Even though veritable hypothetical unknown females
courtesy Facebook Messenger
frequently pepper their text messages to me
with sweet nothings,
which figurative playful banter tickle my fancy,
and immediately triggers romantic fantasies
courtesy every "Jane, Liz, and Mary,"
I (a former Norwegian bachelor farmer
now married Caucasian, latitudinarian,
nonestablishmentarian, sexagenarian,  
and Unitarian Democrat)
imagine dragon Siamese triplets
across the dance floor which
three in one package
considered a peculiar form of polygamy
who would marry yours truly in a heartbeat,
a regular unleaded yawping wordsmith
wherein a parallel universe
houses a doppelgänger of every one of us,
which mimics our every first and last move
creating Thicke blurred lines
analogous to cataracts obscuring field of vision
blinding me to brilliant babes in toyland
bodaciously, deleteriously, flirtatiously,
halfseriously, judiciously, and lubriciously
pricking my potent, latent and dormant libido
squelched courtesy the side effects
of one or more
of the nine prescription medications
taken to ameliorate
the physiological symptoms of social anxiety
(once upon a time seriously
debilitating panic attacks)
dysthymia, obsessive compulsive disorder
and palmar hyperhidrosis.

These anonymous recipients
that lavish affectionate
gooey honey words
immediately jump/kick start
thumping heart, and no matter I try
like the dickens to downplay
any illusions or delusions of grandeur
whereby sense and sensibility
run away at light speed
already envisioning (without pride
nor prejudice) ineluctable naked lunch
with a barenaked lady
dancing out of a birthday cake
(even though the date
would be other than January thirteenth -
the actual month and day
yours truly made slippery as an eel
made his debut appearance
out the birth canal
sixty six earth orbits ago
two thousand twenty five
after our harried styled tailored lord
purportedly ascended into the heavenly vault
cheaply tricked out as some
super ***** donning the mantle
of trumpeting amazing grace
videlicet eternal soul asylum
within elysian fields.

All to often
when currying a spicy friendship
with a veritable stranger
(frequently linkedin to a social media platform),
the profusion of affable hypocorisms
(/haɪˈpɒkərɪzəm/ hy-POK-ər-iz-əm or /ˌ
haɪpəˈkɒrɪzəm/ HY-pə-KORR-iz-əm;
from Ancient Greek ὑποκόρισμα hypokórisma;
sometimes also hypocoristic),
or pet name, registers
as a name used
to show affection for a person,
which incorporates a fondness
to encourage an attraction
felt toward another
offtimes bandied courtesy
uttered courtesy maternal persons,
where tender loving care
most certainly gently intoxicates
as if quaffing a sip of vintage spirits
anathema to this teetotaler,
even if he did not get
nine prescription medications
approved by Elizabeth Clark,
(a certified psychiatric nurse practitioner
(Nps), and physician assistants (Pas)
yours truly would not quaff spirits of the gods
cause he dislikes being in an altered state
and blurt out something
he immediately regrets.

forever dooming how the missus and I relate
where interplay, foreplay and coldplay
insinuated themselves within mine pate,
once I espied and entered trap door to late,
thus now ensnared and inextricably
caught into the web of deceit
courtesy my own making
detritus of sundered scattered corpses
a stark prelude of unpleasant fate
awaits yours truly,
whereat once harmonious convergence
between the writer of these words
wrought havoc upon the wife
courtesy unfettered wanton lust
towards Alice in Chains,
where hook, line and sinker
no match for Jane's Addiction
a false nubile prophetess,
who promised me everlasting love
damning eternal conjugal bliss
that weathered category five emotional Hurricanes
ever since I tasted verboten fruit,
and suffered pierced airing of cleft marriage
courtesy nymphs young enough to be my daughter
unduly flattered,
where refutation towards doxological pleading
denied late connubial transgressions
doomed to be forever estranged
from kith and kin
both those related by blood
and those connected
by friendship and close acquaintances
sacrificed on the altar of pledged troth
half-life of mine after I became spellbound
when a four foot eleven contra dancer
surreptitiously snuck up
and surprised yours truly
with a smooch on the lips
years before banshee
freed from tempest in a teapot
only discernible to me
(a veritable hobgoblin in my head)
shrieking ****** ******
while poet of Perkiomen Valley
rode first class on the Orient Express
enroute to a place
in the outer limits
of the twilight zone named Willoughby,
where dark shadows creeping
along the edge of night
signalled storm of the century
slated to make landfall four after midnight
no escape for this running man
unable to Carrie on camping
cause he lavished being attentive
and gravitated towards
the alluring, beguiling, charming...
****** innuendos hinting
of implicit indirectness
and double meanings
to convey a suggestive or risqué message,
where no doubt
(after I texted explicit premature ejaculations)
she unexpectedly got ghosted
triggering her to Rage against the machine,
where the ability to communicate
seething hormonal secretions
suddenly stifled when stark realization
and horror of his marriage
(that endured two score and nine years -
in the beginning fraught
with tumultuous verbal altercations -
nearly coming to fisticuffs
on at least one occasion)
figuratively being shattered
into a million little pieces
where all the King's horses
and all the King's men,
couldn't put (M. Scott Harris -
a stand in egg head)
for Humpty together again,
whose realization for desperation and reconciliation,
(which rupture defied repair
even with the expert assistance of Maggie Jaramillo
a recovery coach of mine courtesy Creative Health)
cause apology came too little to late,
and essentially triggered,
thus all around misery
spelling abomination, decimation,
and humiliation wrought
steely dancing imps of the pervert,
and where ruination descended upon
former kingdom of love and delight
analogous to an emotional quake
epicenter in the heart and soul
leveling corporeal entity and lovely bones.

cunctatious, flirtatious, and unostentatious,
plus being calm, cool and collected,
but he haint disputatious!

Though by far whether alive
or posthumously repurposed
into molecular bits or bytes
videlicet Malus domestica
courtesy Johnny Appleseed
whose real name John Chapman,
planted an estimated thousands
of apple trees
across the Midwestern United States
and primarily established
apple nurseries, not just single trees,
across large areas of wilderness;
while the exact number unknown,
his nurseries ranged in size,
including one near Fort Wayne, Indiana,
that held fifteen thousand trees
yours truly no way and no however
going to become as illustrious
as aforementioned legendary American,
nor industrious as The Venerable Bede,
nevertheless lemme twitter, snapchat and buzzfeed
that he will also concede
that his mien streak shifts
towards enunciation, pronunciation, and renunciation
against the establishmentarian modus operandi
whether in word or deed
nor said very important righteous leftist
be hashtagged but anything
other than modest,
where ostentation he doth not exceed
merely accessorizing how to embellish
whereby staid language best be freed,
not only to enliven conversation
but also to diplomatic
when portraying moral vices such greed
pride, envy, and lust or social vices,
which can encompass characteristics
like drug addiction, theft, and violence
cuz he espouses credibility, integrity, probity
and abiding laws as a Citizens Banker
I attest he doth wont to heed
life, liberty and pursuit of happiness thus indeed
decrying violence
such as exemplified courtesy "Janjaweed"
primarily members of nomadic Arab tribes,
who have been in long-standing conflict
with Darfur's settled African farmers
over resources like water and land
where talking heads
espouse sax and violins,
which horrific rapine and senseless killing
affect impressionable physical development
of infants and children,
leads to maladies of precious progeny
such as being bow legged
and/or knock-kneed
influencing differently abled person
to escape the cares and concerns
of an uncertain future
to ditch going to school
and accessing consciousness
expanding material such as locoweed
and become adroit
as a bootlegger selling moonshine
distilling their own liquor such as mead
plus growing their own hemp
living off the grid without the need
for dependence on nonrenewable resources
or even modern plumbing they eschew
whereby marking their territory
thirsting after designated spot
taking recourse from the sheltering sky
and the strong arm of the law
to defecate within veritable no man's land
or empty bladder
where all creatures bright and beautiful,
and all things wise and wonderful
maybe even George Washington
slept there and upon waking peed
starting a tradition
where subsequent founding fathers
essentially birthed porta potties,
the primay drawback
being an unavoidable "Queed"
the past tense of the verb "queue,"
meaning to form or wait in a line
eventually getting an education viz read
ding about learning the latest scoop
qua talking politics and/or being a traitor
whispering under cover of darkness
forewarning the enemy
(since being stripped naked
in preparation to bathe in the waters,
no differentiating friend from foe).

The following poem posted about a half hour before the bewitching hour that spelled calamity (which though a freaky Friday the thirteenth) did (nor does) not find me exceptionally superstitious, and rather than wait for the morrow, I feel so pent up with aggravation concerning chronic checking account issues linkedin to Citizens Bank a need for a healthy distraction finds me sharing a tragi-comic combination of contusions upon body electric of mine at that time a forty year old father of two young daughters.

Once again tis time to saddle ye dear reader and pony up, giddy-up and and trot out (absent neigh saying - without horsing around) an unforgettable day encompassing a series of unfortunate events (so take that Lemony Snicket! - yeah go ahead and picket and enlist Jiminy Cricket!).

Wicked bad day poem
originally crafted, designed, engineered...
then alternately titled
for no particular rhyme nor reason:
unwitting courtesy extended
to Doctor Donald (Duck) Dossey  
who coined paraskevidekatriaphobia.

Bowed over in supine position
yours truly (me) did deign
upon the vagaries of ill fates
that did inextricable entwine
where superstitious phenomena
slammed like the dickens
and severely tested across fineline
doggedly gingerly jinxing luck of mine
August thirteenth nineteen hundred and ninety nine
forever etched in the annals of my personal infamy
as one still sending hair raising shivers down my spine
which following unpleasant details occurred on a street
that branched off kind of like a fork tine
adjacent to one named Woodbine.

Prior to the following awful events
that unfolded aforementioned day
somewhat solemn and gray
I did not consider myself unduly superstitious
nor prone to bouts of triskaidekaphobia/
paraskevidekatriaphobia  no how no way.

Yet that particular Friday
the thirteenth baptized me
in the ****** waters of superstition unequivocally
whence upon waking said particular morning
the search for funereal garb found me
burrowing into a small closet  
while bending on one wounded knee,
and nonchalantly rummaging
for suitable article of clothing to wear
(per the wake/
sitting shiva of William Zison
the octogenarian father in law)
an unbeknownst ill fate
lurked just seconds away
ready to cap cha an innocent prey
as any unseen observer
and/or pet would agree.

Hands rifled and rustled
thru various and sundry
miscellaneous items in one or another box
mostly clothing and other apparel
draped in coat hangers
plus a precariously perched
heavy tin of yarn heavy as rocks
began to teeter from top ledge,
than made a slow inexorable descent
in direct path of thy crown
containing valued mental stocks.

Unbeknownst to me Grim
the Reaper hoped to score
spelling my demise qua life or limb
the topmost part of thine skull
felt impact of sharp metallic rim
that left an indentation in soft part of scalp –
more’n an abrasive skim
and bent circular shape
of contrivance filled to the hilt
one law of physics pertaining
to falling object (taught to me)
acquires greater mass
accelerating with velocity and vim.

Upon reflexively yet tentatively
touching raw sore spot
fingertips revealed presence of warm liquid
soon coagulating into a pulpy gordian knot
from sharp lipped impact registering nausea
and vertigo quite a lot
hence sewing crafts managed to stitch
a tattooed laceration forming a ****** clot.

Body writhed with physical torment
as if being only partially alive
whereby waves of blacking
or passing out found me swooning
ready to take a swan dive
nonetheless from Schwenksville
to Penn Valley, I did
(by divine grace) safely drive
whence family members and relatives
once destination reached, the motley crue
began organized carpool arrangements
per heading off to the cemetery,
which caravan formation  
similar to a human bee hive,
yours truly declined to go
communicating persistent distress from mishap
I bowed wowed out, stayed home
and kept company with a dog
(purportedly man’s best friend)
(said pet belonging to a friend
of eldest sister in law),
whose open palmed overtures
of mine did not jive.

An impulse found fingers reaching out
to stroke this unfamiliar animal
supposedly man’s best friend
only to find sharp teeth from canine jaw
clamped down ******* hand
which second ****** injury,
my mother affixed a butterfly bandage
to expedite the injury to mend,
I did immediately tend
nursing injuries inside
the time yours truly did spend
while bolts of white hot pain
shot thru lower extremity of palm
radiated upward through forearm
into shoulder did wend.

of one mortal university
undergraduate built in madly
the brainchild of one Forest Hadley
an a Ford able game paid top dollar
after being purchased by Milton Bradley
called Dodge the Old Farts.

A favorite game I (and the wife) play
here at Highland Manor originated
by yours truly (me) and the spouse
soon after we moved here
eight years ago July first
two thousand and twenty five,
and entails a bit of strategy
and skulduggery to avoid
the poor sniveling souls.

We slink and slither along the halls
of what used to be Schwenksville Elementary School,
a building erected in 1969,
repurposed as a low income facility
for indigent and disabled
penniless senior citizen bankers.

The habitual behavior of each resident
(including me - a fluffless matted
married Scottish Unitarian,
who writes these words)
can be predictable after espying
each and every one of us
exiting from or returning
to their/our respective apartment unit
and take appropriate preemptive measures
to avoid crossing paths
with a wheezing geezer,
which near impossible mission
to avoid a close encounter
of the third eye blind kind
and I would zealously, personally,
and gladly willingly allow, enable
and provide myself
to get voluntarily abducted
by an extraterrestrial
from the outer limits
of the twilight zone,
where dark shadows
signal the edge of night.

As a for instance
unspoken and unwritten coda
when passing a fellow tenant
in the hallway or elsewhere on the property
without acknowledging the old fogey
perhaps gnawing on an unlit stogie
(since Highland Manor Apartments
purportedly a smoke free environment)
courtesy a friendly hello
essentially blatantly ignoring hypothetical resident
registered as a fait accompli for insubordination
within the historical contractual obligation
established and signed with blood
upon first setting foot within the premises
(even on the periphery of the border
demarcating property brothers demesne)
recorded as ***** deeds
done dirt cheap accordingly
and hashtagged with a black mark
as a major flagrant violation of lease
and legal grounds to be sent
to the most strict penal penitentiary
punished with ****** solitude for life,
which for one generic solitudinarian
christened Matthew Scott Harris,
(who also considers himself
a latitudinarian, nonestablishmentarian,
sexangenarian and Unitarian),
would be considered
a stately and heavenly lock haven
surrounded by pristine
waters of Lake Woebegone
that power a gristmill,
where the inmates
process powder milk biscuits.

Though hyperbole incorporated
regarding the above couched
subliminal messages bearly written between the lions,
I do attest that many of the senior citizens
here at above named
low income housing facility
if felt snubbed automatically
lament being ignored and feel indignant
against whoever chooses
not to reciprocate
courtesy a pleasant superficial
friendly seasons greeting
and takes as a personal affront
not being recognized
as a very important person.

About fourteen and a half years
before my birth,
yours truly not even a twinkle  
in the eyes of his then
young father and mother
the former born April 9th 1929,
while the latter would be turning ten
that upcoming November 13th
living in destitution
with her three older siblings
(in proximity to then prosperous Coney Island)
emotionally devastated crying unabashedly
when she returned to espy absent building
as a wife for countless years
to glimpse the absence of domicile
she occupied until marriage
to the Arthur Murruy star student
who became lifelong husband
wedded just a month shy of fifty years,
who knows maybe faintly linked
to the demise of ovarian/uterine cancer
that wrought havoc
within body electric of Harriet Harris
scored a victory for the grim reaper
and ushered the horror of warfare.

Given the nuclear weaponry arsenal today
August 6th 2025, chock a block
nuclear weapons of mass destruction
could deliver near global extinction
of complex life forms
across the webbed wide world,
whereat the human league
mere seconds from
the doomsday clock striking midnight  
our collective ability
as genus and species **** sapiens
to wreak total mortal kombat
and lay waste major metropolitan areas
would make unleashing atomic warfare
synonymous with the ways and means
to annihilate, decimate, eliminate, et cetera
avast swath of the biosphere untenable, nevertheless...

Once again, I take momentary pause
to contemplate horrific event
regarding unleashed atomic warfare
activated courtesy nuclear brinkmanship,
trumpeted by belligents putin on the ritz,
hence time to trot out a poem
written initially some years ago
courtesy yours truly.

Robert Oppenheimer
(Julius Robert Oppenheimer
an American theoretical physicist)
manned "The Manhattan Project", 
a top secret World War II mission,                   
which constituted "Little Boy" codename
for a uranium gun-type
atomic bomb dropped at 0815
exploded 580 metres above civilians
with 15 kiloton blast yield
reduced 400 year old city to dust
Colonel Paul Tibbets,
the pilot/ bombardier
of the Enola Gay,
(the Boeing B-29 Superfortress
unleashed nuclear warfare
eighty years ago from date of poem)
gives cause for this baby boomer to revisit
mentally, the annihilation,
extermination, incineration, obliteration...
when the first of
two storied Japanese enclaves
pulverized vividly underscores
how trifling my current
mental health issues,
nevertheless avowedly exacerbated
with anxiety, dysthymia, hysteria, melancholia...  
(from figurative northern exposure
courtesy twin peaks)
contrasted with sinister mushroom cloud
birthed courtesy thermonuclear reaction
malevolent evil tower ushered
thermonuclear age epitomizing
coup d'état nada so graceful
spelled maximum radiation fallout,
videlicet collateral military mutilation
though unwelcome vision wielded hell,
instantaneous maelstrom poised
mankind to be cured, roasted, skewered
analogous as burnt offerings
subsequent generations of victims
who survived atrocious, egregious, hellacious,
judicious slaughter can only
poorly be described
by this mortal with incurable
bacterial/viral malignant infections
aghast at such wanton killing,
more-so twenty first century
civilization and its discontents    
pack a judicious sucker punch
via devastatingly powerful armaments
now exist weapons of mass destruction
by manifold magnitudes more grisly
than those "experimental" bombs
loosed upon the innocent population,
whereby 75,000 people
killed or fatally injured
with 65% of casualties
nine years of age and younger,
whence offspring of survivors
evinced excessive genetic anomalies 
with fiery windy surface
(think towering infernos)
temperatures topping 4,000°C 
upon terrain hallowed by ghastly
horrible deathly dominance
impressing silhouettes of victims
analogous to dark shadows
amidst razed structural remnants
ground zero birthed
sinister mushroom cloud
wickedly, ominously, and eerily loomed.

As iterated above
weapons of mass destruction
defined as a chemical, biological,
radiological, nuclear, or any other weapon
that can **** or significantly harm many people
far greater potential
exceeding innocent lives lost
courtesy one warhead
than cumulative deaths
triggered by all battles to date
or cause great damage
to artificial structures,
natural structures, or the biosphere
an inescapable fact of life
and potential looming fait accompli
as one antagonist
could annihilate another
contaminating, decimating,
obliterating, pulverizing...
sabotaging great swaths
of webbed wide world
in the process.

and boyish sexagenarian
with similar disposition,
I revel(ed) reading in general
(and spent carefree idle summer days
squirreled away with tomes
of posthumous authors)
buoyed aloft in seventh heaven
courtesy the treasure trove of books
occupying shelf space
within childhood home
at 324 Level Road
(long since razed to the ground)
and indulged passion
for the written word
as independent learning,
and both parents encouraged
voracious appetite for knowledge of mine
to explore great works of literature,
whereat hours whiled away
scrunched up with storied authors
as yours truly let his imagination
run free and clear especially
while paging thru the shenanigans
of Huckleberry Finn in particular
which constituted an etymological journey
rowing my figurative boat
into the vernacular backwaters
of Mark Twain's Hannibal Missouri
(where life is but a dream),
and at his crafting a close approximation
regarding the patois and lingual nuances
how enfranchised population spoke
pitting yours truly
with a near impossible mission
to furrow my brows and voice out loud
my futile attempt
to pronounce tongue twisters,
nevertheless while mouthing
and reading confounding words
experiencing a transcendent state
with not a care in the world.

Though a product
of the second half mid-twentieth
and thus far first quarter
of the twenty first century,
a nostalgia figuratively tugs
at my heart strings
(not only for remembrance
of things past),
but also hankering
for a time when the leisurely pace
of life plodded along
the boulevard of broken dreams
comfortably, gamesomely and lasciviously tepid
as exemplified by three prudish television shows
of the nineteen sixties
such as Mayberry R.F.D.,
The Brady Bunch, and The Family Affair,
but also additionally, an innocence
pervaded society whereby the wonderment
of natural wildlife
(courtesy Mutual of Omaha -
pitch man Marlin Perkins)
surprised, enlightened, and astounded me
essentially one cocooned
solitary passive aggressive boy
enamored by the simple life
such as that represented
by The Twilight Zone episode
"A Stop at Willoughby"
(Season 1, Episode 30)
about Gart Williams,
an advertising executive who,
overwhelmed by the pressures
of his job and home life,
finds solace in a recurring dream
of a peaceful, idyllic town
called Willoughby from the 1880s.

He becomes increasingly obsessed
with this dream,
eventually choosing to "stop" at Willoughby
a fictitious self imagined place in reality,
which tragically leads to his death
when he jumps from a moving train,
whereat the locomotive propelling the cars
could be synonymous
(or symbolizes) the frenetic pace of life.