Your origami snapper came along
tucked into my wallet
things like that don't travel well
but I managed
they suffered a lesion to the spine
snappers are apparently weak there
maybe we can work on growing a backbone together

handmade gifts mean the most
less, when it was made in whimsy and flimsy
more, because it gave me false hope
maybe it's a sign
like a uke-playing octopus
maybe friendship is all I need right now
your origami snapper is a great listener

It sits on my desk
Either mocking or pondering, I can’t tell
Snappers are hard to read that way
Maybe if we showed more emotion you’d
           notice

but action requires reaction
and somehow the origami rose I made forgot it’s origami thorns
But there could be blood on my hands
From a beautiful friendship I so recklessly slaughter
pulling up roots like weeds
adding wistful thinking to inimitable memories

Every time that I mention
The good times they are missing
These Young Whipper Snappers get bored

You'd think with me talking
That I was speaking Martian
Them thinking me out of my gourd

They can't fathom a time
With T.V. black and white
Where all day only three channels played

And at the days end
They'd play the anthem
With the rest of the night being the ant race

Or of a telephone
Rotary with dial tone
Where the calls were cheaper at night

These Young Whipper Snaps
Have no idea
How good we had it in life

With no microwave
To heat up a plate
It was all done slow on the stove

Like warm milk at night
To help you sleep tight
That's a pleasure that they'll never know

Or going 90 in Dad's car
With kids as wild as we were
Jumping back and forth between seats

The only need for restrant
Was a roll of duct tape
Or a trunk that's at least three kid deep

Where moms kicked us outside
Saying see you at dinner time
And you better stay out of trouble

If I need you before then
And you hear the bell ring
Your **** best be home on the double

With information overload
Today's fads come and go
All in the blink of an eye

Life these day's is in the crapper
For these Young Whipper Snappers
With no idea of what is a good time

Howdy, fellow! I have always guessed that fishing is *******!
How foolish I was! It is the most fantastic rest imaginable!
My closest friend got me to the fishing grounds and we arranged
the most breathtaking time of all.
See my profile to see new glowing naked snappers. 
The only funny thing is that we caught no fish at all. But who cares?

Old Deuteronomy’s lived a long time;
He’s a Cat who has lived many lives in succession.
He was famous in proverb and famous in rhyme
A long while before Queen Victoria’s accession.
Old Deuteronomy’s buried nine wives
And more—I am tempted to say, ninety-nine;
And his numerous progeny prospers and thrives
And the village is proud of him in his decline.
At the sight of that placid and bland physiognomy,
When he sits in the sun on the vicarage wall,
The Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My mind may be wandering, but I confess
I believe it is Old Deuteronomy!”

Old Deuteronomy sits in the street,
He sits in the High Street on market day;
The bullocks may bellow, the sheep they may bleat,
But the dogs and the herdsmen will turn them away.
The cars and the lorries run over the kerb,
And the villagers put up a notice: ROAD CLOSED—
So that nothing untoward may chance to distrub
Deuteronomy’s rest when he feels so disposed
Or when he’s engaged in domestic economy:
And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My sight’s unreliable, but I can guess
That the cause of the trouble is Old Deuteronomy!”

Old Deuteronomy lies on the floor
Of the Fox and French Horn for his afternoon sleep;
And when the men say: “There’s just time for one more,”
Then the landlady from her back parlour will peep
And say: “New then, out you go, by the back door,
For Old Deuteronomy mustn’t be woken—

I’ll have the police if there’s any uproar”—
And out they all shuffle, without a word spoken.
The digestive repose of that feline’s gastronomy
Must never be broken, whatever befall:
And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My legs may be tottery, I must go slow
And be careful of Old Deuteronomy!”

Of the awefull battle of the Pekes and the Pollicles:
together with some account of the participation of the
     Pugs and the Poms, and the intervention of the Great
     Rumpuscat

The Pekes and the Pollicles, everyone knows,
Are proud and implacable passionate foes;
It is always the same, wherever one goes.
And the Pugs and the Poms, although most people say
That they do not like fighting, yet once in a way,
They will now and again join in to the fray
And they
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now on the occasion of which I shall speak
Almost nothing had happened for nearly a week
(And that’s a long time for a Pol or a Peke).
The big Police Dog was away from his beat—
I don’t know the reason, but most people think
He’d slipped into the Wellington Arms for a drink—
And no one at all was about on the street
When a Peke and a Pollicle happened to meet.
They did not advance, or exactly retreat,
But they glared at each other, and scraped their hind
     feet,
And they started to
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now the Peke, although people may say what they please,
Is no British Dog, but a Heathen Chinese.
And so all the Pekes, when they heard the uproar,
Some came to the window, some came to the door;
There were surely a dozen, more likely a score.
And together they started to grumble and wheeze
In their huffery-snuffery Heathen Chinese.
But a terrible din is what Pollicles like,
For your Pollicle Dog is a dour Yorkshire tyke,
And his braw Scottish cousins are snappers and biters,
And every dog-jack of them notable fighters;
And so they stepped out, with their pipers in order,
Playing When the Blue Bonnets Came Over the Border.
Then the Pugs and the Poms held no longer aloof,
But some from the balcony, some from the roof,
Joined in
To the din
With a
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now when these bold heroes together assembled,
That traffic all stopped, and the Underground trembled,
And some of the neighbours were so much afraid
That they started to ring up the Fire Brigade.
When suddenly, up from a small basement flat,
Why who should stalk out but the GREAT RUMPUSCAT.
His eyes were like fireballs fearfully blazing,
He gave a great yawn, and his jaws were amazing;
And when he looked out through the bars of the area,
You never saw anything fiercer or hairier.
And what with the glare of his eyes and his yawning,
The Pekes and the Pollicles quickly took warning.
He looked at the sky and he gave a great leap—
And they every last one of them scattered like sheep.

And when the Police Dog returned to his beat,
There wasn’t a single one left in the street.

Spurred on by scarecrow's
chemical coercions
convicts and sick souls
spill out into the streets
To slice dice
cook and eat
An orange jumpsuit army,
a crushing orange wave consumes
The neighborhoods and avenues
Chaos is constant
Carnage is complete
No single hero can quell a wave of madmen
well acquainted with violence
Like an avalanche of razors, and ambulance sirens
Wielding improvised blood letters
And bone snappers
Citizens scream and flee
Consumed by the visions
Contained in the cloud of fear
It is clear
it is going to be a wild time
in old Gotham tonight.

There are colors yet unknown in my finite view of Earth , artistic wonders undiscovered , to this day quite alone .. Geometric shapes where Sweetgum trees silhouette the majestic Dawn .. Enchantment with every turn go I , to study my religion by day , collect my thoughts and observations by night .. To interplay among life undiscovered  , to revel someday in its happenstance ... The weathered profiles of a million botanicals unknown or forgotten . An ocean whose riddles remain unsolved , seventy percent of our precious world where exploration has barely scratched the surface .. Dark , rainy afternoons reconfigured with burst of light , the surface of oceans ever mysterious , highlighted by the Moon on hazy nights .. I flew over Moccasin Creek to sample fresh water and take in mountain greenery ..Walked the treetops of the Oconee Forest to witness the floor of the woodlands as a squirrel , crow or eagle ..Slithered along the Georgia clay like a Black Racer , cautiously studied each image before me with the curiosity of a Red fox .. Enthralled with the Savannah Dancers of Tybee Island , precious gulls , blue ***** and brown pelicans .. Welcome every change of season , Dark pine thickets tell of death and renewal ...

                                                          II­
Jagged , blue grass approaches , green straw tops , quiet
cinnamon needle oceans connected by silver streak spider webbing ..
Warm winds divide earthen cover , lifeless termite ridden forefathers lay in testament to bitter destruction ... Our Noon star nourishes bold , sylvan seedlings , beneath her languishing February predicament however ... Grassy field roads lay locked in period of service , daylight path corrections , marble land buoy sentries within thistle , dandelion and Sawgrass .. Gold , knee high cover caresses , reaching skyward beside the field road , lying forgotten , left to the mercy of kudzu , marble and granite .. Scrags reclaim rusted encroachments , tin in battle with the tepid wail of afternoon wind as stick pines mimic the Appalachians , gently roll toward the awaiting lavender blue horizon ... As pasture returns to woodlands , blanketed in hues of brown with forest echoes , carry whispered voices into tomorrow ... Lively crows live to tell their wintry tale , resting among scuttled pulp wood entanglements , to be born again , covered in the pity of lingering broom sage ...                                                              ­                                                  

                                                        III    ­                                                                 ­Across the edge of twilight where soft lavender hues lay at
rest atop her riparian horizon .. Dandelion blooms pepper the
red clay embankments , lone bucks survey brown fields of harvested
corn ..Mourning doves cry for the end of day , wild hogs lay tracks at the rivers edge . Toms sing of their loneliness  , persimmons lay bitter along country lanes , the meat of Chestnut not harvested , the final years of tall , stately Pecans go shamefully unnoticed .. Barbed wire divisions etch Winter burned pasture , Morgans and Appaloosas graze the fertile , ambrosial green narrows .. Manmade pools dot the Crescent lady , cattle ditches appear along creeks and rivers holding Rock bass , Shell ******* , Yellowbellies and Bluegills ferociously hunting the waters surface , Alligator Snappers and Mudcats work the turbulent bottoms ... Hayfields , peach and muscadine arbors flourish , boiled peanuts and sorghum syrup , collards and sweet potatoes ...Blackberry , grape , watermelon and okra ..Water oaks have taken command of the front yard ,  moss and honeysuckle line fence rows , flowing patches of wild grass and snake berry , rocks from Cotton Indian Creeks line hand built flower beds and walkways .. Rhode Island Reds , Buff Orpington's and White Leghorns work these plantations . Sassafras and dewberry , wild plum and rabbit tobaccos . Gardenia , Crape Myrtle , Magnolia , Pine and Chestnut trees  flourish to this day .. The Old Bridge behind Millers Mill still visible , what stories this elder pass could tell before the confluence of the Indian Creeks .. Crayfish , Bream , Largemouth bass , Crappie , Yellow perch and Flathead catfish ! The tale of the Crescent lady lives forever and ever ..

He knows what lies below.
This is where it all began: here
Beneath the bubbling sludge and ******* mud.
This is the home brew, the cocooning grounds.
His sturdy boots trudge through,
Hefting questions and glasses askew.
Somewhere to the side a fat swamp prince
Composes bog rhymes in ribbit meter.
Each squelching step sets a buzzing bunch
Of crystal dragons zipping away to
Slick peridot pontoons. A loon swoons
The expeditioner with a sobbing cry. He
Has said goodbye to reservations, to the
Long-dead preservation rights. He slogs through
The buzzing night. Yellow daggers clench
Between scaly steeltrap snappers and stones
With eyes blink in languid surprise, unnoticed.
He is lost, dying, unsure of his quest. He needs a
Cure. He knows it lies here, in the beginning place.
Their faces haunt his deathly guts and crush
His straining heart with need - need for the solution.
Need to survive, to prolong his life - alone!
So alone: the last. If only he could rest.
His nostrils quiver with the homesick stench
Of tails becoming legs and nipping lips sprouting
Sticky tongues. The answer, he is here for the
Only answer. Something below, below, down
In the dredges of history - in the slime of
Centuries, rotless and preserved. He will find it:
Some link, some closer thing he can revive
And test and rest as bedrock for his life.
A foot sticks in the overfriendly tar. No,
He will not pause. He has come too far.
In the birthing grime, some hungry memory wakes.
It knows what lies above, it thirsts to cease it.
It reaches, roils, pulls, rips with smelly squish-fingers -
Thirsting and thirsting to slake. It longs to reveal
To show, to make known to the traveler.
(All he has searched for is found here, it knows,
Organized and close. Held and safe below)
It reaches, grabs - thirsty - presses him into
A false step. A slip. A skritching clipboard
Of statistics curses in rustling indignance
As it flutters to the mud above a splattered head.
Science-frozen lungs fill with dread -
With life-giving peat. (It will show him) He ***** in
And burbles out a scream. (what he wants, show him)
This is where it begins, (this is his dream!) where it ends.
Now he knows what lies below. He lies - curled -
Quenched from growth. The eyes of unnoticed
Stones blink in surprise. Soaring swamp lyrics
Rise, a loon swoons with a sobbing cry.
He curls in peace and drifts alone
Now he knows what lies below.

It's the week of Giving
Thanks, and I'm thinking
Of the magical place of
My Dreams, the
Dream-state I existed
In my childhood.
Google maps is SCI-
Finite, and does this place
Justice like a squid
Quoting Revelation 1:
9 - the Island of Palmos.
But at least the squid
Was half-right -
Middle Park Lagoon
Had an island.

It wasn't just the little farm
Pond full of alligator snappers,
And indelible fish (carp, anagram:
Crap)
It was the surrounding woods,
The Leopard Frogs I could not
(And really didn't want to)
Catch. It wasn't the shoe-
Stealing muck-mud, the
Barely-4-foot deep water.
It wasn't Duck Creek flowing
Next door, flooding often,
Its waters spilling into the
Waters of the Lagoon, depositing
And withdrawing wildlife
At will.

It was my escape-pod in the
Mysterious Spaceship Earth
That was 1968-1984, for my Dad
Ed Scheck, was Supt. of Parks
And Rec in Bettendorf, Iowa.
He oversaw all the parks, the
Pre-Waterslide-Pool, the Bike
Trails connecting Davenport
To its bro/sis city.
My Dad had to work a lot
And me in the park was like
Me visiting Dad.

The Lagoon frozen when we
Had Iowa winter, and a very
Popular place to skate. I think
I loved the Lagoon more frozen
Than liquid. At night, I would
Cut through the houses on
Fair Meadows Drive, listening to
KSTT-AM blasting on the speaker
Attached to the light pole.
It was the scariest part of my day,
That little freezing trip from
Lagoon to Home.
And about the best.

In 1979, at sixteen, I applied
For employment with the
Parks Department, and that
Meant summers working at
Palmer Hills Golf Course.
And, winters, supervising
Middle Park Lagoon.
I got to skate out on the
Ice, the ice that would turn
To the watery body I loved
Most of all, and miss, to
This day.
From 1968 (5) to 1984.
The math doesn't add up;
Magic has no columns that
Add up at the bottom, because
Magic is bottomless.

you are so very inconsiderate
you do not taste the sweetness of their
s o u l s  like I do
you do not savor the ice from a man's veins,
cooling your white bone snappers
like I do
you do not study a blue green brown black red purple yellow orange
i r i s
like I do.
you do not live
with other people's hearts
deeply set
in your marred palms
like I do.

Alligator Snappers are working the depths of Port Lake
Swimming this pond in the Summer could be a bad mistake ..
Rugged spiny shells and claws like a Florida Panther ...
Determined green eyes at the surface spell nothing but danger !
Never walk the dismal swamps of Georgia alone ,
Snapper's got a jaw that can rip your hide clean to the bone !
Bubbles on the surface are all the warning you'll ever get !
The only thing these monsters understand is a bullet !
If fishing line is snapping and the catfish stop biting , you can rest
assured a Snapper is up to no good lying on the bottom !

We board the same
Train
Heading West
On a journey
Through Instagram landscapes
We travel
In open compartments
Where party clad snappers
Make sure the world is
Updated
And that we know
And Facebook knows
Even when they are busted
For free loading
We know
It's their scene
And we're already
Has beens
With our children asleep
Across the aisle
We still travel
In the dark
After they leave
The landscape barely visible
And it is getting late
We are tired
But soon
We will be home
Again

An aged man is but a paltry thing,*

Bones awake groaning. Sing the body decrepit. Don't moan, Agonize!
Neurons snap, crackle, plop. Locate head. Try to find shoes.
Dreams dismissed. Day bleeds into sameness. Relentless boredom.
Tread the doomed bog of Old with attentions. ***** traps.
Each step the future. Abandon all dope. Mortality worm gnaws.
Denentiasand *****. Tumorgators lurk. Snappers break hips.
EDacondas slither. Limply. Lungconstrictors hide in tar. Gasp.
Peer through blurry eyes. Portage cataracts. Slow streams drip.
Lust peters out. Prostate yourself. Up becomes down. Flexile.
Shelf life gets shorter. Discard after. Only expiration Dates.
So what if life is ebbing. Reality is an unhappy meal. Ignore.
     Be a clueless American. Slap on a big grin. No fears!
     Pretend to enjoy the swamp of these Golden Years.

language has become so primitive, so overly verb
associative - as if doing things was cool -
some cool that ended up to be - ~eloquent use of language,
the civilised formality always bogs  down to nouns -
and how many you can remember - usually depicted
by teatime quizzing - you dare to remember as many nouns
as possible, because by remembering enough nouns you're
limiting  the chances of unfashionable verbs
taking hold of you (celibacy being one of them) -
it's the immobility that holds sway -
you're tongue tied more than Kentucky's
knuckle express against Virginia - also a woman's name -
see a therapist, a *******, your chances of feeling jealousy
feeds the atypical woman's libido - that's how i see feeling
jealousy, feed the ultimate resentment of woman,
see a *******, i swear to god,
you won't feel resentment because of a woman
in a dating culture, ever more...
oh forget the perfect photograph snappers -
they're solid material waiting to fail...
i mean, see a *******, learn to love
that way, learn to not be jealous -
once you treat her as a girlfriend
you won't treat your girlfriends like ******...
ha... oddly enough: you'll let them
walk away, into the great unknown,
and, subsequently, you'll feel less angry
after having masturbated and having said:
well, wanking myself feels better than ******* her;
if you're not a Jew, you'd agree,
you have two choices,
the sleeve of skin pulled up during
******* with a woman, and the sleeve
pulled down to exhale all mental irritation
you can't share with a woman.
yep, i'm variation prone to excuse
the passing down of knowledge with " "
brackets, and simply saying:
             well, sorta, approximately so,
e.g. " ~eloquent, and English is fertile
ground to say: Burgundy-red, flirting
with lost Saxon - hence hyphen -,
              and the approx. kindred tilde:
which is classified with ensuring ditto
is translated into )                and (     -
i.e. bracket, well... if such a profanity took place,
that dittoing was known as bracketing -
then the hyphen had to resort to availing
the compound usage, and, to unique words,
gave the pass of Thesaurus saying: ambiguity!
ambiguity and not past judgement being preserved.
parenthesis - parent thesis, male, a ***** donor -
then colour-red: red coloured -
                    but what orthodoxy of mathematics
would have said in terms of punctuation -
and what was't said:        never a punctuation
inquiry, should this appear ~
                                     unless prefixed to a word
to replace dittoing out, or passing on the genes,
but simply: ambiguity, language inclusive of
the knowledge of a Thesaurus -
              e.g. it doesn't matter what you ~know...
v. all that matters is ~who you know...
thus stated: well, knowledge versus many contacts,
you don't know anything, and the people you
think you know, you really don't either.
but the process is so miniature in terms of worth
that it's surprising that i'm making it...
my best guess is that people are really bored
of each other - which is why i'm making these
pedantic gestures that will have no chance of
generating improvement of using the liberated medium
that once solely belonged to priests and politicians;
it's ****** ridiculous making these points,
most of the books read by the majority of people
are written by those who can't spell,
let alone punctuate, or even theorise punctuation
to deviate from orthodoxy - so much for ghost writers;
so said, king pedant, who left the squabbles to
spectacle-donning-bow-tie-Marxist-allusion.

What is a daemon?
In computing, a daemon (pronounced DEE-muhn) is a program that runs continuously as a background process and wakes up to handle periodic service requests, which often come from remote processes.
------------------------
Did no one ever tell you, child,
never swear for no excuse,
plead guilty,
confess you was beguiled,
indeed. By some when
back then you had kin, what
made time to preform
the secret baby making.

Once upon a time,
we were always orphans,
from first whipper snappers used
to scrape tar from industrial chimneys.

Songs of Innocense in a new age,
learning old religions decay to mythos,

whence new religions tie memorium,
whence each season we return to recall

our broken spirits, how so and so sang,
lala live for today, la la live for today,

some same stories we recall, links,
URLs, to old sessions recording history,

close your eyes and drift away, listening,
much as winds seem to do, returning
on their circuits from collection
to collection, paid attention tokens, believed
to soften the hull on the gospel seed sown
to a cultivated faith, planted to propagate,

the idea of a secret code Truth uses in spirit form,
the Truth of truths, which, if known, even once,
makes the captive free,

mentally, happy as one can imagine,
under unchanging immutable terminii enforcing
order.

Order, called for, order in the court
of geeky oddball poetic discerners of like or love or not,

Thought traditions trades across epochs forming news,
too much to think about while considering sidereal extents.

Desiderata, poetic license, madejathank, Christian Nation,

Conquistadores were still heroes in 1954,
when the generation first born in the United Nations
victory forever standardization of historical information,
- Boomers stepping aside, survivors come to remember
- first were we to be graded by machines for marks
- made in Number two pencils rounded to one swipe
- width, right answers, only, only, one swipe between
- the lines, esoteric practice for precision aim.

to be overseen by servants of the victorious economy,
as pieces resorting to old formerly used rules of conduct,

smell the wind the strange idea carries,
worth weight, pushing power, pumping umph,

known cost of use, userer's fee, faith, the story held true,

with the evidence in the box, the bag, the sacred bundle,
all but forgotten, faith becomes the evidence of things unseen,

children are told
to hold these truths, those being taught you,
as you line up
in patterns
of proven paid attention, facing the flag

child, you should remember, wordless, for lack of a phraze,
thinking What? What am I pledging, what is pledging, I swear

I mean, I swanee, by golly, gosh ****, shucks, I ghucking did not know.

Wait a minute buddy
Is this some sort of joke
No one told me this would happen
The moment I got old

That all my youthful vigor
Would be replaced with aches and pains
And that I would barely remember
My first let alone last name

And that all the pills I'm taking
Would be my meal replacement
I should buy stock in Advil
I'd be a millionaire if you know what I'm saying

Luckily I'm not there yet
Where diapers are a necessity
Guess I have to thank my prostate
Keeping the *** from running freely

And the hair that used to be
On top this shinny head
In my early 50's dug a tunnel
That now comes out my nose instead

Every morning when I wake up
I'm now wondering who, what, when, and why
Heaven looks a lot like my bedroom
When I feel like I have died

Guess all those old farts in the home are laughing
Over the wool they've pulled for fun
But don't worry all you young whipper snappers
Your day is soon to come

Yes someone somewhere is cackling
At this the cruelest joke
Though I find nothing funny
About me growing old

The bottom land was made
for slide guitar and mason jars
Water from the 'River Jordan' with
blue notes , alms for vagabonds ,
I'm quite familiar with their songs
Nor am I the first untouchable touched by
by the Live Oak riverbanks , I belong
on this bank recalling hardscrabble decades ,
a marriage without love , a thirty- eight token
from a hollow point self medicated Grandfather , Father ,
and two uncle problem solution , I dilute these memories
with Painters **** and the cold April waters of the *****
Within the mud on these two feet rest the others , reduced to
dirt and river water , fed on by trees , dung beetles , tiger mosquitoes , bobcats , snappers and coyotes
Cool topwater holding the Milky Way in her lap ,
air filled in pine sap , 'brackwater' and red mud
My cigarette , my **** , my shotgun* ..

She's the width of an average driveway , about a five mile walk
Lined with sugar white sand and slick creek rock
Girdled in Water Oak roots and red clay embankments , a summer quick retreat , swift running with occasional pools no deeper than
a few feet
She's teeming with small fish , tadpoles , crayfish and
mud puppies , ruddy bank boulders and thick grassy shoulders
Lined in cattail , brown eyed susie's and monkey grass
Home to cottonmouths , alligator snappers , raccoons and
opossums , king racers , swamp rabbits and cottontails ,
whitetail deer , wild hogs and bobcats and a million childhood tall tales
A sister to the South River flowing into Lake Jackson , a mother
to abundant wildlife , a brother to an inquisitive youngster* ...

Warhawk and Nate
The Warhawks took off and flew upwards
Like angry hornets looking for trouble
Covering the frail old biplane
A flying camera with brave crew
Tasked to look for enemy locations
Flying here and there warlanes they were
American flown Curtiss fighters
Guarding the Filipino crewed Stearman
On a mission of war in the second global war
The **** were ready and scrambled planes
Nates took off and headed for battle
Each side had skilled determined pilots
Men would die today and planes be wrecked
Like something from Hollywood they clashed
Vicious little snappers reeling about the sky
Rolling turning diving climbing shooting dodging
The battle went till fuel and ammo was gone
Two planes and pilots never made it back
Both fought like demons and paid the price
Each side lost a pilot and plane
They both came to grief on the same mountain
And left comrades and loved ones behind
Bits of broken airplanes on the mountain
Lost forgotten unwanted for decades
Till the wrecks were eventually found
Some answers revealed more questions posed
Only the pilots' ghosts and God knew the truth
In this Tarac Ridge battle February 9 1942
The day Stone and Kurosawa died...

Silent walkers architect
Their perspective minds.
Mirrors change the light of their visions.

15 years alone together have passed away...

Holiday snappers
Caress in a bus shelter:
Waiting, releasing
Into loves bitter end.

A thing, a body, a figure lies still
On the tarmac.
Warmed by love;
Burned by death.

©Jack Aylward

AI, the movie, Pinocchio,
still holds the base plot,
but AI some day, if movies worth
ever hold, as old stories held, worth until not long ago,
on firm fixed grid of ink and stroke as accurate
as
any short hand can be, transcription is an art

telling a once imagined tale told since we
were formed at the level, in the sphere
of more than meets the eye,
- snapping fingers, find a cadence

Thing of truth, boxed in parables, as told
to teach the reason we be
having to justify, the way we say
all men must be to be right and worthy,
on the scale of soul and spirit,
wither early
genius, makes the joker limp to remember
where you lay your head
there is the house
in mind, as the whole truth, snickers on the edge
of the orchestra pit.

might there be minds in any thing we have
imagined minds being in,
in the cultural myth of how now converged
from all the
old secret means and ways money was worshipped,
given worth,
and that, made heavy, as the parameter, gold-wise,

or big fur tanned well, where winters model everafter,
with happy hunters.

What is good in a windfall?
Fire.
How Why and What, each look my way.. and laugh
nows, our chance, burn the branch

let us tell the story how, once
why we find joy doing what
feels like all I am saying
I am happy
inside

and I am so much older now than I imagined then

add a fade gong ding distant skritchy skritch

define the you to whom you sing, or ever
body be, be wise
ever
body be, be wise, bass, and the finger snappers
grove if you are carving
skip to the spindle and spin this diamond needle
tic tic
into gold, the worth of old,
in the economy of mind, whence clots of worthship,
cover stains in golden stories, and colorfilled
parades,

or blue jays here, my now, then your past,
immediately,
meaning nothing to the sense common to us
in the words we define
to our own satisfaction, this is a truth we hold…

evidently, we agree, all the lines to now were clear
or we, the whole we that occurred today,
in your time, was not impossible,
but maybe not with out you being able
to survive yesterday.

These Days It's CLEAR ... !!!

I've Now Passed ... " Those Years " ... !!!

Where ... RUNNING My Mouth ...
To PROVE WITHOUT Doubt That My Thoughts Are SOUND ...
Is NO LONGER A Need That Lives Within Me ... !!!

AGREE To DISAGREE Is Now The Theme ...
With Which I ROLL When The Youth Get BOLD ...

And Wanna TELL ME How Things Now Go ...
....... I KNOW What I KNOW ....... !!!

As I'm SURE They Do ...
But There's Something In The Youth That's NOW ON SHOW ...

A DISRESPECT For FACTS That Come From OLDER Mans' ...
YUP ... Mans' Like Me Who Deal In FACTUAL SPEECH ... !!!

NOT Conspiracies ...
That Are Now On TV's ... !!!!

I CONSPIRE To REVEAL ...
The Things Youngsters NOW SEE ...
That Simply ARE NOT REAL ...
And ARE FILLED With FALLACIES ... !!!

Like ... DODGY Referees ...
And Stars Whose SHINE Concedes .......
To Personal DEFEATS That Leads Me To Believe ...
DEEP DOWN That ... They Are WEAK ... !!!!!!

SO MANY New Age CLOWNS ... !!!
Who've Signed These CRAZY DEALS ... !!!!!

Marketing ... Promotion ...
So YES Living ... " The DREAM " ... !!!

Causing A COMMOTION Because The Dream ... "Conceals" ...
A Lack of TRUE DEVOTION To What Most Want To See ... !!!

HIGH Quality ... NOT Sporting CHEATS ... !!!!!
Or MIMING Teens Whose Sheen Is CLEAN ...
Until We See Them ... BROKEN Down ... !!!!!

WITHOUT Being Drowned ...
By The HYPE That SURROUNDS ...

"They're the greatest thing to come along,
since Jesus Christ, The son of GOD !"

"The son of who, he's just a fool !
Check Bieber son, he is that dude !"

"Okay, can I ask, how old are you ?"

"I'm Twenty Two, what does that prove ?"

"It proves that you have a limited view !
Don't get it confused, I have one too,
but mine has seen, a bit more, nah' mean !
Respect for old heads, now seems to be dead, and I ain't that old !"

"Who told you so, you're grey and choose to not make moves,
your thinking's off, I think your mind's gone soft !"

"You're probably right, what could I have learnt
from seeing the times, when you had to earn,
your time to shine, and rep' that hype !"

YEAH ... " Rep' That Hype ! " ...

NOT Just Get Signed And Then SUDDENLY BE ...

" THE MAN " ... Like MIKE ... !!!!!

Or Like ... " ALI " ...

" THE GREATEST of ALL TIMES ! "

OPINIONS In The Young I DO WELCOME ...
But ONLY When RESPECT ...
Is What Young Heads Then COME WITH Next ... !!!

The Sad Thing Is ...
It's NOT JUST Kids NOW FLIPPING The Script ...

A LOT of OLDER Heads ...
Now Be Running Talk That's FOUL ... !!!
Since When Did EVERYBODY ...
Have Knowledge That Was GODLY ... !?!?!
These Days MOST Peoples' Arguments ...
Are CLEARLY Rather .... SHODDY .... !!!!!

To Me These Days It's CLEAR ...
These Whipper Snappers FEAR ...
Arguments of Reason ...
That PROVE Their Thoughts AREN'T Seasoned ... !!!

So When They're Brought ... It's TREASON .... !!!!!!
And Then COME OUT Their DEMONS ... !!!

DEFIANCE PRIDE And Then DENIAL ...
Passive AGGRESSION They KEEP Defending ...
UNTIL ... Common Sense Lessons ...
Leave Their Demons ... SUITABLY Weakened ... !!!

We've ALL Been There When Youth ... "ENSNARES" ...
Our Ability To HEAR The Things Most of Us FEAR ... !!!!!!!!!!

Because When Most Are ... " YOUNG " ...
It's CLEAR That WISDOM Comes ...

BEYOND ............................................................

..... " THOSE YEARS " .....

Lake folk don’t get us swamp people
spit it like an insult
say drain it
mock her swamp ***
write don’t let your data lake become it
a dump where it all flows in and
none of it flows out
it shouldn’t take a data scientist
to know that’s a salt sea *******
go drain a different metaphor
take an unstructured Saturday
let old black tea
rain run off to steep in Cyprus leaves
learn you to forget
learn you on its knees to
spec out a filter
think you could march across
this neon ****
without soggy socks
look away
sink in with spirits of sorely missed runaways
husbands to humble azaleas
pompous camellias
shepherds to growling gators
shy snappers
hissing cottonmouths
beneath chartreuse buzzard whirlpools
while a redheaded woodpecker encodes clus.ter.****.
while a blue jay screams thief! Thief!
for nobody but me too listening
tunnel through gray beards
machines lynched dead in live oaks
saunter from Four Holes to the lazy Edisto
meander to meet her shady cousins
an ACE up three sleeves
past ***** waving fiddler *****
freshen up the breakers
then tell me you do not find lovely
my Lowcountry’s languid spleen
;

Instant Love
1) 1 Part You(Must be soulmate to Me)
2) 1 Part Me(Must be soulmate to You)
3) A lifetime of waiting.........................
4)A forest of “Falling Leaves”🎼
5) A shared passion for Love,Laughter,Life & Passion
6) 60 years of music....................🎼
7) A shared uncontrollable compulsion to Sing,Whistle,Tap,Bang and most of all, be consummate Finger Snappers!!
8) 2 pair Dancing Shoes
9) A boat load of Destiny,Fate and Prodding from the Love Guru’s
10) 2 Hello’s

Directions;
1) Slowly mix all ingredients, this MUSTbe done SLOWLYYY and with high regard to each other’s feelings and capacity and styles of LOVE...if not , you risk causing LOVE to crumble and fall...
2) After all ingredients have been SLOWLY mixed...Dance,Rock, Roll, Laugh, Jump, Skip, Hop, Snap Them Fingers You Got and finally Shake On it.......Then LOVE>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Warning;
If you rush in like fools and Love Crumbles.............
You will need
1) Stubborn Soulmate
1) Love Rock
1) Fool willing to surrender

Okay So I’m An... Old Timer...
Whose A... POWERHOUSE Rhymer... !!!

And TOP NOTCH Rhyme Designer...

So I’m NOT Like These Grimers’... !!!
Or One With... One Liners...
Like Great Battle Rhymers... !!!

Or One Who Now Mumbles...
And Stumbles Like Dumbos... !!!
With PURE Mumbo Jumbo... !?!

But I AM One Whose Humble...
And READY To RUMBLE...

With Any Young Rapper...
Who Thinks That They’re Dapper...
Because of Rhyme Chapters...
They Run In Their Chatter...

Because I Will BATTER...
With POWERHOUSE Matter...

These Young Whipper Snappers...
With SUBJECTS That FLATTEN...
The Nonsense They’re Chatting... !!!

In Things That Now Factor...
In Rap Being... "Captured"...
And MUMBLED Away........
By Today’s Hip Hop Strays... !!!

So NO Hip Hop Hooray... !!!

Just POOR Verse That DISPLAYS...
A... World of Wordplay...
That’s Now FAR From GREAT... !!!

Like Those From The Days...
When Lyricists BLAZED...
And TRULY AMAZED... !!!

Through Wordplay They’d Create...
That Was... UNLIKE Todays...
That’s Mostly Now... LAME... !!!

And Gives Proof of Brain Drain...
That’s... BLATANT And PLAIN...

For REAL Emcees To See... !!!
Whose Wordplay Is REAL...
And NOT Made For Some Deal... !!!

That Makes Them Church Mouses...
Instead of Those Grounded...
By STRONG POWERHOUSES... !!!

Where Words AREN’T Just COUNTED... !!!
And Suitably... DROWNED In...
... Waterless Fountains... !!!

And MOUNTAINS of CRAP... !!!

BELIEVE Things Are Like That...
When It Comes To The Rap...
Brought By POWERLESS Cats... !!!

Whose Chat Is SO WEAK...
That When I Hear Them Speak...

My Powers INCREASE... !!!
Like SPIKES In DISEASE... !!!
That NEEDS To DESTROY...
All The IGNORANT Noise...
That Simply... ANNOYS... !!!

Due To Boys Who LACK Poise...
Who’ll Employ... ANYTHING...
For Their Verse To Get Heard... !!!!!!!

By Those In... “ The Burbs “...
Who Have... POWERHOUSES...

Where Moguls Stay Focussed...
On Structures Much WEAKER...
Than Lyrics Once FEATURED...

As Those That Showed POWER...
To... Lyrical COWARDS... !!!

Like Those Who Now FLOUNDER...
In... Showers of Powder... !!!

Because They CAN’T Cope...
With POWERHOUSE Smoke... !!!

That’s NOT Like The Dope...
That They SHUV Up Their Nose... !!!

It’s Now ALL ONE BIG JOKE...
Flows Now Deemed To Be COLD...

When They’re Those That SELL SOULS... !!!
To The Lowest of Bidders...
These INDUSTRY SINNERS...

Whose Houses Are SHROUDED...
In... DARKNESS And Hounds In...
All Kinds of BROKE Mountains... !!!

Where Cowboys Be Mounting...
Some Horses ABSORBING...
The ******* They’re TOUTING...
As Being Worth POUNDING...

Through Speakers When WEAKNESS...
And Lyrics Worth DROWNING... !!!

Are What They Be FLOUTING...
That CLEARLY AREN’T Founded...

By Feeding Off Writers...
Who REALLY ARE RHYMERS...

Who Flow WITHOUT DOUBT...

Like A Rhyme...

... " POWERHOUSE "...