Could be I’m on a mission:
Convince the entire world
I am the World's Greatest Living
English Language poet;
Of course, genius such as mine
Goes generally unrecognized until
The posthumous crowd weighs in.
And yet, wouldn’t it be nice?

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Yes, wouldn’t it be nice?
(The Nobel Prize,
Tribute at the Kennedy Center,
A MacArthur Grant,
The Presidential Medal of Honor,
Reverent BJs from hipster groupies . . .
The Poet Laureate in his vicarage,
Enjoying my sweet twilight celebrity.)

(Cue “Guys & Dolls” soundtrack: “What's in the daily news?
I'll tell you what's in the daily news.”)
23: Beheaded at Nigerian Election Rally!
Amanda Knox Gets Away with ****** Again in Italy!
Kung Pow: Silicon Valley Penisocracy Crushes Ellen Pao
German Crash Dummy Co-pilot Flies Jet into the Alps!
Hilary’s Emails Are *****!
Sierra Leone Ebola Lockdown!
Iran: Kooks with Nukes!
Sri Lankan President’s Brother Dies from Ax Wounds!
Saudi Diplomats Evacuate Yemen!
Stampede at Hindu Bathing Ritual, Bangladesh Kills at Least 10!
Simply put:  THE WORLD IS IN A STATE OF ****.

Perhaps it’s time we turn again.
Seek solace in poetry—
“Yeah, chemistry,” insists my Sky Masterson,
My “Guys & Dolls” alter ago.
Surprised? You shouldn’t be.
All poets are gamblers & moonshiners.
We polish our chemical craft,
Sweet-talking the distillation apparatus,
Getting us, getting at linguistic essence.
Cunning linguists are we.
(Colonel Angus, are you back?)
Oyez! Oyez! The gavel raps:
“The Curious Case of Sam Hayakawa.”
We open this hearing to determine
Whether or not S.I. Hayakawa—guilty of
Numerous crimes against humanity & other
Professional Neo-Fascist “entrechats.”--
Whether or not he merits a kinder, gentler
Wikipedia BIO.
(Wikipedia ( i/ˌwɪkɨˈpiːdiə/ or  i/ˌwɪkiˈpiːdiə/ WIK-i-***-dee-ə) Wikipedia)
We open this forum, focusing on his
Courageous stand against the
SDS & Black Panthers, part of
An unlikely coalition: The Worker-Student Alliance
& It’s rival, Joe Hill Caucuses.
Da Name of the Place:
(“I like it like that!” Hot Chelle Rae-“I Like It Like That” lyrics| Metro Lyrics www.metrolyrics.com Lyrics to 'I Like It Like That' by Hot Chelle Rae. “Let's get it on, yeah, y'all can come along/Everybody drinks on me, buy out the bar /Just to feel like I'm.”)
The name of the place: San Francisco State,
1968-69, the longest student strike in U.S. history,
Led successfully to the creation of
Black & Other Ethnic studies programs
On campuses across the country,
And, one could argue,
Gave the green light to
Osama Hussein Obama,
Our first Uncle Tom President.
But I digress.

ACTING SFSU President, Dr. Hayakawa—
Perpetual audition, the pressure on,
Feisty, independent-minded & combative,
Screaming at that skeevy student mob:
(Skeevy as in “He bought the thing from
Some skeevy dude in an alley.")
Declaring “A State of Emergency,”
Calling in the SFPD, whose
Inexplicable slogan says”
“Oro en Paz,
Fierro en Guerra.”
Archaic Spanish for
Gold in peace,
Iron in war, by the by,
For you holdouts,
Those of you who still
Think the “English First Movement”
Breathes life still.
I’ve got more news for you:
That crusade died long ago,
Locked up, dark & shuttered,
Bank Repo thugs, their thick
Neck muscles flexing from side to side,
Sashaying across the parking lot,
Like John Wayne on steroids,
Right up to the front door.)
The SFPD: San Francisco city fuzz,
(As they were known at the time) &
The California National Guard, as well,
Obstreperously, generously catered by
Governor Ronald Wilson Reagan,
(Early stage, Alzheimer’s at the time.
But still very much “The Gypper,”
Still chipper in Sacramento.)
Ronnie--keenly interested in
The Eureka State’s congressional clout,
Lassoes a seat in the U.S. House of Lords:
AKA: The U.S. Senate, SPQR.
It’s still hard . . .

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Still hard to believe that California was once
Rock solid in the clutches of the GOP,
Gripped tightly in the Party’s
Desperate talons. But the grip slipped,
Slipped in the slip-sliding 1970s.
It got harder and harder . . .

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Harder and harder to remind
Leroy & the rest of his ebony posse,
That it was Abraham Lincoln—
“The Great Emancipator” himself—who was,
Our first Republican President.
The Emancipation Proclamation:
That toothless rhetorical flourish,
Based solely on Abe’s
Constitutional authority as
Commander-in-Chief,
Not on a law passed by Congress.
It was just Abe blowing smoke
Up their ***** again,
Just an egalitarian blast from
His Old Kentucky past,
A youth spent splitting rails,
Busting his *** just like
Any plantation ******,
A stark plebeian commonality,
Too deeply etched to be ignored.
Poor Abraham Lincoln:
Probably a **** Creek crypto-Jew,
Neutered by the opposition:
His very own Republican majority Congress,
Another example of the GOP
Shooting off its own foot, right up there
With Mitt Romney’s "47 percent of the people,”
The rhetorical gaffe which cost him his
Second & final shot at the White House.
But I digress.

Senator Sam S.I. Samuel Hayakawa:
That inscrutable Asian fixer, is now U.S. Senator,
Republican, California, 1976-83
Pulpit-bullying his Senate colleagues,
Fiercely opposed to transfer of the
Panama Canal & Panama Canal Zone to
Panama: a diplomatic no-brainer; Duh?
Their freaking name is on both of them.
Senator Sam, obstinate & blustering:
"We should keep the Panama Canal.
After all, we stole it fair and square.”
And Hayakawa, later the driving impetus
Behind the Far Right “English Only” movement.
His co-founding an "Official English"
Advocacy group, U.S. English;
Their party line summarizes their belief:
“The passage of English as the official language will help to expand opportunities for immigrants to learn and speak English, the single greatest empowering tool that immigrants must have to succeed."
That’s how they sold it, anyway.
In sooth: just old-fashioned nativist
Anti-immigration hysteria.

Hayakawa: always the high achiever.
Hayakawa: The Great Assimilator,
Preaching his xenophobic Gospel:
“Immigration Must Be Reduced!”
Aryan rhetoric, of course,
A bi-product of radical authoritarian nationalism,
A movement with deep American roots.
Senator Sam: a Japanese-Canadian-American,
Always tried too hard to fit in.
Sam, comfortable in Chicago during WWII,
Not personally subject to confinement,
Advocated that Japanese-Americans
Submit to FDR’s 1942, Executive Order 9066.
“Time in camp, will eventually work to Japanese advantage."
Later, during the Congressional debate over
The Civil Liberties Act of 1988 . . .
(Passed the House on September 17, 1987 (243–141)
Passed the Senate on April 20, 1988 (69–27, in lieu of S. 1009)
Reported by the joint conference committee on July 26, 1988,
Agreed to by the Senate on July 27, 1988 (voice vote) and
By the House on August 4, 1988 (257–156,
Signed into law by President Ronald Reagan 8/10/88.
He opposed $reparations for WWII internment:
“Japanese-Americans should not
Be paid for fulfilling their obligations."
Some guys, I guess, would say, or
Do anything for Bohemia Club membership.
Plagued by night terrors, nonetheless,
His Manzanar nightmares, his vivid
Imaginary experience at other Japanese
Internment Sites: Tule Lake & Camp Rohwer.
Stalag (German pronunciation: [ˈʃtalak])
Stalags, infamous still,
“Stalags ‘R Us,”
Still palpable memories for
Issei ("first generation")
& Nisei ("second generation").
See: 323 U.S. 214. Korematsu v. United States
(No. 22: Argued: October 11, 12, 1944.
Decided: December 18, 1944.140 F.2d 289.
The opinion, written by Hugo Black,
Chief Justice Harlan Stone, Presiding.)

Hayakawa: a strange duck, of course,
But we mustn’t ignore his strong credentials,
And I’d like to disabuse anyone here
Of the notion that it was anything
Other than his academic record
That got his case to this Forum.
Oyez! Oyez! The gavel raps:
“The Curious Case of Sam Hayakawa.”
So begins this fractured Pardoner’s Tale,
This petition for forgiveness,
The Capo di Tutti Capi,
Presiding: the original Italian mafioso,
His Eminence--the Vicar of Jesus Christ,
The Supreme Pontiff
Pope Paparazzi of Rome!
Roma: the only venue large enough to
Dispense dispensation of this magnitude.

Hayakawa: everyone says his C.V. is “impeccable.”
But did anyone ever freaking Google it?
Just where did Professor Sam go to school?
Undergrad? The University of Manitoba,
Truly, by any Third World Standard
A great bastion of intellectual rigor;
Grad school? McGill and U Wisconsin-Madison.
He was a Canadian by birth,
His academic discipline was Semantics.
(As in “That’s just semantics,”
That all-purpose rejoinder in any argument.)
Professor Hayakawa, The Semanticist,
He taught us: “All thought is sub-vocal speech.”

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Hmmm? We think in words.
The medium of thought is language.
If you grok this for the first time,
Let’s stop to celebrate our enlightenment,
With a cultural nod of respect,
We salute our Islamic brethren.
Radical Islam: the new bogeyman,
Responsible for keeping lights on in Alexandria,
Paying the defense & intelligence bills,
Sustaining that sinister
Military-Industrial complex
Ike warned us about.
Hang in there, Mustafa, old buddy.
Like the Cold War, this insanity
Will eventually blow over.
Orwell’s Oceania will reshuffle
Its deck of global grab-***, and a
New enemy will suddenly appear.
Big Brother, as always,
In the full-control mode,
Simply put: on top of the situation.
So Hurrah!
Allāhu Akbar. “God is Great!
The Takbīr (the term for the
Arabic phrase: usually translated as
"God is [the] greatest.")

“All thought is sub-vocal speech.”
What a simple, yet profound insight!
Just a short hop, skip & jump to the
Realization that, perhaps, the clarity
& Power of our minds can be groomed,
Improved upon by mastery of—
In Sam’s case, anyway--the English Language.
Was this, perhaps, the germ of U.S. English,
The political lobbying organization
He co-founded, dedicated to making
English, the official language of the United States.
Hayakawa: a wooly conservative of his own design;
No wonder Governor Reagan loved him.

Dr. S.I. Hayakawa, a colorful and polarizing
Figure in California politics during the 1960s and 70s.
Can we forgive his daily afternoon naps.
Asleep on the floor of the U.S. Senate,
Leaving California so pathetically,
So ostensibly under-represented.
Senator Sam’s comatose presence at
Washington-on Potomac; the
District of Columbia.
A long time ago,
In a distant galaxy . . .
Far, far away.

TEAR GAS.
Alas, long before he got to Washington,
Long before ever setting foot off campus,
He called for tear gas to
Disperse those pesky college kids.
I repeat myself for emphasis:
He authorized the use of tear gas at SF State.
Tear gas: a lachrymatory agent?
Actually, a potentially lethal
Chemical agent . . .
(Yeah, Chemistry!
To wit: Sgt. Sara Brown,
Referencing “Guys & Dolls” again.)
Outlawed for use during wartime,
Banned in international warfare
Under both the 1925 Geneva Protocol; & the
Chemical Weapons Convention;
“Tear gas:  a weapon of war against
The people. We believe that
Tear gas remains a chemical weapon
Whether used on a battlefield, or city streets.”

Thus, history will be your judge,
You unleashed tear gas on college kids,
So I wouldn’t expect a rep makeover
Any time soon, Ichiye-san, my ichiban friend.

There is an ancient woman
In the market near my home
Who walks the timeless amble
Of a battered soul alone.
Her pasted orange tresses
A marmalade cascade
Fall so stiffly down to where
Her hand is always laid
Clutching her treasure bag
She goes her way careless
Ignoring chiding glances
At her faded evening dress.

Her story hides in rumors
Whispered by those who work
In the shops and restaurants
Here near McArthur Park.
They say she was a movie queen
Or an extra in the silent days
And an accident at the studio
Made her bald unto this day.
She refused to remove the wig
She ran out crying, in costume
And now she is still wearing it
Hoping he will find her soon.

The woman at the pharmacy
Said her hair caught on fire
At a movie in the twenties
Her boss calls her a liar;
Says the leading man did it
In a fit of rage and jealousy
When she wouldn't marry him
He set fire to the scenery.
Others heard that she was fired,
But she wouldn't leave the set
So deep inside her mind
She really hasn't left it yet.

Some have tried to talk to her
But she never speaks that much
Except inquiring prices and colors
Of the goods she chances to touch.
To direct questions and advances
She turns sadly away and leaves.
You can tell she is sensitive
You can tell by her face she grieves.
It is easy to see she is living
In some world that is not ours
Her world seems a place of gloom
Of thunderstorms and showers.

She caresses with her fingertips
Along the banisters she passes
And she seldom lets her gaze linger
Behind her smoked sunglasses.
Her satin dress has faded,
Like the color of her hair.
She still lingers in each moment
When she walks down the stair.
She never seems to notice those
Who stop and goggle at her
And they are many, these gawkers
But they just don’t' seem to matter.

She seems to have accepted
What her life has now become.
She has been coming to the park
For decades more than some.
This may be a playground
For popeyed urban gnomes.
But this is where she shops
This decaying place her home.
This park is very much like her
Many ages past its prime.
The vestiges of past glory
Have not been erased by time.

There is an ancient woman
In the market near my home
Who walks the timeless amble
Of a battered soul alone.
Her pasted orange tresses
A marmalade cascade
Fall so stiffly down to where
Her hand is always laid
Clutching her treasure bag
She goes her way careless
Ignoring chiding glances
At her faded evening dress.

Her story hides in rumors
Whispered by those who work
In the shops and restaurants
Here near McArthur Park.
They say she was a movie queen
Or an extra in the silent days
And an accident at the studio
Made her bald unto this day.
She refused to remove the wig
She ran out crying, in costume
And now she is still wearing it
Hoping he will find her soon.

The woman at the pharmacy
Said her hair caught on fire
At a movie in the twenties
Her boss calls her a liar;
Says the leading man did it
In a fit of rage and jealousy
When she wouldn't marry him
He set fire to the scenery.
Others heard that she was fired,
But she wouldn't leave the set
So deep inside her mind
She really hasn't left it yet.

Some have tried to talk to her
But she never speaks that much
Except inquiring prices and colors
Of the goods she chances to touch.
To direct questions and advances
She turns sadly away and leaves.
You can tell she is sensitive
You can tell by her face she grieves.
It is easy to see she is living
In some world that is not ours
Her world seems a place of gloom
Of thunderstorms and showers.

She caresses with her fingertips
Along the banisters she passes
And she seldom lets her gaze linger
Behind her smoked sunglasses.
Her satin dress has faded,
Like the color of her hair.
She still lingers in each moment
When she walks down the stair.
She never seems to notice those
Who stop and goggle at her
And they are many, these gawkers
But they just don’t' seem to matter.

She seems to have accepted
What her life has now become.
She has been coming to the park
For decades more than some.
This may be a playground
For popeyed urban gnomes.
But this is where she shops
This decaying place her home.
This park is very much like her
Many ages past its prime.
The vestiges of past glory
Have not been erased by time.

I have aspired to become someone better over the years.

I used to think depression was beauty and the lowest I could sink would be the best place to start.

My last real effort to get this close to anyone ended in broken memories and a restraining order but I may finally be ready to open back up.

Because you came along like a broken bell composed of the cacophonous melody of the frequency it sang in the forgotten years and exploded into the scene with your first fresh notes in centuries.

Our collision was like a car crash that killed off the worst parts of me.

And I know this is just poetry,
but honey, I think there may be more to this whole game than I planned.

You know how they say you always meet someone when you are trying not to? I had no intention of breaking my ribs open and forcing the world to see whats underneath again. But I have a feeling...

I have a feeling you will see what's inside and you will form the new bones beneath the confines of the veins that pump hope into me.

That's where you'll sleep.

I would say I love you, but I don't think those words really fit. It's more like you are the part of me I lost when I was a child. The part that is supposed to remind me that I'm worth something.

Michelangelo from marble made man,
Beyond Perfection.
An Ultimate image,
as Apollo's Earthrise on Luna,
or Showcase #4.
Germany has it's Beatles,
Just as Liverpool does too,
And I've seen pictures of a wall that stretches the length of China.


Pyramids rise out of the Deserts of Egypt,
The Jungles of the Aztecs,
and the Mountains of the Mayans.
A Colosseum still stands in Rome,
And every temple envy's the ones in Angkor Wot


For every age a legend.
For every actor a role.
For every writer a story,
and painter a painting,
and general a battle,
and architect a structure.
Wright and Wolfe and
Orwell and Wells and
Kafka and Kubrick and
Lenin and Lennon and McCartney
and MacArthur and Patton
and Plato and Dvořák.


There is a perfect apple pie in every mother's mind.
A perfect game in every pitcher's eye.
A work of art around every corner,
Stuck to refrigerators,
And tucked away underneath children sized beds.
Hanging in every high-school hallway,
Spray painted on every highway overpass.
A Planet-wide gallery
as simple as a finger-painting,
As grand as that canyon out in Arizona.
A world full of masterpieces...


But for me...


Only you...


Only you.

Drea De Mattea
Kathy Matea
See they're both in entertainment
Michael Jordan
Morton Downey
Get it both of their opinions are respected
Seymour Gross the decadent businessman with his two sons -
Greg and Seymour, Jr. Get it - Seymour
Someone put of Mad Magazine's Greg
and Ex-Chicago Cubs player- (He got famous at it.)
decadence, I mean, and Junior Gross -
We're all getting really tired of real decadent types
like his father and Greg. - I'm just being facetious about
the bloodline connection. What, are they both adopted and just
copies of it?
And Seymour's morals are especially refreshing
compared to his faults.
Loretta Lynn
Brenda Lee
Two gifted singers
Eisenhower and MacArthur
2 great West painters
etc., etc.,
You get the picture.

Brave men & women! Warriors all!
The WAR IS ON! THE FIGHT!
Now's the time to show our strength
To be as ONE... UNITE!
Together rout the enemy
Beating back the night!
Shadows cannot quench a FLAME!
They're dispelled by LIGHT!
A thousand torches carried forth
Will show our foes

OUR MIGHT!!!

Pick up your shield & buckler
Be Centurians!
Leaders of the Amazons!
Vikings! Mighty men!

Be a new MacArthur!
Be brave and MEET YOUR FATE!
Cross mountains like Hannibal!
Conquer! ALEXANDER THE GREAT!

Be a man like Patton!
Be wise as Deborah!
Be a youth like David!
Let your slings be SURE!

Put your shields together!
Advance and don't retreat!
Slay them without MERCY!
Be swift upon your feet!

CALL TO ARMS! CALL TO ARMS!!!

No matter what your rank
Advance into their strongest point
Then bite into their FLANK!

Their arrows cannot harm you
If you don't RECIEVE
THEY ARE MADE OF MIST & SMOKE!
BE STRAIGHT ON! BELIEVE!

We are like JEHOSAPHAT!
WE'LL SING INTO THE FRAY!
At that sight, they'll be in fright
THEY WILL RUN AWAY!

Be strong & courageous.
They will all take FLIGHT!
Deep inside they KNOW THEY'RE WRONG

AND WE ARE IN THE RIGHT.


SoulSurvivor
3/24/2017

On, Wisconsin! On, Wisconsin! Plunge right through that line!
Forward to ridgeline, a victory sure this time.

On, Wisconsin! On, Wisconsin! Fight on for your name,
Fight! Boars! Fight! Fight, fight, live up to MacArthur's fame.

On, Wisconsin! On, Wisconsin! Stand up, regiment sing!
'Forward' in the campaign spirit Union soldiers ring.

On Wisconsin! On, Wisconsin! Plant it with a jag
Stand, party, let us now behold this flag

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

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

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

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

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

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

Autumn called
Us in
To the cruel clutches
Of tomorrow

I cried that day
When Felicity played
Richard Harris' ' MacArthur Park'
On a 33

My tears flowed
From her eyes
Splashing down
On the revolving disc

Then we took
Each others hand
Remembering the Barbican
Felicity in red

Tonight we slip
Through love
To a thousand summers
We triumph over autumn

It takes me fifteen minutes walking fast
But not that far
Three rights, a left, then straight ahead
To Cemetery Yard

It sits upon the corner of
Macarthur and Fleet Streets
I go there every Wednesday
To see ghosts I like to meet

The entry is medieval
With it's gated ironwork bars
And there hasn't been a gatekeeper
For many, many years
So I walk right in and I can have
A conversation with
The Captain Robert Cunningham
Or wife of Mister Smith

And who these dried up people were
Back then God only knows
For their tombstones only have their names
And some don't even show
Yet I speak to them like they’re alive
Or maybe I am dead?
But either way
I'm speaking to them all within my head

Captain Robert Cunningham
Says 'Thanks for coming here
'Cause back in eighteen sixty five
It was the very year
I was in a bluish uniform when under an attack
I was aiming for confederates
When shot straight in the back'

At which time I find I'm lacking
In appropriate reply
Over all the awe that I now feel
About his sacrifice

'Well Captain, not that much has changed
And I can’t really lie
The question is not who we were
But how it was we died'

And the grave of Mrs. Smith
next to him quietly there sits
calling out for my attention,
so attention I do split

And she tells me that one Christmas Eve
while milking in the barn
Two red faced angry Indians
strode in and she was harmed

Though she did whatever she could do
to put up a good fight
They stuck a knife right through her
on that territorial night

'Sara tell me, please, please tell me,
am I right or am I wrong?
Do my children lay beside me,
or did they live on and on? ”

But the courage isn't in me
'cause the tombstone dates don't lie
'Mrs. Smith, it isn’t if we lived,
but how it was we died'

And a couple hours later
When it was time to go back home
And I felt that they were satisfied
With being left alone

I turned around and looking down
I asked them with a sigh
“You have all of the experience…
How is it one should die? ”


Written by Sara Fielder © Feb 2012

Uncle Jesse James Tiberius Kirk Douglas MacArthur Park Overall
will stun you with ethics till spring stumbles into summer then fall
into 2014 stroke mode for the near-nonagenarian hag Lauren Bacall
who seldom took a dump without wearing her Bogie-knitted shawl
at Kmart, Sears or the prettiest, cleanest, white-people-loving mall
where Ninjas practice Moslem prostration & the evangelistic crawl
spanning 12 lifetimes along the width weft-wise of a soft rock wall
where Sonny Bono tempted a political hit in horse-face Cher's stall,
as midgets beat the bejesus out of men who're 6-feet-something tall

He’s an old man in a wheelchair, who sometimes hobbles with a cane.
His handgrip is amazingly strong; He has a wiry frame.
On his lap he holds an artifact; it’s a precious relic too.
It’s the flag from the Missouri, her old red white and blue.
He still recalls, quite vividly, that cool September day
When his battleship dropped anchor, right in Tokyo Bay.

“We accepted their surrender, They, our victory.
I still can hear MacArthur's voice. It was all surreal to me.”
We spoke on for a little while, he seemed glad that I came.
He spoke about his comrades and wept about how few remain.

We spoke about war’s folly, its death destruction and its pain.
We spoke no word of glory, that’s a politician’s game.
When his nurse came to get him, he knew it was time to rest.
No longer the scared young man who saw the world, but never at its best.

I later heard on that same night; Death came to stake his claim.
A day slips off into history, just ”Old Glory” still remains.

Give me your hirsute/textile/hombre love you lovely hairy rag man,
with your pointy nose, unlimbered leg & warts from Larry Hagman
who from the horse's mountable side snuck up like an airy stag ram
Don't take what little's left via state Santa Christmas merry bag ban
Let's dress like women in debt at the oldest Chuck Berry drag stand
My happiness is easily seen in blood-letting cirques as corpuscular
while my rippling backwards frontage is of a physique so muscular
that it is known by fat aunt Joan as socked-in and highly avuncular
Uncle Jesse James Tiberius Kirk Douglas MacArthur Park Overall
will stun you with ethics till spring stumbles into summer then fall
into 2014 stroke mode for the near-nonagenarian hag Lauren Bacall
who seldom took a dump without wearing her Bogie-knitted shawl
at K-Mart, Sears or the prettiest, cleanest, white-people-loving mall
where Ninjas practice Moslem prostration & the evangelistic crawl
spanning 12 lifetimes along the width weft-wise of a soft rock wall
where Sonny Bono tempted a political hit in horse-face Cher's stall,
as midgets beat the bejesus out of men who're 6-feet-something tall
exhibiting syndromic Parkinsonian tremors that deliver restive rest,
in vales, dells & knolls made greater by craters marking flood crest
Dwarves are closer to ground-in filth as the average giant can attest
making 1% of nothing seem more like freeing compounded interest
that dialyze the failing kidneys of flitty Obama's E.V.D. ebola guest
Let's not be hostile, malevolent, vindictive, vengeful, edgy & mean
over the fact in Bali brassieres are for keeping peanuts nice & clean
& because poverty forces negroes to use pigeon **** for Afro-Sheen
the sympathetic Balinese must dance in ritualistic limbo in between
butch hustlers & ****** in drag that for sober Johns is readily seen
especially when darkies scarf squirrel intestines like a ghetto queen
who lacks the get-off-food-stamps-and-find-a-job-to-pay-rent gene
or the smarts not to get knocked up 5 times while you're still a teen
The sun's setting for my ******* to vent her Black Panther spleen
as it's from the udder of masonic exploitation that a **** must wean

Douglas MacArthur: Whoever said the pen is mightier than the sword
Never encountered an automatic weapon
True but, don't ever underestimate the carnage
From the hand with a pen at its beckon