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Deborah Birch Dec 2011
In these dark days the bleak December sun,
rises tired, the more to lie down drear.
By rain, or snow, or chill we are undone
and plod towards the ending of the year.
We hope in the returning of the light;
that soon again there'll be another spring.
Another year is coming into sight;
with dreams and plans and fears that it may bring.
I wish, in every way my joys to share.
I hope for comfort in the times of pain.
In fear, let consolation be found here;
and let love live in all the world again.
To ponder all this, I am yearly cursed;
whenever it's December 31st.
Stephen E Yocum Jul 2014
They swarm in
Their thousands,
Moving as one,
Erratic it seems,
Rolling and undulating,
Rippling like a
wave on the sea,
Traversing the Valley
And Hillsides,
Seeking plunder,
In their numbers.
A well rehearsed
Sky dance perhaps.
A demonstration of
superior, formidable
and menacing forces.

Soon the air cannons
Will boom
And echo.
Hired men will walk
Among the vines,
Banging on metal pans,
Firing shotguns.
The swarms you see,
Wants the fruit.

Starlings care nothing,
for aged fermented,
Fine Pinot Noir,
By the glass,
Or bottle.
The grapes their prize.
Nor are they concerned
with the efforts of man,
Or his air cannons.
What is noise to them,
When fat sweet grapes
Are in plain view?

The war of the Vineyards',
A yearly event.
Starlings are not native to North
America. In the early 1900s some
well meaning fool introduced
some 200 of the winged wolves into
Central Park in NYC.

Today they are everywhere
and in their multitudes. More
than merely a nuisance, a plague
upon the land. Billions of them!
Hitchcock made a movie inspired
by them. They are even a colorless
bird, purely unattractive to behold,
a bird of no worth except to ravage
and disturb.
PG Sep 2015
Eyes meet with exchanged smiles from across a room
Laughter at the same jokes and nightime walks; who knows what may loom?
The meeting we both attend is a mutually interesting theme
Someone who likes it AND is realistic?  This cannot be what it seems.

Once weekly at college we hold each other’s gaze
Meeting for awful campus dinners to vent about our days
From my hometown, although years separate our leaving
This is too good to be true, of course I must be dreaming

I keep talking myself down; she already dates someone good
Although that doesn’t stop me as much as it should
But just as I’m willing to put up with that fight
She tells me she rejected someone the previous night

While thankful for my silence and no resulting pain
I can’t help but wonder why this has happened again
Why do people seek in me their emotions to confide
Without at all thinking I may want to be by their side?

Years go by and we remain friends, though truly only in name
Her interest in that topic has deepened; and things just can’t be the same
Contact dwindles down to a yearly fundraising letter
Finally I toss it aside, I deserve better.

A recent interview in the paper brings her to mind once more
Only this time I feel nothing down deep in my core
With her eyes “opened” and trust from Above
I see that she has now found a groom to love

I’m happy for them and their worthwhile cause
Hopefully they will help others put life’s challenges on pause
But when all is set and done at the end of the day
I have the people I want around me every step of the way.
Tuna sandwiches on white bread
Carried in a paper bag
Josh Groban on the CD player
Season Three of 2 broke Girls
Matching shoes and purses
Vacation in the Pocanos
Subscription to People Magazine
Pennies in a piggy bank
Silver-beige 4-door Accord
A little college but no degree
Always ten pounds overweight
Celebration meal at Sizzler
Artificial Christmas tree pre-lit
A mole that wants removing
Off white walls, pale green carpet
Outfits from mail order catalogs
Paydays with no yearly bonus
Jeopardy and Wheel of fortune
Polyester perm press everything
Bic Stik ball point pen
Swanson's TV dinner
Flip phone with no camera
*** two times a week and Sunday
Writing verse nobody reads
ljm
I was thinking that my life has grown boring, and that started me making a list of all the most boring things I could think of.  Never been to the Pocanos, but I do have pennies in a piggy bank But I wouldn't write with a Bic Stik if you paid me.
Gaffer Mar 2017
It was great for a time
*** and wine
Wine and ***
Then commitment and open and shut curtains.
Special delivery of child made the bond complete
Six months down the line
Breast feeding was action watched from a distance
Intimacy was a tired look
The neighbours cat looked hot
Killed the lonely nights
Killed the commitment outright
Got to know the lawyer through rapid bank withdrawals
Weekly child visit watched over by Brutus
Bar visits watched over by the world's condemned
Special occasion became a twice yearly treat
Birthday and Christmas, bit of hate thrown sideways.
Then the new man.
Felt good for her.
Maybe some pressure off.
Maybe missed that lobotomy bar lecture.
Years dragged the hate forward.
Time moved on.
One day I wrote her a letter expressing my anger.
She wrote back in triplicate.
I wrote back in double triplicate.
She sent a thesis on men and *****.
Suddenly without thinking, we had dialogue.
After a while, we moved on from the anger.
We became human again.
I actually liked writing her letters and receiving them.
We never got back together.
But the letters kept us close.
Sometimes there would be a kiss at the end.
The little bit of love I probably never deserved.
I would mention it to her in my next letter.
Even an *** deserves a solitary kiss now and again.
The bar room lawyers would probably agree.
Mary Gay Kearns Dec 2018
The snow berries are out tonight
In corded rows of silent lights
They decorate the tallest hedge
Float across a mission to address.

Little people stop and stare
Their wonder full of mystery
Then home to gather round tree
A yearly Christmas fantasy.

Love Mary ***


Love Mary x
the earth is at this meeting point again
around the sun just like last spring
yellow red orange
i put you inside a small box
and took you out to sea to sink
i made you into a dream to slumber upon
your body was a far away constellation
but spring comes again
and you are green inside of me like it was yesterday that i cradled your head on my b o s o m
yesterday when you touched me for the first time in front of the sea,
and i said touch me there again
will you always live inside of me
i will always let you in
yearly
you will stay for tea for an hour
maybe two
and i will always give myself to you
Mark Oct 7
'Oh deary me!' I recently rusted my dang of a thang
So now I can’t even amuse myself, by golly
Even been trying da one, my cousin rented to me
Never got the yearly service, due to the high costs, kerching
Just a toppin’ up with the essential oils, for a nominal fee
Just so busy, with a plantin’ it, smokin’ it, a bit like a rolly
While galavanting about, this country’s dry and sunburnt soil
Okay then, serve myself right, I shouldn’t second guess
Should’ve just lubricated, after such a hard and grinding toil
That dang of a thang, now take a look at the **** mess
After every ounce of sweat and auto correct tweets
After weird Tinder meets and almost all the surprise greets
I can’t wait to play with again, my Chinese made, Yin & Yang
My most pleasurable and double ended, dang of a thang.
4 seasons/
yearly clearly/
Affirmations/
when you hear that i am "i" /
the seed of the joker and liar/
behold these laws are sown onto to me /
a bow with the strings of relief/
the corporate me
I seize to believe /
For they've monetized belief/
take advantage of the weak
meek with hair streaks/
They want my juice to leak/
trying to copy my technique/
when I get lost when I look into me/
So why take advantage of your grief?/
I express release/
144,000 puzzle pieces/
They struggle with deepness /
my keen turns those obsequious/
I challenge my steepness/

The Apex
gets pushed by my flex/
my brain contains both sexes/
galaxy nexus connect this/
extra terrestrials bargain for my friendship/
in-comprehensive to your demonic presence/
Endless ego/
call me evil I'll smile at your people/
consider it lethal/
laughter is legal/
Comedic strategic spiritual kilo/
drugged by your equal/
  zero plus zero
forms the hero /
messiah hunter
their styles under
and above/
i remain at the center protected by shields of lust/
The cusp
I'm psychic too much/
WA West Oct 2018
Allow 3 seconds,
to enter,
ignore him for he is nobody really,
the sun has not yet risen,
the stairs or the lift?
These are the choices you make,
20 calories per floor,
How long do you want this?
chose your story,
Your rib-cage molests your skin nest,
You are not the youngest,
face reality,
What have you achieved lately?
Be present in the moment,
Do not fail emotionally,
Keep on fighting in spite of being wounded,
Your bi-yearly evaluations have been consistent,
This is to be applauded in light of your recent health troubles,
Some things are clear to the naked eye,
It pleases us immensely that you have decided to stay with the organisation,
However, please adhere to company guidelines regarding the dress code,
If the train is late so much you should consider driving,
Bake a cake for the cake sale,
Your colleagues are all here to support you,
We are organising a departmental night out on Friday, attendance is mandatory,
Consider working extra time in order to clear the backlog,
Breaks are to be restricted to 15 minutes,
Ensure the correct status is inputted,
Give us everything you have,
You are our company.
Bob B Dec 2018
Light the candles on the menorah,
On the menorah, one by one.
Let the shamash be your attendant.
Gather together when day is done.

May the sounds of Hanukkah blessings
Fill your home with a cheerful mood.
Let your heart be brimming with wonder,
Joy and laughter and gratitude.

Celebrate the season with hope--
The yearly festival of lights.
Think about the oil that burned
For eight miraculous days and nights.

Spin the dreidel. How will it fall--
Nisht or gantz or halb or shtel?
Win or lose some Hanukkah gelt…
If you break even, you're doing well.

We reflect on where we have come from;
Struggles have never seemed to cease.
May people everywhere learn from the past.
For the sake of the children let there be peace.

Light the candles on the menorah,
On the menorah, one by one.
May the gentle glow of the candles
Soften the night in the setting sun.

-by Bob B (12-12-18)

°I know: the festival of Hanukkah has passed this year.
But it will return on 22 Dec. 2019.
Athira Nair Nov 2018
The love, the rain, the sight
Of this place,
I might see only once a year
Brings me the happiness
That no other has brought

To leave it and go forward
Isn’t as easy as it may seem to you
The fun, the memories and the amazing journeys
Seems to be etched into my heart
For what seems like eternity

But I know I need to go on
And come back to see it yearly
Although,How much it means to me
Can no words convey to you

But this love I shall have
To this place forever
Go and come, I wish to
Forever and forever .....
Two retired souls communing together.
One says,"Feeling strange, I can't see."
Last thing he said," honey, I love you."
He warned the family that he'd no longer
celebrate the holiday. That's why he wrapped
the gifts so early.
She still hosted a yearly family reunion on The
Midwinter Feast.
That tradition continued until one October
in the hospital.
We recently sold their house.
Happy Birthday Sister Dear
For the 65th anniversary of your birth
That yearly recognition
Of your time spent on earth…
But you are not here
So…
I want to send you a present
One that will last forever
One that will never end
So these words I penned…

“Thought we’ve not always been close
You were loved in my heart
Then there’s the matter
Of that “other” body part
I want you to know
How much I cared
I may not have always been there
Or said the right thing
But my love is sent to you
On the whisper of an Angel’s wing”
RIP Dal
July 21, 1954~August 23, 2018

For my sister “Dal”
That “other” body part is the kidney  I gave her years ago
We named her “Tinklebelle”
Both are now gone
And there was nothing but blackness
as far as the eye could see
She was spinning tops in her head
swatting the demons away like fleas

Unbeknownst to her, disease was setting in
Spreading like wildfire, she screamed
As they welcomed themselves in
No invitation was needed, for she had conceded

The darkness was swallowing her once again

Her yearly ritual, the grin of a ghastly figure stood over her whistling the familiar tune
She knew it was time to shut her eyes, so swallowing her pride;
Two sarcastic pills appeared in her hand, this time she couldn't disguise the screams.

Choking and convulsing
Sweating and foaming

She awoke the next morning, the whites of her eyes-
Nearly plum wine as if the vines had drawn little lies to remind her of last night.

She wouldn't let them win-
with a wink and a drink she drew the curtains of dread
Light flooded toward her
In the blink of an eye she drew a big smile
and the sun warmed her icy veins
Basking in her new found perspective

She wouldn't let the demons win.
© 2019 Christina Jackson
Ian Mackenzie Aug 2018
As today I walked through summer trees
I feel the taste of autumn upon the leaves

There was a sense of time in the breeze
That life was moving more quickly now
And soon the smell of September would start to please

The trees hold their summer fruit but when I return the golden hues will lie at my feet and will be carried by autumns rush

And in the rustle of drying leaves a creature will stir and look about, knowing that soon winters call will hold him short

And then once more as snow lies all about an anxious plant will appear to start once more this yearly race
And I shall feel it in winters air
As spring calls to me that now a new year will soon be here
At CP August 2018
I dreamt this poem
zane b Dec 2018
the yearly act of dying and then resurrecting at dawn is no longer as holy
as it could have been the first time it happened
i, no longer have bones within this vessel of ache
and yet i am only tired when they ask if i am okay.
i am never tired even when i am exhausted there is a lub-dub within,
pounding the doors i have
built, to see if i was
capable of safety within these hazardous conditions.
prophetically,
i vision that as i step off the gallows stage
into a trust fall choreographed by a world
that promises to me he is better than this,
there will come
a slither of venom into the halls of this highschool and
the crowd will unhinge their chests and
let the cyanide bubble their veins and
cry out lyrics about how
who we are is who we are is who we are—
but i am only tired, i say.
graduation is terrifying
How
Ready A Flight

I miss
grenadine yearly
on the
newt yet
here with
Shultz a
moon in
Jupiter that
everyone slept
their keen  
to surface
now with
brown as
beans with
the syrup
are ready
this flight
T R S Jun 22
Actually, and after,
Beds, before, bravely built
Came cross crew, caulked, caved
Dove, dived, dug
Entered, expected every entrance ever.
Finally, few first felt
Gaul, grace, grossness,
How high her heaven held
In interspaced indifference.
Just jokes,
Kiddies kidded
Like little liveries. Like lost little laughs.
Most meet
Not next, not never, not neat, not nice.
Only over onager onery.
Please place people, perhaps past pain, past peaks, past pimples.
Quit quivering,
Right rangers, running round ranges
So soften such seals
Take tough touches
Under udders, undulating urges.
Very verified visages.
Why worry? What's worth when worrying?
Xenonphobic xenons xeroxing
You. Your yummy, yearly
Zone, Zoo.
Yazad Tafti Jul 29
today the weather is temperate and modest
sculpted as a model depiction of the artistic connoisseur's painting
i've been observing the seasons change on me
day be the day the park bench withstands yearly attractions, never yet less deranging

so as i lay back with crow bar on the corner of the plank
i wonder, don't think, i'm already of admirable rank
i dig my piercing meteor to the center of the bench
chip, a wedge flew off, resembles a baseball bat when clenched

happiness loves Missouri and i need to take a dip in that river
swim the distance into the current, direction; a lively propagator
currently chilling out on this draft,
catch your lustrous beauty later...we all know this craft
i'm high
Kenshō Nov 11
because everyone thinks its in stone
and aint no body carving
im moving and leaving tracks
and i must be a martian
I'm tuffed with a bag of bluff
and im on my last rice pack
i had followed a beating sound
and now i cannot find my way back
I hope you send a call for me to miss her
But when that bend turns im alone at a vista
and i can see so clearly
infact i can see so much more
and im growing yearly
It's just you all tend
to get stuck ina trend
An echo of an imprint that years ago you sent
And never heard back from that now so
And by the way i can read your brow like braille
all the beautiful ways youve been sent and from where you hale
All the ignorant discrimination is getting stale
And one of us is on the brink and the other looking up from the sink
Wondering when will be the time
And time only moves in one direction, right?
Day shines after the chill of night
And earths cycles seem to be wound so tight
Yet i seem a loose end
I've already wondered when will be the end?
But i heard a whisper to grow a garden and to start to tend
and now its in bloom
and all the bees are in full zoom
and i can see the cycle of life clearly
we invest everything just to lose dearly
so that another may have
like the relationship between a son and dad
The sound of the chimes
as the wind passes by
And all the bird is teaching us lessons
but what if the wind blows and no one is around
does the tear ever touch the ground?
and if my heart stops does it matter why it pounds?
and if i was lost would it matter that im found?
Hi my name goes here
Wishing you were awake and here
but life goes on
After all shoes are tied with stories
and where ever you left them, is where they led you
I think everything has a sound when no ones around
and that everything goes husshh here they come when we come stomping around
Like all the flowers giggling that the seed has foundd groundd
No judging your petal little guy
We love you and know you are shy
My story is ending this is your sky
But only within my coordinance can you fly
Like a limb retarding it's direction
As if you have any detection
you read machines and are practically becoming one
you should go outside more and practice being one
Oh here you come uup that hill
I've been here for years.
Feels like lifetimes when you are light years away
Nature blooms all sorts of ways.
don't judge the petal
all alchemy comes from the ketil
and lets admit thats pretty ******* metal
yes ive been through some ****
when i preach i might spit
but brush me off and let me shine
super natural in the son, align.
ill edit your face on acid
Like a psychotic docent in the wilderness,
I will not speak in perfect Ciceronian cadences.
I draw my voice from a much deeper cistern,
Preferring the jittery synaptic archive,
So sublimely unfiltered, random and profane.
And though I am sequestered now,
Confined within the walls of a gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55 lunatic asylum (for Active Seniors I am told),
I remain oddly puerile,
Remarkably refreshed and unfettered.  
My institutionalization self-imposed,
Purposed for my own serenity, and also the safety of others.
Yet I abide, surprisingly emancipated and frisky.
I may not have found the peace I seek,
But the quiet has mercifully come at last.

The nexus of inner and outer space is context for my story.
I was born either in Brooklyn, New York or Shungopavi, Arizona,
More of intervention divine than census data.
Shungopavi: a designated place for tribal statistical purposes.
Shungopavi: an ovine abbatoir and shaman’s cloister.
The Hopi: my mother’s people, a state of mind and grace,
Deftly landlocked, so cunningly circumscribed,
By both interior and outer Navajo boundaries.
The Navajo: a coyote trickster people; a nation of sheep thieves,
Hornswoggled and landlocked themselves,
Subsumed within three of the so-called Four Corners:
A 3/4ths compromise and covenant,
Pickled in firewater, swaddled in fine print,
A veritable swindle concocted back when the USA
Had Manifest Destiny & mayhem on its mind.

The United States: once a pubescent synthesis of blood and thunder,
A bold caboodle of trooper spit and polish, unwashed brawlers, Scouts and      
Pathfinders, mountain men, numb-nut ne'er-do-wells,
Buffalo Bills & big-balled individualists, infected, insane with greed.
According to the Gospel of His Holiness Saint Zinn,
A People’s’ History of the United States: essentially state-sponsored terrorism,
A LAND RUSH grabocracy, orchestrated, blessed and anointed,
By a succession of Potomac sharks, Great White Fascist Fathers,
Far-Away-on-the Bay, the Bay we call The Chesapeake.
All demented national patriarchs craving lebensraum for God and country.
The USA: a 50-state Leviathan today, a nation jury-rigged,
Out of railroad ties, steel rails and baling wire,
Forged by a litany of lies, rapaciousness and ******,
And jaw-torn chunks of terra firma,
Bites both large and small out of our well-****** Native American ***.

Or culo, as in va’a fare in culo (literally "go do it in the ***")
Which Italian Americans pronounce as fongool.
The language center of my brain,
My sub-cortical Broca’s region,
So fraught with such semantic misfires,
And autonomic linguistic seizures,
Compel acknowledgement of a father’s contribution,
To both the gene pool and the genocide.
Columbus Day:  a conspicuously absent holiday out here in Indian Country.
No festivals or Fifth Avenue parades.
No excuse for ethnic hoopla. No guinea feast. No cannoli. No tarantella.
No excuse to not get drunk and not **** your sister-in-law.
Emphatically a day for prayer and contemplation,
A day of infamy like Pearl Harbor and 9/11,
October 12, 1492: not a discovery; an invasion.

Growing up in Brooklyn, things were always different for me,
Different in some sort of redskin/****/****--
Choose Your Favorite Ethnic Slur-sort of way.
The American Way: dehumanization for fun and profit.
Melting *** anonymity and denial of complicity with evil.
But this is no time to bring up America’s sordid past,
Or, a personal pet peeve: Indian Sovereignty.
For Uncle Sam and his minions, an ever-widening, conveniently flexible concept,
Not a commandment or law,
Not really a treaty or a compact,
Or even a business deal.  Let’s get real:
It was not even much in the way of a guideline.
Just some kind of an advisory, a bulletin or newsletter,
Could it merely have been a free-floating suggestion?
Yes, that’s it exactly: a suggestion.

Over and under halcyon American skies,
Over and around those majestic purple mountain peaks,
Those trapped in poetic amber waves of wheat and oats,
Corn and barley, wheat shredded and puffed,
Corn flaked and milled, Wheat Chex and Wheaties, oats that are little Os;
Kix and Trix, Fiber One, and Kashi-Go-Lean, Lucky Charms and matso *****,
Kreplach and kishka,
Polenta and risotto.
Our cantaloupe and squash patch,
Our fruited prairie plain, our delicate ecological Eden,
In balance and harmony with nature, as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce instructs:
“These white devils are not going to,
Stop ****** and killing, cheating and eating us,
Until they have the whole ******* enchilada.
I’m talking about ‘from sea to shining sea.’”

“I fight no more forever,” Babaloo.
So I must steer this clunky keelboat of discovery,
Back to the main channel of my sad and starry demented river.
My warpath is personal but not historical.
It is my brain’s own convoluted cognitive process I cannot saavy.
Whatever biochemical or—as I suspect more each day—
Whatever bio-mechanical protocols govern my identity,
My weltanschauung: my world-view, as sprechen by proto-Nazis;
Putz philosophers of the 17th, 18th & 19th century.
The German intelligentsia: what a cavalcade of maniacal *******!
Why is this Jew unsurprised these Zarathustra-fueled Übermenschen . . .
Be it the Kaiser--Caesar in Deutsch--Bismarck, ******, or,
Even that Euro-*****,  Angela Merkel . . . Why am I not surprised these Huns,
Get global grab-*** on the sauerbraten cabeza every few generations?
To be, or not to be the ***** bullgoose loony: GOTT.

Biomechanical protocols govern my identity and are implanted while I sleep.
My brain--my weak and weary CPU--is replenished, my discs defragmented.
A suite of magnetic and optical white rooms, cleansed free of contaminants,
Gun mounts & lifeboat stations manned and ready,
Standing at attention and saluting British snap-style,
Snap-to and heel click, ramrod straight and cheerful: “Ready for duty, Sir.”
My mind is ravenous, lusting for something, anything to process.
Any memory or image, lyric or construct,
Be they short-term dailies or deeply imprinted.
Fixations archived one and all in deep storage time and space.
Memories, some subconscious, most vaporous;
Others--the scary ones—eidetic: frighteningly detailed and extraordinarily vivid.
Precise cognitive transcripts; recollected so richly rife and fresh.
Visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and olfactory reloads:
Queued up and increasingly re-experienced.

The bio-data of six decades: it’s all there.
People, countless, places and things cataloged.
Every event, joy and trauma enveloped from within or,
Accessed externally from biomechanical storage devices.
The random access memory of a lifetime,
Read and recollected from cerebral repositories and vaults,
All the while the entire greedy process overseen,
Over-driven by that all-subservient British bat-man,
Rummaging through the data in batches small and large,
Internal and external drives working in seamless syncopation,
Self-referential, at times paradoxical or infinitely looped.
“Cogito ergo sum."
Descartes stripped it down to the basics but there’s more to the story:
Thinking about thinking.
A curse and minefield for the cerebral:  metacognition.

No, it is not the fact that thought exists,
Or even the thoughts themselves.
But the information technology of thought that baffles me,
As adaptive and profound as any evolution posited by Darwin,
Beyond the wetware in my skull, an entirely new operating system.
My mental and cultural landscape are becoming one.
Machines are connecting the two.
It’s what I am and what I am becoming.
Once more for emphasis:
It is the information technology of who I am.
It is the operating system of my mental and cultural landscape.
It is the machinery connecting the two.
This is the central point of this narrative:
Metacognition--your superego’s yenta Cassandra,
Screaming, screaming in your psychic ear, your good ear:

“LISTEN:  The machines are taking over, taking you over.
Your identity and train of thought are repeatedly hijacked,
Switched off the main line onto spurs and tangents,
Only marginally connected or not at all.
(Incoming TEXT from my editor: “Lighten Up, Giuseppi!”)
Reminding me again that most in my audience,
Rarely get past the comic page. All righty then: think Calvin & Hobbes.
John Calvin, a precocious and adventurous six-year old boy,
Subject to flights of 16th Century French theological fancy.
Thomas Hobbes, a sardonic anthropomorphic tiger from 17th Century England,
Mumbling about life being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”
Taken together--their antics and shenanigans--their relationship to each other,
Remind us of our dual nature; explore for us broad issues like public education;
The economy, environmentalism & the Global ****** Thermometer;
Not to mention the numerous flaws of opinion polls.



And again my editor TEXTS me, reminds me again: “LIGHTEN UP!”
Consoling me:  “Even Shakespeare had to play to the groundlings.”
The groundlings, AKA: The Rabble.
Yes. Even the ******* Bard, even Willie the Shake,
Had to contend with a decidedly lowbrow copse of carrion.
Oh yes, the groundlings, a carrion herd, a flying flock of carrion seagulls,
Carrion crow, carrion-feeders one and all,
And let’s throw Sheryl Crow into the mix while we’re at it:
“Hit it! This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either, this is L.A.”  

                  Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell              

Once more, I digress.
The Rabble:  an amorphous, gelatinous Jabba the Hutt of commonality.
The Rabble: drunk, debauched & lawless.
Too *****-delicious to stop Bill & Hilary from thinking about tomorrow;
Too Paul McCartney My Love Does it Good to think twice.

The Roman Saturnalia: a weeklong **** fest.
The Saturnalia: originally a pagan kink-fest in honor of the deity Saturn.
Dovetailing nicely with the advent of the Christian era,
With a project started by Il Capo di Tutti Capi,
One of the early popes, co-opting the Roman calendar between 17 and 25 December,
Putting the finishing touches on the Jesus myth.
For Brooklyn Hopi-***-Jew baby boomers like me,
Saturnalia manifested itself as Disco Fever,
Unpleasant years of electrolysis, scrunched ***** in tight polyester
For Roman plebeians, for the great unwashed citizenry of Rome,
Saturnalia was just a great big Italian wedding:
A true family blowout and once-in-a-lifetime ego-trip for Dad,
The father of the bride, Vito Corleone, Don for A Day:
“Some think the world is made for fun and frolic,
And so do I! Funicula, Funiculi!”

America: love it or leave it; my country right or wrong.
Sure, we were citizens of Rome,
But any Joe Josephus spending the night under a Tiber bridge,
Or sleeping off a three day drunk some afternoon,
Up in the Coliseum bleachers, the cheap seats, out beyond the monuments,
The original three monuments in the old stadium,
Standing out in fair territory out in center field,
Those three stone slabs honoring Gehrig, Huggins, and Babe.
Yes, in the house that Ruth built--Home of the Bronx Bombers--***?
Any Joe Josephus knows:  Roman citizenship doesn’t do too much for you,
Except get you paxed, taxed & drafted into the Legion.
For us the Roman lifestyle was HIND-*** humble.
We plebeians drew our grandeur by association with Empire.
Very few Romans and certainly only those of the patrician class lived high,
High on the hog, enjoying a worldly extravaganza, like—whom do we both know?

Okay, let’s say Laurence Olivier as Crassus in Spartacus.
Come on, you saw Spartacus fifteen ******* times.
Remember Crassus?
Crassus: that ***** twisted **** trying to get his freak on with,
Tony Curtis in a sunken marble tub?
We plebes led lives of quiet *****-scratching desperation,
A bunch of would-be legionnaires, diseased half the time,
Paid in salt tablets or baccala, salted codfish soaked yellow in olive oil.
Stiffs we used to call them on New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn.
Let’s face it: we were hyenas eating someone else’s ****,
Stage-door jackals, Juvenal-come-late-lies, a mob of moronic mook boneheads
Bought off with bread & circuses and Reality TV.
Each night, dished up a wide variety of lowbrow Elizabethan-era entertainments.  
We contemplate an evening on the town, downtown—
(cue Petula Clark/Send "Downtown" Ringtone to your Cell)

On any given London night, to wit:  mummers, jugglers, bear & bull baiters.
How about dog & **** fighters, quoits & skittles, alehouses & brothels?
In short, somewhere, anywhere else,
Anywhere other than down along the Thames,
At Bankside in Southwark, down in the Globe Theater mosh pit,
Slugging it out with the groundlings whose only interest,
In the performance is the choreography of swordplay and stale ****** puns.
Meanwhile, Hugh Fennyman--probably a fellow Jew,
An English Renaissance Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen—
Meanwhile Fennyman, the local mob boss is getting his ya-yas,
Roasting the feet of my text-messaging editor, Philip Henslowe.
Poor and pathetic Henslowe, works on commission, always scrounging,
But a true patron of my craft, a gentleman of infinite jest and patience,
Spiritual subsistence, and every now and then a good meal at some,
Sawdust joint with oyster shells, and a Prufrockian silk purse of T.S. Eliot gold.

Poor, pathetic Henslowe, trussed up by Fennyman,
His editorial feet in what looks like a Japanese hibachi.
Henslowe’s feet to the fire--feet to the fire—get it?
A catchy phrase whose derivation conjures up,
A grotesque yet vivid image of torture,
An exquisite insight into how such phrases ingress the idiom,
Not to mention a scene once witnessed at a secret Romanian CIA prison,
I’d been ordered to Bucharest not long after 9/11,
Handling the rendition and torture of Habib Ghazzawy,

An entirely innocent falafel maker from Steinway Street, Astoria, Queens.
Shock the Monkey: it’s what we do. GOTO:
Peter Gabriel - Shock the Monkey/
(HQ music video) - YouTube//
www.youtube.com/
Poor, pathetic, ******-on Henslowe.


Fennyman :  (his avarice is whet by something Philly screams out about a new script)  "A play takes time. Find actors; Rehearsals. Let's say open in three weeks. That's--what--five hundred groundlings at tuppence each, in addition four hundred groundlings tuppence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence--a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performances for safety how much is that Mr. Frees?"
Jacobean Tweet, John (1580-1684) Webster:  “I saw him kissing her bubbies.”

It’s Geoffrey Rush, channeling Henslowe again,
My editor, a singed smoking madman now,
Feet in an ice bucket, instructing me once more:
“Lighten things up, you know . . .
Comedy, love and a bit with a dog.”
I digress again and return to Hopi Land, back to my shaman-monastic abattoir,
That Zen Center in downtown Shungopavi.
At the Tribal Enrolment Office I make my case for a Certificate of Indian Blood,
Called a CIB by the Natives and the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.
The BIA:  representing gold & uranium miners, cattle and sheep ranchers,
Sodbusters & homesteaders; railroaders and dam builders since 1824.
Just in time for Andrew Jackson, another false friend of Native America,
Just before Old Hickory, one of many Democratic Party hypocrites and scoundrels,
Gives the FONGOOL, up the CULO go ahead.
Hey Andy, I’ve got your Jacksonian democracy: Hanging!
The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) mission is to:   "… enhance the quality of life, to promote economic opportunity, and to carry out the responsibility to protect and improve the trust assets of American Indians, Indian tribes, and Alaska Natives. What’s that in the fine print?  Uncle Sammy holds “the trust assets of American Indians.”

Here’s a ******* tip, Geronimo: if he trusted you,
It would ALL belong to you.
To you and The People.
But it’s all fork-tongued white *******.
If true, Indian sovereignty would cease to be a sick one-liner,
Cease to be a blunt force punch line, more of,
King Leopold’s 19th Century stand-up comedy schtick,
Leo Presents: The **** of the Congo.
La Belgique mission civilisatrice—
That’s what French speakers called Uncle Leo’s imperial public policy,
Bringing the gift of civilization to central Africa.
Like Manifest Destiny in America, it had a nice colonial ring to it.
“Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent,
Allotted by Providence for the free development,
Of our yearly multiplying millions.”  John L. O'Sullivan, 1845

Our civilizing mission or manifest destiny:
Either/or, a catchy turn of phrase;
Not unlike another ironic euphemism and semantic subterfuge:
The Pacification of the West; Pacification?
Hardly: decidedly not too peaceful for Cochise & Tonto.
Meanwhile, Madonna is cash rich but disrespected Evita poor,
To wit: A ****** on the Rocks (throwing in a byte or 2 of Da Vinci Code).
Meanwhile, Miss Ciccone denied her golden totem *****.
They snubbed that little guinea ****, didn’t they?
Snubbed her, robbed her rotten.
Evita, her magnum opus, right up there with . . .
Her SNL Wayne’s World skit:
“Get a load of the unit on that guy.”
Or, that infamous MTV Music Video Awards stunt,
That classic ***** Lip-Lock with Britney Spears.

How could I not see that Oscar snubola as prime evidence?
It was just another stunning case of American anti-Italian racial animus.
Anyone familiar with Noam Chomsky would see it,
Must view it in the same context as the Sacco & Vanzetti case,
Or, that arbitrary lynching of 9 Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891,
To cite just two instances of anti-Italian judicial reach & mob violence,
Much like what happened to my cousin Dominic,
Gang-***** by the Harlem Globetrotters, in their locker room during halftime,
While he working for Abe Saperstein back in 1952.
Dom was doing advance for Abe, supporting creation of The Washington Generals:
A permanent stable of hoop dream patsies and foils,
Named for the ever freewheeling, glad-handing, backslapping,
Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (SCAEF), himself,
Namely General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man they liked,
And called IKE: quite possibly a crypto Jew from Abilene.

Of course, Harry Truman was my first Great White Fascist Father,
Back in 1946, when I first opened my eyes, hung up there,
High above, looking down from the adobe wall.
Surveying the entire circular kiva,
I had the best seat in the house.
Don’t let it be said my Spider Grandmother or Hopi Corn Mother,
Did not want me looking around at things,
Discovering what made me special.
Didn’t divine intervention play a significant part of my creation?
Knowing Mamma Mia and Nonna were Deities,
Gave me an edge later on the streets of Brooklyn.
The Cradleboard: was there ever a more divinely inspired gift to human curiosity? The Cradleboard: a perfect vantage point, an infant’s early grasp,
Of life harmonious, suspended between Mother Earth and Father Sky.
Simply put: the Hopi should be running our ******* public schools.

But it was IKE with whom I first associated,
Associated with the concept 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I liked IKE. Who didn’t?
What was not to like?
He won the ******* war, didn’t he?
And he wasn’t one of those crazy **** John Birchers,
Way out there, on the far right lunatic Republican fringe,
Was he? (It seems odd and nearly impossible to believe in 2013,
That there was once a time in our Boomer lives,
When the extreme right wing of the Republican Party
Was viewed by the FBI as an actual threat to American democracy.)
Understand: it was at a time when The FBI,
Had little ideological baggage,
But a great appetite for secrets,
The insuppressible Jay Edgar doing his thang.

IKE: of whom we grew so, oh-so Fifties fond.
Good old reliable, Nathan Shaking IKE:
He’d been fixed, hadn’t he? Had had the psychic snip.
Snipped as a West Point cadet & parade ground martinet.
Which made IKE a good man to have in a pinch,
Especially when crucial policy direction was way above his pay grade.
Cousin Dom was Saperstein’s bagman, bribing out the opposition,
Which came mainly from religious and patriotic organizations,
Viewing the bogus white sports franchise as obscene.
The Washington Generals, Saperstein’s new team would have but one opponent,
And one sole mission: to serve as the **** of endless jokes and sight gags for—
Negroes.  To play the chronic fools of--
Negroes.  To be chronically humiliated and insulted by—
Negroes.  To run up and down the boards all night, being outran by—
Negroes.  Not to mention having to wear baggy silk shorts.



Meadowlark Lemon:  “Yeah, Charlie, we ***** that grease-ball Dominic; we shagged his guinea mouth and culo rotten.”  

(interviewed in his Scottsdale, AZ winter residence in 2003 by former ESPN commentator Charlie Steiner, Malverne High School, Class of ’67.)
                                                        
  ­                                                                 ­                 
IKE, briefed on the issue by higher-ups, quickly got behind the idea.
The Harlem Globetrotters were to exist, and continue to exist,
Are sustained financially by Illuminati sponsors,
For one reason and one reason only:
To serve elite interests that the ***** be kept down and subservient,
That the minstrel show be perpetuated,
A policy surviving the elaborate window dressing of the civil rights movement, Affirmative action, and our first Uncle Tom president.
Case in point:  Charles Barkley, Dennis Rodman & Metta World Peace Artest.
Cha-cha-cha changing again:  I am Robert Allen Zimmermann,
A whiny, skinny Jew, ****** and rolling in from Minnesota,
Arrested, obviously a vagrant, caught strolling around his tony Jersey enclave,
Having moved on up the list, the A-list, a special invitation-only,
Yom Kippur Passover Seder:  Next Year in Jerusalem, Babaloo!

I take ownership of all my autonomic and conditioned reflexes;
Each personal neural arc and pathway,
All shenanigans & shellackings,
Or blunt force cognitive traumas.
It’s all percolating nicely now, thank you,
In kitchen counter earthen crockery:
Random access memory: a slow-cook crockpot,
Bubbling through my psychic sieve.
My memories seem only remotely familiar,
Distant and vague, at times unreal:
An alien hybrid databank accessed accidently on purpose;
Flaky science sustains and monitors my nervous system.
And leads us to an overwhelming question:
Is it true that John Dillinger’s ******* is in the Smithsonian Museum?
Enquiring minds want to know, Kemosabe!

“Any last words, *******?” TWEETS Adam Smith.
Postmortem cyber-graffiti, an epitaph carved in space;
Last words, so singular and simple,
Across the universal great divide,
Frisbee-d, like a Pleistocene Kubrick bone,
Tossed randomly into space,
Morphing into a gyroscopic space station.
Mr. Smith, a calypso capitalist, and me,
Me, the Poet Laureate of the United States and Adam;
Who, I didn’t know from Adam.
But we tripped the light fantastic,
We boogied the Protestant Work Ethic,
To the tune of that old Scotch-Presbyterian favorite,
Variations of a 5-point Calvinist theme: Total Depravity; Election; Particular Redemption; Irresistible Grace; & Perseverance of the Saints.

Mr. Smith, the author of An Inquiry into the Nature
& Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776),
One of the best-known, intellectual rationales for:
Free trade, capitalism, and libertarianism,
The latter term a euphemism for Social Darwinism.
Prior to 1764, Calvinists in France were called Huguenots,
A persecuted religious majority . . . is that possible?
A persecuted majority of Edict of Nantes repute.
Adam Smith, likely of French Huguenot Jewish ancestry himself,
Reminds me that it is my principal plus interest giving me my daily gluten.
And don’t think the irony escapes me now,
A realization that it has taken me nearly all my life to see again,
What I once saw so vividly as a child, way back when.
Before I put away childish things, including the following sentiment:
“All I need is the air that I breathe.”

  Send "The Air That I Breathe" Ringtone to your Cell  

The Hippies were right, of course.
The Hollies had it all figured out.
With the answer, as usual, right there in the lyrics.
But you were lucky if you were listening.
There was a time before I embraced,
The other “legendary” economists:
The inexorable Marx,
The savage society of Veblen,
The heresies we know so well of Keynes.
I was a child.
And when I was a child, I spake as a child—
Grazie mille, King James—
I understood as a child; I thought as a child.
But when I became a man I jumped on the bus with the band,
Hopped on the irresistible bandwagon of Adam Smith.

Smith:  “Any last words, *******?”
Okay, you were right: man is rationally self-interested.
Grazie tanto, Scotch Enlightenment,
An intellectual movement driven by,
An alliance of Calvinists and Illuminati,
Freemasons and Johnny Walker Black.
Talk about an irresistible bandwagon:
Smith, the gloomy Malthus, and David Ricardo,
Another Jew boy born in London, England,
Third of 17 children of a Sephardic family of Portuguese origin,
Who had recently relocated from the Dutch Republic.
******* Jews!
Like everything shrewd, sane and practical in this world,
WE also invented the concept:  FOLLOW THE MONEY.

The lyrics: if you were really listening, you’d get it:
Respiration keeps one sufficiently busy,
Just breathing free can be a full-time job,
Especially when--borrowing a phrase from British cricketers—,
One contemplates the sorry state of the wicket.
Now that I am gainfully superannuated,
Pensioned off the employment radar screen.
Oft I go there into the wild ebon yonder,
Wandering the brain cloud at will.
My journey indulges curiosity, creativity and deceit.
I free range the sticky wicket,
I have no particular place to go.
Snagging some random fact or factoid,
A stop & go rural postal route,
Jumping on and off the brain cloud.

Just sampling really,
But every now and then, gorging myself,
At some information super smorgasbord,
At a Good Samaritan Rest Stop,
I ponder my own frazzled neurology,
When I was a child—
Before I learned the grim economic facts of life and Judaism,
Before I learned Hebrew,
Before my laissez-faire Bar Mitzvah lessons,
Under the rabbinical tutelage of Rebbe Kahane--
I knew what every clever child knows about life:
The surfing itself is the destination.
Accessing RAM--random access memory—
On a strictly need to know basis.
RAM:  a pretty good name for consciousness these days.

If I were an Asimov or Sir Arthur (Sri Lankabhimanya) Clarke,
I’d get freaky now, riffing on Terminators, Time Travel and Cyborgs.
But this is truth not science fiction.
Nevertheless, someone had better,
Come up with another name for cyborg.
Some other name for a critter,
Composed of both biological and artificial parts?
Parts-is-parts--be they electronic, mechanical or robotic.
But after a lifetime of science fiction media,
After a steady media diet, rife with dystopian technology nightmares,
Is anyone likely to admit to being a cyborg?
Since I always give credit where credit is due,
I acknowledge that cyborg was a term coined in 1960,
By Manfred Clynes & Nathan S. Kline and,
Used to identify a self-regulating human-machine system in outer space.

Five years later D. S. Halacy's: Cyborg: Evolution of the Superman,
Featured an introduction, which spoke of:  “… a new frontier, that was not,
Merely space, but more profoundly, the relationship between inner space,
And outer space; a bridge, i.e., between mind and matter.”
So, by definition, a cyborg defined is an organism with,
Technology-enhanced abilities: an antenna array,
Replacing what was once sentient and human.
My glands, once in control of metabolism and emotions,
Have been replaced by several servomechanisms.
I am biomechanical and gluttonous.
Soaking up and breathing out the atmosphere,
My Baby Boom experience of six decades,
Homogenized and homespun, feedback looped,
Endlessly networked through predigested mass media,
Culture as demographically targeted content.

This must have something to do with my own metamorphosis.
I think of Gregor Samsa, a Kafkaesque character if there ever was one.
And though we share common traits,
My evolutionary progress surpasses and transcends his.
Samsa--Phylum and Class--was, after all, an insect.
Nonetheless, I remain a changeling.
Have I not seen many stages of growth?
Each a painful metamorphic cycle,
From exquisite first egg,
Through caterpillar’s appetite & squirm.
To phlegmatic bliss and pupa quietude,
I unfold my wings in a rush of Van Gogh palette,
Color, texture, movement and grace, lift off, flapping in flight.
My eyes have witnessed wondrous transformations,
My experience, nouveau riche and distinctly self-referential;
For the most part unspecific & longitudinally pedestrian.

Yes, something has happened to me along the way.
I am no longer certain of my identity as a human being.
Time and technology has altered my basic wiring diagram.
I suspect the sophisticated gadgets and tools,
I’ve been using to shape & make sense of my environment,
Have reared up and turned around on me.
My tools have reshaped my brain & central nervous system.
Remaking me as something simultaneously more and less human.
The electronic toys and tools I once so lovingly embraced,
Have turned unpredictable and rabid,
Their bite penetrating my skin and septic now, a cluster of implanted sensors,
Content: currency made increasingly more valuable as time passes,
Served up by and serving the interests of a pervasively predatory 1%.
And the rest of us: the so-called 99%?
No longer human; simply put by both Howards--Beale & Zinn--

Humanoid.

— The End —