Guida & Me drove up to the ***** D
In my whip there was co-pilot Bryx and Captain Sleezy E
We rolled up to my yerp bro Brad D's
Next were greeted by Dino whos drinking a 40
Labatt Blue bonging and ponging like were competing for beer drinking glory
Then its onto asweome fries, saganaki, and telling funny stories
That night was crazy and a definite blast
Woke up the next day to see Dino's Dad's spot and gasp!
Walk into the kitchen to see Grandma Rontondo cooking homemade marinara
Smelling fresher than the lobby inside of a Panera
Next it's downstaris to the "Thunderdome," mindblow is all I can tell ya!
The food was amazing with Uncle D on the grill
Sammy the Bull said "Plastic Cups!" so that was the deal
Party was wild, popping bottles in other words unreal
Zoo was great, conductor swag was for real
Tigers beat the Twins, and that night it was freestyling, speeches, and Labatts on chill
Like the words of Willie Nelson the ***** D stays on my mind
I'll never forget that trip like my brain is a VCR and has the element of rewind!

.                     this is an ode to moody summers; to beautiful girls who paint our lives and cruise the streets thumping sound from their cars; colors transfigured upon pattern-diffused lifescapes and brushed off; to fabricated memories of retro teen hackers and their stylish computer labs buried deep within the garages of time; to television boardroom execs gnarling their teeth like new world warlords or shepherds of glamorous violence; & plastic; to new life; new life experienced most vividly through microsoft encyclo- tropics, and tasty lazers. hefty love we heave.

for love,
configure this:
                           you sweet my urge /
                           you float my pulse unending /
                           you you you
                                                  inspire /
                                                                ­   so simply.
                           you are as they say /
                                                                ­   the substance of life.

somewhere…
in the hopelessness of our moments is an energy like none-other.
           could say it rules me…                          …like the moon rules deep.
                                                           ­                      like the way we move/speak/****/

our molecular this,
                                    is
                                         drifting

                                   & found
                                      beyond far away waters,
                                      beyond folded trees
& elephant burial grounds.
earth hewn is the extract of earth grown. skin husked
or the liquid mint of mind.
                                            [alleged consciousness]

      
         life proceeds into a stunning mandala of moments.
acts of love      &
acts of death.
smoldering bodies
                        &              cradled belly.

              [beautiful is just one word.]
              [love.]
              [one word.]

for life,
configure this:
      savor this,
                this beautiful thing that is, this elusive thing that is,
us gusting.

owls know.
owls somewhere in the backyard.
         they tell us of our kaleidoscope colors.
         show us, of our sons & fathers & mothers.
         inform us of our mysteries.
our plots beyond white fencies/subdivisions.
sundays & sunrays & somedays we’ll glisten.

by beer.
by shelter.
by daughter most precious. long walk.
                         a father watches his baby crawl into a patch of pumpkins.
                         pink little baby hands
                         and the orange gourde field of fruit.

                                           a young man dreams this.
                                           thinks this.

journey far you way-far-man.
importune to that force from within and pursue humanity’s best shapes of goodness.
me & you & everyone we know.
forever persistent in the etchings we make.

we are illusion movements.
librettos far flung from what love might want to be.
                      [the universe heaves in the corner.]
                      [it throttles on the edge and beyond.]
                      [begging for starry dynamos to impact.]
                      [and blossom.]

us
together
by mere pinging, ponging, bonging.
vibrations and hurled bits.
she/you.
girl beside me.
girl who speaks in verse and words and thoughts nothing short of realization.
she harpoons the meat of inner-me.
& from then on in
& into the tones of our children,
i brunt nothing but to want her poetry.

sometimes i just have a few words masquerading as cobweb
and spider in my mind,
      sure, they're custard, clogging it up,
but then i wonder why Einstein was
such a big deal with the two worldly
distractions, and was necessarily dubbed:
still wrong.
             then as solomon predicted,
all is vanity, including the necessary 15 minutes
of it, could F. Sinatra ever cling to
such a forthcoming?
                   yes, all is vanity,
and only a few of us experience sanity
(that rhymes on purpose) -
so away from what's overly-prefixated
with words like un-, anti-, contra-, neo-, sub-...
     anglophone intellectualism is basically
a fixation on using prefixes as one might
use adjective, in that the former case
doesn't formulise the arguments,
in fact, trying to revitalise dialectics
seems a bit like finally saying: so democratically
speaking, we had no disagreement to keep
zoologically best kept hidden,
       because we said democracy and how
tribalism left a small minority roaming
the Amazonian rainforest (as if we were visiting
a Vishnu temple on Mars ping-ponging a huh?),
            people hate the queen ant as much as
they hate the rebellious worker ant...
       since the latter extends into a despotism
  the former outrightly allows,
        as long as the herd: alter. name for republic
and democracy survives and is left unchanged...
no cognitive virology can affect us...
        this is where the Cartesian model (originally
thought of as a dualism) becomes monistic,
or monastic... hmm hum hmm: mongolian harmonica...
        can there be case for cognitive virology?
if there is, where's the placebo? the standard base
in saying 0, 0, 0 is the basis for all big-bang coordinates?
that's like asking Copernicus where's east!
        the beauty within the eye-of-the-beholder has
to accept 1 fact, but still favour fact 2 to coordinate
successfully... it needs a spherical earth to not look
barbarian... or simply dim... but it also needs
a flat earth for an atlas and a "pseudo" truth to transverse
from A. to B., because, as it turns out:
satellite navigation personalised can lead a group
of Japanese tourists steering their rental car into the sea...
  like me... i have a few words floating about in my mind,
and they won't go away until i write them...
   pomocnik / labourer / helper
         nocnik / chamberpot
             noc / nacht... night...
    inżynier / engineer...
               the ridiculed version?
           pomagier, cow-eyed slacker
    who pretends to labour under or not under
                           a scrutinous eye of big baron Bartholomew...
      polymathic expeditions are one thing,
but to really explore globalisation you need
bilingual entrenchment... it gets psychological,
there any sort of economic sensibility in applying
two languages to a single cause...
    and being polymathic is a just excuse to
be, actually quite useful...
         quit quiet and quite... that's the q. q. q.
session without an answerable rubric...
                that's one proof of what happens when
diacritical marks aren't used...
             we're all bound to collide with the re
to our ego... it's only that poets and writers have
the topic enshrined in them as: now you should
feel ashamed... trying to not conceive a south
to a sunset, trying to not conceive a west to a simile,
not taking precautions that allow deja vus...
                  well? what the **** can a plumber say?
sure, it might be a marble rather than a ceramic toilet,
but it's clogged-up just the same...
                   and when writers realise they're not
St. Augustine of this world, they'll knuckle down
and write a Stephen King oeuvre...
         and by that time writing will become everything that
butchering a cow takes...
the title though, it means something...
           rumbles, in a well...
  (you always need to insert the a / the
     articles... a chair has to be asexual in English,
but you do need to orientate yourself by either pointing
at it - definitely - or "abstracting" it - namely
becoming a pioneer in suggesting it,
because Farsi akimbo by a Japanese table was never
quite right, as with due the revision of chopsticks)...
      dudnienie... see: once again the stutter...
          akin to lekki... just short of k-he... or khi...
or ghee...
                      even i thought the alkaline metals were
the pinnacle of hypersensitivity when dipped in water...
try language dipped in haemoglobin...
                    dudnienie? a noumenon expression,
as in: in itself... a far far away grumbling in a far far away
removed space for out pithy concerns...
            studnia? never mind studies and studs...
or Scandinavia...
                       the cork of the sewer system...
the tip of the iceberg...                
     and i appreciate the fact that all wars waged these days
are based on a retaliation against the mono-linguistic
parley of globalisation...
  the Arabs were naturally going to rebel against the endorsement
  of proto-Latin given the "popularity" of English...
some call it the remnants of the Empire...
           stresses on the q... as is due for desert folk:
m'qaba... it's almost glutton-bound nasal...
    it will take more than McDonalds to make them give up
their tongue... as hard as skimming across Lake Geneva
the Ayers Rock...
                           that's the one thing you can't take
from people: with what language they speak, no matter
how gravy that Father Crimbo is...
       gravy (groovy)...    you just won't extract bleach
from these people... basically: my great great great great great
great grandfather rode a camel from Mecca to Medina...
therefore my great great great great great great grandson
will also ride a camel from Medina to Mecca
    and say the words and mean them in saying them:
al' habbu Deqa; a bit like saying plandeka
   when saying tarpaulin - and is that tar-pau-leen
or tar-pau-lyn?                       hence the ambiguity,
given that people made of iota (ι) a necessarily invoked
diacritical certainty, without having judged:
or could it be umlaut... or acute?
              well... if i managed to complicate language,
i'm as fastidious in asserting that i have
                   as Shiva might be to answering Vishnu...
    someone was bound to write something like this...
having grasp of the language without questioning it
would eventually summarise itself in a perpetuated
yawn...             but wasn't it obvious?
   for the same alphabet to be formidable across an
"empire" that never slept, and for the same alphabet
to be written "naked" without auto-insinuating accents?
       anyone could pick the **** thing up,
and talk Bindi-Hindi bud-bud in Bollywood,
                      as they might talk the Texan drawl
                                    and cowboyish ye-ha! in Hollywood.
how many Hindus does it take to unscrew a lightbulb?
    dance *******! just, dánce! (yep, posh-boyo club,
      daaa'     beatbox um'pss um'pss wet-snare rockafellar
   fat boy never slims             'ys - mind you yoyo back
that variation of Lyn and Mince).
                                             **** me! Zukofsky.

It’s chocolate chip pancakes at 2:30am
And empty mugs of coffee on my desk

It’s adrenaline pumping through my chest
And the whir of my refrigerator

My focus is ping ponging between
All of the holes in the wall
Ignoring everything but
the pages in front of me

Watching everything through
A double pained glass
Realizing control is an illusion

I fight to get closer and closer to the audience
In my head
Exaggeration stretching onward like salt-water taffy
In the window

Fingers slipping, sweat beading
heavily above my upper lip
Not being 100% sure of anything
Who can blame me?
I am lost in the swivels of society

My face, as a ballerinas, when on pointe
An elegant mask full of nothing
Spinning and spinning
Relying on the inner soles of my feet

The clock slowly and forever slipping
As I cannot reach the top of the bunny hole
Too ******* stubborn to let any of the voices
In my head tell me I should crawl away

So, I look down and begin to read.

Your hair was longer.
That's the one thing about you that is sticking in my mind.
That, and the fact that I've seen those jeans a million times.
But I still can't breathe when I think about it.

I dropped my eyes so quickly I went blind for a moment.
No words were said between us, the talking from the others filled the room far better.
I couldn't even look at you past the initial one when you waltzed right into my profusely damaged psyche.
Your voice in my ears was an angry grater to my nerves.
Your reaction to me there mirrored mine:
Nonchalant indifference.
We no longer exist to each other.

I finally got what I've wanted for seven months.
I finally know you still exist, that you're still alive.
I have some solace in that, but mostly just stunned disbelief.
I was in the Twilight zone, my life for the past seven months flashing before my eyes and going right down the drain.
The effect you had on me was a **** poor excuse for the one you used to have on me.
But my heart still ricocheted against my core and my torso was enveloped in horrendously painful flames.

I couldn't utter a single word to you, my thoughts ping-ponging around my head.
Or maybe the reason is because I have nothing left to say to you.
My words have dried up just like your affection long ago.
I have no words for you.
No words would justify your actions, nor mine.
No words would even come close to actually portraying what I've felt because of you.
The pain, the guilt, the betrayal, the pure, agonizing rage, the exhaustion, the inability to eat.
Truth be told, I'd rather experience all that than bow down at your feet anyway.

my pocket   has     one nickel    &      Mason's has     a dime;
    a   transient,   red rubber ball ping-ponging  deep  faith with    & for  
        carnival             trash   is what    falls from the
raccoon's mouth    past three;      the      midnight   tour, troupe, &
    egret     have plucked    my eyes out     before    petit dejeuner    
         &    have all booked     residence    with   lush   vagabonds from
   some oasis    on the     curb of Suburbia,   the ottoman wet       where
        lore      slumps the backs of the        fairest;   where,  
  beyond     equanimity   there  boons & beckons  
            tightropes,   slacked tension;     and where     folklore  swells
     arteries       like   King Cake;    the  swamplands  have my    pocket
            picked;   pock-marked    truants    (BOY)    fiddling in fours
  during    school hours,   cakey     margarine  spread all
       over      their    legs         as they      eat grilled cheese and
become,      ****,
           in the    ambrosian   daylight fogged out with    figgy shade
   by thick,   carpet-fondling    curtains, sagging with secondhand soot.

Wayfinder or Polaris
was the name of the poem
that had been ping-ponging around my periphery
for the better part of two months

This, I thought, would be my magnum opus
the most perfect expression
of the safest direction
I’ve ever known

I envisioned myself writing it out
finally
in Word on my Dell
between case notes
or maybe on a scrap piece of paper
while parked waiting for a client

No fanfare

that is how I imagined it
Important things always flowed effortlessly
like the boy with hair
that was my new favorite color

But that was not the reality
that I have ever lived in

Wayfinder: Polaris
My dad had tried to explain it to me many times:
“The northern star is located in the little dipper;
it is the last star in the handle”

It was lost on me, though

So I tattooed the words on my skin
never considering the still raised lines could
somehow outlast the sentiment
of the lover who never actually

had to speak the words

*typing…

It's a spare night
Where Time
Takes the back seat on the ideals

Of

Fat aftermath and big mouths
That I can't seem to get
Enough of are ping-ponging
My ideals which I was only given
In a sentimental, pseudo Christinan
Nature.

Mother, you were I
Before me,
And will always be
Better for it.

I'm lackluster too, branded
And dragging
My bare bone self burning for an idea
That I was the I

I could eventually fall in love with for good,
If never.

Oh' the love
Of loves
Of known tragedies
That follows our every footstep
Knowing full-well life,
Is nothing

But the echo of them;

The aim
Being
To turn them off
So

To turn on, once again,

As we were when children.

-

Night has the day
By a long haul.

These lungs need to breathe
Danger, because a
Stale outlasting diamond mine
Balancing acts of love
Becomes

Sad mournful eyes
Indebted with the holes of the forgotten
Man, cornered
By their own misgivings,
Keeping them from the one they should know best -

Their other.

Imagine a curb,
Rounded and sun beaten.
There's the taste of the tongue
Of Friday.

Everyone's out.

Inhale, exhale (yeah, I'm alive; alive)

And then you cross the street only to be

Mixed in it like a potato in a stew; an

In addition to the addition

To,

Everything.

Ego steps in,
Tries
To try to define,
A knee ****
Reaction for a futile
Preservation.

Fading, cast in smoke, and then,
You are there,
In disbelief of yourself stealing
The ideals of who
You imagined

And the mirror
Of which,

It presents.

There see, I see, you see,
An absolute that, if meditated upon
(forget time)

Will be, will be

You,

A breath,

Of fresh air in a sky,

Aflame.

Adrift in the vacant void,
inhibited ideas increase,
firing frightful formations,
neurons never-ending nonsense.

Meaningless mouthfuls,
spewed and sprayed,
verbose vocabulary,
meaningless mumbo-jumbo.

Brainwaves wander wearily,
bouncing from skull walls,
ping ponging, in the end,
amounting to nothing.

the brethren gathered round
after word had gotten out
dented ping pong *****
usually accepted the reality
of a dent and what it meant

no more ping ponging around
or getting flung around
at warp speed Chinese style

no more the thrill
of the short under-spin
or the super-wide side-spin
the kicker or the ghost serve
fast down the line

the hook serve
(Mirano and Ito) style
or the thrill
of just slightly grazing
the net ever so fleetingly
in a mad dash
to the corner
of the table

sure clipping the net
and going over
is considered to be
a faux pas
or in proper parlance
a let that serves no purpose
other than a let service

who knew it would all
be so transitory
so transactional
sure there was hope
the boiling frog scenario
that was possible
but not mid-game

the solution was more trouble
than it was worth
the core of a throwaway culture
is so embedded
that just reaching out
for a new three star
fresh out of the box
replacement with the bounce
and ****** only a virginal ball
could provide not unsurprisingly
so satisfyingly that who could resist

so as the brethren gathered round
and looked up at their forlorn brother
teetering on the edge of the table
they knew and felt the inevitability
another dent and there would be
no coming back

"Don't do it"
"Somebody get a net"
"Go for it"
"Boiling water will bring you back"

suddenly
as if in slow motion
the ball flung itself
over the edge

into the blackhole
of an uncontrolled freefall
of top-spins side-spins back-spins
under-spins back top-spins
reverse back-spins

there was some kind of tunnel
a rapidly approaching light at the end
a shiny bright and luminous light
it was getting closer and closer

the brethren scrambled
in a nanosecond
the reel had been loaded
its life flashed before it
on some kind of cosmic screen
then the put-away stroke
set over