You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful millennials freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will encourage them to look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuition's skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday; and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the overabundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding ******* adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grin extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple speculations and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree on a cool fall night.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be
Beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move.
To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but ****.
Then there are over the counter candies, Oxycontin, ******, Adderall and Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, ******* and speed easily obtainable to them. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so the parents can feel like they're actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on themselves because they cannot handle the way their offsprings actually are. Some parents a feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn't so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty. I've seen it, firsthand front row.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom that groan in apathy and hold the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system is but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and dedication so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones and know we are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The scholars.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, The Holy Bible, mantras and meditation, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita, and Upanishads. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Goals equivalent
Faith
Kabala, Scientology and Wicca
Amish and Mormons
All separate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protesters, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi receiving every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to secure our nation's investments across the sea? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the ****** machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s *******. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who ***** them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the ****** that was just ****** deep into their *****.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to create something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chinos, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Kandi kids sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the rainy days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burly firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout beneath flickering streetlights, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to some shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. "Gay", "****", "******", "queer", how about "kind", "funny", "genuine human being"? The right to be married and divorced should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovah's going door to door, Mormons from Burbank. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Unhindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained  bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, ****, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
The

So let us now place monetary value on information.
Let us return to the source,
Mining & prospecting that fertile intel seam.
To wit: WWII and G-2 shenanigans.
Wild Bill and OSS-capades,
Artificial disseminations.
Partial recriminations.
And PSYOPS:
A literary nightmare--
THE CYCLOPS from The Odyssey,
For example,
If you lack your own,
Your own personal Bogey Man.
Or men. For me:
Allen Dulles or Richard Helms.

The Intelligence Community:
It was a small tightly knit crew,
Less than battalion strength in 1942;
A few myopic soldiers,
Who, although could barely type,
Were still too cerebral to
Waste as infantry fodder.
It was a huge converted Army-green warehouse,
Space strategically partitioned,
Sectioned off into cubicle-like spaces,
By giant 4-drawer file cabinets
Standing tall like MPs,
Sentinels & Guardians,
Monuments to pre-electronic storage,
Data relatively comprehensive, and an
Archive secretive & intimidating.

Within the Army-green incunabula,
Scattered throughout the intel landscape,
Here and there a few commissioned officers,
A smattering of college psychology majors,
Personalities with predilections,
And penchants for mind games.
These self same WWII vets,
Would morph into Cold War Mad Men.
Stalwart, stouthearted men of Eisenhower,
And J. Walter Thompson,
De-mobbed, as they say in the UK.
Consumptive.
Self-indulgent,
Particularly when it came to the kids;
Children of the peace,
Called Baby-Boomers,
An entire generation enabled & destroyed.
Who would produce little of value
Except medical marijuana and
Coupons, clipped by that sober ruling class—
Fat interest-bearing college-loan portfolios
Held by that neo-Calvinist Elect: The 1%.
Fat cats one and all,
Loaded dice & canasta cronies--
In concert a stacked deck,
“Una mano lava l'altra.”
The words of my namesake--
My grandfather Giuseppe--
His vowels reverberating,
Rattling in my dreams.
Not friends, but
Fiends in high places, like
The Fed and dark liquid pools.
Thank you, Barack, for
Fooling us again.
For giving us
“Belief we can believe in.”

But I digress.
It was when the Government Secrecy Act,
In all its transnational incarnations,
Embraced capitalism in a big way,
Elevating the ideology to whole-Earth saturation,
Systemizing the ethos of Darwin,
Into one global Moby ****,
One solitary leviathan,
A multi-level marketing labyrinth,
Where wealth is the end game--
Greed: pure, unbridled & unrestrained.
Bond--James Bond—
Did his bit, supplying catchy
Slogans & tag-lines:
“For Your Eyes Only.”
“On a need to know basis.”
“Confidential Information.”
“Top & Ultra-Top Secret.”
“Hush, Hush & a Bag of Chips.”

The sealed letter sits in a locked drawer,
In that stout desk,
In the Oval Office
In The White House,
“To be opened by my VP in the event of my death.”
Another staggering work,
Of achy-achy-heart breaking genius,
The culture commoditized,
A disease containing its own cure,
Assayed, graded,
Portioned & packaged.
Priced accordingly,
To a logic that goes something like:
“Anything this tightly controlled,
Anything the government deems to be
This illegitimate and/or & secret
Must be really, really God-awesome,
Must really be Da ******* Bomb.”

Brother Coolidge was right:
“The Business of America is Business.”
And INFORMATION:
“The Most Valuable Commodity on Earth.”
So said Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III,
19th Century robber baron, and
Consummate Fat Cat.
Get the picture:
We were smoking cigars and sipping cognac,
Mighty comfortable in leather armchairs,
Muted billiard clicks,
Punctuating the atmosphere
In this spacious lounge,
His East Side
Downtown & private
Manhattan club.
I, his guest, had not the slightest idea
Why I was there.
"By God, man," he went on,
My eyes speared by his laser gaze,
His bushy eyebrows,
His monocle.
His bulbous nose;
His thick wet mustache.
And those EYES:  
Those crazy,
Insane eyes.

"I am talking about a profound change,” he continued.
“Back when the steamship
Gave way to electronic wireless radio."
He puffed smoke,
Removing the cigar from his mouth,
Holding it,
Examining it critically for a moment.
"I'm talking about communication,
Instant communication
With business associates, &
Cronies far away,
Way out there,
Far beyond the places we know well.
Picture it:
You're running a fleet of
Ramshackle Filipino banana boats,
Out of some nameless cove,
Indenting the south coast of Mindanao.
A cyclone comes out of nowhere.
Good God--there’s sixteen banana-packed
Coal burners lying on the bottom of the Celebes Sea.
Think about it:
You've got telegraph radio.
Everyone else has the post office.
Now, I ask you:
‘Who's going long,
Who’s getting rich on the
Caracas Banana Exchange?’
Good Lord, man, it would be
Like being omniscient!"
“This very conversation,” he went on,
“Could well be a verbatim transcription
Of a conversation right here in this very room,
Between people like: J. Pierpont Morgan
And some lesser Gilded Age nabob;
Some Astor, some Rockefeller,
A Gould or Vanderbilt,
Whitney or Duke,
Some Frick or Warburg--
To name just a few, old sport.”
He stopped suddenly.
He looked down at his hands,
As we both realized he had counted these names
Out on his fat curled fingers.
He looked at me and smiled.
I was afraid.
Why had I been invited to this meeting?
I smiled back at him,
Doing my best to mirror his
Carnivorous menace.

I knew it.
He knew it.
He knew I knew it.
Mr. Whitehead’s growling rabid jowls,
His slobbering canine smile held me steady.
“Okay. Touché. ‘Ya got me.”
He shook off the phony smile,
An absence, accentuating
His stare: lethal, carnal & rare.
“I never had much formal schooling.
I’ve been hungry.
Hungry enough to know for sure
That the correct fork,
Don’t mean ***** from shinola.
When I’m dining out, fancy-like,
Me manners is the least of me problems,
Far less important than
The dinner chit they
Hand me after I slake
My thirst & appetite.”
Again, he stopped suddenly,
Recognizing that, perhaps,
He’d revealed too much of his
Bedford-Stuyvesant pedigree.
He turned again and stared at me.
“None of that,” he said.
“None of that means squat to me, Boyo.
What matters now is I’m rich.
I’ve got mine, By God,
And ******* It!
Tough ***** on the rest of you losers;
The rest of you fecking whiners can go
**** yourselves over at Zuccotti Park.”
He pounded the armrest,
The padded armrest of the rich Corinthian leather—
( . . . ***, Ricardo?
Get your Montalbán
Mexicano ***, back in
Random Access Memory Land,
Where you belong.
**** ya’ Fantasy Island
Hospitality, Mr. Roarke,
Go be wrathful Khan Noon Singh,
Somewhere else.
Now is not the time, or,
Let me rephrase that:
This narrative will not allow your meme here . . .)    

Whitehead pounds the armrest again.
“My point is this:  
None of JP Morgan’s decidedly,
un-nattering lesser nabobs of negativity . . .”
BAM!  Again, he pounded the leather . . .

(Back in your ******* hole, Spiro!
Do you realize just how far back,
Just how far back
Maryland’s reputation
Has been set back by your venality?
Not to mention any shot at ethnic assimilation,
The rest of us grease ball non-Wasps
Have in this country?
You ******* Greek!)

I stopped thinking
When I realized Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III
Was reading my mind.
“So that’s what it’s really all about,” he said,
Rank smugness in his voice.
“So, I’m just a nouveau riche upstart,
A socially inept parvenu,
Yet they still let me
Join their tony clubs.
It chaps your ***, Boyo, don’t it?
I’m still Scotch-Irish, and
A WASP, Laddie.
Something your skinny
Greaser-Guinea-****-Spaghetti-*** ***,
Ain’t ever gonna be.”
But I digress, again.

So I joined one of Uncle Sam’s
Lesser-known clandestine services,
An assignment appropriate to my ethnic identity,
Namely GLADIO in Italy,
A NATO stay-behind operation &
Cold-War comedy.
I infiltrated the Brigate Rosse.
I drove the Aldo Moro kidnap vehicle.
I cooked minestrone for General Dozier.
I sliced off J. Paul Getty’s ear in Calabria.
Ironically, I lost my hearing during
The Stazione Bologna bombing.
I am consequently pensioned off,
Off both the radar and the payroll.
Years later now,
I live in one of those gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55, sunny southern California
Lunatic asylums.

Most days I am drunk at 9 AM.
I fill Bukowski mornings,
Conjuring up Jane Fonda,
Jazzercised in camo spandex.
She is high atop a Vietcong tank in Hanoi.
Or Daniel Ellsberg
Enjoying a second act in American politics,
Praising Snowden & Assange,
& Bradley Manning,
I summon up the ghosts of
Julius & Ethel,
Benedict Arnold,
Rose of Tokyo & Mata Hari—
And Ezra exiled at Rapallo,
And John Walker Lindh,
A Yankee Doodle Dandy,
Born in Washington,
District of Columbia,
By way of Afghanistan,
Taliban Americano,
Kangaroo-courted,
Presently residing at the
Federal Correctional Institution
At Terre Haute, Indiana.
Spies.
Traitors.
Saboteurs.
And Poets?
No longer capable of keeping secrets.
Desperate now to tell
The truth.

"Farty Face"
"Burpy ***"
Will never waste
an ounce of love.

Hot snot
and bogey pie
his children are
the apple of his eye.

There's a hole in my bucket
Dear Liza
All that have met
come off much the wiser

Chicken Curry
****** Up
Minced Meat and mash
Come on better hurry
gotta speed up
We don't need lots of cash
to enjoy this michelin starred grub.

Aint goin’ anymore

would like to claim the same

but rely upon you and others

to do same

heavy boots

sturdy *****

choosing the ground

was minded to travel

unorthodox / paradox

did sneak to the place -

entering by the flaky monolithic gate

Tool in hand,       above dark, calm at Southern Cemetery,                       the outskirts of town

though a bunch of vociferous crows

buzz amongst the stones.

II

Stabbing the bearer repeatedly turning over

the green

After lengthy work in the moments foray it was then I left and

floated away

from the scene

III

Time sensed = Time up

I place my part quietly in

Obscure

Time Future

is this absent body sure?

Though I hope you will come

return the soil and sing

songs for me….       *****, eat dance and parteeeee

Some of you will have *** at the end of the  fête -

this TOIL, SWEAT, RELEASE,                                                              CelEbraTe

Going to a few as well,

we know how it

drops

in

the

pit      and maybe ***

(ill or well smelling with the other congregates)

will drift through the pub or communal hall

and who will dare to say:             “Put out the roll of Bogey -

don’t you have any respect for the dead right now?”

I couldn’t love you more I loved you before the ocean was blue an ocean of emotion what about the
Time at Disney’s rivers of America we were setting in the River Bell and you invited the kids from
Melbourne to watch the show with us there was three girls’ three boys about eighteen they told us how
At the motel there wasn’t a shower curtain and they took a shower and the flood it caused it ended with
Cheerful down under good bys but the unknown haunts us there parting words were in a few days
We’re going to New Orleans they timed it just perfectly with Katrina we have no way of knowing about
Their Safety and the time the doctor said she thought you had cancer you were standing before the
Majestic gate how black the bars were on this side the shadow that it made but through the darkness
You could see how bright the bars were on the other side all was a blaze nothing ever was witnessed like
this before such clarity interesting as if logic was fine tuned things burned into your knowing with the
Warmest glow all was showing and bestowing it secret wonders you came back from the brink all added
To love’s undying flame then the time we ate at the happening place the Crazy Horse the same year
As Urban Cow Boy although it was southern California and it is west it was like we walked into Texas
Every Yuppie for miles was there dressed to the hilt in western wear it had something for a little kid
The next day we went to Knott’s Berry Farm we brought food from the Crazy Horse so we just set at the
Barbeque picnic tables I was eating steak but the fun was eating the purple onions the little kid was just
Young enough to be fooled what a face he made as I ate worms what fun you had then in southern
Florida we went to Wolf Man Jack’s club a great Ferris wheel out at the side of the building we listened
To Dell Shannon I guess we should have prayed and not just listened shortly thereafter he took
His own life but the knight was old time Rock and Roll and someone threw in the song Bogey and Ma Call
Because Key Largo was so close lower the black curtain of night it’s time to have those throw away
Knights that were without price but in my eyes your stature grew or the night we walked on the sands
Of Waikiki and the sea turned from turquoise blue to blackest black with the fringed waves in whitest
Magical white and then we strolled among the Hilton Garden with the burning torches you swayed as
Well as any Island girl and caught the rhythm of the sawing palms over head but as you know day
Follows knight and what a sight you made in those red shorts just above the knees and that white shirt
The only the way it could have been more perfect if it was a man’s white shirt and you had tied it in the
Front don’t worry I said a little prayer that night for imagination your heart beat took control the
Softest island breeze we were there but we were where all lovers congregate either Rome or the French
Country side among wine vineyards or the burnished sands that Valentino gave love its signature look in
This place of empty space silence hits a cord most adored you hear that single sound of wind hitting the
Walls of the greatest tabernacle the tabernacle of love in your love ones company maybe you can’t
Identify it but you spirit knows the rolls upon rolls of interchangeable wonder that we know you were a
Asleep the other day I set and watched your gentle breathing it made my heart beat stronger because I
Know the gentleness of your soul and all the kind acts you do for others and the reason I’ m writing this
It is your birthday so for them and me Happy Birthday my love

i had a great big bogey stuck inside my nose
i tried to get it out used my hand and toes
but it didnt move it didnt want to know
my nose it was his home and didnt want to go
i got myself a tissue and gave a great big sneeze
then got my hand and give a great big squeeze
nothing seem to work im stuck with it i guess
the only way to do it is  get the sas

I couldn’t love you more I loved you before the ocean was blue an ocean of emotion what about the
Time at Disney’s rivers of America we were setting in the River Bell and you invited the kids from
Melbourne to watch the show with us there was three girls’ three boys about eighteen they told us how
At the motel there wasn’t a shower curtain and they took a shower and the flood it caused it ended with
Cheerful down under good bys but the unknown haunts us there parting words were in a few days
We’re going to New Orleans they timed it just perfectly with Katrina we have no way of knowing about
Their Safety and the time the doctor said she thought you had cancer you were standing before the
Majestic gate how black the bars were on this side the shadow that it made but through the darkness
You could see how bright the bars were on the other side all was a blaze nothing ever was witnessed like
this before such clarity interesting as if logic was fine tuned things burned into your knowing with the
Warmest glow all was showing and bestowing it secret wonders you came back from the brink all added
To love’s undying flame then the time we ate at the happening place the Crazy Horse the same year
As Urban Cow Boy although it was southern California and it is west it was like we walked into Texas
Every Yuppie for miles was there dressed to the hilt in western wear it had something for a little kid
The next day we went to Knott’s Berry Farm we brought food from the Crazy Horse so we just set at the
Barbeque picnic tables I was eating steak but the fun was eating the purple onions the little kid was just
Young enough to be fooled what a face he made as I ate worms what fun you had then in southern
Florida we went to Wolf Man Jack’s club a great Ferris wheel out at the side of the building we listened
To Dell Shannon I guess we should have prayed and not just listened shortly thereafter he took
His own life but the knight was old time Rock and Roll and someone threw in the song Bogey and Ma Call
Because Key Largo was so close lower the black curtain of night it’s time to have those throw away
nights that were without price but in my eyes your stature grew on the night we walked on the sands
Of Waikiki and the sea turned from turquoise blue to blackest black with the fringed waves in whitest
Magical white and then we strolled among the Hilton Garden with the burning torches you swayed as
Well as any Island girl and caught the rhythm of the sawing palms over head but as you know day
Follows night and what a sight you made in those red shorts just above the knees and that white shirt
The only way it could have been more perfect if it was a man’s white shirt and you had tied it in the
Front don’t worry I said a little prayer that night for imagination your heart beat took control the
Softest island breeze we were there but we were where all lovers congregate either Rome or the French
Country side among wine vineyards or the burnished sands that Valentino gave love its signature look in
This place of empty space silence hits a cord most adored you hear that single sound of wind hitting the
Walls of the greatest tabernacle the tabernacle of love in your love ones company maybe you can’t
Identify it but your spirit knows the rolls upon rolls of interchangeable wonder that we know you were
Asleep the other day I set and watched your gentle breathing it made my heart beat stronger because I
Know the gentleness of your soul and all the kind acts you do for others and the reason I’ m writing this
It is your birthday so for them and me Happy Birthday my love

Rich shat
in chair
and spat
the mail
with a  
bogey and
they wept
over my
gracious note
they even
returned my
stamp yesterday
noon unread
not denied
appeal from
sunshine in
my heart.

Late last night,
A spectral fog
Billowed off the lake,
Clouded down my street.
I thought to grab
My feathered fedora,
Stand, leaning
Under the yellow street light,
Hat pulled down to my brows.
I'd light a plain Phillip Morris,
And with the first pull,
Blow smoke through my nose,
Punctuating each syllable
With blue:
"A cliche is worth a thousand words."

I see the sky and think "I'm free!"
I see my feet, "I'll never be."
I look back up, what do I see?
I see a plane, so itty bitty!
I see to fly, so gaily
I fetch my wallet... double bogey
I see "help wanted" within my city
I see my chance, so happy!
I work all day, live humbly
I see my pay, just barely
I see my goal, I cannot flee
tick-tock tick-tock
I count the years, more than sixty
I see the metal bird, ready for me
I see it fly, I see it's free
I buy my plane, I'm in the air
Wings on my back, no story to share

I hastily stepped out from bed to ponder over
It was bad dream and I started to find cover
It made me restless and compelled to wonder
I rubbed the eyes and regained composure however

It happens many times when you are seized with work
So many times you may trying to avoid or shirt
It does not relieve you from burden and chain of thoughts invade
The memory is fast recycling and not easily fades

It is human mind that works as super computer
It adjusts very fast and compels the situation to alter
It argues in favor and against in protective manner
It keeps hope alive and does not make chance thinner

Dreams are in fact a safe refuge or heaven
We are the king and also beautiful queen
The whole set up revolves around and make us proud
Your voice is heard clear and loud

It is replica of sound and healthy mind
We have enough space to find
We can have level field to play
It keeps you linked and do not push away

It is said that when person is gripped by fear
He may not be in position to think or shed tears
He will have no place to put his views
The dreams may provide him enough time to review

It is by product of active human psychology
Mind does not rest even if raised in bogey
It strikes back to find the reasonable solution
It will not rest until finds out with strong resolution

I think over endlessly over the state of mind
It some times cry and try to act very kind
If something wrong is done unintentionally
It will try to satisfy logic by reasons finally

It is right application at right moment
It does not disturb the normal movement
The ups and down may force to think
But the stable mind may not allow to sink

The unstable mind sometimes pushed person to brink
He may loose the power to balance and properly to think
It is progressive thoughts that come to the rescue
This is considered as positive step and may be had by only few

So the dreams are healthy sign of mental order
It takes active part and always ready at border
The slight palpitation may push it to strong action
It will be sound and positive reaction

It is always good to sleep without any tension
The mind may be occupied with lots of questions
Still it is wroth try to be worry free
It is nice idea for all of us to agree

A far Country

A place that freely creates a state of mind the silk tapestries that flow and hold the shimmering glory
Told by exotic locals Madrid of Spain Tangiers of morocco Istanbul Turkey the music’s beauty strains

Through side streets and hideaways where love is discovered by chance or design only know this life
Crackles as a consuming fire the dance sweeps you along through mystery’s eye the smoke floats in

Layers in clubs with names that echo old Hollywood movies possibly you will feel that you have been
Introduced to Bogey and McCall a walk of desperate hours that spill out into rolling hills where laughter

Escapes your throat as if you were a long time prisoner and finally you find yourself suddenly free a
Richness pervades your soul as you stole away on this secret schooner with a stranger you traverse

Warm waters and calm seas a voiceless place where more can be heard as you slowly attune you inner
Being to rhythms at first foreign and then so natural stones in a jungle with writing left by other

Adventures that no longer could stand the staid and endless boredom now the sounds and sights hold
Danger that brighten the senses you were nothing but a tortured soul but now as if years have fallen

Away you feel as if you delved into centuries of secrets that have opened up to you because you took
The steps of chance and found a friendly world waiting to accept and adorn you with riches never

Seen in the safe life that only seeks shelter in the howling storm where all rootedness is torn loose
You go to a place of discovery where random harvest are stored lovers know their location as passion

Swells you rush across great waters and finally spent you drift into inland waters a cove of rest to abide
In after chaos of the stormy sea now when you speak there is a deep understanding that flows again on

Silk as at the beginning within has been created a sense of belonging whether you visit an African’s hut
Or a villa in France you are the spice of India or the bundles of silk that flow back from the desert

Caravan not just in the present but in ancient days to old Cathay you are a master in your own right
You set with the sheiks of the desert and they marvel at your presence of mind and it liquid quickness

That is as cool as an oasis and smooth as cool water to the parched tongue you are as the wayward wind
You come and go as you please mighty mountains you ascend or you’re brushing through the black

forest Your fitting place is a castle grand all because you decided life is a dream to be lived not an ordeal
to Endure get your ticket at freedom’s gate get on board child it’s never too late

I couldn’t love you more I loved you before the ocean was blue an ocean of emotion what about the
Time at Disney’s rivers of America we were setting in the River Bell and you invited the kids from
Melbourne to watch the show with us there was three girls’ three boys about eighteen they told us how
At the motel there wasn’t a shower curtain and they took a shower and the flood it caused it ended with
Cheerful down under good bys but the unknown haunts us there parting words were in a few days
We’re going to New Orleans they timed it just perfectly with Katrina we have no way of knowing about
Their Safety and the time the doctor said she thought you had cancer you were standing before the
Majestic gate how black the bars were on this side the shadow that it made but through the darkness
You could see how bright the bars were on the other side all was a blaze nothing ever was witnessed like
this before such clarity interesting as if logic was fine tuned things burned into your knowing with the
Warmest glow all was showing and bestowing it secret wonders you came back from the brink all added
To love’s undying flame then the time we ate at the happening place the Crazy Horse the same year
As Urban Cow Boy although it was southern California and it is west it was like we walked into Texas
Every Yuppie for miles was there dressed to the hilt in western wear it had something for a little kid
The next day we went to Knott’s Berry Farm we brought food from the Crazy Horse so we just set at the
Barbeque picnic tables I was eating steak but the fun was eating the purple onions the little kid was just
Young enough to be fooled what a face he made as I ate worms what fun you had then in southern
Florida we went to Wolf Man Jack’s club a great Ferris wheel out at the side of the building we listened
To Dell Shannon I guess we should have prayed and not just listened shortly thereafter he took
His own life but the knight was old time Rock and Roll and someone threw in the song Bogey and Ma Call
Because Key Largo was so close lower the black curtain of night it’s time to have those throw away
Knights that were without price but in my eyes your stature grew or the night we walked on the sands
Of Waikiki and the sea turned from turquoise blue to blackest black with the fringed waves in whitest
Magical white and then we strolled among the Hilton Garden with the burning torches you swayed as
Well as any Island girl and caught the rhythm of the sawing palms over head but as you know day
Follows knight and what a sight you made in those red shorts just above the knees and that white shirt
The only the way it could have been more perfect if it was a man’s white shirt and you had tied it in the
Front don’t worry I said a little prayer that night for imagination your heart beat took control the
Softest island breeze we were there but we were where all lovers congregate either Rome or the French
Country side among wine vineyards or the burnished sands that Valentino gave love its signature look in
This place of empty space silence hits a cord most adored you hear that single sound of wind hitting the
Walls of the greatest tabernacle the tabernacle of love in your love ones company maybe you can’t
Identify it but you spirit knows the rolls upon rolls of interchangeable wonder that we know you were a
Asleep the other day I set and watched your gentle breathing it made my heart beat stronger because I
Know the gentleness of your soul and all the kind acts you do for others and the reason I’ m writing this
It is your birthday so for them and me Happy Birthday my love

crumpled ticket in the pocket with no time on the dime dim lightning struck breaking in the best of kin a win win i cant do this tear slice shred swear it's a shame no sweat but fame the pressure builds up bogey blue bragster's mother-finnicky ******* **** ive found it ive found im hidden im hidden the gem's locked away rub one rub one rub one tug one tug one tug on zing we have a winner the shadow is cast the stars are alligned which match my eyes liquid pouring down fast on down the runway time to fly and catch the sky my time's not wasted but im wasted space look at me try try cry no river no stream no end just the fairly odd lookalike best of kin coddling crast dancing jigalow on the gallows pole

I move the pen
let it bleed
pinch out more life
yes - this is hemo-
camouflaged in black
camouflaged in black

falls on the page,
tumbles, rolls across
the eyeballs
and the gray matter is eased
of unwanted and unknown images
emptying
created out of black and
my ready hand
still steady
still steady

Cramming the words and letters
across this barren wasted papyrus
ancient scroll
for pharaohs and scholars

3 ringed and blue lined
receiving the unwanted, unwarranted
the wood block of
uncontrolled mind

Insistent
the blood
that rushes from heart to
feet and up again to brain
out my restless hand
camouflaged in black
camouflaged in black

Onto the desert
onto the Waste Land of Elliot
briny tavern of James Joyce
and black coffee pots of Thomas Wolf

Bleeding, in need of a tourniquet
medical attention
or at best psychosomatic drugs
control this outflow
stop the nonsense
it serves no purpose

bleeding out your sanity
proving you have lost it.
uncontrolled and deranged
wandering  running from
the bogey man
the bogey man

Who comes out of the dark cellar
quite near your little bed
with its pink flowered coverlet.

and the blood leaks out the
end of this instrument of
Terror
In the shadow of Stephen King
I make my stand
only poets get to say
things people can't grasp
The rest do graphic violence
camouflaged in black
camouflaged in black
their blood too
camouflaged in black.

Take off down the drunken streets
with dim streetlights holding onto the last breaths
of winter itself.
Your feet are light, as the night is
young,
it seems like you're slicing through thin mists at half past five on a Saturday morning,
or barefoot with the grass beneath right after a midnight drizzle.
You're running towards dawn, you think,
but it's just as though it is a bright light at the end of a tunnel,
and after all this time-
does the dark feel
more like home?
Or have you simply been in the dark for so long that the light seems like an abandoned, cold house
brought to the present(though it certainly isn't the best gift you've recieved) from your childhood?
Force yourself to stumble on your hesitation,
blame it on the stones scattered on the road.
Look up, everything's
fading,
just
like
you.
You pick yourself up,
but now it seems like you're in a nightmare(are you not?) with the Bogey Man right behind,
your feet chained to rocks twice the size
of your own two feet.
And you're sinking, ever so slowly.
But how can you not be aware of it? There is nothing else to notice at all.
You know you will never escape,
you're one of them now.
Keep running, keep running,
do not die in vain.

It was a yellow Corvair convertible
Ralph Nader's bogey
our ***-fueled chariot
our escape into the night sky.

We were strewn across a grassy ***** as if fallen from above
stars thick in the sky
still visible in those days
Page Mill Road
south of the City.

And all of the vanities
and honesties of brilliant youth
slouched about our shoulders
lit our speech
moved our *****
in the direction our fates intended.

It was freedom.  It was
escape. It was a foreshadowing
of much trouble
pre-dawn knocks on the door
handcuffs and the tearful call
home.

And a life leavened by sadness,
a constant sense of doom,

but a foreshadowing as well
of miracles dressed in second-hand
clothes,
but miracles just the same.

I watched the morning newscast
and found my mind straining to
get out.
Out into a widening desert,
sky open and black above save for
the piercing light of billions of stars
like holes in a living room curtain.
You can call me crazy for it,
but I thought I saw Ginsberg
looking at me through the window
with a sunflower behind his ear.
In fact, I'm almost certain this was anything but an hallucination as my cat pounced at the window
(she never liked my poems either, Allen)
and startled me back into reality.
The television, right, the newscast.
Nuclear bombs and
tariffs on Mexican goods and
oh look, the president is playing golf with the Queen.
I turned it off when I saw he hit a bogey,
parted the curtains, and thought, "That's it, I'm pleading insanity. See you in Bellevue, Allen."

One two three four
Give us the blood we're lusting for.
five six seven eight
watch our fear turn into hate.

You tricked us!
You tricked us!

An injustice here,
a bogey man there,
smoke and mirrors are everywhere!

One two three four
the only answer now is war.
five six seven eight
we'll all be lost if we hesitate!

You tricked us. One two!
You tricked us.  Three four!

should have known all along
that this was all wrong,
the weak and the strong
should all belong

To what?
To what?
Lean on back and strut!

nine to the front
and six to the rear
Lean on back and strut.

One two three four
resources resources we want more!
five six seven eight
There's never too much on our plate!

Your left
Your right
Polarize em and watch em fight!

sound off!  One two!
Sound off! Three four!

You'll never guess what we have in store!
Lean on back and strut.

Ain't no sense in looking down,
globalization's coming round,
If we stay 8 billion strong
Resources won't last that long.

So there's enough to go around
let's bring this population down!

We'll make that riff raff disappear
all we need is hate and fear!

Sound off- One two
Sound off-  Three four
One two three four......

Lean on back and strut!

months are getting shorter than
                prescription bottle dates
                                  say they would
         the holes on the strap of his belt
                     are putting for triple bogey
               shedding the wrong weight and
                    feeling kinda nervous to say so
                                                              ­             shine a light on anything(-)
                                 and watch it misbehave
                                                it always will.
                                    where we are going
                                        is never the way
                                          we used to be
                                     Is That Exciting
                                          Frightening
  ­                                          Relieving
             ­                                   or D.
                                       All of the above

She sits next to him
on a side seat
on the bus;
they're going to
Waterloo Rail Station
to watch the steam trains.

She holds in the palm
of her small hand
the 3d piece
her mother
had given her;
it's sweaty;
the 12 sides make
a slight impression
on her skin.

She moves
side to side
as the bus
turns corners;
Benny's arm
touches hers
as they move.

Why you have to go
with him
to see the trains,
God only knows,
her mother had said,
but at least
he's a decent sort,
going by his mother.

She likes Benny's mum;
she smiles at her,
and is soft spoken,
unlike her own mum,
who bellows
and spits words
and slaps her.

She looks out
the window,
then looks sideways
at Benny.

He's looking forward,
his hazel eyes
taking in the man opposite,
his quiff of light brown hair
bouncing with the bus's motion.

He's got the money
his mum has given him
in his jean's pocket,
along with a small penknife,
old conker and string,
handkerchief washed grey.

Beside him sits Lydia
the girl from downstairs
in the flats.

She's skinny
and her lank hair
seems out of place
with her bright eyes.

He suggested going
to the station to see
the steam trains;
he loves the smells
and sights and sounds
of the trains.

He had a job
persuading her mother
to let her go,
but eventually
she agreed,
(must have been
his smile).

The man opposite
stares at Lydia;
his ******* eyes
drinking her in.

Benny stares back at him,
gives the man his best
Bogart stare,
even holding his head
at an angle.

The man's green tie
is stained;
the shirt is too small
and seems to want
to escape from his body.

The man stares at him,
his eyes moving to him
like two black slugs.

Benny touches Lydia's
small hand and says:
soon be there.

The man ends
his black eyed stare,
and looks away.

Well done, Bogey,
Benny says
inside his head,
and senses Lydia's hand
grip her 3d piece coin;
her bright eyes showing
small portraits of him
in each one,
absorbing him
like dark cloth
does the sun.

There's butter
on her lip
from the toast

and bread crumbs
on her cheek
where fingers
have been there

and she moans
endlessly
about my hair
or my beard

Abela
I tell her
there's a blob
of butter
on your lip
at the top
hanging there
for dear life

and those books
that you read
she moans on
those deep books
with long names
of writers
why read them?

I like them
I reply

as she talks
the butter
on her lip
rides like some
horse breaker

Abela
how's the toast?

she gazes
at the toast
in her hand

it's quite good
she replies

the butter
is still there
on her lip
hanging like
some kid's fresh
smooth bogey

I see it
look away
nothing more
I can say.

If the bogey man should come tonight,
When your tucked in safe and tight,
and his cold hands creep so slight,
how would you like to be a baby girl tonight?

Or an unconscious, intoxicated woman?
He slips right in well she isn't moving.

She wakes and she wishes it away,
But still the spinning eyes of his face
turn her sick as mind starts to to race.
How would you like to feel like you have no name?

You're the Unconscious, intoxicated woman,
nameless and shamed, and no longer feel human.

"Klaus Fuchs
did what
he had to do
like a good
harbinger,
there is virtue
in being faithful
to his cause"

this is where my
cousin's
brutally honest
syllogism
took me today

"a simplified view is
always what gets
you at the bottom
of a swamp"

this is where
he swings a club
and bounces back
from his recent bogey
against me



in the greens with Jim

Procasti-Nation by Rob Sandman

Let it wait,get it straight,I can do it tomorrow,
I'm a Hobbit-on the pipeweed,stayin in my burrow,
what's the hurry anyway?,no need for trepidation,
relaxin on my throne king of Procrasti-nation

What's the deal man?,chillin,killin noobs online,
what,the job interview?,nah man I let it slide,
6am wake up?,man I'm barely asleep,
on a killstreak here,hah noobs roll deep,
got an bar yesterday,I'll split 50/50,
smoked a lot last night,should divide it swiftly...
nevermind,do it later, I ain't rushin a thing,
procrastination is a country and you know I'm the King,
loungin' on the game of swords Throne,spliff in my mouth,
getting low on munch,but don't want to venture out,
may be lazy,even crazy,I don't like crowds,
had my feet on the ground-and my head in the clouds,
but lately the ground's turned into quick-sand,
get knocked on my **** every time I take a stand,
don't worry bout me man,no need for consternation,
I'm the clown with the crown,king of Procrastination,

So I let it wait head's not straight,I'm livin in tomorrow,
like Bilbo on the pipeweed,hidin in me burrow,
me family are wonderin exactly why I'm waitin'
it's a hollow crown now,king of Procrastination

See the thing about a rut is(look it up)you're stuck,
motivation is gone, and sure the country's ******,
could try to get a job,hmmm what are my skills?,
I can sling ****,talk ****,and get high kills,
on COD-not a good CV,
a big bogey lookin skinhead,who'd hire me?,
could go back on the doors,yeah,like back in the day,
but nowadays you need a license from the PSA,
and that costs cash,here today gone tomorrow,
so it's back to the hustle,beg Steal,and borrow,
but recently I medically got kicked in the ***,
so I put words to work,cause my rhyming's class,
bare me soul to stranger's,disguised as lies,
good listener so no-one see's the pain in MY eyes,
I got a gameplan,sure to sweep the Nation...
think I'll start tomorrow,King of Procrasti-nation.

So I let it wait,got it straight,I'll rule the world tomorrow,
cause it's scary out there,but comfy in me burrow,
every day another reason for my hesitation,
tomorrow is my Kingdom- yeah- Procrasti-nation.