Chapter Two

“I think of art, at its most significant, as a DEW line, a Distant Early Warning System that can always be relied on to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.”                Marshall McLuhan  
  
I attended Bucknell University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania because my father was incarcerated at the prison located in the same town.  My tuition subsidized to a large extent by G.I. Bill, still a significant means of financing an education for generations of emotionally wasted war veterans. “The United States Penitentiary (USP Lewisburg)” is a high-security federal prison for male inmates. An adjacent satellite prison camp houses minimum-security male offenders. My father was strictly high-security, convicted of various crimes against humanity, unindicted for sundry others. My father liked having me close by, someone on the outside he trusted, who also happened to be on his approved Visitor List. As instructed, I became his conduit for substances both illicit, like drugs, and the purely contraband, a variety of Italian cheeses, salamis, prepared baked casseroles of eggplant parmesan, cannoli, Baci chocolate from Perugia, in Tuscany, south of Florence, and numerous bottles of Italian wine, pungent aperitifs, Grappa, digestive stimulants and sweet liquors. I remained the good son until the day he died, the source of most of the mess I got myself into later on, and specifically the main caper at the heart of this story.

I must confess: my father scared the **** out of me.  Particularly during those years when he was not in jail, those years he spent at home, years coinciding roughly with my early adolescence.  These were my molding clay years, what the amateur psychologists write off with the term: “impressionable years hypothesis.” In his own twisted, grease-ball theory of child rearing, my father may have been applying the “guinea padrone hypothesis,” in his mind, nothing more certain would toughen me up for whatever he and/or Life had planned for me. Actually, his aspirations for me-given my peculiar pedigree--were non-existent as far as the family business went. He knew I’d never be either a Don or a Capo di Tutti Capi, or an Underboss or Sotto Capo.)  A Caporegime—mid-management to be sure, with as many as ten crews of soldiers reporting to him-- was also, for me, out of the question. Dad was a soldier in and of the Lucchese Family, strictly a blue-collar, knock-around kind of guy. But even soldier status—which would have meant no rise in Mafioso caste for him—was completely out of the question, never going to happen for me.

A little background: the Lucchese Family originated in the early 1920s with Gaetano “Tommy” Reina, born in 1889 in Corleone, Sicily. You know the town and its environs well. Fran Coppola did an above average job cinematizing the place in his Godfather films.  Coppola: I am a strict critic when it comes to my goombah, would-be French New Wave auteur Francis Ford Coppola.  Ever since “One From the Heart, 1982”--one of the biggest Hollywood box office flops & financial disasters of all time--he’s been a bit thin-skinned when it comes to criticism.  So, I like to zing him when I can. Actually, “One From the Heart” is worth seeing again, not just for Tom Waits soundtrack--the film’s one Academy Award nomination—but also Natasha Kinski’s ***: always Oscar-worthy in my book. My book? Interesting expression, and factually correct for once, given what you are reading right now.

Tommy Reina was the first Lucchese Capo di Tutti Capi, the first Boss of All the Bosses. By the 1930s the Luccheses pretty much controlled all criminal activity in the Bronx and East Harlem. And Reina begat Pinzolo who begat Gagliano who begat Tommy Three Finger Brown Lucchese (who I once believed, moonlighted as a knuckle ball relief pitcher for Yankees.)
Three Finger Brown gave the Lucchese Family its name. And Tommy begat Carmine Tramunti, who begat Anthony Tony Ducks Corallo. From there the succession gets a bit crazy. Tony Ducks, convicted of Rico charges, goes to prison, sentenced to life.  From behind bars he presides through a pair of candidates most deserving the title of boss: enter Vittorio Little Vic Amuso and Anthony Gaspipe Casso.  Although Little Vic becomes Boss after being nominated by Casso, it is Gaspipe really calling the shots, at least until he joins Little Vic behind bars.
Amuso-Casso begat Louis Louie Bagels Daidone, who begat the current official boss, Stephen Wonderboy Crea.  According to legend, Boss Crea got his nickname from Bernard Malamud’s The Natural, a certain part of his prodigious anatomy resembling the baseball bat hand-carved by Roy Hobbs. To me this sounds a bit too literary, given the family’s SRI Lexile/Reading Performance Scores, but who am I to mock my peoples’ lack of liberal arts education?

Begat begat Begato. (I goof on you, kind reader. Always liked the name Begato in the context of Bible-flavored genealogy. Mille grazie, King James.)

Lewisburg Penitentiary has many distinguished alumni: Whitey Bulger (1963-1965), Jimmy Hoffa (1967-1971) and John Gotti (1969-1972), for example.  And fictionally, you can add Paulie Cicero played by Paul Scorvino in Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas, not to be confused with Paulie Walnuts Gualtieri played by Tony Sirico from the HBO TV series The Sopranos. Nor, do I refer to Paulie Gatto, the punk who ratted out Sonny Corleone in Coppola’s The Godfather, you know: “You won’t see Paulie no more,” according to fat Clemenza, played by the late Richard “Leave the gun, take my career” Castellano, who insisted to the end that he wasn’t bitter about his underwhelming post-Godfather film career. I know this for a fact from one of my cousins in the Gambino Family. I also know that the one thing the actor Castellano would never comment on was a rumor that he had connections to organized crime, specifically that he was a nephew to Paulie Castellano, the Gambino crime family boss who was assassinated in 1985, outside Midtown New York’s Sparks Steak House, an abrupt corporate takeover commissioned by John Teflon Don Gotti. But I’m really starting to digress here, although I am reminded of another interesting historical personage, namely Joseph Crazy Joe Gallo, who was also terminated “with extreme prejudice” while eating dinner at a restaurant.  Confused? And finally--not to be confused with Paul Muldoon, poetry gatekeeper at The New Yorker magazine, that Irish **** scumbag who consistently rejects publication of my work. About two years ago I started including the following comment in my on-line Contact Us, poetry submission:  “Hey Paulie, Eat a Bag of ****!”

This may come as a surprise, Gentle Reader, but I am a poet, not a Wise Guy.  For reasons to be explained, I never had access to the family business. I am also handicapped by the Liberal Arts education I received, infected by a deluge, a veritable Katrina ****** of classic literature.  That stuff in books rubs off after awhile, and I suppose it was inevitable. I couldn’t help evolving for the most part into a warm-blooded creature, unlike the reptiles and frogs I grew up with.

Again, I am a poet not a wise guy. And, first and foremost, I am a human being. Cold-blooded, I am not. I generate my own heat, which is the best definition I know for how a poet operates. But what the hell do I know? Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon doesn’t think much of my work. And he’s the ******* troll guarding the New Yorker’s poetry gate. Nevertheless, I’m a Poet, not a Wise Guy.  I repeat myself, I know, but it is important to establish this point right from the start of this narrative, because, if you don’t get that you’re never going to get my story.

Maybe the best way to explain my predicament—And I mean PREDICAMENT in the sense of George Santayana: "Life is not a spectacle or a feast; it is a predicament." (www.brainyquote.com), not to be confused with George’s son Carlos, the Mexican-American rock star: Oye Como Va, Babaloo!

www.youtube.com/watch?v...YouTube Dec 20, 2011 - Uploaded by a106kirk1, The Best of Santana. This song is owned by Santana and Columbia Records.

Maybe the best way for me to explain my predicament is with a poem, one of my early works, unpublished, of course, by Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon:

“CRAZY JOE REVISITED”  
        
by Benjamin Disraeli Sekaquaptewa-Buonaiuto

We WOPs respect criminality,
Particularly when it’s organized,
Which explains why any of us
Concerned with the purity of our bloodline
Have such a difficult time
Navigating the river of respectability.

To wit: JOEY GALLO.
WEB-BIO: (According to Bob Dylan)
“Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn in the year of who knows when,
Opened up his eyes to the tune of accordion.

“Joey” Lyrics/Send "Joey" Ringtone to your Cell
Joseph Gallo, AKA: "Joey the Blond."
He was a celebrated New York City gangster,
A made member of the Profaci crime family,
Later known as the Colombo crime family,

That’s right, CRAZY JOE!
One time toward the end of a 10-year stretch,
At three different state prisons,
Including Attica Correctional Facility in Attica, New York,
Joey was interviewed in his prison cell
By a famous NY Daily News reporter named Joe McGinnis.
The first thing the reporter sees?
One complete wall of the cell is lined with books, a
Green leather bound wall of Harvard Classics.
After a few hours mainly listening to Joey
Wax eloquently about his life,
A narrative spiced up with elegant summaries,
Of classic Greek theory, Roman history,
Nietzsche and other 19th Century German philosophers,
McGinnis is completely blown away by Inmate Gallo,
Both Joey’s erudition and the power of his intellect,
The reporter asks a question right outta
The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie:
“Mr. Gallo, I must say,
The power of your erudition and intellect
Is simply overwhelming.
You are a brilliant man.
You could have been anything,
Your heart or ambition desired:
A doctor, a lawyer, an architect . . .
Yet you became a criminal. Why?”

Joey Gallo: (turning his head sideways like Peter Falk or Vincent Donofrio, with a look on his face like Go Back to Nebraska, You ******* Momo!)

“Understand something, Sonny:
Those kids who grew up to be,
Doctors and lawyers and architects . . .

They couldn’t make it on the street.”

Gallo later initiated one of the bloodiest mob conflicts,
Since the 1931 Castellammare War,
And was murdered as a result of it,
While quietly enjoying,
A plate of linguini with clam sauce,
At a table--normally a serene table--
At Umberto’s Clam House.

Italian Restaurant Little Italy - Umberto's Clam House (www.umbertosclamhouse.com)
In Little Italy New York City 132 Mulberry Street, New York City | 212-431-7545.

Whose current manager --in response to all restaurant critics--
Has this to say:
“They keep coming back, don’t they?
The joint is a holy shrine, for chrissakes!
I never claimed it was the food or the service.
Gimme a ******* break, you momo!
I should ask my paisan, Joe Pesci
To put your ******* head in a vise.”

(Again, Martin Scorsese getting it exactly right, This time in  . . . Casino (1995) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0112641/Internet Movie Database Rating: 8.2/10 - ‎241,478 votes Directed by Martin Scorsese. With Robert De Niro, Sharon Stone, Joe Pesci, James Woods. Greed, deception, money, power, and ****** occur between two  . . . Full Cast & Crew - ‎Trivia - ‎Awards - ‎(1995) - IMDb)

Given my lifelong, serious exposure to and interest in German philosophy, I subscribe to the same weltanschauung--pronounced: veltˌänˌSHouəNG—that governed Joey Gallo’s behavior.  My point and Mr. Gallo’s are exactly the same:  a man’s ability to make it on the street is the true measure of his worth.  This ethos was a prominent one in the Bronx where and when I grew up, where I came of age during the 1950s and 60s.  Italian organized crime was always an option, actually one of the preferred options--like playing for the Yankees or being a movie star—until, that is, reality set in.  And reality came in many forms. For 100% Italian kids it came in a moment of crystal adolescent clarity and self-evaluation:  Am I tough enough to make it on the street?  Am I ever going to be tough enough to make it on the street? Will I be eaten alive by more cunning, more violent predators on the street?

For me, the setting in of reality took an entirely different form.  I knew I had what it takes, i.e., the requisite ferocity for street life. I had it in spades, as they say. In fact, I’d been blessed with the gift of hyper-volatility—traced back to my great-grandfather, Pietro of the village of Moschiano, in the province of Avellino, in the region of Campania, Italia Sud. Having visited Moschiano in my early 20s and again in my late 50s, I know the place well. The village square sits “down in the holler,” like in West Virginia; the Apennine terrain, like the Appalachians, rugged and thick. Rugged and thick like the people, at least in part my people. And volatile, I am, gifted with a primitive disposition when it comes to what our good friend Abraham Maslow would call lower order needs. And please, don’t ask me to explain myself now; just keep reading, *******.  All your questions will be answered.

Great Grandfather Pietro once, at point blank range, blew a man’s head off with a lumpara, or sawed-off shotgun. It was during an argument over—get this--a penny’s worth of pumpkin seeds--one of many stories I never learned in childhood. He served 10 years in a Neapolitan penitentiary before being paroled and forced to immigrate to America.  The government of the relatively new nation--The Kingdom of Italy (1861)--came up with a unique eugenic solution for the hunger and misery down south, south of Rome, the long shin bone, ankle, foot, toes & kickball that are the remote regions of the Mezzogiorno, Southern Italy: Campania, Basilicata, Calabria, Puglia & Sicilia. Northern politicians asked themselves: how do we flush these skeevy southerners, these crooks and assassins down South, how do we flush the skifosos down the toilet—the flush toilet, a Roman invention, I report proudly and accept the gratitude on behalf of my people. Immigration to America: Fidel Castro did the same thing in the 1980s, hosing out his jails and mental hospitals with that Marielista boatlift/Emma Lazarus Remix: “Give us your tired and poor, your lunatics, thieves and murderers.” But I digress. I’ll give you my entire take on the history of Italy including Berlusconi and the “Bunga Bunga” parties with 14-year old Moroccan pole dancers . . . go ahead, skip ahead.

Yes, genetically speaking, I was sufficiently ferocious to make it on the street, and it took very little spark to light my fuse. Moreover, I’ve always been good at figuring out the angles--call it street smarts--also learned early in life. Likewise, for knowing the territory: The Bronx was my habitat. I was rapacious and predacious by nature, and if there was a loose buck out there, and legs to be broken, I knew where to go.
Yet, alas, despite all my natural talents & acquired skills, I remained persona-non-grata for the Lucchese Family. To my great misfortune, I fell into a category of human being largely shunned by Italian organized crime: Mestizo-Italiano, a diluted form of full strength 100% Italian blood. It’s one of those voodoo blood-brotherhood things practiced by Southern European, Mediterranean tribal people, only in part my people.  Growing up, my predicament was always tricky, always somewhat bizarre. Simply put: I was of a totally different tribe. Blame my exotic mother, a genuine Hopi Corn Maiden from Shungopavi, high up on Second Mesa of the Hopi Reservation, way out in northern Arizona. And if this is not sufficiently, ******* nuts enough for you, add to the child-rearing minestrone that she raised me Jewish in The Bronx.  I **** you not. I took my Bar Mitzvah Hebrew instruction from the infamous Rabbi Meir Kahane, that’s right, Meir “Crazy Rebbe” Kahane himself--pronounced kɑː'hɑːna--if you grok the phonetics.

In light of the previously addressed “impressionable years hypothesis,” I wrote a poem about my early years. It follows in the next chapter. It is an epic tale, a biographical magnum opus, a veritable creation myth, conceived one night several years ago while squatting in a sweat lodge, tripping on peyote. I

Science can't save you, neither can religion,
at least Popper and Niebuhr, philosophers and poets,
are entertainers, which is why actors and athletes
are paid so much. Thanks for the summaries.
I was teaching Shakespeare's 92nd ridiculous sonnet
to my student who lays blacktop in the off season
Shakespeare bellyaching about dying without her love
a feeling foreign to a modern adolescent sensibility
although many teens are pretty far gone searching
for their mothers or fathers in their dazed lovers' eyes.
Which is why we call it "the wound that never heals."
Or the lesion that's always lengthening. And bleeding.

Muslim fundamentalists and their Christian counterparts
are a mystery to me. Pews and prayer rugs, the airless
indoor environment of religious worship, reading
scriptures, hypnotized by hymns and fainting from staring
at candles through stained glass windows, almost certain
the preacher is faking his certainty about the afterlife.
It's not my problem. A more immediate concern:
receding gums and tooth extractions, swollen joints,
poor lubrication and circulation, wave after wave
of viral infection, the occasional antibiotic-resistant
bacterial attack, usually urinary, and who knows
what internal organs are dividing and conquering
without mercy or cease, i.e. the wound that never heals.

It is wise not to overvalue your continued existence,
good not to be innumerate, unable to compare
a mere 80 years with say 6.0 x 109 or all of time
(to date) times the multiverse. Conversely,
it is interesting all of space and most of history is contained
in your mind (realizing of course it's just a map
of the cosmos not the cosmos itself, or is it?). I'm
unable to wrestle free, tongue in that cavity
and locked in my memories, so separate and disparate
from the biomass in the crosswalks, even my spouse.
Alone, so alone, even your doctor can only devote
limited thought to your situational mortality through
the redress of poetry - also a wound that never heals.

Snow for eternity, that's what this February's been.
All to the good, for someone it's the final February
so enjoy it to the extent you can. By that I mean joy.
Joy at birth. Joy at death. All joy. All times. Anyway,
that was Shakespeare's message: even tragedies are comedies.
May, a Buddhist, chants each morning.
Her husband, Marc, who's Jewish, plays league tennis.
Their son, Aaron, will soon make Eagle scout.
How does that relate to your wound that never heals?
Luck runs out. For D.H. Lawrence in New Mexico
or Ulysses S. Grant in Ohio or Yasujiro Ozu in
Tokyo or Satyajit Ray in Bombay or Rabindranath
Tagore in Bangalore or at the Battle of the Atlantic in the Azores.

The night is a poultice, winter or summer solstice.
My anonymity will not affect the anomie ghettoside
seeing for myself how season by season
vacations and accomplishments accumulate, late in life
and early on, sunrise over mountains or moonrise over Bronx.
Masturbator, prisoner of war. Hospice of the Holy Roman Empire.
Numerous blue notes: the 3 flat, 7 flat, 5 flat,
the 6 flat and the 2 flat too. I don't get
what Wallace Stevens means by imagination.
When groundhog shows up as a totem, there is opportunity
to explore the mystery of death without dying.
This then is the purpose of purposelessness (and of eating less)!
Now what about that wound that never heals.

The Skeptical Observer column in Scientific American
was somewhat alarming when he accepted a paranormal
explanation for how his wife's grandfather's inoperable
transistor radio played music from its hiding spot
in his sock drawer on, and only on, their wedding day.
Now I'll have to believe my father (or mother!) is watching me
perform private ****** acts with (or without) partners
or that they could even know my thoughts. Or aliens
are attending our committee meetings and making
perfectly reasonable decisions given the available information
and the world is rotating just fine without humans.
These possibilities - angels, ghosts, aliens - are better
than holocaust and genocide. In this way,
and only in this way, does doom become endurable.
The wound that never heals in the end is all you'll feel.

The Rules of Online Dating Poem
(8/5/2014)

Rules start the moment we decide to do online dating.
You can't choose Christian Mingle, because things get too spicy there.
You can't choose JDate, because they all want to sign pre-nup's.
You can't choose Plenty of Fish, because who wants to date a fish?
... I mean, I'm pretty sure that's illegal in most countries.
Grindr is great, but we're talking about the rules of online dating... Dating.

Now, OkCupid is where it's at.
Okay see here, you need a username.
Something quirky.  How about 'Quirky?'
Oh, that's taken, so add numbers!
The website suggested 'Quirky 69' ... okay, maybe no numbers.
Quirky_Cat, because everything on the internet is better with cats.

Let's move on to selecting several profile pictures.
Dust off your digital archives, and find one from that time you tanned.
Ever take a funny photo eating food?  Perfect, feed it to your fans.
Is it Halloween?  Because I'm thinking Headless Torsoooo!!!
Annnnd for good measure, let me take a selfie.

The hardest part is answering the match-making questions.
My soul is searching for its soul mate, and there can only be one.
It's like the heart hunger games.  
Who can shoot their compliments with the precision of a bow and arrow,
right through the wall of cats I've accumulated from being single so long?
The first one to make me feel so alive I want to die,
but not before devouring a pint of ice cream, wins!!

SO ANSWER THESE CRUCIAL QUESTIONS:
1, Is astrological sign important to you in a match?
YOU BETTER NOT BE A GEMINI
2. Are you a cat person or a dog person?
I DON'T DATE CAT-DOG HYBRID PEOPLE, JUST BE A PERSON PLZ
3. If you turn a left-handed glove inside out, it fits?
MY ****
4. Would you be willing to meet someone from OkCupid in person?
IF YOU ANSWER NO, *** ARE YOU DOING HERE
That concludes today's question answering.  
Stay tuned for rules on writing the self-summary.

Rule #1 - Bang your head on the keyboard for 12 minutes.
This is a mandatory, required start to every OkCupid profile.
Rule #2 - Use a lot of cliches
Don't worry if you don't know any, just copy some from someone else.
Rule #3 - Say you are bad at writing self-summaries in your self-summary
That's a good one.
Rule #4 - Say what you are good at... which duh, is your writing skills.
I mean you have a liberal arts degree after all.
Rule #5 - Tell them you are a real person, not fake.
Some folks need to hear this to get over the imaginary people they dated.

Rules require structure, and structure is built by bullet point lists.
So first bullet point, favorite books:
- Quickly go find the titles of everything you had to read in high school.
Second bullet point, favorite movies, and variety is key here:  
- Include musicals, rom coms, at least one low-budget indie film,
    a foreign film or two, and throw in a few Disney flicks for good measure.
Third bullet point is what will make or break you, music:
- For gay men this will mean you're only allowed to pick female divas, so...
To the tune of 'Kokomo' by The Beach Boys.
There's Britney and Whitney, ooh I wanna take ya,
to Rhianna, Madonna, ooh and then there's Robyn.
But Queen Bey, J. Monae, Miley, and Christina,
Katy Perry, and Coldplay, because they count anyway.
Cher, and Cher, and Cher, and Cher, and Cher.

Alright alright.  We've had our fun, but now it gets serious.
The profile is going to ask us to advertise ourselves like products.
Of course we are going to comply.
5 foot 6.  145 pounds.  Brown hair, Hazel eyes.
Bi-lingual and knows how to use a tongue.
Annual income?  More like outgo, as in out goes my money.
Do I use drugs?  Only if they're free.
Do I diet?  As in drink diet soda, as opposed to regular?
Slightly hungover on Sundays.
Can send more pictures of cats I wish were my pets, upon request.

Alright, start stalking people for endless hours,
sending messages sporadically.
Good news!  We're ready to do online dating.

But...  what if I don't really know what I want?
Maybe online dating isn't for me.

Surrounded by friends
A welcoming hug lingers
Filled with what ifs
Uncomfortable for some
Warmly welcomed by others
Conversations fueled by
Wine, beer, and martinis
The comfort of acceptance
Non-judgmental reception
Imagining what’s not said
Some thoughts you can read
Others arise unbidden tongue-tied
Accidental truth shared
Sheltered by laughter
We retell our practiced stories
Not noticing the kind
I’ve-heard-it-before looks
Oh to hear the late night summaries
The evenings score card
We sway from oh so silly to
Pugnacious
We may have crossed lines
We never saw and wouldn’t have cared
If we did

I want to see the world
I want to watch it unfold like a whisper into a secret
dancing in a different perspective
from what each set of eyes dreams it
I want to watch the world imagine
sprinkling a mana potion of possibilities
across the land for us to dance in
I want to see the world's mistakes
where its heart broke into the grand canyon
where it cried to fill the atlantic ocean
where it colored to create the flower fields of Holland
I want to listen to the world
while it commutes around the sun like a day job
while it tells stories to the stars like a fantasy
while it grieves over a tragedy just out of reach
I want to see the world
so I can show it a new humanity
not every human here is all we're cracked up to be
some of our souls are still dancing
looking down and up and rejoicing
we want to see the world
to understand it, fall in love, and come into unison
society is just a plague wiping out the brightened energies
but we're finding a cure, an infinite anecdote to the mess of man
and we'll come from the inside, to feel the world

Let’s start from the beginning…
Serenaded by celestial scarecrows.
I’m drawing crosses on
bathroom shower curtains.
Steaming with potential, semi-permanent.
A blue Bible lies next to me.
Then again I’m surrounded on all sides
by dozens of Coke cans, laced with
stale beer.
Caution: Instant *** machine just add alcohol.
Please fill this prescription, signed with
The Cross.

I’m dancing with visions of myself.
Proverbs guiding my life.

Walking

Walking through the same patterns of their life.
Trying to find outlets of expression.
How expressive can I be in a basement?
On the hand I have a great life,
on the hand I want more.
Adam Smith curse guide me!

Not with child, thank you.

Thank you.

Dancing with the universe, a dance of time.
Don’t cry wondering gypsy.
I choose neither the mountains nor the beach.
I like them both.
Which wilderness is wild?
I will live amongst the stars, or so I hope…

This white room is making me regret
the wine.
If you could only see what I’ve done.
Weaving written words.

Lies.

All lies.

They’re all lies.
Every single one of them soldier.

Don’t you understand?
Viva!
Live!

This x-ray of my life.
Let keep it to ourselves.
Hiding these skeletons in a deck of cards.
There word were supposed to be art.
Maybe a portrait written on the walls.
Praying every night (Maybe I’m asking for too much).
Side street catholic, hidden.
Never cut in front of the buffet line.
Ears ringing, my decent.
Maybe madness is the Jester’s path to
madness.
Or maybe it’s the other way around.

I’m getting older and older.

But am I getting wiser and wiser?

Hello good sir! How are you?
Yes, it is a fine day outside today.
Looking into a mirror.
Maybe I’m hiding between words.
Hiding too much.
Why not?
Maybe it’s for the best…
Lets go!
Chase the white picket, two story.
What’s my story you ask?
It’s being written, erased, re-wrote.
Just look up the summaries.
You’ll get bored easily, figure out the ending.
I did.
I’m on top!
Paper bridges crumbling into

whiskey rivers.
Which reminds me of a story…

I’ve never been a good storyteller
Please help me.
Hear me.
Screaming through ink.
I could write about that, but…
I already did, you’ll have to find it.
Between these lines.
Maybe I’m drowsy, should have
enlisted your help.
This helps. Thank you Lord.

Cameras flashing, every day is
A new day.
Every time I see you’re eyes I dream
in romantics.
Maybe this is my new day.

Maybe.

I tend to learn lessons, the hard way.
In life we must take changes and
repay them.
I’m feeling…

The keys to our hearts
lie in the secrets unshared.
I’m a walking contradiction…
I have a lot of keys, and lies.

Let the water wash over you.
This is my hope!
Flying on the back of television signals,
blinded by daytime programming.
We’re ruining our visions.
Creativity is dying.
This is my manifesto to…
Will you read it?
Front to back (I wouldn’t).
High speed chase crashing into pen and paper.
Don’t be sorry.

What would you do?

What would you think?

Why should I care?

Anxious.

Anxious.

Anxious.

Oh…if they only knew.

Am I putting too much stock in to
Materialistic consequences?
Please put your phones on vibrate!
This is a lecture!
Change your ways while you’re this age.
What am I learning you ask?
How to…what are you learning?
I don’t have a lesson plan.

Laughable poetry.
I used to be articulate.
With a sailor mouth.
Oh yes! My vocabulary is crude.
Then again so is this poetry.
So is my life.
Classroom experience is my real world.
Put that on a resume.
Don’t write poetry. No one will read it.
That’s what you’re told.

Queens the questionmaster. (I ask a lot of questions)
Lucky you!
Let’s go back to moments.
Put our trust in technology. Ignorant.
Pouring out my feelings into empty chalices.
This is something I will not do.
Wait.
Forget what you’ve been told and read.
Please.
Thank you.
It’s all I know. I guess.

Church lights bearing down on snakeskin lies.
Collection plates.
Am I jumping around too much?
This isn’t poetry?
I’m sorry I don’t think I asked for your opinion.
I did?
Oh…Well thank you for your input.
Let’s begin
At the end.
Oh how cliché can you be.
You’re so unoriginal.
Not using punctuation correctly.
Rebellious youth.
Next you be talking about peace, love, harmony, serenity, happiness…

Hear me! (no)

Look at me, answering myself at
1am, drunken hours.
Critique this!
Peace, love, harmony, serenity, happiness.
Not in this poem.

Wait.

O.K maybe a little.

Pouring over the top of my beer stein.
Snake skin wrapped around my fingers.
I hope.
Let the right foot touch first, then
You’ll have good luck
Trust me. I’m an expert.
I’m hopeful.
Kneeling by my bedside.

Speak.

Speak now of forever or forever hold your peace.

It’s your choice.

You are responsible for your actions.

This is making me feel better.
I hope this crosses over.
I hope you’re understanding this.
Or maybe I hope you aren’t, then I can keep it to myself
You are?
Good, because its getting past my bedtime.
Growing weary of questioning.

Mankind,
Womankind,
Humankind.

Help me on this journey of life.
My solemn prayer.
I think I’m losing myself.
Maybe I am already gone.
Replaced.
I am this mirror image.

Hello.
How are you doing today?

I’m fine thank you.

I self-indulged—
For me a rare
Lapse, an unexpected
Slide to materialism.
Repenting already,
My selfishness.
I bought myself
Internet Radio.
How could I resist?
E-Tail has made it so easy.
GOTO Amazon Electronics.
•Amazon.com: Electronicswww.amazon.com/electronics-store/b?ie=UTF8... Amazon.com, Inc. Online shopping from a great selection at Electronics Store. ... Electronics. Shop for TV & Video, ... Featured Offers in Electronics ... Electronics Categories • ($“Ka-Ching! Ka-Ching!$ Ads in the middle of the freaking poem!”)
The omnipresent marketplace:
Shop at home in your pajamas,
Pay for it with keystrokes,
Go back to sleep.
FOR SALE:  Hail to thee,
Oh bittersweet Credo of Capitalism!
I finally broke down,
Accepting the fact that
RADIO: once a wireless marvel;
Now, a fading media option,
Its broadcast range
Not only shrunk, but
Signal reception, downright poor.
So, I finally broke down
Bought a radio that actually works.
So what I want to know
Is NPR so full of itself that
They go so far to find some
British-accent guy to read
Sports summaries?
I am listening to some
Pompous Pommy poofter,
At KBOS, Boston, Massachusetts,
Nigel Longshanks, himself,
Recapping “The Run for the Roses,”
Kentucky Derby homestretch,
Missed NBA semi-final foul shot &
The freakish mojo comeback of
Yankee Baseball Bad Boy: A-ROD.

Once upon a time,
i had a book i read nightly....without fail.
t'was a compendium of impossible dreams,
big plans, summaries of late night talks
on "long-shots-but-worth-a-try," stuff,
...our very own fairy tales, where we
wished for magic wands and wings,
written on nights when sleep was elusive,
when bottles of cold beer had lost their effect.
talks were long...my fingers grew tired, for,
my guitar wept with sad songs....t'was then
i learned to pour martini...into my coffee.

::::::::::::::::::
lost my guitar one day, got busted....but, life's
many notes and tunes, played on with time.
eclipses shaded the already dimmed horizon,
floods ruined boxes of souvenirs...stamped,
handwritten...with ribbons of silver and gold...
people died, some left...some fell out of love,
moved near the mountains, others left their
preferred milieus...for uncomfortable zones...

the moon, looking down from mountaintops,
was a witness to tears...of sufferings,
.....realization, and of acceptance.

when nights refused to end,
when the howling of distant dogs, echoed
and shattered the stillness of the night,
i question marked our tales with suspended
endings...tore off  unfulfilled, hopeless pages,
i crossed out those with "no forever afters,"
only a few pages were left......so, i began
creating new plots......and new settings
i added new characters, and new twists,
all written in the midst of unholy hours
.......til a new dawn....proclaimed itself...
:::::
to this day,
i write my own fairy tales, with no beer, definitely
i still have my night coffee...though sans martini
......it could be black, or with its mating cream,
....and all the dark curves and swirls, in between...
:::::
"a long shot, but worth a try," it may seem,
...yet, i do wish, i could put some sugar and cream
......upon everyone's dark, and bitter coffee...
:::::

Sally

Copyright June 6, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

I think I understand now why people compare the one they love to a star filled night. Why they dream of the first snowfall, the first Christmas, the first set of fireworks.
I think I understand now why people give the person they love flowers and chocolate. Why the first kiss matters, the first “I love you” matters, the first sleepless night matters.
I think I understand now why people fall in love. Why they’re willing to conquer the cold, to travel any distance, to spend money they don’t have.
I think I understand now what love songs are about. Why people write metaphors about someone to share to the world, poems to recite about ever changing eyes, melodies as sweet as their laughter.

I understand.
I understand that I get the best sleep when I’m talking to you. I understand that I wake up every morning with only you on my mind. I understand that my poetry will always seep with your presence. I understand that there is nothing I want more than to hold you in my arms.
I think I understand now that I’m falling for you in ways that I’ve never fallen for someone before. That nothing else matters besides the way you look at me when you think I can’t see you. That thinking of you brings me a smile.
I think I understand now why people fall. Fall off bikes. Fall off horses. Fall off tightropes. Fall for girls. Fall for boys.
I fall for you.

I fall for sleepy nights, for daily summaries, for adventures and humming. I fall for song sharing, for I missed you more’s, for wins and losses.
I fall for chance, for randomness, for the idea of falling. I fall for laughter, for secrets, for one a.m. conversations.
I fall for you not because you’re the only one to fall for, but because you’re the only one I want to fall for.

I want star filled nights. I want the first snowfall, the first Christmas, the first set of fireworks.
I want to give you flowers and chocolate. I want the first kiss, the first “I love you”, the first sleepless night.
I want to fall in love. I’ll conquer the cold, travel any distance, spend money I don’t have.
I want to break the habit of running away from things that make me happy. I want to stay this time and keep every promise.

I think I understand now that adventures are not always physical quests set before a hero. They are sometimes the feeling someone gets when a person says their name for the first time, or a tightening in the chest when that that someone looks a person who has wonder filled eyes and a fiery laugh.
I think I understand now that an adventure is how I feel about you. How I fall for your eyes, your hair, your ability to make me laugh without being funny. How I feel when you interrupt me to talk about silly things. How I feel when your eyes shift to me and you smile.

I think I understand now why my heart beat flutters when we talk. Why nothing else seems important. Why I find you between the lines of my favorite books.
I think I understand now why people say someone stole their heart. You hold mine in your hands and I’m not sure I want it back.
I think I understand now why I write love poems. Why I etch you into pieces of paper, why I contour your soul into words I’ll never forget, why I take notes of the events of my falling.

I understand.
I understand that hands are made for safety. That words are made for comfort and understanding.
I understand that I’m falling.
I understand that it’s for you.
I understand that I can’t change that.
I understand that I’m terrified of it.
I understand that I need work.
I understand that you’re worth it.
I hope you understand too.

My Dad plays a game of "hide and seek" : A Tribute poem to my beloved Dad: Late George Maveli
___________
• My Dad plays a game of "hide and seek" :
• A Tribute poem to my beloved Dad: Late George Maveli
___________
My Dad plays a game of "hide and seek",
Though in Intensive Care since a week,
But I know He is still sleeps by my side,
He still makes me happy by elephant ride
Putting me on his bare back to continue play
Taking his strong arms to go fast or to delay
And to repeat the black elephant's game
Making me to be happier and fame
• Top from heaven I heard
• a song of love from a bird;
• A sad word from  my Lord,
• I still love you my dear Dad.
He died not too late in my hand,
but lives still in my own soft mind
I wish time wouldn't go forward,
then I would make a good reward
I try to have and repeat old memoirs,
my minds mostly turns to summaries
• Top from heaven I heard
• a song of love from a bird;
• A sad word from  my Lord,
• I still love you my dear Dad.
I wish I had my dear dad by my side
The stories I hear about ocean tide,
To my eyes it brings more and more fear
Before I had to say good-bye, a drop of tear
I wish I had more fun time with my dear
My mom lets me know how much he care
Since I was too young to have love to share
• Top from heaven I heard
• a song of love from a bird;
• A sad word from  my Lord,
• I still love you my dear Dad.
___________
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
____________
NOTE: I left my dear Dad (Late George Maveli) in the hands of my Lord Jesus on Saturday 19th July @ 1630 hours Indian time. He died at the age of 89, I am his eldest Son. I regret to express to all my beloved viewers and my well wishers of Hello Poetry. I shall post my poems after a weeks period of condolence   - WILLIAMSJI MAVELI

We WOPs respect criminality,
Particularly when it’s organized,
Which explains why any of us
Concerned with the purity of our bloodline
Have such a difficult time
Navigating the river of respectability.
To wit: JOEY GALLO.
WEB-BIO: (According to Bob Dylan)
“Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn in the year of who knows when,
Opened up his eyes to the tune of accordion.”

    “Joey” Lyrics/Send "Joey" Ringtone to your Cell

Joseph Gallo was a celebrated New York City gangster,
A made member of the Profaci crime family,
Later known as the Colombo crime family,
Also known as "Joe the Blond."
That’s right, CRAZY JOE!
One time toward the end of a 10-year stretch,
At three different state prisons,
Including Attica Correctional Facility in Attica, New York,
Joey was interviewed in his prison cell
By a famous NY Daily News reporter named Joe McGinnis.
The first thing the reporter sees?
One complete wall of the cell is lined with books, a
Green leather bound wall of Harvard Classics.
After a few hours mainly listening to Joey
Wax eloquently about his life,
A narrative spiced up with elegant summaries,
Of classic Greek theory, Roman history,
Nietzsche and other 19th Century German philosophers,
McGinnis is completely blown away by Inmate Gallo,
Both Joey’s erudition and the power of his intellect,
The reporter asks a question right outta
The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie:
“Mr. Gallo, I must say,
The power of your erudition and intellect
Is simply overwhelming.
You are a brilliant man.
You could have been anything,
Your heart or ambition desired:
A doctor, a lawyer, an architect . . .
Yet you became a criminal. Why?”

Joey Gallo: (turning his head sideways like Peter Falk or Vincent Donofrio, with a look on his face like Go Back to Nebraska, You ******* Momo!)
“Understand something, Sonny:
Those kids who grew up to be,
Doctors and lawyers and architects . . .
They couldn’t make it on the street.”

Gallo later initiated one of the bloodiest mob conflicts,
Since the 1931 Castellammare War,
And was murdered as a result of it,
While quietly enjoying,
A plate of linguini with clam sauce,
At a table, normally a serene table
At Umberto’s Clam House.
Italian Restaurant Little Italy - Umbertos Clam House (www.umbertosclamhouse.com) In Little Italy New York City 132 Mulberry Street, New York City | 212-431-7545.
Whose current manager --in response to all restaurant critics--
Has this to say:
*“They keep coming back, don’t they?
The joint is a holy shrine, for chrissakes!
I never claimed it was the food or the service.
Gimme a ******* break, you momo!
I should ask my paisan, Joe Pesci
To put your ******* head in a vise.”

there are always two ways of saying things,
one way of saying things is
to read them once, file them in the unconscious
cabinet and ~wait for the results
working their ways in your thought
appropriating the said things -
i found i can only reread / skim-read only
one book in my library - because i spent
a glorious summer reading it,
in a communist apartment block,
and i never sought to invest in creating grime
post-rap given there was no English
suburbia to work against -
one book, out of a hundred i could ever
reread in leisure while taking a ****,
now that's an achievement to be honest,
i dare you to find two books of such calibre -
**** the prayer mat in the mosque -
and repeat, re re repeat -
and **** arching over your shadow in
the confession booth -
so that's one way of reading: read it once,
discard it, become an artist-journalist:
because there's always tomorrow -
**** acronym a.s.a.p. - ah, tautology of close
proximity - or so it might appear to be so -
and the boys juggling barbarism with
cut off testicles, one's spherical, the other's
oval - and ****** had only one...
the other way of saying things? a fishnet -
a safety-net - you can reread the already read
things and don't mind rereading -
to be honest, true art is of the former kind,
you read it, engage with it only once
and then leave it aside... brush it under the carpet...
the differential adjective association of nouns
is hidden within art and culture -
                arty will not do, farts won't do either,
but that's what is appears to be:
     culture likes to be associated with numbers
and revving inputs -
                                art's here a second,
and gone the next -
                                   culture is what keeps
the busy parents ticking and timing slow-mo -
the Jezebel of all yesterdays! it has to be pop -
hardly a minded canary song trickle in
modern-day aliens coming from the Amazon
without caveman theories...
yep, ****-naked all along throughout the Enlightenment -
they call it a plateau and ha ha,
the Europeans call it an insult and an anthropological
omission that would make Neil Armstrong
take up a bicycle and race the necessary need
to involve chemists in more than just shampoo and
toothpaste.. given the adverts...
                                           cos when **** goes dope,
you got to dope 'em, universally.
                  Belgium and the waffle -
duo - waffle - or blah blah, i.e. unnecessary talk,
usually political - can you imagine talking so much
in order to simply say: you must be joking,
no we won't, are you mad?, it was all supposed to be giggles.
i can't.
there are two ways of saying things:
a. if you reread me, you're kinda stupid,
    meaning you have the same repetitive dream
    over a 20 year period....
    i don't reread what i write,
    art isn't about rereading, if the message
    doesn't plummet into the unconscious you'll succumb
    to the second way of saying things, i.e.
b. for entertainment purposes,
    meaning repetition is the crucible, the pivot,
    a bit like dictates in the school system...
    we're actually taught repetitiveness -
    we are taught repetitiveness in order to pass
    an erosion of memory exams, like a toothache -
    we are taught to memorise *******
    in order to be later investments in Alzheimer's -
    no personal memory = no person of
   suggested personality acquisition -
   the English don't like verbiage -
                  but how can you even claim intellect
without motivational thinking that verbiage
is disguised as, huh?
paradoxically the stress on individuals -
the west never endangers itself with individuals
in established systems... sure, i should have
dropped-out of university and became the rottweiler
billy the kid -
                            i should have... but i wanted
to see the end results...
                  so b.
                            or the unnecessary need to repeat
art - as in art ought never succumb to the age of
mechanical reproduction (Benjamin) -
once ought to do it, like losing your virginity -
or the first time you swam 25 metres of a swimming bool,
or rode a bike... to exclude all sense of nostalgia
or eavesdropping on bogus maxims three generations
from now... the idea that words do not translate
into words: when one artistic output doesn't inspire
anything but practical activity, given art being
pure and therefore impractical activity -
but don't blame the artist for succumbing to such a fate,
it's not a fury - it just means the people the artist
encountered became insurmountably obstacle prone
representative: where a mother could have been,
a jealous murdering ***** stood,
where a man of suitable physical endurance could
have been, a semi-******* stood.
stick to point (a.), never fall for the trap of point (b.),
art is required more as a very elitist vector factory,
than H. Ford could think the wheel represented,
e.g.? well, examples always give adequate summaries
to arguments: Bloodhound Gang's the bad touch...
no, nothing in particular, i preferred the omission
that's akin to argument (a.) rather than argument (b.),
the pink floyd spoof with the lyrics:
        all in all, you're just another **** with no *****.
point made - *Right turn Clyde.

Write about me she said,
Write me a poem and tell it to the stars,
Talk about my talents,
Or confess my many scars.
But her beauty could not be captured,
By any photo or ball point pen,
And no length of poetic summaries could ever,
Express the fire that she holds within.
Even Venus, she is envious of her,
As she walks this earth with grace,
A fallen angel from the heavens above,
To know her soul is to know real strength.
She twirls her arms above her head,
As she dances down the street,
Twisting and turning away with the wind,
With the prettiest smile you ever did see.
She needs nothing from you, and she takes nothing more,
She comes and goes softly with poise,
With all of the beauty she possesses she still is so compassionate,
Because that is who she is by choice.

i don't have the patience to gamble...
i couldn't sit there and tempt fate...
or predestination -
make a joke from karma -
but i'll somtimes make a quid's buckle
worth better spent nonetheless
spent on a bet...
i heard this metaphor before...
but apparently it's new...
the bet? well... either the home team
wins... or the away team wins...
but both teams need to score...
it's a quid... i had the most joy
finding a 20 quid banknote on
the pavement once...
that too was a "bet" regarding where
and at what speed i was walking...
i don't gamble...
i don't gamble on horses...
i don't gamble on dogs...
the odds are... as always the same
plateau of odds...
a bit like attempting to catch
a mosquito by the testicles wearing
boxing gloves...
elephant memory:
i know these words are not mine...
but... for the time being:
they must be mine...
i don't gamble because i don't like
to make a summary of karma:
this cosmic wind of causality as merely:
best be entertained by a gamble...
i don't gamble because...
i could never make it into a habit...
i could never attempt to find
a needle in a haystack...
sooner i'd be willing to catch
a breath of the wind while running
naked with a flute to hear
the flute resound with my breath being
missing...
eh... forget the flute... running
naked with a half-empty bottle
of cider... at the right angle...
i'll catch the wind playing its first
musical instrument!
why didn't i find fun in driving a car?
i would prefer a bicycle -
and a horse -
i never found fun in gambling...
flipping a coin and calling: heads or tails
was always more fun...
i never liked chess - i never warmed
up to it... draughts... sudoku... backgammon
and mahjong...
poker... a game of chess is hardly
intuitive... it's not: heir-sein...
it's such a detached monstrosity of...
labyrinths...
you can't make a mistake in the present -
and in the same present correct it -
since there's the narrative -
the cascade - i'd sooner be bound to reading
a book...
i don't own a car... because i don't mind
taking the bus...
although i'd settle for a bicycle and i'll still
dream about a horse...
gambling... to have to devaule cosmic concepts
akin to karma -
no grand yawn from the depths
on my behalf... this same old same old:
same mediocre...
middleground, haystack claimed this
body beyond any to come
anticipations from Everest...
this life that eventually has to become
an introspection...
and that's of course - minus what's sacrificed
on the altar of collective memory -
the other's whim of memory -
down the line... when only introspection
matters... and no one is really invited...
how sad it must be...
to have attempted certain feats in this life...
for... a yawn from the mountain
and a transient ref. point of some other
minding his journalistic integrity
of: duly noted?
it's not so much a "vanity project" critique...
but... i try to perfect the most basic
tasks... like rolling tobacco while walking...
something i can retain and invite myself
back into: from the devoid of self external
world...
to have ambitions akin to: climbing a mountain...
and what if that doesn't attract
journalistic voyeurism?
what then? apparently after the feat...
humanity as the mountain yawns or simply
ignores...
gambling... what is it, that's ncessarily "won"?
when all that's won... has to be...
gifted upon death's altar...
beauty, wisdom...
everything - imagine if death was corrupt...
and somehow allowed transactions
of future investements - akin to:
beside the two coins for charon -
a mummified body to add grit and wager!
death at a turkish bazar!
gamble or haggle -
beside: do we really need an opera house...
for someone to sing an aria?
i'm very much worried about: investing
in something - while at the same time -
finding to self-gratification in due process -
having to linger for third-party journalistic leeches
to make due summaries...
in the end... i don't really gamble...
1 quid a week...
on the already stated chances:
a bit like attempting to catch a mosquito by
the testicles wearing boxing gloves...
a world-wide renowed d.j. will earn
about 100,000 million a year...
i like being my own d.j. -
a tennis player will earn... this much...
but a ping-pong player... will only be seen
at the olympics...
tennis: a game of 7 rectangles and...
11 judges (enough for a football team)
and... 6 ball boys / girls...
and why would i even want more money?
spend it on what?
i'll buy a pair of shoes when the shoes
i'm wearing will start to wear down...
it seems that after a long enough time -
you: neither forget - nor unlearn the basic
propensity for spending money -
earning it very vague -
spending it is even more vague -
luxury items become: tacky -
there's a reason why champagne is champagne -
once tried: forever abhorred...
in terms of meat: it's not what meat it is...
it's how you cook it...
no good butchering an argentinian cut
of steak if you'll make: roast beef from it!
then again: i never liked spending money...
and... i never managed to acquire
the companionship of the opposite ***
that would otherwise spend it for me...
oops? i don't like restaurants because:
i much prefer to see myself wash my hands
before i start to prepare a meal...
on the topic of clothes...
i sometimes look at my cats...
the same furr - day in - day out -
why would i dress for a season - marry myself
to trends? that doesn't invite the accusation
that i do not wash myself -
or that i do not wash or iron my clothes -
why... bother fashion that's on a bigger whim
than the ******* weather?!
lately the price of books have gone up...
here's to me not buying a book -
vinyls... jazz vinyls are low...
10 quid a liquorice spin...
but this is nothing that could ever become
consolidated into a home -
but then i'm... too much into my routines...
and: i couldn't ever wish or want...
to keep up with keeping up appearances...
this apathy doesn't stem from a nihilism...
it stems from a depressive lethargy...
depressive lethargy is depression -
when it's not elevated to the romance of
melancholy... and "oh i'm sad"... oh oh...
no... i'm just tired of seeing the usual suspects
of keeping a life make-belief
succint informal casual convo. in a fish & chip
shop *******' worth of antics!
i can be polite to doctors...
oh hell: i'll charm them... they know the diagnosis...
but i'll be ultra polite... because...
i'm the one who will think about
biological cancer as botanical cancer: mistletow...
which it is... if you have ever seen
it in the wild...
i need a woman like i need an ulcer...
esp. the sort of woman that's a tapeworm
of transcendental a priori -
something that i'm "given" without prior
experience...
perhaps for men all women are: a priori specimen...
and for women... oh my god...
there's no a priori man...
there are only a posteriori... without the ability
to cut off a piece of time and themselves included
in it from the grand wheel of fortune and what's
to come: died within a year...
2 weeks after the death she shedded her
widowhood and became impregnated
by an already engaged man:
or some other wild old tale...
in bad, light?
oh... the time i realised that going to a brothel...
was not as rewarding as going
to a turkish barber shop?
that time... well... that moment is still alive
with me... i stopped going to a brothel
after i discovered the joys of...
having ones hair cut and one's beard trimmed...
is probably better than ***...
certainly better than *******...
as i always try to remind the 3rd party sources
of the moral highground argument...
believe me when i say that i don't mind
the dodo project - the cul de sac antics...
i'll the complete man -
although incomplete -
as i will not be a father, nor a grandfather...
hell.. my grandfather is ******* at me
that he didn't become a great-grandfather!
in terms of biological timing:
he should have become a great-grandfather!
does that make me any less or a lesser man
when: as a mortal man: i am to be wed
to - bride death?

We’re busy all day long with studying and chapter summaries,
we’re stuck in quarantine. Luckily, I like my roommate's company.

We know that we have work to do as prep for upcoming classes,
but we know that it takes more than work to make young lasses happy.

So I talked my roomies into getting, a steak-n-cheese delivery,
instead of working fact-sheets, for our next term chemistry.

Dueling playlists cave-rave from the echos in our suites,
we’re having all the fun we can on opening quarantine week.

Some guys try for invites, like we’re throwing a private wingding,
but those texts go unanswered ‘cause we’re genuinely quarantining.

With the COVID blues proscribed - get that frown right off your face miss,
our studies are on schedule - and it’s time for some serious play *****!

All that I think is mine,
All that I think is me,
is a summation of what I've been told,
of what I've been instructed to see.

'Who am I' is not the question.
The crisis is not one of identity.
Don't be misled, my friends.
The real illusion is this 'me'.

There is nothing new inside there.
Just scribbled notes and summaries.
A bunch of borrowed opinions
And some stolen memories.

I know I can talk and share today.
I can scream to make some noise.
But I hope by the day I die,
I'll have somehow, found my voice.

With him it’s always this or that.
It’s never this and that and those and these taking them into account.
I don’t operate along his plane.
I pretend to empathize,
But I don’t stoop.
I envy him.
It must be so easy…
To view things as either this or that.

Buying a bottle was an adventure and she was always my plus one.
We plucked cork after cork, off the bottles, never thinking back.
Every bottle had a story and the corks we collected were the summaries.
Every cork was a memory, stored in a cage never to be revisited but always to be cherished.
Never to be forgotten, till the night came where she'd never again be my plus one.
Now I sit here with my glass empty, looking at a cage full of memories.
I can't start a new adventure alone nor can I keep this glass empty for long.

Passing, always passing:
People I wish I'd met,
Met long before their passing.

I take a crash course in their existence,
Personal history, wishes and outcomes
Scribbled for a rudimentary assessment.

They are but scrappy souvenirs,
Notes that barely scratch the surface
Of lives that cannot be summarised.

Passing, always passing:
People I wish I'd met,
Met long before their passing.

Burn. Burn. In the firelight of dawn when the sun sets aflame
those of us who awake to the clamor of day
unfinished tasks still holding up a traffic jam of events
on a scale unprecedented. Mind-blowing.

Work. Work. To break the list down into manageable machinations
Hoping that one by one the tasks will take flight
The page will be blessed with red  bloodied execution
and the ****** taken, will settle into substantial maturity.

Try. Try. New tasks germinate and populate the columns
and there is never enough time to juggle between starting
and finishing all those noble intentions. They crowd me out
pushing for space in an already jammed tight list of things to do.

I try to get on top of it but it wont surrender to my flirting,
and pampering and pushing, dressing and *******
and will not yield to my best one-liners.
Tasks come with a stern face and stare back at you
if you dare do something else instead.

The battle of boldness continues day in and day out
and I move on into sunnier climes where the beach
beckons more than another day at the desk
plodding through plots and summaries and shaping characters
line after line.

Sometimes I wonder what internal turbo charged engine
drives me to keep going-without looking back
at all those unfinished, abandoned tasks that never
helped in taking me forward.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Hands       places I haven’t known
   in her room taking-light all I have known

groping for some place I haven’t known
     from her   belly once with the life I have    known

of   value, I cross an   ocean I have not known
  to know  my girth   within  her rondure eye   I have known

to live   with   is   a cross I carry to a  hill I  haven’t  known
     seeking    correspondence   from   rocks that I have   known

to be   much  wiser,    in account of what  I have not known
    yet to   be wholly   complete as in ready  for fragmenting   I have known

as   means    to    live   in  summaries I have not known
   to    be  a tracer   of evidence, as if a  search    party    I   have   known

to    be   your  hands  in  all the   places in my  body I have not known
  to    be   sequestered by   the face you   carry all these years that   I   have   known.

Hundreds of haunting memories,
Of the times I've left behind.
Essays and summaries,
About the life that's been unkind.

Places and faces I've seen,
Some good while some were mean.
Everything written on white paper,
Now has vanished into sky like vapour.

Lessons learned from mistakes,
Saving myself from deep lakes.
Black ink flooded the blank pages,
It felt like my heart's inside cages.

With tears I erase the past,
But hide them from the world.
Neither the pages nor the pain exist,
Of "the diary I burned".

This Rock we're daily pushing...sad coz, these norms of justifying wrongs leave some of our Brothers and Sisters mooching. I've seen millions in all currencies, just listening to Humans expressing thoughts and feelings in all summaries. But what's it worth? when on Earth wisdom gets in one ear and out the other like an Oath. I've shaken the hands of time and so far have lived par, getting irritated as the clock ticks...fix some beverage at the bar coz I'm still average and so I pull tar. World matters, endless wars and crimes wall minds and withers, a friend of mine said it's a balance that will always be with us. I agree, but truth is Black homes and poverty was never meant to be indigenous. Economize for the future, the unplanned or foreseen, condomize for the butcher...I hope you're half-man and half-machine. Realize, we're just pawns in a chess game, needing to survive the heat in the fast lane, Materialize!

I died as i sip, the last inch drop of memories...
Tasteless, unfragrant, fragmented vacancies...

Recollecting, regulating the blurry negligible visions...
Recalling, rewriting, summarizing the Summaries

It felt like Treachery, disregarding this treasury...
life is a Memory, and then it is nullity...

Or at least that's what the wise man said...

We drown ourselves in each shot and swim out with a sigh
Sometimes with a gloom and sometimes with a smile

But in the end, both fades away,
And oh how quickly they fade away...

As if waves washing away our names written on the shore...
it fades out to presence, to sense another sore

sores, like old chest boxes, we dive deep in each,
swimming into it's memories, bone narrow they breached

like Leeches, we **** on our melancholy as we silently screech
watching pains as days turning to wrinkles, as closer we reach

We build our future, though we live for the past...
We all get obsessed and we all get attached...
We move forward to looking back trying to find a meaning...
But after all, Life is a memory, and then it is nothing...

Or at least that's what the wise man said

I often ask myself questions without answers
Observe what happens in sensible manners
A thought, I find, is less than it seems
because hearing voices is illusory dreams
I view in pictures and notions
review summaries of oceans
condensed to a raindrop
after it has evaporated
I can't trace back to review each idea
in its fleeting, fleeting, and magical scale
I sift, and I sift, with little avail
and then, Viola! I am struck with truth
Logic denial has brainwashed roots
and I, ego included, escape
I share and I lie and I propagate
because life, though a trifle and long
is simple enough to be written down
in a few short lines, by even the worst
writer or scientist or creationist-****
Live, breed, die, the cycle
that has bound me into constant denial
Die, die, die
The last truth
I have been running away
since my long-ago youth

Like post-it notes,
upon a yearbooks page.

Hand scrawled summaries,
of the important bits.

Faces, places, names,
happiness and sadness,
loves and passions,
hurts and pain.

Tattered but treasured remnants,
that taught me, that made me.

They fashioned me,
and completed my design.

All duly noted and stored,
and learned for good or ill.

These are my memories,
they are both me and mine.

Take the world by storm
Set goals and break boundaries
Be willing to embrace new challenges
Write your own summaries
Go through that path
And build yourself intellectually
Search for wisdom and understanding
Reach for prosperity