I've been reading a lot of nonsense about ****** objectification, like objectification is some kind of moral transgression. It's not, unless you want to indict others and yourself for thought crimes.
The term objectification is unfortunately mistaken as a stand in for ****** exploitation. 
 
 Objectification, for some, makes us feel attractive and desired, that we are beautiful, that we attract love and admiration, that we are recognized for our magnetism by strangers. That's certainly one of the motives for working out, watching the waistline and dressing well. 
For others it is about the understandable resistance of an unwanted approach, gaze, or suggestive body language, and while it may create within us a feeling of resistance, it is inherent in the human drama that has always been a part of us and, of course, these two experiences are not mutually exclusive.
But one thing objectification is not, is ****, manhandling, or ****** exploitation. We are all human beings, irrespective of our gender, ****** preferences or ****** sensibilities, with a commonality of desires for love and passion, and while we need to respect each other, we also don't do ourselves and others any favors by being to distressed or rabid about feeling another's heat for us.
Many of us are a great swooning web that wants to swallow and be swallowed in lust and love in search of a special someone, a kind of pre-objectification, for the purpose of future recognition.
****** OBJECTIFICATION is described as "the act of treating a person solely as an object of ****** desire". Objectification more broadly means treating a person as a commodity or an object, without regard to their personality or dignity:  sometimes referred to as "the zipless ****", a phrase coined by Erica Jong in the book "Fear of Flying". As described by her: -"It is a ****** encounter between strangers that has the swift compression of a dream and is seemingly free of all remorse and guilt. It is absolutely pure, there is no power game and it is free of ulterior motives". It has also been described as the perfect one night stand.
She cumed like a cinematic hissing pillow of flames
 
 The point of confusion is that the concept of objectification is mistaken for exploitation, and while sometimes associated, they are radically distinct from one another. Objectification is a DNA-driven biochemical prime directive to create .
Wetter than an otters pocket
 
****** EXPLOITATION: is a crime, meaning taking ****** advantage of another person without effective consent, and includes, without limitation, causing or attempting to cause the incapacitation of another person in order to gain a ****** advantage over such other person; causing the prostitution, or trafficking of another person; recording, photographing or transmitting identifiable images of private ****** activity or knowingly and intentionally exposing another person to a significant risk of a sexually transmitted infection.
OBJECTIFICATION: 
When we find another attractive, the brain has a tendency to flip out in a kind of eclipse as in a black out, like an electrical short perhaps, causing physical symptoms like heart rate increase, asinine nervous talking, sweaty palms, dry mouth, jumpy stomach, hot flashes, or more broadly speaking in a confused gibberish inspired by a spectacular entrancement of obsessive haywire desire. Objectification is the first door we walk though when we recognize our desire for another.
HYPOTHALMUS: part of the brain plays a masterful role in this, stimulating the production of the *** hormones testosterone and estrogen from the ****** and ovaries While these chemicals are often stereotyped as being "male" and "female," respectively, both play a role in men and women. As it turns out, testosterone increases libido in just about everyone. The effects are less pronounced with estrogen, but some women report being more sexually motivated around the time they ovulate, when estrogen levels are highest, which is why men tend to be more sexually aggressive. Women who are introduced to Testosterone for the purpose of body-building or gender change are often astonished by the huge uptick of libidonous desire.
Eeeeek, I could eat you like cherry pie !!!!!
"According to a team of scientists led by Dr. Helen Fisher at Rutgers, desire is broken down into three categories: lust, attraction, and attachment. Each one of these attributes is characterized by its own set of hormones activated by the brain"
LUST… Is driven primarily by Testosterone and Estrogen
ATTRTACTION… dopamine, norepinephrine, and serotonin motivate attraction
ATTACHMENT… oxytocin and vasopressin mediate attachment.
LOVE…When combined these three take us from us from pure objectification to the wholly trinity of love. ~~~~~
ARE YOU OBJECTIFYING ME
are you objectifying me?
i can bench 300 lbs. ten times
I'm a rich artist with a graduate degree
sun tanned
good teeth
driving a new BMW six series
with a rag top
big keen blue eyes
like a pretty girl
wavy hair
smooth *****
seven inch *****
nice ***
with the tender heart of a poet 
and a square jaw
want to wine and dine you
always smiling
bay *** kisses
silky tee shirts
Hawaiian 
luau vacations
or is it off to my castle 
in the 
Carpathians
impeccable manners
i smell like lavender coconut butter cream
live in a grand house
on 
beach front property
mucho bucks in the bank
nice as spice
you will never have to worry again
are you objectifying me?
GOOD
because I'm objectifying you
and id rather not hear anymore about it
lets not argue with nature
its like a rock falling
arguing with gravity
all the way down.

https://medium.com/@4zebra2u/******-objectification-the-lie-that-keeps-on-lying-fb79223d016f

Not sure why yard sales didn’t make the Stress Scale ‘cause the uptick in adrenaline, the ramped-up apprehension of letting stuff go, especially stuff that's been around for a while, the feeling of loss, picturing someone with your old stuffed pony, it’s painful.

This saying goodbye to things brings an emotional dilemma, a mixed-up sense of knowing it's high time for the thing-a-ma-bob with no actual relevance, to be dumped while some queasy feeling of unexpected meaning to the thing erupts.  

And an inner kid sputters, "No, please not my wacha-ma-call-it, no, I’m not ready yet.” or your favorite uncle's favorite chipped ashtray along with the obnoxious bric-a-brac, knick-knack, from; who was it again, suddenly becomes the Hope Diamond.

Yep, yard sales are tough, your private junk out for all the world, to ******, to turn upside down and sour-faced putting it down, as you breathe a sigh of relief the bozo didn’t take home your treasured, dusty paper weight with the faded shamrock inside.

Seriously, yard sales are like putting your whole life on the front page, exposed to strangers, because friends with your best interest in mind, tell you to simplify, clean out, move on, start anew after they’ve witnessed your life fly apart…

Like a paper napkin flies up into a gust of wind, swirls upwards  catches forever on a branch and these self-same, well-meaning pals are incapable of your need to keep the rusty tea kettle, the one you boiled water in to make tea for your sweetheart every day.

Then, when finally you’ve sorted through it all and it’s laid out defenseless in the grass, beside the “House for Sale” sign, you spot some **** fool, your dead mother's "Old Faithful" trivet held high, the one she got on the only vacation she ever had, yelling,  "Hey sis, will ya take a dime for this?"

And the raindrops begin to fall.

a rolling
baseball
is stopped
by a shoeless
father.

clap
if you hate
your handwriting.

the players
are on their knees.

it’s not your nose
it’s not mine
that is broken.

eat ice cream
like an orphan.

I count kisses in time with your heartbeat
thump thump
and I wonder if you notice the
slight uptick in mine,
every time you lean forward.
Isn't it nice how the simplest things
can make you feel so...
alive?

-R.H.

A stream of strawberry argot
and swift her auburn hair
let her shoal uptick in sluice
only a cheeseburger made grace
as her mamilla bare her cheek in crest there
if the goat made milk for perfect cheese
where she must have peas too
that keep her neat and trim
and with her dessert of ice cream
when she'll delight in luxury bob again.

By: Cedric McClester

He’s not a Richard,
Though clearly, he’s a ****
Because he thinks the rest of us
Really must be sick
To try to find the answers
Though there’s not one broomstick
He’s calling it a witch-hunt
Like he’s Jesus on the crucifix

He’s not a Richard,
Though clearly, he’s a ****
A world class narcissist
Who’ll hurl an insult quick
He’s mired in the muck
But it seems to never stick
Though it’s catching up with him
If you do the arithmetic

He’s not a Richard,
Though clearly, he’s a ****
Who’s knee deep in his ****
And it’s very thick
He’s gonna choke, or drown
You can make your pick
The investigations everywhere
Are on the uptick

He’s not a Richard,
Though clearly, he’s a ****
It’s an understatement
To call him impolitic
A garden variety con-man
Who’s slippery and slick
But the Eastern District charges
Like Krazy Glue will stick







Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

When life lurches,
Add a modicum of control—
Downshift.

Flight or fight is
Lack of hindsight.
Take a chill pill.

Inaction might be
The right reaction
For stress reduction.

Dim lights still glow
I left them on
For you only to know

Shedding lambency on my faults
I study stars jump out of planes
You see meteors do the same thing

Two wrongs make a pattern
One must fail
The uptick corkscrew found on this trail

We reach for starlight
You kept me on
It's bright out here

Connecting flights with lost signal
You flew to the wishing well
Stars still fall from planes

I held you in high regard,
your regard my deepest desire.

I wanted nothing but that spark of approval in your eyes
So I removed mine, blind to your faults,
And broke my bones, reattached them where you pleased,
mutated myself into a response to your needs.

I bent over backwards trying to make myself worthy of you,
worthy of a two second glance, of a slight uptick of lips,
when it struck me,
like a lightning bolt;
an epiphany.

I am not a contortionist.

I am not a mound of clay
to be moulded according to your expectations.

I am not water in a receptacle,
assuming the shape of it,
spreading myself thin or shrinking myself to fit.

I am the sea, the ocean, wild and free
and a little bit tempestuous,
a little bit uncertain,
a little bit blue,
but mostly,
not tamed by you-
not tempered by your desires-
not contained in your claustrophobic boundaries.

No more this simpering shadow of myself,
No more the swallowing of my words, choking on my laughter,
No more this false tittering at your behest,
No more the unravelling of my identity like a spool of thread,
No more the restitching of my being to be your best, not mine.
No more you, anymore,
Only more me.

One can hear the ingenuine
Consolations as yet another person
Succumbs to despair;
Faceless, nameless, blank, and distant,
Another person succumbs to despair.
We only know by the uptick
In certain metrics that
There will be one less consumer
Come tomorrow, tears shed
For dollars lost.
A controversial opinion, that suicide
Is bravery taken to its extreme,
But, when at the shores of the Rubicon
And a stone must be cast,
The strongest willed, the most charitable
Will cast theirs as everyone else commiserates
******* the stones around their necks,
Watching the soft taps on the water’s surface,
Farther and further into the distance.
The egoist in the ivory tower
Can hear their wailing from inside
The sterile room without window or door,
And, to protect himself, slips
Ammo into the cracks—
Those closest to the base
Grab fistfuls of cash and arms
To protect their own millstones,
Their livelihoods as sparks begin to fly:
Who to blame is the first question
******* them, the next,
While others see the ruse behind
Ritual suicide at the loss of the stone,
Some others turn to pity—
But, those unwilling to protect their leash
Are sacrificed to the gun-happy mongrels,
The rebels of the capitalist’s first vanguard
As they wave their blood-soaked flags
High, knowing the millstones
Rightly belong to the faceless victor in his tower;
Suicide is nothing more than theft, he says.
Thus the vanguard follows
Pulling the unwitting in
As they start fires with friction
And get lost in the smoke and mirrors,
Killing the wrong people—

I live conflicted
between the life I'm gifted
and fault lines that have shifted
under my feet
for a dream delete
under the concrete
mob elite.

The grass isn't green and ****
I stand here beetle bit
I can't seem to sift
through the needless rifts
brought by greedy grifts
and seedy spit
on our supply side cliff.

I stand out of the range
of the morally deranged
which is how they arrange
my inability to effect change
which puts me down in the count
and down on the scoreboard
so I can't purchase a mount
to start moving forward.

I'm the disease and the antidote
I'm the hunter and the antelope
water rushing through the dam I broke
flooding the land of hope
with my brand of nope
down a tantrum *****.

There's a cynical patter in town
saying it doesn't matter if I drown
or if I burn
either way I suffocate
then put into the ground in turn
they just listen to sounds that churn
as the unbound learn
there are hounds on Earth
that scour the turf.

I sit on the sidelines
begging them to stop
but then I find I'm
cheering the beating of cops
after seeing their glocks
protecting nothing but stocks
when an uptick in mops
is what we should want.

I am the owl sitting in the tree
I am the fowl dead among the leaves
I watch the world turn from my grave
where I burn as a slave
just to return to my cave
to repeat this the next day.

1.
This hunger artist cannot read
volumes of printed material fast enough
to satiate an immense appetite
and unquenchable thirst
to acquire learning from
the millenniums gushing fount of
cumulative chance revelations,
(or deliberate intent to validate
a premise vis a vis via
private investigative research),
thus unwittingly setting alight
an intense inquisitiveness sans
this curious George primate
experiencing the equivalent
of mental non fallacious
figurative enthusiasm analogous to:
patriotism, phototropism, priapism...),
whose every waking hour,
(when not tending toward
the basic needs for survival
as a seeming foreigner -
journey ying in this helter skelter,
madcap, slaphappy, whirled wide web)
expended to enrich the yawping
immeasurable volume mine fist size
housed cerebellum buzzfeeds
shrouded within skull and cross bones,
a vast scope of innumerable chunks
of fascinating, fortifying, and fulfilling
various subject matters,
that when pursued
to an approximate logical conclusion
yields abundant esoteric information.

These sundry shiny, salutary
nuggets of wisdom send a surge
within this once
a pawn a time white knight
(holed up in his rook re:)
of ******* sensations
coursing throughout each
neuron and axon of this gourmand
famished for (imagine if you will)
overflowing platters full of
juicy, fruity, and bounty tea full volumes
of incredible edible raw bits
2.
(toothsome incredible mental edibles
satiating faux lower
and upper indentured craving
most satisfactorily) with byte size tidbits
of savory, tasty, ultimately vaunted
mouthwatering hors d'oeuvres teasing me
to such fancy feast ohm my dog
amp pulley serving one godaddy
gloriously heightening inexplicable
joie de vivre keen longing making
tongue lick lips in anticipation
to partake from Smörgåsbord
of expansive culinary cuisines.

Though nada lick of evidence concluded
that hair color plays a role,
(especially plait tin ham),
I chose an arbitrary hue
(without arbitration, deliberation,
or genuflection) hair raising experiment
to be illegally blonde - courtesy
of hydrogen peroxide
as a last ditch effort to increase
the rate my noggin can absorb
page after page of sought after
printed information, less
to impress anybody, but more so
to satisfy an incessantly voracious
yen to understand, which
(as a minor side effect) possibly
increases the weight of thine
sixty plus shades of gray cerebral matter.

Thee correlation asper whether
a lighter tinted non natural tone
of genetically decreed follicles
(sprouting within Ziegfeld Follies
like tender brownian growth -
thread wide spindles in the case of myself),
I certainly experienced, invited,
and measured quantifiable uptick
in incidents involving being queried
as a smart schnorrer in a city
where the streets have no names)
adorning straggly strands
striving superiorly regaling
this Tess T uber ville wondrous tourist
with crackling, popping, and snapping
3.
electrical charges, which (as a side note)
allowed, enabled and provided
a pronounced ability, whereby
contents of pages got vacuumed
within a blink of an eye to imbibe
(without any adverse reaction
of heady inebriation not jeopardizing
body, mind or spirit of Brexit ting
away courtesy Yankee doo dill ling
confounding basic auburn zillions
of tough proteins called keratin.

I'm not winning by spinning
weird rhythms in the ninth inning.
This isn't a champion’s beginning
for some super sports saga.

There will be no happy ending
as the credits roll on to an upbeat song.
I maybe strong, but this world is wrong,
and a heart that beats for justice
will certainly get crushed quick.

On the uptick, I’ll fix my own ****
and get on with living in the world
that greed and ignorance broke.
As innocence gets crushed under the yoke
of the a cross our leaders swore salvation brought.

Yours truly would never be confused for a gourmand, nevertheless I could enjoy experiencing taste testing select food samples if offered an opportunity of attending a fancy feast viz smörgåsbord, whereby oral indulgence would arouse, excite, inflict outstanding pleasure upon every taste bud on mine tongue.

Asia generic gastronomy guy, I know how one can wolf down gourmet foods witnessing expanding girth; a destructive transformation clearly beyond any excessive enthusiasm. The necessity to feed and clothe this corporeal essence christened Cookie Muenster revels more so within the medium of writing.

Aspirations toward fame nor fortune less significant than the mere pleasure to concoct a visually savory appetizing epistle. Food for thought more than to fill the void, where growling heard across the world wide web, thus, no anterior, interior or ulterior motive asper begging for money underlies this exercise. yet...if perchance a voluntary choice arises to dole out a smidgen of legal tender a name and address indeed willingly linkedin to this faux popinjay person, who tries to convey decency, humility, levity...qualities that wield zest.

Food glorious food I savor
across the gamut of tastes,
not more than one over another
does yours truly favor.

Though anonymous hungry for fame
well fed writer wannabe and hardly
a substantially sized married baby boomer,
which dual disadvantages partly explains
lack of ubiquity among claque of cooks,
yet cautiously optimistic if I plug away
and craft this, that or another poem
yours truly would be in seventh heaven
if tinkering with words
could bring me bread and butter.

Many popular rotund
corpulent gourmands tame
their hungry beasthood easily put me to shame
vis a vis consuming in their one meal,
what yours truly eats in a lifetime,
none of those celery buddies,
whom this non-television watcher can name
seen on any selective cable channel
portly chaps exuding, inviting,
and offering odysseys
to appease palate uttering l'chaim,

I still revel in writing while on the hunt
(during Red October) for a meme
poetry and prose, and decided
absent clear and present danger
to introduce myself quite lame
with a NON-GMO marginal uptick
in any sudden fortune or fame,
yet twould be pleasantly syrup prized
if desire and interest to enjoy a repast
from potential buxom waitress didst exclaim

enthusiastically ideally after subtly
trying get her attention
said hypothetical well-fed dame,
and if perchance such just desserts
came via the kitchen maiden kitty,
versus kit chin middens
no boastful claim
would be uttered by me,
verboten fruits denied me
mine lack of politesse I would blame
her intellectual company satisfactory aim.

First and foremost on the agenda,
would be to locate an affordable,
casual and favorable eatery
tubby agreeable to our wallet and taste
indubitable choice without
(absent any formal dress code),
lettuce go further haste.

Strait away to the great weigh
(or if vegetarian – whey)
station of delectable food
where the exquisite, expertise, and exotic
high steak king claim on:
Peterson's Field Guide, Michelin Guide,
Gayot Guide/Gault Millau, American
Automobile Association, Forbes
Travel Guide reputation good.

Testimony to legendary praise
explaining why patrons travel
for countless days
transforming him/her
into a steady state,
where he/she shuffles along
in a dishabille quotidian famished daze
far and wide culinary craze
out of this world wide web,
the wispy Uber Lyft
wafts trace steamy filament up braise
through nostrils of our noses,
whereat heads nod affirmation i.e. ayes.

Even before making a glad entrance
(into Restaurant) complete
a host of fresh, enticing,
and delicious aromas serve as a treat.

Delicate, foreign, hefty indescribable
ole factory stimulants delight
infiltrating thru swinging kitchen doors
holding us smell bound,
though thin filaments invisibly light.

Thus upon a strategic seat, we hoped for,
or politely sought from the manager of the house
ah, our luck to be situated in close proximity,
where impossibility to stave off gaming hunger,
though neither myself
nor honorable guest grouse.

Now decision time to select one delicacy equally
as appealing as the next on expansive menu list,
the resultant penultimate
decision method resorted to twist
then flick (with eyes closed) the wrist.

This once difficult task complete
twas now the responsibility of the maitre'd
to store within his/her memory,
which tummy appeared like an amazing
sumptuous (promising scrumptious) feat
Minutes ticked away
as our stomachs growled louder
patiently awaiting the grateful moment
to dine starting with clam chowder
hello poetrysoup compiled
within me taste testing router.

Next in line from smörgåsbord feast
hors-d'oeuvres ample enough
to satiate thine palate
to whet from deep-fried delicacies greased
and self-restraint practiced
so the main course diminished least.

We fell upon butterfly jumbo shrimp
and marinated mushrooms when brought
an atavistic motion that memory wrought.

The Matzo ball soup with Jewish rye bread
went to the gullet with a dollop
of butter thinly spread.

A vegetable, venerable, veritable, and spinach pie
herbivorous delight, the apple of my eye.

Parmigiana, pasta, and poultry
(albeit free-ranging
NON-GMO and gluten-free) dishes galore
kept off the figurative lid
(no matter stuffed to gills
ready to be mounted) to eat more
quite aware that mine waist
bulged whereby beltway buckle tore.

Last (but not least)
at the FINIS of this well-stocked meal
comprises the selection of dessert,
which samples visible
from a glass-enclosed wheel
tickling that reserved “off limits” hot pocket
hashtagged for just such a sugary treat
thus summoning forth
within an engorged abdomen,
nonetheless, an audible zeal.

That reserved allotted sweet
baked, fried, or whipped parfait
or countless other grandiose
mouthwatering delicacy.

Ah...juiced enough wiggle room
for one decadent byte, perchance small
enough to roll around in the mouth,
like a Chocolate Mousse, or a honey ball.

Despite feeling ready to explode
hence yours truly uttering oy vey
simply eyeing a food tray
no longer in an ala mode vis a vis
clamoring for consumption
well aware of the morrow or sooner
this bloated dirigible fulfilled human,
would dearly caloric wise
despite going Dutch heavily pay
witness by need pointing
all the way to highest number
showing us how much we weigh
penny wise pound foolish yay!

Introduction: once again I incorporate
my trademark penchant
to fabricate fictitiously
portions of the following poetic endeavor
can you care to
discern fact from fiction?

Attempts at lifelong friendships and holy matrimony...

Shot thru with figuratively cankerous nub,
cuz yours truly did flub
even though as a scouting cub
how yours truly - alias Phil Anderer
committed faux paw unlike me papa bear,
he set admirable example
sidestepping and skirting carnal temptation,
(****** one... two...; ****** one... two...)
squelching roaring testosterone
against succumbing, rutting, quieting
call of the wild desire meaning
inevitably envisioning seducing,
mounting, kissing, caressing...
receptive quite pleasing gals,
nonetheless merely fending off such
verboten enticement left him panting.

Think surrendering to playful kibitizing
as kickstarter to hanky panky;
said violation against matrimonial covenant,
thwarting potential indiscretion subsequently
linkedin with Capital one aplomb.

I never bore witness
seeing me dada caught
in sexually compromised contretemps
to any aforementioned high fidelity hubbub,
yet his sole male offspring (me)
begat courtesy Harriet and Boyce,
(but one minor tidbit to share,
neither father nor mother physically alive
they long since passed away
to Elysian Fields)
found their one and only son - nada faithful
blithely nixing pledged troth,
which rent asunder filial bond

between self and precious progeny
plus provoked wrathful ire
and eventually forgiving soul of thee missus,
nevertheless her heartfelt
initial fury at discovery
of absent husband from Bryn Mawr quarters
didst activate pulse
to throb considerably faster
and louder than usual subdued lub dub
and even at present
when daring to discuss
mine moonlighting one night tryst
as Casanova wannabe, which
hard drive of mine generated message
Abort, Retry, Fail?

Though ***** never freed
flagellated empowered gamete sea men
despite libido being shifted to high gear;
****** ******* never consummated,
nor ****** ******* bliss experienced
much less allowed, enabled and provided
ditto the recipient of mine adulterous affections.
Far fetched fanciful whim
(hard to believe) fallacy
complicity, excitedly, and willfully
following imaginative thought,
though following whim never expressed,
but how rousing, spellbinding,
tantalizing the thought of foreplay
exciting, fondling, goading
receptive flirtatious paramour,
an alluring mistress of color
to attempt and strategize my abduction
as random human trafficked heist
held prisoner until an undisclosed
sum of ransom money
delivered to the captors.

The wife ofttimes references taboo subject
regarding aborted love affair
(alluding to side piece as underhanded gibe)
upon being probed, questioned, and raked
over figurative coals with intimate queries.

These mild interrogations
trigger a sudden uptick
in voluminous silence;
tick tock transpires soundlessness
spikes male level lent rub,
between one once randy husband
and grateful wife; she exhibited forgiveness;
how virtuous ma lady accepting spouse,
which whole frisky fiasco
(on a Freaky Friday)
fostered felicitous flagrante delicto
induced reciprocal black barbs upon psyches
their paternal parent inflicted.

Although antics unbecoming
monogamous kickstarted, declared, and avowed
essentially compromising legally binding union
long since ceased
(matter of fact yesterday April 21st, 2022
me and the missus
went shopping at BJ's. Whole Club
200-C Mill Rd, Oaks, PA 19456),
the psychological fallout
still indelibly etched.

Tumultuous emotions roiled
driving past long gone
home of me childhood
324 Level Road no longer exists,
yet chuckful of memories
flooded mine consciousness
flashback triggered gamut
of existential trials and tribulations.

As a youngster behavior of yours truly
(i.e. mine) never purportedly "bad"
rather reserved, I gave no indication
then how such a cute beastie boy
when becoming acculturated
within loving family provenance
versus disaster later married life evinced
displayed, exhibited, and flaunted
characteristics antithetical, diabolical,
heretical, and piratical
(so much for hyperbole)
par excellence of an exemplary cad,
a most definite poor example

and embarrassment of one
good for nothing dad
to two adorable daughters,
who deserved better egad
myself as basket of deplorable
father figure in retrospect me not glad
carrying on illicit affair
trying to compensate
while cultivating the row
(elle) regarding husbandry
during and post pubescence
never going out on date,
nor kissing an attractive lass,

when poet of Perkiomen Valley
scores of years ago
besotted with anguish
extremely, governed as introvertedly,
and painfully shy lad,
(he knew nothing about
powder milk biscuits)
and more or less describes himself
during his adolescence as a "wallflower"
self deprivation concerning experiencing
life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness
found aging logophile mad
at himself missing out

on typical social/interpersonal casual forays
donned in fashionable dungarees and plaid
fast forward to mein kampf as unhappily wed
whereby hours spent
(rather wasted) posting
and answering personal classifieds
for female assignations
numbering well into bajillions
in other words quite a scad
only countless lunar months ex post facto
did sincere regret prevail
mooch more'n a tad;
dalliances involving barenaked ladies
costing inxs of any legal tender ***.

Drooping, sore eyelids,
I squint at the white-blue fluff in my arms.
Peering blurrily,
I knock against the morning hours.
Stuck in the pale grey of last night,
The sight of snow gathering tears.

I'm awake-
But it feels like dreaming.
This perpetual state of forced relaxed-alertness,
Dragging my focus to its knees.
Begging, please, please,
I just want to fall asleep.

Nothing can make me less anxious,
One fiery ball of pent up horror.
I'm lost in every fragmented memory,
The floors wiped the ceiling with me.
Can I sleep, think, function, walk.
Can I talk to you, normally?
I've tried so hard,
And then you smile once at me,
And fling a giant wrench in my plans.

A little uptick,
Curved in the corner of your mouth.
It's lightly hidden by your nurtured beard,
Hazelnut-brown and stringy-soft.
My heart thumps, beats again.
It's once, twice, a million times,
Outside the eye of the storm.
As you turn your back to me,
I stare dumbly.
All I can muster,
Is a trembling response,
Thrown entirely off by your gaze.

Food glorious food

Asia generic guy gastronomy (and how gourmet foods eat destructively clearly beyond any) excess enthusiasm, the necessity to feed and clothe this lean mean exercising machine gunning corporeal essence christened Matthew Scott Harris revels more so within the medium of writing prevarication.

Aspirations toward fame nor fortune less significant then the mere pleasure to concoct a visually savory appetizing epistle. Food for thought more so then to fill the void, where growling heard across the world wide web, thus, no anterior, interior, or ulterior motive asper begging for money underlies this exercise. yet...if perchance a voluntary choice arises to dole out a smidgen of legal tender a name and address linkedin to this faux popinjay person, who tries to convey decency, humility, levity...qualities that wield zest.

Connoisseur of ethnic cuisine

More so a culinary pipe dream versus being an actual way of life, though savory sustenance certainly preferred than bland tasting comestibles.

Said theme (and title of poem) seems apropos during Holiday Fancy Feasts despite the plethora of – in my opinion bewitching barenaked lady hunting advertisements - reputable male personalities suddenly accused of ****** harassment after substantial time.

Yes granted so the unexpected name dropping felt like a bomb shell towards chaps, this baby boomer mwm would never suspect, point the finger, or accuse, especially one former Norwegian bachelor farmer from Lake Woebegone.

Though anonymous and hardly
a substantially (rather puny) sized
married sexagenarian baby boomer,
which dual disadvantages partly explains
lack of ubiquity among
claque of cooks, yet hoop full
to get attention, especially
after burning ghee
at the Spring Valley Y.M.C.A.
sparking flattery courtesy

some well proportioned dame
many popular rotund
gourmands l'chaim tame
their hungry beast –
wah hood put me to shame
vis a vis consuming in their one meal,
what yours truly eats in a lifetime,
none of those celery buddies,
whom this non television watcher can name
seen on any selective cable channel,

I still revel in writing while
on the hunt
(during Red October) for a meme
poetry and prose, and decided
to introduce myself quite lame
with NON GMO marginal uptick
in any sudden fortune or fame,
yet twould be pleasantly syrup prized
principally if compounded interest
from potential mistress didst exclaim

desire to enjoy a repast, though
said hypothetical gal need
not be a high society dame,
and if perchance such just desserts
came via the kitchen maiden kitty,
versus kit chin middens
no boastful claim
would be uttered by me,
her intellectual company satisfactory aim.

First and foremost on the agenda,
would be to locate an affordable,
casual and favorable eatery
tubby agreeable to our taste
indubitable choice without
(any formal dress code),
nor further haste.

Strait away to the great weigh
(or if vegetarian – whey)
station of delectable food
where the exquisite, expertise, and exotic
high steak king a claim on Michelin Guide,
Gayot Guide/Gault Millau, American
Automobile Association, Forbes
Travel Guide reputation good.

Testimony to legendary praise
explaining why patrons travel
for countless days
transforming him/her
into steady state,
where he/she shuffles along
in a dishabille quotidian famished daze
far and wide culinary craze
out of this world wide web, the wispy Lyft
wafts trace steamy filament up braise
our twitching noses,
whereat heads nod affirmation i.e. ayes.

Even before making a glad entrance
(into Restaurant) complete,
a host of fresh, enticing,
and delicious aromas serve as a treat.

Delicate, foreign, hefty indescribable
ole factory stimulants delight
infiltrating thru swinging kitchen doors
holding us smell bound,
though thin filaments invisibly light.

Thus upon a strategic seat we hoped for,
or politely sought from manager of the house
ah, our luck to be situated in close proximity,
where impossibility to stave gaming hunger,
though neither myself
nor honorable guest grouse.

Now decision time to select one delicacy equally
as appealing as the next on expansive menu list
the resultant penultimate
decision method resorted to twist
then flick (with eyes closed) the wrist.

This once difficult task complete
twas now the responsibility of the maitre'd
to store within his/her memory,
which tummy appeared like an amazing
sumptuous (promising scrumptious) feat
minutes ticked away
as our stomachs growled louder
patiently awaiting the grateful moment
to dine starting with clam chowder
poetry soup compiled
within me taste testing router.

Next in line from smorgasbord feast
hors d'oeuvres
ample enough to satiate thine palate
to whet from deep fried delicacies greased
and self restraint practiced
so the main course diminished least.

We fell upon butterfly jumbo shrimp
and marinated mushrooms when brought
an atavistic motion that memory wrought.

The Matzo ball soup with Jewish rye bread
went to the gullet with a dollop
of butter thinly spread.
A vegetable, venerable, veritable, and spinach pie
herbivorous delight, apple of my eye.

Parmgians, pasta and poultry
(albeit free ranging
NON GMO and gluten free) dishes galore
kept off figurative lid
(no matter stuffed to gills
ready to be mounted) to eat more
quite aware that mine waist
bulged whereby beltway buckle tore.

Last (but not least)
at the FINIS of this well stocked meal
comprises selection of dessert,
which samples visible
from a glass enclosed wheel
tickling that reserved “off limits” hot pocket
hashtagged for just such a sugary treat
thus summoning forth
within an engorged abdomen,
nonetheless, an audible zeal.

That reserved allotted sweet
baked, fried, or whipped parfait
or countless other grandiose
mouth watering delicacy.

Ah...juiced enough wiggle room
for one decadent byte, perchance small
enough to roll around in the mouth,
like a Chocolat Mousse, or a honey ball.

Despite that ready to explode
simply eyeing a food tray
no longer in an ala mode vis a vis
clamoring for consumption
well aware by the morrow or sooner
this bloated dirigible fulfilled human
would dearly caloric wise pay.

to become affianced to the grim reaper,
who never promised me a rose garden
nor crystal clear pool of fragrant delight
to accompany last living breath
before succumbing into black hole sun
re: the void of nothingness
with absolute zero remembrance of things past.

Suicidal ideation in tandem
with purposelessness
(nihilistic existentialism exponentially
increasing since my halflife ago),
and most importantly
cursed with flat limp hair,
which serious crisis undermines reason
to write reasonable poetic expression
spurs the notion to traverse consciousness,
and painlessly segway
into the hereafter
(and maybe reincarnated into a heifer)
on a broken wing and a prayer.

No glorious notion of heaven
(nor belief in some omnipotent supreme creator,
who will be instrumental
uniting those meeting their demise)
with dead souls doth explain
zealousness toward what happens to human body
very soon after they – give up the ghost
(second person singular) and die,
yet intimation fostered
linkedin to dulling senses of mine,

that allow, enable,
and provide means to see or hear,
cuz already at threescore and five
revolutions clocked around the sun
post January thirteenth
two thousand and twenty four
increased insightfulness brings to mind,
a quickening uptick courtesy senescence
whereby aural and visual deterioration occur
at what appear faster clip

than when I happened to be younger
within the lovely bones of this sensate being,
who finds himself sensitive to loud sounds
discovered audiological test administered
hearing loss at extreme high and low ranges
similarly recognizing even the largest sized letters
on the Snellen eye chart
fraught with greater difficulty
particularly without wearing corrective eyewear.

After querying Google concerning a medical term for hearing loss of high and low frequencies, the closest response came back as follows.

While there isn't a single, universally accepted term for hearing loss affecting both high and low frequencies, it would typically be described as a "mixed frequency hearing loss" or "broadband hearing loss" on an audiogram, indicating significant hearing loss across a wide range of frequencies, including both high and low tones.

Before acquiescing to the afterlife,
I bolster maximum body, mind and spirit triage
aware declining senescence
affects physical, mental and spiritual well being
what fluke roll of the genetic dice throw
wrought yours truly (me),
whose latent potential
hijacked (to Cuba) thyself,
an anomaly sexagenarian

forever stunted socially courtesy
courting The Pale Horseman
when just a lad
of approximately a dozen years
of longevity since being born
thirteen days into
the first month of nineteen fifty nine,
when according
to most Western cultural interpretations,

being born on January 13, 1959,
would not be considered
particularly auspicious or unlucky;
it's simply a regular birthdate
with no inherent positive
or negative connotations
associated with it in mainstream beliefs.

Perhaps, cuz I (the male offspring
from both deceased parents,
especially my father –
the renown Chemist B.B. Harris,
and to a slightly lesser extent
the late culinary cuisine queen
Harmit Harms Kuritsky -
the gal whose troth he pledged
while holding some
bubbling sinister looking flask in hand
on their first guinea pig type date
encouraged incurred genetic yen
that burned from without the buns of this son)
possesses a pyromaniacal streak,
no surprise cremation would be my choice
of post life treatment videlicet
mine grateful dead as a doornail
cadaver formerly yours truly.

Believe it or not, a dead doornail is actually a thing. It's a medieval carpentry term for a nail that's been “clinched” — hammered into a door with any protruding part hammered flat. It wasn't going anywhere, making the doornail “dead” and unfit for future use.