjoined

I have this dream that I'm a failed 1940's housewife.
And I can't get this image out of my mind.

I swear I left the iron on,
The sink is overflowing,
The roast it burning,
The twins are crying,
The washing machine is pouring out suds.
And my husband gets home....
It's a mess.

He tries to put me in my place,
Apparently I must be submissive.
He tries to **** me in the kitchen
To prove his possession of me.
I yell and scream and
When he doesn't stop....
The knives were just.....
Too close to my end of the counter.

My lawyer pleads insanity.
I just plead.

Coca - The name of the planet where the story takes place.

Morphine - The name of the city where the story takes place.

Abby White - A ******* who lives in ***** Alley.

Willie Dun - A politician and a lawyer in the city of Morphine.  Willie Dun is Honey Bee's boss.

Honey Bee - The Secretary and one of the many lovers of Willie Dun.

Name of the streets in the city of Morphine
******* Boulvard
Corrupt Avenue
***** Alley
SlutVill Road
Gangster Street
Hoodlum Drive
Needle Road
Addict Street
****** Avenue
**** Street
**** Lane
East Ecstasy Street
***** Square
Lustful Lane
Revenue Avenue
Killer Road

Written by Keith Edward Baucum

On August 8, 2017,  
by the Gregorian calendar,  
the weather in Chicago was awesome, totally chill.  
Dusk was settling in.  
Night was taking over from day.  
A cool breeze carried lake moisture,  
filling everything from edge to edge.  
Trees rustled their leaves like crumpled paper.  
Over the horizon, near a Target store,  
the sun faded, slowly dipping out of sight—  
darkness was creeping in to take its place.  
A black squirrel darted across the lawn by the park entrance.  
A bit deeper in, down in a ravine thick with wild berry bushes,  
a small, timid bunny hid.  
By the dumpster, fenced in with wooden slats,  
a sneaky raccoon was loitering with nothing to do.  
At the intersection, by the traffic light pole,  
someone’s engine screeched and sped off.  
Like I said, it was getting dark everywhere—  
night was rolling in.

Right then, Oliver, the cat,  
leaped onto the wooden fence,  
plopped down, letting his cocky tail dangle,  
twitched his whiskers, and stared at the sky.  
A full moon hung up there.  
Oliver squinted,  
opened his mouth wide,  
and swallowed it whole!

In the woods, not far from the city,  
wolves looked up and froze in shock.  
“How are we supposed to howl at the moon,” they said,  
“if it’s not there where it’s supposed to be?”  
They huddled up,  
sighing and grumbling,  
then wrote a notice  
and pinned it to every pine tree:

-------------------

Whoever brings back the moon  
and teaches that cat a lesson,  
we’ll give you some chickens  
swiped from Old Man Johnson’s farm.  
We’ve done this before, no scam here.  
Look, we’re attaching  
feathers from the chickens we nabbed  
to prove we mean business.  

The Wolves

P.S. Need eggs? Talk to Frankie the ferret.  
He’s always sniffing around Johnson’s farm like he owns the place,  
sneaks into the coop weeknights from 10 p.m. till dawn,  
and comes highly recommended by Rusty the fox!

The chaos that followed was unreal!  
Word of this spread like wildfire across the globe!  
It got so bad you couldn’t step outside—  
every passerby was trying to nab a cat, any cat,  
to trade with the wolves for a couple of stolen chickens.  
Who knows how this madness would’ve ended  
if the U.S. government hadn’t stepped in?  
They sent the cops after Oliver,  
cuffed his paws,  
locked him in a glass cage,  
and shipped him off to The Hague  
to face an international tribunal as a criminal mastermind.

In The Hague, they grilled Oliver for a whole year,  
then finally set a trial date,  
inviting every Tom, ****, and Harry to show up.  
They assigned him a lawyer—Sly Fox.  
Judges in black robes sat smugly at the bench.  
Guards with rifles hauled in Oliver’s cage.  
The prosecutor, defense, and jury took their seats.

The prosecutor spoke first.

Prosecutor:  

Oliver the cat is a clear and present danger to society.  
He’s charged with stealing the moon!  
His entire life led up to this heinous crime.  
I’m sure everyone’s dying to hear his story.

Sly Fox:  

Objection!  
Oliver’s past has nothing to do with this case.

Judge:  

Overruled.

Prosecutor:  

The defendant was born into an average family.  
Nothing hinted he’d turn into a ****.  
At his baptism, they named him Oliver.  
He was a sweet, cuddly kitten, went to school,  
acted like a good little Christian.  
But that didn’t last long—just a few months.  
Soon, girls and their parents started complaining.  
He couldn’t keep his paws to himself!  
The school kicked him out, his mom gave up on him,  
and nobody’s ever seen his dad.  
At night, he turned to petty street crime,  
and by day, he was hustling:  
scavenging city dumpsters for food scraps  
and selling them as “gourmet imports” wherever he could.  
From a young age, he showed a knack for shady leadership!  
Instead of doing his civic duty—catching mice—  
he teamed up with them.  
Under his command, gangs of ten to fifteen mice  
ambushed lone women at bus stops,  
and Oliver made off with their purses.  
Tons of cell phones, makeup, and credit cards passed through his paws.  
When he tried cashing out one of those cards,  
he got caught  
and sent to a reform shelter—basically juvie.  
Think he turned his life around there?  
Fat chance!  
In the shelter, he converted to Islam!  
Nothing wrong with that,  
but he only did it to blend in with the other inmates,  
who were mostly Muslim.  
He gained their trust,  
then started corrupting them—selling them bacon,  
smuggled in by his mouse cronies from the outside!  
Thanks to his cute face and fluffy tail,  
Oliver didn’t stay locked up long.  
A girl named Annie adopted him,  
falling for his meows and purrs.  
At first, he planned to bolt,  
but then figured he could run his scams better  
as a “well-mannered house cat.”  
Without telling his shelter buddies,  
Oliver converted to Judaism—playing the Jewish card to expand his market.  
Soon, he trademarked “NOT-BACON,”  
and his sales skyrocketed.  
When he diversified his dumpster menu  
and started frying bacon (dyed with stolen makeup),  
his business blew up.  
His little gang soon became  
an international crime syndicate!  
Oliver got canadian citizenship  
and started jet-setting like a maniac!  
He made two trips to Mecca,  
snapped a selfie with the Dalai Lama,  
lit a greasy candle at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem,  
and was spotted in the Vatican three times!  
There, he rubbed against a few cardinals’ legs  
and licked the Pope’s hand.  
Soon, Oliver’s business interests turned political.  
He funneled money into every party and movement,  
yowling loudest at both pro- and anti- rallies.  
Among other things, he was seen in Ukraine’s Donbas region,  
fighting in the conflict—  
nobody could pin down which side,  
probably both.  
And last summer, he was vacationing in Miami!  
What a ****!  
In every city he passed through,  
he conned his way into marriages!  
Look at his wives and kids—  
they’re in the front row, crying and begging for help!  
He doesn’t pay a dime in child support, despite his wealth!  
And to top it all off,  
in August 2017,  
with the help of Squirrel Sally as a lookout  
and Raccoon Ricky keeping watch,  
Oliver climbed onto the dumpster fence in his backyard  
and ATE THE MOON!

We still haven’t figured out the bunny’s role in this crime ring.  
Nobody’s seen him.  
Oliver needs to be locked up for good—or worse.

Judge:  

I’ll now give the floor to the defendant’s attorney, Sly Fox.

Sly Fox:  

Oliver should walk free!  
The moon just fell into his mouth when he yawned.  
He’s not a criminal—he’s a victim!  
He nearly choked!  
He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.  
It happens to everyone.  
Come on, he couldn’t have been where he wasn’t supposed to be.  
There’s nothing to discuss.  
Oh, and by the way—he’s not a cat, he’s a she-cat.  
Those kids? Not his.  
This trial should be thrown out  
because the charges are nonsense.  
Here’s his statement  
demanding a gender change.

We can’t let the global elite  
trample on the rights of those who are different!  
No to injustice!

(The courtroom erupted, chanting:  
“Free Lady Oliver!”)

Judge:  

Please, settle down.

Prosecutor:  

To prove this crime,  
we reached out to the global scientific community.  
Sadly, most bailed:  
Hawking pleaded disability,  
Dawkins said he was too busy,  
Perelman played dumb to dodge us,  
Geim and Novoselov told us to get lost,  
Feynman reminded us he’s been dead for years.  
Only Neil deGrasse Tyson stepped up—  
he said, “Sure, why not?”  
So, I’m thrilled to give him the floor.

Neil deGrasse Tyson:  

Ladies and gentlemen, this is…  
a total mess!  

I hate to break it to you—  
trust me, I’m not thrilled about this—  

YOU’RE ALL NUTS!  

I’ve been saying this for years,  
on the internet, on radio, on TV:  

GOD DOESN’T EXIST!  

HE’S NOT REAL!  

It’s scientifically proven.  
Stop kidding yourselves!  

(A court assistant hands Tyson a scrap of paper.)  

—Oh, my bad, looks like I’m here for something else.  
Let’s see… “August eighth…” hmm… “in a ravine…”  
Nah, we can skip that.  
What’s with the bunny, squirrel, and raccoon?  
Oh, here we go:  
“…ate the moon while sitting on a fence.”  
What a tragedy.  
So, what do you want from me?  

Prosecutor:  
We’d like you to tell us what happened to the moon.  

Tyson:  
To who?  

Prosecutor:  
The moon.  

Tyson:  
Ohhh, the moon! Got it.  
It’s gone.  

Sly Fox:  
Is there scientific evidence for this?  

Tyson:  
Weird question. There’s tons.  
Here’s one example:  

On the evening of August 8, 2017,  
the weather was perfect.  
I was chilling on my porch,  
sipping a beer, nice and slow.  
I decided to check out the moon through my refractor telescope.  
The moon was just a few meters from perigee,  
hanging out between Sagittarius and Aquarius,  
all cratered up, covered in regolith.  
Its librations were normal, within the tilt of its orbit.  
Everything was standard, beautiful.  
Then I ran out of beer,  
so I stepped away from the eyepiece,  
went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerating gizmo,  
grabbed another bottle,  
threw on a robe on my way back—  
it was getting dark and chilly, and I was just in my boxers.  
I look through the telescope again—  
and I see whiskers in the sky!  
Where the moon was just a second ago,  
there’s a hole, and I can see the stars it was blocking.  
I logged everything meticulously  
and sent my observations  
to the global astronomical community.  

Sly Fox:  
Did you get a response?  

Tyson:  
Nah.  
But I didn’t ask for one…  

Judge:  
Do you believe the cat ate the moon?  

Tyson:  
Well…  
That’s completely impossible.  
You see…  
The mass difference…  
How do I explain this simply?  
Cat’s tiny. Moon’s huge.  

Prosecutor:  
But you saw WHISKERS!  

Tyson:  
Yup, I did.  
But I can’t give you a scientific explanation for that.  

Prosecutor:  
Your Honor, esteemed jurors!  
Anticipating these difficulties,  
our investigators decided to help science out  
and present undeniable proof of the crime,  
so no one’s left with any doubts.  
Take a look at this X-ray of the cat.  

(Shows X-ray image of Oliver.)  

Look closely at his stomach.  
As you can see, the moon’s sitting comfortably inside.  
And get this—  
there’s still plenty of room in there.  
Oh, and it’s already a third digested.  

Judge (to Tyson):  
What do you make of this?  

Tyson:  
Well, yeah,  
that looks pretty convincing.  
And the cat looks… alive.  
Can I go home now?  

Judge:  
Sure, go ahead.  
Bet there’s still plenty of beer in your fridge—  
I mean, refrigeration unit.  

(Chuckles.)  

Just a joke, sorry.  

(To the courtroom):  
Alright, we’ve heard from the defense and prosecution.  
Now, I’m calling for FINAL ARGUMENTS  
from both sides,  
where there’s no chance for truce or reconciliation!  
I summon Donald Trump!

Donald Trump (striding forward):  

The moon is the property of ALL American people. Sorry!  
No debate needed!  
I promise to bring it back. I’ll handle it.  
If the moon shows up again—and I’ve always liked it—  
I’m not giving it to anybody.  
I’ll eat it myself.  

Half the American delegation  
erupted in wild cheers,  
while the other half stayed quiet,  
shaking their heads in disapproval.  

Trump:  

The moon theft is a national disgrace.  
It happened under the previous administration—  
let their leader explain himself.  
I’m passing the mic to Barack Obama.  

Obama:  

Good afternoon, thanks for having me.  
The moon is the result of humanity’s collective efforts.  
Its disappearance is a horrific crime.  
This is unacceptable.  
We can’t let it slide.  
We must all unite to ensure this never happens again.  
That’s my stance.  

This time, the other half of the American delegation  
burst into thunderous applause.  
Though the half that cheered for Trump  
hissed and stomped in disapproval.  

With that, the arguments wrapped up.  
The judges stepped out to draft their guilty verdict  
but returned quickly—  
it was all crystal clear to them.  

The head judge cleared his throat and began reading the verdict.  

Judge:  

The cat is guilty on all counts. He’s a THIEF!  
The cat is sentenced to death by hanging,  
while strapped to an electric chair  
hooked up to high voltage.  
Given the notorious resilience of cats,  
the following measures must also be strictly enforced:  
A lethal injection—er, shot—into his paw,  
and three soldier-executioners will fire four bullets each  
from Heckler & Koch ****** rifles  
to ensure the cat finally croaks.  
No mercy for this cat! As they say, tough luck!  
Justice doesn’t tolerate mockery.  
Considering other circumstances,  
the cat is also ordered to pay massive compensation  
and undergo gender reassignment surgery.  
He’s owed an apology—  
which he’ll receive while serving a life sentence  
in the courtroom…  
—Uh, no, sorry—  
While serving a life sentence. Period.  
—In the courtroom…  
—Pardon, what a mess.  
I think I mixed up the pages.  
(To his assistant)  
Is this right?  

(Adjusts glasses and continues reading.)  

In the courtroom,  
he must be immediately released—  
so he doesn’t suffer,  
and everyone walks away happy.  

(Looks up at the room.)  

I hope I didn’t skip anything and read it all.  
Since the points of this verdict  
contradict each other,  
they should be carried out in any order.  
The form doesn’t matter—it’s the substance that counts.  
You can’t fool Justice.  
Don’t take us for fools, and we won’t take anyone else for fools.  
The goal is to restore fairness and punish evil.  
I’m confident we’ve punished and restored,  
even if it took tremendous effort.  
Long live the adversarial judicial process!  
The cat, as they say, is toast—because the moon’s no mouse.  

Everyone turned to look at Oliver’s cage—  
but THE CAT WAS GONE.

The guards, armed with rifles and pistols,  
rolled their eyes in confusion, muttering into their radios,  
as if asking someone how this could’ve happened,  
but no answers came.  
Meanwhile, Sly Fox, the lawyer,  
slipped through the crowd of spectators toward the exit  
and hasn’t been seen since.  

From the start, he’d figured  
this case was a lost cause and Oliver had gone too far.  
So, keeping his cool,  
he decided  
to bribe the guards with Bitcoin,  
so they’d act all shocked and bewildered  
while letting Oliver slip out of the courtroom.  

At first, the guards were outraged by the offer.  
“Stealing the moon is a heinous crime!” they said.  
“People are suffering! We’re not letting this cat go, no way!”  
But Sly Fox countered their objections:  
“You won’t get in any trouble for this!”  
And just like that, they agreed.  
And, true enough, they faced no consequences.  

As for Oliver, he bolted out of the courthouse,  
called an Uber, zipped to the airport,  
snuck into the luggage compartment of a plane,  
wormed his way into the cockpit,  
hopped into the pilot’s seat, fired up the engines,  
deployed the ***** and all the fancy gizmos,  
and flew back home to Chicago to his owner, ANNIE!!!

--------------------------------------------

Little Annie, smart and sweet!  
Go to sleep, it’s dark outside.  
Mom’s getting mad, she’s had enough—  
tucking us in’s no fun anymore.  

Hop into bed, make a cozy little nest!  
Look—out the window, past the curtains,  
see the moon floating above the horizon?  
Well, that moon—it’s NOT REAL.  

It’s staring at us, all suspicious-like!  
NASA engineers painted it on  
a plaster ball, coated with shiny paint,  
and launched it into orbit by Ken Harris.  

Every kid from Mississippi to the Yukon knows it.
Every parent, every scientist—
Einstein, Galileo,
Every teacher, every critter in the woods—
bunnies, raccoons, even that smug squirrel,
Every boy and girl, every politician, every judge — all know it.
You and I know it -

that the real moon—
the one that blazed in the night sky,
the one that lit up the world—
well, last August,
right between sunset and sunrise,
in front of everyone and everywhere,
with his big mouth wide open, -

IT WAS GULPED BY OLIVER THE CAT.

There he is, lounging on the chair, licking his chops, the charmer—  
purring and smacking like a pro.  
Be careful with him: give him a finger,  
and he’ll chomp your arm up to the elbow.  
But don’t blame him. He’s just a cat,  
not one to fret over boring morals.  
When something floats right into your jaws,  
it’s hard to say no.  
I’m no different—I grab what I can,  
hold tight to what I snag,  
and I’m not throwing stones at that cat,  
lest they come flying back.  

I’m drifting off with you, not thinking of a thing,  
already half-asleep, unsure of what’s what:  
is it night finally chasing day away,  
or day swapping places with night?  
I’m stumbling through this sleepy haze,  
can’t make sense of it all—  
did Oliver really gobble up the moon,  
or did the moon swallow us all?  
And now, tilting its head just a bit,  
it gazes down, full and satisfied, on the sleeping city.  
Sleep now, my little bug, I love you  
because I’m REAL.  

We’ll snooze, we’ll lounge,  
wake up tomorrow and have some fun,  
play with the stolen sunlight,  
say a prayer, make up with friends,  
then change our minds and bicker,  
rejoice in life—  
because it’s OURS,  
and we’ll shout it loud—IT’S HERE!  
Look, the Creator’s got the whole sky held hostage:  
where’d He swipe all this for our sake?  
So let’s thank Him for the light, the water,  
for our daily bread, for Wi-Fi,  
for what we have and what we don’t,  
for the tiniest sliver  
of what’s left of the moon,  
for the dark of night, for the blue of the sky,  
for the gifts of life, for the losses of death,  
for the pile of temptations and trials.  
Let’s thank Him for it all.  
Amen.  

And for that sly cat, too—  
who we’ll scratch behind the ears, shake a fist at, sigh over,  
and then, finally, go to bed.  

How much more of this nonsense can we take?  
This story’s worn me out.  

School’s tomorrow.  

GOOD NIGHT!

Those halcyon days of yore
Lost forever like Lenore
And Leda and her godly swan
Forever come, forever gone.
Rough beasts in their hour slouch
But to flop upon the couch,
While memory mixes with desire
In the soul's broke-down empire.
Behold the smile of Ozymandias
(Do you wonder who he is?)
The preserver and destroyer?
Or maybe an ambitious lawyer?
Or the fearful handful of dust
That we wish we didn't trust?
Meanwhile the ominous moving finger,
Of truths unalterable the bringer,
Writes and then moves on,
Bitter tears to spawn.
Then there was the heel weak
That didn't get dipped in the creek
And anger over loss that prods
Both loving men and watchful gods.
The skull you hold--alas poor who?
Keep it cool, I knew him too,
Him and his considerable jest--
Some among us are so blessed.
Now in his grave he rests indeed
Where all our paths, alas, must lead;
Except, perhaps, for Humbert Humbert
(Remember that salacious old pervert?)
Scheming to get with his nymphette
In ways impossible to forget?
Outside at night J.J. compares streams
One more sibilant, or so it seems
And discusses Plumtree's potted meat
Ending up with "Yes, oh Yes my sweet".
Aroma from the petite madeleine
Reaches to where recollections begin
Of magnificent asparagus spears
And lesser events of long past years.
But for all that, for every bit of that, Stan
A man is still every bit a man
So get it together and get off the can
And make yourself a brand new plan:
The glowing time of midwinter spring
Has always been its own kind of thing
Don't be a gentleman in that good night
Get down with the program and put up a fight.
Come out strong like a red, red rose
And keep on punching until it snows.

"Don't be depressed if you don't make."
"Don't be surprised if it's not as fun as you expected."
"Don't be mad if you don't get it."
"It's very hard for anyone to be successful in that kind of thing."

So life goes on and I don't bother trying to make it,
I'm not enthusiastic about it being fun at all
I don't try for jobs, that way I won't get them
Success is difficult, so why give it a shot?

There's so many thing I wanted to try
But I feel it might be outlandish
So I just remain here paralyzed
My ambitions break on site, and I can't stand it.

I want to be a lawyer, but they're not making money
I want to try comedy, but what's the point
I want to travel the world, but so did so many others
Take singing lessons, but my signings annoying.

I want good grades, but somethings holding me back
I want ambition but that's something I lack
I want to have that mindset but it's been offset
Please someone give my dream-chasing back

I should be studying, But the tests are really tough!
and my grades have shown I've failed much before
I want to pick myself up, and brush myself off
I'm more comfortable sitting on than falling to the floor

2/5/13, 6:35 pm

Now there is a thing called
"left and right side brain" dominance
Left side being an organized filter of OCD,
And the right side being very scattered and street smart
But I am 100% completely 50% of each side of the brain exactly
with certain times in my life
I am very OCD
hence the perfect placement of the bubble open the sheet of bubble rap
But with life,
I want to be an event planner,
lawyer,
book writer,
airplane attendant,
anything special
hence the way this bubble wrap has many uses
I do take it as my purpose in life to protect and care for others
So throw me around,
put me in a box,
step on me,
wether im here for your amusement or for comforting reasons,
I'll take great pride in being used by you
For that is how my anxiety has consumed me
I. Am. Bubble wrap.

Whenever I'm around my family,
I get this low kind of feeling.

My family is full
with the kind of people
that become vps,
investment bankers,
nurses,
lawyers.

me:
little ****-head
that smokes ****,
calls himself
"a writer",
and doesn't like to have
long conversations
about his future.


I am not one of them,
I am not a black sheep, or a black pharmacist,
or a black lawyer.

I am something
that wants to become
something,
when I am unsure
of what that something
is.

A continual
rebirth of somethings
likening myself
to God
with so much
internal creation.

This is malignant
to my family's ideals
of self-assuredness
and placement,
brutal placement
in America.

Erik
Eruch
uh
How do you spell it?
Stephanie on the stereo
with Sophia ******
stains on the sheets
I still don't know your name is
what?

Erik
Eruch
uh
How do you spell it?
K dot
G dot
com
But there are cookies
on the paper.
Wipe up the crumbs
I thought cookies were coming
Well check you receipts.

Got a lawyer?
Got a broker?

Erik
Eruch
uh
How do you spell it?
Timothy
or timmy
No, not tommy
I'm Tim.
Sacrificing monsters, I started
as him. It. Clown. Bonkers.
Check the roster I'm no mobster. Lawless.
Flawless i'm not.
Scars on this and that
knee.
Broken shoulder I'm holding in my ***. you.
S. S. Mathematical  difference.
Its a distance but I will be there

Already over the sea from her old spouse she comes,
the blonde goddess whose frosty wheels bring day.
Why do you hurry, Aurora? Hold off, so may the birds
shed ritual blood each year for Memnon's shade.
Now it's good to lie in my mistress's tender arms;
if ever, now it's good to feel her near.
Now drowsiness is richest, the morning air is cool,
and birds sing shrilly from their tender throats.
Why do you hurry, dreaded by men and dreaded by girls?
Draw back your dewy reins with your crimson hand.
The sailor marks the stars more clearly before you rise,
not raoming aimlessly across the sea;
the traveller, though weary, arises when you come,
and the soldier sets his savage hand to arms;
you're first to see the farmers wield their heavy hoes
and to call slow oxen under the curving yoke;
you rob boys of their sleep and give them over to schools,
where tender hands must bear the savage switch;
and you send reckless fools to pledge themselves in court,
where they take ruinous losses through one word;
the lawyer and the pleader take no delight in you,
for each must rise and wrangle with new torts;
and you ensure that women's chores are never done,
calling the spinner's hands back to her wool.
All this I'd bear; but who would bear that girls must rise
at dawn, unless himself he has no girl?
How many times I've wished Night would not yield to you,
the stars not fade and flee before your face!
How many times I've wished the wind would smash your wheels,
your steeds would stumble on a cloud and fall!
Jealous, why do you hurry? If your son is black,
it's since his mother's heart is that same color.
How I wish Tithonus could still tell tales of you:
no goddess would be more disgraced in heaven.
Since he is endless eons old, you rise and flee
at dawn to the chariot the old man hates,
but if some Cephalus were lying in your arms,
you'd cry out, 'O run slowly, steeds of night! '
Why should this lover pay, if your husband withers with age?
Was I the matchmaker who brought him to you?
Remember how much sleep was given to her loved youth
by Luna - and she's beautiful as you.
The father of gods himself, to see you all the less,
joined two nights into one for his desires.
I'd finished my complaint. You could tell she'd heard: she blushed;
and yet the day rose at its usual time.

You tried taking us down but you missed
I tried but I really can't put up with this

Your hair, your eyes
your face, your lies
your breathing
it's annoying me

you say you're sorry
it doesn't show
you tell your story
but we all know

it ain't true
so here's what we're gonna do

we'll turn on the black light
so they can see your stains
it's high time that I fight
and clear up my name
go and look pathetic for the rest of your days
but under the black light we all know that you're fake

you tried to fool us but it didn't work
and you tried seeking sympathy but it only got worse

you spin your lies
like you're spider
you twist the truth
just like a lawyer

but we know you now
and this is how it's gonna go down

we'll turn on the black light
so they can see your stains
it's high time that I fight
and clear up my name
go and try to make us look as bad as you could
but I assure you you'll miserable for good

i was baptized after
god had given me
reason and sight,
thought and perspective,

unlike the babes we give
bombastic destiny shortly
after birth

i had a priest
chewed tobacco
spit it in a coca cola can
i stared in disbelief
he handed me a bible
“you tell me where in there
it says I can’t chew”

the me now, wishes the me then,
would’ve handed the book back
and asked;

“why are all the writers men?
do women know nothing of god?”

that priest was defrocked
his wife, mother of five,
found the skin and liquor
of another man alluring

the archdiocese
frowns on these things,
chewing aside

i had a bishop
he ordained me
blessed me subdeacon
i lit his robe on fire,
on accident
he forgave me,

then he disappeared from his post,
according to more blessed folks,
he’d been teaching faith askew,
church dogma was fed to the dogs,
the wine and bread to humans
trying to survive with
dignity

his church name was
bishop innocent
ironic, i know

i dreamed of priestly robes too,
a liturgy to the masses
delivered with rapture and passion
thought i’d turn the tide
make a difference
for god, for good

then god died
in a room of hypocrisy
full of self-important men

what excuses have we conjured?
for war?
for violence?
for power? For
white over black?
white over brown?
white over yellow?
male over female?

other than,
god willed it? god ordained it?
the devil made me do it!
for, isn't the devil
just an angry god?

sure we say…
democracy is under threat,
freedom is under siege,
capitalism is just,
they got what they deserved,
******* will burn,
arabs are killers,
women are weak,
the poor are stupid,
men are strong

what we really mean is -
god wills it

that invisible hand
we slap each-other
around with

a  muppet,
a clown deity
we parade around,
a spiritual lawyer with
hidden fees against your soul

i was baptized after
god had given me
reason and sight,
thought and perspective

it didn’t work out so well
for god