He loved it when she slid up
to him, as sweet as a sprinkle doughnut -
but now, something has befallen her,
she's been burned or frozen, tastes more like
cinnamon raisin; but by virtue of his
firelit face and tall tales,
he still gets invited out.
_________

He creaks upstairs an hour late, we
are already tangled up on the
back porch, smoking, and the
liquor has made everything
an economy of scale.

He is a ray of sunshine. Tells us
all the old groaners. The big fish.
Ultimately says, "Happy birthday.
Never let your guard down."
and hobbles off, with barb-wire chafing
his heel, and the rheumatic suspicion
that "rest" and "wellness" are
the fables taught to us by
bogeymen, trying to convince us
there are no bogeymen.

I am a tender Twenty tonight.
I want to twirl my fists in Muhammad Ali speedbag-spirals,
saying, "I am the champion. Never undefended."
But I am too drunk, and maybe
too humiliated.

God! He floats like painkillers. He stings like loss.

There he is, the tall order, the iron giant:
a two-story brainfreeze milkshake.

I shudder, a pipsqueak of a prizefighter.
The bucktoothed squirt at the icecream booth,
too short to notice that there are only three flavours.

This is not a poem, this is a story of a an 83 yr old man, that
got away with lying aboat his actual age, so he could box,
for the light weight Dallas County Iowa, championship.

"Howard is the name and these are my two knock out fists, Tuffy and Tougher and I'm here to sign up for the light heavy weight championship boxing title of Dallas County."

That was my official registration to the County boxing Commission.
They of course ask me my age and some other questions related to
my boxing experience, to which I lied very convincingly.

By the way, the way to lie convincingly is to literally believe yourself what you are lying about. I had spent hours telling myself the lies I told the Boxing Commission, so they had no doubt about what I told them about my boxing experience. I even had some fake newspaper articles about my boxing experiences that I printed on my home printing press. I'll tell more about this later in this story.

What motivated me to do this, was the current champion was the
Grandson of one of my high school classmates that I detested, because he was such a proud blow hard, about every athletically thing
he did, from being a baseball pitcher, a running back football player,
a wrestler and on and on he bragged about himself. One time when
I could not stomach his bragging and pompous way he walked, I confronted him to his face, actually his chin, as that was as close to
his face I stood. He was about 6' 4'' and I was slightly over 6'. I looked him in the eyes and told him I and everyone else in school was sick
and tired of his bragging about himself.

He then sneered a me, reached down and grabbed me by the callar of my shirt, and said. "Why you little dumb pipsqueak, you aint nothing but a hog raising farm boy!" and shoved me hard against
the hallway wall, so I smacked the back of my head against it, and was
knocked out for a few minutes, long enough for someone dumping a cup full of water on my face to bring me alert. Then ol blow hard
spread it around that I had attemped to hit him and he "just naturally" defended himself and gave me a little shove.

But back to the main part of this story, I had been working out in the city gym, working on my cardio, that's my breathing. I had been keeping up with my physical condition all of my life, so for an 83 yr old man  I am in good physical shape. I have been punching the heavy bag on daily basis and have had someone bouncing a heavy medicine ball on my stomach five minutes every day, so I have those three muscle stand outs on my stomach, that everybody ooos and aaas about.

I also sparred with young boys around 20 and 30 years old, convincing them I was just 28, by my foot work and bobbing and weaving and left-hand jabs. I still had a good head of hair, which I
had dyed a light black, which also convinced the boxing commission that I was 38, actually the year I was born, 1938

My boxing bout with the young grandson of this high school classmate that I detested, was supposed to be just a warm up match for him, in preparation for a title fight. He was the Dallas County Light Heavy Weight champion defending his title against some unbeaten
opponent. My goal was to knock him out and disqualify his title fight.

Oh yes, I neglected to mention my boxing manager, who was a young 62 year old retired boxer. He didn't grow up in
Dallas County, Iowa,  so he had no idea of my background age. He came from New York or New something.  I had him convinced that I was just 38 yrs old also. I grew up in a small town called Vermillion about 60 miles from Des Moines, where the fight was scheduled. Vermillion was a town with a population of around 2500 when I lived there. Most of the people who knew me are living under ground now, or in a old folks' home, so the secret of my age will not be revealed.
,
This grandson of the school mate I detested, is just like his Dad, a smart mouth, bragging, pompous, cocky Strutton showboat. He has no idea who I am but has already started boasting about what he is going to do t me.

"Hey, I'm only 27 yrs old and this old man I'm fighting is 38 yrs old. Somebody will have to help him through the ropes to get in the ring." "What's an old man like him still thinks he is a boxer?

"He ought to be sitting on his back porch, watching the rabbits and squirrels hop around."

"He claims to be 38 yrs old, I'll knock him out in 38 seconds in round 3."
   ,
He came to the gym when I was working out one morning to scout me out; I put on an act of being slow and winded.

He yelled at me from a few feet away, "Hey old man, my kid sister
has a faster jab then you. You sure you want to fight me?"

My manager walked up to him, and gave him a double arm shove
out the door, so hard he stumbled. "You big mouth punk, crawl
back in the skunk hole you came from."

                           The Big Fight

I was in the ring first and was warming up with little dance steps I had had learned in a dance studio, which I intended to use on him, BTW  his name was Virgil Throgmartin, but he took pride in calling himself, "V T"=Very Tuff.

He was taking his time coming to get into the ring, and when he did decide to enter, he did so with a bunch of short, skirted cheer leading girls dancing to loud music being played. When he approached the ring, two of the girls, squatted down on one knee and VT than made a big show of standing on each of their leg, and pushed himself off, tumbling over the ropes onto the ring apron.
amid 40,000 loud cheering fans.

"Enjoy it while you can VT, because in about 15 minutes, five three-minute rounds, yu're gonna have 40,000 stunned fans looking at you, sprawled halfway under the ring ropes, watching the referee
waving the fight over."
                                ROUND ONE
VT came quickly to the center of the ring with a stupid looking
grin on is face, hands down, swinging back and forth at his waist level.

I took a couple steps toward him, then through him a big surprise,
that stopped him in his tracks. I did a little two step tap dance, and in the few seconds it took him to recover from surprise, I took a quick step toward him and shot out a left jab, purposely hitting
his right eye. Over my years of boxing experience, I developed a
fast twist at the end of the jab. This little twist would tear the skin
producing a cut in the eyebrow, which it did to VT. I don't think he had ever been cut before by the way he wiped his eye, leaving his face unprotected, of which I took advantage, and smacked him with
another quick jab on his nose, drawing another spurt of blood.

VT wasn't expecting such an early barrage of attack and started back peddling. Once again, I put on my little tap dance,
to a 40,00 applauding, whistling crowd of men, women and teenagers. By now ol VT had no idea what to do with me. He took a quick look over at his corner for help. And when he did, I took a big step forward and planted to quick left jabs on each of his eyes.

I heard the fight announcer telling the radio listeners, he had never seen such a show boating boxer like Howard is putting
on. He has VT totally confused, not knowing what to do with
him. He came into this fight as a warmup for his upcoming defensive championship fight with The Rock, Rocky Argo and he is being bloodied and cut up, by what in the boxing sport is considered old, a man close to his 40's but is moving like a 25 or 26 year old. Folks I don't recall Howard in any past fights, but uh, hang on a moment Howard is moving around VT, bobbing, weaving and talking to him, I can't quite read his lips, but something about going down in uh, some round. Meanwhile VT continues to back pedal away from Howard, who is trying to cut him off....Oh! now Howard stops chasing him and motioned with his hands to come in and fight. There's the bell ending this third round.

There is some kind of commotion going on behind me.... someone wants to tell me something but is being detained by the police.
"Hey officers, let him talk to me. Folks, this is the craziest night I have ever experienced, let's see what this old man, I'm serious about Old, He must be  "Uh how old are you, sir?"

"I'm just a couple years younger than Howard. We grew up together in Vermillion, Iowa. I'm 81 years old and that old man in the ring, he was known as "Howie", is 83 years old and...."

"Hold on just jack rabbit minute! Are you telling me, that Howard,
  what did yu call him? Howie, that boxer in the ring, beating VT, the current light weight Dallas County champion, is 83 years old? Is that what you are saying?"

"Yep, dats whot Im sayng.We growed up t'gether, in da same school t'gether, wrestled and boxed t'gether, and I'm 81 years old and he was alays 2 yars older'n me, so I knows he is 83 yars old.

Folks., getting back to the fight, VT is circling to his right to get in position to throw is left hook and then is right overhand knockout punch. I think Howie is aware of what VT is trying and keeps circling to his left.


This is the  the round Howard bragged he would KO VT. VT is coming out in his usual swaggering way, Howard had him intimated in the first four rounds, with his little dancing jig and blooding his nose and eye. VT wasn't used to that kind of pressure, but his corner manager and some others that joined him, gave him a little pep talk, and so he has regained his confidence. As usual Howard, try's his little tap dance as he approaches VT, it's gotten a little much and no one is cheering it.

I failed to ask you, old man, your name"

"I was known as "The Rock in Vermillion my real name is Rocky Argo. You said dis is da round Howie is going to lower da boom on this young feller?"

"Well that's what he told the fight reporters in the newspaper. But frankly, I have doubts that he can do it. Thus far all I've seen from your friend is a few left jabs. He hasn't used his right in the entire fight."

"Well you just keep your eyes on his right; what yor going to see is a flurry of left jabs, and out of nowhere his right and will suddenly show up and that will be the end of the fight."

Well folks there is just two minutes left in this round, if Howie is going to KO VT, he is going to have to get more aggressive than, OH! Howie just connected with a double left jab, and another one and he had VT weak legged from a barrage of jabs. He looks like he is about to go down OH WOW Howie hit him with a straight right hand punch right between his eyes and VT is on the canvas, trying to get up, the count is up to 5, 6,7 VT was up at the count of 8 but collapse. The referee is waving the fight over, and the Dallas County  light heavy weight champion has been knocked out by Howie Howard in the 5th round just as he predicted."

"Let's listen as the referee announces the winner of this fight."
"And the winner and NEW DALLAS COUNTY LIGHT HEAVY WEIGHT CHAMPION IS HOWEEEEEE HOWWWARD!!

Howie, the talk around the dressing room is that you are 83 years old. Now tell us your real age. I mean, a 83 yr old man can't do that little jig you did tonight and beat up a 27 yr old. So c'mon and let this crowd and thousands of radio listeners know your real age."

"I was born on the twelfth day of July 1938, if my math is correct that makes me eighty-three years old, and that's the absolute truth."

"Ok, so tell us how you have kept in such physical shape to be able to
dance and beat up a young 37 year old champion boxer as you did tonight?"

"Well, first of all, I have to give God all the glory f or entrusting me
with an extraordinary physique. I have honored God many times in many ways because of this extraordinary body, that I , or others could not have done with a normal body. The second thing I want to emphasize is when I was just eight years old, I was convicted that there was a hellfire, called The Lake of Fire, that unbelievers in Jesus Christ are cast. I was just a small child, but I knew in my heart that in God's sight I was a sinner for whom Jesus suffered and died on the Cross of Calvary, and if I just received Him as my sin-bearer and personal Savior, He would forgive me all my sins for the rest of my life. And I have done a lot of sinning in my 83 years of living, one of which has been a distain for VT's grampa, with whom I graduated from the Vermillian High School in 1957. He was the most egotistical, arrogant, vain and proud ****-of-the-walk person I ever knew, and VT was just like him. His grampa died about five years ago, but I have held a grudge in my heart for VT's grandpa all my life, I thought it would give me great satisfaction to ruin his opportunity to fight for the Iowa State Championship.  So I arranged with the Iowa Dallas County Fight Promoters to give VT a warm up fight for him to fight the current Iowa State light heavy weight champion. I studied VT's fights and trained for them these past three months, with the intention of doing what I did to him tonight."

"So what are ..."Excuse me, I'm not finished yet. I thought I would feel good about beating the snot out of VT, but you know what? I don't. I was really enjoying it when I was blooding VT up, as though I was kicking the arrogance out of his grampa. But now that I've destroyed VT's  chance to fight for the Iowa State Championship, I feel empty inside, and feel sorry for VT. To all of you who paid out good money to see this fight, I just want to leave you with this one thought "A grudge is too heavy a load for anyone to carry"
     From Jerry Howarth's Book of Stories

captured in the psych ward, the day they got the school bully from the 1980s



you see tom kennersin was the biggest bully of the 1980s and he wanted to get away

with it, so much, he told his victims if they tell anyone, he will punch them 3 times over

and the police, on the night they caught him, thought tom was a bully and not mentally ill

but after reading about his case in the paper, ron thought, he can save tom from prison

with the right medication, and if he bullies anyone at the HDU, ron said he will give his a

big dose of ******, and besides which ron was confident that he can reformed, and ron

went to his usual cafe to buy coffee and bacon and eggs and then rang the police to find out

whether tom can be put on ant-psychotic medication and police said we will see what we can do,

and ron left the cafe to go to the hospital and the other nurses didn’t share ron’s enthusuissm

about tom coming to the HDU because he needs to be medicated because his crimes date back

to the 1980s, and as soon as he started work tom was put in the HDU, and got in a conversation

with charlie chaplin about all the silent movies he did, and ron took tom aside to talk to him about

what triggers him off, and tom said, when he was a child, he heard voices from computer geeky adults

saying kidnap the bully tommy, kidnap the bully tommy and if tom tries to bully us, we will tie his hands

and legs together, and tom said when he was a child he was bullied by a man who impersonates different

people just like him, because by impersonating the different people, he had it in his mind to one day kidnap

them and tease them good, and the man will say come pn get the geek, kidnap him punch him in the gut

and tom said since that day tom thought everyone wanted to bully as well as fight and tom would bully someone

and go heh heh heh i got ya, you don’t know where your latest meal is coming from, and the voices were driving him mad

but telling his parents wasn’t an option, so he decided to take out all his frustration on all his victims, but he wanted

everyone to do as people say, but ron said, how about now, do you want to bully now, and what brings you in here

and tom said, i bashed my woman, and i haven’t heard whether she woke up or not and ron asked, why did you bash her

and tom said she planted voices in my head saying, if we can get tom off the couch, we won’t need to be little school kids

and it will be easy for us to move on, and ron said, are you sure they are bad voices, they are telling you that they are move on

and tom said, are you calling me a liar, and ron said, no, but you must get the voices out of your head, what do you do to fill in time

at home, and tom said, i am an artist and a writer and a youtube helper which means, i read stuff on youtube and people watch and comment

and, doc, i have 20,000 views on my opinion  on juvenile crime, and i have had bad replies saying i committed a crime when i was young

so why can’t they,tom said, my parents were so strict, my only source of fun is going out with bernie my nerdy friend and my fists got me what

i want at school, and ron asked, tom, did you ever bash bernie and tom said once or twice, but they were friendly fights, and every time

tom abd bernie went out, the people were driving in their cars saying, your getting kidnapped now, kidnapped, is what will happen to you

and ron said, you are a bully and a big bloke, so why are you worried about people kidnapping you and tom said, because of all the bad stuff

that i did, people who are bigger than me, could throw a bag over me and **** me, and doc, i don’t want to die, no way no fear

and i want you to fucken get these voices out of my head because i might’ve been a bully but  in ever killed nobody, and ron said

i think you are suffering in your voices and, i will put you on a drug called seroquel to control these horrible voices out of your head

and tom stopped talking to ron and went over to patty roe who said he was george washington and tom said, shut up pipsqueak

in a real squeaky voice, at 3.30 pm tom joined a HDU hearing voices group where he learnt a lot and at 5.00pm ron bought the dinners out

and tom said, do you expect me to eat this trash and ron said, if you don’t eat this, you don’t eat, you go without and tom ate it, and like all people

hates psych ward food and then at 7.15 pm, rom bought out the medications, and then clocked off and bought pizza and lost himself in front of the box

and the next day tom was getting frustrated until ron turned up and today ron thought that tom could enjoy  the art group in the HDU art space

and befotre tom said no, ron thought, the more activities he does, the sooner he could get out and ron gave him some seroquel  and said

to ron, i was asked to take drugs once from a mate named brian, but i ******* away from there and i never took drugs again but i still bullied

anyone who got in my way, but then at the age 0f 33, tom lost both his parents in a car accident and ron bought tom into the art group which tom enjoyed

a lot, and in the afternoon tom got in a fist fight with ronald because of a difference of opinion on the news and ron gave them both some valiu,

which makes them wake up just before dinner and when ron bought the medications out,it took 34 minutes and he clocked off and retired to the couch

with microwave popcorn and microwave pizza and tom kept the HDU awake trying to bully to get what he wants.

yule tide outside, an
arsonist alights
a dead evergreen, and the
cunning fox trots
tirelessly to the fire-
man who gathers the
ipish pipsqueak.

You laugh far away, much
later.

You are fake when you are there.
You make me lead a life of damage so disappear.
We are not talking all that gobbledygook.
If you do not know what you did to my life just look.
No more of me trying to placate around.
I can not find anyone to listen right now.
You just scuttle along your business.
Because you ripped me away from my true path of this existence.
Always the one to make me a maladroit.
Sometimes I think you do this to annoy.
It made me feel like a pipsqueak in a vast universe.
You will never make the grade with the past you coerce.
You were always the one to instigate me to aggress.
A kind of quality I could not digest.
My heart is beating like a rataplan.
If you think I can’t stop you, I can.
This is my final written gesture.
Now my life will no longer fester.
I grow forever fonder.
Because I will no longer sit and ponder.
As the years grow faster.
The years you took forever will remain a disaster.
I have been made an ugly creature.
So sit back and enjoy what fight I have left in here.
Here are the new rules.
I have you in stitches, so do not move.

When I was a child, at Halloween
I’d go out to trick or treat,
With Pam, and Sam, and Wriggly Ann
Just us in the dark, cold street,
We’d knock on the doors of folk we knew
And they’d give us a sweet, or cake,
But those who wouldn’t come to the door,
We thought they were cruel, or fake.

We’d look for a gnome, or garden tool,
We’d sneak right into their shed,
Stand up a rake, and play the fool
Stick a pumpkin there for its head,
And then we’d giggle and run away,
Go to the house next door,
And sometimes,  eating the proffered cake
We’d laugh at the neighbour’s roar.

We’d finished the street one night, and turned
To a place called Shady Lane,
It wasn’t a place we’d often go
For the folk there were insane.
They hated children, they hated pets,
We thought that they’d ate our dog,
Had lured it off on a misty night
When the town was covered in smog.

‘Let’s trick or treat the Lavorsky’s,’ said
The pipsqueak, Wriggly Ann,
‘Only if you will knock on the door
While we stand back,’ said Sam.
The house was dark, there wasn’t a light
And the Moon was hid in a cloud,
It loomed up there in the darkness like
A monster, wrapped in a shroud.

She knocked three times and we all stood back
Were getting ready to run,
With only Ann on the welcome mat
We thought he might have a gun.
The door had creaked and a hand shot out,
Grabbed Wriggly Ann by the scruff,
Then hauled her in and the door slammed shut
And Pamela screamed, took off.

I looked at Sam and he looked at me
As we both stood still, in shock,
‘Maybe they’re going to have her for tea
Like they did with our poodle, ****!’
We skirted round on the garden path
Til we came to their rustic shed,
Opened the door, and there on the floor
Was Mrs. Lavorsky, dead!

Her eyes were wide, and shone in the dark
Her jaw sagged open and slack,
Her hands in a rigor mortis claw
Were raised, as if to attack.
And Sam had screamed like a little girl
(He never could live that down),
He fainted, fell right there on his back
On Mrs. Lavorsky’s gown.

Her husband didn’t know she was dead
Til the police came round that night,
But then he left her, there in the shed
For the hearse to collect, first light.
While Wriggly Ann was safe inside
Was stuffing her face with cake,
That Mr. Lavorsky’d laid on out,
The last that his wife would bake.

David Lewis Paget

Once again, thwarted by the raging
Green Gorgon Queen, the Evil Absolute
had no recourse but to turn ever darker;
to retreat into the bowels of the Kave,
where the unholy alliance of the mystical
Ku Klux **** was formed in deepest
shadows; unseen white men plotting
their own & eventually everyone else's
destruction; bent on blind hatred &
meaningless, stupid revenge that only
brought uncomfortable & unsettling
laughter in polite company... but in secret,
they were sure, every decent white person
felt exactly as they did, even as before their
eyes the exhaustless wisdom of legendary
ones & the rapid speed of the machine-age
made the **** seem quaint & out-of-dated
even in their own minds, too embarrassed
to admit the horrible truth, that would have
sent Socrates & Aristotle into howling
paroxysms... sad to see stupidity wasted
on one so ugly; the Moderns had invented
the Neanderthal Ideal to compensate for
the pathetic reality of actually beating
one another over the heads... It was here,
in never seen recesses that the Absolute
summoned his latest dark immoral dread...
The Laugher!!!

Her foes vanquished for the time being,
Medusa thought to take in a show.
Staying in the town knowing Sherman's
fiery advance was yet to dawn on the gimlet-eyed
Rebels. She was ahead of her time
& looking back all the while. The show
was a melodramatic comedy of the type popular
in the pre-gilded era of dusky frontiers
& nascent city lights. The war just revving up,
before she could get back to ****** who as yet
had no fortelling of his own fate at that
ripe young age. Putting the Cowboy of the Future
out of mind & pinning a willowy white brim
in the teeth of Akasha & a few of the others,
as they all wrapped comfortably coiled beneath
the voluminous Chapeau.

Hoping there would plenty of high-stepping
chorines, Medusa prepared to be duly entertained.
Only to be crushed when the show appeared for all
of her high hopes to be a rather staid drawing room
drama of the modern variety; with realistic dialogue
and grave social concerns. It was the last thing she
needed, bu as she was walking out, one earnest
Victorian thespian while dragging her train across
the rickety boards, caught the material on a wayward
nail, which proved stubborn enough to tear
the half-knitted stage rag & unstrung corset
completely off the actress' back...

The first part of the Laugher's devious scheme
laid, instead, the staid audience rose to its feet
& burst into applause, appreciating the forward-
thinking playwright's daring; a completely
unexpected turn, as the brocaded velvet curtain
fell & house lanterns were lit... Medusa had had
her back to the stage the whole time peering
ahead toward the dark egress... Off to the side
unseen & all but unnoticed, the Absolute,
in his true identity of Horace Horatio Whoreson II,
who's progeny would likewise bear upon
the Gorgon's destiny years hence...

As the audience reached the smoking chamber,
slowly reflecting upon their most immediate
impressions & once catching themselves
giggling a bit, tittering spreading throughout
the room until one by one, every man,
woman, maiden & suitor dropped dead
from convulsive choking laughter...

In the hansom cab Medusa thought she
should've gotten her money back for the
ticket, peering at the punched slip, making
note to avoid the New Realism from here on.

Backstage at the theater the actors were aghast
that the audience did not return for the second
act, thinking their careers doomed... but a stage
hand rushing in from the lobby gravely informed
that the entire company in attendance had all
died of from a deadly leak in the gas sconces.

Since the tragedy could not ave been avoided at
any cost, it was attributed to an Act of God &
the actors were relieved of their guilt... their souls
spared; the young actress, however, was never to
quite recover; having witnessed her shame in front
of the stunned then mesmerized crowd of genteel
upstanding citizens & townsfolk who all had
in every likelihood had never seen a denuded young
maiden scamper away in heavy boots after freezing
in disbelief, giving a prolonged view of choice
Southern womanhood to the full house, the orchestra
striking up a delayed tattoo...

Cheeks blushing like bright American Beauties,
the otherwise pale actress greeted the mysterious
courtier with the distinctly foreign accent;

Claiming to be nobility...
he informs the girl that he is a doctor, of sorts,
& proceeded to 'examine' her in the hope that
she had not been injured when forcibly disrobed
with such incautious suddeness...

finding his clammy fingers crawling the girl's
spine & reaching for her ribs, she recoils with
uncontrollable snickering; "I'm ticklish!" she cried.

The hellish black eyes ablaze, the oily perfumed
phantom dashes from her quarters as if struck
by the very lightning of genius!!

If he could merely get the wicked Queen
in the nearest proximity to a feather, he'd
have her at his mercy!!

Disguised as a traveling feather salesman,
the villain enters the gaudily appointed lobby
of the town's main hotel in search of clients
for his dubious wares; "You wouldn't know
of a young madame who might be in mind
to purchase such fine Old World Ostrich!!"
he boasted to the unimpressed help, coming
upon the bored desk-man; "I say, my man,
would there a female presence about that
would love the silken licks of a fine plume?"
"I be needin' a new quill pen," croaked the
roused clerk, "You be having one a'them now?"

Taken by the abrupt request, the quandried
no-gooder is forced to fish through his bag
of props all of which served no purpose but
to provoke derisive laughter; mangled stems
losing their mottled bloom as the dusty
shafts molted in a furious flap of loose spines.

"I say, old man, I've been wearing this top
since Boston," said one gruff old man, doffing
his pate, "You wouldn't have the single red tail
feather of an Eastern Blue Breasted Whip-poor-will
or perhaps jut any old common Goatsucker there
in that bag?"

Having nothing of the sort, the flustered
peddler hurried packing up his flying feathers
rushed out of the lobby back to the street where
a passing crow happened to spot a premium
target for a leisurely midair release....

the gob as big as an egg felt good coming
out too, as it splashed across the bewildered crown...
dripping past spectacles & that with an
inopportune snort lodged in the sinuses...

Momentarily Medusa came down to
the desk & inquired about any messages,
complimenting the clerk on his fluttering
new pen. "Feller was jes' in here givin'
'em away! He had a bunch!"

Having just fed her hair, she
felt there was no need to spoil it...

Being the **** of laughter rather than deliberately causing any,
the archfiend skulked back to his dark lair to write better jokes.

Thinking perhaps the lady in question
preferred more savory fare, & enlisting
his willing Trilby, the young actress
of his recent acquaintance, to approach
said well-heeled lady in the guise of traveling
corset sales-lady; bedecked in leather
high-boys & tightly cinched silk garter,
a waist all of 19" & a face
glowing red atop a head about to burst...  
in High-heeled hob-nail
boots, the dainty young thing sauntered
up to the hotel desk. Captivating at first blush,
the normally near-sighted clerk straightened
his bow-tie. "Can I help you, Miss?"
"Uh, yes. My name is Miss somethinorother,
I'm a..."
"I didn't get that name, was that something?"
"Or other."
"Miss Other,"
"No Miss something."
"What? I missed something."
"My name.
"What was it?"
"What?"
"You say something?"
"My name!"
"What was it?"
"Something, I... oh, never mind!"
"Okay, Miss Nevermind,
what can I do for you?"
"Can you give me a room
with a hot bath?"
"I can give you the room
but you'll have to take the bath yourself..."
"I see you have a new telephone."
"You don't have to look at it, you listen to it."

Medusa, descending the Hotel stairs,
sniffed out the aroma of tanned meat.

"Any messages for me?"
"Telegram."
"Can I have a look at it?"
"Oh, you don't look at it!
You listen to it!" piped up
the corseted pipsqueak...

"And you are?" quote Medusa.
"Something!"
"That you are...what have you
in your leather case?" asked the
curious queen mischievously.
"Oh! Leather," the girl cried,
back in character. "I sell leather!
Would you like to see the new
French fashion line?"
"Why don't we go up to my boudoir?"
offered the mistress at last, then
curtly but politely,
"Amos, send a bottle of twenty year
old bourbon up to my room in twenty
minutes. It's waited this long."
"Will do, Miss M..."
"That's Captain."
"Captain?" gushed the frail female,
"You must be important!"
"I'll tell you all about it upstairs,"
offered the frilly arm of the regal
guest, leading the lamb-like girl
to unknown & unguessed pleasures...

Th plot of course was to get the
Blue hero festooned in some
strappy leather contraption before
moving onto tickle-play, at which
point...

But the girl was already giggly as Medusa stroked
the fuzzy cheek & led her further into her sanctum...
It was Medusa now with one thing on her mind, part
of the deal she'd struck with the Union was that she'd
be responsible for her own *****, which she now felt
firmly within her grasp... the girl sighed, her mind
drifting to the somber performance the night before,
before the single capricious nailed removed her garment
to sudden applause once the curtain had gone down...

She had encountered the strange foreigner
in her dressing room but now under the bewitching
gaze of the fabled primeval beauty, the little lady
had no choice but to wee a bit.

"Oh, I'm wet," she cried weakly as the door sounded.
"That must be the whisky. Now we'll really get wet."

But the clerk had been tipped an honest fin
to allow the odd creature to bring the *****
up to the door of the lady's boudoir suite...

"Let's get you out of these things.
They must be uncomfortable,"
suggested the queen flipping the girl
over on her ample chest &
shifting the shifting petticoats until
arriving at the girl's leather
pantaloons. "You come prepared."
"I sell leather!" the girl cry muffled
by settee pillows. "And you model
it too? Now that's service,
but it must be hot..."

Standing outside holding a seltzer bottle,
the fiend was set to strike, but when the
door flung open, a ***** soaked set of
rawhide Lederhosen slapped him in the
face...the bottle snatched from his fingers
& the door slammed.

Taking a swig, the door flung open again,
this time the bottle crashing down over his head.
"That's not bourbon! Where's Amos, you clod?
You must be new... go and try again!
and if you come back here with water,
I'll drown you with it!" The door slamming
again, feminine titters rising gleefully,
listening outside for the sounds of laughter
proving futile after a few hours, with only
endless cries of "O, Captain! My Captain!"
bellowing from the mistress' suites.

With no one left to do his dastardly
***** work, the Absolute is at last forced
to take matters in his own hands... but not
entirely... of his scant loyal followers
remain Moonshine former sidekick to the
electrically incinerated White Lightnin';

& the traitorous Indian couple Running Bear
the cowardly brave, & the ditzy White Dove
whose true allegiance she knew not where;
kidnapped as a child from her settler parents
who were themselves scalped & worn as
fashionable accessories, all White Dove
knew was the life of a Plains Indian squaw...

Feeling at odds with her Native upbringing
White Dove has no recourse but to Kave of
the ****, where the Absolute sits staring at
French daguerreotypes by candlelight...

Seeing the shimmer white girl in her Native
attire of next-to-nothing standing just beyond
the light, a pale silhouette in the faint flicker.

"Yes?" called the wary man, not at all
embarrassed by his discovery. He had been
here for some time, having gone through
many candles... the spreading white puddle
at his feet.

"I can no longer join forces with the White Man!"
announced the Indian maid defiantly.

The final indignation... the all mighty Grand
Wizard rose up to is full stature, all four foot
five of him and in rushing to seize her
dropped the candle plunging the deep cavern
into complete darkness.

Fumbling his pockets for a match giving
the rebellious squaw time to pick up a rock
& when the flare flamed at his face she
struck him pointedly across the brow with
a careful swing of her honed, limber arm...

Passed out in utter darkness Whoreson otherwise
known as the Evil white Absolute, knew at long
last what it was like to experience true blackness.

You want to know how to grow up?
Want to know how to beat the others to the chase?
Want to be on top and kick the others out?
Here, I'll tell you all I ought to know.

Mistrust your brothers and your dear old mother
Forget about your love interest and never onto another
For who has time to love someone in a world that's against you?
At least, you think that's how it has to be.

When you finally isolate everyone that tried to support you
You have to hold out to last all the way to the final frontier
And when you flick away the weak competition
Pull the trigger on 'ole Pipsqueak and Tiny Tim.

And if you falter in your dominant stance
You might be on the glass as you dance........

Cause if you want to be a man
Who has time for compassion and empathy?
And before you have time to argue if it's wrong or right
You'll be smothered by corporate chains with all its might.

Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."

Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2021 Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)

aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent

without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -

good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment

eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent

scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment

secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet

ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent

gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth!

Since adopting the guise
of Norwegian bachelor farmer,
I may as well fabricate genetic stock
lock, and barrel linkedin to Celtic legend.

Sentimentalism invariably swelled me *****
regarding how grown former bonny lad,
essentially mutely surfed, finagled, and coursed
one existential nihilistic wave after another
nearly getting drowned in the process

Any non American English
exotic pronunciations in general
and dialects predicated
with United Kingdom in particular
held me spellbound.

Debate ensues that the term brogue comes
from Irish word barróg, meaning
"a hold (on the tongue),"
thus "accent" or "speech impediment."

An alternative etymology suggested
that brogue means 'impediment,'
and that it came from barróg
which is homophonous
with bróg in Munster Irish.

Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."

Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2023 Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)

aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent

without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -

good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment

eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent

scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment

secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet

ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent

gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth.

Above title attests
how mine mundane mein kampf
insync as a veritable clogged drain oh:
flush with adventure overflowing excrement
er... rather excitement.

Apt aforementioned accurate personal description
believe me not, but urination
and defecation née emergency evacuation,
where majority of human league
smell bound with fascination
triggered (reasonably rhyming) inspiration
culmination of requisite time
sitting atop porcelain goddess
devoid of hesitation and trepidation
herewith follows mine poetic ululation
hoop fully invites veneration.

Poetic embellishment doth belie
ever since garden variety generic guy
long since experienced being little boy
mean kids constantly teased and bullied me
on account yours truly being small fry
barely invisible to naked eye
bullied (most my entire boyhood)
as scapegoat, I did decry
pleading lame feeble alibi,

especially when tawny punk
named Phil (actually a groundhog)
threw suckerpunch witnessing,
yours truly feigned falling
upon wounded knobby knee
to avoid me countenance being pummeled
courtesy knuckle sandwich
they threatened to apply.

One puny socially verily withdrawn lad
no surprise experienced suicidal ideation
throughout public school even as undergrad
never wagon figurative tail when fired
from one after another workstation.

Hence metaphorically hermetically sealed self
against incessant beastie boys squirreled away
amidst imaginative escapes courtesy bookshelf
isolates myself, viz remaining figuratively at bay
interestingly enough petrified livingsocial whereby
flesh and bone closely resembled hardened clay

hashtagged Matthew Scott Harris as pipsqueak
deadset to halt physical maturation without delay
anorexia nervosa (modus operandi) did buzzfeed
starved and emaciated lovely bones as main entree
unbeknownst then, but clear as a bell now
emotional state of parents unspooled and didst fray
father and mother aghast their pallor went ashen gray

grim reaper wielding large scythe intimating hooray
approximately half dozen years later
both parents relentlessly vilified verbally hammered
and especially didst inveigh
against their sole singular son
born thirteenth of January
hooded think those folks
who begot me more cruel fate
then being lynched courtesy triple "K."

Gambone builders bought property razed demesne
to escape vitriolic wrath atop roof at Glen Elm, I lay
nevertheless indelible memories emotional reprieve
spiritual succor delivered upon many a bygone May
when heat radiating off shingles served newgateway
passing time and wishing myself far as Norway
adopting role of bachelor farmer,
or even time traveling
back Catskills circa Borscht Belt,
also known as Jewish Alps oy vey.

Yours truly risk averse
which characteristic,
I declare constitutes curse
thus isolation found me sprawled out
upon wuthering heights
against regular diet of diatribes
delivered carte blanche
with expletive filled verse
toward solitary son ill fate
receiving nasty brutal abuse
considered dying far less worse.

Precious minutes and hours atop
seven gabled hideaway blithely did elapse
me gingerly scuttling out attic window
though agoraphobic and loathe to drop
distance and no longer courting death
no matter concluding life (during
early/mid twenties) total flop
merely wishing raging machinations
against male offspring would stop.

Hurtful words yelled after papa
guzzled bottles of vermouth
(not really, I admittedly prevaricate)
courtesy late father and mother
resoundingly, severely, terrifyingly,
wickedly, violently uncouth
subjected imbalanced earthling
(yours truly - me)
think venomous metaphorical
****** blackened barbs,
viz inconveniently grossly, egregiously

one after another hurtful
figurative daggers antithesis of truth,
albeit synopsis regarding
second born (middle child - sole son)
begat courtesy Harriet and Boyce
upon their psychologically harried
flesh out the womb of young mother
(both parents now long since deceased)
now said heir long in the tooth
wordsmith here wonders why forsooth
he tolerated torturous abuse.

Panoply of mystical elements of holly day style
breathe prez sense frostily exhaled aired
per millennia athwart
(this terrestrial spaceship planet Earth)
two plus seventeen carousel rides resonated
veritable pantheon of pagan rituals
and quirky superstitions lit
(akin to a lit Christmas tree)

starry eyed imagination
as catalyst viz **** Sapiens
furrowed stern brow of forehead
aft stemmed whilst Santa oft puzzling
(allocating suitable gifts)
inducing him to tug thought generating beard
pondering, whence agents provocateurs
receive just desserts

fueled hodge podge, mish mashed, helter skelter
eclectic December twenty fifth
encompassing tens of thousands previous generations
bred despacito fixtures via paganism,
Manichaeism, Jainism, et cetera
ancient brutish credos, ethos, faiths
brewed nebulous concoction
within mindset of early mankind

loose confection, confederation, conglomeration
indiscriminately torquing, vetting, whetting
disparate constituent beliefs
contagion wrought spirit paradigm
inculcating oral tradition Madonna and child
occupying high chair
whereat superstitions birthed patchwork
comprising divergent ensemble heralding

tender petsmart impact, where world wide web populated
with sacrificial pacification sans deity
via oblation, immolation, flagellation appeasing *******
borrow wing, vis a vis amalgamated viz Roman sol invictus
wrought fiery brimstone tempting those who dared
assert contrary fledgling jambalaya outlook
provoking regally supreme sacerdotal wiseman
punishing opposing incorporating

novel modus operandi explaining sacrilegious worship
such heretics pitched headlong
into fiendish frothing furnace
forcing obeisance toward primitive popular
identified, honored, glorified father figure
expressing devotion re:
decking the halls of the mountain king,
whence boughs of Juniper sprigs contriving wreaths

sanctifying twisted brambles via sprinkling angel dust
(actually cremated remains of malefactors
stripped of habiliments) during bleak winter
unwittingly interweaving nascent (futuristic)
formally codified bona fied religions
unknowingly, tacitly, silently rendering
quintessential premises obliging
layperson to foreswear locally rooted secular treatises

trounced, trumpeted unction voided
wishy washy antithetical blind faith coalescing edicts
over course of time became established
Greco-Roman imposed group think
disallowing cynics,
diametrically emerging fanatics, skeptics
who (if he/she did not recant
recalcitrant recommended recourse

faced torture amidst throng of madding crowd
as entertainment and forewarning gall
asper those who held steadfast dissimilar views
taught since birth, when citizenry reared
as just a little drummer boy/ girl pipsqueak
taught to stay the course (sans straight and true)
bound without freedom to express contrary aspects
of ways and whyfores, which accepted traditions
controlled each green day

and silent night, wherefore unimaginable ogres
lined straying hip cats
eventually ensnared within warpath,
whence law of the land lend scimitar to smite
any mortal man, woman
or child with flaming torches
licking the heretical body electric,
while defiant individuals
left to burn into decimated
charcoal blackened, ashen corpse.

Above title attests how mine mundane mein kampf
insync as a veritable clogged drain oh:
flush with adventure overflowing excrement
er... rather excitement.

Apt aforementioned accurate personal description
believe me not, but urination
and defecation née emergency evacuation
triggered (reasonably rhyming) inspiration
culmination of requisite time
sitting atop porcelain goddess
devoid of hesitation and trepidation
herewith follows mine poetic ululation
hoop fully invites veneration .

Ever since garden variety generic guy
long since experienced being little boy
mean kids constantly teased and bullied me
on account yours truly being small fry
barely invisible to naked eye
bullied (most my entire boyhood)
as scapegoat, I did decry
pleading lame feeble alibi,

especially when punks
threw suckerpunch witnessing,
yours truly feigned falling
upon wounded knobby knee
to avoid me countenance being pummeled
courtesy knuckle sandwich
they threatened to apply.

One puny socially verily withdrawn lad
no surprise experienced suicidal ideation
throughout public school even as undergrad
never wagon figurative tail when fired
from one after another workstation.

Hence metaphorically hermetically sealed self
against incessant beastie boys squirreled away
amidst imaginative escapes courtesy bookshelf
isolates myself, viz remaining figuratively at bay
interestingly enough petrified livingsocial whereby
flesh and bone closely resembled hardened clay

hashtagged Matthew Scott Harris as pipsqueak
deadset to halt physical maturation without delay
anorexia nervosa (modus operandi) did buzzfeed
starved and emaciated lovely bones as main entree
unbeknownst then, but clear as a bell now
emotional state of parents unspooled and didst fray
father and mother aghast their pallor went ashen gray

grim reaper wielding large scythe intimating hooray
approximately half dozen years later
both parents relentlessly vilified verbally hammered
and especially didst inveigh
against their sole singular son
born thirteenth of January
hooded think those folks
who begot me more cruel fate
then being lynched courtesy triple "K."

Gambone builders bought property razed demesne
to escape vitriolic wrath atop roof at Glen Elm, I lay
nevertheless indelible memories emotional reprieve
spiritual succor delivered upon many a bygone May
when heat radiating off shingles served newgateway
passing time and wishing myself far as Norway
or even time traveling
back Catskills circa Borscht Belt,
also known as Jewish Alps oy vey.

Yours truly risk averse
which characteristic,
I declare constitutes curse
thus isolation found me sprawled out
upon wuthering heights
against regular diet of diatribes
delivered carte blanche
with expletive filled verse
toward solitary son ill fate
receiving nasty brutal abuse
considered dying far less worse.

Precious minutes and hours atop
seven gabled hideaway blithely did elapse
me gingerly scuttling out attic window
though agoraphobic and loathe to drop
distance and no longer courting death
no matter concluding life (during
early/mid twenties) total flop
merely wishing rage against
male offspring would stop.

Hurtful words yelled after papa
guzzled bottles of vermouth
(not really, I admittedly prevaricate)
courtesy late father and mother
resoundingly, severely, terrifyingly,
wickedly, violently uncouth
subjected imbalanced earthling
(yours truly - me)
think venomous metaphorical
****** blackened barbs,
viz inconveniently grossly, egregiously

one after another hurtful
figurative daggers antithesis of truth,
albeit synopsis regarding
second born (middle child - sole son)
begat courtesy Harriet and Boyce
upon their psychologically harried
flesh out the womb of young mother
(both parents now long since deceased)
now said heir long in the tooth
wordsmith here wonders why forsooth
he tolerated torturous abuse.