Like some goofy lisp.  
Like left over from Surrey to Essex.
Lycan, Omish, with some Roudy Rawdy Piper.
Like a WWE event, no ropes in the ring and a whole
bunch of cheerios.  
It sounded like chweer wee ohs.  
I got England to laugh out loud.
We were all laying on the floor hoping
fuhat bassthard would gooh on a diet.
Like Van Gogh and his buddy whats his...
knuck knuck.  Painting pictures of Marshall
Islanders for a vote or veto.  Paul Goin and Vincent
Van Gogh sharing a lisp.  
Sthounds like..... Ah gawd!  
Shut up you sobbing limp noodle.
Try writing something we all can laugh at.

Humor me Socrates with Albert Einstein.  
E equals MC squared.  
One part energy, a mass constantly squared.  
Cheerio old chaps.

So familiarize what having to swallow this pill is like
It happens all the time, they take your heart and steal your life
And it's as though you feel you've died because you've been killed inside
But yet you're still alive which means you will survive
Although today you may weep because you're weak and
Everything seems so bleek and hopeless
The life that you're seeking, it begins to seep in
That's the only thing keeping you from leaping off the motherfreaking deep end

And I'm pulling for you to push through this feeling
And with a little time that should do the healing
And by tomorrow you may even feel so good that you're willing
To forgive them even after all that **** you been put through.
This feeling of resilience is building.
And the flames are burning quick as fire would.
Through this building. you're sealed in
But you're fireproof, flame retardant, you withstood it.
And as you climb up to the roof, you're just chillin' and you look down
'Cause you're so over them you could put the heel of your foot through the ceiling.

As time passes, things change everyday
But wounds, wounds heal
But scars still remain the same
But tomorrow today's goin' down in flames
Throw the match, set the past ablaze

So feel the fire beneath your feet
As you barely even perspire from the heat
Exhale deep and breathe a sigh of relief
And as you say goodbye to the grief
It's like watching the walls melt in your prison cell
But you've extinguished this living hell
Still a little piece of you dies, you scream..

I fear not a thing in this room; world; vast. A path as wide as Earth-
I have none other to follow. Why should
I find myself ravingly inclined to throw this bucket into the ocean,
haul it back in until my palms bleed and with the intent of an excited madman
drink it all until I regurgitate shards of broken dream, regrets and utter salt.

I have listed all my achievements, all the houses I built, all the cast-iron-flame-retardant-
bridges I sat ablaze without a shrug; floating away into the air-waving
|new-life-death-the-universe-and-everything|
fumes of a well-played Molotow Coctail. I fear not a thing in this room.
When I die, I'll rest my cranial remains on a volume of pure epicity.

Loves and lovers won and mostly lost. Victories at high and lower cost.
Faces, sounds and scenes, more wild and blinding than I'd ever seen.
I cannot see in past or future anything considered missed.
No laugh withheld, no sin I felt I needed to resist.
It's only me: Little God. And I have come here to exist.
My diary. Is my Bucket List.

This is my body
I have Redwood skin – thick, fire retardant
It’s especially necessary due to the
Cracked chest cavity I carry underneath my coat, thick
And thankfully so, so I mark my bark with pinches and pulls,
Never changing, never ready for the vacant eyes of strangers
Reading me like last weeks old newspaper,
Just a passage of time, a bleak hobby.

This is my heartbeat,
More like heart pound,
Like a body buried in the burning earth
Pounding against my brittle bones, begging
For the bang of a gun,
To start the race, to end the war
Suffocated by caffeine infused blood that
Doggie paddles through me,
Losing the race against ghosts
Until I’ve
Lost my breath.

It's a giant steel padlock
latched onto an even greater door.
Bullet proof and flame retardant.
It opens for no one.
Not for friends.
Not for family.
Not for lovers.
Not even for me.
How can it be
that something so strong
can be so weak
internally?
It is me.

For God so loved the World…
Why? How? Does He see the same World that we live in everyday? Do His eyes see the same people? I cannot believe that they do…
We are everything that He is not, complete opposites in every way.
We are ignorant and arrogant. We see something beautiful and immediately cut it to pieces to find out what makes it so radiant. We are hateful and self-centered, thinking only of ourselves even alongside the deathbeds of others. We are destructive and self-absorbed. We only help the needy for a tax credit and a clear conscience.
We curse and condemn and never give our actions a second thought. We tear each other down to build ourselves up.
We lie and we cheat and we steal and we ****. We torture and torment in the name of boredom. We rob and we pillage and we **** and we raze, leveling the achievements of our own for the temples of posterity.
We live in a world where dog eats dog and beasts eat God, and He goes on, loving us just the same.        How? How can anyone love something that is so perverse; so malignant? We burn what we do not understand to ash instead of observing and wonder why our neighbors stockpile gasoline and flame retardant clothing…
Love thy neighbor as thyself and hate each other, it’s alright, as long as you hate yourself for being like your neighbor and hate your neighbors for being like you.
We are the worst that the universe has to offer, yet the creator of all has still decided to bestow his love upon us? Why? How must His eyes see our wicked race to continue to feel that way? We are nothing more that wicked mud, and deserving of nothing more than a harsh drought followed by unending windstorms.
Bring on the sun and the winds. Wipe this plague from the face of the Earth. She will not miss us, just as your neighbors will not miss you.  
But please, dear God, do not stop loving us, for we are merely children with money, nuclear toys and a strong dependency on anti-depressants, and we know not what we do.

and the bus windows fogged by human heat became a part of this child, and the wooden roof rot recliner

for summertime phone calls, and the crying neighbor woman’s sticky mascara,

and the hot asphalt became a part of him…the sideways light on the trees fifteen before dark, and the tract

            house mazes at night, and the hidden playground underground,

and the blooming jasmine over strangers’ fences…invisible barking dogs…and burnt bike wheel tracks,

            and glittered marsh gorgeous and toxic,

and cherry tree lined freeway, and the bitter fruit afterward…and the purple grateful palms…and the

            neighbor’s unbloomed roses;





and the car rides to Elsewhere, and the urban self-sufficience envy,

and the free tickets from the out of town hero…and the wild-haired directors pacing preshow

            lobbies…and the squirming audience beer-in-fist…and the blush-stained sidelit Cordelias…and

            the honest snickers clearing the building into the cold lot still and quiet,

and all the changes of city and country wherever she went.



The red couch, the red rug, the blue kitchen, the dying dog,
The star trek memorabilia, and the dusty book garage, and the overcooked rice leftover…

the weight of guilt, the thought if after all we deserve every ounce,

the streets themselves, and the midnight three block nightmare runs to safeway…and the barbeque smell from not-my-house,

and the ****** children stumbling to the bus,

the brass chimes that fell off the door, and the dead grass backyard blanket, and the overgrown fields

where your dad smokes ***, and the heat wave transposed radio, and the bird nest window mold ,

And the lawn flamingos become a part of him or her that peruses them now,

flame retardant,

american canyon: The Gateway to Somewhere Else, hallelujah, hallelujah,

Amen.

Sweet Sister,

I feel the sanguine-ness of age upon me.
I feel I understand the things which confused me in youth.
I have a sage satisfaction in being pleased to have reached this juncture,
In being able to look out the window and see the beauty of a desolate beach of dunes with the course grasses snapping to windward.

There is immense pleasure in seeing my children find their place in life, maturing with the years and the travails of work, love and responsibility.
I miss old friends...but such is life.. we all move on.
Colour and texture and sound mean a lot to me, they are the patterns of pleasure which paint each day.
And the steady warmth of love for an enduring wife who is the shining light in, my otherwise, subdued and essentially, muddy existence.

One thing which does **** me off is the penchant of the Inland Revenue Dept’, to lean on developing young businesses to pay for the sloth and layabouts
Of our society who have no endeavour. This is a travesty of social justice and an unnecessary retardant to the progression and advancement of our struggling young nation.
I think the Chinese have the right answer here...You don’t work.. you starve.... You bend your back and produce... you prosper!

As I grow older the shades of gray diminish, things are more definite, more black and white.

My work in construction, is constant and demanding...and ****** enjoyable!
Like a cat, I seem to have fallen on my feet once again??

The pleasure of the written word is my pastime and interest, I rejoice in the creativity of my fellow writers and bask in the glow of their company.

The Eagle’s Nest at distant Taranaki is looking green and tidy, landscaping is progressing and the rhododendrons are about to burst into flower.

Life is pretty ****** good!

Love to you and yours
M

Marshal Gebbie
Storeman

Anger is content.
It took up residence but don't pay rent.
It's presence dwells here in horror.
Evil growls....roars & howls.
A horrid stench so foul.

Heaven don't save the ******.
Pitchforks are not an olive branch.
In hell you don't get another chance.

No harps or halos it angel wings.
Only screams angel voices don't sing.

Your forced to learn your lesson.
A game you lost & can never win.

Depths of hell echo & haunt.
Obscenities expose & flaunt.
Blood splatters on the wall.
Where he killed my hamster & threw him to his fall
Like scenes from a haunted house.
Tears your skirt, shirt, dress or blouse.

Dictate your fate in a bottomless pit to fall.

Clackling devil hooves across the floor of stone.
Hammers to crush & break every bone.
Skulls decorate cave walls.
Horned red skin with an evil grin stands 7 feet tall.
Death, destruction, torture & corruption.
Hell that is what's it's about & all.

Pitchforks stab & slice.
Evil does what is not nice.

Not flame retardant.
Hell fire burns is how it is meant.

His sadistic nature needs to die.
For making me & my sister cry.

Emphatic yes.
Mechanical gestures attempt to arrest form,
Bind in possession a moment no longer.
A willful lash,
Resistance necessary,
Violent response to denied consent.
Constant memories.
Accountability never lost,
Never assumed initially.
Mantles are places,
For trophies,......



Remember to buy flame retardant.

I numbed myself today
Nothing else to say

Fires died down for a bit
Easy just to sit

But I know how these things work

I’m waiting for the metamorphosis

As retardant turns to fuel
And the fire returns hungry and refreshed

Can of dry leaves

On a deserted Plain

Sits easy and steady

While dust piles around you

All the same


Aghast were the ghosts

Who frollicked and moped


68 flame retardant neo-phytes

Left themselves busted

Not a nickel in sight


The road is empty

No law men around

Nothing but

The deafening shatter of sound


Plastic touches itself in front of millions

A synthesis of pure **** evil

A sliver of a far-off faint snivel


Rats red eyed and fat

Sincerely to thee

I've laid

Much better shats

The check comes
Clean, thin and crisp

Stamped in the rectangle
Are the numbers
That are either too high
Or too low

I stare at the lines that make these numerical symbols
Depressed and curious and foaming at the soul
I inhale in bubbled air and flame retardant love
Weighed down by how much control these lines have

Dish washer's bend their backs like they always have
Their eyes waxen and woeful staining a cracked mirror
Echoes of the ten o'clock news and banter over power lines
Force me to recall simpler times when youth was not so fleeting

Clean
In my back right pocket
The salt of the ocean
Burrows into my hair

Tempered face with lines resembling ravines
She chose not to play the radio so we could talk
In the back of my mind
I envision
                 Miles
                          And miles
                                            And miles

Of backed up cars
All stuck
For the same reason

Madness can only be accepted by the many if framed Perfectly

Cream spilt moon
Mother Nature's con
Ocean blue hue
Dangling forfeit desert
Snow-covered saloon

Living and breathing
Bending and dying

Unable to tell the difference
Between Midnight and

Noon

There, the money is put away
Taken out of the right
Into a place where venality is imbued
With congratulatory undertones
Out of sight

More numbers, more signs, more papers
All to be saved up
Used only for emergencies later

The payday
The big pay off
All the "Just another day" sayings
Burning to ash
To the wake-up call of a ******* alarm clock

What is next?

She came back on Christmas
to don the polyester white tree
and fleece lined blankets hung over edges of chairs.
But she always forgot to say goodbye,
as the hinges creaked upon her betrayal.

To fill the gaps between solstice seasons,
I stood in place
While party balloons hung plastered
to our shallow walls for months.
Other days a bath house for aching joints.
But never for the woman in question,
because she only came for Christmas.

The hours grew into days which encroached into weeks.
The dog-walkers passed,
The mail man caressed my farthest reach each noontime,
The daughter and son toiled with the mower,
The rake, my lungs (the dehumidifier).
The mother checked my fever on Thursdays.
But my rooms were empty all year,
Until the week of rushed decorations
And mass tear-down. All within four nights.

I guess the vacant tree gave me comfort.
The fibered needles and flame retardant tree stems.
I pictured each dollar store ornament as an entity of you,
Pulsing with life and beating of blood,
Vibrating in sync with the refrigerator and furnace.
But the fever-checking mother caught me mid-April
Molesting your Christmas tree, draining every ounce of humanness left.

And I knew when fever checker shoved it upstairs
You'd never come back to me again.

I was right.

I am a master at the art of ashes
human cremation takes artistic commitment
once the smell of singed eyebrows
burns your nose you can never be the same again
you know, my skin grew flame retardant and at first I wished grossly to return it and buy a new shell
but I've made the executive decision to aerate my diaphragm and pump this fire out of my pores and into your palms
singing with a slow burn
branding your sweet fingerprints into my skull
see, something outside of myself must contain me or I'll spill, gritty and fine
end over end into the depths of the alleyways and cobblestones
but, to be quite frank, I'm drowsy
so I'd rather you climb to the top of the world and release me, softly letting me blanket everything I've ever come to love
instead of confining me in that ugly porcelain jar that I spent my entire life peering at
while it hovered, haunting me, above my birthing ground
sitting precariously on that wooden mantle
above my fireplace
above my home.

All Joe king aside

Humor iz vital stove topface
component to survive the cares
and concerns oven uncertain
culinary future, that presages

over heating of this planet
concomitant with extinction
per the human race. Many
gauges point toward an
irrevocable debacle where

the evolutionary timer seems
to tick, head, and (hmm…
more like barreling) toward
becoming a cooked goose.

An ear splitting ruth less
buzzer will be an impossible
mission to clap quiet while
steam issues out the airwaves

from stymied paunchiest pilot
light buck kit brigade. If and/
or when such a fiery fate befalls
this arrogantly bombastic,

conceitedly egoistic, forlorn,
grievously hapless, irascibly
jangling, kookily middling
luddite, he hopes his demise

will be brutish, short and nasty
while surviving foreign legion
members of locked humanity
hob bull along the blitzed
boulevard of broken dreams.

Whatever provokes a maniacal
person to laugh as the world
turns tumultuously affecting
a surreal ambience akin to the
edge of night (especially with

dark shadows) may appear
wantonly vapid unspooling
threnodies sotto voce.
Rational quartermasters
promulgated outlandish no mans land.

Knowledge jackknifed ideal
humane gentility. Febrile earth
lings’ dragnet cleaved bona fide
actualization. What other option

available to tinker, tailor, soldier
spy except to chuckle at the folly
gingerly loosened upon the terra firmae?
Nothing short of an uproarious chortle

would be prescribed from doctor
demento to ameliorate the tightly
wound tension arising from local

or global aggression arising from
bullies calling their bluff fed goat
bluster, division by the zero
sum game of thrones. Thus,

this mechanically nonsensical,
pop sic cull *** purée to throw
fire retardant on the conflict frission
intonating loopy outré playfulness

with words hoop ping quadratic
equations totally add further
meaninglessness. Hence **** friend,
aye axe hew, how does humor get decided?

Laughter versus humor All Joe king aside.
Jest parody offers funny types of humor.
Seriously folks. What spurs this laughter?
Repression of natural mandated libidinal
kickstarter jammed in high gear feeds

e-z dropsy clodhoppers bursts of hyena
sounding eruptions! The cervical contractions
puffed up like jiffy pop laced pompadour,
increased with greater frequency and

intensity asthma due date approached
(which felt like violent shaking of the
biological ***** re: me), especially
prominent when “mother” gracefully
described Arabesque. She gravitated

to modus operandi sans professional
ballet dancer like a duck would drake
to water, and salve and duff heat whirled
pool ache kin to preparation H - soothing

the pain in the *** of hemorrhoids. Hours
elapsed with incessant stretching (while
in a standing pose) blithely drawing one leg
or the other up against those roseate ****** cheeks.

Even when quite progressed along
the family way with yours truly, thy
status while in utero where ******
stretched akin to a taut rubber band

near ready tubby (or knot tibia) snapped,
like ballet slippers suspending balanced
***** of toes pointed to maximum flexion,
or inflated balloon ready to pop beyond
capacity or, bulged in utero, she maintained

a fanatic, maniacal, and slavish veneration
asper the rigorous being a choreographed
top notch ballerina. This passion to bend
body electric defied laws of fig newton’s,

finagled parallel dimensions, and hugged
joie de vivre limbs maintaining nonchalant
passion recognized talent unbridled versatility
waiving youngest attaining burlesque,

Churrigueresque dramatic elegiac fluidity
transformed thine mama into a holographic,
kaleidoscopic, and opportunistic piquant
rondelet thru vitality, whimsicality, and zealotry.

Gracefulness hove spectators to behold defiance
asper flexibility of muscles in conjunction with
defiance of physics. Once immersed in a classical
routine, thee supple rubbery form assumed

by thine mother ******* focused klieg lights
upon wondrous kinetic magic. An audience
member vicariously experienced dalliance
of some mind-numbing narcotic minus
the addiction. Stupefaction trans fixed gaze

upon the dynamic parameters of space
and time to present an enchanting move
able feast replete with operatic poetry,
quixotic romanticism, and sculpturesque

statuesque totemic union verging on affects
cast by a singular whirling dervish. A
heightened indoctrination of jubilation
radiated from every cell of this artiste

in motion. Pirouettes cast grotesque dark
shadows and etched the faux edge of
night scenario with gigantesque ghoulish
phantasmagoric veterans of many tragic-

comic composers long since vetted into
the storied ballroom of fame. No surprise
then that when mine exit from the berth
canal of stage nom de plume Harriet Harris

witnessed by a full house, my denouement
propelled from the tender vittles tulip ruffled
private naughty bits induced balletic movements.
Meanwhile me mum (real name christened Chrys

Anne Thumb) busily intensely engrossed herself
(terrifically totally tubularly) within whose inter
twined arms and legs that emulated an analogy
to a pretzel held me snug as a bug in rug. A pause

(which many interpreted to initiate an applause)
sprung a contagion of hand clapping that drowned
out the impetus signifying the first breath of
this wordsmith. Only as the slap happy flesh

diminished did ardent hard fans of a triumphant
fancy feast and foot loose Gangnam style winged
goddess take stock of the starlit cradling a newborn.
Frightful faces and peculiar sounds appeared scary.

Thence spurred via submit able exertion climaxing
with a riveting acrobatic contortion (essentially
forcing this now grown baby boomer former chap -
lain cocooned for nine months within the womb),

thyself made headway into an alien world, whereat
this full term new born did provide his own wailing
lyrics (even at that tender infant hood, an iconoclastic
antiestablishmentarian). This now grown baby boomer

chap lain cocooned for nine months within the womb,
who sought nothing more nor less than that which
necessitates being swaddled, pampered, mollycoddled,
cuddled, bundled, and held close to the *****. As

grown middle-aged madman (albeit married to
X-Files rabid fan) still craves, desires, and gloms
toward picturesque pairs of pendulous pliant plump prized
politically incorrect breastworks.

They did not come with super suits
tight black leather, flame retardant,
massively muscled or otherwise.

They did not bring sacramental salvation
speaking in tongues while healing the sick
at the feet of saints and seraphim.

Instead, they came as strangers
speaking words of wisdom and compassion.
They came as counselors, and teachers
with kind hearts and good intentions.
They came to help and we are all
better for their goodness.

I’m tucked away nicely in the JC section of the library. Apparently, they use the Library of Congress method of categorizing and organizing the library literature here instead of the Dewey Decimal system. I suppose it’s one way to set this community college campus apart from the uneducated townsfolk who still want numbers to tell them where to find their books. Looking at the shelves nearby, I see a great deal of books about dictators and rights and privacy, so I guess this section of the library is all politically charged. Which would explain this headache and general feeling of frustration, but that also could just be from the procrastinating I can’t stop doing. Strangely enough, I have been blocked into this row by a librarian who has her cart of endless knowledge parked in the middle of the political aisle of books. I don’t know where she ran off to, but I’m starting to get antsy. I mean, what if there’s a fire? All these books aren’t exactly flame retardant and the last time I had to jump through a wall of fire it wasn’t the best experience. I imagine these stacks of knowledge burning and I wonder how much it would be missed. There’s a book here titled “Management in the Public Service: The Quest for Effective Performance” and I can’t even tell you what the first page says because the second my eyes landed on the words, I fell asleep. But hey, the librarian is back and she moving her cart of ideas out of the way so that I may procrastinate in peace.

Amidst the sinful glory,
fire retardant beauty
burns in angelic fury.

Hell cannot harm
the divine dogma,
rising from reason
untameable charisma.

A fly away shines
the conquest
of claustrophobia.

I want to be a candle
I want to cover myself in wax
Feel it broil my skin
To see my waxy peel crack and break at the pressure
Watch me fall as warmth is radiated on me
And let the scorching heat take me over

I want to be a candle
So they can finally see that I can only last so long
From the tall shining figure
To a Bath and Body Works cavity
So they can watch the ******* fire turn to ashes
I’m not flame-retardant
I am a candle
And my wick has burned out

Let me be a candle
So that I, myself, can put out the lights
And finally, be at peace