[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero

Mark A. Williams
                            SEPTEMBER 14, 1962 – JULY 23, 2018

___________________­

Wow Mark,

Was so, so saddened to hear this news. I haven't seen you in over ten years, but as kids, we had some amazing adventures, didn't we? Partying, camping and swimming at the Hudson lime pits. Mowing down on Pizza and pitchers of Pepsi (and as we grew up, BEER!) at Pizza Hut. (We knew the numbers to ALL the songs on that jukebox by heart!) Hanging out and looking at the stars through Budvido's telescope, listening to Doctor Demento. Laughing hysterically as we ran through Monty Python skits as everyone looked on in total puzzlement because THEY wouldn't discover them until YEARS later!

Building underground forts in the North Woods. You, Budvido, Zeke and I playing pinball at 7-11 for hours and hours. Watching Bands, chasing girls and playing Foosball or Pool at the Touch of Class Teen Club. You gave me my first Imported beer . . . a Lowenbrau. I will always owe my passion for those German beers to you and it was fitting that Budvido bestowed you with that moniker.

All through Jr. High, sharing a seat on the school bus. You, Matt, Tom, Buddy and I cruising around late night on our bikes for hours. Hanging around in the Jasmine Lakes sign with hijacked beer or getting free bags of Burgers from Burger Queen when they closed at night! Jousting with shopping carts on our bikes in the Winn-Dixie parking lot. Sitting up all night in Jimi's room after climbing in through the window or going on endless space cruises with him and Raymond in the Toyota.

(RIP Jimi Carlsen)

Sneaking into the nudest Colony and skinny dipping! Always cracking up at the school lunch table. Swimming in my pool and terrorizing my sister and her friends. (Allegedly) Trashing that crook Fast Eddie's produce stand after he refused to pay us for a full day of picking watermelons!

Good times, indeed . . . Some of my most precious memories.

I can only pray that you know that I wouldn't trade my youth or you in it for anything in the world and you will be sadly missed, Lowenbrau, my old friend.

I hope that where you are, your beers are ice cold and that you and Jimi aren't having to glue the Hookah  back together.

Jeff Gaines
July 28, 2018

One of the many appellations
It is what I call the love of my life
A quite simple allusion
For these words cannot give justice

My sweet lover.
A moniker
For a champion who saved a damsel in distress
I wish to retire in your presence every night
and wake up in the morning
wrapped in your arms

You're the first and last of my
**anthology

Ah deceit, you wicked *******
creeping up uninvited, as always
no one sees you coming
none will know when you’re gone
your delicious lies stay but for an instant
and here still, you find a cue
to salt the exposed wounds.

You were never missed
your many forms, vibrant faces
the infamy and calumny
stories unchecked and forgotten
buried under the moniker of bygones.
Yet the scars remain,
deep cuts betrayal, but never fills.

The entrusted deceiver
your snake in the grass
silence is deadlier than a sharp tongue
this venom cannot drown a writhing heart
hope, kindling another tragedy
the reasons are always above par
emotions run amuck behind bars.

The tongue blackens every time
you sever the threads which bind loyalty
leaving the void to **** away the remains
into a crushing dark abyss
the face carries a smile that never fades
the heart has long since withered to naught
now, it cheats itself to bitter death.

Moving amidst my Ramona chapter books,
I make out your movement, M, the moody turns
Of your mounts and valleys, the moniker of

Family names, you marked me like a maternal
Emblem of the generation’s matriarch,
You mingled amid reminiscences of former matrons  

Maria Helena from the Midwest,
Who crossed the mountains in a wagon,
Madeleine, a migrant from Marseilles,

Who baked warm loaves in San Francisco,
And her own daughter, my Mimi,
Who muttered merde while she drank martinis.

In my own time, you materialized in
Marjorie, my nana, and Maria, my mom,
The women in which I knew you growing up,

Then Molly, who made dreams out of
Magic and Movies and Marie Antoinette,
You embellished my most favorite things.

In my monogram, you aimed my impulses
in your masts’ diametric directions
Towards competence, towards imagination.

In your middle ‘s mysterious compartment I make snug
With magazines and novels and mugs of hot milk.
You nuzzled me in moments of melancholy, then motivated me

To meander among your fundamental family,
The sumptuous L of melt and mélange,
The meticulous N of man or monk or money.

Even W, which matches your mien in mirror
It warped wicked witch while you
Milled maidens and damsels, so I imagined

The mutilation of those two majuscules formed
My image of womanhood. M, Molly Smithson materialized
From a meek mademoiselle into the mistress of mischief.

land's moniker
mulls utmost care

     Kalinga

branding the ox
      of men with glaringly

  immaculate chiaroscuro,
atop hills flourishing
with the fruits emblazoning
  reticence.

  chase angel-ward, the synopsis
  of meaningfulness,
    jagged, indelible accoutrement
    akin to the brand of
         chaste heritage,

   galvanizing this epitaph
     with aesthetic nativity,
  gallant mambabatok - fill my bones with the ache of your past,
   carve in me what the rippling
    shrill of air has toppled
      in the highlands

  you have us shaking the blood
    of this archipelago like boughs
   breaking free from water's ebb,
   frenzied by the river-warm
    serpentine embellishment
   the strike of the thorns
    mints in our untouched bodies!

   altogether in this numerous hike
   we go in pursuit, hunting the
   nibble from flesh to bone,
    revealing the rebel, body
       to soul.

Homicide bomber through trial and error
The epitaph moniker scours my name
A sacredot comes to abduct unseen felonies
But you and I will never ever be the same

We neglect the olive branch
We are poles apart

Catacomb undercroft, catacomb deposit box
The cabinet mourns for me
My stigma is lost

Big chill runs through our vertebrae
It can surely be precise
Don't contemplate but ruminate
Extinction will suffice

We respect the villain
We lock horns

Catacomb undercroft
Catacomb deposit box
The cabinet mourns for me
Our stigma is lost

Diuturnal explication
Evanescent predicament
Fabricated blade incision
It cannot be over yet
Diuturnal - explication
Evanescent - predicament
Fabricatedbladeincision
It cannot be over yet

Homicide bomber - trial and error
Epitaph moniker scours my name
Sacredot comes to abduct unseen felonies
You and I will never ever be the same

We neglect the olive branch
**We are poles apart

Welcome to the con!  The con starts with the author, Dr. Seuss.

He's no doctor.  And that's a fact (and no it's not the only truthful

thing in this diatribe of mine).  He used the doctor moniker to

sell more books!

       That guy in the book pestering the other guy to try "Green

Eggs and Ham"? Turns out to be the ham and egg salesman,

Sam I Am.

  It's a motivational selling "won't take no for an answer"

how to sell book disguised as children's literature.

    And Sam I Am is psychotically relentless in his pursuit of a

sale.  He needs a restraining order slapped on his ***.

                   "Would you eat them in a box? Would
                    you eat them with a fox. Would you eat
                    them with a goat.  Would you eat them on a
                     boat".  Would you eat green eggs and ham,
                    would you eat them Sam I Am?     

                                                       ­            Dr. Seuss

And on and on. Sam I Am goes stalking him from page to page.

  

    I had a friend of mine, Mustard Joe, ex war veteran with more

than twenty kills (you don't even want to know the things he's

seen) take a look into this green eggs and ham food source that

Sam I Am is pushing so hard.  Here are some of the ingredients

he may or may not have found.
                  
             Ham   --        30 grams of sugar (questionable )
                         --       15 grams of caffeine (untested)                               
Green eggs   --          Trace amounts of nicotine ( not verified)
                        --          Handfuls of ******* (rumored)

As you can see, It's not an exact science.

People. When eggs turn green, that's mother nature trying to

warn you that your food has gone bad.

   But in the end, Sam I Am gets the fool to finally try the green

eggs and ham and he absolutely loves it.  Maybe the books lesson  

is about to not be afraid about things you don't understand or

never tried. But I still believe there is insidious deception and

evil in the book. I have to think that way.  Because after all -- I'm

Willoughby !!

i can't remember whenever i had a points
system for women,
i'm classical in my ****** tastes,
in that i do find plump women attractive,
as the black guys in school used to
say: more cushion for the pushin',
ha ha, that's ******* lovely,
that's like a christmas present without a
christmas...
  chubby girls really are the sorts,
then again, enough *** and that african
**** comes in handy real good...
imagine poor whitey with an african ***
of a woman:
        is it even in? is it? is it?
  i don't know, can't tell...
                     i thought it was in,
but then she clenched her ****-cheeks and
i started thinking about david hume,
road cones and copper hollow statues...
     seems there's a reason why african men
have 12" *****, and african women
have extensions of the ***** via their assess...
and by comparison anorexic whitey boy
***** are: gearing: all the more readied...
      oh, you want me to pick up
the slurppy seconds?
      how about that existential blackmail
when i retort: no!
i like continental existentialism of the
french, or of the german,
but of the english existential blackmail?!
*******...
   ******* right off!
     i'm not buying the david attenborough
gimmick of: expected to survive addressing to...
no, ****** no! you're not buying me
to make a politico statement!
         i actually have no white in me...
i'm all albino!
       i liked fattened women once,
in kenya i noticed the rich women from
the poor women...
the rich women were fat, the poor women were
poor...
      fat women are as much a fetish as women
in latex...
      you're hardly a man not able to
tell the difference...
                 point being:
if you haven't ****** a "*****" fat *****,
you haven't exactly allowed your wife
to perform her "heart on heart"
infidelity... men are ought only perform
infidelity with ******...
  after all, you're king arthur, turn
your hearts to stone... why would you
ever perform "infidelity" without a *****?
please, can she have the narrative,
the storyline, and you the hardened heart?
surely you can master the logic of:
well, i paid for it, how can it be infidelity?
i pay for a bunch of flowers,
how can it be infidelity?
  obviously a woman has no economic transaction
akin... so?
      i like plump women...
        what's there to miss,
i never had *** as a teenager...
          so what's there to mix or mind,
or miss?
                   then again i wish i never had
*** with this russian 19 year old,
mind that, i wish i never had *** at all...
     why bother having ***, when the payment
is so untruthful in the ask of compensation,
n'ah... *** is... well...
a baboon taking a **** always seemed more
interesting;
                 and the black guys always knew,
that their women were what they were,
and then the whiteys figured it all out,
saying:
     play the boy, never buy the mansion, *****!

Uncle Christmas was mucking out happily mucking in and wondering what might have been had his twin not been sneakier and the first to emerge to claim the 'Father' moniker. 

Uncle found to his surprise he was quite content to be the deputy and not have the pressure at the top of the Christmas hierarchy. Rather he was happier working with the reindeer, being grubbier, a little smellier, leaving his brother to bear the fur lined mantle that was heavier.

However,
at each and every Christmas dinner when the family all got together to enjoy the post-advent breather, Uncle would still insist with his Christmas pudding grin that compared to his older twin he was far harder working,
a little better looking 
and definitely 
relatively 
slim.

We're mostly gregarious and polite,
Like most of you.
We too have our diplomatic trips 'n bumps;
We never cozied to Dicky;
But welcomed ex-pat refugees
For safe and sound reasons.
After the jimmy-rigging, how many re-pated?

And we gagged on the impeachables, all fuzzy and bitter.
He called the father that ******* in Ottawa;
And Pierre wore that moniker like The Order of Canada.
When you're not liked by one, you're a dove.

You should visit CANDU.wow
It has it all.

How is Supreme Leader managing?
Are his...
Are my people... sitting at attention.

We could real news a bomb a la Kim Jong,
Or flip a stone down at Port Huron.
We won't.
But we could if we weren't
The Great White North, so accommodating, so polite,
So Coo loo coo coo coo coo coo cooo! nice...
(for now)

A patriotic fervor producing fealty
A noble cause compelling loyalty
Paired with a callous indignity
Brash enlistee plunges toward destiny
Honor's badge worn with impunity
Duty's moniker embossed with magnanimity
Insatiable bloodlust quelshing all insecurity
Unbridled ego clamoring a garrulous enmity
Toward the villains who shattered blithe serenity

First skirmish, pageantry displaced by gravity
Mettle varnished with aura of invincibility
First battle, fallen comrades question mortality
Successive battles, severed limbs, caustic wounds challenge credulity
Fragile mind being conditioned to atrocity
War's heavy mantle now shorn of indemnity
Threatening mind's sanity, hearth's perpetuity
Once faceless foes now scream their humanity
Once noble leaders brim with insincerity
Supportive countrymen now fickle, distant entity
Cheering press now rank with duplicity
Only solace, hardened comrades equanimity

Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the **** of the Magazine Wall,
  (Chorus) Of the Magazine Wall,
           ****, helmet and all?

He was one time our King of the Castle
Now he's kicked about like a rotten old parsnip.
And from Green street he'll be sent by order of His Worship
To the penal jail of Mountjoy
  (Chorus) To the jail of Mountjoy!
           Jail him and joy.

He was fafafather of all schemes for to bother us
Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace,
Mare's milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week,
Openair love and religion's reform,
  (Chorus) And religious reform,
           Hideous in form.

Arrah, why, says you, couldn't he manage it?
I'll go bail, my fine dairyman darling,
Like the bumping bull of the Cassidys
All your butter is in your horns.
  (Chorus) His butter is in his horns.
           Butter his horns!

(Repeat) Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, change that shirt
   on ye,
Rhyme the rann, the king of all ranns!

Balbaccio, balbuccio!

We had chaw chaw chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chicken-pox
   and china chambers
Universally provided by this soffsoaping salesman.
Small wonder He'll Cheat E'erawan our local lads nicknamed him.
When Chimpden first took the floor
  (Chorus) With his bucketshop store
           Down Bargainweg, Lower.

So snug he was in his hotel premises sumptuous
But soon we'll bonfire all his trash, tricks and trumpery
And 'tis short till sheriff Clancy'll be winding up his unlimited
   company
With the bailiff's bom at the door,
  (Chorus) Bimbam at the door.
           Then he'll *** no more.

Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our island
The ****** of that hammerfast viking
And Gall's curse on the day when Eblana bay
Saw his black and tan man-o'-war.
  (Chorus) Saw his man-o'-war
           On the harbour bar.

Where from? roars Poolbeg. Cookingha'pence, he bawls
   Donnez-moi scampitle, wick an wipin'fampiny
Fingal Mac Oscar Onesine Bargearse Boniface
Thok's min gammelhole Norveegickers moniker
Og as ay are at gammelhore Norveegickers cod.
  (Chorus) A Norwegian camel old cod.
           He is, begod.

Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil, ye! up with the rann,
   the rhyming rann!

It was during some fresh water garden pumping
Or, according to the Nursing Mirror, while admiring the monkeys
That our heavyweight heathen Humpharey
Made bold a maid to woo
  (Chorus) Woohoo, what'll she doo!
           The general lost her maidenloo!

He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher,
For to go and shove himself that way on top of her.
Begob, he's the crux of the catalogue
Of our antediluvial zoo,
  (Chorus) Messrs Billing and Coo.
           Noah's larks, good as noo.

He was joulting by Wellinton's monument
Our rotorious hippopopotamuns
When some ****** let down the backtrap of the omnibus
And he caught his death of fusiliers,
  (Chorus) With his rent in his rears.
           Give him six years.

'Tis sore pity for his innocent poor children
But look out for his missus legitimate!
When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker
Won't there be earwigs on the green?
  (Chorus) Big earwigs on the green,
           The largest ever you seen.

   Suffoclose! Shikespower! Seudodanto! Anonymoses!

Then we'll have a free trade Gael's band and mass meeting
For to sod him the brave son of Scandiknavery.
And we'll bury him down in Oxmanstown
Along with the devil and the Danes,
  (Chorus) With the deaf and dumb Danes,
           And all their remains.

And not all the king's men nor his horses
Will resurrect his corpus
For there's no true spell in Connacht or hell
  (bis) That's able to raise a Cain.

Upon the sign above your head a word was scribbled down
A group of letters making up for something more profound
Consider this - that you are not entitled to your name
And neither are you crucified for what you do not claim
It all becomes a foreign tongue, a book you cannot read
Propensity for vatic spells, to them you've taken heed
And so remark the cursive notes addressing every page
Your oath inscribed is legible to those who share your fate

throw some ****** coal in this steam locomotive
fueled by drugs, fame, money, *******, and notierity
all them girls know its me,
and some think its Reid,
but they not in the game
muhfuckas know my name (Charlie Sheen)

all these ****** uppers in my nasal passages
can't handle this
parents goin through my phone and they check my text messages
they like - "riddle me this
all you do is talk about drugs and spittin game on *******
when you gon make us proud son
you sling dope but we aint seen one
penny - and we gettin sick of it
not because your raps are ill
but because you're selfish
clean your room, do your homework, and get a job
or you'll be homeless
suckin **** for crack
and you don't want that
then you won't be able to attack and conquer
Make some change - cause you're drivin me and your father bonkers
and your ****** moniker is Reid Donovan not Charlie Sheen"

Uh...

And i be like...
"don't fret Mom, urrbody love me
i'm a terrorist droppin bombs on these rap songs
and one day
i'ma be rich as ****
all because i'm a genius
ballin, swag my *** out like Josef Stalin
and i dictate, reiterating as I weave my words so great
too late, to stop my hostile take over
i'll show her, how to ****** peddle and be stellar
mean smokin green
well up, runnin these streets
watch me take over the world
cause the name I sign my checks with is Charlie Sheen
I be, conducting
noxious, fallout as I spit
cause my saliva is toxic
white *** *******
but i'm still hood rich

We gon take over the world
while I'm on my Charlie Sheen ****
watch me stand tall
high above all the rest
see me on national TV
believe they'll remember me as the best
stick me with a knife
and watch me bleed liquid gold
nationwide tours, sold out shows
winning - throw my fastball
three strikes - all the oppositions out
wolf gang **** them all

and you know I be on those strikes
cause I aint about them ***** - no
I'm Charlie Sheen *****

I'm gon take over the world
while Mac Miller's getting mad
you're only seventeen kid,
how you write **** like that
Its because
the only present I ever got for christmas
was a big box of swag
just messin take some lessons

man i'm jonesin
8 am, gotta hankerin for a fixin
call the operator cause i'm on a ****** mission
big dave answers my call
and I reach those outer limits,
all he says is press pound and i'll connect you to the mooooon

When girls ask me if I be on that Charlie Sheen ****,
I just tell em no - I AM CHARLIE SHEEN *****

all of
America’s
gubmint hatin
yahoos, pining
to get their
country back,
should grab
yer rifles, stock
up on ammo
and giddy up
down  to Texas
to join the
secessionists
headin out
of the Union

Rick Perry
promises to
keep his promise
to close all the
gubmint departments
he can't remember
the names of

Ron Paul will
finally be liberated
from the tyranny
of his federal
paycheck and
can return to
his district to
practice medicine
unencumbered
by the acceptance
of medicare
payments

Ted Cruz will
move to coronate
his Cuban born
daddy as Viceroy
for life of the
western hemispheres
newest banana
republic

the last act of
of the Compartment
of Education will be
to turn every
public school
into a Holy Ghostin
Jehovah meetin
house

Judicial magistrates
will criminalize
poor people
or just make
them slaves
and all prisons
will be turned
into profit driven
plantations,
overseen by
the local
Sheriffs who
will be paid
time and a
half and 15%
of all profits

unfortunately
the Cowboy’s
will lose it’s
moniker as
America’s Team
if rattlesnake
booted
Jerry Jones
can’t make a
deal to turn
his stadium
into a sovereign
independent
territory as a
protectorate
of the USA

To assure
national purity
Texans will
build a Jericho
style wall to
define the boundaries
of their heavenly
kingdom and outlaw
all trumpet playing
within earshot
of their perturbed
borders

The Eyes of
Texas as the
state anthem
will need to
be reworded
The final stanza
will be changed
to "Until Gabriel
blows his nose"

keepin the ungodly
out and the chosen
people safely
insulated within
the shining
Lone Star State
will rise again
as a solitary
confederacy
of dunces

Music Selection:
The Eyes of Texas

Oakland
11/18/13
jbm

I take umbrage
At comparing
The POTUS
To a lying piece of crap.
I've experienced crap, lots of it!
Usually brown, with no comb-over.
So POTUS **** is an unfair analogy.
Now, a moniker like
Faeces Face fits,
And stinks to the high heavens.

Uncle Christmas
was mucking out
happily mucking in
and wondering
what might have been
had his twin not been sneakier
and the first to emerge
to claim the Father moniker.

Uncle found to his surprise
he was quite content to be
the deputy
and not have the pressure
at the top of the Christmas hierarchy.

Rather he was happier
working with the reindeer,
being grubbier, a little smellier,
leaving his brother
to bear the mantle that was heavier.
However at each and every Christmas dinner
when the family all got together 
Uncle still insisted with a jocular grin
that compared to his twin
he was far better looking
and definitely
relatively
slim.

CC'Sisters;
The long ones and some go by planets,
I say stars the long forever change or at least I have found what I need inside to be free to be in accordance with what is on its way for us all!!! Little Birdy, CC3 or more like CC13, we say more like debris in the asteroid belt or some unusual comet-ry and or trajectories for everybody know where the common planets go but what of Sun, know we where is but what it can be temperamental too and more than tenuous more like strenuous relationship it is and has become overly clear; the things I know are not strange but strange it would seem what and how I do; so for you CC S1 I'll kick around a few; 15 billion year old universe nah big bang uh hu nah no too more as in Relative, I love that one Relative that Spot <3 On with where all is at, all very Relative things, every point, perspective, every sort of strange stringy strummy touchy feely sorts of things; more like where we are coming from and where we're going and what we can view but um me I may have been on those Mountaintops and with God for those Godly Many Mansion-ed Birds Eyed Views In and Out but it's more like; Newton spot spot right on again with Great POP on TOP, and the Greatest thing about that our imperishable spirits and how they remain in motion when the brain turns off, and the better to use here now information JC spoke about, yes the essence of 'The Book of the Dead' for our truer here now lives with the better more abundantly already overly willing for us blood bearing calling ourselves living and the coming of 'Messiah' and how such will be as we emerge together as well, sounds so common sensical to better use here now than abuse Gods already given gifts than abuse in simple little ways of not quite knowing or to much aware of too much else of other our own makings, for we are too easily sleepwalking about the things so overly close to too close to our too commonality of homes, identities and consciousness such the smaller part of all of this <3 <3; so I kinda just love that more Newtonian Motion the Right; and then like hop hop, hop scotch hop, nope again 123 nor abc not required; I like scrambles on rocks too, sounds nice for a day and two and then here and there again, still Sinatra does get over due and the I can handle the rarely scotch on ice for others they say rocks either, I there with sweetness of love and kindness, smiles; so can I see for mile and miles, what can it be more than 15 billion light year miles ya ha sure trillions I am I do; CIA triple walls even you, we all run what goes on in there by our hearts in an instant we command the greatest show of all in any instant changes everything and  all at once; EMC squared does not compare; speed of light those kinds of things here we are more manifestly condensed sort of things like vapor is to seas and or maybe then iced; we all can sing beat on drums understand the octave thing, well how 'bout keep it human scale and for a heart like thing what travels at the speed of light and what here say is all so manifest and then as sound will travel so we can hear those Church Bells ring well quite simply then is by the octave scales just 40 ya got 40 Octaves down!!!...speed of light got a limit um well can we get back to Relative again....I sat there with those types and I was not so good at study habits and everyone knew it and wondered how does he do it; I do have a poem in draft honestly, I can share the title here; some friends of Lite Heart had to hit first of all to explain a bit about it, with the nick-name moniker of Spot <3!!! So I'm calling this one Spot <3 's Spectrum Disorders; for I can roll around those wheels; I can be and have been destroyed many times over for knowing too much of heaven this one anyway had ta' gotta roll too through it's all Holy to me so I too say Holy Hell and then say cats got nothing on me but a bit more fur and perhaps some competition with um da purring!!!! Buddha too did name his boy 'Ball and Chain' but we are overly done way beyond this, we 'um ready for holy easy joy and fun...Food for bodies and souls overly abundantly easily had by seeing just quite simply what is within without our inner and locale commands; nope we done wit da' dey's; why destroy or well don't let me freak ya' I mean ice All of Love that Holy Responsive Ever seems so Light and slight of breeze and too with there go with all the power day dreary than dearer; don't be fooled by terminology, typical associations; idealized notions, 'Like the woes of Solomon' and 'Thee precious' ' Lord of the Rings', those are so close to some Sacred Cross Metaphysically so to say, no more here today, just sayin' maybe more another day; but back to typical association and terminology, I'll drop a link right here now this day and copy page, poem ya Sa Sa Ra called Dearly Departed and I know you too as barely started, me too hahaha please don't count me out here is where I love to be and see; http://hellopoetry.com/poem/dearly-departed-1/ ;
One more time and time again start what you so already know we need believe, put all the rest reorder with more loving commands truly they already do what you ask anyway uh dig again here hear again;

Sweet coolness to what burns us up and warms with love perhaps just 299 million drums contact staffs hoola hoops love joy sing a ringing better bells we are dancing fun could be catchy and be the one!!
Food for body and soul the best of all is freely available everywhere and we are free to see and be it there 8 days a week;
Welcome to the Eighth of days I am already and I am too seeing you all 7 billion there!! ♥ ♥ :) :) R!!!

And I'm gonna wrap this up and call it CC'Sister's...oh verbatim, raw straight hop rocks scotch and scrambles just for POP on TOP and another honorable mention to the CC'Sisters; and Sinatra will play on beyond what they are still calling will be our possible forever but more like JC when he said Heaven and Earth will pass away but my words never, so play play!!! <3 <3 :) :) !!!R!!!

i.

Cometh hither darling, passeth through the enlightened pergola, seeith how ourn moniker's, art carved into the archway thither ourn bower; A chivalrous Noble tower.

ii.

No worrying mine dear, a buckler shalt be close to mine grab, for the attacker's shalt tryeth to invade, steal, and get all in a duetimes hand; though the circlet I shalt place upon thine top, shalt giveth thee shielding, from the Creation's that mock.

iii.

Artista, mine chosen of coëval; chalcedony balconies shalt giveth us visibility, up close we shalt toast, in thine calligraphist theory, in intimacy we'll float.

iv.

The eaves of ourn citadel, shalt be engineered by thine geniusness, none better to build ourn protection, as thou art a stalwart of the age, a queen aloft all name's, an angel upon a seraph's stage, as I wilt espy thee from the window inside thine midst.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)

Drinking *** to reminisce about fun times drinking *** and talking about dumb lines where a sociologist posed as an astronomer and took the moniker to heart claiming forbidden foolish nonsense of black holes and super novas and the Goddess that is Neptune. But he also forbade the odes of the old testament, he nicked the hold on my head and soul and feet until I couldn’t walk because I was too busy kicking my *** and licking my teeth with thoughts of dinner stolen from the solemn souls in the coral reefs – those that Neptune created and nurtured with nursing fingers and eyes that hid cruel truth from the water, the creatures that didn’t suffer the bite that God’s daughter took so long ago, but the flow of the current never ceases it never reaches the bleeding feet connecting repeatedly with the bottom that serves me to sit and think or **** about the gospel spilling from the hostel of the professor’s mouth. And I doubt the drought that lifted my spirits out of the well with the spout of Neptune’s *****. These days I’m on it with a sense of self-flagellation that only makes sense in the dimension of my imagination pondering the nation of the brotherhood of stars and heavenly bodies that weigh so heavy on Mars with the clingy core dragging desperate attention from divine inventions of intervention with rats and cradles. Neptune, who’s cradled in fables and left to such imaginations as those. Invention allows the suspension of disbelief and spite if one might rest in humility in face of such things as humanity where miracles are mistreated and under-recognized and falsely advertised as products of greedy eyes that lie in wait to shake the foundation and tune it to the stellar station or broadcast populated by the whispers of holy apparitions misconstrued as static.
Jacob is the heathen with reason to grasp his brother’s heel and deceive him. The treason to sit up to stand down to kiss the hem of the gown of whatever clown performs a pretty act while he’s in town. The frowns expound and expand for the man whose body spans the sand of the holy land.

From the skies came the howling screams
And the malevolent weather
Casting the hands of shadow over my world
The loveless giants and slack-jawed executioners
Laughing and drooling over the wicker baskets
Filled to the brim with severed heads
Faces frozen in the final moments of their
Demoralized longevity

While the others
The innocents and deceivers
Hung from the peeling trees
From their necks
Their bodies swaying with the
Winds of the howlers; the hoarders and rising dead
Ravens and winged monstrosities feasting on the
Available tissue of those left behind in the dusk
Of lesser men and greater demons

I wept and cowered like never before
In the swelling, audacious fields of fallen brothers and sisters
The air was moist
The earth was damp
I pulled the black garments of butchered priests
Over my coarse back
Covering my punishment from the eyes of God
And his Angels
His divine bystanders
And jealous endeavors

Draped in the cloth of the papists  
Drenched in the accumulated fluids of the slain
I wandered the wastelands with no name
No home
No family
No soul in the moment of sought mercy

The drying of blood and tears hardened the stain cloth
Against my healing body
Pulsing and throbbing over my senses
Turning me into something more
A vile and vengeful entity
Walking among the land of the dead
A ****** of my sanity

Through the cascading water dripping from the sky
Souls and ghosts of the battlefield
Clung to me, touching my feet and hands
My path was followed by the impaled
The disemboweled and the murdered
For the name of such clerical disambiguation
Promising to be absolved for the crimes against His name

I wandered from the true path

I came to the cliffs above and looked over the carnage
Of a 1000 warriors and people all sewn together
In the skin of the earth.

Riding a phantom steed over the trampled bodies
Clad in otherworldly armor
And sweltering chains
The Horsemen of War walked
Among the covet children of his wrath

Not even knowing if I still roam the land of the living
I proceeded down from the cliff
And approached the Rider of War.

His crimson helmet hid his face.
Horns protruded from his brow
He carried a blackened shield
and a fiery Sword crafted from the pits of Hell

Striking his sword into the mound of dead
Rivers of blood soaked into his blade
It fed off the butchered, the murdered
The mutilated, the skewered, the molested
The sodomized, the swallowed, the reaping
The cowards, the fools, the thieves
The liars, the transgressors, the headless
The victims, the prey, the engorged
The envious, the gluttonous, the wrathful
More and more of the blood, the souls and the mess
Collected and gathered into the sword
Feeding the beast, the instrument of war
Fueling another plague of sinister dismemberment
On a once green land of kings and sires.

I picked up a walking stick from the woods
Walking through a darkened world
Where another noble shall claim me
As his moniker of death
In service to **** more men
God’s children
Mother Earth’s children
Who rip a part of each other with metal and teeth
Against the palms of titans and angels

All gambling on our victory or defeat
Where lives and words are mere tokens
It is not our lamentations or penance that is counted

Can I bear the attrition of my own nightmares?

Clad in the shredded papal garments
Soaked in hardened blood

I shall roam and absolve.

Whoever is worthy
In the bleak war of man
And his End.

I'm going to take a shower and then, this day is mine.
It may be 2 pm and yes, maybe I only woke up and hour ago, but that's fine.
Time is of no essence, holding no power over me and my kind.
See,  we hold the power to counter act fascist politics
While the media scours to keep one step ahead of the times
But keeps slipping further and further behind.
I may not know everything there is to know about the GOP nominees but
Believe you me, I'm doing better than 90% of the pop culture fiends
Who know everything there is to know about every song Lady Gaga sings.
That's not to bash all the little monsters, see I know a bit myself
As I like to stay abreast on all kinds of music, television,
Internet memes, university official ****** stings,
And a plethora topics categorized under the moniker "various other things".
Between you and me, I'm not sure there is a Heaven
And if there is a Hell we make it daily ourselves.
But that doesn't have to be the case.
We can rise up and grab onto the clouds, pull down the sky
And bring the idea of Heaven a little closer than simply reading a book
Found in the drawer at **** near every hotel ever could.
Now, that’s not to say I don’t believe in the Word
and that the word isn’t Good.
I’m only making a case for a proactive age and for doing and living the way that we should.
We were never called to preach to the sinners that they‘re going to hell in the first place.
I’m only stating that there is a mass information bank
Being lawlessly and shamelessly misinterpreted and misunderstood.  
What I am saying is we need to put a stop to injustice parading itself as truth—
In our schools, in the church, and in the hearts of our youth.  
Read with fervor and a bit of passion any book can hold the keys to a life worth living.
The Good Book is a good book, but…
God the father and his son Jesus would have got on well
With Bilbo Baggins and his nephew Frodo,
Who both understood that the war they fought was so much bigger than a silly ring. '
They would have seen the passion and pain behind the eyes of Wilber Larch and is protégé Homer Wells,
Who only wanted to help and had to make some tough decisions in order to do so.
And they would have been able to appreciate the selfless devotion of Severus Snape
And commend Harry Potter on his willingness to die for those he loved.
Because...
In the end—what’s the difference?
It’s the same story over and over
From the cradle to the grave,
From Genesis to Revelation
To my walls lined with posters—
They all contribute to the loops and the corkscrews
On the same roller coaster.
This whole charade called existence resting on the shoulders of nothingness is everything that we have,
So the quicker we learn to take the good with the bad the quicker we’ll realize that the things that we want
Are exactly the same as the things that we had and the things that we have.
Maybe all the moms and the dads of today are displeased with the direction we’re heading because
(though they’d never admit it)
It’s no different than where they were going and for some reason they thought it would be.
Open your eyes.
All I’m asking is for a little time.
A minute or so more, tops.  
I’m pulling out all the stops
And I’m laying my heart on the line in hopes that one day you will return the favor in kind.
Not to me. Maybe not even to anyone other than yourself, but that is enough.
I've seen some things I wish I hadn't.
I've been drunk and I’ve done drugs but I’ve never voted in a political election.  
I’m 20 years old without a clue of what it means to be a good person
But I refuse to let that stop me from being one.  
So I’m not going to get high tonight and I’m not going to sit around by myself in my room watching ****,
Which I’ll admit without shame I do sometimes when I’m bored.
Tonight I’m breaking the illusion and crossing the line
That separates me from who I want to be and who I was at one time.
I’m inviting you along, so come on, put away words like “was” and  “will be”
And replace them with “the present”, “living”, and “free”.  
Because that is all there ever was or will be—
We've been given the present for living and in that we’re free.

I am afraid
I am alone
I am unknown
I am labelled

Labelled 'Damaged'
Did I damage myself?
No, fate did that
Can I atone?

Atone? For what?
A disease that differs for one and all.
I know what I am, but choose not to
take the moniker, 'sufferer'.

Yes, I hurt, I tire, I cry, but
I cannot explain, and you,
you cannot empathise, you
don't have MS, the broken smile.

I look whole, but I'm a jigsaw
with a missing piece. That piece is
peace. Peace of mind, peace for my
loved ones, peace for me.

I know I'm a person, I know I have MS
I know I'm loved, I know I'm a *****
I know I'm part of a family, daughter, sister,
aunt, niece, cousin and most importantly Wife.

I will be whatever the fates decide.
I will not be a sufferer.
I will not give up.
I will be loved.

Pigeons. doves, no hummingbirds...wait.. actually the wild!
Parrots that squawk and fly about L.A.

Caustic bangs and screams-the South LA. Moniker
:the squirrelly streams.
Tales stay inside ceased thoughts; they drain the occlusion of deft variances kept
Apex aversive life dismissive; boundaries of good and evil call
Me, myself, morose circle of hope-... I'm denied these dreams- jimmied- stymied, called out for soul cries of induction to gleeful fate....
Truth now dissolves the Godless forces that are known
and the enduring flack of all peoples seeking retribution on the individual-
strife included- variance remains- ends on my individual as once was warned now is claimed

"a canvas, which reflects
sunlight in rays unseen
before submitting itself to a life of color"

Razelle McCarrick
--------------------------------------------------
From­ memory she painted me,
Tho we had never met.
She painted my biography
On an easel of paper, brushes of pencil,
Exposed, bereft, inexorably delighted
At being dissolved in words that were not mine.

My annotated notes herein ascribed
To her revelations of my secreted stories,
Were written as I gazed upon the multi-blues of
California's beaches, neckline decorated with
Strands of white pearled beaches
Opposite contusions, bruises of
Orange terra cotta roofs, a burnt coral,
Colors that demanded attention, preservation,
Salutations, all hail the penetrating gaze of
Razelle, betrayer and savior.

His moniker was a borrowed line,
Still crazy after all these years,
How could this unknown girl of twenty two
Clear capture, undress me in the poetry of her canvas,
The instant and constant self-examination,
The rapture when transcending the fears
Instilled from birth of how I ought to be,
Which sixty two years on, the wrestling never ends.

Color me flesh ****,
Color me blue bottled,
Red ripped asunder,
The sweetness ascribed to my love poetry,
A subtraction of the bitterness of a failed life.
Colorist of my seams, my woven words,
I am white now, my canvas completed,
Waiting for another poet to write over it,
And chaining new words to what was prior writ.

N.M.L.

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Razelle McCarrick · Sep 21, 2010
Biography of a Man
Someone wrote a biography of a man. Said he liked to write poetry and spend time in nature. But there are many things its readers will never know about. The streams of thought, the analysis, confusion, the Sadness, sprinkles of joy, the Transcension. A strange man he was..sweetly strange, but strangely bitter. At odds with the halves of himself..or perhaps thirds. But who will know? Someone wrote a biography of a man, but didn't say he was crazy. Or that he had a sharp mathematical mind and tried to add up the components of life to find it wasn't an equation in the first place. It was omitted that he was not merely a man, but of some other kind, often missing his home and his people, though he didn't know who they were. They didn't say when he became deaf, that he still played his favorite songs because he could feel them all the same and see them in colors. And no one knew that he refused to write in pen, but pencil only because one day his work would be rubbed away by the sands of time, just like his body. Someone wrote a biography of a man, but there was no account of what he did on a beautiful day, like the time he sat by a stream pondering his life and rewrote the biography of a man.

"Gabrielle" was a name falling from my grandmother's lips,
as I was rushed to the NICU, the doctors asked my name,
and my grandmother uttered a word that was more like a promise.

Gabrielle is the female form of Gabriel, the angel that brought the news of the birth of Jesus to townspeople, like how my grandmother brought the news of my birth to the hospital waiting room, where my ten year old brother was beginning to understand what it meant to be a man, and my other grandma threw a fit about my new moniker.

The name Gabrielle means "gift from god" and my life itself was a gift as no one knew how long I'd be around to live it, the odds of a tiny baby hooked up to wires and tubes. God gave me the gift of life, as I was born without breathe, my lungs not ready for this world, he gave me a second chance, and I opened up my mouth and cried.

Gabrielle meant a name, and a name meant a life, a family, a place in the world.

Growing up I loathed my name, hopping between nicknames, wishing I had been given anything else for a title, but now I know I would not trade it for the world.

To reject my name is to erase the prayer that fell from my grandmother's lips the moment I was born.

There once was a blues man
as skinny as could be
who went by the moniker
of Boney Bones Dupree

He was the worst singer
I ever had heard
sounded like an alley cat
who done choked on a bird

His guitar wasn't tuned
it whined and it wailed
as he struck it with a
sharp and rusty 'ol nail

His teeth were yellow
his eyes were gray
his hair looked like
stray bits of hay

Still people came
from miles around
to listen to his music,
his haunting sound

He danced on the stage
in jaunty puzzle steps
you could hear the *****
comin' off of his breath

He'd scream one verse
until his face'd turn red
then he'd whisper the next
while he stood on his head

He'd jump up and down
and slam his guitar
throw the **** thing
right over the bar

Then he'd look to the crowd
and playfully smile
and thank us for
sharing his crazy awhile

After taking a shot
and waving goodbye
he went and jumped
back into the sky

He painted those evening
clouds with delight
as we watched him
sail off into the night

Outta sight.

He’s trick, like enrapturing
Wherein lies the paradox of his pantheism parapet’s paragon
Extraversion embezzlements and euthanasia extortions
Embark embargo extraditions
Diction’s enunciation echoes of opaque opulence
Its redolence a savory waft
The evolution of psychic clarity’s id conclusions
Bizarre dichotomous augur the singer’s aural austerity
Gypsy Queen, his guitar’s moniker, romanced aimed intention
Elaborate elliptical empathy endeavors for posterity’s predication
Pandemically  phatic  propriety venerations
Their apex crux axis beyond finite solution
Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma
Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix's vertex vortex
The individual must remain sacrosanct
Traipsing through the fallow furrows of assimilation’s synthetic synthesis
Like capillaries' capricious and intravenous intrepid
Incalculably sensual beyond emotion’s expression
Impetus intrigue's intuitional verve
Ethology’s entelechy, theosophy’s theophany
Zoomorphic zoolatry's social contiguities
Futurity's corporeally preternatural fatidic
Elan-vital's apotropaic apotheosis