THE CONSTELLATION OF THE GIRL FROM WALLA-WALLA

I lick her lifeline
"Oh I can see you are
going to have a wet wet life!"

she watches the tip of
my tongue crawl along her heart line
"You will have many many kisses!"

she sips her fine wine
laughs...munches
sweet onions

all I say
comes true right away
guess I got it right

cute girl from
Walla-Wall sleeping
just up against the Pacific Ocean

"Shhhh..!" says the Pacific Ocean
as it watches over
her sleep

I place DayGlo stars
on all her extremities
she becomes her own constellation

the constellation of
the Girl From Walla-Walla
being looked after by a specific Ocean

"Walla-Walla!"
the waves call to her
but she's lost inside a dream

"Are you really a real Walla-Wallan?"
I ask of her
"Yep!" she grins "I'm the real thing!"

"The only Walla-Wallan
I knew before I knew you
was a girl in a book!"

I turn the snow-dome
up-side d-own
watch it snow forever

I remember her
letter telling me
of a snowstorm she once knew

"I took a little of the snowstorm
put it in the fridge so
it could melt in July."

"The snow storm had never met
a July before
so this was its big chance!"

"When the left-over snowstorm
finally got to meet its July
it cried itself into oblivion!"

"...here. . ." her letter
pauses for ever
outside snow falls now


*



Walla Walla is the largest city in and the county seat of Walla Walla County, Washington, United States.A Walla-Wallan is a person from Walla-Walla! You just don't often meet someone who comes from what appears to be a made-up name or a South Seas island. The sound of it is delicious in itself!

Or something a baby would say learning how to talk! Wanted to write it like a little movie excerpt and to play with time and go from remembered snowdome snow to real snow falling outside...from real time to letter time and mix them up like the way they happen in the mind. Probably only ended up confusing folks!

English villages are the same...the most amazing combination of names or sounds. And sounds...I love. Together the villages of Over Wallop, Middle Wallop and Nether Wallop are known as The Wallops and run in a line roughly North to South following the line of the Wallop Brook, which has its source in Over Wallop.

THE CONSTELLATION OF THE GIRL FROM WALLA-WALLA

I lick her lifeline
"Oh I can see you are
going to have a wet wet life!"

she watches the tip of
my tongue crawl along her heart line
"You will have many many kisses!"

she sips her fine wine
laughs...munches
sweet onions

all I say
comes true right away
guess I got it right

cute girl from
Walla-Walla sleeping
just up against the Pacific Ocean

"Shhhh..!" says the Pacific Ocean
as it watches over
her sleep

I place DayGlo stars
on all her extremities
she becomes her own constellation

the constellation of
the Girl From Walla-Walla
being looked after by a specific Ocean

"Walla-Walla!"
the waves call to her
but she's lost inside a dream

"Are you really a real Walla-Wallan?"
I ask of her
"Yep!" she grins "I'm the real thing!"

"The only Walla-Wallan
I knew before I knew you
was a girl in a book!"

I turn the snow-dome
up-side d-own
watch it snow forever

I remember her
letter telling me
of a snowstorm she once knew

"I took a little of the snowstorm
put it in the fridge so
it could melt in July."

"The snow storm had never met
a July before
so this was its big chance!"

"When the left-over snowstorm
finally got to meet its July
it cried itself into oblivion!"

"...here. . ." her letter
pauses for ever
outside snow falls now

THE CONSTELLATION OF THE GIRL FROM WALLA-WALLA

I lick her lifeline
"Oh I can see you are
going to have a wet wet life!"

she watches the tip of
my tongue crawl along her heart line
"You will have many many kisses!"

she sips her fine wine
laughs...munches
sweet onions

all I say
comes true right away
guess I got it right

cute girl from
Walla-Wall sleeping
just up against the Pacific Ocean

"Shhhh..!" says the Pacific Ocean
as it watches over
her sleep

I place DayGlo stars
on all her extremities
she becomes her own constellation

the constellation of
the Girl From Walla-Walla
being looked after by a specific Ocean

"Walla-Walla!"
the waves call to her
but she's lost inside a dream

"Are you really a real Walla-Wallan?"
I ask of her
"Yep!" she grins "I'm the real thing!"

"The only Walla-Wallan
I knew before I knew you
was a girl in a book!"

I turn the snow-dome
up-side d-own
watch it snow forever

I remember her
letter telling me
of a snowstorm she once knew

"I took a little of the snowstorm
put it in the fridge so
it could melt in July."

"The snow storm had never met
a July before
so this was its big chance!"

"When the left-over snowstorm
finally got to meet its July
it cried itself into oblivion!"

"...here. . ." her letter
pauses for ever
outside snow falls now

THE CONSTELLATION OF THE GIRL FROM WALLA-WALLA

I lick her lifeline
"Oh I can see you are
going to have a wet wet life!"

she watches the tip of
my tongue crawl along her heart line
"You will have many many kisses!"

she sips her fine wine
laughs...munches
sweet onions

all I say
comes true right away
guess I got it right

cute girl from
Walla-Wall sleeping
just up against the Pacific Ocean

"Shhhh..!" says the Pacific Ocean
as it watches over
her sleep

I place DayGlo stars
on all her extremities
she becomes her own constellation

the constellation of
the Girl From Walla-Walla
being looked after by a specific Ocean

"Walla-Walla!"
the waves call to her
but she's lost inside a dream

"Are you really a real Walla-Wallan?"
I ask of her
"Yep!" she grins "I'm the real thing!"

"The only Walla-Wallan
I knew before I knew you
was a girl in a book!"

I turn the snow-dome
up-side d-own
watch it snow forever

I remember her
letter telling me
of a snowstorm she once knew

"I took a little of the snowstorm
put it in the fridge so
it could melt in July."

"The snow storm had never met
a July before
so this was its big chance!"

"When the left-over snowstorm
finally got to meet its July
it cried itself into oblivion!"

"...here. . ." her letter
pauses for ever
outside snow falls now

THE CONSTELLATION OF THE GIRL FROM WALLA-WALLA

I lick her lifeline
"Oh I can see you are
going to have a wet wet life!"

she watches the tip of
my tongue crawl along her heart line
"You will have many many kisses!"

she sips her fine wine
laughs...munches
sweet onions

all I say
comes true right away
guess I got it right

cute girl from
Walla-Wall sleeping
just up against the Pacific Ocean

"Shhhh..!" says the Pacific Ocean
as it watches over
her sleep

I place DayGlo stars
on all her extremities
she becomes her own constellation

the constellation of
the Girl From Walla-Walla
being looked after by a specific Ocean

"Walla-Walla!"
the waves call to her
but she's lost inside a dream

"Are you really a real Walla-Wallan?"
I ask of her
"Yep!" she grins "I'm the real thing!"

"The only Walla-Wallan
I knew before I knew you
was a girl in a book!"

I turn the snow-dome
up-side d-own
watch it snow forever

I remember her
letter telling me
of a snowstorm she once knew

"I took a little of the snowstorm
put it in the fridge so
it could melt in July."

"The snow storm had never met
a July before
so this was its big chance!"

"When the left-over snowstorm
finally got to meet its July
it cried itself into oblivion!"

"...here. . ." her letter
pauses for ever
outside snow falls now

there’s a network of vigilance
around the guarded causeway
of walla walla
the stacked cinders
and smoking rails
leave nothing
but black hooded fate

gray halls
and razor scrawls
mark the hellion crust
abandoned overtures
and dead fill
cloud the horror
and retribution
of this hell hole

bloaters and skin heads
(with wretched memoirs)
shout incessantly
from the second floor
adolphus greely
reading over the
rights of nantucket
and banging his head
on the bent steel bars

with pockets pinched
and tumblers dangling
the stone walls soften...
a seminal moment
crosses the roo house
as mother mary
and the good painted warrior
loosen a finely tuned grip

MAKE war songs out of these;
Make chants that repeat and weave.
Make rhythms up to the ragtime chatter of the machine guns;
Make slow-booming psalms up to the boom of the big guns.
Make a marching song of swinging arms and swinging legs,
        Going along,
        Going along,
On the roads from San Antonio to Athens, from Seattle to Bagdad-
The boys and men in winding lines of khaki, the circling squares of bayonet points.

Cowpunchers, cornhuskers, shopmen, ready in khaki;
Ballplayers, lumberjacks, ironworkers, ready in khaki;
A million, ten million, singing, "I am ready."
This the sun looks on between two seaboards,
In the land of Lincoln, in the land of Grant and Lee.

I heard one say, "I am ready to be killed."
I heard another say, "I am ready to be killed."
O sunburned clear-eyed boys!
I stand on sidewalks and you go by with drums and guns and bugles,
        You-and the flag!
And my heart tightens, a fist of something feels my throat
        When you go by,
You on the kaiser hunt, you and your faces saying, "I am ready to be killed."

They are hunting death,
Death for the one-armed mastoid kaiser.
They are after a Hohenzollern head:
There is no man-hunt of men remembered like this.

The four big brothers are out to ****.
France, Russia, Britain, America-
The four republics are sworn brothers to **** the kaiser.

Yes, this is the great man-hunt;
And the sun has never seen till now
Such a line of toothed and tusked man-killers,
In the blue of the upper sky,
In the green of the undersea,
In the red of winter dawns.
Eating to ****,
Sleeping to ****,
Asked by their mothers to ****,
Wished by four-fifths of the world to ****-
To cut the kaiser's throat,
To hack the kaiser's head,
To hang the kaiser on a high-horizon gibbet.

And is it nothing else than this?
Three times ten million men thirsting the blood
Of a half-cracked one-armed child of the German kings?
Three times ten million men asking the blood
Of a child born with his head wrong-shaped,
The blood of rotted kings in his veins?
If this were all, O God,
I would go to the far timbers
And look on the gray wolves
Tearing the throats of moose:
I would ask a wilder drunk of blood.

Look! It is four brothers in joined hands together.
        The people of bleeding France,
        The people of bleeding Russia,
        The people of Britain, the people of America-
These are the four brothers, these are the four republics.

At first I said it in anger as one who clenches his fist in wrath to fling his knuckles into the face of some one taunting;
Now I say it calmly as one who has thought it over and over again at night, among the mountains, by the seacombers in storm.
I say now, by God, only fighters to-day will save the world, nothing but fighters will keep alive the names of those who left red prints of bleeding feet at Valley Forge in Christmas snow.
On the cross of Jesus, the sword of Napoleon, the skull of Shakespeare, the pen of Tom Jefferson, the ashes of Abraham Lincoln, or any sign of the red and running life poured out by the mothers of the world,
By the God of morning glories climbing blue the doors of quiet homes, by the God of tall hollyhocks laughing glad to children in peaceful valleys, by the God of new mothers wishing peace to sit at windows nursing babies,
I swear only reckless men, ready to throw away their lives by hunger, deprivation, desperate clinging to a single purpose imperturbable and undaunted, men with the primitive guts of rebellion,
Only fighters gaunt with the red brand of labor's sorrow on their brows and labor's terrible pride in their blood, men with souls asking danger-only these will save and keep the four big brothers.

Good-night is the word, good-night to the kings, to the czars,
        Good-night to the kaiser.
The breakdown and the fade-away begins.
The shadow of a great broom, ready to sweep out the trash, is here.

One finger is raised that counts the czar,
The ghost who beckoned men who come no more-
The czar gone to the winds on God's great dustpan,
The czar a pinch of nothing,
The last of the gibbering Romanoffs.

Out and good-night-
The ghosts of the summer palaces
And the ghosts of the winter palaces!
Out and out, good-night to the kings, the czars, the kaisers.

Another finger will speak,
And the kaiser, the ghost who gestures a hundred million sleeping-waking ghosts,
The kaiser will go onto God's great dustpan-
The last of the gibbering Hohenzollerns.
Look! God pities this trash, God waits with a broom and a dustpan,
God knows a finger will speak and count them out.

It is written in the stars;
It is spoken on the walls;
It clicks in the fire-white zigzag of the Atlantic wireless;
It mutters in the bastions of thousand-mile continents;
It sings in a whistle on the midnight winds from Walla Walla to Mesopotamia:
Out and good-night.

The millions slow in khaki,
The millions learning Turkey in the Straw and John Brown's Body,
The millions remembering windrows of dead at Gettysburg, Chickamauga, and Spottsylvania Court House,
The millions dreaming of the morning star of Appomattox,
The millions easy and calm with guns and steel, planes and prows:
        There is a hammering, drumming hell to come.
        The killing gangs are on the way.

God takes one year for a job.
God takes ten years or a million.
God knows when a doom is written.
God knows this job will be done and the words spoken:
Out and good-night.
        The red tubes will run,
        And the great price be paid,
        And the homes empty,
        And the wives wishing,
        And the mothers wishing.

There is only one way now, only the way of the red tubes and the great price.

        Well...
Maybe the morning sun is a five-cent yellow balloon,
And the evening stars the joke of a God gone crazy.
Maybe the mothers of the world,
And the life that pours from their torsal folds-
Maybe it's all a lie sworn by liars,
And a God with a cackling laughter says:
"I, the Almighty God,
I have made all this,
I have made it for kaisers, czars, and kings."

Three times ten million men say: No.
Three times ten million men say:
        God is a God of the People.
And the God who made the world
        And fixed the morning sun,
        And flung the evening stars,
        And shaped the baby hands of life,
This is the God of the Four Brothers;
This is the God of bleeding France and bleeding Russia;
This is the God of the people of Britain and America.

The graves from the Irish Sea to the Caucasus peaks are ten times a million.
The stubs and stumps of arms and legs, the eyesockets empty, the cripples, ten times a million.
The crimson thumb-print of this anathema is on the door panels of a hundred million homes.
Cows gone, mothers on sick-beds, children cry a hunger and no milk comes in the noon-time or at night.
The death-yells of it all, the torn throats of men in ditches calling for water, the shadows and the hacking lungs in dugouts, the steel paws that clutch and squeeze a scarlet drain day by day-the storm of it is hell.
But look! child! the storm is blowing for a clean air.

Look! the four brothers march
And hurl their big shoulders
And swear the job shall be done.

Out of the wild finger-writing north and south, east and west, over the blood-crossed, blood-dusty ball of earth,
Out of it all a God who knows is sweeping clean,
Out of it all a God who sees and pierces through, is breaking and cleaning out an old thousand years, is making ready for a new thousand years.
The four brothers shall be five and more.

Under the chimneys of the winter time the children of the world shall sing new songs.
Among the rocking restless cradles the mothers of the world shall sing new sleepy-time songs.

I wanna be a wallaby
The wallabies are the best
They beat the mighty all blacks
By 47 to 26
What a win by the wallabies
I can hardly believe my eyes
What a win I hope they can keep it up
Oh yeah and yes they gave the
All blacks a surprise
Perth was the place
To catch the great challenge they embrace
Wattcha wanna be
A walla wallaby
A great win a great win
Oh yeah bow bow
Carn the mighty wallabies
We are the best
Because we beat the best
But who cares because those
Mighty wallabies say to me
Wattcha wanna be
A walla wallaby
Football meat pies yes those
Wallabies beat the odds
And gave the Perth crowd
A great win for them
Carn the wallabies
Carn the wallabies
The all blacks are the team to beat
And we go one-up oh yeah mate yeah
I wanna be a wallaby
Watcha wanna be
A walla wallaby
47 to 26, I can hardly believe my eyes
Yes Australia gave us a surprise
Go the wallabies kick some ****
Go the wallabies show some class
And they did all blacks had their chances
And Australia never gave up
Cold tinnie crack one right now
Cold tinnie crack it open mate
Crack one for the mighty wallabies mate
Cold tinnie crack one right now
Green and gold green and gold
The best team around
Green and gold green and gold
Too good oh yeah
Black is a dark colour
We need to put the bright colours first
Green and gold, cold tinnie cold tinnie
Crack one for the wallabies mate
I am an Aussie and I love life
And I love when the wallabies win
Especially against the mighty all blacks
Well done wallabies 47 to 26
I can hardly believe it
Wattcha wanna be
A walla wallaby
What a win highest ever score
Against New Zealand
Yes dudes what a win

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 9, 2017)

Hocus pocus—artifice alchemy brew.
Seek the dictionaries of abracadabra
To find a liquid mercury clue.
Alla peanut butter sandwiches
Will turn your poem blue
While Walla Walla Washington
Will douse the verses through.
Best recipe for a glimmering hoopla:
Salagadoola…bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.

"I always wanted to wander."
"To wander? To where?"
"From Walla Walla to Uganda."
"That's a wide world to wander!"
"You wanna?"
"Wanna what?"
"To wander?"
"To where, Uganda?"
"Youbetcha!"
"I don't want to onomatopoeia anymore!"

"Are you refusing me?"
"You're confusing me!"
"Do I do that usually?"
"Yes, and it's abusing me!
"I didn't used to be."
"But you see it's no use to me,
So start talking lucidly!
You're coming across abstrusely
By talking so loosely.
You've got a lot of 'splaining to do Lucy."

"It started out grand!"
"But quickly got out of hand."
"But you fail to understand."
"You should have planned."
"Is that a reprimand?"
"You're like the ampersand."
"I don't understand."
"It means 'and per se and';
The pronunciation became bland
And three Latin words became 'ampersand'."

"But, don't you need a vacation?"
"What is the relation?"
"It's a matter of pronunciation,
And sometimes punctuation.
Some words deserve elimination.
Yes, and some deserve illumination.
Thus my original illustration.
In the interest of communication,
Some things deserve enunciation."
"I will accept that explanation."

"But, I'm still hugely fond of
The two of us going to Uganda;
As we internationally wander
I'm sure it will make you fonder
The more the two of us wander."
"But I really don't wanna!"
"Don't wanna what?"
"Go to Uganda!"
"That's what you don't wanna?"
"You betcha!"
"It's okay. They probably won't letcha."

So while
"Gate, Gate,
Paragate,
Parasamgate,
Bodhi,
Svaha!"
is the Great Dharani
and the Radiant Supreme Mantram,
we must also
keep in mind
The Lesser Dharani
of
"Oo Ee
Oo Ah Ah
Ting Tang
Walla Walla Bing Bang"
and also meditate
on the Lesser Mantram
of
"Ohwah
Tagoo
Siam"
and always remember
that us poets
are all enlightened
because we know
the sound
of one hand clapping
because
we always seem
to hear it
when we read aloud
at poetry readings.

Mummy what's for breakfast?
My tummy starts to ramble
Can you hear?
Hurry mom!! Soon I will have gas..
and gas is trouble... trouble...

Oh my poor child...
Come in the kitchen..
Pass me the Gardenia bread...
all i need is 8 slices of bread
a cup of low fat milk
one fresh egg
3 tablespoonful of brown sugar
and a pinch of salt..
Walla here's the mixer,
mix it well my child..

Now help me put the slices in a tin
A dash of cinnamon, in every slices
and here we are raisins on the top...
Help mummy with steamer now dear
everything is set....
In less than 20 minutes..
We will get your tummy settled....
Breakkfast! Rise and Shine!!!!

I walked among the seven woods of Coole:
Shan-walla, where a willow-hordered pond
Gathers the wild duck from the winter dawn;
Shady Kyle-dortha; sunnier Kyle-na-no,
Where many hundred squirrels are as happy
As though they had been hidden hy green houghs
Where old age cannot find them; Paire-na-lee,
Where hazel and ash and privet hlind the paths:
Dim Pairc-na-carraig, where the wild bees fling
Their sudden fragrances on the green air;
Dim Pairc-na-tarav, where enchanted eyes
Have seen immortal, mild, proud shadows walk;
Dim Inchy wood, that hides badger and fox
And marten-cat, and borders that old wood
Wise Buddy Early called the wicked wood:
Seven odours, seven murmurs, seven woods.
I had not eyes like those enchanted eyes,
Yet dreamed that beings happier than men
Moved round me in the shadows, and at night
My dreams were clown hy voices and by fires;
And the images I have woven in this story
Of Forgael and Dectora and the empty waters
Moved round me in the voices and the fires,
And more I may not write of, for they that cleave
The waters of sleep can make a chattering tongue
Heavy like stone, their wisdom being half silence.
How shall I name you, immortal, mild, proud shadows?
I only know that all we know comes from you,
And that you come from Eden on flying feet.
Is Eden far away, or do you hide
From human thought, as hares and mice and coneys
That run before the reaping-hook and lie
In the last ridge of the barley? Do our woods
And winds and ponds cover more quiet woods,
More shining winds, more star-glimmering ponds?
Is Eden out of time and out of space?
And do you gather about us when pale light
Shining on water and fallen among leaves,
And winds blowing from flowers, and whirr of feathers
And the green quiet, have uplifted the heart?
I have made this poem for you, that men may read it
Before they read of Forgael and Dectora,
As men in the old times, before the harps began,
Poured out wine for the high invisible ones.

O woe is me about everything, all the time
A little child is being eaten by an alligator
Clearasil turns a pustule into a crater
Just when you think it's too early, it's later

"No,* "No, "No,

I don't wear shoes that's a silly notion
How would I do the laces up?
Trailing like spaghetti I would trip over
More time than walking silly things

"No, "No, "No,

What do I wear wing mittens to keep me
Warm in the cold months, what a silly
Sight I never found a pair odd ones worn
Snagging on trees, my falling out the air.

"No, "No, "No,

I don't use a hankie when I sneeze, last time
I did that I singed my poor nose, if I ever feel
One coming close I put my nostrils in the water
letting it out. Walla I have an instant warm bath.

"Too many questions little one now my turn,

What can I scratch behind an ear yes inwards,
Outwards ,potatoes I some times find if a while
Has past, "Why do you ask?

Am I good at getting thinks out of teeth, brushing
You say? yes a tooth pick I carry around just in case,
Healthy teeth are a must you'll never see me with
Missing teeth I brush morning and night each day.

"Do you have a pet,

I like to walk to, do you have good legs no aches in
The knees, "I would feed you, "What, I would
Feed my pet well chargrilled to perfection every
Meal never without would they be,"cough, you.

This was an interesting talk all because I asked one question?
"Does a dragon wear shoes,
"A dragon doesn't wear shoes,
But enough of this, would you like your steak lightly grilled
Or well done "burnt, he thought was another word.

Con fide ence cadence
Semper fi, I the ego in the narrator
making wu wei from
around
in
to out a bit, this to that
as we know
we grew, we know we grow

spontaneity- eh, next next next
time
not this time, mmmm

------------
in the body

sense of other, this is the I they say
ego is the enemy,
love thy enemy, I say

schwahng-****- ting tang
walla walla bing ****
be the laugh
and be the clown, fret not,

this is that
all at once upsidedowninsideout in a word
we are wedom in the sense the wu wei
wei we are making this up, not making this up
we are shown
as we were I once doing the efforting,

wishing to become old and happy,
all my prayers answered in enough and
enough to share with no sorrow added as debt

see me see me see you see me clever
and proud of how fun the giggle is as song,

comfort the feeble mind, it too is mine,
let me rest in the joy of having this time
as mine, in the global reality lit with power
that powers this body using fingers to find letters
to let words
form from better ideas, bet. Put your money down,

opposing forces, from within, we never were
as those who fit the mould of a place native to us,
our kind,

not that kind, this kind, be kind, love, be loving
think
this is friendly, no aggressive faces made, no blush
of rage,
perhaps, yes, haps, here we pursued, but we
ensued peace after passing all we include in me
the
body… and the mind that runs it
and the mind that knows it, so from the top of my head
to the bottom of my feet,
I accept is in state,
in the body, I can say, I am in the body and I have
magic, given as "black box" think what one can make
given the means
to fret not, not a bit o'worry brain, think up a storm

find a way to fill the need, felt real, real empty,
useless, in terms of the whole truth, really
useless, what do I know, I know I lie
about how happy I would be if
next time you could sing wit'me.

Who has a head empty of will to wonder if we can
think we can can we think we can and be happy

when we think we
dodidonitdonit seem we may as well take a given

grin and invest it in the hope, that someday
your day gets,
better to specs, regularly reset to random, wei, wu wei. We, me.

i could very well be a halfwit *** -
all white: piglet pink / orange of Essex -
by starking contrast -
but i do spend $60.00 on a book
by someone called Heidegger:
oddly enough: i rattled
the mid-life crisis early...
obviously it's hardly a splash-out on
something quite comforting like a yacht:
but still, bricks come cheaper
than books:
         you ain't gonna
bother     so i might as well ****, oh sorry,
rap my way through the sedimentary
otherwise clowned as the rudimentary
blasé.
       i really do solve sudokus drunk:
a higher preference than beating a woman
or starting an argument,
like                            today,
a white *** ****** arguing about beer:
drunk like a skunk, happy to-fro
black ***** saying: if i had my mobile out
the police would be here in a minute:
black lives really do, matter.
          she say shye man's drunk:
****-smear on his trousers, maybe this is
how you mourn someone dying: getting ******* -
but obviously with citizens on patrol over
'ere, that doesn't matter.
           she defends the cashier kid, the drunk whitey
gets the Gertrude Stein treatment:
otherwise known as
      the cold shoulder -
                                 i don't know what to make
of the whole debacle -
not even with a poem or painting will you make
a squiggly-clean citizen that'll do small-talk with
you and rein in a sunrise worthy of a *******
postcard...
              i was promised £8 by a Tesco cashier
for a book i've written, what did i
   get? diddly-squat.
          so back to square 1, drink one night,
don't drink another night -
and back to: just because you're woollen and
middle-classed and squeaky clean doesn't
mean you're interesting, actually:
you sanity is so ******* boring i'd rather eat
with pigs, and drink myself dead-serious comatose
with a bunch of other assorted hogs.
truth is so ****** obvious, no wonder it's painful.
so i decided to spark 3 chances of beer after
seeing the debate with the Sri Lankans -
with temperatures nearly freezing after wholesome miles
undergone: i sat in a darkened world war i memorial,
then walked through
  a leafy part of a would-be graveyard -
                 and almost everything felt eerie -
like i was son of sam writing from prison -
                  a self-guide manual or something.
then writing this i became agitated by some s o r t
of c o m p u t e r: v i r u s -
                     y o u, t h i n k  i would be operatic
paranoid having invoked such scenes of the night
with one or two Essex foxes foraging household waste?
     it's a variation of the typical Trojan in f e c
        t i o n:
            i.e. to make human langu     a g e
                      keyboard: rather than alphabetical -
the prin ciple is the same: why not
a e i o u b c d f g h j k l m n p q r s t v w x y z
(mathematics last)?
           i could very well be a paranoiac -
but in a Salvador Dali linguo -
            b u t    l e                       t's
face it: this is fresh, this is new, and we are naive
in our use and development of it -
               we have thrown so much of ourselves out
into the world that the world will not necessarily
throw our self back into us:
mind you, some of us are protesting at our
job losses versus the Chinese -
          we want those jobs back: we ain't getting them
back!
                well hello! what's your name?
feminism.                    hello feminism! what do you do?
we are the people behind solely software ergonomics -
all our hardware antics have been exported to
Ching Chang Wu: or Yin in Yiddish,
                                 and Yang in Walla Walla.
it ain't coming back - replica wall versus
Mexico? (Juan         Yoddle ****     Jack and yack
                 happening and         Xavier?
     exercise and ha ha ha? same ****, different cover.)
slamdunk that **** like it was Deep Purple
when in fact it was Blackmore's Night -
hey! me too! i used to work a nightclub so i could
buy a mandolin and do the Rockefella round the clock
jingle to boot too:
                         got harassed by some gay guy while
cleaning the
         toilets where people ****** into  
emptied beer bottles, rather than into the actual toilets -
so yeah: big up the latex rainbow parade!
   any gimps needing their midnight walkies?

The big doors roll open

at sunrise        at sunset

they roll closed

the man with the hand truck

moves his bins and flats

his palette loads       across the lot


Living downhill

from a fruit stand

I’ve come to accept

that joy can appear

at your feet

Red Delicious, Braeburn

Fuji and maybe

D’Anjou on a good day

Valencia Vidalia or Walla Walla

Sweet

Reach down       pick up


Be open hearted         don’t

expect too much--

the little that comes your way

tastes in its scarcity

full of life       this life       your life


I pray uphill in the morning

and I pray uphill at night

to the God of Gravity                                *Satsuma!

A zero on its own may hold no value
But add a zero to 10 and behold you get a 100
And the value of zero seems to increase exponentially
Just think in terms of 100,000, add a zero and walla! it's 1,000,000

So, it gives rise to the question
What is really the value of zero
Does Zero mean nothing?
Or does it depend on how you place it?

What if a manager said, 'the production showed zero growth rate'
Would the management shout in glee or consider firing?
Is it silly to think zero is valueless when logically
adding zero at the end of any number only makes it more by tens?

Yes, I'm certifiably crazy but that is not the point!
The point is life is full of paradoxes
So why is that we adamantly stick to one theory of belief
When any number of theories could be true or not
like birth and death and yes of course 'God'!

It is like shaking hands with a bag of oyster crackers;
Joints sprained, ligaments torn, fingers fractured
And splayed off in several different directions
Like a weathervane that has had a rather nasty shock, indeed,
The whorls of his fingertips, the uneven rise and fall of the knuckles
Serving as a travelogue of a lifetime spent
In towns not quite ready for the big time:
Olean, Oneonta, Visalia, Valdosta, a dozen more besides,
A million miles on buses
Of uncertain vintage and roadworthiness.
Each scar and swelling, each uneven path
Between base and fingertip has a tale of its own;
The ring finger on the left hand first broken
By a Big Bob Veale fastball that was supposed to be a curve,
Later snapped again by Steve Dalkowski,
Who, drinking quite a bit by then
(When ol’ Steve had put away a few, he notes ruefully,
You didn’t want to hit him, catch him,
Or sit in the first few rows behind the plate)
Most likely never saw the sign
Indicating slider instead of high heat.
The index finger on his throwing hand?  
Well, that was from a foul tip in…Wellsville in ’59?  Walla Walla in ’62?
When you’ve bit up by the ball as many times as I have,
You tend to forget what you tore up when.
Ah, but no such problem with the right pinkie;
That was snapped one cold April night
Somewhere between Winnipeg and Duluth,
During a poker game when a backup infielder
Produced an unexpected and wholly inexplicable king
Seemingly from nowhere.

But those hands!  They were, in the lexicon of the scouts
(The same ones who labeled him
With the dreaded tag of “good field, no hit”)
Who trolled the sandlot parks
And high school fields of his childhood, “soft”;
Indeed, he could cradle a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball like an infant,
And, with the gentlest and most imperceptible of movements,
Turn the wildness of a nineteen-year-old phenom
Into an inning-ending third strike, and even now,
Two decades of bad lighting and jury-rigged equipment
Having turned the topography of his digits craggy and asymmetrical,
They seem as smooth and supple as they were at nineteen,
With all the strength and unsullied smoothness of youth,
As he grips and waggles an unseen bat
In the course of retelling
(In his one brief, glorious spring in camp with the big club)
How he doubled to the gap in right-center
Off none other than the great Whitey Ford himself.

My mind
down dusty corridors, i wander
everywhere lie the discarded thoughts
of a disorganized and undisciplined mind
still its called a thought...

reminiscent of a once busy museum
now deserted and seemingly long forgotten
Then turning a corner,i find myself
suddenly in the midst of a hive of
activity.

A new Curator has come with fresh ideas and input
now my thought has become serious thinking...
which I poured on a piece of blank paper
hmm... now read what an impressive thought
I think it is ...
written on a piece of white sheet
After some painful moments of writer's block..
from once a very disorganized mind..
Walla... a poem written by me at last

tidbits of joy,
scraps of silliness,
ladles of laughter,
a micron of mutiny,
a heap of a heart, golden and true
and a pinch of perpetuity.
blend together.

and  walla!

my  baby's smile

lieutenant sticks, that's what they called him,
kij denotes a stick, without confusion
the emphasis of an olé (diacritical marks
are punctuations in punctuation) -
russians love to read, so you begin writing for
russians... a bit simple...
               i know they will one day approve
diacritical marks for the j, and depose the dot
above it like a halo...
  so i then get to say: key-jay....
           unitl that day happens i won't be found
playing the piano, able to read the notes
of a composition...
          nor draw blood from my fingers when
allowing myself the second thought of chess...
but some day along this carpe diem expansion
i will say: that day i took l.s.d.,
          and also that memory of 1950s
technicolor films made all the more sense...
       and it really was that saturation of colour,
the original saturation of colour translated onto screen...
like fake-tan orange of essex,
                  i'm about to juggle watermelons: wee!
productive sarcasm or even counter-productive sarcasm
never really sticks to a frying-pan of salivated over
pancakes readied for breakfast or some hereafter...
slobber gusto is not exactly a case of Pavlov's...
nor is reading a sunday newspaper...
               i can only think of a "metaphor" of walking
the dog in an english park and picking up
its ****... so much so for agonising myself reading
a newspaper... so i guess i now get to write the word
similie, in italics preceded by the colon heresy and not
reaching for the b, i.e.: italics.
when did i become so twitchy and double pardon
a concern for appreciating the comment?
last time i read jane eyre and started thinking about
that madwoman in the attic, that was rochester's
first wife... about that time...
      unlike that case of being a "poet" and writing
a scenario, i feel no guilt over these compositions,
   why did bukowski have the c.i.a. onto him and not
the f.b.i.?
                could you tell me if he was a spy?
oh look... a tumbleweed moment...
                             so i was talking to these two drunks
in this shady place at night
  and just blah blah blah later we exchanged
ethnic content, and one said he lived in
birmingham for a while, that place where ozzy
came from... and it's not like they even call
that city a "venice of the west", or a "st. petersburg of the west",
just as well... they twinned the town of
grimsby to chernobyl...
        they have edinburgh the "athens of the north",
they have amsterdam, the "venice of the north"...
and then you get birmingham,
and it could apply for a romance from somone,
like the venice of north-west... north by north west...
i'm not ignorant because of copernicus:
just a little bit disorientated trying to translate
sign-language from chinese ideograms...
   the idea was: ching chang walla(h)...
               extend that and you have imitations of dolly,
oh... finding dory...
   or... when in suffering, make a comedy...
like that pain adoolf hihi-tler felt watching a charlie
chaplin movie and saying: that moustache gig
is going to conquer the world.
   so where was i?
                   if you build a labyrinth you're bound
to ask the question of where you are?
     ah right, heading for the mortality exit...
concentrating on some word that would make no sense
to the average cognitive tactic of narration...
                 kije! - yep, sticks, that's the plural
version of kij, which just means stick...
    i really want to put a macron over that j
      so people don't confuse yahweh with jesus
   or add fractions to the concept...
or what the ancient greeks did, i.e. doing the dumbest
thing possible of sub-humanising the jews...
             suddenly Y                              is very far
from
                                                                             J
via gamma...       was that me trying to
  turn the tongue into a saxophone of cool?
  is that word even as half relevant these days as disco?
or is that when good becomes "evil"
   and evil becomes "good" and we call
                          a nightclub a slaughterhouse?
"   " aside... you don't get to play the existentialists
when it comes to words like list from
   the thesaurus (rex) beginning with the word red...
  the book states the "ambiguity"
                     via its synonym basis: crimson, burgundy...
red... rose...
or as kant would put it: we need the categorical
imperative, not to be "good", but to make
clear distinctions...
               and what a sad sad affair that has become,
when having looked for all the facts,
we became stunted and now argue with
what is the chiral (evidently opposite of facts) statements;
so they had genes and so they came up with memes...
facts need the opposite unit for them to be
the much needed resource...
              i guess i can't "coin a phrase" working
on this angle... because a word already exists to counter
factual expressions... you posit the chiral version
of facts on the word...                 factoid.

It is like shaking hands with a bag of oyster crackers;
Joints sprained, ligaments torn, fingers fractured
And splayed off in several different directions
Like a weathervane that has had a rather nasty shock, indeed,
The whorls of his fingertips, the uneven rise and fall of the knuckles
Serving as a travelogue of a lifetime spent
In towns not quite ready for the big time:
Olean, Oneonta, Visalia, Valdosta, a dozen more besides,
A million miles on buses
Of uncertain vintage and roadworthiness.
Each scar and swelling, each uneven path
Between base and fingertip has a tale of its own;
The ring finger on the left hand first broken
By a Big Bob Veale fastball that was supposed to be a curve,
Later snapped again by Steve Dalkowski,
Who, drinking quite a bit by then,
(When ol’ Steve had put away a few, he notes ruefully,
You didn’t want to hit him, catch him,
Or sit in the first few rows behind the plate)
Most likely never saw the sign
Indicating slider instead of high heat.
The index finger on his throwing hand?  
Well, that was from a foul tip in…Wellsville in ’59?  Walla Walla in ’62?
When you’ve bit up by the ball as many times as I have,
You tend to forget what you tore up when.
Ah, but no such problem with the right pinkie;
That was snapped one cold April night
Somewhere between Winnipeg and Duluth,
During a poker game when a backup infielder
Produced an unexpected and wholly inexplicable king
Seemingly from nowhere.

But those hands!  They were, in the lexicon of the scouts
(The same ones who labeled him
With the dreaded tag of “good field, no hit”)
Who trolled the sandlot parks
And high school fields of his childhood, “soft”;
Indeed, he could cradle a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball like an infant,
And, with the gentlest and most imperceptible of movements,
Turn the wildness of a nineteen-year-old phenom
Into an inning-ending third strike, and even now,
Two decades of bad lighting and jury-rigged equipment
Having turned the topography of his digits craggy and asymmetrical,
They seem as smooth and supple as they were at nineteen,
With all the strength and unsullied smoothness of youth,
As he grips and waggles an unseen bat
In the course of retelling
(In his one brief, glorious spring in camp with the big club)
How he doubled to the gap in right-center
Off none other than the great Whitey Ford himself.

Shiva on my mind
Carolina blue
Lake Linganore
Doo Wah Diddy Do

I like mango lhassis
Also chana masala
Saw the movie Gandhi
Have not been to Walla Walla

Shiva is auspicious
Both married and alone
At times I draw closer
I threw a Rolling Stone

           Charlotte!

when it was a square...
no more! no more!
the simp... the the otherwise: not
a simpleton?
it's not a -leton suffix "base"...
not as such...
as such: m'ah... and walla walla...
bear neck non-standards
****... neck-beard
"berserker" qua-soz...
and... that trucker "napkin"
with a baeball CAP-toid...
                  otherwise it's uttered:
the Mendelssohn Report...
or: would you believe it...
a secretively mis-diagnsosis
of the Dover Effect: for... wooing
the unsuspecting proto-gender
weirdos into: a backstage commons
senction...
was... effectually lingering
in the protoplasm stage of: mr. and mrs.
docile: smith...
the churchill - or the standard, base,
definition of an egg -
would never be or become,
the simplified scrutiny via
the egg shell,
the yoke and or whitey protein:
shaky-shaky stephens...
given you're best insured...
in treating chicken meat...
like you'd treat boiling / poaching an egg...
cascade of "in-words" and
"out-words"... **** furthest east...
and then: no slang tongue...
meme for access...
automated to sieve through...
bogus audience... out of 100 people
curated for: "statistics"...
99 of them would have read a snippet
of... let's not crown ourselves with
bombast and waiting for credibility
insurance.
one simply tires of either playing
the lame / superiority game...
or any "game" in transit...
it's not better or no worse...
as long as there's a medium of:
INSTRUMENTAL people in between...
which, also implies...
i can lie down and rot...
because... i have no privy to this...
instrumental, developed staging
of the: necessary man...
precusor:
nature doesn't allow for vacuums
to obstruct its: recycling furore...
    i am somehow necessary...
as much as heidegger becoming necessary...
ontology: not exactly what is...
what is, is, a thespian monopoly...
and the adverts of use-by-dates of...
life, and... "not" life...
with they grey-area of: best before...
"exodus" dating...

as some might say:
cardigans and sputniks...
cardigans and spuntiks...
chequers, cheese...
mr plasticfantastic and... a hitchcock blonde
cwy bay-be:
cwy may be a' loan-sum...
exactly when orthography makes
an entrance on the english speaking
stage... clearly: of non-events!

Have you ever had your heart ripped out and smashed to a million pieces only to find yourself trying to carefully piece it back together? You feel like your dying so now time is moving your back is against the wall you have to hurry walla all done. Well its a little lopsided and jaded but it'll have to do. Have you ever had a piece of your soul taken and weight just come off of you feel like you were melting? You look in the mirror and say **** I look good but the gears shift and you remember that it came at a cost when a piece of your soul died. Speaking of mirrors have you ever looked so deep at yourself but your vision was cloudy? Clouded by fear, by self-hate, self-mutilation, self-disgust. The darkness that you sit in where you think this is life. All the while when you walk, you walk with this light that people see. So although you think you live in darkness continue to walk in this light until it's bright enough for you to see.