Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky,
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses
All went to the university,
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same,
And there's doctors and lawyers,
And business executives,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children
And the children go to school,
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

We beat the paths that
are laid before us with
machetes and gunfire
Loving violently, loving
violence like Roman citizens
at a colosseum.Cringing
heroically at dismemberment
and pain.
And we're all just the same.

All the planets are falling
Much to my chagrin
From their fishing line and ticky-tacky
Out of the stucco cosmos.

The days are carbon copies
Of last month’s plans:
Work and meet with people who matter
Not enough that I don’t need reminding.

The second bookshelf isn’t quite full
But the knick-knacks look nice
Even the fake succulent
Helps to tie it all together.

A brown lizard on the wall
Still only metal
Extends his tail for a towel,
But all of mine are folded on the floor
Next to the briefcase-looking record player
I hardly use but use enough.

And the TV is in front of my bed
Where I hardly sleep but sleep too much
And now the incense has died
But it will smell nice all day.

When I leave the microcosm will crash
Except for the sticky ticky-tacky stalactite
My burnt out light bulb will be replaced
A star for a new solar system
If any god or goddess thinks to make one
But for now
The planets are falling.

"Time is a ****, she screws everybody"
So much to do,
So little time.
Is there a chance to rewind?
Sadly no... It's not mine

Life throws things at you like the speed of light.
A lot of times you won't know what hit you, a right cross in a fight.
Just know to make the most of it.
Don't be blue,
Shine like a rainbow and use those precious hours, minutes, even seconds graciously given and just be you.

As years go by, the child won't have the time to rewind.
Bad choices wasted away,
Wishing there was another day.

March in the streets
But I urge you beware
They’ll still butcher the sheep
With the arms that they bear
Private properteers part with
No slave cropper’s share
So this Northern aggression's
Like Freeman’s red scare  
All the colors of wind
Through the head-shavers’ hair
The Guevara adventures
These pigs wouldn’t D.A.R.E.
The Arabian knights
In the grand wizard’s lair
The denaturalized dreamer’s
Recurring nightmare
Of the Stalingrad ghost
Still witch-hunting like Blair
The projects to the precincts’
New modern welfare
The post-trauma disorderly’s
Empty screen stare
The savages they thought
Were waaaaayyyy over there
The debt clock ticky tock
In the heart of Times Square
The 1st world problem-children
Who commonwealth care
Because some barely EAT
And we’ve so much to spare
But these cowherds still like their calves
Medium rare
And the bulls try to sell you
Their laissez-faire snare
Till your trapped in a minimum cage’s
Last prayer
And the only escape
Is upgraded software
Like automaton autobahn’s
In disrepair
In this fascist facade’s
Fragrant breath of fresh air
Just as toxic as stocks
Of the mock billionaire
So I shock ‘em like Tesla’s
Bolt-action Voltaire
And I leave it to you
To go **** it out there

Party like a rock star
Pretend to be elegant and wear sundresses
Remember to smile and wave at the desperate housewives, I choose to offend
I'm inconsiderate
My charismatic side makes up for everything
So ******* a kiss and flirtatious wink
I will ignore the fact you have a plastic grin
I hate to say it, love you're not my friend
Hey, don't worry I will do this again
Contaminated, I hope to infect the ticky-tack world
Please don't vanquish my plot of sin
Don't forget to bring a bikini (optional) and gallon of whiskey

I live in a small town with nice people.

Nice community theater people.

Nice non-swearing churchgoing people.

Nice people who keep their mouths shut and their eyes closed.

Nice people who live in ticky tacky houses and sweep their front porches.

Nice people with children who send text messages and drive to nowhere in the middle of the night.

Nice high school teaching, comfortably living people.

Nice mothers-and-fathers people with bright voices and dark eyes.

Nice bored people.

I live in a small town with nice people.

But occasionally they all go momentarily mad.

She's the women
You imagined
Stepford wife
She sit's with Hands clasped tightly
Courtney Loves drunken sister
Resonates within
Her wilted box keeps disintegrating
Her barricades
Useless
Soaking filth from the ground
She would cry
Tears dry
Salt is only producing
She's a mist uncontrolled
Wild growing daisy
Sitting in a ticky tack
Garden
She sees freedom
Fake
Placed in the deserts hot sun
Thirsty
Last drink
Now haunts
Suited up in her dress
She carries on
Fragmented
Dissapointing denial

Veronica LaMonica
Played the harmonica
In our local high school band.
She collected japonica
She says it is a tonic
Attuned to a young lady’s hand.
She swears she is not picky
But avoids the ricky-ticky
And goes instead for the class.
She claims not to be picky
But avoids like a big hickey
Anything of plastic or brass.

Veronica LaMonica
Played the harmonica
In our local high school band.
She collected japonica
She says it is a tonic
Attuned to a young lady’s hand.

Veronica is the prettiest
Down to the nitty grittiest
Girl in the local school we both attend.
She’s not always wittiest
Rather hit and messiest,
But I’m glad at least she is my friend.
I’d like her to be more
That’s what this rhyme if for
To tell her she’s the best in the world.
She ’s the very highest floor,
The one have always adored,
She’s most artistically talented girl.

Veronica LaMonica
Played the harmonica
In our local high school band.
She collected japonica
She says it is a tonic
Attuned to a young lady’s hand.

"There's doctors and lawyers and business executives. They're all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same."

Come on, you say to me,
help to **** the soil dry of
deep, muddy clays made by
colonial lullabies and
forgo your selfish thoughts
of suicide in favor of a
dark grey summer salad coupled with
a nuclear fish fry.

Unleash a cosmic sigh, I
bleed to breed  my human seeds and
cultivate forests of ***** while
pulling up deliciously
edible weeds who sing
laughing limericks we
care not to listen to and
languishing warnings we
care not to heed.

Me and you, baby, let's
build a box made of
ticky-tacky in the back of
some skeletal, suburban
cul-de-sac, crafted over a
cesspool vat of human feces,
spicy DDT and industrial-grade
mercury.

Apathy towards the life source
breeds apathy towards corporate force
breeds disgust, killing the serpent and
reclaiming the horse, tossing the
apple, preparing for the worst.

Pile up pounds of gold and
crowns to assign money a meaning
and postmark letters filled with
plastics and post-its with
"PARADISE IN THE REACH OF ALL MEN"
scrawled in felt-tipped pen to
peoples perched on the edge
of the planet, to whom
time gave rhymes from learning to
lay their ears down in the
dirt and succumbing to the
the devil wearing a blood-stained,
starched, white shirt.

Dilute the base of me with
an acidic you, quick, pollute
the river so salmon scurry
downstream and the arduous algae
dries up, screaming.

I wonder if the taker can
become the giver.

Sitting – well, slouching
Parochial ticky-tacky chair distorting sprawled alignment
How does a piece of paper weigh so much?
How do I extrude a greater weight from it into another page?

Fumbling with knotted headphones
My eyes drop into the inked Times New Roman
The page intones my fumbling succinctly, “I try to find something, anything.”
What boyscout, boatsmen, or climber crawled in my bag and tied this interminable knot?
My eyes turn to the knot -
Still fumbling with the toner’s entombed dance

I grew up in this slouch, in this tangle, thinking in Times New Roman
Etching knowledge into or from 8 x 12 reams
Does the paper weight I feel in the paper’s request equate to the weight of a neural connection ascertaining chemical knots?

the blank or nothing, forged in the frost,
                                                          ­         harrowing,
thumb and time consuming,
     toward the rally of "thus" heard,
          as ever a language of lawyers, but no law
being passed.
             churn out charcoal.
           pencil stirp stimata sharpen a few digressions,
but nonetheless the main
narrative comes back....
          and it comes back
nuanced, relative, muted and
      somehow mutually exclusive:
the idiot always appears:
        he never is.
   same talk of god & genius,
devil & idiot,
                     & gentleman...
           we are clearly making
a new prototype of the Belgian countryside,
or the talk of Trenches,
          but no head to be hunted...
     no "bad guy",
         just a guy that's there to be respected
because enough philanthropy sides with him...
  or dittoing caption:
   no matter whether heard, misheard or
            unheard,
           it's called the Thesaurus Rex stomp,
the Panzer pulverisation assault -
                     i don't care what words you used,
iron grits iron
            iron nibbles iron,
                   both sides are given hammers
and made to talk about nailing nails in
rather than investing millions.
       talk easy? i'll iota a séance...
but tell me... why is diacritical markings
disregarded when a name like Bartók
suggested? why is it Bartok rather than Bartuk?
or why is that umlaut arithmetic?
       enlighten me!                      please!
    are you educating people for free while
ensuring you own the fisherman's keys?
i guess you are!
       if A is universal encoding from French
to Norwegian, diacritical markings can employ
transcendentalism, in this case alienation -
       it's Bartook -
             the acute incisor cut open the o
and made a parabola of u -
                     don't squabble for what's already an
incorrect answer: diacritics unanimous
is a bit like alcoholics anonymous:
         feed the ******* shame of not asserting
the prescribed marching orders;
the squabbling hogs that you are: pristine my ***:
it's not a ******* birthright! squeem!
  and, go on, squirt out another adolescent
   piglet oink of pseudo Auschwitz!
    i'm saying: why bother to use it in the
first place? why not do away with the whole *******
Belshazzar pantomime of insurance Latin
      for adaptability of working on robotics?
                          sure, effective in Poland as
an aesthetic-variant of u, but elsewhere: no point for
the acute comma above the o, it's still an o -
we implanted that diacritical mark for jokes,
to create an economic sieve!
                  it was never Bar-ticky-tocking-*****,
           but Bar-took -
              otherwise stop pretending,
  or i'll slap you with a raw herring across your face,
and it won't be a politicised red,
  and fish included, or colloquial for a: white lie.
          my advice? either respect the diacritical
application, or go away with the Latin alphabet
altogether...
                      why?
      the soul is born when the words are added /
reason...
                  no words, no soul...
the argument counter? humanoids and that whole
Darwinistic debacle to connect the dots?
     it's called a zoo...
             and a zoological investigation -
self-reliant logic, not something individualistically
accountable for in terms of man...
              and humanism as: less zoo
and more university...
                 or cracking the coconut Dostoyevsky -
but as you do, love the semblance -
            i guess history only exists within a timespan
of 1.3.2015, and the ancient Greeks
       are but a yawn.
                         i don't mind,
i have built up enough qua
                        to answer quo -
                                            qua? as being thespian....
quo (vadis)? where are you going...
                a place called the submission to applause;
the place i'm act? a bunch of neurotics mumbling
toward a statue they're desiring to *****
but never do... they are a bunch of people
mumbling and gesticulating toward a statue they
desperately want to *****...
     or as i said in my Holly Valance kiss kiss video
to a poor Syrian girl:
                     so you too? less exposing the frantic
differences between us but nonetheless attracted?
or what said masculine blonde to the olive-tan girls?
    well, listen, the girls kindred of my impression
         on the word bone are prone to play the
bad girl who-did-it ***-appeal...
                           i just drink to fall asleep,
    i might talk before i do:
god - don't you think that "spoken word" requires
a substantial consideration for lessened poetical optometrics
of complication, and and an eased consideration
of language?
                        well, whenever you feel like it,
it's a grand schematic of a Taj Mahal daydream,
had i the marble and the desire to ***** something
comparably worth a number of tourists
that the original attracts -
oh **** me! poetry can plagiarise everything!
i say plagiarise, but i mean: take the mickey out
of every mouse...
                                or the peppercorn ****
you try to get rid of...
             once i caught a mouse, and it committed suicide
by jumping down the stairs.

AND WE'RE ALL MADE OUT OF TICKY-TACKY

Oh...Zeus
we haven't heard of you
for such a long time

Ah Yahweh yes
we can see you but
we can't hear you

And Allah we
can hear you but
not see you

if you look down
to the left you can see
the icon...turn your video on

now who isn't
here or rather
all here...un-mute yourselves please

I see on the chat line
that alas
Buddha can't make it

and the Dharmic religions
offer
their apologies

let's see who are we
waiting for
ahhh there's someone

in the waiting room
the Second Coming
I'll just let Him in...ping

ok shall we begin then
I am who am
the Lord God of Zoom

and here we goooooo
zooming across the known
universe in our little boxes

Here we are,
Swimming afar from Great White Sharks
Cooling with chill manatees from Mars.

School Break has been pleasant and it has been unfortunate as a peasant
Tenth grade is all over so what will tumble to cover when the eleventh is to hover?
I am fazed to predict the outcome.

My mom is long gone
And it appears that all is lost
What shall I regain in place of this unpresent ghost?

Never realized
The ultimate surprise
Could suppress me.
Never knew I could be so encouraged
When the terrain gets tough
I am stable to be.

Time surpasses on the clock ticky ******
I remain tucked in my snuggly bed at night
Pondering,
On the thought of how it all came to flash before my eyes in a heartbeat.

Last December
What a chilly, lonesome snowed forest
Current in July
What a hilly, hotsome blown storage

Abstracted memories,
Not a topic listed in my book.
Passages of temporaries,
Fish back to my hook.

What is to uprise
What is to dubb nice
What is to enlarge size
In this life?

lithe heat strikes this insipid core
a corpse beyond any defintion
my heart is failing
my brain is failing soon
my liver
pancreas
are odes to grecian God's
ambrosia is the **** of the grecian urn
Mary Percy Shelly shelled
Why do I feel like Frankestien
the monster, not the creator
the tag line i need to say
to show i am me,  i am smart
that i am not Dr. Frankentien
wasting away with a prompt
that i am real
i am real
I am real
please
please God
I am real

take me to the river
and let the water rush
in torrents from the
tear ducts of the source
the spring gurgling up
with a frigid message
ground water from
aquifers of secrets and the
memories that you swear to me
don't exist anymore
yet play in the crystal clear
blackness of your
eyes
when your pupils disappear
and blend into the river
of your mahogany irises.

walk me to the water
with the lead around me
and the bit of your attraction
burrowing between my teeth
as i bite down and
grind my molars to the
pollen that leaves a yellow green
sheen on the
surface of your watering hole
pull me as i fight
raging against the magnetic force
that shackles me to you
and leads me to the light
at the end of the tunnel
even though i'm lost.

you can lead a horse to water
just like you can tie me to you
sew me into the
secret place of your heart
and incorporate me into
the intricate web of your
ecosystem
fed by the endless supply of
that water which
digs its claws into the sides of my throat
and coats my stomach with
a poison
that i welcome.

you can lead a horse to water
but you can't make me drink
you can move the mountain
and dry up
snow drifts that drip and
melt into a
band of wild horses running
downhill to tread upon
my ticky-tacky heart
but if i drink then i'm surely lost
the sutures between us
cut out to reveal
the nascent pink scar
puckered at the edges
that represents our connection
how easily it can be
torn asunder
and leave me bleeding
on the banks of your shore
while you float away
one with the waves.

Soft speakers.
Lured.
And held in secret.

Blessed martyrs.
Maybe matrons of
health and hell.

So, maybe.
I should be okay.
And maybe, so should you.

All aboard the train
railroading you to the end
of the line mankind

                  Kelly McManus

The wrecking ball long since
demolished boyhood house zen
located at 324 Level Road,
a once nonagricultural,
pastoral, rural residence,
which soulful yen
I called home while
veritably sequestered, quarantined, positioned...
sprawled atop spaciously shingled roof
countless years (B)efore (C)ovid-19
scanning distant horizon
for unsuspecting barenaked lady,
perhaps said goo goo doll sunbathing

catching rays while maybe listening
courtesy iPod to WXPN
one among several favorite stations of mine
one hotmail (male) buzzfeeding
avast fancy feast
home sweet home
since February 28th, 1968, when
Boyce and Harriet Harris
deceased parents then at their prime
both transplanted Brooklyn
Borough citified folks,
hankered to escape urban jungle
quickly acclimated livingsocial in the country.

Aforesaid domain didst span,
once assumed, encompassed, incorporated
one hundred plus acre wooded estate
(analogous to fictional land inhabited
by Winnie-the-Pooh and his friends)
listed in national register
as "Glen Elm", where ran
woodland surrounding a golden pond
favored by Canadian Geese,
but under game plan
of commercial developer Donald Neilson
(a tall lumbering
"all business no play doh" man.

Soon after aforementioned builder/realtor
bought expansive land
blueprints soon drafted for
an army of vinyl city
exemplifying Little boxes
on the hillside ditty
Little boxes made of ticky tacky...gritty
material upending wildlife refuge,
ah...what a pity.

Impossible mission to stop industrialization,
the das capital way
spurring thy preferential longing
for nature preservation oye vey,
and to make a million bucks in USA
if land left off limits
for propertied class today
then in the near future,
an aggressive builder will sashay
confirming prophecy
scooping up gobs of profit
out maneuvering competition

analogous to a marathon relay
race quickly witnessing little boxes
to sprout all the same
by construction workers,
hired brawny hands to maximize
American middle class dream
asper buying affordable home
nailing steady income,
viz all work and no play,
after acquiring a mortgage to outlay
which prospective homeowner
doth figuratively hammer away.

Their choices limited indeed
maybe there's a green one and a pink one
and a blue one and yellow one, how zing
free enterprise, and they're
all made out of ticky tacky
held together on a wing
and prayer they all look
just the same sporting lawn
anticipating family with young children
ready to play kiddy game
such as: Ring-a-ring-a-rosies
A pocketful of posies
A tissue, a tissue

We all fall down
The king has sent his daughter
To fetch a pail of water
A tissue, a tissue
We all fall down
The robin on the steeple
Is singing to the people
A tissue, a tissue
We all fall down
The wedding bells are ringing
The boys and girls are singing
A tissue, a tissue
We all fall down.

It's raining outside. Of course
It's raining outside, it always
Rains here.

The drops rasp on the skylight;
They streak down the windows,
Clinging onto
               the glass, praying not to hit
                              the ground.

Hitting on the glass, the ticky-tack
Drip-drop pitter-patter paradiddle
Resounds in my mind.

I hear it, the rain, but not the rain.
I hear it, your voice.

The way you laugh, your rises and
falls, your tiny snorts, your aghast
gasps and sounds of speech.

Your lips parting and pursing, your
Tongue weaving a song, breath
Sounding and resounding
               with the rise and fall of your
                              chest, heavy with tender love.

The deep gray refracted in the water
Is so friendly, so inviting, when it
Speaks with your gentle voice.

It's raining outside, and I would bet
It's raining on you too. Maybe even,
The whispers in the rain,

Sound like me
to you.

let us want linear narratives -
by the current standard of: narratives -
let us all want parallel linearalities
and then: on some odd
occasion: forced to mesh-into
focus point -
                       when we were somehow
young and england
was a place at a time
when the handover of hong kong
happened -
what subsequently happened:
custard and fudge brain
crayon squiggly: attached to a fridge:
with a magnet...

here's to: i'm out to lunch...
toying with poker and... altruism...
solipsism, "atheism" and
albinos for autism...
rather: nothing will elevate
this circus -
          
   oculus per oculus -
     eye for an eye...
      skin for stretch... belts and leather...
and i hope: non-kosher shoes...
whitey brightey almost the: "almighty"...
but god! chugging along
with all these bachelor lepers -

i want to earn honour as a yack
herder in mongolia -
chequers: not chess -
because i need to go back
to m'ah rootz... my caucasian -
caspian sea - mongrel mongol
and of turkic or hOOn!

talent: "talent": a hot topic for
the imagery of phallus -
          a talent for a porceil girl of
toy-kyo...
           with a rabbit sized
bouquet of fleshy pwetty pwetty
pet-als!

  or... that it once happened...
the steve colberT show...
  the blind stevie minor...
        keeping up appearances...
a mrs. bucket that stressed!
it's: mrs. bou-kay... i.e. bouquet...
beau! literally! beau-*****-full!

stefan col-bear -
                stephen coal-b'err...
              it's tragic... a mrs. buckeT
sort of tragic...
         it's not as much fun when...
there might be people
who joke around "illiteracy" of those
who didn't used the proper
orthography...
that english isn't stress-laden
with orthography - but can be deviated
with and back into:
to speak is one thing: to write:
another...

  mrs. bouquet / alias bucket -
or a stephen colberT...
         alias: col-ber...
coal-bear...
                     coe-bare...
           it's like elevating a status
symbol: yeah... i too wish
i had a surname like: VIN-D'SOR...
or win-win-d'sour...
or windsor...
                
windy, sir?
            it's not like there will ever be:
something to play with in english
that might arrive at: suspense!
  it's the bare enlisted minimum -
i too have reached my cul de sac
of ingenuity -
perhaps i invented a light-bulb -
perhaps i have confronted
a river with a bridge -
        there's no second "eureka":
there's only a devolved "word salad":
or an attempt at a Prokofiev linear -
even with all the flurry of
decapitated sounds
running around like...
                    decapitated "sounds"...

i still come to the conclusion:
this was never going to be a language
that could be extracted
and used in a formal manner...
paint me a practical picture:
preferably a schematic used in
engineering: when looking at a Kandinsky...

now look at these words:
there's a rigidity of spelling -
a kept grammar?
well... to know blue is to also...
settle for the hue that might tease
either green or yell-ow...

               but is it a venture: prim formal?
i hope to find grave and bed come
11pm... and my legs come 6am
tomorrow... and at least 3 hours
of walking... till the point that
my underwear will rub so much
on my inner-thighs that
i will have to smear savlon cream
on what will become oyster flesh
tenderness from all the rubbing...

go full commando or wear a thong?
it's impossible to walk these parts
naked...

statures of man being childless -
this full-embodiment of a self-to-act-upon:
that there's nothing selfess about
the endeavour of clogging the thoughtlessness
of aether and the frictionless
eternal dynamism of heliocentrism -

sum up! there's that call for verbiage!
people often want,
instructions - the verb that does
the verb and some other bidding...
i have yet to read a philosophy book
that allowed itself:
grammatical peacocking -
that grammar is somehow only
ever pure instruction:
it can never be deviated from:

lesson no. 1: how you speak is:
the passable grammar lesson you will
ever hear...
get fudge: thrown into the deep
end and told to: tread water...
head above the floating mantel piece!
****** don't stink it up
with drowning!

       ergo: the great yawning sea...
and all the ghosts and myriads
and sentinetls and gargantuan: failed...
prodigies that come with it:
adding of course... a looting of
spanish armanda or some...
**** u-boat tricklet...

            god... when evil was fun...
when evil was tinged with:
a german plight of competition with
the french and the english and
the spanish and the russians:
this strange: by god... this very strange
inferiority complex...
you simply can't stage a formidable presence
with all that technological
advances on a whim:
when shuffling along with
some decanting'ant: k?

               of the little people that
england has somehow incubated:
where's my bombast?!
where's my: i'm here, i'm now...
i'm thoroughly fire-proof!
where is that... maybe not allowing
myself a presence nibbling at
crumbs from the tablature of London...
go back to Edinburgh?
get lost in Vales?
         yes... way over "there":
in way way over in les country...
a go-get-to-Lesley brittle...

             - which wasn't much of a sunday...
a tired body a welcoming
bed: the part of life where
every 34 year old might
finally settle for: get busy dying -
or vegetating or... basking
in the suns of former glories -

these ample three-sometimes-four
worded junctions
for all the biped beasts that:
prance or dance or run spectacular
migrations of fake:
in their marathons -
  
i have truly managed to assert that:
the world can happen by myself -
beside... on some distant reservoir
of thirsty new lives and:
vitality pomps -
    for their vitality i have a submergence
into a vitriol i dare not exercise -
that's of course:
they have been incubated by a lie...
any lie in the framework of
the already unshakeable complex
of pedagogy -
   it would have been better to have...
beside crushing me...
not given me this leisure of
education...
              to stand organic and proper...
to appeal to the thespian monotony
of customer service roles
where: the customer is always right...

it was foolish to educate a man
beyond the age of 16... all the guys who
dropped out of school come 16
are now either mortgage shackled...
definitely with wife and most certainly
with child in tow...
i'm hardly my own making...

tone death: blair -
again... is it a solipsistic statement,
that... famous mea culpa?
      it's my fault for most certainly it is...
but at what point did
other people stop existing...
at what point can i blame fortune
on myself?
this sunday was depressing because...
i made a bet...
on 8 football matches...
a bet on a win... and a bet on...
both teams scoring...
16 matches to choose from...
but this is why i abhor gambling...
it's this stupendous suspency
akin to reading a thriller...
which i have never...
but you get the idea should
such results as: 6 - 1 tottenham hostpurs
vs. man united /
   7 - 2 aston villa vs. liverpool...
ever... degrade your least
chosen of avenues of "hope"...

               - somehow a "little known" nuance...
albion is a chalk-faced
grinning monstrosity of lime, scaling
up to no ends meet: and meat...
of course... the kosher furore
surrounding the omnivorous
tacticians of: one rice patty
per village: sq. a dozen heads...

i too want linear pursuits of language!
hey! over 'ere!
i want to take it upon myself
to be native and be get-given
the wings of flight!
looks like i'm nowhere going...
looks like i'm going nowhere:
but i'm still somehow: a here...
in this heliocentric ferriswheel
post-scientific darwinism this: pop cull-the-truants!
i am somehow hier...
herr sir-farce-a-****-to-borrow...
and a lot...

to have to escape the russians
and the polacks and the germans
and all these subsequently not-listed
cretins of the european pervesion...
of: self-mutilating yodle yo...
barracks up-right and standing...
congregating around
the mafia proposal of the:
       vain-ticky-tic-toc-bataclan...

dog collars of priest simply ooze:
satisfaction with:
a missing status of believbility...
but do not fret!
the hougenots are the last rats
to bail... of a sinking ship...
and there's all this night's worth
to want to exploit with
the burdens of sleep!

that we are pulverised dead-end-knottings...
insomnia provoked...
it's no matter...
the people without attache
verbiage... with strict cohesive
conducts are all ablaze...
i want these skimmies for
detailing scoop of fat over fat:
leaving little of beliebvable bone
to be a miscarriage of... ahem...
"reality";

i have been accused of
missing an ego a clog in the jargon
of the: "ex machina":
a reality without a deity
is almost like...
            a flaking of a skin...
that must be associated with
an invitation to possessing a self.

Mind a racing’

Fingers ablazin’  
                Across this page of mine.

Ticky, ticky, tock
                Goes this clock of mine.

Each year passing
                 Faster than the next.

A time-sensitive journey
                 To your ultimate Truth.

Taking time to evaluate...
                 To
                     Rearrange
                                Your
                                      Priorities.

It might just take a leap of faith and a hope that the universe will catch you when, and if, you fall down.

How many more springs will be granted.
Springs where seeds and flowers are planted.
How long will the filthy rain sustain the vigor
Of tender shoots so green and innocently eager.
We spew out human seed to take root on earth,
Lessening its space, its value and its worth.
How long until we are world of ants scurrying,
Everything trampled by the constant hurrying.
We have chipped the beauty away into rows
of ticky-tacky houses where nothing grows.
Where are the jungles, the forest primeval.
Not now but air and water that are lethal.
Oh, mourn the earth of beauteous expanse.
Now no beauty can be found with a glance.
Mayhaps we will survive - but maybe not. . .
between progress and the lessons taught.
Sleep well sweet Earth, beautiful orb.

?
I don’t think so…
but I don’t think… so?
Who thinks… or ever did?
If it ain’t broke, why fix it?
You can’t make an omelette
without breaking an egg.
Five will get you ten if you
know how to work it.
But no ‘ticky no shirty’ is
the theme-song for today.
— Ray Laccetti

Edementous eyes...
Act a Little surprised...

Mirror in my face...
It's the smile that I chase...

The broken heart aches...
So I put my blood to ace...
I've fallen for the lies...
That felt like a paradise...

Read the letter of that phase...
It's my heart that's a race...

Ticky alarm that rings up twice...
"I love you" was a falsities...

The broken heart aches...
So I put my blood to ace...
And I could feel...your lies...
That you like my eyes...
              ~leila

Spurred by mother dearest
as well as other politesse
drummed into her second born
fobbing blandishments as incentive
tumbled off fingers of prodigal son
tripped wordsmith to splutter forth
forthwith the following lines.

Back in the day
quaint summertime of yore,
the following popular refrain reverberated
within hallowed halls of school.

"No more pencils,
no more books,
no more teacher's/
teachers' ***** looks”

Never did exotic vacations populate
those twelve weeks
when doors flung opened
at Henry Kline Boyer,
whence score years ago yours truly
now (June 8th, 2023)
approximately same age,
when mine paternal grandfather visited
me, and other members of family
at then Route Deliver #2
Collegeville, Pennsylvania,
the home of mein kampf.

Figurative eons ago
bygone innocent childhood of mine
oblivious to progressive political issues
easily delighted, liberated, tantalized...,
especially when Sunkist grandpa Harris
(Aaron) indulged yours truly
jais nais sais quois
kibitizing lovingly, mirthfully
naturally offering pleasing qualities,

surrendering slender tanned arms
where upon left wrist dangled his
venerated wristwatch (analog),
I ecstatically fingered, prized, and toyed
with said object fascinated
at the linkedin craftsmanship,
which yielded general squealing zealousness
from an ordinarily
non emotionally expressive lad.

This towheaded grandson,
extremely excited when me daddy's papa
came to this figurative rural outpost,
(despite his chastising behavior
ridiculing favorite progeny's children),
where traces of early twentieth century
still evident when manicured formal gardens
pegged, limned, harkened... back
to a supposedly simpler time

when this elderly family member
(who only completed eighth grade),
whose birth benchmarked, coincided
and demarcated with late
Industrial Revolution, whence
Philadelphia birthplace noisy with
horse drawn carriages competing
with early model automobiles
crowding thee busy thoroughfares,
where the streets have no name.

Lemme return back
to the previous topic,
and explain how
I felt eager to interact
with cranky, yet doting old man,
which showcased chained metal links
wore a temporary imprint
upon his bronzed aged skin – dog
head lee remaining
gently persuading him

to delay when departure time arrived
for favorite boyhood relative,
twas pure heavenly glory
conniving, finagling, inveigling...
our favorite grandfather
to situate myself on right side
and toy with the wristwatch (analog),
winning three way verbal tussle
between yours truly and two siblings
(an older and younger sister),

which when a kid
also exhibited glee at occasions
treasuring said older folk gave me a frog
tiled toy (sliding puzzle)
that required dexterity
moving pieces fastly secured,
which when complete
always left me agog
and this, that or
some other gewgaw, souvenir, trinket

(plus a bit of chump change given to me)
spurred mine late mum
to spark me mental cog
to say “good morning”, “good afternoon”,
“goodnight”, “thank you,”
or when eggnog proffered to this
most senior chronological guest,
who sat at the head of table,
or blankly watching television
like a bump on a log

while chided, forced, induced...
to parlay social graces
from this mere pollywog,
who (much as delight arose fussing
with trappings worn
loss on atrophied flesh),
a skittishness found me
averse to follow orders
as if I happened to be a petsmart dog.

At that time
Florida orange juiced industry
touted, popularized, and linked in
with Anita Bryant -
American singer, political activist,
known for anti-gay activism
and 1958 Miss Oklahoma
beauty pageant winner,
and a brand ambassador
from 1969 to 1980
for the Florida Citrus Commission.

Thee paternal grandfather
oft times visited our then rural abode
at that time one sturdy estate
(originally called Glen Elm)
wildlife twittered, jibber-jibber, crowed...
within the plush wooded tract
even then blueprints drawn up
land deeded, mapped, parceled,
and slated to explode;
our then eco-friendly family averse
to witness expanding commercialization

across wetlands horizons
(Canadian Geese flocked to pond,
which liquid haven courtesy Donald Nelson
got the plug pulled
and drained watery basin)
asthma late mum didst lament
misfortune of flora and fauna,
nevertheless chided me
against even thinking
about sabotaging property

after I played  devil's advocate to goad
conspiratorial natural forces
to undermine cookie cutter
look alike slap dashed, ticky tack
shoddy tinderboxes (vinyl city) growed
on formerly untamed, uber ****** woods,
perhaps early boondocks getaway hoed
and plowed, but indomitable
(naturally enshrined eminent domain
abandoned since pioneers

bushwhacked rustic habitations)
nature relished reversed
grape seeded tracery etched
yet 'pon reflection,
I ponder how early occupation knowed
no habitat foresaw wreckage
when decision via wealthy Leipers,
(original residents plus wealthy owners of
The Bell and Clapper)
unanimously custom made crafted mansion
actually originally a summer getaway.

Self imposed endeavor
to indulge drafting literary effort,
though methinks love's labor's lost
hunt and peck typing  
across qwerty keyboard
and captcha characteristics
unique to house of my boyhood,
whereby selecting alphanumeric
and/or special symbols  
instantaneously generate electronic signals
electronically communicating,
subsequently transmitting

byte size data packets description
to respective ip node
(to create document courtesy OpenOffice)
analogous how modus operandi
to build stately
sturdy summer country villa,
(circa early 1900's)
which property whittled down
to 324 Level Road demesne comprising
about a half dozen acres
eventually acquired by Boyce Harris
February 28th 1968 -

for x number of years mortgaged he towed,
a near singlehanded undertaking
to gentrify house as elements of style
witnessed once ship shape
wrought architectural structure
weathered, subjected to degradation,
naturally deteriorated
him (in vain) to enlist by force if need be
grunt laborious services of singular son
the author of these words,
who houses the ineradicable genes
and chromosomes of August Aaron.