Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat *****;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognizable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and *****-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for whom was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

THE QUIRK OF THE  QUARK

(FOR SOMETHING HAVING NO EMPIRICAL SENSORY DERIVED QUALITY IT  
SURE IS ONE HELL OF A PASSION KILLER!

In bed
(between the sheets at last)    

I stroke your breast
with excited fingertips

ask you
“What ya reading Hon? ”

Big mistake!

“’bout Quarks! ”

“Quarks? ”

“You know subatomic particles...duh! ”

“...the irreducible building blocks of
the universe! ”

“Ahhh! ”
Your ****** comes alive
has a mind of its own.

I come
(from a generation)    

where protons, neutrons & electrons

were just
a lot of

coloured *****
hanging from a ceiling

or the stuff
of badly drawn diagrams.

Death by boredom
in a cold Science class
on a wintry morning.

“Unlike previously known particles
a Quark
(rhymes with Cork)    

has only a partial
Pos.  or   Neg.
electrical charge.

“I see! ” I say
(not seeing) .

“They are bound
in families of 3...”

She tells me.

“Really? ”

I interrupt her
but she interrupts my interruption.

“...to form protons & neutrons! ”

She continues on
in a hectoring lecturing tone.

“These triplets
(are you with me?)    ”

“Yes...yes! ”
(I lie)    

“...we call hadrons.”

She absentmindedly
strokes my *******

for(I guess)    
...emphasis.

I become positively
...charged.

“The pairing of a quark
with an anti-quark
of the same colour
is known as a

Neson.”

I can feel my mind
freezing over.

She just skates over it
with a knife-blade intellect.  

Again I grin & feign
an interest.
“So now...”
She continues in full spate.

I drown in her drone.

“The indivisible
constituents of matter

appear to be

the six what we call flavours of
Quarks.”

“Oh, and...six other kind of particles
known as

Leptons.”

I prop imaginary matchsticks
under my real eyelids.

“The electron
(by this time I have lost my *******)    

the Muon
(I feel like a *****)    

& the Lau
(I can’t sink any lower)    

each with its own
Neutrino.”

My eyes glaze
over.

“Now, according to Quantum Field Theory
all forces

between
particles

are mediated
by force carrying particles

called...called

Gauge Bosons! ”

My mind
goes into meltdown.

“One of these
(the Gluon)    
is responsible
for holding Quarks
together.”

“I see...I see! ”
I consider thoughtfully

‘though I
don’t.

“The physicist
who postulated

the existence of a
Quark...”

(******* that
Murray Gell -Mann)    

“...obviously liked a laugh
giving them the nonsense name of
Quark! ”

“And oh...on a whim
described them

as flavours & colours! ”

“Quarks...! ” I ruminate
(in an interior monologue)  
are passion killers
especially the details.

She laughs.
So I – laugh.

“Ha ha! ”
(** hum) .

Brought back to life
by the kiss of humour

I come out of
deep freeze.

Warming now
to her

subject

she informs me

“Each flavour of
Quark

comes in
3 colours! ”

“Horray for the red green & blue! ”

I holler.

She glowers.

I smile stupidly and sheepishly.

“Each hadron
(remember ‘em?)    ”

“Yes, I remember
I had one! ”

I mumble
& mutter

but it’s lost
on her.

My *******’s had it.
It’s more an R.I.P!

She’s blinding me
with Science.

“And what... pray tell...? ”

I dare to ask
a question.

“...are the 6 flavours of Quarks? ”

“Why..! ”

She positively beams
delighted at my interest.

“UP.

DOWN.

STRANGE.

CHARMED.

BOTTOM
(OR BEAUTY) .

TOP
(OR TRUTH) .”

“Really? ”

“Really! ”

“Why...I’ll be a...why
of course I shoulda guessed! ”

I stroke the beauty
of her bottom

(for comfort
rather than any ****** interest) .

“Protons have...”

She drones on and on despite my hand’s pleading.

“2 UP Quarks &
1 DOWN.”

“Oh lucky them! ”
I think
but only in my mind.

“...whose electrical charges combine
to give them a + 1.”

“Neutrons
(on the other hand)    
Are you listening? “

“Yes Mam...I am! ”

“...are made up of
1 UP
Quark
&
2 DOWN! ”

“...which accounts for
its neutral charge.! ”

“Right! ”
“Right? ”

My mind has hit
a brick wall.

I can’t go on.

“Oh, love...
Am I boring you? ”

“Not at all! No! Not at all! ”

I doth protest
too much.

I feel like
four flavours of Quarks
(you know the sort)    

STRANGE, CHARMED(I’m sure!)    
BOTTOM & TOPS

that existing for only
an infinitesimal fraction of a second can only be seen
in those self-annihilating collisions that occur when
protons and anti-protons are accelerated to speeds

approaching the speed of light
in a particle accelerator.

But in a hundredth of a billionth of a billionth of a second
I blinked

...& missed it.
**** that
Murray Gell-Mann

...she’s fallen asleep

Leaving me
with a revived *******

glowing lonely
in the dark.

Quarks
...****!

I design a tee-shirt in my mind.

“Ha ha! ”

“What...! ” suddenly you
awake...laugh

as I imagine
a Quark

would.

“April Fool! ”
You scream.

“I learnt it all off by heart! ”

“By rote
...joke? ”

“But it’s not April Fool!
It’s the middle of February! ”

“Yes but...if I had waited
for April Fool’s Day

You would have known
I was having you on! ”

You somehow
logic.

“Oh, come
here! ” you say.

“And let me give you a hand
with that! ”

“Quark! ”
I moan.

Costume clowns
And closet clones
Clutter up my world.
Simulated simians,
Both boys and girls,
Ricochet like rifle shots
In the hallways of my dreams.
Honeyed hectoring
Always more than it seems.

Missing messages
And mumbled grumbling,
I find it quite humbling
That my rhetoric is glistening
To discover nobody is listening.
But be assured, at its root
Disdain will not make me mute.

Despite the confusion
Created by collusion,
And the babble of rabble
That grapple inside my brain
What will remain after
This noisy war is done,
It will definitely be won.
The race will be run
Because I am number one!

Gushing rain's a
scurrying season,
plying woe with loosened tiles,
detaching once proud roofs.
From whose past has this rain dance been arrainged ?
All we stand for is porous and howling wind,
a gambit of ill suited omens'
hectoring guise to scour
our cracked chimney pots.

They arrive by the sackload from the main office on the Via del Pontiere,
Pouring from the bags as if a torrential weeping,
Envelopes a collage of shapes, a multiplicity of pastel hues,
Some addressed with all the formality of a judicial summons,
Others bearing no more than the name of the distaff half
Of the city’s most famous equation.
They tread upon paths long since worn flat
By any number of their predecessors:
Tales of love unrequited, passion misspent,
Promises untruthful and unmet.
These epistles and their authors
Seek solace of varying degree and efficacy:
Some seek kernels of actual guidance or blessing,
As if some ancient and inscrutable advice columnist
Had taken up residence in the Basilica di San Zeno,
Others looking to self-heal through the catharsis of the act of writing,
Most content to quietly assert to the universe itself
I am here, I am here, I am here.

Where, then, is the corresponding mountain of missives
For the son of the House of Montague?
Surely, his shade would be as kindred a soul
To those which affairs of the heart have left so disheartened,
(Indeed, more so, he most assuredly
The schemer and dreamer of the dramatis personae in question.)
For him, though, no rambling, rumbling truck
Emblazoned with the lemon-cheerful Posteitaliane markings
Arrives at an office chock-a-block with secretaries
Whose mission is to answer and archive its all-but-holy contents;
More likely, there is some humble cart,
(The wheel bearings frozen up, the canvas mildewed and frayed)
Containing a handful of birthday cards
Intended for some Renzo or Romano
Miswritten by some absentminded grandmother or great-aunt,
The odd solicitation or final-notice
Which shall go no further for all of eternity.
Despite the hectoring tone of the envelope
Stating that the material is critically time-sensitive
And intended for the eyes of the addressee only.

Cold and wet day, rain hectoring all down to the last pedestrian
A tired man stepped into a corner shop he never noticed before.

Warm glow from fireplace, neat stacks of books bedside a sofa
He sat down and gave his eyes to the ceiling, all worry melted.

The next time he heard the tinkling bell, the door opened again
Felt like a spell lifted, a teacup clanked. Ten years had passed.

Qui jetait le sort?
C'est l'ennui.

Frantic searching for lost moments
Wrinkles he never noticed before.

The curtains parted and on the stage, old
Sorrow pasted its stamp on his forehead.

You said I could have the night, you withdrew
pleasure and left love humiliated, a used tissue.

It is decommissioned, off-limits, outright verboten,
Yet is traversed nonetheless,
Its patrons a mix of the pruriently curious,
The thrill-seeker, the merely woebegone.
As they have time on their side,
The hub-bub of school buses and suburban commuters
No concern as they navigate the buckled and broken asphalt
(The conflagration underneath changing the topography
Daily, sometimes even hourly)
They will stop to paint some phrase, some bon mot
On this roadway-***-canvas:
Mostly the narcissistic monologue we bray at the universe,
The assertion that we were here, are here,
And (though it is plaintive yet unspoken) that we always may be,
Augmented with light hearted double entendres
And grim, hectoring Biblical quotations,
While not far away, the re-directed two lanes of blacktop
Carry onward, indifferently proceeding on its way
Through these stolidly scruffy old anthracite towns,
Their landscapes and the ground beneath them
Quiet as the sepulcher, the vagaries of their fates above the sod,
Stalking them impassively yet implacably.

mirage of bogus camaraderie
the chuckle of doppelgänger without a brain
as putrid pond in rancid rockery
shimmering shallow and inane

ad-lib cracks of demagogue
as soporific croaks of puffed-up frog
cheered on by gnomes struck deaf 'n dumb
stuck to rock with chewing-gum

seeking to propitiate hectoring masses
with bevy o' platitudes like banal molasses
dripping treacle-like, with facile devotion
as petroleum leaks on rotting ocean

Glad for birth write to express views
aware cunning linguists
will apply figurative screws  
in an effort at blatant mud slinging ruse
exercised courtesy mail in ballots,
or electorates standing in queues
who the previous Sunday
possibly fervently prayed within pews
a mixture of Republican and Democratic

gentiles (relating to or indicating
a nation or clan, especially a gens)
and orthodox or reformed Jews,
although dissimilar viewpoint you may choose,
perhaps feeling exuberant
crying tears of joy
with red eye to boot
unlike myself (a common Joe)
biden his time until 2028
until then experiencing moody blues.

The following mostly written
November 6th, 2018,
nevertheless, I copy and paste
bulk of previously crafted poem
applicable to 2024 presidential election
nearly six years to date
from forty fifth elected
meddling,  scheming, and yawping
commander in chief.

Das Don Auld (can hardly tank
tucker - son of Carl, and leave
landscape barren) calling out
rigged ken tuckered hoarfrost race,
viz demolition derby presaging
death to White Anglo Saxon
democracy DOMS (delayed
onset muscle soreness)
minions decry diplomacy,
crass denunciation of
Stacey Abrams

liberally Apple eyeing jingoistic rhetoric
declare defamation directly
upon disparate grass roots
hegemony, hectoring, heckling,
and harassing humble hobby (lobby) horse
sense, asper progressive
democrats hurrahing, holstering, hitching
visa vis disc hovering rays in the sky,
no fault in our stars,
harnessing healthy,

honesty, humility plowing,
sowing, and tilling political
terrain at expense tubby
execrably, damnably, cruelly,
brutally, nagged, branded,
and whipped malevolently,
mercilessly, and mischievously
lambasted by fourth grade
vocabulary level former commander
in chief exuding: haughtiness,
doughy bully pronouncing

prescriptions provisioning
one percent pampered
population attending one
born at Jamaica Hospital in Queens,
New York City hobnobbing,
galavanting, fawning...
at ego inflating functions
exploiting downtrodden
under most class "dirt poor"
bilked proletariat segment.

Pinnacle (topping Taj Mahal),
now owns Birds eye
bourgeoisie view, which
informs hawkish word
smiths, onlookers with
powerfully pointed outlook
excellent access, sans zealous,
vociferous, uxorious, and traitorous
tyrannical reigning Rex
less lee pugnacious noxious

loose xenophobic,
jabberwocky, demagoguery
laced jargon surly *******,
quizzically, pugilistic-allied,
outrageously punching
imaginary nemesis, linkedin
with instagram, snapchat
twittering skulking arch
conservative enemies
clandestinely undermining

(bone a fide skulduggery)
ambitions to turn back
figurative clock, applauding,
cobbling, counting crowdsource
to elect forty seventh
commander in chief
to reboot, remake, and retry
to restore American (post
world war II) hit parade
soundtrack resonating

with ardent blatant
bigotry, colored blinders,
devilish foo fighting
patriotism, nepotism, localism,
gerrymandered, jury rigged
Russian hijacked pollster
precincts, nativism milking
titillating conspiracy theorists,
denouncing radical ambidextrous
righteous leftists, silencing

second amendment agent
challenges provocateurs,
lake wobegon raconteurs,
and saboteurs infiltrating
highest echelons with spooky
intelligent poseurs, and green
lighting one man plutocrat
steamrolling aborted blackened
civil disobedience (Thoreau Lee)
walled in reproductive rights.

and let yours truly not forget emasculation
that prickly emotional immobilization
whereby these lovely bones
subject courtesy senescence
upon cremation reduced to obliteration.

Inching closer to mortality
linkedin with concomitant
subtle deterioration of body electric
finds yours truly (me)
speculating what happens
to corporeal essence
when sprawled out on death bed
able, eager, ready, and willing
to give up the ghost.

Resultant baby boomer saddled
with unbridled tumultuousness stirrup
(thus his need to pony up)
with delayed emotional, mental,
physical, and spiritual development
necessitating self advocacy
at present stage of mine existence,
especially where crisis brews,
concerning fruit flies
(Drosophila melanogaster)
called apartment unit b44 their home turf.

These pesky, itsy bitsy
teeny weeny, blimey insects
hold Guiness Book
of World Records
to bring about infestation
faster than you can say
supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
within our living quarters.

An adult female fruit fly
can lay up to 2,000 eggs
on the surface of anything
moist and rotting.

Within 30 hours,
tiny maggots hatch and start
to eat decayed food.

Within 2 days, they attain adulthood
grown up and ready to mate, too.

While that transition
may seem quick,
a fruit fly only lives 8 to 15 days.

Run in with management
finds innate susceptibility
with anxiety skyrocketing,
cuz umpteen instances
called out about pestiferous critters
supposedly being out of compliance
when aforementioned issue
necessitated exterminator technician
(on quite a few occasions),
unbeknownst to us until
then warden Jackie Geiger
summoned us into the principal's office,
we got pleasantly informed
suddenly finds yours truly and the missus
in violation of rental contract.

Agitation swirls (think F/EF5 tornado)
viciously storming inside me psyche
analogous to whirling dervish
wreaking psychological havoc.

Resultant outcome with threat of eviction,
triggered a slew of physiological symptoms;  
I experience full blown panic attack,
whereby irritable bowel syndrome
kickstarted insync with palmar hyperhidrosis
psychologically run me ragged.

Linkedin and in tandem with current stress
(worse case scenario being homeless)
compounded by tsunami courtesy
severe mental health issues
stifled healthy growth of
body, mind, and spirit triage.

Internalized emotions wrought
quotidian psychological oppression
retrospective reflection courtesy
20/20 hindsight reveals absolute zero
positive natural development of
body, mind, and spirit
extreme cerebral agitation,
and social withdrawal compromised
(during metamorphosis to manhood)
kickstarting and jumpstarting prepubescence
quashing, sabotaging, upending, wrenching
maturation, education, and socialization

every year since being
born free and clear of obvious defects
minus alien aberration, Russian collusion...,
or basket of deplorable dysfunction
crooked Hillary accusation,
and submucous cleft palate
inducing severe nasality
fraught with arduous speaking difficulty
coping, fraternizing, integrating
within ordinary circumstances
alienated, defied, horrified,
mortified, scared, and (frankly) zapped

yours truly, albeit analogous
experiencing ferocious, hellacious, torturous...
suffering predicated on suppressing
and/or repressing moderate slights
inflicted upon withdrawn younger self,
who lacked adroit, deft, heft...
coping with typical situations
subsequently aggravating,
exacerbating, jinxing...
to cultivate, generate,
liberate locked potential
hypothesized, premised, yoked

infantile grievous inconsolable crying
unsolved behavioral mystery
venting only for my "mommy dearest,"
would utter (this from hearsay)
exhibiting extreme aversion
if other than thee birth mother
comforted, cradled, cocooned...,
an extremely reticent individual
buckling as strapping bullies
relentlessly belted jibed, taunted...
said teasing begat intimidation
(oft times mentioned in other poems)

scrawny kid (me) cowed, fawned, irked,
nonetheless I remained passive against
blistering, hectoring, teasing,
which apothegm turning other cheek
avoided getting smashed pumpkin face
courtesy subservient stance
devotional acquiescence help me dog pose
prayer temporarily answered
harboring entire being
ten thousand feet beneath
avast sea of dejection
time and again repeated

alas crass harassment
absorbed into nucleus of every cell
anchored barnacle encrusted tenuous pride
in short shrift
brewing, abjection, dejection, humiliation...
"NOT FAKE" misery
inducing suicidal ideation
(and actual attempt
courtesy anorexia nervosa)
spurring serious delineation
allowing, enabling, proffering
permanent salvation uber vacation
to give lyft among livingsocial
years later overlaid
earthshaking starry eyed son
fault finding fundamentally
misbehavior gifted from
those I called mother and father.

Otherwise titled deep into my fiftieth year of passive aggressive rebellious puberty.

Yes, I chickened out getting a haircut yesterday August twenty seventh two thousand and twenty four as stated in a previous poem before undergoing cataract surgery cause mine deux (mind you) ponytail donation of at least by donating at least eight inches of these straggly tresses to a facility that repurposes cut hair for Children with Hair Loss after getting golden – more specifically brunette imponderable locks lopped off, would still cost me thirty five dollars namely at Salon Nova (situated at west Ridge Pike, Suite A, Royersford, Pennsylvania, 19468) not including a tip, which extra bonus, (would most likely top off the total cost close to fifty dollars, but yours truly best ask this question ahead of time, which monetary fait accompli with scissors might best set my sights until speedy recovery videre licet post cataract surgery.

Sacrilegious transgression against deeply rooted obsessive compulsive disorder impossible mission to forcibly eject from out my psyche, until drastic measure of prefrontal lobotomy or Electroconvulsive therapy employed courtesy a thirteen year old.

Siege warfare (trumpeting)
average joe biden his time
linkedin with aberrant behavior
transpires within me mind,
(not just today August 27th, 2024,
but everyday/365)
warrants depleting stockpile arsenal
constituting exhausting mental health
uprooting deep seated repellent pesky
daunting lost cause.

Overruled by irrational thoughts,
I feebly muster a lame duck
half quacked comeback
(think home team cheering at pep rally)
against analogous figurative agents provocateur
said nemesis bore down hard
upon sense and sense abilities
mine psyche undergoing
blistering, hectoring withering, et cetera
courtesy ghost of Emily Brontë
mailer daemons flitting to and fro,
hither and yon within wuthering heights.

Another necessity Emma gin)
awoke prided prejudice
plus sense and sensibility
to confront head on
after trimming back the tresses
beastie boy foo fighting (Irish,
no matter genealogy regarding
yours truly Eastern European)
mine talking head housing
private insane asylum.

Incomprehensible thought processes
chronically spin out of control
dictate mandate NOT to wash hair
until at least one week passage of time,
(an arbitrarily chosen number
i.e. seven days convenient block)
even if appearance looks unkempt, slovenly
grungy, et cetera as nirvana seeking guy.

Thus, I readily admit self held hostage,
whereby loopy thought provoking patterns
hopelessly, grimly, futilely find me surrendering
NEVER eradicating down battened ramparts
neurotic, lunatic approved, idiotic
mind mental chattering
babbling jabbering gibberish
housing concocted village people
dead set against shampooing oily locks.

Quite a tussle (think metaphorical hair pulling)
ensues within me scrambled noggin,
whereby pathetic psychotic pummeling
win knows scrimmage
scoring touchdown amidst
teaming muted brouhaha
allowing, enabling, and providing
harmlessly insane nettlesome
pesky skewed notions
ridiculous leeway to predominate
until yours truly USDA
qualified, hashtagged, certified...
as grateful dead among human league.

I generally mean mine mien mental state
moost occasions heavily marinated stupor
long established as external trait
psychologically time tested trooper
impossible mission to kickstart sanity
doppelgänger regularly revisits his soul asylum
hellbent antimatter he cannot vitiate
despite therapeutic laxative merely exhausts
well bred literate smoking doobie brother
eliminating aforementioned pablum
witnessed courtesy one floundering grouper
among plenty of fish schooled
hyphenated (high finned haggled)
burn hushed scaled poem
courtesy one unionised rebellious party pooper.

Spellbound with colossal mental grippe
(i.e. all-consuming figurative cerebral
obsessive compulsive forced membership)
magnetic resonance imaging
indicated jagged blip
and/or nsync microscopy
showed telltale genetic authorship
regarding above stated mental health crisis,
whereby Sigmund Freud analyst did flip
lid freeing leeches imported courtesy Philip
Hansel and Gretel a mere slip
o' lass, whose nose she always did turnip.

lurks within the outer limits of cyberspace,
where dark shadows eclipse edge of night
indistinguishable from the twilight zone.

Within the Internet binary size weavers loom
shuttlecock whizzes (analogous to a bad mitten)
at speed of greased lightning warp speed
weaving courtesy electronic webbed wide world
snaring and snagging
poor schlemiel or schlimazel,
videlicet snazzy convincing culprit,
who gets figuratively sucker punched
courtesy malevolent scoundrels
(devoid of moral scruples)
to mimic legitimacy
subsequently scam without misgivings
(but exude untrammeled glee)
preying upon vulnerable particular populations
such as the elderly and infirm.

Victim services of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
helped me recoup one hundred Benjamins,
whereas gofundme page
(I jimmied up for myself)
wrought nary a handy dandy blues clues
restitution, and passage of time
failed to help me shake off loss
financial windfall garnered
from shifty eyed weasley wiseacres,
who managed to usurp without a hitch
manifold times more than a ***** dozen
designated dollar denomination
with President Grover Cleveland's face

and yours truly (me) continues to chide himself
for significant sucker punches
to solar plexus of mine
still smarting when analogous hackers
tricked the writer of these words
into zombified, hypnotized, bamboozled...
approximately seventeen plus months ago
when venal hucksters
hacked into Macbook Pro laptop,
an older model before purchasing current
MacBook Pro (Retina, 15-inch, Mid 2015)
and left absolute zero trace of their whereabouts
a fly by night scampering posse if thieves.

I think back to that diabolical
hectoring kafkaesque purgatory,
and replay the mental tape
before yours truly (me)
blindsided (even while wearing eyeglasses
that offered 20/20 insight),
nevertheless acting as if controlled remotely

behavior of mine at the mercy of one
who called himself Harvey Specter
(invariably he touted other pseudonyms
to avoid identification)
while he coached one after another
of his brainwashed subject
cursed like an automaton.

Argh! I decry being a "Dummkopf"
and stupidly followed gentle commands
to drive to the nearest ATM,
(which happens to be an MP gas station
located at 125 Gravel Pike,
Collegeville, PA 19426),
wherein I converted nearly
every last red cent
from Citizens Bank accounts
into  a kind of digital payment,
or cryptocurrency namely;

Bitcoin (the first decentralized cryptocurrency.

Nodes in the peer-to-peer bitcoin network verify transactions through cryptography and record them in a public distributed ledger, called a blockchain, without central oversight.

Consensus between nodes is achieved using a computationally intensive process based on proof of work, called mining, that secures the bitcoin blockchain. Mining consumes large quantities of electricity and has been criticized for its environmental impact.

After buzzfeeding
one large denominational bill after another
into the maw of the mute cash
banking my virtual wallet
also known as a digital wallet
bulged at the seams,
which constitutes software-based system
that stores payment information and allows users
to make purchases without physical cards or cash)
signed, sealed and delivered
to aforementioned scoundrel.

Nest egg of mine
(mostly lifetime monetary accumulation
of birthday or holiday gifts
scrupulously saved for dotage
of me and the missus)
mere chump change
of a crack (drug) dealer,
but never enough remaining years,
thus mein kampf forever
an impossible mission
to feel free and clear of penury,
cuz social security disability the saving grace
allowing, enabling and providing
fiscal ways and means
to avoid being homeless.

Blunt force instrument
Blunt force instrument
Hectoring tones fill my front room
Blunt force instrument
Merging fact and fiction
A shotgun marriage bride and bridegroom

Scurrilous accusations
Satan get thee behind
Yes, my lawyers are watching
Better prove what you find

Blunt force instrument
Blunt force instrument
Weight in no direct proportion to size

If Governance stands idly by
Through fear, collusion or nefarious intent
The mindless habit of obedience a contributory
Suggest 1924 and 1933

Blunt force instrument
Anti Asian attacks
Another virus ignored
Therefore condoned
Blunt force instrument
Embrace the chaos
There’s currency in fear of the unknown

Lie Lie Lie Lie
Lie Lie Lie
Lie Lie Lie
Lie Lie Lie Lie Lie Lie
Lie Lie Lie

Blunt force instrument
Blunt force instrument
Swimming in the shallow end
Another rebrand of a Facistic blend