hi dudes this briano alliano up here on saturn to welcome richie benaud and i can guarantee

the cosmos is blessed to have a great man, and here is richie singing come on aussie come on

hi everyone, i say hello to saturn

you see lillee pounded down like a machine

taylor was the best captain you’ll ever seen

brett lee got a hat trick, merv, kim and phil hughes were pretty rad yeah

till phil hughes died last year oh yeah

thommo is pounding like another machine

as a bowler he was very fast and mean

you see he will pick up wickets, while the outfielders clearing pickets

and the chappell eyes, have got their eyes on the green

then pascoe is making divvits in the green

border ordered his players around like noone you’ve ever seen

and rod marsh took some catches like healy and haddin, to win those matches

and i remember joel garner and micheal holding cleaned us out, oh yeseree

we still went, come on aussies come on, come on, come on aussies come on

after that small song, ritchie benaud took phil hughes on the cosmic turf, where my dad and mark jones

and tony grieg and rob douglas and stan niemic and phil hughes and many many more, and crocus’s earth body brian allan

played cricket at john knight memorial park, i made some great hook shots, it was cool, dad who had bias long legs

hit 34 runs off 45 *****, yeah and dad gave a methane smoothie to richie, saying welcome to the cosmos, and

mark jones hit 23 off 34 ***** and gave richie a new earth drink coca cola life, which is a drink which will put you

in touch with the cosmos, congratulations richie, marks my name, you will come back to earth when the cosmos is ready

to let you return and tony grieg scored 123 off 112 ***** and after that, he gave richie benaud a methane smoothie

and rob douglas got 87 off 100 *****, but rob said, good on you richie, you’ll a fine player, and tipped methane all over

richie saying, good job old pal, and stan niemic scored 123 off 123, and going at a run a ball, stan was happy, and when he finished

he poured methane all over saying welcome to the cosmos, and phil hughes scored 56 off 56 and went over to richie tippe

tipped a keg of methane on him and said thanks mate old chum old pal for those kind words and the other players together averaged at 123 off 122 *****

and richie benaud had methane smoothies all over him and at the end every player went into saturn club rings

to have a great celebration for the great richie benead with a lot of bottles and kegs of coca cola life, which will,

improve the quality of their lives on earth, and everyone was dripping with methane and might i add malcolm marshall bowled

very well as the official bowler getting 34 wickets, now malcolm marshall is matty b, on youtube, but this game was in honour

of the great richie benaud, welcomed to the cosmos and malcolm poured a bit of coca cola life on richie saying you love life, dude

and briano alliano came out and said

ritchie was the best commentator you’ll ever seen

you see i watched him on channel nine congratulate the gold and green

you see here everyone, welcome this great man

to the cosmos, he’s the happiest in the land

welcome ritchie benaud yeseree

the world will miss him, oh yeah you see

because you hosted nines coverage, of the cricket, well done mate

now what will buddha do with you

come on aussies come on come on, come on aussies come on

well done, ritchie benaud, WELCOME

see you next time, this was a great cosmic cricket match, dudes

now the saturn club rings was filled with methane, PARTY ON, to next life, ritchie

This actually happened pretty much as I have told it. It happened on a weekday afternoon in summer on 60th Avenue in the Queensboro Hill section of Flushing, NY. The Mister softeee trucks still roam the streets to this day playing the same jingle as in my youth. For some reason they have adopted a sensible pay first policy. The Pioneer was the name of the local tavern at the foot of the street. it now serves bubble tea to the asian elite.


Our ice cream man on Queensboro hill
was a curmudgeon, to put it kind.
I'm pretty sure he hated those
who paid in quarters, nickels and dimes.

Ritchie was a "special " kid
He was a big kid for his age.
To put things gently he was slow,
Half a wit and not a sage.

We heard the Mister Softee Jingle
from a good half mile away
It must haven driven the bald guy mad
to have to listen to that all day.

Ritchie went up to the window
He got a cone then refused to pay.
Mister Softee left his station.
Ritchie made to run away.

It was like a Chinese Fire Drill
Ritchie jumped into the truck
The keys were there, the engine on.
He displayed considerable verve and pluck.

The softee truck rolled down the block
with Mister Softee in hot pursuit.
His bald head gleaming in the sun
wishing for his long lost youth.

The truck crashed into the Pioneer.
Ritchie was cuffed and led away.
Mr. softee nursed his vanquished pride.
His truck sold no more cones that day.

For this years Thanksgiving, I have decided to focus on developing a sense of gratitude. The world is full of real bad stuff happening to too many people and its easy to let the darkness of our times cast long shadows of resentment, anger and ill will over our outlook on life. So today as I travel to a relatives home to gather for our national day of thankfulness I choose to leave resentments at home and cultivate a sense of gratitude.

I’m grateful for my eyes. My sight allows me to perceive the million graces The Almighty abundantly confers upon the inhabitants of the good earth each and every day. My eyes help me to discover the pressing needs of others and respond to it. My eyes help me to discern light from darkness, distinguish the forest from the trees and eschew pedestrian views to behold a beautiful vista. My eyes are a pathway to my soul moving me to contemplate the good, forsake the bad and move against evil in service to truth.

I’m grateful for my ears. The grace of hearing permits me to listen. My ears alert me to the cries of my brothers and sisters and enables me to understand our shared human condition. My ears tune my spirit to the chords of exquisite music and the natural symphonies of Mother Earth’s angelic chorus of singing birds, heaving oceans, the majestic pause of silent mountains and the fleeting rush of the swelling wind are all divine voices singing the joyful hymns of life.

I’m thankful for my sense of smell. Graciously my nose breathes in the inviting aroma of a lovingly prepared home cooked meal, the wholesome scent of baking bread wafting from the door of the corner bakery, a briny snort from the boundless sea, the rich compost of the deep woods after a soft summer rain, the bouquet of an infants hair and the perfume of a lovers embrace.

I give thanks for my ability to touch. Hands engaged in productive work and gainful employment is a blessing absent from too many Thanksgiving Day tables this year. We yearn to connect and the sense of touch invites our ability to feel. Feeling is the father of empathy and the mother of compassion. Caring for our animal friends we live in communion with all sentient beings.  As we touch one another and allow others to touch us; the hardest of hearts is softened, the most grievous wounds are healed to liberate the sensual yearnings dwelling in the deepest recesses of ourselves. Feeling allows us to become fully present, fully aware and fully alive in the celebration of what it means to be fully human.

I’m thankful for my sense of taste. As Sinatra croons “from the brim to the dregs” the wine of our lives may not all taste good but it all flows clear and true. Sample, savor and learn. Taste and see the glories of the Lord’s banquet so abundantly placed before us. The bitter herbs, the sweet cakes, the leisure repast, the fortifying meal and unrequited hunger is the daily bread of being human.  Pause to consider those that are lining up for the tenth Thanksgiving Day meal in Afghanistan and Iraq and pray that the awful rations of war fed to our young soldiers be supplanted with the good manna of peace.

Perhaps we loose our sense of gratitude because expectations of ourselves and others always seems to come up short of the mark. Imperfection is our most endearing quality. It informs our ability to forgive transgressions, form bonds of friendship and unconditionally love each other. I remain grateful for the sense of my imperfection as I overlook your imperfections and remain ever hopeful that you  will extend your hand to help me overcome mine.

Happy Thanksgiving.

You Tube Video: Jean Ritchie, Shady Grove

talking to ritchie (a scaffolder on the Whitechapel project of the cross-rail) and his girlfriend nicholle, the smurf who i told about gargamel... while almost begged the sri lankans to buy a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of diet pepsi, past the allowance for the shop's opening hours and catching the last bus from chasing the cross... me and ritchie got talking randomly... hugged and shook hands by the end of the encounter, i don't know why; ritchie was a scaffolder... i told him i was once a roofer... i don't know why i have a healthy affiliation with scaffolders;
nicholle the chihuahua walking in front of us reminded us of drug testing on the building site, i said a day off, she said a day without pay and randomised crap like curtains... now i remember why i didn't join the crew with girlfriends, i'd be in a mental asylum by now, should they exist, otherwise with the failure of community care projects... maybe that's why women look amazing in *****, but cats look better in real life; i'm not even trying to be sexist, it's just too much reality.

i have only a few words
for her:
why won't she touch me?
why am i to resolve
my objections like this,
ah, i see, because they are
objections to that
subjections that are of man
succumbing to woman
and the ordeal of chore;
that are, man objectifies woman
with all that *******,
while woman makes countless
subjects from him to appease her,
while the world around sees no
appeasement...
indeed in the crusader's song to
later show, as a psychosis
(elevation of soul via the body's
non-existence, a funny atheism)
i'll show you a levitated stone,
that doesn't require stones or loafs of
bread for proof of alchemy;
cup my hands in tears to capture
tears like rainwater...
make my eyes a convent....
i say a convent not a covenant!
da pacem domine* -
and i see the mother nuns ushering the flock
into carcass of obedience,
a volume of body as tall as the pyramids;
why are we the defending?
what pleading would craft an altar
if not to compare
idle prayer crafted as a larger spectacle
to allow marriage in its eyes
permitted...
   when i'm the sparrow of sorrow
i sound like my mother, because of you,
it's what i see that's to come
that makes me disbelieve the magic of
the advert, and embrace the advent of the saints
in petulant prayer.

After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.

My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.

Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.

She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.

We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.

Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.

The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.

"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".

"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"

i don't care what people say,
from the heights of the empire,
england has currently
hit rock bottom - and don't
even claim to be a parallel of
that, a goody two shoe -
like i was explaining to ritchie
and nichola last night
walking from the off-lice
(started a conversation randomly
with ritchie's prompt 'did they
serve you', 'yeah, they did',
'ha ha, look at them now, running
for the bus', indeed the shop
assistants were closing early
to catch the bus) -
if you incur a damage to the brain
everything you thought essential
about yourself changes, everything,
before the haemorrhage i didn't
smoke cigarettes (now i'm a choo choo
steam-engine), i didn't really drink
(once a week, when partying),
and i certainly didn't write, well,
the odd poem on a rare opportunity,
but certainly nothing personally revealing;
i don't really have a social status that
might me look bad with the things i write,
meaning i don't really have a reputation
and an image to upkeep -
like england these days, i'm in an
uninhibited free-fall, and there's no
parachute i could use...
and the proof? i remember the mythical
england of the 1990s...
bird cages in valentine's park at gants hill,
boats on the ponds you could row,
that one park, now there's hardly anything...
the 1990s will always have a mythical
imprint on my mind, euro 1996 hosted
by england;
now england is a really dreary place...
well, obviously if you live in chelsea west london
you get to do a reality show,
or if you live in richmond you are in
the middle-class stronghold and you have
the kew gardens to sport a little bit of
leisure time...
essex has become a sort of dumping site,
******* almost pretty much everywhere...
i don't know how it is up north,
but i hear it's no good, or perhaps much worse...
london's real estate market is actually
an extortion market... even ritchie and nichola
are forced to live with their parents,
or wait about 8 years for a council house...
and anyone smart enough or brave enough
moves elsewhere... ireland, scotland,
australia, canada... america...
it's like watching a mass migration of birds,
and it's permanent...
me? i came from a defunct steel industry community,
with the fall of communism the city imploded,
mass migration, once a steel industry town,
it's now a town of pensioners...
and like here, where the internet made the high
street a bleak place, there's not a single music
shop in that town, there was once,
i managed to buy lao che's gusła album
(gave it away to my neighbour after he gave me
a pair of headphones when i told him
i had these ****** £1.50 ones - so no dr. dre beats;
i gave it to him because he listened to it
for a bit and liked it, so i put it in a sock
and hanged it over the fence on his washing line,
i was kicking myself in the *** over the generosity,
i really wanted to own that album),
but it's like that.

To my dear son, Boaz in distant Idaho,

Saturday nite, the whole of New Zealand waited in apprehension for the All Blacks rugy team to play the resurgent Wallabys @ Fortress Eden Park.

The previous week at Suncorp Stadium in Sydney, in driving rain, the All Blacks muddled through a painfull draw with the Wallabys, 12 points each with no tries.
The Wallabys had fancied their chances and had wanted an emphatic win on home soil.
Both teams took that score as a loss and the gauntlet was thrown for the second match…..

A brilliant evening, clear and fine , 50,000 people crushed in to Eden Park and you could feel the apprehension, the rest of the country sat in front of their TV willing the team on.
The Haka was given a brutal rendition, you could feel the determination, the passion emanating….the Ozzies glared their defiance back…it was all on!

10 minutes into a titanic struggle with the score three all Captain Ritchie McCaw had a brain fade and was yellow carded off for ten minutes by the French referee.
The crowd roared…then murmured their worry  like you’ve never heard before.

The Ozzies mustered a huge scrum which the All Blacks countered with one man down…. The counter ****** pushed the Australian scrum back 15 ft.
Every man in New Zealand was on his feet roaring, you could feel the spirit of nationalism soaring….the moment was a watershed.
The All Blacks counterattacked showing a brilliance in attack and defence we have not seen for years… and from that moment on the game was won.

Final score 51:20 The Bledisloe Cup was ours.

As the match finished the TV camera panned across the solidly black clad crowd…. I have never, ever in my life, seen so many, simultaneous, sets of white teeth grinning!

The trip home to Australia would have been… a very subdued affair.

Thought I should share this marvellous moment with you Boaz.

Luv Dad.

Slashers Defined

In response to my piece, Slashers, it was requested that maybe I could
reveal at least which band or other info these great guitar players performed for to gain their claim to fame. I don't want to spend too much
time on this defintion, but will give what info I think is pertinent. If you do not know some of the names I have presented to you, and you are a blues,
rock, jazz, fusion guitar fan, I suggest you take the time to listen to some of their work. I have included some of my favorite incredible fusion players that do not have a super star following, but are renowned in their group of fans, probably mostly musicians to some degree.
If you are a frustrated guitar player like I am, do not listen to the likes of  Holdsworth, Johnson, Gambale, or Morse unless you love being tortured.
Anyway on with the show.
        
Eric Clapton – Yardbirds, Cream, Blind Faith, Derek and the Dominos.

Jimmy Page – Yardbirds, Led Zeppe, The Honeydrippers, The Firm

Jimi Hendrix – not only what is, but,  what could have been

Alan Holdsworth – Solo jazz fusion player – hot

Steve Howe –  Yes, Asia - Progressive rock, jazz –

Bill Nelson – BeBop Deluxe, Solo

Terry Kath – Chicago (25 or 6 to 4) – another sad early departure

Ted Nugent – Amboy Dukes, **** Yankees – The madman

Jim Krueger – Dave Mason Band – solo progressive rock

Eddy Van Halen – Van Halen

Ritchie Blackmore – Deep Purple, Rainbow

Jerry Doucette – Doucette (Mama let him play)

Eric Johnson – Solo – New Age, jazz

Frank Gambale – Australian- Jazz, fusion, rock

Goerge Benson – Jazz

Larry Carlton – Jazz, new age rock

Marc Farner -  Grand Funk Railroad

Peter Frampton – Humble Pie, solo

Joe Satriani - New age – solo

Johnny A. - jazz, new age – solo

Danny Gatton – jazz, rockabilly – solo

Chet Atkins – jazz, country

John Mayer – Pop, blues – solo

Neal Schon – Journey

Steve Lukather – Toto

Masyoshi Takanaka – New age, jazz – Japanese solo

Lee Ritnour – Jazz, new age – solo

Leslie West -  Mountain, West  Bruce & Laing

Monty Montgomery – jazz, blues (accoustic you have never heard)

Wes Montgomery – jazz 40's – 50's

Phil Keaggy – New age Christian

Robin Trower – Procul Harem

Brian May – Queen

Rick Derringer – Montrose, Edgar Winter Group, Steely Dan

Robin Ford – John Mayall, Chick Corea, solo jazz, fusion, blues

Carlos Santana – Santana

Ronnie Montrose – Montrose

Steve Morse – Dixie Dregs, Kansas, solo jazz, fusion

Trevor Rabin – Yes, solo new age

Gomer LePoet...

i can clearly hear how english mutates...
a book review by a channel... better than food...
the book he's reviewing is goETHE's captain faust:
and the non-avengers...
but no...

i don't hear: stick an umlaut anywhere you please...
i, "for some reason"... do not hear
a: Θ... a göethe... or a goëthe (ladin alphabet -
the germans know about this)...
there is this... goe-ether association...
it's sometimes a riddle of goë, göe...
or quiet simply...
the remains of the ancient latin grapheme (œ)?

educated people make this distinction -
and they'll catch "you" out on it...
since... they represent the Hyacinth Bucket brigade...
gynocentrism doing a snail-trail:
one step forward... two steps back...
it's beside what the linguist "says":
a bucket is a bucket a ***** is a *****...
otherwise? glorifying such a harsh reality
of a surname like: bucket... but not beckett?
no... "samuel"? well then...
it's not a bucket if it's somehow
translated via chernobyll as: bouquet...
is it?! is it?
because even in french: they self-cannibalise...
i.e. they "eat" some letters...
they write one language: but speak another...
what isn't bucket what is nonetheless
bouquet? well... isn't it: bouque-?
it's not even that... boo-k for the ones that
still hear... and can write grafitti schlang...
in some variation of a german...

becuase educated people can get away
with treating GOETHE...
as?  '/ˈɡɜːrtə, ˈɡeɪtə'...
or in simple-me-and-you being bilingual...
fiddling around we arrive at:
Göerte... which is "said"...
but this "lunatic asylum" exception has
to be written: with a clarity of a *******
Greek THETA... a fin! the end!
which always makes lying easier...
when you can: say (a)... but... but...
imply (b)... like some "metaphor"...
some forever useful tool of nuance...
some "spectacle"...
it's easier to lie when... you say (a)
but are "implying" (b)...
then you can blame it on...
not allow the literacy of the masses:
quite as much... you require... exceptions
to the rule... to **** out the lesser educated
"people"...

don't get me started...
born? Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski...
perhaps i should have never left...
3 years in Edinburgh...
over a month in St. Petersburg...
somewhere in Paris, Stochholm, Venice...
Athens... Belgrade from a distance...
Amsterdam... two weeks in Kenya...
and a nonchalant attitude surrounding
London... a strong distaste for Warsaw...
a myth of Cracow...

and no, i haven't been everywhere...
but... after a while... does it really matter
where you go, if you're bringing
expectations with you?
expectations and postcards?
clichés? clichés expectations and postcards?
and... a whole lot of strangers
you haven't met?
tourism and: feeding the ghost town
mentality... perhaps a ghost town would be
something to behold... instead of this...
atypical metropolitan casualness of avoiding
each other... busier busier: and no more
busy than once pronounced dead...
but wait for it: you're at least given a "scene"...

but no... i know one language that
makes pedantic orthographical observations...
but i also know a language that...
write one way... speaks another...
whichever way, best, to suit it...

and you "know" it would only be Fa-Ber'g -
no... borrow the j- from je suis...
if that last E was not an acute É...
but an grave È (grave... or? gráve...
grrrr'av... not a hey hey grave...
GRA-Vity)...

hence? my point exactly..
if the diacritical markers are respected
in fwench... with an acute É and a grave È...
why do "we" need... I(i) and J(j)?
why not... I(ı) and J(ȷ)?

besides... ever imagine writing an autobiography
like a Knausgård... defender of the runes
for a sentence in volume 1...
major google-maps ****** *** volume 2...
i write that with a "glee"...
i mean... you can be immediately be put off
writing an autobiography...
just to avoid the mediocre descriptive elements
of using something more complicated
than a hammer...
for an otherwise... less than a hammer's worth
of banality: evaluation of modern banality /
procrastination...
no one we have been given these complicated
tools... and to the best of our abilities we
best procrastinate, using them...
i hardly think a hammer would be used
to... pretend to play the drums...
but yes: Knausgård... the defender of runes...
irony... but the mr. google-earth guy to turn to...

yes... and before i discovered a past...
there were the runes... and there was
forever this latin morph of the barbarians
"thieving"... but there was also the glagolitic script...
apparently! and before that there was the greek!
and... somehow... i did arrive at having
to master some vague understanding of
mother cyrillic!

- but prior to... did you know what
slavs love cabbage? all the pakistani point this
out: slav love cabbage!
today? i watched the film Layer Cake
and made some cabbage soup...
Layer Cake being? the pre-to-a-bond-film
taster for the actor Daniel Craig...
it was hardly a Guy ******* Ritchie film...
woz itz? but... a decent actor advert...
with "hindsight"...
if i watched the film then...
or as i whatched the now...
and all the known actors jumped the train...
well... cabbage soup... base?
a decent polish / jewish chicken broth...
most of the chicken goes into a ***...
except the *******: you make a *******
roulade with that...
and proper potato bakes...
potato bakes like Heston Blumethal
boils a soft egg...
tatties in cold water... until they start boiling...
then you hunch over them...
boil them for a decent fiver...
turn off the heat...
again... hunch over them...
like an inquistive condor waitig for
the water to stop bubbling...
asking the question: are we all ready...
for the oven? yes, my toy soldiers,
are we, ready?

apparently they taste like christmas
tatties in waistcoats!
my my... what a lovely affair!
cabbage soup? you really need a complete
lack of imagination and a work-around
using root veg...
the european way...
but what is preferred is ensuring
you make a cabbage soup like...
a slav treats a cabbage like a frenchman treats
an onion: you suffocate it...
an hour minimum...
until the crass ******* boils out...
and you're left with...
a sweetness... and softness...
bay leaf all-spice (english spice) included...
some kiełbasa (etymology?
root... kieł- derived from the plural?
kły... canines... suffix -basa?
baza - base... canine-base...
something that requires an understanding
that elevates the dog, "debases" the man...
no quran reader will understand this:
for lack of a better word: shaming food...

where would pakistani cuisine be...
without the pantheon of hindu spices?!
i'll eat like a dog and in so doing:
live a tier above a king...
i still find it highly unimaginative...
to call one fruit "forbidden"
and one meat: "impure"...
whatever Gabriel spoke to Muhammad...
never really explained crab meat...
crab meat crab meat...
the Maldive muslims eat crab meat...
what's crab meat again:
when it concentrates a comparison
with ol' porky porky? scavenger of the seas...
what's with the muslim beef on pork?
and god was critical...
of his perfected animal worthy of
consumption... looks pretty silly from
Beijing... so Beijing is ensuring that Muslims
"look silly"... well... "live"... silly...
so god was so... this that and the other...
then he lent his "all knowing wisdom" and said...
no... this one animal... which you can...
butcher and make use of...
all that's missing is the oink and the hoofs!
or whatever it was: i can't eat the oink,
the grunt remain's the bacon's owner...
and perhaps the "hoofs"...
but such a pristine animal...
tapeworms come... much larger in size...
from aquatic flesh... so...
tic-toc... tic-toc... pull a sly porky on me or...
Gabriel my ***...

the Pwophet sez!
much easier these days: to, "get away" with "it"...
camel jockeys turned oil barons...
yachts... whizzed-up-*******-white-****-****...
and never... the odd-ball from
that long extended lineage of the family
living with a cuddles *****, soft toys...
east of Beirut...
that pencil girth's woe explosion in the sky...
"built" by people...
who employ slave Bangladeshis for
a sunday's worth of sabbath cricket in the desert...
i thought that deserts were only good
for waiting for qurans and dinosaur blood
and myopia and... the odd dehydration
hallucinations?!

i'll eat some sushi to sober up before
i accompany my mother: circa 60 getting
a hip replacement surgery done on her...
i'll sober up: but first things first:
spew...

mind you... below you will find some
ancients inscriptions...
i had to wonder: if the precursor text
of the anglo-sphere people...
the germans and "celts" of the british isles...
the welsh... the scandinavians...
was bound to runes...
before the latin men came...
what did "we", the slavs, use?

before the greeks allowed us entry into
the realm of mediating the otherwise:
quasi-fathomable?
cyrillic is what came: AFTER...
but there was a prior...
i'm no longer interested in the prior...
no more than i am interested in greek...
i once slurred russian cyrillic
for not having any diacritical markers...
i knew they had them...
but that they were... crude...
for lack of a better word...

how does that theory sound?
the: ex Africae omnis est Africanus...
sorry... what?!
giving my scrutiny of phonetic encoding...
am i closer to speak...
or thinking, and if not thinking,
then, reading?!
by the looks of it...
i devolved from encoding in
chinese... perhaps not so much:
sanskrit... but i most certainly suffered
moving across Siberia: obviously: not "i"...

mind you: i've looked at "it" and thought...
me, reproduce? add a stranger to the equation
of my family? i'm just happy to end
the libeage... thank god i don't have
some inheritence complex abounding...
no expectation, no "legacy" akin
to a surname like Rhodes (circa NY)...
i was born with one ****** surname,
which changed... i'll die with another ******
surname: that never made it to a status
of Eshlert... nonetheless! i'll leave...
like a ******* Einstein of an acronym:
E = MC... good for me! bravo ty! bravo ja!

beside the egyptian hieroglyphs...
i'm yet to read something...
from... Congo... perhaps i'm just too ignorant...
or the -igger shade was just too much
that it... grabbed my attention and
i forgot that the victim olympics didn't
happen every 4 years...
but every... whimsical time-span of...
a quarter of the length of a fortnite...

whatever: all out of africa implies...
i'm writing in a devolved chinese...
frozen bits across the siberian fickle desert...
next stopover? Novosibirsk!
no need for pyramids in Novosibirsk...
no "awe" to be found...
when you're toe-dead numb from
frost bite.... is there?!

my letters are a sieve... they allow meaning
through like hands praying to cusp water!
it's, the, reality...
you have ****-wit socialists on one side...
and then... this hyper-inflated
darwinism is all historism on the other...
middle ground, people!
"democracy"! i stand stand both the marxism...
or the darwinism... but arguments failed...
or? we can have the extreme of both ends
of the argument! enough of reading
Pasternak will teach you...
hey... shhh shhh... the collective can
congregate any minute now...
they don't need that many intelligent people
to rally them...
what your, "your" side needs, though?
if enough brass people: stupid enough
to entertain, to lulluby...
em... that's now much to "go on"... is it?
the intelligent with pour gasoline
on a fire...
the entertainers will simply pour
cold milk into a saucepan that contains
milk you're warming to...
melt some butter some honey and an egg yolk
to self-remedy: devoid of big pharma influences...
a witches' brew for a cold and soar throat...

side note: do i "worry" about not having children?
if i lived on the Faroe islands,
Greeland, Iceland, Norway -
i most probably would probably mind...
small town mentality: enlarged...
then again: my family, "my" and "family"
is not exactly accomodating...
why am i not spending time with my grandparents?
at least one side... the "patriarchal" side
drops off: accomodating the madonna anyways...
a sister (my mother) and a brother (my uncle)
are waging a war...
this... "eastender" soap opera is...
i don't have the finances to grativate away
from it...
enter children? and they'd be more ******
up than i already am with my libido
and no outlet... i've stopped seeing prostitutes:
no because i felt "bad":
that one time we only pretended to be
leeching / kissing oysters just because
i forgot to trim my ***** hair:
like some western feminist argument
about the exploitation of romanian women "matters"...
when... the labourer drones of men
of building sites... coming in to work...
hangover... might perhaps... stop...
fuelling the english lush economy...
i didn't want to have children because:
family-wise? things, "things" are messy...
and there's no magic carpet to get me out
of here... not when the last surviving remnant
of a past... i.e. my grandmother,
talks to my dementia riddled grandfather
with the words...
and he stresses them: you no good...
skurwysyn!
elaborate? sure! z-kurwy-syn...
from-a-*****-son..
my grandfather's mother...
well... let's put it in facts...
my grandfather is an illegitimate (
oh **** me, i spelled that right, drunk)
son... his mamma then married...
the father of this illegitimate child...
was a polyglot... spoke 7 languages...
emigrated to the U.S. of A...
remarried, fostered some shards of glass...
and sent his last postcard...
from Niagara Falls... before jumping
into the kamikazee sun...
oh my family is perfect...
then this mother of his...
had two children with a man...
who would beat my grandfather...
which is why he became a "pioneer"
coal-miner aged 15 or 14 or 16...
then this one kid ended up being
fostered... then this "watermelon" of a kid
(nickname) came out...
from a love affair... and when the "*****" died...
his quasi-foster father lived with him...
and in this custard: he...
the father semi-god-know's what...
abused the old man for putting up with
him as a love-child: in wedlock...
and... well thank god there was
no epitaph to begin an end with...

me and children? i am gracious,
i am kind... i don't want them to inherit this
history... which is worse than
a history of germany... at least those *******
had the nazis... which is worthwhile
in terms of exploiting them via video games
as those: evilz badz guyz!

i always think: the sooner i'm dead -
the more chances i have
to either dream... or breathe...
currently i quasi the former and accept
the reality of the latter...
but me and children? my, own, brood?
em... for some capitalistic driven darwinism
pressure ploy of narrative?
taxes and retirement plans for
the western: placebo: aged?
grand'm'ah and gwand'p'ah not fit under
the same roof... set them on the butcher's
path toward the "shop" of wrinkle
and: pristine effortless economic
endeavor... the pig's the lot...
economic meat and... about as barren as a dinner
plate scooped up for examination
once a pauper sat before it to supper...
ingenious! if only, if only we were all born
into a Charlie ******* Dickens' lot of life!
then, only then, we could, we could
perhaps, perhaps: write about it!

i have seen how people have lived their lives...
how... they had wish to write about it...
which always involved a lot of other people -
movie scripts written by directors
and not... actual manuscripts of scripters...
they would write... but then:
started to gag from **** at the mere of thought
of being: brutal, honest, honing...

people either write an honest autobiography,
they ghost it: have someone write a biography,
they write an autobiography that's
designated as: tabloid...
but most importantly... they forget...
a "Moscow"...
when i was in Moscow... i felt like i was
in London for the very first time...
a last time...

i did mention that i didn't envy the russian
diacritical approach...
the odd: miss and "there"...
but no... i didn't envy them...
to me there was no russian orthography...
there is an orthography: which you mind
above any metaphysical discussion...
when, and only when... aesthetics comes
into play...
i.e. rz = ż and ó = u and ch (cerp i ha) = h (samo ha)
this is how orthography is born...
sorry... i'm too "busy" dealing with
orthographic ******* to even mind
your "metaphysics" or a death of (it): interim...

as i stood at the feet of the tower of babel...
i started to su doku the pieces that
pleased my eyes... and the pieces...
left in leftover arabic squiggles of
the remnants of the 20th century...
and the new emergence of environmental
beijing free-of-syndromes to spawn
the 21st... or...
the child of a one-child-state-policy
without a Beijing... only a gradual evaluation
of... concerns for...
not giving birth to yet another ****-wit
of the world's counter to: another
****** of a gullible persuasion...
given that law is blind...
he must have been born: deaf!

- you didn't see me coming;
i didn't even see you leave... -

since the greek letters i tend to most "forget"
are:
- gamma lower-case (γ) because
of the upper-case upsilon (Υ)
- lower-case zeta (ζ) becaue
of the lower-case "11" (ξ)
- eta, lower-case (η) is no real grief
with lower-case EPSILON (ε)
until... you enter the cyrillic
"debate" of е and э...
- lower-case NU (ν) and lower-case
UPSILON (υ)
- Ξ (Θ, Φ) i.e.: XI, PSI, CHI, PHI...
return: that first 'un' is an ale'ks...
alex... but it's not an X in the way that
CHI expresses itself in CHurCH...
lay-teΞ...
- then again... greek orthography begins
in SIGMA... those... quasi-germans...
those remnants of the northern / teutonic
crusade... those Pruσσianς...
or... Prußianς...
the greek F and the greek "F"...
key into a keyhole: Φ...
key turning in a keyhole: Θ...
the iota of four uses... Θ, Φ, Ξ... Ψ...

but that's only the greek... i will not touch
on the glagolitic... until, barely skimming
the draft months earlier...
until i come with my own diacritical markers
and show you: how i was wrong...
yes... the russians do use these markers...
but they, mostly... do not "accent" them...

because i'm no Ezra Pound i didn't have
to imagine going as far back
as the Taoist ideogram...
because i remained bound to the anchor
of europe and...
i really didn't find anything of worth
in africa encoding: silence into their
verbiage with anything:
beside the odd spell of hieroglyphs...
so? i am not an Idaho man...
or whatever mid-western miss-western
******* the genius came from...

i don't have an ideogram:
i have a synonym... the sound is exactly
the same... but Charon 'ave their eyes!
mind you...
ądam and ęwa are off limits...
as is: ł... then again: given that i write in english...
em... "yes, and no"...

but here's my rubric... a rubric implies:
i will not narrate this crap:

don't get me started on the russian variations
of Y... i once said... because the greeks had
names for their letters... and the romans didn't...
well... in western slavic: Y "why, I" has a name:
e'GREK... iGrek... e and i are interchanged
between the western slavs and the islanders...
but the russians?
let me Shakespeare that for you:
pre-scriptum - don't ask me...
how oh how a german umlaut infiltrated
the alphabet: i blame catherine the great...
you have...

е (ye)
ё (yo)
й (-y-) - which acts like a "ȷUDAS"
ы (ý) - alt. to? ıGREK
ю (yu)
я (ya)

all that's missing is a: иы variation?!
let me check my pentagram of vowels...
e, o... u, a... oh right... IO-T'AH-T'AH-T'AH...
sinking the ******* POTEMPKIN!

it's for the best: i'm entrenched in two languages...
which makes me "schizophrenic" /
bilingual... ergo? i have to write in at least:
four... pepper in some latin etc.....
and modern slang? i need that...
and some german... and perhaps a dash
of Gaelic... and some scandi-navigational
pseudo-romancing the rosetta stone...

the rest is quiet "simple"...
a french-atypical acute... because there's no gr'ah-v'eh!
grave ole...
and a dot... like the dot used for no real purpose
in english...

i.e. ь involves the acute...
while the ъ involes the "horde" symbol...
either the dot above the Z in ż or the caron
above the R: ř...
alternative interpretations invoke
even more: 'hide and seek" mechanisms
of the russian Y...
  объект: interJEct with an obJEct...
thus? there just seem to be gradations
of hiding a why (y) with its added vowel...
and its mutant й... crescent mongol moon...
and all the rest of "it"...
since when you "borrow": yew borrow...
you get something along the lines
of: e.g.:

ć.        ць: c.f. surnames ending with -CKI
ń.       нь
ó.      "u" or? Loonin...
ś.        cь
ź.        зь
dz.     ž (dzik - boar - the wild adjective is a tautology)    
ż.      ř       rz   (зъ) or? ж...
ł.       woad... łagodny (he - gentle)
                        łagodna (she - gentle)
š.      sz.      ш             (sh)
č.      cz.      ч               (ch... you're not foreign
to graphemes... mr. Æ ms. Œ...
you simply haven't seen it applied
to consonants... only vowels!)
щ     šč     (szczypta - pinch -
a germanic, saxon "ch" is a cz...
or a caron above the C...
ch' ch'.... akin to the caron above the S...
sh' sh'... so far away from "god": YHWH...
yet so close, so, close!)
ha ha... a "dangling bit"...
and i thought the russians weren't
good at hiding "things"... from ш to щ
you have hidden: a caron a "c"...
a ****'s CHeap... in a dangling "left-over"...
of an otherwise caron S... heap of SH SH ****...

in terms of the cerp and ha and samo ha?
the greek χ (chi) comes into play...
but not like a cheeze...
more like a vowel-catcher breath...
eerie as ****... a HA HA with...
cHA cHA! i.e. like the surds you allow
hindu words access to: gnostic -
'nostic... or... knife... i.e. 'nife...

it's no surprise for me, now...
out of all the black caribbean kids,
the indian and pakistani,
the africans... i was one of the first
to: come out swinging from under
the iron curtain:
distrust levels? high... near almighty...
not enough "japanese" in me
to squander a late debt from
Hiroshima or some other etc.

in some remote original draft...

as ever, i drink, and am a nobody, but then i find myself inclined to look upon the god of gods: whatever remains of worth for the phonetic encoding... whether latin, greek, rune, cyrillic, or ⰒⰑⰃⰀⰐ ⰒⰉⰔⰏ (another googlewhack)... the glagolitic phonetic encoding... sure, first they'll ban the runes in sweden, before realißing that... there's another alphabet... the glagolith...
                  Ⱉ = Ω, given Ѡ = ω...
         this alphabet has been suppressed, long enough!
to be honest? i've never seen a more beautiful letter,
anywhere, other than in the glatolith...
     Ⰿ = M = ᛗ...
                      maybe that's why i like my given names
so much...
                            ⰏⰀⰕⰅⰖⰞ
                 i too! i too have a past!
             i don't need to peer into pseudo-arab ***
the quran religiosity of hieroglyphs
of the northern africans, camel jockeys!
                             there's, oh there's so much
more at stake than the runes...
                what of the Kiev Rus vikings?
this, this is their language:
                ⰕⰑ          "ⰏⰑⰆⰅ"          (może = maybe)    
(to = this)
                                                   (ⰜⰀ = trzeba, trza /
                                                            tsa)­
            ⰕⰔⰑ (tsa)           ⰃⰀ (ga)     ⰂⰀⰓⰉ (vari)
               (gadać = converse... gavari)

    Ⰴ (d)                ⰆⰫⰕ (żyt = fathoming life)

                             ⰆⰫⰕ (worthwile noting:
this is out lot of, a, life)...

      ⰛⰫⰛⰍⰀ (szyszka = cone, of the ᚦᛁᚱ /
                                     ⰡⰑⰄⰟⰀ - fir /
                              jodła tree)

see, i can't solve crossword puzzles...
      i don't know where i would begin,
fathoming this sort of "plaything" thesaurus...
i can play a solitaire mahjong,
i can solve you a su doku puzzle
without wanting to compensate myself
by competing...
                  
   but i do know...
                    what conjured the atom,
the letter?
  what conjured the atom, the letter,
and subsequently, the alphabet?
        noun...
                  the cipher conceptualißation
of making a name, smaller,
so small, in fact...
that letter emerged, and names were
no longer indicative...
of a meaning...
  so much so, that units were
formed, fathomed...
and when merely giving names
to these units, akin to the greeks,
alpha...
        which had to become a-lpha...
and beta had to become b-eta...
          well... only thanks to the latin men...
they became songs...
sing-alongs...
   very much thanks for the H vowel
catcher of the hebrew god...
ah... said the castrato...
  b'eeh sang the castrato...
           em...
  obviously the devil managed to keep
some of the letters...
z'ed...
                 it's still bewildering...
how the latin men "reinterpreted"
the northern runes...
   as the greek men "reinterpreted"
the north eastern glagolitic script...
and to think! to think!
    Ⱃ = R = ρ = rho...
         but what happened, "elsewhere"?
ᚱ = R... but... but... where's the trill?
R, as a letter, looks like it's about
to hide a leg... and start rolling...
ripping apart all other onomatopeias
associated with the rattle of a rattlesnake,
or the sound it could make,
to associate itself with the sound
of water boiling... where did that "go"?
with the french hark "innovation",
and the english tongue...
being bitten and left numb by
a tarantula?!
                      
  point being... i never imagined myself
much of an archeologist...
i always found:
  if you state your "necessary" freedom
to speak?
you're a tongue inside one cranium,
at a particular time, in a universal space...
but, like kierkegaard,
you care more about a freedom to think?
i'm "here", i'm "there", i'm "i'm"
like heidegger might state...
                  using this very modern
language that's english...
          but then sliding back into...
an obscure region of history...
      in two places at once...
        at a universal moment in time,
in a particular space...
                   talking exhausts me,
whenever i start speaking for more than
ten minutes,
there is a cotton mouth infestation,
my tongue turns into a serpent about
to shed a layer of its skin,
and, if i'm lucky,
i will not swollow the tongue...

                    and why wouldn't the runes
be more protected, but currently under
siege -
             both the latin text and the greek
text (respectively),
had the ambition of performing an
x-ray on the runes and the glagolitic texts,
treating them as pseudo-hieroglyphics...

but they found similarities,
   which made this foreign phonetic
encoding systems relateable...

ᚠ = F
                ᚢ = U         (copernican "up-side-down")
ᚨ = A (strange sort of arithmetic, / \
                                              )
               ­ ᚱ = R (d'uh)
   ᚺ = H...
           ᛁ = I
               ᛋ = s
                ᛏ = t (what's with the "bending knee",
so much for the supposed: "arrow"),
               ᛒ = B...
           ᛖ = Σ = E...
                   ᛗ = M...
                   ᛚ = L...
                  ᛟ = o - crude version of circle...

so? the latin men had an easier way to
fathom the runes, and ingest them
into the x-ray vision of post-latin...
   the greeks with the glagolitic script?
much harder...

         Ⱂ = Π = P = ρ (rho)
                 Ⰰ = A = ᛉ = Z...
             Ⱇ = φ = ᚦ = θ...
                             Ѡ = ω...
                Ⱑ = A...
                          Ⱔ = ε....
                                            Ⱚ = θ...

but i agree... you couldn't get "our"
peoples to where we are now,
with these pseudo-hieroglyphics...
   after all: Ⰿ (M) is a beautiful letter...
in glagolitic terms...
          but... it's too complicated for us,
at this moment in time...
it might have had all the necessary
practicality in its necessary time...
that it was allocated to...
but... given people these days
are looking at X-|ɔ\
                              / \ /_ / ?
                            how ******* hard must
it have been, when,
the phonetic encoding,
was as hard as it, to now, us,
it seems?!
                   so... whatever is happening
in sweden, right now?
       i'm not bemaoning it,
   i have a tattoo... it reads: Sienkiewicz...
the swedish deluge of 1626–29... a.d.,
          **** it, ban the runes...
i've "just" discovered the gagolitic phonetic
encoding, the sort of **** that
st. cyril and methodius had to work with,
and it wasn't as easy as translating /
incorporating the runes...

                     oh sure, i'm waiting...
                 first they ban the runes...
   then they'll have to learn something akin
to the glagolitic script...
             returning back to their x-ray
latin lettering...
                       i still can't believe that
james joyce got away with writing finnegans
wake... without ever employing a single
diacritical marker...
spewing out... what became the modern
english grafitti spreschen...
   e.g.: lolz...
                              und: L8ER...
it's like: the worst of the worst of what
already is the worst in the form
of the h'american demands for acronyms.          

after watching an old couple walk
past me into the supermarket:
    or unlike the men climbing
           the matterhorn:
   which from postcards seems so
much more majestic in its formidable
shape than the goliath everest
    (from postcards) -
                 5 miles, a dark forest,
  and i can show you where english
druids chant: satanus in excelsior!
   and i thought i spoke bad english:
it's: in excelsis satanus...
       i would have approached them,
but then i was alone,
      and there was one idiot shouting
and about a crowd of twenty disciples:
you could hear the murmur
   adhering to the chant from a distance
of about 300 metres...
                    i only had beer on me,
no goat blood, no woad pigment...
                crash a party when they
were having a party in complete
darkness?
                     it's a good thing there was
a song change on my headphones
               and for a minute i picked it up...
wait a minute: i thought i owned
these woods, walking at night?
               ragnarök blood of Hvalba:
unfortunately the norse founded
kiev,
           so if they founded kiev,
                they must have past where
i made mark as: the land immune to
                                       the black death...
if i were an academic with a stipend,
   i'd write another boorish book on the matter
to attract moths...
          but the old couple, hand in hand,
shrinking but not exactly disappearing...
     in me the inherent conceptualisation
of a twin, like a limb missing,
  but with all my limbs intact...
              yet still a twin gleaming in my mind,
as the story i was told in my childhood
no echoes like a behemoth ghouling:
    they said to me:
   did you know that in this world there exists
a person that looks exactly like you?
         what? so i started looking,
      not leonardo, not brad,
                    can't compete -
            if i really am the stronger twin
                 who sent my twin to the plough
and the hearth... am i not to suddenly
    lick ash?
                  but the old couple:
   what a rarity to see, dwarfs,
                                  of former majestic
forms... elsewhere the single mother with
a baby in a buggy at 10 minutes to 11 during
the week, bewildered by reading
frozen foods labels...
           oh... about the supermarket...
grr... mein gott!
                    Surabhis! Surabhis everywhere!
the joy of walking into a supermarket
last, aisles as spacious as any king's
    lonely castle...
        but in the hours 12 in the afternoon
till about 5 in the afternoon?
        traffic jams!
                   zombified shoppers, women,
of course, children to boot...
                           how many times i might
have bumped into them...
      gaze lost, hazy eyed...
                 sometimes i had to walk down one
aisle, emerge from another, just to pass
  a woman standing fiddling with her
hair...
           the new meeting place, apparently,
but that's beside the point,
   the more i listen to radio,
  the more i learned that i'm far from
a music snob...
            take for example:
       free deejays's song
                            el amor es un party...
what? cuba not pretty any more?
              but there's a worthwhile observation
in there:
        only rich men have the chance
        to play a woman's game of "the chase"...
        only rich men get to "chase" women...
        the poor schmucks?
                          ****! have to live with them.  
****... i need to find that
    one exchange in ingmar bergman's
film wild strawberries:
            when the old man wakes from
a dream-memory in which he is
the ****** of a **** scene...
        where a woman is teasing a man
to the point, until he transcendes
                   a teasing woman,
                       and finds a Jezebel...
so upon waking...
                the "children" are picking
flowers in the rain...
                          and there's talk of
abortion...
       at this point it's gone beyond
castration...
                      the conversation invokes
the death-mask of man,
    or man as tomb, and woman as
the robber -
                         apparently once impregnated
man cannot ask for his ***** back,
and in some twisted way:
           and as much as i'd like to "cheat"
having found the screenplay online,
   i have the misfortune of owning the ****
movie...
        and how i like returning
to silent cinema, black & white, foreign,
with subtitles...
                     at this point,
because didn't place the subtitles: on top
of the screen, but at the bottom...
   well, **** me: am i looking for
Cindarella, because focusing back
on those faces means i seem them without
lips and merely eyes and noses,
   and perhaps a chance to spot
   a wriggling, morphed into an insect
st. peter's, if not van gogh's ear!
              or the lost "art" of handwriting...
Cinderella? my focus is so low from
      the action, that i might as well be
  watching, either a ballet, or a *******
riverdance!
             dr. isak borg (a)
marianne borg (b)
        dr. evald borg (d)

such a weird and heart-numbing thinking
went into writing this...
i have a history, a past:
regardless of having children and with
their existence: some sort of guarantee
for a future...
that i have a past, a history,
and it exists... outside of its current
written format,
that i can escape with or without having
children: that i would have probably
later ***** mentally...
having ingested all this third party
quasi-history propaganda
for the only history that's being
salvaged: the insect prone libido
of a status quo... well then...
let my "failure" be the patent for all future
success.

This year I have decided to focus on developing a sense of gratitude. The world is full of real bad stuff happening to too many people and its easy to let the darkness of our times cast long shadows of resentment, anger and ill will over our outlook on life. So today as I travel to a relatives home to gather for our national day of thankfulness I choose to leave resentments at home and cultivate a sense of gratitude.

I'm grateful for my eyes. My sight allows me to perceive the million graces The Almighty abundantly confers upon the inhabitants of the good earth each and every day. My eyes help me to discover the pressing needs of others and respond to it. My eyes help me to discern light from darkness, distinguish the forest from the trees and eschew pedestrian views to behold a beautiful vista. My eyes are a pathway to my soul moving me to contemplate the good, forsake the bad and move against evil in service to truth.

I'm grateful for my ears. The grace of hearing permits me to listen. My ears alert me to the cries of my brothers and sisters and enables me to understand our shared human condition. My ears tune my spirit to the chords of exquisite music and the natural symphonies of Mother Earth's angelic chorus of singing birds, heaving oceans, the majestic pause of silent mountains and the fleeting rush of the swelling wind are all divine voices singing the joyful hymns of life.

I'm thankful for my sense of smell. Graciously my nose breathes in the inviting aroma of a lovingly prepared home cooked meal, the wholesome scent of baking bread wafting from the door of the corner bakery, a briny snort from the boundless sea, the rich compost of the deep woods after a soft summer rain, the bouquet of an infants hair and the perfume of a lovers embrace.

I give thanks for my ability to touch. Hands engaged in productive work and gainful employment is a blessing absent from too many Thanksgiving Day tables this year. We yearn to connect and the sense of touch invites our ability to feel. Feeling is the father of empathy and the mother of compassion. Caring for our animal friends we live in communion with all sentient beings. As we touch one another and allow others to touch us; the hardest of hearts is softened, the most grievous wounds are healed to liberate the sensual yearnings dwelling in the deepest recesses of ourselves. Feeling allows us to become fully present, fully aware and fully alive in the celebration of what it means to be fully human.

I'm thankful for my sense of taste. As Sinatra croons "from the brim to the dregs" the wine of our lives may not all taste good but it all flows clear and true. Sample, savor and learn. Taste and see the glories of the Lord's banquet so abundantly placed before us. The bitter herbs, the sweet cakes, the leisure repast, the fortifying meal and unrequited hunger is the daily bread of being human. Pause to consider those that are lining up for the tenth Thanksgiving Day meal in Afghanistan and Iraq and pray that the awful rations of war fed to our young soldiers be supplanted with the good manna of peace.

Perhaps we loose our sense of gratitude because expectations of ourselves and others always seems to come up short of the mark. Imperfection is our most endearing quality. It informs our ability to forgive transgressions, form bonds of friendship and unconditionally love each other. I remain grateful for the sense of my imperfection as I overlook your imperfections and remain ever hopeful that you will learn to love me for mine.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Music Selection: Jean Ritchie, Shady Grove

Oakland
11/25/10
jbm

Tumbleweed
Ted Old
John Merchant,
Joan Harling
Edith Smith
David Wilkinson,
Mike Waldron
Marie Ainsworth
Ruth Bell,
Lucy Ritchie

A list undignified by death
In an instant deflated, unwound
Vibrant yet now not a breath
Missing, lost, not found

I mourn every one of their names
And all that each one implied
Merely a lifetime ago
They came, they lived, they died.

The bluntness has ruined my mood
With the arrogant stealing of life
It demanded all my attention
Then cynically wielded the knife

I'm trying but their voices are fading
As my brain's recordings wear out
And the clarity of all their faces
Is blurred with the pallor of doubt

So all I have now are some photos
Flat caricatures of their lives
Each one replacing my memory
With a past that cannot be revived

Relentless my list will grow longer
Crushing for each name a line
And my heart will grow ever more heavy
Till the last name that's added,
is mine.

The story Clinton Jarvis - my father.

Isle La Motte Roots

There's a place of quiet peace
In beautiful Vermont
It is filled with history
It beckons you, and haunts
In pacific Lake Champlain
It's called Isle La Motte

The lake is long and narrow
A lovely gem-like blue
The Island lies within its shores
It is a jewel, too.
Emerald in the summer
In fall a topaz hue

Old style houses charm us
With plain stone quarry frames
There are many maple trees
In fall these become flame
Churches with tall steeples
All barns look much the same.

From Blanchard's Point to The Head
North to south we go
Clark's & Reynolds to Fisk & Scott's
These east/west points we know
From The Lighthouse & Fort Stann
To the marble quarries low.

It seems the rock on Isle La Motte
Was formed from glacial ice
Which pressed the clay beneath it
As if it were a vice
The marble from the quarries
Is especially nice!

Samuel Fisk founded some of these
Marble blue, black, and grey
Many used the sturdy stones
Solid houses in the way
They can be found everywhere
And still stand to this day.

There was an ingenious sawmill
Powered by a boat!
A large and hearty steamer
By The Dock would float
The "Utica" by name
As sawmill founders wrote.

The taverns and inns
Had distinctive place
It would be so heartening
To see a merry face
There the weary travellers
Could find warmth and grace.

Famous for its apples
There are many orchards found
John Bowman & William Yale
Planted in the ground
My father was one who picked from them
Folks came from miles around.

The Fleury Store had merchandise
Sold to people from their stock
Carson's Store and Naylor's
Store to store the folks would walk
Often a place of meeting
Where people stood to talk.

Elizabeth Fisk. Creative.
She had looms, and linen wrought
This fabric so very fine
Much of it was bought
There were also boats and ferries
On an island... used *a lot!

Nelson Fisk secured the Post Office
James Ritchie built in stone
His relation, Cynthia
Maintained the library alone
Succeeded by M. LaBombard
For faithfulness much known.

Both Methodist and Catholic
Worship the Divine
The faithful go to churches
No matter what the clime
A place of fame on Isle La Motte
Is lovely St Anne's Shrine.

The original schools on Isle La Motte
We're founded by strong men
Independent. Intelligent.
Created they back then.
Back in 1782 they had discerning ken.

The school my father went to
Only had one room.
He graduated the 8th grade
For his future groomed
But went to High School elsewhere
Back then quite a boon!

The Jarvis' were tennent farmers
Not much to be made
But the beauty of the place
Embraced them in its shade
T'was in this environment
Where young Clinton played.

Amongst the leaves - jade and fire
Honey'd amber caught
He found a love of nature
He was reared and taught
Here his story started

A place called Isle La Motte.


SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C)1/11/2017

of hymn sings melodies harmonics to me
here of all of us
into the dreaming visions of peace
i see, i sing,
out of tune with reality, whatever,
stealing the words, of perhaps,
Ritchie Valens, or the Doors or Who sings
urgency of now like smashing things , pumpkins
guitars , drum solos sets Martin Luther King,
Gandhi, The pope or the Catholic reigns or Jewish straining
the Muslim urgency the forever
strains in nature the beat of streams or trees growing or earthquakes
volcanoes, JFK the sad sight of his death, or MLK on a balcony,
or a stray forgotten lad shot down at 16.
I sing with them , have much hope when I hear,
the females     high and males    baritone
create beauty, so love.

4/14/2023
https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/l8njruxa73yee9b0jzmhd/The-Ultimate-Unabridged-Guide-to-Esoteric-Working-English-2.docx?­rlkey=kunoar7ghpfkb7fjk5xkdgx95&st=i84ornny&dl=0

JERBOA NEKTON SYNAPHEA BRIMBORIONS SCOWLING AT FRIGHTED PARASELENES OF THE DARKEST DIMMEST SATURNINE JANSKY OF JANITRICES ENDOWED WITH THE NOMOGENY OF FUTURE NOMENCLATORS THAT SWERVE WITH NOTAPHILY BECAUSE OF  NOTITIA ATTEMPT THEIR GALLANT  NICCOLIC GAMBOLS AND SPRAUNCY SPECULAR RETROMORPHOSIS OF PHUGOID VISAGISTS URANOPLASTY ELECTS TO THE OBSOLAGNIUM OF DIESTRUS AMONG HEAVENLY AUDIENCES ENRICHING THE HEGUMENES OF EARTH WITH THE WIDDERSHANCY AGAINST WIDGEONS BECAUSE THE WAPENSHAW SCAMMONY OF STEPNEYS OF STEMSON REGARD THE ZALKENGUR OF GAINSAY IN RENGALL COMEUPPANCE ARE MASTERATE MATACHINS DANCING WITH TERPSICHOREAN CACOETHES BECAUSE OF CALUMETS OF CORTEGE BLANDISHMENTS EXCEL AT TRANSFORMATIVE REVALORIZATION RATHER THAN REGELATION BY CLEPSYDRA HONORS CERACEOUS TROPISMS IN THE VINSKY OF SHIBBOLETH THAT A KAPSTONE PAPER SOCIETY GRIDLOCKED BY THROTTLEBOTTOMS OF MELOPEPON MENSURATION IN RIVETED AUDISM FOR THE COMPLEX TRUTINATION OF THE CERBERIC WILL OF DEMASSIFICATION IN THE CNICNODES OF CTETOLOGY THAT EMPOWER NASONS WITH NASUTE INDOLENCE IMPUDENT ONLY UPON TAMBURITZAS OF TANGORECEPTORS AMONG THE FLOCKS OF MEN BECAUSE THEY FEAR THE NORSELS OF NEMBUTSU THAT ANOINTED ESBATS WITH A PEDIGREE OF CHICANERY AROUND THE MORSES OF VARSAL HEGEMONY OF WHELKY BEATEN BY WALLETEERS SPARING IN TIMES OF FAMINE THE STRAIN IN TIMES OF DESICCATED THIRST IN THE GEOSCOPY OF THE DELIVERANCE OF PYCNOSTYLE PYRETOLOGY TO BECOME FREESTANDING CETACEAN CAMBERS THAT AVOID THE CAIMANS LIKE THEIR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT TO ESTABLISH A VESTIGIAL VENTANA UPON THE VARDLES OF ALL FINESSE IN “CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT”MIKE BOSSY BOSE THAT SPURTLED OFTEN IN THE FAMIGERATION OF WRIKPOND RINKOMANIA SUCH THAT RUBEFACTION IN TRITANOPIA OR MULIEBRITY IN PROTANOPIA MIGHT STORGE THE SALMAGUNDI OF THE BORTS OF THE SARSENET SOCIETY OF COMPOSURE REGALING COMFORTS THAT “THE CREATURE WALKS”PRANCES WITH A DILATORY CALCULUS IN BALEFIRE SUCH THAT THE BOWDLERIZATION OF POTAMOLOGY FOR SQUARSON REGARD IN ABRAXAS SYNERGY FORESEEN BY VENTRAD CHIRKS OF ANTI-HEROS BECOMING VENDETTA VIGILANTES OF THE BRONTEUM OF PLUTOMANIA SUCH THAT NEGOTIOSITY BECOMES A TRIFLE OF THE CLORENCE OF CEPHALIGATION NEWLY INVENTED INTO STREAMLINED TIMMYNOGGIES THE WASTRELS AND WASE OF BARNSTORM THAT UPON THE SERENADE OF LINCOLNS LAST STROLLS OF PURPRESTURE IN THE INCONVENIENCE OF PRE-GALVANIZATION FOR THE DURAMEN TO TRICOTEE WASSAILING THE FORTUNES OF WELDS OF WELLAWAY WANGS AND KENSPECKEL SATURATION OF FLUMINOUS FOGRAM FILEMOTS IN CASEFIED CORDWAINERS THAT AFFIX THEIR STEPWISE CLIMB INTO IMPARLANCE IMPAVID BECAUSE OF THE KLENDUSIC SURVIVAL OF THE VEES AND MOULIN ROUGE GLACIOLOGY OF ARCTICIANS SURMOUNT A SPECULATIVE SPATTEE THAT IS LOUDLY WAILING AND BEMOANING THE ANTIPODES OBLATED IN THEIR OWN NACREOUS NAGORS OF NEMBUTSU CAVERNOUS IN THEIR CHUCKWALLA ACCLAIM OF THIGMOTAXIS FOR MIGNONS OF CHIRAPSIA SPARRING AGAINST THE UPSTART PRESBYTERY CUT AWAY AND RESECTIONED ENDLESSLY IN THE MARAUD OF BENIGHTED KNIGHTS SURVEYING THE EMPTY EXPANSE OF QUIDCUNX OF COLORATION SOLVING THE EQUIPOISE OF STOCKINETTE SUCH THAT  RADICALISM BY BLESBOKS IS STERNLY REPRIMANDED BY THE STERNWAY OF EQUESTRIAN SYNCOPATION UPON BEBLUBBERED ATRABILIARY ABAXIAL CONUNDRUMS THE SALVATION OF THE FEW AND THE FAMISH OF THE POISON IVY SOCIETIES OF COGNOSCENTI RHIZOGENIC TO ALL SURDS AND SURDOMUTE SURQUEDRIES SUCH THAT BLAZING CONFLAGRATION OF BONHOMIE BONFIRES ALWAYS ENTITLES THE WHIFFETS AND WHIPSTAFF OF THE WAPENTAKE OF THE REJOINDER GENERATION TO EXALT AND EXCEL DESPITE PRIMORDIAL IGNOMINIES ESTABLISHED BY EMOTIVISM BECAUSE THE EISOPTROMANIA OF ONE IS THE PANOPTICON TO MANY A SECRET TROVE AND MORE VIKING MARAUDERS OF THE DISTANT APOSTIL TO APOSTLESHIP DEFINING THE SOTERIOLOGY OF MAGNANIMITY BARMCLOTHS OF BARMASTERS IN THE OLD BRIQUET ARRANGEMENT OF HOLOCRYPTIC HOLTS BECOMES STRIGINE ONLY IN LAMBENT ALPENGLOW TWILLS OF BOREALIS TEMPER AND THE PHLEGMATIC HUMOR OF THE TEDIUM OF THE PRETECHNOLOGICAL ARGALI OF MASTERWORKS BY MOUNTENANCE ALONE SCURFY IN THE HALLSWALLOP OF “PRINCE OF JERUSALEM”CELLARERS IN THE MAMMOCK OF DEPREDATION SWERVING FROM INCOHERENCE IN DRIVEL TO THE LIVELIHOOD OF THE SAINTS UPON THEIR MORTAL METENSOMATOSIS BECAUSE OF MALABATHRUM ATTEMPTS TO BECOME INVICTIVE IN FUTURE SCENARIO FOR WILDING ALBENTURE THAT DISCOVERS ALL WOOLFELL MALAPERT QUANDARIES OF JAWHOLE AND JATO SUCH THAT STREAMLINED MILITARIES IMBREVIATED CENOTES OF CENTROBARIC COBALTIFEROUS COMBUVIROUS CHERNOZEMS OF THE ARTICULATE FRINGES OF THE EXTRAMUNDANE SHALLOPED UPON THE EARTH AND JOGGLING WITH EACH SEISMIC SVEDBERG ROLLICKING THE ROIL OF ROORBACKS OF ROARING 20S VERDURE MIGHT THE SCAPPLE OF SOVENANCE AND THE VEILLEUSES THAT DEPEND ON WHEATENS OF MUGIENCE BASED ON SQUAMATION AND WAINAGE FROM WANIGANS THAT THE NEXILITY OF FUTURE GROMATIC PRECISION ALIGNS THE SYZYGY OF GALLANT GAMESMANSHIP FOR PLACKIQUES OF THE PLECKIGGER TO ASSUME A SUBERIC VALUE IN THE VAULT OF NOSTALGIA THAT ENTOMBS TO MANY AUDISMS OF IAMATOLOGY FOR IATRALIPTIC ASCERTAINED CERTAINTIES OF SOCKDOLAGER TO SUBSUME A TYRANNY OF CUCULINE AND CUNICULOUS SWARF SPAWNED UPON THE ARENEIDAN ARENOIDS THAT SURVIVE AMONG THE LAST REGNANT HUMANISM RECENSED ON BRACHYDACTYLOUS REVANCHE TO THE ELLIPSOIDS OF TURBINATED BUT TUBIFACIENT PIRACY OF CONTEMPORARY REVELATIONS UPON THE ENGROSSED BOX OFFICE SOCIETIES THAT SCAFFOLD TO THE PINNACLE THE ABRAXAS OF ALBATROSS TRUSTS OF JALOUSIES OF CAMBERS BELONGING TO THE HIGHER ORDERS OF HISTORICAL REFINEMENT BECAUSE OF THEIR FLAIRS IGNOVIMOUS UPON THE PAST IN MASTERY OF BUSHWHACKER FUTURISM THAT BEAMS WITH BARNSTORM AND STEAM ENGINES THE WAY FOR CALVERS EVEN WHEN CALVOUS TO MOUNT EMOLUMENT AND PILOT AGAINST PILATES OF OUR MODERN AGE IN THEIR LASSITUDE AND LACHRYMOSE LAODICEAN AGATHISMS SUCH THAT ENDANGERED GLEBES ORBITING THE HYPAETHRAL GLANCE AND LEER OF LEARY TRAMONTANE WHERRETS OF RASPY TEARS BEMOANING THE SQUINTIFEGOS THAT BELEAGUER THEMSELVES ON “BLUEPRINTS OF THE BLACK MARKET” “24K MAGIC”SOCIETIES THAT SIMPER AMONG THE REST AS SUPREME PROMACHOS ENTILTING THE FUTURE TO WOBBLE IN SYNCOPATION WITH HETEROCHRONY ITSELF SUCH AS AITCHBONES AND THE CORDWAINER ADVOWSONS WHO UNDERSTAND THE THERMODYNAMICS OF RACIAL STRIFE MUST HEAL OUR DIVISIONS TO RECLAIM THE LAND OF DEPREDATED JAMDANIS SUCH THAT YELEKS OF YARAKS BECOME THE HABITUES OF EVERY CAVERNILOQUY OWNED BY EVERY STANJANT MUSEUM OF ATHENAEUM IN SUPEREROGATORY FRUITION. SEMAPHORES OF ACCOLENT ABATJOUR ANOINT THE MASONS OF OUR TIME THROUGH SUBLIME CURRENCY SUGGESTIONS THAT REIFY THE HYPOSTASIS AGAINST HYPOCRISY BECAUSE TOO MANY WIDGEONS ARE DELUDED BY THE HENOTHEISM OF MISGUIDED BAHUVHRIS OF SECULAR BEDIZENED DENIZENS OF GINNELS AMONG RUDENTURE GIMCRACKS SUCH THAT STARVELING IGNOMINY BECOMES THE STEEPEST CLAMBER IN DILATORY ANFRACTUOUSNESS BLATTERNOPHONES OF BACILISUM SUPINE IN INTERREGNUM THE OBROGATION OF THE VESTIGIAL PROMONTORY OF MARTINGALE BECAUSE OF PROFOUND JASPERATED DESPERATION AMONG JARVEYING WORLDS ORCHESTRATED BY PRIMIPARAS OF SIMULTAGNOSIA SUCH THAT SCENOGRAPHY OF DYSCHROA OFTEN SUBSUME THE BRUNT OF THE WORK OF CONSCIENTIOUS ATTEMPTS TO REFORM THE COLLEGIAL ESTEEM OF GRADGRIND STATOLITHS THAT AFFLICT THE FEWER LIMACINE CATAPLEXIES RATHER THAN CEMENTUM BURROWED INTO HYPOGEIODY’S BLINDEST INSTINCTS INFORMED BY HEAPSTEADS OF STAMMERING STANNARIES SUCH THAT THE CEILOMETERS OF CELSITUDE BECOME AN ARTIFACT NOT MERELY OF OUR HUBRIS BUT OUR TOTEMIC CONCERN FOR SUBALTERN MEGALOGRAPHY THAT CAESARAPROPRISM SLELLUMS IN MODERATION OF MODALISM AROUND KINGS AND QUEENS OF THE “NO SLEEP UNTIL BROOKLYN”SECRECY BECAUSE THE WORLD IS ONLY YOURS WHEN THE BORDARS OF BARKENTINE TITRATING AN ATTEMPERED SOCIETAL TRIAGE TO SWAPE WITH MAJORITARIAN HUES A COBBLED CONTRAPLEX SOLUTION TO THE ACCIDIA RATHER THAN EUPRAXIA AMONG THE ARRIVISTES OF VIRILITY CONSOLED AND CAJOLED BY A COMPROMISE OF PATRIARCHY TO THE ECCLESIASTICAL RENEWAL OF MULIEBRITY TO STOP SLEEK MAXIMALISM IN THE LAXISM OF PERVERSE LOVE AND ASKEW COCARDENS THAT BELONG TO THE REALM OF VENTRALABRAL AMNESIA SUCH THAT THEY STOPE AROUND RHEOTAXIS TO STERNWAY THE CABOOSE OF EVERY CUCULINE MALFUNCTION PRICKLY ON TRIBULOID DIETS OF JAUNDICE SUCH THAT EVENTUAL REPARTEE SEGUES WITH ZALKENGUR OF AGRIOZIATRY THAT FORESEES THE POTENTIAL OF ABAXIAL NAZES AND NAVES TO RAMPART THE NYALAS INTO INDEMNITY BECAUSE OF JINGOISM GONE ASTRAY AND A “VIEW ASKEW”PARODY OF SELF-IMPORTANT RIGORS TO DROWN IN A NOYADE NEVER ABAFT ENOUGH TO SURVIVE THE THROTTLED THREMMATOLOGY OF TOFTS BECOMING SUMPTERS OF SUNBITTERN REGALIA WHICH CAMPAIGN A SYBOTIC LABARUM OF ANNEALED SWANK AND REGIMENTED METAPHORS OF BYWORD ARISTOCRACY MANAGED OFTEN WITH  OVERHAILED FORCE BY NEOPHRONS WHO MISCAST EVERY VILLAINY IN AN ATTEMPT TO SQUELCH INTO SILENCE THE CORYPHAEUS OF CIVILIZED REFORMS IN A SOCIETY BUILT ON SPHACELATED BEAUTY AND RAPACIOUS BOODLE. THE ARGALIS OF GALLIVANTED FREEBOOTERS OF STRICT CABOTAGE IN THE VENOCLYSIS TO THEIR TITRATED ADDICTION TO THE NEW YORK TIMES AFFECT ON MAN LIVE INEVITABLY IN THE SCRUTINY OF PALLOR SUCH THAT ESCAPING THIXOTROPY BY MIGNONS OF NOTAPHILY SUSTAINED BY “HOT TUB TIME MACHINE”RIGORS OF ENTHUSIASM NEVER CURBED BY THE CURGLAFF OF NESCIENT IGNAVIA IN PARVANIMITY SUCH THAT THEIR GENIUS JOCKO BOYAUS OF JOLTERHEADS SQUIRMING IN PISCIFAUNA MIGHT THAT SPAR AGAINST SPARTANISM ITSELF—A PARCHMENT OF THE MOST DELIBERATE WIDGEON SUBVERSION OF PROTANOPIA BECAUSE OF AN INVETERATE TRUST IN BRAINTRUST ALLEGORIES CAVORTING WITH BLUSHING INFAMIES SUCH THAT IMPUDENT GAIN BLAINS THE BLUNGE OF OPERATIVE FULGURANT RATOMORPHISM BECOMING A COSTERMONGER SALVATION OF A TERMINAL TERMINUS BUSBOATING A BUMICKY BADIGEON OF MAGICAL TAGHAIRM THAT ANOINTS DEGREES OF PRESTIGE FOR AN AUTOBAHN STREAMLINE RATHER THAN A MUDDIED ROAD OF ROARING 20S FINIFUGAL CALCIFUGE CALCARIFEROUS CARNALITY INDOLENT UPON RICHES AND INCUMBENT UPON COCARDEN SUCH THAT THE SLAYING TITANS HYDRAHEADED IN FORESIGHT OF THE MACHIAVELLIAN PLOTS BY NECROTYPES AGAINST NECROLOGUES BUT OK WITH THE LYCEUM OF MORTIFEROUS MORTMAINS TO BROOK STREAMLINED REPUGNANCE MIGHT EVENTUALLY ALABASTER IVORY TOWER VERDURE OF THE BOSCHVELDT CHARGE THE PROPER CHIMINAGE FOR CHIMNEYS OF THE WHIMPER OF THE MASCARON IN THE FETED “ARMY OF ME”DENTICLES AND FORSOOTH THE GAINSAY OF TITANISM OF DWIZZENED BRUTALITY MIGHT SUCCOR THEIR WAY TOWARDS SUSSULTATORY FORESIGHT FLICKERING IN ALPENGLOW VORAGINOUS VISAGISTS OF VRAISEMBLANCE IN THE VUGS OF SAXIFRAGOUS CONTUMELY AND CONTUMACY MET WITH THE DIRIGISME OF LACKADAY RIMOSE STEPNEYS ON THE STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN RATHER THAN THE HIGHWAY TO HELL. WE RAPIDLY PERUSE EVERY TRIBUNE OF BERLINE COMPLICITY IN THE MACARISM OF MACROBIAN LONGEVITY OF PROSPEROUS STREAKS OF BUOYANT TRICOTEES THAT WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER THE SCORIAS OF IMAGINATIVE GLANCES AT FUTURE VIEWERSHIP OF TRICHOSIS IN DURATIVE FORMATION PROMINENT AMONG  DURAMEN STRICKLES THAT SWERVE FROM SWARTH AND RENEW THE PLEDGE TO REMAIN “PEOPLE OF THE BOOK”LASSOING “RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARC”CARRACKS TO THE ENTHUSIASTIC PASTORAULING PURPRESTURE OF INSOUCIANCE THAT GALLOPS FROM PRECIPICE TO APOGEE AND BACK AGAIN IN RETROGRADE LIMELIGHT BLARING BLATTERNOPHONES OF THE “PANOPTICON OF THE MASTER CLOCK”BECAUSE NEMBUTSU BOWS BEFORE GOD AND MAN THAT IS SLIPSHOD IN ITS DIRIGISME IN BERGAMASK CULVERTAGE OF ICEBLINKS OF VERGLAS THAT MEMORIALIZE THE PLIGHT OF THE PRESENT AND THE REMORSE OF THE PAST TO THE INEVITABILITY OF FLASHBANG FUTURISM SUCH THAT SAXHORNS COULD NEVER MORE STRONGLY EXHORT A UNIFIED DEMARCHE RATHER THAN A TILTED TWILL OF TWADDLED HOLOCRYPTIC METEMPIRICAL PLEONASMS THAT REITERATE THE SELF-FULFILLING PROPHECY ALL TO THE GLORY OF THE SAINTS AND ANGELS OF THE HEGUMENE AND THE ROODS THAT RUDELY INTERRUPTED OUR STARLIT DAYDREAM BELIEVING MAZUT AND THE SADDER MAZOPATHIA OF RECKLINGS OF TURTLEBACK SLOWLY BURNING AWAY THEIR FLAMBEAUS OF DELUSION INTO THE PARALYSIS OF GINGLYMUS AMONG THE SYNAPHEA STELLIONS THAT ARE STANDPIPES TOWARDS ALL HUMAN LIBERATION BECAUSE OF NACREOUS CABRILLA SUCH THAT NEVER TOLD BARCAROLES OF THE CAUDLE OF COSSETED CATHEDRA THAT CATHEAD CLOTURE SEEKS TO FINALLY ABRIDGE THE SUFFRAGE OF SUFFERING CONSPUED MINORITIES IN THEIR PLEDGE OF PATRIOTIC ENRICHMENT OF A TRICKLE DOWN SYSTEM OF FATIDICAL FASHIONS NOW IN THE HEYDAY OF  THEIR TRANSPARENCY TO ANOINT THE MESCULONIES THAT WERE STALWART THICKETS OF PRISTINE ASYLUM AND SILENTIUM SUCH THAT THE FEWER WERE INFORMED OF THE GREATER TRAVESTY OF HISTORICAL DEFECTS TOO SUPERNAL AND SUPERLATIVE TO EVER EVADE BY TIME’S HONEST DESIGN. THE STRATEGY OF THROTTLEBOTTOMED WAPENTAKE IN ILKENGOR WITH ILLAQUEATION THAT CANNULAR HEISTS OF CANQUE THAT NOTARIZE THE NOTAPHILY OF NOTITIA IN NICCOLIC DEMUR SUCH THAT NIDAMENTAL CARDIOGNOST BARRULETS OF SIRENS OF BRASH QUISQUILOUS LANDFILLS OF TOXIC NUCLEARITY AGAINST NUCLEOTIDES OF NEPIONIC OIKONISUS BECAUSE IN INCONVENIENT THRESHES OF IMMERGENCE WE SLAKE ONLY THE APPETITES OF INSATIABLE MEN BROWBEATING THEIR JOGGLED SVEDBERGS MIGHT THEY ENCOUNTER THE DUTIFUL AGGIORNAMENTO NOT OF RICHES OF MATERIAL EMOLUMENT BY THE CONTRITE AND PENITENT HEART OF ACCOLENT NOTORIETY BECOMING LIP BALM FOR FAMISHED FAME SPARKLING WITH FIREWORKS WIDELY HARROWING AND TRIED BY THE CRUCIBLES OF TAGHAIRM GOETICS FOR THE BAEDEKERS OF THE TIMEPIECES. GODS GREATEST SWITH IN MAGNANIMITY FOR PRICKLY BLACKGUARD BLEMISHED BY TOADY PEOPLE WHO WORSHIP STARFISH URCHINS OF TEN FOOT PARKAS AND SOUTH PARK LITURGIES MIGHT EVENTUALLY THEIR SQUARSON CONSCIENCE OWING ALL TO SALVATION NOT OF RICHES BUT OF CARDIOGNOST MAINSAIL SUBINTELLIGENTUR REVELATIONS THAT SQUAWK ON EVERY CROWDED BARRISTER OF THE STREETS SUCH THAT THE FANFARONADE BECOMES THE ANSWER TO ALL UNIVERSAL PRINCIPLES OF SYNCLASTIC BORDARS OF SINECURE PAYING FEALTY TO PASTIMES BECOMING GHAWAZIS AND RIGORS BECOMING FLUENT IN THE EASY DREARY DAYS OF ZEITGEIST OF GELOGENIC CACKLING CREVASSES ON AN EVEREST PATHWAY OF PROMISELAND TITANS AND EMERGING IMPERIAL REGARDS BECAUSE THE “TEACHERS”SOCIETY THAT “OVERTHROWS ALL THE PIRATES”FROM “FALLING POISON IVY”BECOMES THE TALISMAN TO REJUVENATE THE CORTEGES OF BELIEF IN THE MOST SUPREME GOD RATHER THAN THE MOST ESTEEMED MAMMON BECAUSE WE DENOUNCE WIDGEONS AND WE ELEVATE THE CAUSES OF GAMMERSTANGS EVERYWHERE THAT ARE CONTECKED WITH STRIDULATION OF STADIOMETERS BECAUSE THE WANIGANS OF WANGS OF SHANTUNG OF WONDERWORK PRODIGIES OF BINTURONG FAME SUCH THAT THE IDEOGENY OF HISTORY BELONGS TO CETACEAN KNIGHTS WORKING TOGETHER WITH SPRINGBOKS AGAINST MURENGERS OF SPRINGHARES TO FORM AN ABDERVINE MERIT BUILT ON TRIAGE AND POKERISH CHARADE ALWAYS CONSCIENTIOUS OF NIDOR RATHER THAN NIDIFUGOUS SCRAWLS OF INTEMERATION THAT PANDER ENDLESSLY IN PROVINCIAL WASES OF THE TRACASSERIE OF STERILE PROVIDENCE RATHER THAN AUSTERE VENERATION FOR THE MIRACULOUS SECUNDINE GROWTH OF REVENANT  SPIRITS EVICTED FROM THE LAND OF THE DEAD SUCH THAT THE ANACAMPSEROTES OF LIFE MIGHT ENDOW THEM AGAIN AGAINST PENURY AND POVERTY THE RICHES OF HEAVEN RENOWNED BY URANOPLASTY RATHER THAN SUCCEDANEUM OF SCAMPERING ATTEMPTS BY VARDLES AND VARDO OF PROXENETES WHO TEAM WITH ICICLES FOR ICEBLINKS SUCH THAT SUTLERS THAT MOBILIZE LIBERATION WILL ALWAYS BE DENOUNCED FOR THEIR TEMERITY DESPITE ISOGENS OF VALOR FOR ISOKERAUNIC SQUEAMISH MASCONS BECAUSE GEOCARPY IS A CONSUMERIST SPORT OF HOBNOBBING AT MALLS WHICH SATIATE THEIR EVERY REGARD AND SINK SLOWLY INTO THE ABYSS OF HOLOBENTHIC CONVERSIONS BECAUSE THE TREACLE OF THE SECULAR IS A FLAGRANT MISTAKE. WE MUST ENLIST THE MORAL RIGORS OF LITURGY TO ENHANCE THE AGGIORNAMENTO OF THE HOLIEST OF CHURCHES AND THE MOST BENEFICENT MOSQUES AND THE MOST INVETERATE SYNAGOGUES THAT WE MIGHT OBEY DIVINE PREROGATIVES SYLLABATIM ENUMERATED BY THE ORIGINAL “KING OF KINGS”WHO LEAD A PEACEFUL EFFORT TO PROSELYTIZE THE WORLD TO A WORLD OF NEIGHBORLY WELCOME RATHER THAN AUSTERE NEGLECT AND DERELICT BOWERIES NIVELLATED BEYOND THE REACH OF STANDPIPES BECAUSE GOD IS AN AUTHOR OF WISDOM THAT IS CONSCIENTIOUS OF THE WISEACRES TOLD IN THE TOMES THAT ALWAYS VOUCHSAFE PROMACHOS CORYPHAEUS SUCH THAT DELIMITED DEMARCATIONS OF THE NOVANTIQUE FALL UNDER THE DIVINE CULTIVATION RATHER THAN A RITCHIE RICH OBSESSION ONLY WITH THE VANGUARD ANARCHY OF ALLODIC SUPREMACY IN WHEREAGAINST FICTIONS.WHEN WE LOOK AT GIOVANNI PICO MIRANDOLA’S ORATION OF THE DIGNITY OF MAN WE FIND THE CULPABLE VENDETTA OF VIGILANTES AND THE TEDIUM OF THE PRIMIPARAS THAT WITH BEBLUBBERED AND LACHRYMOSE SATURNINE FEARS OF FETED AGIOTAGE OR DISAGIO IN ALTERNATION AROUND SIMULTAGNOSIA FORMED BY THE HETEROCHRONY OF PRECISE RUMORS REFINED BY THE VIRTUOSITY OF THE WORLDS BEST NEMBUTSU DESIGNED FOR A HEAVENLY KINGDOM OF THE PERDURABLE WE MUST FORSAKE OUR PISMIRISM AND OUR PILPULS OF THE APIKOROS IDOL WORSHIPPERS THAT FOUND ARTWORK TO BE THE EMBODIMENT OF GOD RATHER THAN THE COMMANDMENT AGAINST GRAVEN IMAGES THAT WE MIGHT RETHINK THE PAST AS A CONVENTICLE OF BABLYONIAN IDEALS THAT RESURRECTED ROMAN HEDONISMS AND RECAPITULATED GREEK IMAGINATIONS SUCH THAT NOW WE CAN DEFEAT THE PNYX AND RENEW THE RENAISSANCE CREATED BY PLUTOMANIA IN COMPETITION WITH THE INSUBORDINATION OF COGWHEEL CODSWALLOP OF WHEELHOUSE BELLARMINE MIGHT WE ALWAYS REGARD THIS ZEITGEIST AS THE PROMINENT THICKET AT THE EDGE OF THE PROMENADE THAT MOBILIZES THE CENTURIONS OF ALL MAJOR CENTURIES OF REVERENCE AND OBEISANCE TO BE SEQUESTRATED FROM THE REMAINDER OF TIME SUCH THAT EVENTUALLY THE ACCOLENT WEALTH OF THE ACCOSTED NEVER BECOMES A PRISMATIC PISMIRISM THAT NEGLECTS THE PISCIFAUNA. WE MUST DEVOTE OUR RICHES TO THE TRUE RELIGION OF THE ORPHAN AND THE WIDOW AND WITH RENOWN CELEBRATE ALL OF OUR NEIGHBORS WITH A FRIENDLY CAMARADERIE RATHER THAN A DISTANT UMBRIL OF SACROSANCT CLEPSYDRAS BLEEDING THE PARCHMENT OF ITS INK THAT  THE BAHUVHRI OF NEW WORLD WISDOM MIGHT BE THE CONCLAMATION OF A BEAMING CITY UPON A HILL BUILT TO LAST SO THAT EVENTUALLY THE CRYPTADIA OF GLIB PARLANCE AND PAR FOUR ELEMENTS OF THE ELEMENTARY SCHOLASTICATE MIGHT WE REFORM THROUGH STRIDULATION AND PETITION THE GLORY OF ALL THE LORDS THAT GRACED THE PROVENANCE OF EARTH THAT ORBIT AROUND THE HEGUMENES THAT GUARD THE TREASURES OF WOOLFELL AND WOOLPACK OF WOOLDS OF WOONERF SUCH THAT SARANGOUSTY PROFITEERS AT THE EDGES OF REVOLUTE AND FRAYED SCHMEGGEGY MIGHT BE DEFEATED BY THE SONDAGE OF THE SEDERUNT AND AVIZANDUM OF THE REGAL PROPRIETOR BRACKISHLY CONVENING THE TAMARAW OF A COUP RATHER THAN A CODDLED HENPECK MOONLIGHT DRIVE HEAVEN THAT IS SO BLINKERED WITH PRESTIGE IT FORGETS THE CALIPACE OF ITS OWN MORAL ENDURANCE IN THE CHILIARCHY OF WORDBOUND WINDCHEATERS THAT BOOMERANG AROUND CENTRIPETAL CYNOSURE SIGNIFICAT AND ECLAT SUCH THAT THE LIONIZED MUSEUMS OF MOSES NEVER FALL FALLOW WITH TURGID DISREGARD IN AN ERA OF PINACOTHECA BECAUSE WE OWE IT ALL TO THE STEWARDSHIP OF ARCEATED OCREATED WILLOWISH MARTINGALES MIGHT THEY BY GIRDLED BY THE FESTOON OF NEVER A LUKEWARM REGARD FOR ANTEBELLUM SUMPTERS OF DIVINE DESTINY. GOD BELONGS CENTRAL TO OUR CONSIDERATIONS AND HE EXHORTS ALL TOWARDS PUSHFUL AMBITION RESIGNED TO THE FACT THAT PAST ATROCITY IS THE PROGENITOR OF PRESENT FELICITY BUT EVEN IN STREAKY CITIES BENIGHTED BY WROX AND THE WROTH OF RAMPAGING VEILLEUSES AND THEIR RAGGED CULVERTAGE MIGHT WE CALVER OUR WAY INTO GROWTH RATHER THAN SUBSIDE LIKE LIMACINE COWARDS INTO THE BUSHWHACKING BYRE OF BUSHWAS THAT ONLY SURVIVE SCRUTINY IN THE GNOTOBIOLOGY OF DENIAL AND THE GEITONOGAMY OF SACRILEGE BECAUSE OF THE SACRIFICES THE PLAGUES OF FAMINE ARRESTING THE PHAROAHS OF ILLUMINATION IN GINGLYMUS MIGHT THEY ARRAY THEMSELVES VANGUARD IN VENTRAD HOPES TO COUNTERMAND THE EVIL UNDERBELLY AND YEDDA OF JOUGS THAT ENTRAP JORDANS BECAUSE THEIR SPOKESHAVEN ECONOMETRIC SCALES RATHER THAN FINIFUGAL FRIGHTS OF RHADAMANTHINE ESBAT OLMS OF SACRIFICE BECOME THE BEAM OF THE BEATIFICATION OF THE WORLD UNDER GODS MAJESTIC MANDATES. AMEN

if my life was scripted by a guy ritchie
or a tarantino...
oh god: it would happen so smoothly:
i would never:
but always fake it as an n.p.c. -

ol' grandfather died and i finally resolved
to never ever like writing:
and this pain is a crease:
i wish it was a goosebump...
but as b.c. socrates said it:

find yourself a good wife...
and you'll be happy...
ol' grandpa didn't find a good woman
in my grandmother...
he became a philosopher...

my luck lies with prostitutes...
now the sketch, sketching over a sketch...
i tried that path once:
the gamble...
invested in being swept under
a carpet with the bugs and dust...

now i approach the song i heard
at an open mic night in edinburgh
once... neil young's old man...
and only recently:
      cumberland gap: hence the reference
to guy ritchie...

there are instances of dementia patients
living out their last best preserved
in care homes...
3 months...
blitzkrieg shock a day before
he died: ****** gwandm'ah calls
up...
who does that?!

             i apparently own a phone
i can only make calls with:
i am not to receive them!

"my god he loved that woman!"
beside a god
the mythological sophia:
patriarch ***** of abraham:
but what of this mythological woman?
this mother this sister
this grandmother this ****-buddy...
this word-on-word 69er...

it's hardly a mystery:
it's not like death played poker with me
over the debate of 3 months:
such is family...
once upon a time...
before the subsequent diadems
would disperse -
before the little town was swallowed
by: dying and the nomads it spawned...

no luck with women:
my father is the only exception...
which probably implies my mother
is the exception too...
but even now my father is being strained...
and as ever: i'm mediating some flimsy deal...
but i guess luck with women is
hereditary...
promise me the one in a blue moon
lover!
promise me none of such "things"
just a horse with stirrups!

pain as a numbing sensation from:
it's impossible to feast on details...
and i will not rhyme, rhyme...
i will write my heaving lost...
   i have no more...

but if my life was scripted...
oh... i just imagine the litany
of the omni- god being true: of a god not
taking sides:
how we're still not landlocked
by a reference to the 20th century
sheep-count for the slaughter:
how now, only now...
just as ever: we hear the heroism
of some marcel marceau...
who was never going to be one of
these newly converted readily waiting
for the gestapo max jacob types...

i sometimes wish i would have
invested in that siberian banshee that
st. petersburg's doll and buggy and trolly...
esp. after i heard her: ways...
obviously as toxic as it might
have taken turn:
i'd compete with bottle and brothel
as she would have skidded off
for some m.d.ma. and some buckle &
friendly ****...

thank anyone for this morning
how the newspaper was brought home,
then the muddied walk through
the bower wood...
that my feet take me walking
and i obey: a dog of chess...
   and then back for coffee and a revision
of morning going out
again for some buns...

by the afternoon i found a new walk
and will undertake it come tomorrow...
at the entrance: a couple were looking
formidably anti-
        a forwarding of feet onto it...

come: let us steal the moon as
the scythe it appears when it reaches
its sharpened crescent slit of a gaze!

tears are flowing as I write
some pains never fade
stay the same as if it happened today
so let me try to get this just right

I was just 16 moved to florida
from growing up in northern virginia
no friends, young and wild and facing
a lovers betrayal which changed my heart

first person I met I’d walk to the bar
was a guy named Joe Martin
he was hitting on the girl i was with
I remember she was crying so he gave her a kiss

from that day on, him and I were best friends
hung out all the time I completely trusted him
he caught feelings love he’d say
those sure words would make me run away

he always talk about his brother Jack
family nickname for him was Nat
all the adventures they shared
his love for his brother was rare

over a year or maybe longer I forget
finally one day his brother visited
on leave from the marine’s set to deploy
didn’t think much either way of that boy

we all hung out in and out at the beach
once Jack came over and my mom looked at me
she said “he’s cute” what do you think
i said “you think so, hmm let me see

relationships of that kind were not for me
something Iran from and certainly didn’t seek
but my dear mother she planted that seed
and pretty quickly Jack was hitting on me

we were alone I drove him to the lake
a place where he’d swim he couldn’t get me in
this day he was quite bold wanting
to be with me right there and than

I was intrigued and told him if he wanted to date me
he’d have to do it right
put in the effort talk to his brother
make sure it’s alright

from that day on we were together
every day and every night
seemed like weeks maybe month
but back than felt like years

the day finally came for him to leave
Joe was in the driver’s seat of my 69 firebird
cherry red white top convertible
top was down i was in the back

than Jack came running out
duffle in hand kissed me and climbed in
I said to him “did you tell your mom goodbye”
he said “yes I did, why”, I said “did you tell her you love her”
he looked in my eyes, smiled and ran back inside

off to the greyhound bus station car full of kids
I swear that boy lip locked me I couldn’t catch my breath
he didn’t let go the entire trip
we said our goodbyes and waved as his bus left

deployed to Beirut Lebanon 1983
he wrote me every week
told me about what it was like there
and how he’d reup with his sergeant’s despair

encouraged my schooling said I’d do great
told me of the culture and the barracks and mates
how he was taught use infrared telescope
from the roof spot any mortar or any dangers

he wanted to re-enlist to save money for his future
he was proud to defend our country

than the worse news went round the world
on October 23, 1983, two truck bombs struck buildings in beirut, lebanon, housing American and French service members of the multinational force in lebanon (MNF), a military peacekeeping operation during the lebanese civil war. the attack killed 307 people: 241 u.s. and 58 french military personnel, six civilians, and two attackers.

disbelieving and it took at least a week
before they found his body
in the pile buried underneath
all of us hoping he’d be ok no relief

I was at my brother’s funeral in maryland
all the family was at my grandma’s after the service
when Jack’s mom called with the heart wrenching news
I thought for sure there’d be no way, that god would
take them both away

when I returned back home to florida
waiting for me in the mailbox
my last letter from Jack
that glimmer of hope of a mistake quickly passed

his last letter read:
‘did you hear the new rainbow album
bent out of shape with
ritchie blackmore and ronnie james dio”?
“don’t you worry about me
telling me to be in right place at the wrong time
hell “I’m trying to be in the wrong place at the right time”

Love,
Nat

Jack was 22 I was 18
young private first class marine
died as a peacekeeper, no weapons no defense
the list of the rules first three were intense

until October 23, 1983, there were ten guidelines issued for each u.s. marine member of the MNF:

the perimeter guards at the u.s. marine headquarters on the sunday morning of October 23, 1983, were in full compliance with rules 1–3 and were unable to shoot fast enough to disable or stop the bombers.

1. when on post, mobile or foot patrol, keep loaded magazine in weapon, bolt closed, weapon on safe, no round in the chamber.
2. do not chamber a round unless instructed to do so by a commissioned officer unless you must act in immediate self-defense where deadly force is authorized.
3. keep ammo for crew-served weapons readily available but not loaded in the weapon. weapons will be on safe at all times.
4. call local forces to assist in self-defense effort. notify headquarters.
5. use only minimum degree of force to accomplish any mission.
6. stop the use of force when it is no longer needed to accomplish the mission.
7. if you receive effective hostile fire, direct your fire at the source. if possible, use friendly snipers.
8. respect civilian property; do not attack it unless absolutely necessary to protect friendly forces.
9. protect innocent civilians from harm.
10. respect and protect recognized medical agencies such as red cross, red crescent, etc.

the first suicide bomber detonated a truck bomb at the building serving as a barracks for the 1st battalion 8th marines (battalion landing team – blt 1/8) of the 2nd marine division, killing 220 marines, 18 sailors and 3 soldiers, making this incident the deadliest single-day death toll for the united states marine corps since the battle of iwo jima in world war ii, the deadliest single-day death toll for the united states armed forces since the first day of the tet offensive in the vietnam war, the deadliest terrorist attack on american citizens in general prior to the september 11 attacks, and the deadliest terrorist attack on american citizens overseas. the explosives used were later estimated to be equivalent to as much as 9, 500 kg (21, 000 pounds) of tnt.

minutes later, a second suicide bomber struck the nine-story drakkar building, a few kilometers away, where the french contingent was stationed; 55 paratroopers from the 1st parachute chasseur regiment and three paratroopers of the 9th parachute chasseur regiment were killed and 15 injured. it was the single worst french military loss since the end of the algerian war.the wife and four children of a lebanese janitor at the french building were also killed, and more than twenty other lebanese civilians were injured.

our lives forever changed that day

families, our country, our nation, blood stained.
innocent men and women and children die for us
every single second of every single day


In honor of all of them and

Private First class Jack L. Martin (1961-1983)
there’s a special place in heaven for such angels as these!

below is our song, rainbow “street of dreams”
released 1983 (bent out of shape)
I sometimes wonder what would or could of been
sure did love that Nat Martin!
my purpose was profound

Lionel Ritchie on her shirt
I remember Say You, Say Me

Where is she tonight? she asks
She’s married now, I say near tearfully

But she wished me joy when I last wrote
And I too wish her joy eternally