Extra Initiative! what is this Extra Initiative?
Is it a hype, or is it something positive? ?
How it is written, I am bit tentative?
Is it X-tra initiative or Extra initiative?
Explain me clearly what does it mean.?
So that, taking some steps in that direction I can be seen.
Wherever I go this word is buzzing
that much worth should be given? , or they are fussing?
Despite all my efforts my career is in frost
can it give my career the required ******? ?
What if more importance is given to xtra initiatives than the real thing.
what if they ignore the process and xtra initiatives is piled to make a bing.
what will be its impact on Process negative or positive.
Not sure, but this poem can be taken as my extra initiative.

Always having nightmares,
Being in a house full of hatred and sadness.
Crying myself to sleep each night.
Dreading when I have to come home from school,
Every single day.
Fearing the words that could ****.
Going to sleep is a struggle in itself. I
Hide it at school.
I always act happy at school.
Just so my friends aren't suspicious.
Kids think I'm normal. Just
Like them. An ordinary, happy kid, but
Most of the time, I'm depressed.
No way are my friends going to find out
Of course.
Plastering on a smile until I get home.
Quiet doesn't exist. There is always yelling.
Running to my room, crying,
Steaming mad at my parents for all of this.
Tears stream down my face.
Under my tough skin is a crumbling tower. A
Vacation to school makes me relax. I
Wipe the tears before I walk inside.
Xtra smiles for all of my friends,
Yet inside, I decompose with depression.
Zero tears on the outside.

Xtra.
Xtra.
someone yelled out.
And I notice I never heard the E.
Oh, for the sake of me.

But it seems words are constantly confusing me.

If you say telephone or least spell it.
You notice there is no F.
Oh, what will this English?

Where you constantly spelling something wrong?

I been hear. Or here.
I been their. Or there.

See the way I can get lost writing things in my head.

Xtraordinary!
Someone shouted out.
And I still didn't hear an E.
Again, what must the reason be?

Should somebody suggest a Webster's dictionary to me?

It probably won't do any good.
Because if I go to another country I be confused once more.
Because they  spell things different too.

Oh, I hope I'm not a fool?

Xplicit.
It also begins with an E.
But, I'm tire of taking about that letter.
That seems to start many words.
Only to figure out it hardly ever gets heard.

Xcept in the word Ease.
But then the X confuse me too.
Because that letter makes all of us look like a fool.

Feeling the "Earthquake" not really knowing who your lover
really is. All spies like a Jupiter Ascending
love ammunition how it got you there is no pretending

          X
        Flex
         Trix
          Mix
    Boo Botox
     Net Flix
Does the letter
           X
Solve our problems
       On a Fix

My X bigger bridges
Brooklyn hug sorry
(The Braggart)
hurry
Mr. Humphrey
Home of Ophrey
Supermarket X-play
game
Spoiled to
the very flame

life "X"  sport betting
X-Files hurt-playing
The book
**** and Jane
SPOT
pooping and
cleaning up
Keep talking
to never
shut up

Marks the spot
X-Men cup
Where's your other
X husband?
Did he get bruised
Tossed
Nutcracker
So wounded by
another lover

Tight B-fit
Treasure chest
packer
The pinch cheeker
Tried to heal him
I heartfelt his
wound
Drummer beat
me to it
band-aid

Computer Bugs
Ladybugs of aids
Teddy hugs maids

Judy red  Grape
ruby slippers
Her Garlands
Singing to the bank
Man-Tipper
Disney-land
Epcot
The farmland
Dot .   .   .   .   .
Are you down
on your

__
  $
  $
   $
X's_
She's highlands
Over the rainbow
  Oz only
Spellbound in
your sleep

Z   zzz  Z  zzz

Buzz-zzz Beeee
Mover trucker
Hoarder Fed Ex
So Wed-Dexter
X-Her
Did you see the
yellow
tape of
surveillance
The French
waitress
The *******
Raise her mattress
Don't hock my
X design
She is wanted
X-signs
Upgraded
Up Up and away
Need an update
Her calender Girls
Bikini X=style cups

Those braggarts
Bring on nuggets
** -
Xylophone
II
The bragger
Smartphone
The true lover

Bulleye
He darts me
Twin Tigers eye
Lined and framed
X-Spy
Valentines Day xoxo
Laying hearts on
the line
He's playing darts

He circled me
tic tack toe
Smartypants

XOxOxO  X0XO
Zany Zorro
1 0  0 0 $ Extra
Mantra
  ** The Taxman  
Oh! Why Y Y

down to
Zero Conman
  Singing the blues
Holiday Miss Billie
Let one X be my hero
Just X me 4-A
appointment
tomorrow

Of Spies per day
The Wolfine
Another X boyfriend
Time machine

Love conquers all
Another try

The old testament
The new Xtra
dividends
To be speared
The spearmint
Jupiter Ascending
in the future

Black magic or the
Goldmine
Told her X its time

Bloodline getting
approval
More enemies
of your rival
The good
versus evil


Halftime marked
No time adjusted
The real-time
everyone's birth
Arrested
Crying movie
Xtra needing
one bad

Pinch cheek warm
Looper fine Cooper
Halfheartedly
Spies coming to me
X   X   X   X
Snooper

The love forever
But not willingly
Oh!   0  0   0

Like you were both
Marked to die

Organic minerals
Meeting X-men
Generals
Good time of currency
love potency
Highland to my fancy

The even exchange

He's X I am $

What would you prefer?


More TimeSquare
Love me not

Last City token fare

The math equation
         X
Likewise silver teaspoon

Lovers measurable swoon
X men on the lagoon

Of the lord

The human state
X
Do you mind

Losing some stripes

Oh! Yikes making amends

People on the inside

Flattered by the energy
    X boast_
Heavenly encounter above
Name of a title 2 for X

Foremost another
Spy of
a toast
((To Be)) the most
Mark me and I promise
You will see
Jupiter Ascending
Her Floppy disk
In Gods love
commending

The future we may never know

But all the love in the world

"Love Is The letter"
If your happy and
you know it
Clap your X- hands
No pretending just
move to
your destinationHome

~INFINITE
Drugs guns attempts and ****** one roll off this urban griots tongue, I'm a sun from the slums that chased redrum funds, I walked the dark path of prison and gore, stopped at the end, then walked back to the beginning to become a verbal detour pointing man women and children in the right direction before the feel the heat and go through spontaneous combustion. The lemniscate ink spiller swings his pen back and forth to counter decapitation scythe swings courtesy of the reaper. I'm a five star general from New York, I was fantasizing on owning islands like rourke, I know the life well chefed ye for color coordinated residuals, ya know that **** that'll make ya lean or have a bobby b jaw with dilated pupils. in order to educate I have to spit with no filter, the life i lived was similar to helter skelter, it wasn't war for race it was war for boy or the contents of a Pyrex being burnt to a gooey paste. I got more friends dead than alive, so i use phonics mixed with Ebonics verse to explain the pain of sending kites to men bidding forever or the pain of following a hearse to release doves and throw flowers over the casket of eternal resting brothers. Money came in...so did those nine elevens saying another life came to an end. The facade doesn't show the downs of the game, you see the foreign wips, the chics, hear about all the chips, high grain ammo and xtra clips, you don't see mothers crying holding daily news clips explaining how her son died because of chips chics and foreign wips, they don't see the cheddar spent on retainers to prevent predict felons from becoming three time losers, The streets don't come with a fine print, it leaves out the particulars.

Infinite the poet 2014

~THE REB
Behind the madness I came to a conclusion of the humen world. The streets caged me in bars with no ability to pull comfort of a drink together with equality in communication with society. Understanding the diversity of life in corners made me believe struting my fist was the way of life. There were no hands to hold onto tomorrow. No space in alleys to run but to dead end vortex duplicity. Uniform authority confined my freedom to be humen. An animal to sociaty but I did no crime. Just to get from one ave to the blv these popo's be trippen down my ****** lines to the creases over my thieghs. Feeling for a high by touch to get that high in a remote area of their private sources. Age nine I stood in the ghettos near home. What I thought was a dream of doom I wome to a high with tracks down my arms proving this confusion. Colors to claim, and colors to flag, I kept pushing away congregations of street wars and bet on my own revolutionary independence. Pistol on my inner thigh I tred lightly in a walk of shame. I found no glory till one day my tears fell on paper. On the walls of East Chapmen Ave California were monumental master pieces of anger and sadness from one end on the wall to the other... I felt something twitch in me... Inspiration of something unfamiliarly bright over the darkness. And for each time I enter back home to family, there was rebirth, and I could not conceive knowledge until one day, the madness got me. I took that pen, and wrote the illustrations of my lack of pigment on every line.. These demons left me in wilderness. No caution about what life had ahead for me. I knew nothing beyond these streets. I lost the innocence in my adolescnce. All the agony and weakness and fears I had hidden for so long, later became exuberant effect. If there was no God, if he didn't love me.. my existence wouldn't have been standing here today to speak behind the madness.

(INCREDIBLE INK- TEAM JAGUAR HAWAII)
© S.T. Rebel of Eden

A** love message in skin
Late night pillow talk
Extra cream your coffee
XIII days, years, century's could never be enough of what I want to spend with you.

Damn, you're amazing.
Always be the one for me.
Violently crush me with your lips
I'm so in love with you.
Dear alex

Xtra Tuffs, forgotten. Ten mornings to go.
Let us start with ten miles to Ewan Bay.
Passing Granite Bay and rocks that crowd Junction Island,
seals furtively eye us, and orange-footed Oyster Catchers
stay grounded while gulls erupt into flight and frantic shrieks.

Zip, peal, zip: from dry suit to tent.
Storm teacher. We learn water below,
water above, water without, and water within.
At Bog Island, fingers are colorless, wrinkled fruit, and we
must think of wetness in layers.

Zip, stuff, zip: from tent to dry suit.
Bog Island becomes a convalescent home, made of polyester tarp.
To stay warm, Yoga in the rain. Two are napping.
While we rest, beached ice become snarling growlers,
I see and listen in the quiet way.

Zip, stuff, zip: from tent to dry suit.
Before crossing Jackpot Bay, we visit a waterfall.
While we lurch to avoid bear ****, dark blurs leap into vertical flows.
Tonight, we tuck our tents under a canopy
of alders against a rock wall, slicked with falling water.

Zip, stuff, zip: from tent to dry suit.
Four days of dampness and heavy brows. The sky teases with streaks of blue
that enliven ice-green bergs. Suddenly, sun spills over clouds.
Wordless gasps and elation melt our moods.
Glacial air chases warm rocks. We race to dry our gear.

Zip, stuff, zip: from tent to dry suit. Again Island found, in Gaanaak Cove.
Blueberries drip from the bushes like the rain of the past four days.
Yellow arnica stand like sunflowers, and I feel her here.
The commuting breeze sounds like morning traffic on the Glenn.
Chenega, that achy glacier, growls like a distant tarmac.

This morning, rays of sunshine dance on my tent for a few seconds.
Zip, stuff, zip: from tent to dry suit.
We arrive to Nassau Fjord as unwelcome, party crashers
To hundreds of seals lounging on their icy chaises.
Don't Go, I think. We were uninvited.

Zip, stuff, zip: from tent to dry suit.
Haibun, Didactic Cinquain, and Diamante:
These formulas are like the handrail method Jonathan teaches for reading a map.
Intentionally point off course to the stream that goes into the lake,
or veer to intersect the road to the parking lot.

Zip, stuff, zip: from tent to dry suit.
At Dual Head, the tide is a mirror to itself.
The echoing waves, equal and opposite to my breath.
I relish the watercolor and poetry on the beach under our
first and only setting and then rising sunshine.

Zip, stuff, zip: from tent to dry suit.
Despite the small-craft advisory in Whittier yesterday,
We are delivered from the Sound on calm waters
​as we reunite with family and former self.
I believe I am more than I was.

Sweet Sixteen Years

<••>

had to get the calculator
cause this brain refused
this math,

2024 - 2008 ‎ = 16

yearlong furlongs
a dustance existential
impossibility:

She selected me from the
millions of riffraf looking
for a living romantic love,
which perhaps while
not a complete miracle,
but something, that had
been as elusively beautiful
as a running back shedding
11 tacklers and well,
scoring a touching down
(n.b. it’s a Sunday)

a touchdown elusive
and once thought,
a deluded inconclusive
belief from the realm of
music and poetry,
an aberrant belief
in a life of mundane
and oft much pain

that periodically stubbed
one’s toes with streaks of
sparks, but never was carded
for one who had not
learned
the definition
of longer
lasting,
open ended,
unimaginable,
genuine
to expect, believe
that it was a
validity,
nothing but a
legal fiction
never to be a word in
my finishing diminishing
vocabulary

there will be no candlelight
dinner, no popping corks,
no mad jewelry hidden in refrigerator,
maybe just some
outshine lemonade icicle popsicles,
a modest treat
for an e-xtra oh-never-ordinary
travelogue with no final
destination penned in
blue-black ink

for the record:

she picked me out,
she came late to
our first date,
and fully agreed
on a third date,
that commitment
was a pressure
neither desired,
agreeing with a
hearty high five

so here she is,
always a present,
always an available
sujet for one more
onlylovepoem
to scribe, and
complain
how a poet goes
on and on and on

which is a reminder to self
to quit writing too much
when there is still a
tomorrow to add to this
poem

i don't get inspired... i get prompts,
e.g.?

one in particular...
her name? sam leith -
the saturday the times weekend
magazine (july 29th 2017) -
the usual load of *******
from the ***
of west london...

sam? why not samuel but
samantha?
  what sort of man cites his
father as the guiding beacon?
me? you?
s(he) - ah, transgender perfect,
armed with a rifle, and a bra
stuffed with scrambled eggs -
she he he she, she she he she,
it dot, tag, you're it! he she
she she he she, she she he, he she,
she she, he he, shish kebab,
samuel beckett's watt:
bonkers, boing boing boing,
apache heli-copter! trampoline!

slap in the face seriousness...
she-******
quotes her father citing
ecclesiastes (oof fra fra in essex,
high-brow y'ah tellin' moi?!
   neece... nice? n'eh ce pa?
tortoise mangetout peckam, n'es pas?)...
dog ****.

         to, every, thing, there, is, a, season,
     and, a, time, to, every, purpose, under,
the, heaven.

and then ******-he goes on to add:

        post-60... never pass an alleyway
for a wee... (not little, down south it's
called the glaswegian pish-soother),
     *******? no, thank you,
   i do mine almost daily while taking a ****...
for some reason an eager **** always
provides the ***** with some mexican
"artist"... milk that cow boy! milk it!
         boy milk it!
                         ah sweet maritza...
hombre in ex hombre... y'allah...
                                                     im'she!
(camel talk, spit and gnarl at toon poond
uh'xtra!)...
                      point no. 3: farts are boring,
unless in a tight space,
where all solipsism disappears...
   there is a proof for solispsism,
but it doesn't come from either head or mouth...
psst... comes from the ***...
    the argument for solipsism comes from
the ***... evidently the theory stands on the proof
that: everyone enjoys their own stink...
  and i believe that's a universally accepted
logic... you can smell your own ****,
but dare not to gag at someone else's,
     there, solipsism, proved via farting.

no man cites his father unless he be a semite.

so this bothered me... she-******-it-he-it-she-ooh
the following (age-limit requirement in brackets):
- not knowing how to cook (30)
- long hair for men (20)
- wheelie pavement transport (35)
- having one-night stands (26)
- posting selfies on instagram (35)
- long hair for women (50)
- jeremy "che" corbyn t-shirts (30)
- going clubbing (37)
- saying you're a d.j. (30)
- tattoos (age limit: never!)                  huh?
    - not being able to drive (20)
- baseball caps (36)
- going to festivals (50)
- wearing shorts (40)
- cleavage (40)
- showing other people your
poetry (16)....
   that's what got me, **** the rest...
what are you?
   spank-the-monkey-tiger-mommy?!
you the whip the ****** latex c.e.o.?!
the **** is this ******* rambling?!
    oh look... what's next...
an article!
   let's see:
           post-cougar, pre-pensioner -
it's a.... "tricky" stage by a 57 year old...
sure, i'd **** a granny... if i were african
working in a care home...
  as the headlines read only two days ago...
no... it's one thing philosophy attacking poetry,
but it's another when journalists do it...
no you ****-****-faced-*******....
you're not going to get away like the so easily...
******* leeches of conversation...
       barren wastelands of introspection!
i know my patron... at least this ****
german appreciated the craft...
   you? you?! you're a pathetic waste of time
trying to replenish a taste for
ancient greece... and all that pederastic education.

poets? masters of listening to
silence,
   within hearing sound

                (vacuus in vox, papilio in turba columba).

The snow hit this town in a way not dissimilar to Xtra Strength Mucinex PM hitting the nasal passage of someone with a severe head cold.

You could feel it;
on the bus,
on the slopes,
in the employee dining room;
Everywhere the same:
you, me, this town,
we need the snow
our livelihoods all depend on it.

It's simple: no snow means no skiing.
No skiing means seventy percent of this town immediately looses their jobs. Another twenty percent looses their job when they can't sell **** to tourisists. The last ten percent will continue to grow pumpkins and heard cattle, but for how long?

The snow came like a scalpel to the eyeball infected with a cataract.

Always there. Got your
Back.
Call when you are stressed. Or
Dumped by another boyfriend.
Even when I'm busy, I'll listen
Forever until you realize.
Gloating on about HIM.
He doesn't treat me right.
I would treat you right.
Just if you would see.
Kiss you under the stars. But I
Listen to your other troubles.
Mindless of what we could be.
No, not best friends. More than best friends.
Only if you saw the way I go
Pink when you hug me. I grow
Quiet and give you my full attention.
Right to the end of your stories when I
See into
Those deep blue oceans, I'm afraid I'll drown.
Until you yell my name, and I
Very sadly wake up from my daydreams.
Where you don't know my feelings.
Xtra attention towards you.
Yet you know
Zero about what swirls around in my heart.

A for Anne Sexton, again and again!
The love and the anger had come back again!
B for Bob Dylan, ballad of a thin man!
Walk into a room with a pencil in your hand!
C for Charles Baudelaire, am not shore on his French!
D for Dylan Thomas, that child's Christmas made sense!
E for Edgar Allan Poe Annabel Lee!
It was a many a many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea!
F for Francisco de Quevedo, the Spanish I couldn't understand!
G for George Eliot, her proper names Mary Anne!
H for homer the Iliad book 13!
Wolfs in the Forrest, and the battle could be seen!
I for Isabella Velancy Crawford, A Harvest song!
Her poetry was so lovely, and nothing spelt wrong!
J for Jim Morrison, My bestest poet of all!
Is music is "king" his rock stood so tall!
K for Kahlil Gibran, I awaken I stare at the sun!
An artist, a poet, a writer, but sadly all his works been done!
L for Lewis Carrol, the hunting of the snark!
M for Matsuo Basho, the true master of his heart!
N for Nizar Qabbani, a poet that was so sweet!
A diplomat a publisher, I hope you R.I.P.
O for Oscar Wilde, in the good room - A Harmony!
Ivory hands, on the Ivory keys!
Strayed in a fitful fantasy!
P for Pablo Picasso, the morning of the world!
A painter, a sculptor, a print maker, a ceramicist not known to us all!
Q for Quincy Troupe, skulls along the river!
What a greater poet, and what a greater performer!
R for Robert Frost, nothing gold can stay!
1864 - 1963!
S for Sylvia Plath, she wrote love is a parallax!
She also got found with her head in the oven, the poor soul died of inhaling gas R.I.P
T for Ted Hughes, a poet and children's writer!
U for all you poets!
Your futures looking brighter!
V for Victor Hugo, the grave and the Rose!
He wrote about the Dews of dawn!
And always mentioned his Rose!
W for William Shakespeare, a poet that he was!
He'll be up there somewhere special!
Playing and writing for the Gods!
X for --xtra space, I couldn't leave it blank!
Y for Yoda Buson!
And Z will have to stay blank-----------

What is a man?  Is he macho or a bit
sensitive? Or neither?  Does he cry?

Can I see your chromosomes?  Can I
touch them?  Please! I won’t squeeze.

My man is cute.  He wears nail polish
on his toes.  He has red hair and freckles.

He swims naked.  He sings in the shower.
His hands are warm and ****.

Is he for real?  What’s the definition?
He’s a tenor.  I like to kiss him.

Are You a *****?  The letter Y.
Where do you keep your *****?

He’s Xtra sweet.  He dances all over.
He wears a bandana.  Do you like candy?

Is bisexual the same as bilingual?
Will the kids have red hair?

Loving is an art form so practice.
Keep your crayons next to the bed.

Will I run out of chromosomes as
I get older? Can I borrow yours?

My mother-in-law is YY, but she
doesn’t talk about her pills.

I’m normal because my X comes before
my Y.  If yours doesn’t, back up.

It would be simpler if babies started
as ABs rather than XYZs.

Do parents plan their girls and boys?
Can they wish for an athlete or a nun?

What if she wants to be a him? Or a
boy wants to wear pretty dresses?

Why are we ruled by rules?  Can’t
we decide who or what we want to be?

I bet this doesn’t happen to your aunt
or uncle when they are ready to sleep.

The best way to deal with unknowns
is to pretend you have a big *****.

Just don’t let your mom find you ****
because she might be embarrassed.  

My motto is “If you want to be a girl,
go for it.” The ****** will adjust.


© Lewis Bosworth, 6/2018

I assed da question, where ya bounce?
Mama waz layz peepin da new big tymer, cruizin' thru town
She said, he waz crunk, like outta dis world
They were just poppin' da trunk and keepin’ it real
Da boys were sketchin' and should've just chopped it up
My favourite souljas, now goin' 2 Angola 4 A-187 on da Dirtee Sth 3RD Coast

Yo think she's all dat
But ya girlfriends so stupid
Da 1st time she used a *******
She cracked her 2 front teeth

The 3rd Coast is where da peepole get crunked up, be grilled out and ride on slabs
Down in Texas where they wear, those big belt buckles and jam to da *****
Those cowboys just pop n splash everywhere, all over da hood
That's what ya don't know, 'Bout da Dirtee Sth 3RD Coast

They have sum crazy RRRS partays
Drive sum fine RRRS ******* and cars wid gold grillz
As well as sporting huge silly fat RRRS rims
Backwash swamps and even sum back alley gators

I get my corner boys to sell, all da homie made ice cream
I'll make sure they don't *** anywhere near ya cut
I sell on eBay, a little 1 kilo of hi flyin' kite
Also tried 2 sell da sweets on da corners of mistreets
But da boys try da **** ****, before they sell and get so really cromp
I can't have em leanin', ya all no what I be meanin'

Yo think she's all dat
But ya girlfriends so stupid
Da 1st time she used a *******
She cracked her 2 front teeth

After da show we caught da dude that slapped misista and made her face hot
But before we wrecked him, we visited da famous ‘White Castle’ burger spot
Where we ate those famous, but small burgers dat only cost 35c, cheaper than ***
The popo said, ‘Is you trazy’, we just smiled and kept on eatin' da lot
The cops tried 2 grab us, but they didn't have nathan on us. What ya got?

They have sum crazy RRRS partays
Drive sum fine RRRS ******* and cars wid gold grillz
As well as sporting huge silly fat RRRS rims
Backwash swamps and even sum back alley gators

Ya gotta love Southern hospitality
Depending on where ya go in da Sth
It could be a, ‘Hi, let me *** dat 4 ya, midear’
2, ‘If ya don't stop staring @ me, I'm gonna shoot ya in da face’
So I know the ledge and have got da xtra edge
Over all da udder big tymers, down in da Dirtee Sth 3RD Coast

I inconsolably wept a river of sorrow
starkly aware alienated daughter(s)
implacable woe sundered fatherhood
yesterday, today and tomorrow.

A series of unfortunate events
(move over Lemony Snicket)
set in motion since my birth
unleashed impotent scrawny infant
registering 3,000,716,593 third
baby born on planet earth
swaddled emulating uterine hearth.

Oblivious to death, his ear splitting yowling
triggered lactation, which kept him alive,
where he blissfully suckled guaranteed immunity,
yet thru childhood chicken pox and mumps
he gain said grim forecast and survive
living social threescore and four years
amidst emotional travails
including life threatening bout
with anorexia he did thrive.

Mein kampf and lovely bones
analogous to graveyard
the wind thru unmarked tombstone moans
issuing melancholic tones.

Quintessential tear ducts relentlessly secrete
grim reaper who no mortal can cheat,
yet offspring must not precede parents,
hence tis regarding scythe
(memento mori symboling untimely death)
stealing prized progeny,
and forever silencing her heart beat.

She leads charmed enviable life
physically active with all manner of sport
unlike yours truly and the wife
whereat the former (an aspiring wordsmith)
experiencing psychological demon
that brandish blood dripping knife.

Accursed pained longevity I must bear
illustrative of existence,
where mental health did career
all too human to err,
nevertheless daughter will not forgive
no matter schizoid personality disorder
inherited courtesy one or more forebear
me, the singular son and addle brained heir
sired by Boyce and Harriet

whose pop and mom genes
transmitted self destructive traits
that did unwittingly impair
embedded within mine being
analogous to knitwear
fraught with mistake
and evident in me a longhair
pencil necked geek near
to thinning out viz receding hairline
versus once golden locks xtra ordinaire

when just a lad mistook me being queer,
yet homosexual preference rear
if non existent, yet notions
of same *** flagrante delicto thoughts
flickered decades ago
regarding to timeshare
once skinny self while at Antioch College,
especially when unexpectedly approached
by ******* clad Adonis
donned in frilly underwear.

As one sexagenarian
becomes more sanguine,
he nevertheless struggles to decouple
his boyhood, adolescent, late teen
and emerging adulthood
experiences that left bitter
after taste of quinine,
and prompts tremendous us to pine
for halcyon days recalling mine
blissful years at 324 Level Road
Collegeville, Pennsylvania
they mostly ranked as divine.

Akin a tumbleweeds  
aimlessly blowing in the wind
umlaut punctuation
courtesy of let herd Mother Nature
nsync with markie mark,

(or other faux nuke heads
on silent auction
ajudicating bidding chopping block)
or getting sparred
sum xtra mo' mints

before morphing into gamut
tuff height (against opposing
super cross currents)
bow willing head over heals

deftly thwarting encroaching
enfilade enhancing
invading army of deplorable
dust devilish debris
with full Stanley steamer ahead onslaught

opposing approaching phalanx
ta become a foo lush fighter
putting kibosh
across the infinitely open
and wide prairie land

(which wasteland fictitiously
epitomized and described by T.S. Elliot
with absolute zero relevancy here)
a barren vista ravages
metaphorical landscape

of one measly mortal malcontent male
bumping and scraping
along an accursed habiliment
just barely avoiding
and dodging diabolical demons

mercilessly unrelentingly ready
to ****** this somewhat sanguine Simian
who finds himself amidst pitfalls
of a tortured and twisted existence

racked with up pinions
(halving smartly put irons in the fire)
deployed incognito
tub hest describe demonic dungeons
damp, dark, demented domains -
a veritable no man's land

and one impossible to escape
from no matter how fast I flee
from the fearful, fiercesome
and phantasmagoric forms

figments of imagination
yet real and tangible as bone and flesh
haunt sacred house of slumber
and transmogrify me
into a loathsome madman

ranting and raving senseless
gibberish and gobbledygook
yet perceived as metaphysical
and philosophical
sane state farm mister soundcloud
syllabification stutterer

from one whoa man
World Wide Web wayfarer
(perchance yourself)
which virtual vagabond
venerates vowels

and possesses means
and tees to till verse
akin to a sorceress
who waves magic wand

to produce such supreme sentences
and weaves tantalizing
terrific topographic tundra's
that this admirer of her artful
and colorful poetic endeavors

prompts him to accompany
Gaia as thought-provoking troubadour
amidst the information
super byways and highways

along winding labyrinths
of critical thinking
or simply stepping cobble stones
comprising silly
rhymes without reason

all the while giving subtle egress
into that chamber of secrets
long kept shut tight
to maintain sure footed
stance of solitude,

whose only entities happen
to constitute trappings
of literary lugubriousness
those tombs of largesse identified
as great works and master
pieces of literature,

yet careful to avoid complete intimacy
lest cherished 100 years of solitude
shattered and heart rent asunder
twin perils of loss provide
an understandable cautionary tale

from author of this rambling missive
a most profoundly perceptive
and acute Ape man
touched to the quick
with a bit of angel dust

and aware this agonized
angst riddled arboreal beast
contents himself with
the confines of cyberspace.

Crying over a dog   is a bit    Xtra   no one wants
to talk about the little    sad things in life   like  sick dogs
with  broken limbs    weak breathing    desperate eyes
it happens   everywhere   that type of suffering