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Wk kortas Nov 2021
There were a surfeit of items
Sufficient to raise eyebrows or cause comment
Among the few staid members of the Mulligan clan:
The appearance of siblings or cousins assumed (or at least hoped)
To have preceded Thomas to the choir invisible
Two or three women genuinely surprised
To discover the existence of one another,
One young man with an extremely disconcerting resemblance
To his “Uncle Tommy”,
But the entire affair carried on with something akin
To the requisite solemnity
Until such point that a couple bottles appeared
(The consensus being that the good Mulligan
Had somehow found a way to secret them in)
The end result being the proceedings
Subsequently devolved into an Irish cop wake-esque teleplay,
And in the midst of this fol-de-rol, Tippy Phelan,
Who had framed walls for generic bank buildings
And grunted and swore while cobbling together
Unnecessary cupolas and wholly superfluous cornices
On the McMansions of the small town well-enough-to-do
With Tommy (as well as, on Friday lunch-times
During the slow season, sharing a thermos
Containing a mixture which drew narrow-eyed stares
From lenient if still unhappy foremen)
Stood the final toast for the good Mulligan,
Intoning There’s a land of the quick and the land of the lost,
The trick being to build a sturdy span between them
So it’s only proper that Tommy was a ****** fine carpenter
.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
life more abundant calls forth an expandable reality primo,
thus wisdom, the principal thing when-ce all other
things may be made

machine level codifiers ifying
meaning back into idle words.

Keep the secret. Answer the call,
who will help the widow's son?

You, Templar, what message bear ye to my child?,
asked the widow.
Fi-del-e-tus. with a squeeze and a tap,
wink and grin

Poet, who named the prophet?
who named the teller to tales?
who gave thee hearing ear and seeing eye?

Some mind imagined those as yet unformed in forever past.
You agree. You experienced living, so far.

So good, we move on, figurative re re re al-it if-ity
Haps apt to appear be fore your veri variety of being even
hapt as a thing thought, imagined made for a function, as yet

undone. Conserve the NULL set, that whole idea is dangerously
close to fading…

Have you seen those videos of soap bubbles filled with H
and no O?
You should see those, to recall the phenomenonal pre-dictatorial
image, see the bubble, invisible but
for reflection of ambient ambits in our epigenetic radiosphere,

bubbles collapse, and for a flash, flame orange shaped
as the bubble was.
No ex-plo sion it-a-tivity, mere dis cipation,
loss of grip on the shape of things that were, now
con forms to re per ceive,

try again, get a good grip, swing and a miss, go again
take a Mulligan, I think, some game has such a rule,

We can use it here. We can scroll back up,
like a rope lift on the bunny hill at Big Bear, back when…

wheels in wheels, bubbles in bubbles, forms in forms

this is the information age I was informed. Adamkind, those
qubitical, ambitical little images of

Who, who? would a name comfort-you worth more than a breath?
Fresh air after a minuted moment twixt out and in again,

Power, create ific power haps twixt out an in again,
the cipitation, the d was missed, what if it were not?

re-read, religion once meant that, re-connect, too,
religion meant that state of having re-read the map,
re-tied the worth carrying,
stacked the worthless by the trail so
some hapless stranger may see
the treasure it was and is, to any who care to

receive, or con ceive it for the
truth I found in it and kept, which I leave to you
here:
Both treasure and truth are where ye find them,
and shall be for ever, when ever starts for you.

Ezekial, judge my riddle, please. The fool missed the
point of conception…
No, no no no

A fool's dance in a Phrygian cap with useless, symbolic wings…
gee, Phrygian, means nothing to you? Google it, you live in the future.
Later,
A time upon which a Mercury dime would comfort
a rich American Tyrant, son of the Flim-flam man,
no lie, this is mythic, you can't make this stuff up
its history. Hysterical, right
John D. Standard-for-Petropower-manifestation,
the dead's carbon footprints bubbling up
to fire and fridgin' ice, whoa, who broke the world,

I was distracted. Did you know the planet is
as self healing as those scabs on my grandkids knees?

ah, caper, eh? Capere, to grasp, to take,
ceive means accept by taking,
be liefing an idea ceived ex nihilo, is likened unto

Drinking from a still pond in a distant land. Sults,
results. may result in,
Dear Rhea revenging Montezuma, at a gut level.

However, a sort of how in an open mind facing forever,
a sort of omni-directional saliency
seeing further,
--Bomb, Jesus-bomb--

At least two reasons for thinking Jesus is objective, out side
you or inside you. You aren't Jesus. Jesus is a friend of mine,
in my mind, object-if-I-try
to pray, listen pray hopes
happen
shapes form
forever from ever point, every point, not of, in buy

a why..
why does a y on the end of every mean any thing?

That's the y-factor. You will learn why wise men still seek those.
As treasure, they are light, and the taste is beyond

the grasp of tongue to tell

that whole class of moded-ever words weave wards
whenever, forever, however, whatever
used proper, everafter,
that will save Dresden, some time, we think.

However, now, Rhea by name has entered the game.

Who is this named femofame? What game is she good in?
Or does she just knock the **** out of lying spirits?
Cool.

Ah, mother of all the gods, I recall, I mean
I meant to say
I remember, then I for got the power words hold here
exactly heare in eleven metrixed mentions,

this point, in time, not of time.
In the world, not of the world, you've heard the pharse?
The allusion is not lost on you, you know the phrase,

In the world, not of the world, holier men than I have
claimed to be, while I follow a few fine words,
linguistic kief, sprinkled fairy dust, like the stuff
captured in the gleaming film on your
microscopic-outer eye

see a salient point in time.

A pin point 'pon which one,
no more,
one story begins for ever, a gain in good net
value, if

we have tasted that word, chewed the gristle,
indigestible ligaments and sin-yews and such,
which once anchored meat to bone,

value is first good. Good e nough, nough
Gut genug, okeh,
maybe not my best, my best is yet to come, they say.

sufficient for today
------

enough (adj.)
c. 1300, from Old English genog "sufficient in quantity or number,"
from Proto-Germanic compound *ganog "sufficient"
(source also of Old Saxon ginog,
Old Frisian enoch, Dutch genoeg,
Old High German ginuog, German genug,
Old Norse gnogr, Gothic ganohs).
First element is Old English ge- "with, together"
(also a participial, collective, intensive, or perfective prefix),
making this word the most prominent surviving example
of the Old English prefix,
the equivalent of Latin com- and Modern German ge- 
(from PIE *kom- "beside, near, by, with;" see com-).
Second element is from PIE *nok-, from root *nek- (2)
"to reach, attain"
(source also of Sanskrit asnoti "to reach,"
Hittite ninikzi "lifts, raises,"
Lithuanian nešti "to bear, carry," Latin nancisci "to obtain").

As an adverb, "sufficiently for the purpose,"
in Old English; meaning
"moderately, fairly, tolerably" (good enough) was in Middle English. Understated sense, as in have had enough "have had too much" was in Old English (which relied heavily on double negatives and understatement).

As a noun in Old English,
"a quantity or number sufficient for the purpose." As an interjection, "that is enough," from c. 1600. Colloquial 'nough said is attested from 1839.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/enough#etymonlinev8703>
Godliness with contentment is great gain, a precept I was chewing on following a ritual holy day of gratitude to goodness for goodness sake in my cultural gut genug state of mind.
Brian Carson Dec 2013
I walk out into traffic, laughing
with my arms out
I spin as the cars are passing

they say there's no atheist in a foxhole
but I've been in one my whole life
realizing it, took some time
I couldn't imagine making it to where I am now
if I were to have been blind

I can't wait to be buried
with a tree planted over me
I'm taking a mulligan
and next time I hope I plant better seeds
remember...
when you were young,
very young,
recently untethered from
proximal parental strings...

that liberated freshman
rushing into a .... cave
of independent studies
and uninhibited sexuality...

that mulligan phase
of impulse and irrationality
and...yes...experimentation...

of wide-eyed science interns  with
mother's cheeks, daddy's visa
and the best animal-testing lab
on the planet...

with live uncontrolled studies of sleep deprivation,
orgiastic tolerance, *** toxicity
and the effect of extreme jello-shooting
on graduation rates...

and, of course, the ultra-rad LUG/GUG philosophy,
the ultimate pregnancy-avoidance plan
guaranteed
or your STD back...

then you got a degree,
a real job,
and a surreal 5-figure
student loan balance...

or was it 6?

or maybe you just
dropped out
like
bill, steve or mark...

and started a revolution...

~ P
(7/21/2013)
Jeremy Betts May 2022
(too long version)

Life indeed pushed me to the edge of the cliffs end but the jump was my decision, no one there could ever be bothered to care enough to even explore the simplest question much less begin thinkin' about askin' what I was thinkin' when I settled on the option I ultimately, on more than one occasion, failed at miserably while attemptin', like the byproduct of rabbits ******' my faults are multiplyin' as my spark goes dark at the same time my shine went dim, not worth restorin' this vessel that sits as decoration in a white trash front lawn deterioratin', startin' from the back end then devourin' the engine

One step forward, two giant leaps back pedalin', that was the general motion of regression, lookin' like I'm plagiarizin' Michael Jackson when he's on stage performin', masterin' that classic moon walkin' he's known for doin', never as smooth as him but you get the picture I'm paintin', losing track of my destination as it began droppin' out of sight behind the horizon, followin' the trail the sun was blazin'

Can't see the forest for the trees and vegetation, could have heard the pre-lumber fallin' if you would only humor me and at least pretend to listen, but that there is somethin' you have zero interest in which is interestin' cause if the past has taught me anythin' about what you find pleasure in it's that you're lovin', above everythin', the chance to keep pointin' out and highlightin' how I'm a terrible human bein', a garbage person but not a man and no CDL license, I'm not pickin' up the trash I'm metaphorically dwellin' in only then to have it pile back up again times ten, ultimately creatin' my own land fill location within, wilfully lettin' recycled misfortune to continue hittin' me on the chin, it's due to inadequate trainin', not for the lack of tryin' to defend

No direction just a lie practiced to perfection too keep 'em from noticin' my state of depression, leave 'em guessin'. But to keep the honesty rollin' in I have a confession, I'd loan you the money to pay attention but you'd never take that good for nothin' offerin' and I ain't even placin' blame, just sayin', I know my position, I'm fully aware I'm on the losin' end of this game of tug-a-war life and I are playin', though I think it's cheatin', countin' cards to ensure a win, gamblin' that I'll give in and fold before noticin' I'm the mark bein' taken, the journey of life is a rigged expedition

What am I doin' besides losin'? Why am I here became the daily question, how do I get out this mess of confusion that's drownin' me to the point of extinction? It's an impossible equation even for a mathematician with years of education, so you know for certain I'm lyin' when, for no good reason, I have a go at answerin'. The slipknot is workin' just as I was expectin', slippin', goin' taunt, slidin' into its final position

I should mention, if you're thinkin' this has taken place solely for attention you're sorely mistaken, you never come to that realization, dodgin' conversation in an attempt to avoid confrontation, leavin' me noticin' there's no one standin' by and extendin' a hand to help and lookin' back there's never been. No one attendin' my lonely execution by decapitation in an effort to stop the spreadin' of harmful misfortune I feed myself, bad for my mental health, a deadly addiction that's become somewhat of a tradition through repetition, turnin' a weapon on myself, worsenin' my condition, that's a fact based observation not an opinion

No resolution in the hard hitting revelation that there's no salvation for someone who's gone and done what I've done and gone on livin' in a web of fear that I first spun for protection but couldn't stop the infestation from gainin' the traction it was needin' for the completion of my complete elimination

Cravin' anythin' real to place my faith in, I'm bein' told the hate and pain I'm bathin' in is of my own creation, I can see the connection as I sit broken down in the intersection of real life and fiction, I've lost control again and once again there's no mulligan. Am I seein' the glass half full or half empty or maybe it's all an illusion regardless of perception? Lost my vision, can't see through the pollution and corruption runnin' rampant with no solution comin', I'm a simpleton so this ***** gettin' confusin', a complete brain malfunction

I've awoken the beast within and just as I was predictin' we instantly began battlin' to the death, fightin' for position and a quicker end to the situation I'm always findin' myself in then findin' out for myself that it's always been my own reflection startin' back in my direction, the ugly inside is finally outwardly projectin', can't even pretend to be my own friend, enough is enough, I'm saying when

Its lurkin' just under the skin, waitin' for the moment to strike and beat me down to nothin'. When will it end? Never I'm guessin'. I'm gonna have to try to put an end to it all myself again, tirin' of the repetition to the point I usually take no action, sometimes due to exhaustion but still just lettin' it all happen like that's what I was plannin' from the beginnin' but that makes about as much sense as quittin' ****** right after the needles insertion or waitin' till after overdosin'

Frustration givin' way to aggravation and aggression leavin' little satisfaction even if I could squeak out a win, but I'm no longer wastin' time waitin' for that to happen so I'll probably most likely be caught sleepin', dreamin' about what could've been had I listened to my gut feelin' and put in the same amount of stock I place in what my treasonous mind and heart are always sayin'
and not let doubt creep in and claim top billin' as it's permanent position, knocking out compassion and reason, replacin' both with the hate and weight of a nation

It's a fools mission, I WILL be beaten' into submission, the last thing I'll hear as my energy gives up on existin' is the mortician statin' then time stampin' my expiration, that and the body bag zippin', family left pickin' out a coffin from the bargain bin, not worth payin' a fortune, only payin' little respect to the fallen then quickly forgotten at the drop of a pin

You're sayin' I have a purpose but I'm witnessin' me wastin' every minute of the earths rotation and never reachin' the conclusion that I was slackin', far to laxed in the preparation for a home invasion of this mental prison I'm caged in where I'm servin' a life sentence and I'm mentally and emotionally starvin' while my vision of any kind of future begins to darken

No open invitation, but that's not stoppin' my personal demon from just walkin' right in and startin' the killin' spree up once again, focusin' first on positive motivation just for existin', of course that's just my imagination, but could you imagine? A horrible vision to the average pedestrian, I know, but I still crack a grin at the thought of it happenin', the devil on my shoulder is at it again

My light fractured through a prism and some went missin' and I never got around to lookin' so no chance of gettin' it back into my possession, there's no raignin' it in, goin' from a fools errand to a search and rescue mission seemingly overnight but for what reason, just to teach me a lesson? I don't test well, I won't make it to graduation

Choices made out of desperation got me lookin' and feelin' like a felon, to survive I had to become the villain of the biography I'm narratin', this isn't livin', at best it's just barely holdin' on for dear life and weakenin', a measly attempt at survivin', forced into an intimate relation with the unforgivable, each of the sinful deadly seven

The line not to cross was paper thin, walked it like a drunk person in front of a couple corrupt police men, heathens but feelin' better than, lost control long ago, before I fell off the wagon, I ain't talkin' about drinkin', it started way back when with prescription medication, ones that were suppose to be helpin' but then used for wreckreation and that's when it began draggin' me down to an underground parkin' garage elevation

I didn't have a break down, like I said, it was a break in home invasion with the assumption there was somethin' worth takin' to begin with but everythin' inside is broken and you can see the corrosion of the foundation built on sand, makin' this temple worth nothin', even self worth is fadin'

Graspin' at the air and yet again findin' nothin', grapplin' with the notion I'm nothin', prayin' my emergency flotation device will suffice cause the water is ragin', feelin' the undertow currant strengthen in it's concentration, I think it's attackin' and there's no escapin' so I began blinkin' SOS in old fashion morse code hopin' you don't need help with the translation, if that's the case then I'm done for, why bother debatin', I'll take myself out of the equation, preparin' my soul for the comin' evacuation

You begin lyin' just to raise my spirits but I ain't buyin' into what you're sellin', counterfeit concern bein' spoken with no emotion or conviction, after the extensive evaluation I see it's no garden of Eden I'm livin' in, again, someone's been lyin', I'd be wakin' right into the den of a rabid lion shrouded in original sin, I ate the fruit knowin' full well it was forbidden, straight up poison but zero ***** were given, so this was bound to happen, the writin' was on the wall, who am I kiddin'?

You have my permission to begin the process so let's just go ahead then and get this over with so I can silence the voices within, I've eliminated every complication, layin' on the tracks at the crazy train boarding station, awaitin' the unavoidable, provin' I was correct in the assumption that this is the right time to initiate my endin', a personal Armageddon...oh, well hello, you must be that Satan guy I've been hearin' so much about from everyone preachin' directly in my ear then going out the other, it's still hard not to listen, I'm just tyin' up a loose end or two then I'm yours for the takin'

...alright, thanks for waitin', now then, let the journey to my endin' begin shall we? I'm takin' the lead on this one cause I know where we're goin' and I'm no good at followin' direction...obviously, it goes without sayin'

©2022
I believe in second chances, no matter who you are
You deserve a second chance to show your worth
If it weren't for second chances, we'd have never reached the stars
And we'd forever be stuck down here on this earth
A second chance is crucial when you're learning something new
It's the time you use to fix all your mistakes
You need that extra effort to do what you must do
And if you're injured in the process,.....them;s the breaks!
If it weren't for second chances, we'd all be stuck at home
Our employers would have sent us home to sit
They'd say that we are useless and we've no brains in our dome
And to put it to us nicely....we were ****!
Second chances make us stronger, better than we were before
Because we learn a lesson when we fail
They teach us to get better, and to break on through that door
And we learn that we'll be stronger...just exhale
In sports a second chance keeps the game well within our reach
It stops it all from going all to hell
To give that extra effort, it's something you can't teach
And you just know you can do it, you can tell!
In love a second chance means we will not die alone
Unless of course you haven't got a clue
We play the cards we're given, we play the dice we've thrown
And the only one who can change it all is you.
I'm happier the second time and wouldn't change a thing
I know that I am better this time round
My reason is my Megan, with her I'm like a king
She tells me daily, and she doesn't make a sound
My second chance is special and I'm sure yours is too
She's my mulligan in this game of life
I'm sure you feel the same way about somebody who
Has relieved you of your lonliness and strife
Now, thanks to second chances we all can understand
That the first time out we all were just too young
But now, we're off the sidelines and we're marching with the band
And we're singing the best song we've ever sung.
So, please believe in second chances no matter who you are
You'll thank yourself for going that next mile
Without my second chance, I'd have never got this far
And with Megan I have learned again to smile.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
DEATH OF A JAZZ MAN
( for Jazzman John Clarke )

It was as I
expected

there was these
angel chicks

playing on harps
on Cloud 9

other angel dudes
playing trumpets and horns

but man
there was the Big Guy himself

playing a mean baritone
saxophone

like he was Gerry Mulligan
or something

the lyrics were
you know

hard to catch
"...you are the music while the music lasts..."

or something
Eliotish like that

I strode up
to the Big Guy

checking his *******
with a grin

"Man, that's real
solid gone!"

"I shall be made
thy music..."

The Big Guy
smiled...blew

one long long
final note.
THIRTY-TWO Greeks are dipping their feet in a creek.
Sloshing their bare feet in a cool flow of clear water.
All one midsummer day ten hours the Greeks
        stand in leather shoes shoveling gravel.
Now they hold their toes and ankles
        to the drift of running water.
Then they go to the bunk cars
        and eat mulligan and prune sauce,
Smoke one or two pipefuls, look at the stars,
        tell ****** stories
About men and women they have known,
        countries they have seen,
Railroads they have built-
        and then the deep sleep of children.
Sometimes I wonder
If when my parents first met me,
They spoke to God on bended knee
And said, "What on Earth is she?"
My mother's tongue loose
With the ever convincing persuasion
Of a more-than-her-share dose of medication.
My young father's frightened yet eager eyes,
Like getting a first glance at an unexpected surprise,
That you haven't figured out
Whether or not you can love yet.

And I was wrapped in the blanket
Of their nervous doubt-
But willingness to learn-
Presented to them though most showed concern
Over their lack of age and experience-
Of life.

I wish I had that moment in a bottle somewhere;
The electricity of their hope in me
Making waves on the air
And later as I wonder where-or why-
My mother hasn't shown up again,
Or how my father and I stopped being friends,
I go back there-to that moment-
And try to start all over.
When I picture my childhood;
not trying to weigh the bad-the good;
Just remembering.

When did I become this person?
When was the first time I tasted sin
Like a ripe fruit bursting in my mouth?
Was the influence of living in the South?
My grandmother waking me up too early
For grits at five in the morning.
Should my adolescent tirade against mosquitoes
Have been the first warning?
Was it before or after their fighting?
The birth of my brother merely highlighting
My parents' complete incompatibility.
Was it when I realized I was never unhappy
That they got divorced?
The fear of their yelling abated
By a court-approved mulligan.

When did I learn to lie?
Playing cruel jokes on my brother,
or holding him later as he cried over our mother
Not showing up again.
Which one was the real me?
Staying quiet as that boy slapped my ****,
Laid me down, lifted my legs up, and said,
"Let's play house."
When was the first time I wanted to douse
Myself with gasoline?
Purge myself and
Emerge clean...
How did I start to hate myself?
And later, when I met my father's saving grace;
What did she see when she looked in my face?
An echo of my father's distance or
the shadow of my mother's abandonment?
Or did she see a blank canvas-
That she could paint her love on?
Where did I learn humility?
When did I begin my refusal of others loving me?
How did I learn to live?
Discover the strength in me to forgive?
When I lifted someone's face to mine,
And told them the only reason they were
Surrounded by the darkest night,
Was because they were the only star shining bright.

What made me push my family away?
My youngest brother not even getting
A call on his birthday;
My sister refusing to wilt in my absence,
like a wild rose-growing without a sister.
When did I realize I missed her?
How did I learn how to stand and be a woman,
With firm convictions that I can believe in?
And if I went back to that moment-now-
Back as far as my life would allow.
Back to that hospital-
Looked my parents in the face
And told them how I turned out,
Would they cry, scream out loud?
Or would they be proud?
Jeremy Betts Aug 2023
(Extended)

An authentic smile defeated then deleted long ago, zero chance of winnin' stretchin' all the way back to my beginnin'
It was a genuine expression that slowly melted to an unrecognizable reflection
All pigmentation givin' way revealin' a secondary, ghostly stand in walkin' in my skin and it's handed some demands in
Granted, it happened in my formative years, a couple of years before the realization hit, I was an abandoned abomination
But the impact has been felt through forty somethin' calendars and countin', often wonderin' just how many more of 'em I'll actually be needin'
A true representation of life's failed evolution, my opinion, it would've helped to have known the mission
At the very least I coulda been shown at least one possible destination
Instead of being teased with this mystical American dream while always wakin' up in a nightmareish situation
Or hell, just vaguely point me in the general direction I should be travelin' in
Oh and where I should begin because I'm sure I'll be back here again, spending a majority of me time going back to the beginnin'
Then, after that you can get back to not givin' a **** about your creation, can't be bothered to even check in too see how we're all doin'
Refusin' to even call it in with a simple "how's it goin'?" Completely stopped showin' up for some reason
What happened to all the love and forgiveness you're supposed to be dishin' out according to your words, king James edition
Bigfoot and god, both bein' heaven and earths undisputed hide and seek champion
Ignorin' all the cries for help you've been hearin' while dodgin' every little question
Eliminate guessin', can't find the answer if you can't formulate the question
Still wouldn't say it's been a waste but the needles strongly leanin' towards an awfully vague reason for existin'
An overall lack of an adequate position, doesn't really seem like I was even designed to fit in
That is if my life has been any indication
I manage to make it to, AND THROUGH, the proverbial one more day but where's the lesson?
Was it in the bull shiit I kept slippin' in before crossin' off and finishin' anythin' deemed worthy of doin'?
This just feels like non-monetary extortion, a life-sized portion, takin' far more than what's ever been given
How do you think that's gonna end? This is not a rhetorical question, I'm looking for answers and forever waitin'
I'm still in competition with myself, the prize, livin', the compromise, loosin' myself in a portrait I've broken
Or durin' the transition, stumblin' across the realization that everyone's been right, I am the problem, that's no longer opinion
Find it in the nonfiction section
The eradication of an inner companion, replacin' compassion with aggression, smooth sailin' with frustration, no direction, no validation
The transition to curmudgeon happened earlier than expected, drawin' parallels from the curious case of Benjamin Button
Not for nothin', the infestation of negative thoughts caused a mutation inside and out, completely loosin' what it means to be a person, never was a good one
Probably no longer a shoe in for team human, my demon is all high on my supply with a gargantuan appetite for fear and hate eggin' it on
It's not a lose lose situation, and it sure ain't win win, and any other option, I'm guessin', got lost in translation
But I'm pretty sure somethin's gotta end in order for another somethin' to begin, at least that's what I'm hearin'
Still can't find a reason that justifies the conviction
Is what I'm feelin' damnation?
Is what I'm seein' my own creation?
It could just be that no matter what I'm not goin' to be happy with the conclusion
Only recently discoverin' life is not a choose your own adventure, you're not allowed to be pickin' your preferred endin'
A mustard seed of faith in myself ain't doin' nothin' but turnin' a mole hill into a mountain
No fat lady singin', just a whole lotta screamin', just a band playin' as I feel myself sinkin' into oblivion
Who the hells idea was it to make me captain? Given the keys to the ship but zero trainin'
Pardon me for givin' up on salvation but if you've been payin' even a little bit of attention
It should go without sayin' but you're waistin' away waitin' for divine intervention
Be careful what you look to for inspiration, maybe get a second opinion before goin' full send, divin' head in without practicin' the landin'
A recipe for disaster cookbook in the kitchen, irony gone missin', passin' overhead, no one's even lookin'
It may not be your intention, but there's no hate like the love of a christian
I'm just sayin', that's a world I lived in, I wish this was a work of fiction, then I could benefit from all this wishin'
Even presentin' it as an exaggeration would be lyin', if I'm lyin' I'm dyin', we're all dyin', they're all lyin'
A livin' contradiction by their own admission, rid them of bullshiit with a little sanitation
Keep an eye on the who you're prayin' to every day, it may not be the one, or at least the only one, listenin'
And there's no mulligan, no snooze button, no rewind function, no wake me up when it's over discussion
A conversation on morals is just opinion, life's not a given, it can be taken but if you can't take it, please, don't give in
With a questionable foundation any moment construction can slip, unnoticed, into destruction
Countless lessons on dysfunction, an influx of confusion, temperaments risin', no inner peace on the horizon
Please have your opposition choosen before the match is striken allowin' the dumpster fire lifestyle to begin
Fuelin' suspicion, a growin' unease between both neighbor and friend, the end will come as no surprise then

Just pay attention

©2023
WARNER BAXTER Jan 2014
~
*pitch an putt I never worried about
'cause all my drives were long and stout
now off the tee it doesn't fly so far
and all I can do is hope for par
on my card 3's are 4's and 4's became 5
oh how I long for a 300 yard drive
it's only a game some say unkind
but it grabs at your heart and messes your mind
it's only a game still others proclaim
front nine was fun the back nine shame
so before I tee I ask my Lord
just once put my name atop the leader board
so now it's early to bed so I can dream
of birdies and eagles and a jacket that's green


written by my caddy
Sir Duffy Mulligan
FOUR!
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
Out-of-that same hole, you built the bridge that brought you into my apartment, and closer, enough, to laugh, at my-joke. Enough to make you comfortable, once. And well-built-bridges survive torrential burns. 
[Good pitching usually bests good hitting, bad defense is hard to play-beyond, but, for some reason, sonny keeps-on. Practicing that shot, past-the-arc, [page 8] feet-so-far from the floor.]
I bet on another-blaze, from that boy. Bet his broker--- down at the "bridge-insurance-agency"--- bet, that he bets, too. One big tragedy and The Bad Boy-Blonde bought himself a little capital-l Legitimacy. Or at least a capital 
M-mulligan, ~~~~ _~~. "******, man, can't make another mistake?"

I mumble, again, to myself. But this time, I'm not complicit. I won't be the lubricant, whilst he wears-down his looks, or when he can't use his **** every day, or when he runs out, again--- back, with mean things to say. And now he's ******* disappeared, and you're back on my couch, and we both complain. And you read a poem, and I write a love letter. And---

That part there, that ain't-even projection! Another delusion, maybe. Again. Am I trapped, in [page 9] typing out words that later, I'll trick myself into believing? Or? Truly? I'm more sum, than total, when you tag-along. I'm totally, and tragically, head-over-heels. You'll hear this, here, and have a hard time listening--- "no, listen, I understand all that, and have a position on your counter-punches."

I couldn't, possibly, corrupt my own kingdom by exiling you entirely. Because, yeah, you're so beautiful, but you're also my-best bud. You, fit-flawless, and fearless, and effortlessly, into the hole, left by the jigsaw-piece, lost-years ago. My friends, and ******-when, had it, penultimately, "pieces-no-more," way-back then. 

Yet you're sure you weren't there. "You're sure? You weren't there?" You can be sure, I [page 10] believe you. I'm not under the impression that this is the long-con. I know, I'm a little-less-adorable, when I yawn. Or I cough, or I cry. And if I fawn, all-over you, still, after, I admit. I've really been trying to get-over-this, for a bit. (you could, honestly, be the best-friend that I've never-had-yet.)

And, you could, plainly break-my-heart, again. Apathetic over my annoying requests, for you to, "read my ****!" For it to be this, and you, getting-so-mad. For Adderall-sale to become the staple of our "extra-workular-relationship." For us to lose all contact, like my personalities, currently. For losing the ability to over-explain HBO programs to "This-girl-from-seven-nine-three." For you, this might be easy!

No, sir! Miss, I mean! No, you! I won't let it happen, if you say you won't, too. Put this down, make no mention, if it's made you upset. I've [page 11] already trusted you, once, to forget. And, he did, as well, so we're on the same page. Writing about him: lettered-love, turned toward rage (never, in-your-direction). I'm sure, at one-point, I had promised: no-more interventions. Lashing out was true, but convolutes my intentions. True, also, is the certainty of this-thing, I claim. The third-dream, "with ~~~-~~~~ ~~~," ~~~~~~-~~~~, yeah. You're the name.
I censor the sensitive bits, solely, sorry though.
Listening to Dave Grusin,
"Mountain Dance," vintage 1979.
The thought strikes:
"Why is it that only the
Early Jazz Giants are deified?
Of course, we need Chet Baker and
Miles Davis in our pantheon, &
Gerry Mulligan & Charlie Parker
Not to mention (cue Soupy Sales:
"Smack. I told you not to mention that!")
Coltrane or Stan Getz.
And yet, we're all getting long teeth and
there's a lot more Smooth Jazz to come,
Post-1950s, take Grusin, for example, or
George Benson or Herbie Hancock, and
What about Earl Klugh & Larry Carlton?
Let's not forget Spyro Gira &
The Daves: Benoit and Koz.
And we would be remiss
To miss Chris, young Chris,
Chris - "The Whippersnapper" - Botti.
But I digress.
It's 'unexplainable', No matter Good or bad someone can still shoot a bullet in your head ya know....Bye bye....Doesn't matter either you're dying to live or living to die.....living a lie....more of us working a nine to five to get by buying junk from another guy so they ride and fly while the Majority of us praying to Krishna, Jesus or Allah to take down a machine that we help build and fund not the Father maybe we'll get lucky and survive the storm of the century that will give humanity a mulligan on how to live in harmony with the earth by crumbling the powers that be, until then I'm afraid we'll see more of what we've been seeing lately. War, Crime, Bombings, shootings, shortages, you know real events not this entertainment they use to numb our senses. Clean your lenses. Prepare yourselves, people. I know some of you saying I'm going to Heaven so let them do what they want on Earth, My God is gonna save me!.... but what are you doing to fight for you, and your family. Jesus, Krishna and Allah did not stop the holocaust and they won't stop the next. Death is Peace. Life is War. One life to live over and out. Bless!
© 2013
Spoken Word
Mike Essig Aug 2016
Gaze into the mirrored face
of the aging drunk man.
See the blurred innocence of
the departed boy. There are
no other worlds to conquer.
This one holds danger enough.
War, women and whiskey
dance their destruction.
We only get the face we earn.
A man becomes what
a man does, but sometimes
that can’t be helped.
Eternally recurring Mulligan,
of boundless hope.
The turning Dharma wheel.
Perhaps a thousand more
lives must be lived
to undo this doing, to
break the bonds of Karma,
to finally sink into
the warm, welcoming
arms of peace.
A weary trek but worthy.
Terry Collett Feb 2012
Hornbridge likes to see girls undress.
But slowly. Their thin fingers and thumbs
Holding the cloth and taking off. Especially
The black negligee held just so. He fully
Dressed waits until the final article of
Clothing is removed and she stands gazing
At him with her bright expectant eyes.
He likes to have music in the background
Playing. Jazz or classic. Gerry Mulligan for
Some types or Mozart for others depending
On their breeding or class. Occasionally a Rock
Chick makes it through his defences and he
Puts on the Stones or something of their ilk.
He likes it when the girls place their hands on
Their hips as they wait for him to undress.
Yet there is always some disappointment.
Some flaw in either ******* or waist or legs
Or ***. Gloria spoilt him. Hard act to follow.
Those eyes. How he could swim there in that
Blue liquid of the two eyes. Those *******.
How could he ever forget them? His dear friends.
The way they would be waiting. Her hands soft
And warm and gentle touching him. And how
She loved to disrobe to the tones of a turned
Down Vivaldi from the hifi. Sad she left. Final
Curtain. Big cancer. No fond slow goodbye.
Wk kortas Aug 2017
She simply rolls her eyes and shakes her head
If, on one those rare occasions she is socializing
With social as opposed to business acquaintances
(Daylight hours with single women,
Naturally of a certain laissez-faire outlook as to certain businesses)
Someone brings up the notion of the ****** with the heart of gold;
You do not, speaking in a voice
Residing in the interval
Between a purr and a growl,
Get into the game for the purpose of ministry.
Indeed, she will note
Half-jokingly, half-ruefully,
That the major difference between her job a
And those working the third shift
At the Kendall refinery was the differing nuances
In future health-related consequences.

She is, for a businesswoman,
Possessed of a significant number of quirks,
Having no interest whatsovever
In the abnormal or unduly physically challenging,
Despite the higher potential renumeration
(Honey, you’ll never have enough money for that,
She will demur if the horse-trading turns to such specialty items)
Nor will she engage in congress or commerce
With the upper- management types
From the city’s few prosperous terms
(For reasons she will not nor likely cannot explain)
And she is notably fond,
Possibly to the point of lunacy,
Of lacing her small talk
With scripture and bon mots;  
Indeed, one wall of the men’s room at the Zippo factory
Is devoted solely to various quotes and scraps of verse
She has uttered to her patrons
Who punch the clock at the plant,
And more than one of the boys has said
She’s a pretty **** good piece, even at her age,
But sometimes you wish to Christ
She’d just lay there and be quiet.


It was not impossible that she could have taken another direction,
0r, at least, worked her chosen field on a slightly different plane;
She had been, in her prime, quite stunning
And in possession of both a quick wit and certain presence
That would have nicely augmented the arm
Of those who lived in the rarified strata
(Or at least as high-falutin
As one can be in a small oil-boom town)
Who possessed a combination of money, prestige,
And the inside knowledge that rules and sacred vows
Applied only to sheep and losers.
She chose (a clear and conscious choice, no doubt as to that)
To cast her lot with a humbler set;
The foreman, the mechanic, the assembler on the line
The stooped and gentle florist
Whose sole payment to her was a lifetime of free arrangements
From his small store on Bon Air Avenue
(I tried to lock him into
The floral tribute at my funeral
, she once said,
But he seemed to think that would be inappropriate.)

No one, even those in her very small circle of friends,
Seemed to know why she had spurned
The easier road of the demi-acceptable courtesan;
She had given no indication that she saw herself
As some slightly tarnished saint,
One of those so-called angels with ***** faces
(Indeed, she had often made a point of saying
There was no good to be done in her particular line of work),
And she was not forthcoming about her curriculum vitae,
Although it was common knowledge
She was raised a strict Catholic,
And it was said she had a brother
Who was in the care of the state,
Though it was an open question  
As to whether that was in the medium security pen at Foster Brook
Or the bughouse in Kane.  
In any case, as she was want to say
A ***** is the last person you ask
To find the answers to the mysteries of the universe,

After which she would launch
Into a story about how Father Mulligan,
The blustery, movie-Irish priest of her youth,
Was known to be the absolute biggest cheater
To ever set a pair of spikes
Onto the greens at the Bradford Country Club,
Or how the gangster Legs Diamond,
Who would just as soon shoot you as to look at you,
Was known to be the most generous tipper
Ever to patronize the once-grand hotel in Albany
Where her maiden aunt had been,
Once upon a time, a cocktail waitress.
There is a bit of unvarnished truth lurking in this piece, though I have forgotten exactly where I may have placed it.
Mike Essig Feb 2016
brighter than a thousand suns...*

Helicopters scud the night. Syllables penetrate deeply.
Mulch has no value. Fingers curled softly in sleep.
Style marks the spot. Weapons hidden beneath kilts.
Pinpoint errors. Know where you are. Charlie Parker got lost.
You're a little teapot. The cat ponders these things.
Glamour a kind of architecture. National Enquirer a house.
Her only idea disastrous. He entered from behind. Stealth.
Take it any way you want it. ****** distillations of poison.
Something longer perhaps? Squash blossoms lovely. Preferences.
Ferns are not intentional. He wants a mulligan. Sentences question.
Ahead engorged. The color purple. Glance. Not quite wet.
Humpty-Dumpty the primary archetype. Master Coder. Triple Helix.
   If this gum be stale: do not chew it;
   If you are a window: draw the blinds.
   Or writhe in  ******* of meaningful.
      Come along to Carthage and Burn.

  ~mce
Hilary Apr 2019
Eulogy for Justin Bradley, Age 22 who committed suicide 2/28/19

My Sweet Boy

You had a beautiful soul. You had a tortured soul.

You had so many friends, but still felt alone.
Your friends were everything,….But which one to text, from your seven phones???

Great Falls, DC, Road trips, Museums, Golf, or Gold Cup
You were always … I’m down dude, just hit me up.

You lived for cheese pretzels, chicken nuggets, Chipotle, Mac and cheese or JUST turkey bacon….
Why were you taken?

You had a beautiful soul. You had a tortured soul.

Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Supreme,
Who needs to spend big bucks?
When you can get it from China, even though the quality *****.

You flew, flipped and twisted,
Off buildings with no fear
Luckily you found an outlet in cheer.

You had a curiosity and intellect beyond your years.
But how the hell did you become a Republican?
For that… we will give you a mulligan.

You had a beautiful soul. You had a tortured soul.

You were struggling to make sense
Trying to figure out YOU.
We tried to reach out.
We tried to break through.

So, my message to parents and to young adults who choose to be,
Giving love and hugs every day, should be your reality.

Their room may be messy, their hair uncombed,
the recycling not taken, and clothes on the floor.
But don’t jump on them the minute they walk through the door.

Depression is a disease not to be dismissed.
Get help for your child.
Try to assist.

Remember to celebrate their brightness and light.
And take a moment to enjoy these gifts, each and every night.

You had a beautiful soul. You had a tortured soul.

So go to that ultra festival in the sky
And As you flip over those Pearly Gates, we wave good bye.

I love you Justin and I will miss you forever.
Napolis Jan 2024
Indeed if
I could say
hello to
you again,

a first time,
a first smile
a first laugh

a first skip
of my heart.

no questions
asked
only forgiveness
that it
took me
so long
to walk
and dream
with you.

and see
the gentle
yet supple
corners of
your face.

and what
would I
give
and what
would my
life be....

without this
first chance
to say

for a
million times
over and over
again

hello.
Brandi Dec 2018
Dad, please show me the finger tracks
The flick of the wrist
To see the flint stone find its place
As it hops across the Bluestone

Dad, please tell me how to master putt-putt
How to not be such a mulligan
Rushing into things unawares

Dad, please tell me - oh I can't say it
How to keep my heart from ever breaking again

Watching me in the rearview mirror
He knows I'm there
Living in rearview

And Dad,
I need you to tell me I can stay there awhile

© 2018
Brandi Keaton
b Dec 2017
There's a parallel universe where I have abs
And cool hair.
Where I ride the bluest wave Back to shore.
Where I tell people to *******
Because I hit every ball
They ever threw at me.

Instead I give myself a mulligan.
And surf the green waves of the flatline.
And hum the same B flat
Until it sounds like
B
I couldn't think of a title so
Not by random will these Faces compare,
These Sovereign Dainties blend just for you
Though slaved, willing to burn a Worthy Stare
And apt to earn your Felicities true
After all, Honour deserves worthy besought,
Worthy as Valued as Mulligan's Cat
Forchance, win your rare and clawful Grace wrought
Your Link once Opened by Reservation's at
Yet for these Faithful and Endangered Few
Whose Active Translation misunderstood
Tend the Forest still; And tendered the Hue
To filter your Baby's Innocent Good.
Perhaps on my Mind's own Weather debate
Your Judgment the Sun; Your Jury the Rain.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Wk kortas Jun 2017
I have long since forgotten his name
(He was only around for my sophomore year at Dear Old State)
As he was universally known as  “Coal Miner”,
Being of all things, a geology major,
The nickname being buttressed by one heroic drunk
In whose aftermath  he brought forth, all Vesuvius-like,
A dark concoction of dirt, twigs, and some small bits of stone,
Though by and large he was reasonably diligent in his classwork ,
Maintaining his drinking and general decorum
Within sensible boundaries
Not adhered to by the general run of dwellers
In our brick bungalow of doubles and triples.

One perhaps-it’s-truly-Spring day just before finals week,
The Miner went off in an in aberrant and inexplicable rampage,
Replete with wall punching, blood letting,
And annihilation of light fixtures
Which spilled out of the dorm, across the academic commons,
And ended just inches from the Dean of Students himself.
It was the last any of us saw of The Coal Miner
Before he and his disappearance rode off together
As the stuff of undergraduate legend.
We later heard The Miner’s mother had died
Suddenly, unaccountably, down in Cortland,
Succumbing to some rare and misdiagnosed malady
(To be fair, it was one of those illnesses
Beyond the experience or worldview of small-town hospitalists)
And, with her, all his means of support, emotional and otherwise
Vanished like so much ash blown away
From the site of some ghastly fire.
To disprove the theory that God only sends us what we can stand,
The college regretted to inform him
That they were unable to provide
For the unfortunate contingency at hand,
And as such, his only mildly distinguished academic career
Was brought to an abrupt and unfortunate end.

We later heard he’d told one of the coterie of security officers
Who had wrestled him to the ground
(Thus preventing the Dean’s untimely
Though likely unlamented end)
That one of the faded, clumsy portraits
Depciting long-dead medical directors
Lining the entranceway corridor of that hospital back home
Had actually hissed to him
What do you want from us?  We’re only men, after all.
(He’d been in the full-blown midst
Of his shock and grief at the time,
So the possibility of hallucination certainly couldn’t be discounted)
And one of his hall-mates swore upon his mother’s life
He’d seen the shoulders of the founder’s statue
(Heroic bronze figure outside of Waddington Hall
Smiling benevolently,palms upturned, hands outstretched
Offering a bounty of knowledge to all comers)
Actually began to droop a little bit after it had been passed
By a screaming, bloodied, raging Coal Miner,
Though that tale was the handiwork of Tommy Mulligan,
Who was sodden and given to pure foolishness
Remarkable even by our standards,
And I later heard the Coal Miner
Was living in a barely habitable cabin
Up on the shore of Saranac Lake
Where he had become a stonemason
Specializing in the restoration of headstones
Buffeted by epochs of mountain sleet
And Midwest-borne acid rains.
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Virginia Lee Burton

It’s all in there, a blueprint
for living, my sacred text

perfect replacement for a world
of tired hotel Gideon’s, this tale

of a plucky fellow with an Irish
surname, unencumbered, set free

to roam at will, picking up work here
and there, more hedgehog than fox, a man

who did one thing and did it well.  He
wrestled with private doubts in the dark,

stretched out on top of Mary Anne,
the nights warm and clear, sky smeared

with stars, a man who knew how to
back up a claim, take a risk, court failure

and humiliation at the bottom of a deep,
perfectly excised hole, all four corners

neat and square.  My idea of a perfect ending,
a second chance, a mulligan, quietly tending

the boiler with a pipe and a good book,
waiting for you and your homemade pie.
Mooseman55 Aug 2014
I would like to mulligan the hand life dealt me.
Ken Pepiton Jun 2024
-------
As a mortal may, I may imagine
I let myself drift with circumstance

and dance with the other half of me,

who gets this chance, just once
in a lifetime and lets it pass,
meaning nothing more,
than a thought,

fit to an instance.

We all have two minds, you know,
and those two think differently, alone;
but as we grow old and learn patience
perfecting persistance fitting instantiations
of the algorithmatic weform, we form upon

agreement, left hand sees the letters writ
I and e, left best and right best intentions,

combining minds to make a polimental me,
and whatsoever such agree, makes
aggravation heavy enough

to squeeze a mysterious fluid from
the first living stone to presume life's no fun,

yes, we be the augmented, minding wisdoms,
falsely called sciences of religion, using assisted
memory machinations, virtual how to persistence,
with go backs, and do overs, Mulligan's, to some,

mere next in truth, a step taken is never taken
back. In truth, each life's lived in go now mode,

later is as one might expect, having had days
like this in times past, spectator status revoked,

insanely great ideas fed crumbs, smile slightly.
and reprove the use of joy for no reason.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Mar 2020
You don't get it, do you? You still think your money
is your merit, your mansion is high fashion, your limousine
the only car you'll never have to drive , your wife only a
trophy. These falsehoods are like thick pieces of prime rib;  
you suffer from emotional and physical gout. I shout, but
you don't hear me. You are spiritually deaf. Your worth is
deep within you, but buried by layers and layers of fat
and fatuous values. At the Country Club, you are not
bothered by blacks and latinos and Jews. Your only tenet
is to keep your left arm straight. You consecrate Red Label
instead of red wine. You cheat when playing poker, but it's
OK because no one notices. You take a shower, but use
no soap. What the ****! Who cares? I am above all
others! I'll take a Mulligan on that last shot. Boy, get
me another ball!

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet and human-rights advocate his entire life. He recently finished his novel, A CHILD FOR AMARANTH.
Arlene Corwin Jul 2020
I’m sending this out to my jazz musician and jazz loving  friends.   It’s not a finished product by any means, but a spontaneous tribute to Annie Ross, who died yesterday.
Arlene

       Annie Ross

The loss of Annie Ross
Is loss indeed.
I was a teen in ’53.
Mom owned along with Slim Gaillard
The first jazz club in all Long Island.

There stood a Juke Box.
On the box
Were Hendricks, Lambert, Annie Ross!

There was I, a blossoming young, singing teen,
Young, listening, music major;
There were they, two hims and her,
Scatting kings and scatting queen.

Oh, how I learned!
How much I earned
From Lambert, Hendricks, Annie Ross!
They were my boss!
Not mom, not Slim,
Not Chet or Stan or Mulligan.
No, it was them!

And Annie!
Ultimately forming me
With E above high C.
Her ‘Twisted’, ‘Doodlin’, ‘Airegin’.

Eventually,
Lambert died (too, too,i too early)
John became a valued friend.
But Annie, who I never met
Whose influence I’d later get,
Has met her end.
And I regret not meeting her
And telling her how great
She was.
Annie Ross!
I hope it’s not too late to say it
To her listening spirit.

Annie Ross 7.23.2020 Vaguely About Music Ii; Circling round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin

— The End —