A man named Skinner came to dinner,
with knife poised to attack any so-called sinner,
where did his acerbic attitude come from I wonder,
it was not fair that he should cast any man asunder.

To be frank, he was the one who should work harder,
then, there may be more pleasantries stocked in his larder,
perhaps a change of heart is beyond some of us,
but if you don't - we won't let you on the bus.

We won't let you have any credibility,
until you gain some compassion and humility,
put your silly knife away described as fun,
otherwise we'll lock you up in the Tower of London.

You don't deserve accolades with your set of blades,
We won't waste our time as your pathetic memory fades.

Once upon a time there was an Italian,
And some people thought he was a rapscallion,
But he wasn't offended,
Because other people thought he was splendid,
And he said the world was round,
And everybody made an uncomplimentary sound,
But he went and tried to borrow some money from Ferdinand
But Ferdinand said America was a bird in the bush and he'd rather have a berdinand,
But Columbus' brain was fertile, it wasn't arid,
And he remembered that Ferdinand was married,
And he thought, there is no wife like a misunderstood one,
Because if her husband thinks something is a terrible idea she is bound to think it a good one,
So he perfumed his handkerchief with bay *** and citronella,
And he went to see Isabella,
And he looked wonderful but he had never felt sillier,
And she said, I can't place the face but the aroma is familiar,
And Columbus didn't say a word,
All he said was, I am Columbus, the fifteenth-century Admiral Byrd,
And, just as he thought, her disposition was very malleable,
And she said, Here are my jewels, and she wasn't penurious like Cornelia the mother of the Gracchi, she wasn't referring to her children, no, she was referring to her jewels, which were very very valuable,
So Columbus said, Somebody show me the sunset and somebody did and he set sail for it,
And he discovered America and they put him in jail for it,
And the fetters gave him welts,
And they named America after somebody else,
So the sad fate of Columbus ought to be pointed out to every child and every voter,
Because it has a very important moral, which is, Don't be a discoverer, be a promoter.

Diving into an endless void with never ending clocks that float in every direction

Ticking to time zones that no longer exist.
Cascading upside down I rise into a world
on a distorted path of the less traveled.

I land on a solid platform of rocks and rubble.
filled with no sense of security I walk towards a figure with a face of light projecting old memories onto a wall of painted pain.

It’s filled with uncomplimentary colors devoid of all light.

I float to the wall that was created on the tears of bad luck and I paint my yellow light down the wall in a single stroke.
It ages instantly becoming duller but
The yellow remains moving along with the other colors.

I move my hand against the wall as I am pulled upwards and I can no longer touch it and it eventually vanishes away.

I float higher looking up towards a light.
it engulfs me, now it is all that surrounds me.
Leaving my shadow with nowhere to land, so I caress them in my arms.

I hear clicking and I close my eyes.
"Have all the opportunities passed?
Have all the paths ended?"

I feel the warmth of everlasting sunshine on my skin
and the sounds of calming winds and rustling leaves.
I open my eyes to see a bountiful blue sky
of puffy white clouds and rainbow rays of sunshine.
with emerald green grass forming to the shape of my hands

and with no sense of purpose, I smile.

My value is up in the air again.
“Be confident,” they say.
“Do your best!”
But what is my best?
When all my contributions are turned back,
when my best is thrown away,
I need to reassess.

Perhaps the value I've given
is not valuable.

When I am trapped in a single
uncomplimentary description,
when they smile
and turn away,
am I now worthless?

I may decide I am worth
a kings ransom
and my thoughts and actions
his right hand
but I cannot be confident in
the assessment
unless there is one
willing to buy.

~ inspired by, & for Sally~

the modern internal combustion engine
is a series of controlled explosions, a spark
ignites the flammable gasoline, the pistons
moving, dispensing energy to turn our
wheels so we may voyage as a pair, to
there, and to here:

our very hearts, the original model of
this energetic blood disbursement of
oxygen ignited by electric pulsations,

one contemplates
at this late hour, at this late date, when the
moving parts, obedient servants,
collectively concur
that the use-by-date has nearly arrived and
we must soon take a sabbatical to the whereafter

what two, surely not three, digits will complete the right side of our hyphen,
our from~ to, as if that were an achievement,
more than merely, an identifying bracelet

think upon it, thousand of explosions,
millions of sparkings electric, we have been
engineering our reactors to go to over 100%,
until we cry out
how long you gonna run that body down,
and when the answer is ascertained,
we now done and undone,

we
no longer care, that last datum,
we are, of it, unconscious,
the date prior inscribed in flesh,
its mate, its uncomplimentary
complement,
can be only scribed in
Vermont granite,
as a warning
to any passerby
that yet harbors
the illusory that
the future can
be foretold

i saw him once at age of four
he bade me wine to drink galore
and then again at five years old
to scribe my name in figures bold
black upon the outside bench
got spanked for that 'n left a stench
then if my memory serves me right
at age of nine on eraser white
uncomplimentary homage to my teacher
to write he bade whereupon appeacher
swift to headmaster sent me in fury
but too afraid of one-man jury
he bade me fabricate pathetic tale
of his absence when i went to jail

lies and deceit [seemed to] have coloured my years
for now in sweetest memory appears
marking of my own homework
in red paint while I duties shirk.
thus, in twilight as old i grow
i'm frightened of my grey shadow
the falsehood has become my own
part of flesh and part of bone
can i correct this wayward soul
and fly towards the divine goal?
methinks must use mercurial self
warts 'n all, angel and elf,
in ad hoc program to do good deed
and so transform this wayward steed

and comfort take in this small truth
that memory is a no-good sleuth
takes delight in remembering bad
but scarce commemorates good times had
so yes, sweet devil, you've been here,
i've done your bidding since toddler year
but higher angel i've followed you too
galumphing on in ways few knew
G-d alone will weigh the scales
for He sees the whole with all details