there are so many places to hide,

in my home at 17th and South screaming death threats at my roommates laughing diabolically playing  videogames and Jeopardy cooking quinoa stretching canvas the dog going mad frothing lunging  spastic to get the monkeys or the wookies or whatever random commandments we issue forth  drunken while Schlock rampages the backdrop,

at my uncle's row house on 22nd and Wallace with my shoes off freezing skipping class to watch March  Madness unwrapping waxpaper hoagies grimacing with each sip of Cherrywine or creamsicle  soda reading chapters at my leisure,

in the stacks among fiberglass and eternal florescent lima-tiled and echo-prone red-eyed and white-faced  caked with asbestos and headphones exhuming ossified pages from layers of cosmic dust  presiding benevolent,

in University City disguised in nothing but a name infiltrating Penn club soccer getting caught after  scoring yet still invited to the pure ***** joy of hell and heaven house parties of ice luge jungle  juice kegstand coke politic networking,

at Drexel's nightlit astroturf with the Jamaicans rolling blunts on the sidelines playing soccer floating in  slo-mo through billows of purple till the early morning or basketball at Penn against goggle- eyed professors in kneepads and copious sweat,

in the shadow tunnels behind Franklin Field always late night loner overlooking rust belt rails abandoned  to an absent tempo till tomorrow never looking behind me in the fear that someone is there,

at Phillies Stadium on glorious summer Tuesdays for dollar dog night laden with algebra geometry and  physics purposely forgetting to apply ballistics to the majestic arc of a home run or in the frozen  subway steam selling F.U. T.O. t-shirts to Eagles fans gnashing when the Cowboys come to town,

at 17th and Sansom in the morning bounding from Little Pete's scrambled eggs toast and black coffee  studying in the Spring thinking All is Full of Love in my ears leaving fog pollen footprints on the  smoking cement blooming,

at the Shambhala Center with dharma lotus dripping from heels soaking rosewater insides thrumming to the  groan of meditation,

at the Art Museum Greco-fleshed and ponderous counting tourists running the Rocky steps staring into shoji screen tatame teahouses,

at the Lebanese place plunked boldly in Reading Terminal Market buying hummus bumping past the Polish  and Irish on my way to the Amish with their wheelwagons packed with pretzels and honey and  chocolate and tea,

at the motheaten thrift store on North Broad buried under sad accumulations of ramshackle clothing  clowning ridiculous in the dim squinting at coathangers through magnifying glasses and mudflat  leather hoping to salvage something insane,

in the brown catacombed warrens of gutted Subterranea trying unsuccessfully to ignore bearded medicine

men adorned with shaman shell necklaces hawking incense bootlegs and broken Zippos halting conversation to listen pensive to the displacement of air after each train hurtles by,

at 30th Street Station cathedral sitting dwarfed by columns Herculean in their ascent and golden light  thunderclap whirligig wings on high circling the luminous waiting sprawled nascent on stringwood pews,

at the Masonic Temple next to City Hall, pretending to be a tourist all the while hoping scouring for clues in the cryptic grand architect apocrypha to expose global conspiracies,

at the Trocadero Electric Factory TLA Khyber Unitarian Church dungeon breaking my neck to basso  perfecto glitch kick drums with a giant's foot stampeding breakbeat holographic mind-boggled  hole-in-the-skull intonations,

at the Medusa Lounge Tritone Bob and Barbara's Silk City et cetera with a pitcher a pounder of Pabst and a  shot of Jim Beam glowing in the dark at the foosball table disco ball bopstepping to hip hop and  jazz and accordions and piano and vinyl,

in gray Fishtown at Gino's recording rap holding pizza debates on the ethics of sampling anything by  David Axelrod rattling tambourines and smiles at the Russian shopgirl downstairs still chained to  soul record crackles of antiquity spiraling from windows above,

at Sam Doom's on 12th and Spring Garden crafting friendship in greenhouse egg crate foam closets  breaking to scrutinize cinema and celebrate Thanksgiving blessed by holy chef Kronick,

in the company of Emily all over or in Kohn's Antiques salvaging for consanguinity and quirky heirlooms  discussing mortality and cancer and celestial funk chord blues as a cosmological constant and  communism and Cuba over mango brown rice plantains baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies,

in a Coca Cola truck riding shotgun hot as hell hungover below the raging Kensington El at 6 AM nodding soft to the teamsters' curses the snagglesouled destitute crawling forth poisoned from sheet-metal shanty cardboard box projects this is not desolate,

at the impound lot yet again accusing tow trucks of false pretext paying up sheepish swearing I'll have my  revenge,

in the afterhour streets practicing trashcan kung fu and cinder block shotput shouting sauvage operatic at  tattooed bike messenger tribesmen pitstopped at the food trucks,

in the embrace of those I don't love the names sometimes rush at me drowned and I pray to myself for  asylum,

in the ciphers I host always at least 8 emcee lyric clerics summoning elemental until every pore ruptures  and their eyes erupt furious forever the profound voice of dreadlocked Will still haunting stray  bullet shuffles six years later,

in the caldera of Center City with everyone craning our skulls skyward past the stepped skyscrapers  beaming ear-to-ear welcoming acid sun rain melting maddeningly to reconstitute as concrete  rubber steel glass glowing nymphs,

in Philadelphia where every angle is accounted for and every megawatt careers into every throbbing wall where  Art is a mirror universe for every event ever volleyed through the neurons of History,

in Philadelphia of so many places to hide I am altogether as a funnel cloud frenetic roiling imbuing every corner sanctum sanctorum with jackhammer electromagnetism quivering current realizing stupefied I have failed so utterly wonderful human for in seeking to hide I have found

in Philadelphia

standing in front of the pacific
sea salt hair, frothy finger scooping
water back into the sea
gulls hungry desperate endangered
if not for stranger's crisps
clawed baby *****
pincers at the ready
crushed by babies human
shell fractured by skin
hands held together by other hands
threaded together like a lifeline
families laugh, dolphin-like chortles
over nothing
at all
and sons and daughters
forgo their differences, chuck them
into waves with grey shore rocks, protect
their towels and castles and bodies
with sand moats, a starfish
plunked dead center
far away from home
iridescent sea shells collected
as jewels, worn around pretty
bruised necks of housewives
content in their one-day
ocean excursion turned revolution
solitude as i watch
and sit and think and think and
feel and watch some more
eyes like those saccharine
candy floss treats, cloying to
tongues and fingertips, alone
in another universe i am
with a family
tossing our children into ocean waves
dunking ourselves into the deep
collecting glinting shells for
our jewelry, breaking them
as they are shoved into plastic bags
but today
in this universe
i am the crab
crushed by skin
and flesh
and bone
a soulless thing
careful to observe, cautious, fleeting
miniscule
to be fed upon, ******
dry by trauma,
licked off the fingers of
would-have-been acquaintances
a carcass of longing
for moremoremore

yet never quite certain
how to crawl towards it
lest i be
stomped upon
again

so i sit on the beach
inhale saltwater and laughter and affection
through my skin
and make friends with sea creatures
as lonely as i am
as insignificant
as me

Out of everything I saw, I remember
the thumb.
Swollen and lopsided.
There it was, conquering the wires--red, blue, and green,
commandeering the clear tubes coated with stomach bile.
And the nail. What a healthy nail.
A pink rosebud with cuticle trim. Piqued with a white crest, curling.
Prime for at least fifteen more back scratches.
A drawerful of button-ups.
Pockets of heads and tails.
You can do it, Grandma.
One, two.
Heads, tails.
Up, down.
Up for braid, down for bun.
Braid? Yes. Braid.
And then there are two small thumbs bumbling through foreign terrain.
The braidee now braiding. The baby,
aging.
Tucked in, lulled by echoes of strange mothers. Bleeping pressures, sugars, drawing lines and colors.

But you have me.
And I have this thumb,
hidden under mine.
I’ll keep it safe for you, here in this shadowed palm—sanctified, secret dome.
I’ll protect it from the unhooked jaw.
From placid flesh curtains, over a damp backstage.
White light hanging over the insect—splayed on a lightning-gleamed car windshield.
I’ll hide it away.
Intermission.
Hush now.
Quiet, you. The show is not yet done.
And ******, it won’t be. Not with this thumb.
Not on my time.

I bite it.
At you. Skyward you.
Elusive and slippery. Shiny, rubber-like, all but new.
A blank belated card, lost in the mail.
What it might have said,
had I left a forwarding address.

But we’re here now in this dark hand cavern.
Tucked away, safely in lines.
Those of the palm.
Of tree rings.
Of love songs, and
Pretty things.
Lines, like wires
red, green, and blue.
They bring me closer
And closer
To the thumb.
Fat, with shiny aged skin,
stretched new.
And suddenly, I’m
Old.
Numb along one side.
Useless and dumb.
A limp puppet
plunked down
during intermission.

Plunked car in the middle of the yard
My chest is heavy;
Breathing so hard!
No word is jumping to my mouth to Speak
I used to be a thoughtful wisdom freak
My car isn't solid
Trending day by day
On Instagram car field
This is the memorial one
If I own a talented hand & mind
I'm tired of this world with no spark Plug
Though seek my fortune with hand in Mug!

some of those thin moths are snowblind
enchanted by cheap tricks, trickling for magicians
past their prime.
four wings, naked lunch
moonbeams
long time.

the universe is unlatched
and just fine.

you come from nowhere
and go over there
all the time.

your eyes, some
remarkable placid
rancid with
naive.

plunked into an anagram
of our first kiss

disregardless
the Cerberus
you doubt
with.

Chi sono io?

My i strayed from its o
(divorziato)
decades before the ***** and egg had wed,
hatching me to a self-soaking
tub where the immigrant
pigments of Ermano e Rosa
were twice removed.

Quando dormo
gli antenati stanno sempre
sussurando indicazioni

Rosa e Ermano each descend
(spaesato)
on separate planks plunked down to greasy
rock by proverbial boats.
When they do, Emma Lazarus doesn't
warn them the Lady's "give me"
comes with a take.

Provo a sentire
le due parole dolci
ma non posso

Ermano e Rosa each find
(inamorato)
American spouses, have American kids
who sprout to twist a native tongue
till an ill-fit, its tang is
left in must and un-dusted
just for periodic trips back.

Ripeto, Chi sono io?
E nel questo sogno
i voci mi dicono di nuovo...

Let's skip the unplugged generation's gap
(collegato)
to where my i reacquaints with its o,
but their made-up past makes
a tenuous tether, so together
Rosa e Ermano drift on
the whispers of a forgotten song.

Non dimenticar

So there.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMVI)


Yes, fire.  We plunked down on the fur rug thence
Afore her fireplace, and I in betrayl
Neglected to erm, lose me on its hale
And licking flames, e'en that romance' pretense
Was blind to--wherefore? Sandwiched for intents
Twixt two guy friends, I was too dull t'avail
Me even there, yea lost myself in pale
'Scuse in auld lines to Nigel, like's good sense.
Now Sunday watches diesel trucks roar fer
Sweet hours through lonesome country roads 'neath blue
Skies nary cloud is but a ghost in, poor
As saying.  I told a friend I'm as a melon you
Cleaned out, sans Mum, and what as twere
Is left?  LORD, give me Thy fruit.  And kids too?

11Mar18b

He got up onstage lookin’ like somebody’d torn him out of a National Geographic special on the Amish, plunked ‘im down in Eugene for a decade where he quickly realized he didn’t have to change much to get along quite alright here.

this is a song ya know I played it here 23 years ago just right over there on that side of the room and ya know my partner and I played it here and I couldn’t write songs then and he could and I was a little bit down in the dumps about myself about it but then I moved on and ya know my partner left here not long after that got caught up in that hitchhiking business and then got tangled up with the mental hospital and now he’s forced to take antipsychotic drugs every day for a time he was known as the second most dangerous schizophrenic in the state of Oregon but ya know he was also probably the second most gentle person in the state of Oregon cause ya know opposites sometimes come together in that way and ya know his songs were gentle too like this one for example this one is real gentle

ya know he was really a gentle player and now he’s caught up on those antipsychotics and its all my fault cause I drank a bunch of *****

Hot Tub Jeff looked straight outta National Geographic but when he sat down he pulled out a phone and the screen glowed bright on his face bringing out all the creases that had been hidden in room’s putty atmosphere, cause ya know opposites sometimes come together in that way.

We were both in dance class,
all I did was stare at your ***,
while I plunked on the piano.

I was such a dweeb back then,
actually I still kind of am,
but I felt like I had no
chance with you.

But here I am today
with no women in my way
my roommates were still my wingmen.

Apparently you thought I was cute,
in your spandex you felt like a ******
and were to afraid to give me your number then.

Today is my final chance
to see if we can make this last
and let me take you out.

You look great in your summer dress
I'm in my Sunday best just so I
can find what you're all about.

A cigarette
sitting in a cliche orange prescription bottle
the tobacco-stuffed tip
peaking out half an inch from the top

on it
scrawled in black ink:
miluji tě

it's author,
gone for a week and a half in a rehab center

left that morning with wet hair from the shower
long black tights around her legs
and a huge hiking bag which consumed the back of her figure
as she was walking out the door.

i imagine she wrote these words in her mother tongue
after she rolled the cigarette herself
to her boyfriend
a Texan
depressed, anxious, lost
then plunked it into the small bottle
which bore her name on its label

into the flourescently orange plastic,
symbolic of her dependency, of
the missing pieces

a flower in a vase:
miluji tě

and then she was ready to go

when i found out you were going to be a father,
everything inside me went flat and grey and
i spent the next five minutes remembering how to breathe.
it shouldn't have surprised me,
but i guess something in me just hoped
that no one would ever choose to procreate with you.
lord knows i wouldn't even trust you with a cat.

when i found out you were going to be a father,
some dark heavy seed plunked into my chest
and sank straight to the bottom.
i saw the announcement and immediately
i could taste in the back of my throat
the way you called me baby,
acidic and cloying and sticky.
it burned hot and sharp through my lungs
like every word of every promise i remember you forgetting.
the news hit me with a power you yourself have not had in years.

you are going to be a father,
and since the moment i found out,
i have been whispering desperate prayers to the universe
that you never have a little girl.
i think about your greedy hands brushing curls
from some soft little angel face,
and i feel sick.
i think about you picking up her pretty little-girl things,
little socks and bows and shoes and toys,
and it takes everything in me just to sit here and breathe.
will you sing her the songs i used to sing you
in my own pretty little-girl voice?
will you hear me in her cheeky turns of phrase
or when she cries into her pillow
late at night when she thinks you're asleep?
what if she's precocious,
like me?
what if her prepubescent body starts to carve itself
into the shape of a woman's?
will it be easier to remember that a child is still a child
when you watched her grow yourself?
if she picks out tight shirts and short skirts
and paints her eyes dark and her lips red,
and she walks and talks and moves like a woman,
will you remember that she is not?
maybe if she is your daughter,
it will be different,
but then again i think being your anything
can never be anything but trouble for a little girl.
i should know.

i hope more than anything that you never have a daughter,
because i know if you do,
i will never stop wondering.
i know that the questions will keep me awake at night
for the rest of my life.
i will will never stop worrying that it is
at least a little bit
my fault.

when i found out you were going to be a father,
i remembered
everything.

May 13, 2016
1:00 a.m.
"Grasping for straws, again!" It's amazing to me, that when we start aproaching  my age, how we start reflecting on events that, at the time of their occurence, were not important. Case in point:
Lubbock, Texas, September, 1953, if memory serves. During that time local television stations, at noon, always had a 15 minute newscast, followed by another 15 minutes of "public service programing, featuring upcoming events in the surrounding communities. This time of year, it was always the "South Plains Fair."
My brother, Bill, and I belonged to a volunteer service group that was scheduled to appear on such a program aptly titled "Hospitality Time." Also scheduled was a country western band that was to perform at the fair. I can't recall the name other than they were associated with a circuit called "The Louisiana Hayride",  similar to the "Grand 'ol Opry", both very popular on the radio, you do remember 'radio', don't you?"
Prior to the telecast, we got into a conversation with one of the musicians, who 'plunked' on his guitar while waiting for their call.He turned out to be the lead singer. Not being a country music fan, I  didn't pay much attention to them, after all, it was "just for the Fair." After they finished and were leaving, he turned to my brother and me, and said, "nice to meet you." It wasn't until a couple of years later, when I realized that we had met, and talked with, Elvis Presley.
copyright: richard riddle: 05-13-2016

Chapter Two -poem-Neva Flores



Sometimes I get tired of having so little time
and plainly seeing my surroundings
crying out before the scent of dawn
has bloomed.
Can a single cloud breathe in
all of the warm air
that hails my universe,
removing all reason to wake up,
live life and resume?

I look at fleeing ships
whose sails are full of thunder
and I hear a song
dissolving the wildest parts of me.
Each note dances in the breeze
dropping its own melody
inside my heart
until it becomes the only thing
I hear inside my soul
and I struggle to even
breathe.

I was a cabin boy on a tallmasted ship.In the Straits of Gibraltor.Yes they did not know I was female but that was my well kept secret.one does have to survive in this world and by hook or crook I planned on doing just that.my name is Samuel.well really Samantha..been called Sam a while so the transition /switch to samuel was fairly easy.I figure Im close to 8yrs, maybe 9 and I'm scrawny and quick.Business was done in cramped quarters so no-one was the wiser.My best friend was Joque, he kinda wanted a son I reckon, he was partial to Me and gave Me the easy work and fed Me all the time..you know the fresh stuff so I wasn't inclined to scurvy..apples whens theys were here...oranges and salt in rations he kinda shared with me.Odd how I was found at sea and in the middle of nowheres they say..just like I was plunked down in the ocean like a drowning rat , lucky it was in front of the HMS Frigate Triumph..not much to see but it was dryer than I had seen in a while...anyways Joque fished me out and dryed Me up ..said he'd never seen a boy with that much hair.so a hair cut was in order...threw me some dry clothes that dinna smell like stinky fish and here I were.





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© 2011 Eclipsing Moon-blood red

cheap beer,
hand-rolled cigarettes,
crisp air slicing the night,
the divide crumbles beneath the beastly black ball
plunked into a crook.
gentle expressions liberated
from an
anchored breeze
as minds intertwine under the
beaming orb of night.
bedrock activities in conjunction with
still, articulating hearts
mimic
an innocent jubilee
that only morning knows of its arrangement.

Aunties and their daughters
pay a fortune to see the hills
burning fuel on roads
carved out of rock
they talk of the crisp mountain breeze
plunked down in AC cars
they point at tea gardens green
through thick sheets of tinted glass
"Look there, a lonely hut
amidst the greens the only hut,
what a lovely place to live!
Dressed in straw, bathed in sunlight,
ringed with only rows of tea.
Mother, I want a house like that,
oh what a lovely place to live!"

Somewhere inside the lonely hut
sat weeping a young lonely girl
cussing at the straw, at the
scathing sunlight and at the
endless rows of tea.
As she plucked leaves warily that noon,
a snake slithered to her feet
but only the trees heard her wail
only the breeze cupped her face.

Even at an age of eighteen
she would not admit
what a lovely place to live!
was her ugly lonely hut.

We see things that other females
don’t pay a tuppence to.
Like a half-burned cigarette tail,
Your osculation of deep, dense rouge—
A secret trusted only by two.
With our own hands, we mimic time
And manipulate the world you once knew.
Falling in love with a writer is a faulty design.

To your heart, we assail
With words plunked to a tune;
In your soul, with great force, we impale.
From a love-front angle of view
You might feel a tad misconstrued,
like a poorly mixed cocktail.
Ricochet from baseline to fault line,
But every time you pull through ‘cause you knew,
That falling in love with a writer is a broken design.

When we close our eyes and slowly inhale;
We hear the laughter of a family in an empty room
And unveil the retold, recycled tales.
Picturing why the dust rests less heavily on one broom,
And can smell the meal Ma cooked when they came home from school.
From the underworld and past the skyline,
We scour everything down to its last detail.
Falling in love with a writer is a grueling design.

To us, your eyes flourish like flowers in June
With lips– silky like cabernet wine.
And although sometimes we forget to say we love you,
Remember that falling in love with a writer can be a beautiful design.

Standing on the frozen lake
Build on my mistakes
Or situations that life plunked on me
Unbearable to take

And look on these spikes
Of grief as frozen ice
That filled the land of heart
Until I cry
Until I cry


[Your heart is size of fist
And if you hold tears in it
They get compress and compress
And make the frozen lake]

he started the banjo man did plinkin'
amid the heavy drag of a slow cool
bass harmony strung out on a long low note,
it sounded like nails on a chalkboard at first
or a cat in heat mewing loud in the alley
and crescendoed into a full blown
attack on my sanity my notions
as he plunked away and chorded a falsetto guitar note
like eric clapton playing a ukelele
drugged out the clanking E
called out a G
then faster he took me as the bass fought to accompany
along an a fast tweedling dee
and a C that cried liked birds
and the blues fans applauded the folk singers sat agape the rock singers sang Hallejuah
and the minstrels swayed
so many fast
f'ing F's  G's B's flats and concordances
it was like a thousand harps from heaven turned loose in fast forward
and I ****** him
**** banjo man
that was good

It took a long time for me to believe in trust again because it had been broken so many times.
It took a long time to believe in love again after it had been maniacally ripped apart.
Despite that, someone made me believe,
And then, now, here I am broken all over again.
I found myself believing every word that plunked from those lips
And I fell for them .
When sentences string from mouths , I don’t believe any of the explanations now.
I don’t process the one-sided quickly spoken monologues anymore.

It hurts to look back on the past and see the slow shifts where I couldn’t before.
It’s even harder to look into the future and see where I won’t fit in,
But it looks like it’s time to change again.

Cuz buzzards circle o'er me
eyeing these lovely bones prithee
id est Roy L. T. Canard, Si
hence impossible mission
to be lovey dove vee.

Vague remembrances of dream  
which recurred with frequency
transfixed by Sir Real majesty
shows me and the misssus evicted.

Hum habitually hiccuping
in tandem feeling woozy
virtually celebrating monarchism
with British Royal Family,
and about eager and ready
to take a snoozy
so please pardon this poet
exhibiting being a lil oozy,
nevertheless yours truly
birthed the following verse
a reasonable rhyme and doozy
considering yours truly tipsy and *****.

Now this raggedy man
whilst deep in sleep
this past night
what felt like galactic body
fell upon ma slumbering heap
affecting immediate fear
lest worst nightmare
viz management boot us
into emotional inferno

felt steel tipped kickstarter,
would crush with might
but lo… heavy weighted body
just zee spouse
plunked herself into zzz land
immediately within unconsciousness deep
that's the husband unable
to recaptcha pleasant dreams
well nigh past midnight.

Unable to shake away drunken stupor
nor defeat insomnia
reliving sinister tête-à-tête
so...rather than emit shrieks
like some angry bird
idea arose to resume completing poem
expressing discombobulated state,
whereby sixty shades
of grey matter feels
similar to thick whey curds
palliative sans restorative power
per rest hopefully clear muddled pate

plagued with grogginess
and marauding herds
of mailer daemons worse
than unsuitable mate
or a world wide web filled with nerds,
thus lethargy purged
via catharsis forming swords
follow rhyming pattern
to convey drowsy tipsy mood,
a synonym for my words.

Noah respite despite eliminating kinks
courtesy arched back from cat nap
as ginned tonic, nor lion here
feline groovy getting high temporarily
spells relief and serve as balm
with pillowed temptress ever near
beckons softly inviting calm
before this human
goes awry and berserk on manic tear
being revisited from haunts
inside head of this wordsmith
caught by men in white coats
coming to take me away
**-**, hee-hee, ha-ha,

to the funny farm
straitjacketing this maniac
wrought with weariness
dark ringed circles around eyes  
showing Adonis long since didst veer
Judas Priest or  
if you prefer heavens to murgatroyd
can't stomach bulge
spills o'er tattered underwear,
whose ***** by the way
once upon a time
about the size of average palm pilot,
yet taut for witnessing
three score plus three mortal year.

This ole goat intoxicated,
plus forcibly locked within
fas paux blinding darkness,
the pitch black common
all purpose room
in disarray after Skyping English fete
at fictional Knock Less Apartments aye
daily encounter, one bewitchingly

hair raising dreaded locked
rooted tension doth amplify
fiendishly horrible, jeeringly loopy,
nippy nap noopy,
pugnaciously ravenous, talon
viciously wizened, xenophobic yeti, zapping
zeroing zillion zippers,
zoned alley bye

barred doors fate helplessly jury-rigged
sealed with plaintive cry;
no escape known to this man caught
in a deadly voodoo clutch,
thus doomed to die
ugly cannibalistic, frightful,
heathen rumors myopic eyes espy
alarmed at feeling trapped

akin to a wingless fly
tapping reserves of scapegoat
coping techniques ingenuity,
which earned me moniker "fall guy,"
where accursed cruel fate destined exit
from getting husked, issued
jagged lance like mandibles "hi
there unknown weekly reader,” I

pray for super leftist
write hand man/woman to extricate
(via whipping up literary poetic fabrication),
then joining me to sing jai
(let victory prevail against killer odds)
perhaps summoning division
of British shiver rights phalanx,
hood reply with Hackneyed "oh kai"

springing surprise rescue,
sans swooping inside
mine hermetically faux invisible prison,
where this troubadour doth reside,
yet realistic to accept my
demise without putting up
a good fight well nigh
against inevitable mortality

(out maws of death)
gleefully depriving grim reaper
death his domain and
eventual unavoidable claim,
but if such kind unaccustomed soul
can cushion the blow of penury...
vis a vis philanthropic treatment
manifested as deliverance  

courtesy anonymous altruistic benefactor
plucking one bard
off downward slippery
precipice of homelessness,
ye will be rewarded with apple pie
ala mode enjoying a Quai,
yet moment with
Holden Caulfield doppelganger
made famous qua Catcher in the Rye.

PS 5.9.2021I’ve done the whole thing over: punctuation, syntax - all to make it clearer to the reader - and you.  See if it makes a difference.

   I’ve been taking this apart & putting it together umpteen eleven times, unsure of what I was aiming at, unsure of my attitude and what I was saying.  Finally, it itself formed my conclusion.  Ah, the creative power of poetry.

   Fragments Of Energy II

Fragments of energy, forces of power;
Distance illusory… near, here or far.
So much is theory, notion, idea.
Is God really God,
We, the peas in an almighty near and far pod?
Is the mixture a mishmash but all-of-a-one:
Unified fractals* that make up the fun,
Snowflake or buttercup, echoing bird.
Re-stated everywhere - here, now and every ‘there’?
(Look up the word)
Clusters or clutter, matter plucked,
Plunked down with order;
A concert in motion, a symphonic One.
Part of the order of earth, moon and sun.
All of a fragment with no counted number,
Each of us members In atom toned embers.

In some sort of incomprehensible way,
One is glad to be
Even a fleck of those fragments of energy.
Fragments Of Energy II 5.9.2021 Circling Round Science; Nature; Reality; Arlene Nover Corwin

fractal; a curve or geometrical figure, each part of which has the same statistical character as the whole. They are useful in modelling structures (such as snowflakes) in which similar patterns recur at progressively smaller scales, and in describing partly random or chaotic phenomena such as crystal growth and galaxy formation.

The sun is overtaken
by the hill before it
Golden grass glistens
A glorification

The grass is dry
it has nothing left in it
It is susceptible
to a devouring fire

A cigarette is plunked
a spark is struck
a flame is spawned
the flame spreads

A breeze challenges the fire
like a child to his birthday cake
But more sparks fly
like new stars in the night

The field is left scorched
blackened and flat
like a sky without stars
no more light

The land is harsh
it seems nothing can grown
but give it some time
and it will flourish

His glass-shard screams punctured the pulsing fleshy *****

creaking left to right from a rope of ****** handkerchiefs

streaks of fat and juice plunked onto a dilating glimmering circle

as a gasp-like sigh echoed softly around the chamber

–

reverberating heavily within the barren, carved-out cage

It dangled further down,

frenziedly pumping pomegranate-red blood through its narrowing bloated tunnels

yet seemingly lifeless  

–

The boy retched, twisting in the air

skinny limbs flailing,

straining

swollen black veins

–

I awoke

He slumbered obliviously by my side

a opaque pool of drool collected on the crisp, white sheets

–

It was all for naught, a warning-infused dream

then let me be found
like a glossy shell on the shore
plunked by the tide
no longer will I hide
as sweaters in the drawer

If I’m washed up
then let me bask in the sun
of my own ignorance –
just for the fun

If I’m washed up
then I’m ready to go
where you shall ask –
I’ll let you know

I believed fortune cookie maxim
cryptic message couched
Apple Macbook Pro update process
alternately titled “markedly
a Luke warm welcome Matt unfurled
courtesy Jimmy John,
who embarked on
imp apostle bull mission
going to find Mark Twain.”  

After wracking my brain
deducing I declare what
constituted impossible mission
to delineate purpose of these words,
after initialled written
about six and a half years ago
my best hunch (backed up
while holed up in Notre Dame),
I agonizingly dutifully didst attempt
to distract anticipatory anxiety,

(analogous to an expectant father)
while delicate protracted procedure
ticked away the minutes,
where learned hands
gingerly tweezered various and sundry
state of the art electronic
components while trained fingers
instinctively, expertly, and admiringly
wrought awesome results
bitta bing bitta bang under the hood

of cherished Apple product
courtesy wizards hunkered down
troubleshooting laptop to restore functioning
of sophisticated electronic machine  
to ideal factory settings
quality control capability promised
nothing short of a miracle,
whereby engrossed deep thinkers
echoed the sound of silence
thru the corridors of time

olly olly gluten
free ranging NON GMO, oxen
oiled lubricated cloven hoof
nsync cup aided toot tune
to clacking choppers
activated after this chap
dialed up favorite technical director
using his latest smarts
vaunted from years
of breathing, eating, and living

malfunctioning circuits
housed on motherboard
exemplifying divine computer devices
generated by brain child
videre licet avast array
of embedded electronic components
back in the day
Electronic Numerical Integrator
and Computer (ENIAC),
completed in 1946

necessitated taxing physical prowess
additionally forced human interventionists
to shout over din o'er
loud grumbling within bowel
of bulky binary beast of burden
along vaguely similar scenario
buzzfeeding abdominal anatomical beast
easily appeased when yours truly
a gluttonous gourmand,
tasking me to commence upon

ordering food glorious food,
which magically and mysteriously appeared,
after manifold fiery breath
spewed by amazing dragons
**** forming breath taking
heart stopping mind bending
sensational aural and visual feast
low and behold
wresting, teasing, releasing soundcloud
an appetizer to sense
and sensibility tete a tete

while inhabiting (neigh – riding)
caparisoned painted ponies
segueing faux horse sense
(animated, captured, framed
and linkedin within carousel of time)
courtesy tony Apple iPhone X - 256 GB
Silver Verizon amazing pièce de résistance,
sans technological fetes
with CDMA/GSM ringtones,
where a pleasant fecund female

bot tilled voice didst greet
prepping, priming, promoting
Crowded House serving
blue plate special of the Green day
dis "FAKE" kin listener eagerly
awaited: salivating, simulating
****** soothing sans savory souffle,
the first culinary ******* savory dish,
after aye parked,
positioned, and plunked gluteus

near swinging doors leading into kitchen,
where this word maven strategically
dip posited said maximus to attempt
futile gastronomic endeavor
tum maximize tempering torturous tenacious
devastatingly deadly assault steaming enemy
disarmed disguised, and dismantled,
resplendent redolent redoubt
digitally remastering and remixing
non discerning indistinct aromas

emanating from naked lunch to supper esse
overwhelming paroxysms to gorge
putting a ritzy lid on heated fiery dogged
craving powder milk dog biscuits
(an impossible mission), where oozing,
licking, insinuating filaments
commingled as cutthroat
nemesis cooly whipped
devastatingly weeknd ecstasy
wickedly wafting, seducing,

satiating, and salivating
courtesy olfactory foramen,
deflecting incessant onslaughts
induced famished fellow
to reevaluate, relinquish,
and revisit his Weltanschauung soup per bowl,
while simultaneously commandeering cutlery
to attack, besiege, conquer
condemning delegate
of China ware without tea zing,

thence indiscriminately marshaling choppers
to set up base camp at Oral-B
(heeding flying pie warnings, where shewing
should desserts foe ment Hunger)
eggs sauce er baited
onslaught of herbaceous,
fabulous, delicious, and bodacious
culinary cuisine aromatic eats
thoroughly teasing growling stomach
steeping interminable suspenseful,

seven star Michelin magicians
empowered to transform most anything
(such as bilge water,
road **** or septic tank)
gourmet experienced huckster longingly *****
doubled as famished
Norwegian Bachelor farmer,
equating odoriferous garbage truck
on par suckling swollen teats
patience caved to restrain noshing

impaling his strict credo
on dustbin of his story
never again *** chew gnawing
even knuckles sandwich of fingers or toes
squishy human digits
texture of imported dates,
which hunger artist experienced pangs
voilà nothing short
of Pan's Labyrinth lesson,
did justice minimally satiated afterwards,

a restauranteur hoof hall
hues highbrow opinion,
hence a short survey about ambience,
yours truly will rate
perhaps unwise of an every
Jimmy John Joe gourmand
tubby biased after an apple ala carte blanche
preceded with delicious
hors d'oeuvre high marks
more nerve wracking
than going on a blind date.

And of course with enticing
forkful of flagrant food
Beep ping Update
completely disrupted first mouthful.