in complete melodies
the frequencies i hear
can not be contained by anything
love is drifting through the hills
and you are home to its trills
she dreams of light, the fire bright
and full of crystal skulls and eyeballs
dozens of monuments are built
just to mark the moments
when we could have said i'm sorry
merge with the mountains
find the source of fountains
shine the diamond compass
if that's what you are really here for

broken dams are our business
feed the swans their luminescent lunch-boxes
duck for cover, its a wonder that we are all together here
that's clearly redundant
the tendency to dream
is the most important human faculty
its a tragedy that the lack of nuclear power
showers the atomic world in rainbows
as forlorn teenagers in the ice-age of America
govern our equipment from their parent's basements
and carouse with comfort upon chairs, cushions and couches

a million times the victory
a million miles of rope to weave
a million are the paths to god
and a million more are the souls
who've learned to cope with tragedy

i come cherishing and bearing gifts
figures of speech are my playthings
i am furniture remodeled daily
and intuitively placed around your home
the finer things in life are free
so see me there upon your television set
i am electromagnetic static
within the black and white of advertisements
i am figures of forgotten speech
so record the unwatched programs
in your mind’s virtual memory
the hard drive of work and play
creates hundreds of new retirees each day
hundreds of haunted expatriates
knuckle-headed people
that couldn't tread lightly
even if they wanted to
so will you please untie me
and remove these binds and chains
it's time to free the lover from the psyche
for that is all she wrote

i am a silent p
i am a violet apogee
i am a cosmic minority
i am a message in your tea leaves

but if you stand too long in my shoes
you’ll likely drown in solitude

Baby Boomers: 25% of America’s population, all born in the years between 1946 and 1964 who continue to live off Social Security.
     All right, but what is Social Security and from where does it come? Taxes. Taxes that come out of your (yes, YOUR) hard earned paycheck. About 14% of your paycheck, actually. You, my fellow working Americans, are paying for little Miss Norma from down the road to migrate to Florida during these treacherous cold, winter months, along with the flock of 47 million other Baby Boomers who live in America. As well as paying for their food and shelter and ever-growing medical bills and for them to continue living. We are paying retirees to take our money.
     In 2012, 21% of America’s budget went to the Baby Boomers, or Social Security--that is 773 billion dollars. In 2013, however, the retirees gained grounds and are now being paid 860 billion dollars a year for the next two years.
     Why are we paying little Miss Norma and her 47 million retired friends to have a vacation, time off, a break, whatever you wish to call “running away from responsibilities”, when they are neither contributing to nor bettering society? What responsibilities are they running away from?  Why do we continue to slave away every day to earn a paycheck that funds the lives of people who are of no benefit to the country? Because this is the United States of America and it is the duty of us young folks to cater to the needs of the geriatric community!
     Well America, it is time for a change.
The retirement age in America is about 61 years of age, and with retirement comes Social Security benefits. BUT, I propose, instead of receiving the benefits of Social Security, the retirees are given something else.
     That something else? A pill.
     A euthanization pill.
     Baby Boomers are ******* America dry, and it is time to eliminate them.
     It is logical, really. Why spend excessive amounts of money on people who are too frail and too weak to work or enrich our country? Seriously, why?
     Living a life unable to work, unable to do once-favorite activities that arthritis now prohibits, unable to visit with long deceased friends and family cannot, I imagine, be fulfilling. By euthanizing them we are doing them (and ourselves) a favor: we are ending their misery (and also saving ourselves from paying them 860 billion dollars for the next two years).
     Think of the country! Think of the possibilities! Think of the debt!
     Being no longer threatened by the looming responsibility of needing to fork over more than 20% of money to Baby Boomers that the country doesn’t actually have to give, we are enabling ourselves to use that very same money to pay off the ever-increasing debt!
     The national debt as of February 2014 is well over 17 trillion dollars, and thanks to Social Security and the people living off it, the amount does not stop growing. We, as Americans, must say good-bye to our dear old grannies, and say hello to a debt free life.

i come cherishing and bearing gifts
figures of speech are my playthings
like furniture i am remodeled daily
and intuitively placed around your home
the finer things in life are free
so see me there upon your TV screen
i am electromagnetic static
that illuminates your blankets
and i am the black and white of advertisements
i am figures of forgotten speech
so record the unwatched programs
in your mind’s virtual memory
the hard drive of work and play
creates hundreds of new retirees each day
hundreds of haunted expatriates
knuckle-headed people
that couldn't tread lightly
even if they wanted to
so will you please untie me
and remove these binds and chains
it's time to free the lover from the psyche
for that is all she ever wrote

The schoolteacher had an affair in Santa Fe.
She was a schoolteacher and a tourist.
And an affair adds dimension.
It makes a place more than memory.
The notion of it inverts.
Santa Fe now resided inside of the schoolteacher.
The city had a cracked voice and blonde hair
and a slightly sagging belly and pictures
of a New York niece on its phone and
an ambivalent relationship with combing its hair
and an irrational fear of left turns.
She expected young artists with vague academic worldviews,
chainsmokers talking loudly about point of view and Heidegger.
Instead the artists were retirees, painting nothing but landscapes
of red earth, attempting to improve on the natural world.
The schoolteacher did not like this kind of art.
It was trivial.
Wholly unnecessary.
Then the blonde artist walked up behind her
in a stucco gallery. He said, "You hate it don't you?"

"Yes."

She turned. He appeared to be in his early forties.

"Tourists never understand it."

"I'm not a tourist."

"You are. You've never been within the land."

"Don't talk to me like this."

"This is how women prefer to be talked to."

"Not this woman."

"Even you. You want to be told you're wrong.
'I look fat' No. 'Everybody hates me.' That's not true.
I'm skipping the stage where we agree. I'm going
straight to the stage where we are opposites.
Plus and minus."

"The part where we *****."

"Or connect or lose ourselves."

"I bet you live in a loft. Dozens of half-finished
canvases strewn about. Dabs of dried paint on
newspapers."

"I live in my big sister's basement. She isn't home."

"There's not enough wine in the world."

"That's where you're wrong," he said.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 11, 2017)

It’s a world of too many institutions,
flybynights, everything for a squeeze,
students giving everything to the landlord,
a book, a visit to the doctor—
not everyone will survive it,
your hometown, your alma mater.

We live in interesting times.

The money movers, the bonds,
martyr retirees, the thrifty—
no money, no metaphors,
no synecdoches building up the edifice,
no icons, no engineering,  
no puzzlers or paradox,
just the conundrum of greedy ignorance
claiming an ever higher rent.

We live in interesting times.

Outside, the big mountain lays down his tail
beyond the cottonwood tree, hand to hand
we work this place, unassuming servants
under the sun. What does a simile cost?
A bridge, a salvage, a clarity?
What does deliverance cost?

We live in interesting times.

We still have the summer
that we spent together
before you went to college
the nights we spent
drunk on the beach
you with your guitar
me with my smile
as the surf licked our feet
the times we spent
hip to hip
looking at the stars
on that patch of private grass
down the street from your house
all the times spent
wagging our chins
about whatever came to mind
we will always have the summer

We still have the summer
when the leaves outside my window
turn crisp brown, apple red, and gold
when the school bell rings
like the doorbells
opened upon
kids trying to make five bucks
When summer's lingering heat
beings to chill
and we are once again visited
by the ghosts of our breath
We will always have the summer

We still have the summer
when winter comes along
and maybe if we're lucky
it'll be a white Christmas
but this is Richmond
so probably not
but I hope we do
the city looks so pretty
all lit up on a snowy night
We will always have the summer

We still have the summer
when our birthday month rolls around
a couple of April fools
laughing our ***** off
When new life springs out
from all around
and the spring showers
turns the early morning grass
into a field of stars
or a Caribbean sea
meeting a setting sun
and the birds sing their pretty little hearts out
just like you
We will always have the summer

And when summer comes round again
maybe I will see you
not a care in the world
a world's worth of meaning
maybe we will go back to that beach
the sun and salt
turning our skin to leather
until we look like a couple
of Florida retirees
happy and wrinkled
Maybe
we can gaze up at the stars
or your ceiling fan
It really doesn't matter
Maybe these things will happen
maybe not
I find comfort
in knowing
that I will always have that summer

• This great division of space. •
And the untamed plants.

Geckos...
Pose as domestic pets -
slide along its faded railings.
Casing draughty walls,
tethered to rafters loose lashing;
hanging in jungle green.

I clean up the wild flowers
that float   in   the  a i r, without
explanation, without wrong measure.

Is as it comes -  
I am ashamed that this is all I want.

A testament to solitary hawks in the upper branches.
Flutter in memory carefree cardinals
in this leaf-strewn place,
Dragonflies form wing-prayers
We kneel and peel our shoes off,

drop our feet to sleeping grass
to be closer to the narrow splendor.

Peacocks honk rough phrases, asking anyone.
Commuting the tracks, between valley stream.

I linger limbo roads
On the jungly drive,
pass a farm that repeats
its exotic fruit tree, the elbows of orange blossoms
Guava groves, avocado arsenal,
saturated ocean views beyond pestyflower frills.

At the life proof gate. This world is untidy
with its muddy banks, with its eyes.
1000 flower bloom
Listening feral fowl, ungulate shake  

Retirees friendly fire,
Long forgotten barbwire crossing creeks
the mountain lost in a sea of green    
This land, like me, is free
To live a less domesticated dream

Every Saturday night, the band downstairs
covered King for twenty-or-so retirees at the bar.
They held onto their drinks and memories
as they applauded the classics, their rings
and watches sounding like wind chimes
against frosted glasses.

Broken wing love birds smiled and laughed
with one another. The bartender cut limes
and dropped cherries as they rose a drunken
toast. *Here's to this moment, where we're
anything but old.

I won't die until you will
after all, you woke me up from a death
and have been killing me for years, so--

when my soul detaches it will find you
to whatever is next
mundane soul retirees

or

if yours careens intergalactic
you can bet mine will be right there
in final solidarity, never minding the beauty
swirling in milky stars.

uh who's the most dangerous emcee?
on the m-i-c
not from the NYC
But spit classics like biggie
ya gotta respect me
check my pedigree
makin' all newbees quick retirees
ya just another flea
on my paws watch yo jaw
I leave crowds in awe N all they saw
was yosef in the limelight
sayin' his rhymes tight
**** game swole as dolemite
say it with me ya wanna be like me
never loose to them thinner kids
Make ya bleed from ya eyelids
bustin' at you ya crew
and ya walt disney tattoos
Always catchin snafus
Keep my Navigator on cruise
big balla even got a statue
of myself
crossin' me is bad for ya health
dont ya know my gun crew
stays in stealth
heads above the water quick to slaughter
all those haters oughta
eradicate ya self
or im coming at cha
with the gat
but i aint mad at ya?
bloods rushin' major concussion
as ya heart beat like a percussion
end of discussion
still i bust on fools crushin'
who dont know the rules ?
from H-town to Jeruz
roll through a tinted mercedes in blue jump suit
quick shoot extract ya loot
ya should know how i get down
like Marciano
I knock em out
pound for pound
as the crows  gather around
ya body as ya lay lifeless
on the ground!

Caldies Park. Wet & Grey
A just-want-it-over kind of day
Retirees with dogs blather & jabber
For little we know when a week turns sadder

Long time ago, little girls laughter
A life of plenty, much sought after
Sands of time count down the years
What once was joy, turns now to tears

Doggy Church Warden smiles & chats
Talking inanely of old womens' hats
When valued souls lie close by
And loved ones ask a lonely 'why'

Always be cheery, always be kind
You know not of that man's mind
Sat over there with coffee, words amassing
Mulling forlorn on friends a-passing.

Go swiftly out into the damp garden
Bump an elf & utter a 'Pardon!"
For we never know when this race is run
So strive only for justice, love & fun
And then, then you can say you're done.

I'm not a poet... just a blah-blah machine... intellectual stuttering does involve: searching for... the best choice of words: which do not necessarily add, toward a nomination of intellectual girth... delayed stature... a Pole, like Jew, is more himself in exile, than with a stubborn claim of "origin", or rather, past... a people who have truly understood themselves, among themselves, are the ones without a heritage of a land... which is an ultra-form of democracy: the people have already spoken... the people, having no obligation for: a people... have no necessity for: a land... the Germans are infants in this line of argument, given: der VOLK... 2nd nomadic participation of a secularised people are the Poles... least because the most vocal among the throng of Lithuanians, Estonians and Latvians... grind teeth and say Crimea is not Ukrainian... where land and people are synonymous, in development.

it's sometimes hard to envision the democratised voice as not being either: too personally "impractical", or too "impersonally" practical; of which, politicians fall into the latter category... hence democrscy's shadow dictator, known as the status quo... mind you... even Sisyphus wasn't allocated the task of moving an unmoveable stone... that being said, i feel no need to bask in some intellectual tectonic shift observation, as this is, quite simply, the most unnecessary allocation of words that, needless to say, are said, without encompassing a motivation for any subsequent dynamo expression... lazily rolling a cigarette as precursor, and... a serpentine of rattling skeletons like playing a magician's, xylophone.

       a cold shot of 100ml of żołądkowa gorzka, followed by a rolled sweet Virginia tobacco cigarette... and a walk in a park... high spring scents... and that perfect companion readied for mirror and introversion: there are two, shadow at my most nihilistic, and "loneliness"... at my zenith, which is a gratitude, resembling the closest excavation of the truth bound to carpe diem: a sunset... was it ever going to be a day worth
completing?

     the conundrum of a stiff 5am wake up call,
   some would call it, a stretch of the imagination
to craft a pivot on, that might realise a continuum...
    closer to the heart an empty stomach,
than a claustrophobic mind...
    for once in my life I imagine people
who find thinking unbearable,
   trying to measure their ails in the ethereal,
dissecting the mind entwined with
the soul, or what some would argue is
the sigma of the mechanisation of
the body... nibbling at love from
the unconscious rhythm of the heart,
prodding at desynchronised patterns,
aches of loving bound to
a scaffold without an executioner:
other than oneself...
      perpetually seeking a biography
spanning but two weeks,
    of Nabokov's counter-lollipop-16
frizz in goosebumps...
     my... am I so sterile as to dream-up
a cougar on a leash?!
                 porcelain beauty
before the altar of a bull and
the infuriating moorish -sculinity...
porcelain youth,
    hybrid came the minotaur...
somehow archetypes are stiff
as the introduction of the god
Solipssus into the parthenon...

   un-*******-believable:
    Fraiser's concept of self
some greenish 'reesh 'nome -
  can we do away with the surd letters?
there aren't that many after all,
given the english are famously
tingue-numb vowel impersonating
consonant "grievers' wounds"...
        'ockney 'acking 'ockney,
and some dame off her frrrrr'ah
  ick'ing         'ockers!
       hmm.... súm!
     anything to get past
old riveriera, *** Sinatra...  
   *** martini super dry with
a dupper-uber wet:
    snout of a mole in the caverns of
finding false teeth and
dangling ding-**** virginity...

in a brothel 'ardly the cherry picker...
if you've never been...
   you've never been,
                  and s much can be said
about that...
       what do you call an Arabian
leech?
        a minor European with a taste
for Bulgarian seconds...
   but of course, that white....
  dress is because we all took to
replica monogamy of certain animals
seriously...
          but that weight of
a ring finger,
     has me itching for the down-trodden
being mawled in my mouth
to later constitute pet food,
   almost seems familiar,
but not quiet,
    came those seeking fire and
were vigour prone,
came the necromancer and
tried to raise the dead,
before the living priesthood
began talking with the lead tongue
of mammon...

     the ones who do not monetary
authenticity in the following coins:
a pence, a two pence, ten, twenty,
fifty... perhaps a quid...
     a snippet of royal metal...
   why wham! and not aha!
                               ?
too much, eureka connotations?
bewildering, like 500ml bottle of *****
in Poland, and 25ml "shots" in England...
**** first of puke blood prior to
taking a ****?
        dunno! hence the tycoon
bonanza!
   a bit like asking a pirate parrot
for a quote only by pulling out
one of its feathers... to get the...
    mechanical parts: geared up to
Cucklington.... and that is by no means
a place i can associate, either drunk,
or sober.

   how the hell do people even find
the diem or the motive behind it,
to craft the sort of "1 + 1 = 2"
   momentum, that becomes carpe diem?!
I heard some say (well, I thought it
through):
     dzień ma zbyt wield małych "trosk" - - - - -
(wyroków by zważać na innych...
       tzn. rz pirdole skolną
    ortografie bez autobiograficznego
  zaparcia na: NEIN!
  szambo szfedzkie...
     wiwat!
                 F to finał...
  nad machaną rę(n)ką...
   czyli, tyczy to:
       wodą... e e e! goń ty sam
zza gównem...
                 pierdolonym Soviet
ma tylko bjet...
     bjet... ubogi nasz pan...
       twinie!
                     maciuk jet harciuk!
ble na nowo (Ь)
     i ble na start (Ъ)
                       to mi... kurwa... nowina!
- - - - - - - - - - - -
   (I lost the sense of paragraph
and punctuation)
       the world already knows
of those who shoved carpe diem
down the ***** of public figures,
and lived out
the motto of: carpe tutti...

  better english with none,
than Russian with.... pseudo
impressionism of diacritical marks
beside the geometrical
revisionists of the blank canvas...
    thing...
        nice post-Greek lettering,
shame about
the lack of... finesse...
           when teasing the third tier
of lieracy,
   spelling, grammar ****,
     punctuation, breathing ****,
and diacritical distinction:
**** thappy toad zee gwafrifrifritee!
B7LVARK...

         there is nothing grammatical
about spelling...
             there is simply an aesthetic
involved...
          an "orthography"...
minus the "grammar" Nazis comes...
   the people that say:
   I really don't see why literacy is a
necessary benchmark of education
for the sort of jobs,
    that really require nothing more
than consumer supervision of:
the minimum literacy of
reading advertisements...
         what else?
    if people are sour about an aesthetic
of the written word...
without concern for punctuation...
let alone diacritical application...

PEOPLE ARE SEMI-LITERATE...
     if grammar "nazis" exist,
then people are semi-literate...
   they equate thinking with speaking...
and then file "complaints"...
   as to how their thinking
diverges from speaking
because of sophistry,
    and how talking doesn't integrate
itself back into thinking
because of philosophy.

filozofia: zapał, i - las ~ zapałek.

I've seen carpe diem exhausted
on the shoulders of the routines
of retirees;
    better the life akin to the thrills
of a doormouse,
  or an intellectual,
than some, mythical Taj Mahal of
orgams, reduced,
   into a pale lighthouse insignia
of violent purple, namely black,
masquerading white,
in a sober, en masse, funeral yawn
grey.

   this can only become a "difficult"
reading, something that always seems
to excavate: primo uno...
     and nein auf omega...
   not as an insult this... "thing"
concerning a semi-literate people,
just concerning the people:
who have been taught to read
in order to "read enough"...
   and how much of that is focused
on punctuation?

       tilde contra macron.
just an idea of fathoming pause,
and the comma, ' from above...
     e.g.
                  czas ~ na mosty
   sound slightly different to
    czas - na mosty...

       in no defence and with no concern
for a rubric of populism,
   the half-forgotten:
  neue-punctuation: Saß...
              given the Oxford compound
of the attempt to break (-) away from
using shrapnel...

hence by "arrogant" claim concerning
the literacy of the genral populace...
these come as minor observations with
minor impetus being guaranteed
of populist dent...
          flimsy ******* gay
oops-e-daisy patchwork Adams sort
of reminders to begin a tomorrow
as brimming on: "resolve"...
   and above all: impetus!

      the men should join the army...
Bratislava quarter limbed voters
and the crab eating fetish
reaching its penultimate lap...
for some reason,
I haven't been given the Darwinian
drive,
   somehow lost with
the remainder of my inheritance,
ha ha! slumped into
a canvas remindful of a:
cinemagoers' jerking off screenplay.

usually it takes me about 300ml
of *****,
     to catch up to the sober people
talking vehemently about something...
namely: that the freedom
of speech is synonymous with
the need to breathe...
                          300ml of *****,
or, the perfect sunset,
in a small town, just shy off Masovia,
walking back through this tangling
streets, soaking up remnants
of what is to become of young
couples promenading in the park
and on the streets,  
lonely hearts club of two girls
spotting cookies on park benches...
skin heads meat heads
and the whole shabang..,
      300ml of ***** and i'm tickling
an: into it, nose dive, kumać...
    and if I had the gift of the polyglot
I wouldn't be writing about
a bilingual labyrinth...
                     more a custard clot
worth of utility,  commerce, rubick cube
through and through...
   cameleon crowd pleaser...
I still don't know how they manage
to talk so much,
    and by talking so much,
they fall into the pitfall akin
to trivia instead of knowledge,
memory erosion,
  pedagogy's useless rubrics...
                 how does it sounds:
freedom of speech comes with no authority...
but... cuff me and usher in
the blind woman's cameo:
  you have the, right, to remain silent...
the freedom of a hen is not
analogous with the wolf...
  contradictory, notably due
to the intra-species differentiation..,
looking into the intra-species
    integration...
politicians and lawyers have no bible
and no Koran adherence...
their sole holy scriot, the thesaurus
        is ultimatum "pax"...
I still have to paint my grandparents'
kitchen in the colour: lemon peel...
just shy of the neon zest...
    if only, epilepsy at a disco
when the strobe light comes on...
there's all that,
    I don't know, perhaps I sleep better
because I have inherited a continental
biology and living on the wet,
and dingy, and mushroom clout island...
the persistent damp uneases me...
300ml into the heterogenous
fizzling of anti-dialectics...
                             and, somehow,
2 months spent in a homogeneous society
is a breath of, ease...
      post-colonialism is a real
zeitgeist...
                  to have inherited
a past, considered a future
while struggling with the present...
is it possible that i've seen more
heterosexual couples walking
about a town of  60,000 people...
on a single Saturday evening....
kissing, holding hands,
                     in one evening...
than I saw in London,
throughout all the days of the week,
for a total of say, 7 years?
jealous? not exactly,
if instanced by one, example,
maybe...
            but when there are replicas?
I too anticipated Sienkiewicz's
krzyżacy to be more engaging...
          well... less of what it current is,
which doesn't mean i'll suddenly
abandoned the book and take to Proust...
but when something akin
to Münster happens...
   I go and sit by the river,
take two glugs of *****,
light a cigarette,  and pour the rest
of the bottle onto the earth...
if I haven't had invested 23 years
of my 31 years (and counting)
immersed in England and this,
tongue...
   given the continental climate,
and the hardly exhausting
homogenous narrative...
                     what the hell are we even
talking about?
     a tongue that has become
a body tied to four horses,
about to be pulled apart...
                              if only
those having inherited English
as a host language... retained
a bilingualism...
      could actually call english,
a lingua franca, a language of commerce,
of tourism...
                the natives would
have remained natives...
   as odd looking as Japanese retirees
globe trekking...
     lost in the big city like London...
but no...
              "forgot" the mother tongue,
suddenly you have the whole
language being hijacked
by a political Heimleich...
                     I use this language...
**** trying to identify with it...
next time i'll be ******* into the sacrament
of wine and adding Nutella to the bread...
the point being,
   a hammer and a nail...
      reciprocation, symbiosis -
the jolting reaction to biological cancer,
and botanical cancer,
perfected symbiosis....
no brain of a cancer, but a vector...
the bulges of mistletoe on trees...
      reiterated Kant:
     there is not Hegelian dialectic
of thesis and antithesis...
what there is, is the reinvention
of the master / slave dynamic...
towing other dissociative synonyms...
dichotomy, dynamic... morality...
   came the master, and the slave...
came the host... and the parasite...
luckily, on the periphery...
hyenas, condors, rats...
scavengers, or rather,  opportunists.

I like a good party, love those where everyone is in the business, mostly ​retirees now in "private security." Yeah right.
There is always a lot to discuss, hopefully, without rancor or discord as ​everyone gets lit, and there are tales of tails in Lagos, Istanbul and ​Bratislava.
Meet lovely Katia from Yugoslavia which doesn’t exist anymore
Just like our love affair when we worked on opposite sides but shared the ​same bed.
If it hadn’t been for Tito, she’d probably still be titillating me
I feel a chill, when I turn to see who enters the room,
The swarthy entrant likewise stiffens as we both reach for the weapon ​we aren’t carrying.
It’s Elmer, at least that's how I knew him, the gun-running second in ​command under Noriega, whom I had orders to **** and he had orders ​to do the same and we both tried our best to do so in those dark days ​before the pock-marked General got blasted out with help from ​Hendrix and The Doors --- but that's another story
"Hi Elmer," I grimace a hello.
He responds, "Buenos noches, Jose," and sits down next to me!
It’s been ten years since he'd last tried to ****** me at that shoot-out in ​the warehouse where he had to abandon the coke, $100 Million ​worth.
Thank God, it isn't like old times, or I would be dead.
Sitting there I have never felt more alive, adrenalin on high
Thank God, I don’t want to slay him anymore
Try making small talk with an ex-nemesis like him
You don't ask about the kids, where he lives, and where he stashed his ​loot.
We nod politely and discuss the mundane
He tells me he never like assassinations, and always thought I was a good ​guy, that I was lucky he wasn't much of a shot.
Jeez, this is a weird business
It was time for further socializing so we both move on
I keep my back to the wall for the rest of the party
And Katia by my side
Say, darling, what do you say we split this joint for a secret, special ​rendezvous?

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                         You are the Daily Good – Thank You

                               What good shall I do this day?

                                         -Benjamin Franklin

So much good is being accomplished today:
Women and men going about their daily work
Food pantry volunteers stocking the shelves
Retirees prepping meals for everyone else

So much good is being accomplished today:
Little children study (and clean their plates)
A teen shops for his MeeMaw so she’ll be safe
A neighbor gives comfort to her grieving friend

So much good is being accomplished today:
And you and I are going to be a part of that

Welcome to my old shed where I live & earn big bucks giving each
week where I sleep shed tours for retirees with disturbing bed sores

no, not a political divide crossed.

no, not switching fandom to the
hated other crosstown team,
with the clownish bobble head
thing.

once a meat eater, a meat eater
for life.

stolidly, boringly straight, waaay
too late
to switch that side.

the switch referred to herein is more
profound, straining boundaries of a
decades long term relationship.

I desire  to switch sides of the bed we
sleep on, after decades of habit, that
transferred with us when we traveled,
moved etc. To each Our Side was the
Natural Order of Things, a higher law,
immutable, constitutional and ranked
higher than the Ten Commandments.

over time, my side sank beneath the
excess weight of growing old with
bad lifestyle habits…a bad back, an
aging frame, core muscles that seem
to have been decored, made a new
firmer bed a necessity,

when we called 1-800-Mattress, we two
social security retirees, were shocked,
shocked! at the hole in our budgets
such an expenditure required.  We would
be forced to survive on bread (brioche)
and water (Pelligrino) for weeks, our only
condimentable affordable would be margarine,
a pseudo butter made in chemical factories.

so, she refused.

I sank into deep despair, for who could deny
her finger pointing “J’accuse” where responsibility
for this truly lay (lie?).

marriage counselors demanded exorbitant premium
prepayments, Medicare said ha ha, and United Health
Care was united in their ***** opposable *******
but eloquent “Mais Non!”

As I write this, Climate Comservationists have confirmed
my sinking side is now receding at a rate of 4 cm/year.
The implicit implication was at the Great Melt Flood of 2050
that was coming to sink us, I would not be quietly floating down
the Hudson River out to a South Pacific isle, but would join Jason Bourne in the green crystal clear waters of the nearby East River, but unlike Jason, I can’t hold my breath for twenty minutes, ergo and ipso facto, I am doom-ed.

So I have started a GoFundMe to obtain a new airy mattress  capable of variable soft/hard differential setting on each side, with an inflatable air pumping gizmo just for the end of days.

Thanking you in advance and be assured lol your contributions will remain not anonymous.

Yours, Extra, Sincerely,

Ogdiddynash (Ogdiddynatsch)

Suddenly from asset turn we to liabilities
Less becomes the respect; n the facilities.
On retirement, less becomes your importance ;
Because gone is that chair n those assistants .

Remember we must our limitations now.
Or reminded they will be to you somehow.
Even those close to you are now of you wary.
Soon as possible , they will say a formal sorry.

These are the ways of the world; take them in our stride.
Happens this to most retirees,  world wide.
Keep ourselves busy; earn a little if we can.
Above all, remember to help as many as we possibly can.


Arthemin Dutia Motashaw

Welcome to my old shed where I live & earn big bucks giving each
week where I sleep shed tours for retirees with disturbing bed sores.