It took me years to realize it wasn’t just me, and that the labels for women are created by men’s "standards". I wasn’t a ****. But what does that even mean? Men use “equality” to manipulate women with their standard: its fun to experiment at the time, but the girl will always be remembered as "the girl who did that," in hometown suburbia. Who’s going to end up with a woman they did nasty things to? In traditional marriages, no one wants that kind of wife. In today’s corrupt society, no one wants to know their wife was raunchy and experimental.

But what about the girls who are like that? Can’t you imagine moving away? Moving away from mistakes and stigmas and just start over? The hypocrisy and judgment against experimental women and gay men is still happening today with the "man’s" standards—the holy, good-natured man’s standards. Why are there gender roles? Why are women a minority, the curious exploring people we are? Why deny humanity for power? But humans do it to animals too! So it’s not just among gender, it’s among species! On this earth we should live with animals, but we **** and eat them for power. They **** and eat each other too, but as the knowledgeable species we are, we should respect them for there is a reason we share this earth.

But the hostility with having power is what it is to be a man. That’s how it’s been all along. And in the world men aren’t the majority, so why are they STILL treated like one? THEY are the actual minority, but they still have power! Because of religion! Straight men—who wrote the religious texts— dismissed everyone else! Slavery has been around forever! Also think monarchy and royalty—among humans we’re equal, but the power of civilization and class status and material and monetary value goes against nature. Because religious texts prove how religion started the world. These religious ideas created by certain men of misogynistic, violent, racist, homophobic creatures manipulated! Why aren’t women respected in the holy books? BECAUSE MEN WROTE THEM! And that’s why *** is reserved for marriage in religion, because inadequacies and insecurities branch off of ****** experience and the uncertain nature of what comes with exploring various lovers. It’s complicated for everybody, but men like control because they are the ultimate pessimists.

And religion has its perks by providing the one answer throughout history: "why do we exist," but it’s completely sexist! And within the misogyny formed by the different cultures of various religious men, of an evolving species, they realized manipulation could cause them power. And feminism takes away from the religion! Women are optimists, but they’re impressionable by burdens! Civil rights and democracy and spreading-the-wealth for all humankind help! But money creates problems—including environmental—on and for our earth! But why is it sexist? Because throughout the world these particular different societies created by ignorant men are still letting this happen!

And with this power, they still control women! Equality for humankind starts with feminist movements! And when it comes to sexuality, whether gay or straight, what’s the big deal? Society! Because why are so many homosexuals punished, and why are so many cultures sub missing women? Why does **** and molestation still happen? There is no greater form of disrespect towards another person! But making a consequential decision to have ***, with anyone excluding a “good man,” as according to that society, most-likely founded by a group of men its wrong? Profits don’t exist, because no single person can understand what it is that created the universe.

And hetero-****** *** isn’t supposed to be nice, because it’s aggression towards the other gender and the determination of who won the battle: the gender of child. And that could be why psychology suggests that there is an under-lying ****** nature for fathers and daughters and mothers and sons. And there is: gender aggression. But the gender that actually creates the child is the woman, and knowing this, men have made us submissive because although they’re bigger in size and aggressive, women would be the dominant side. The curiosity of the female reproduction has been a subject of fear throughout the millennia.

Bisexuals who don’t pro-create, however, usually resent straight men unless their having attractions toward them. The philosophical possibilities of experimenting with everyone to know everything is frowned upon by on all governments founded by white men. Wars have been created and people have been slaughtered! There can be peace on earth! But everyone needs to unite and eliminate prejudices and stigmas and live as people naturally, and sexually. There is balance in this universe and "living organisms" are true examples.

Women and men reproduce, to create another part of a balance. The universe, however, is impossible to ever completely understand, and the possibility of understanding it is an idealistic facade. We don’t know why women and men balance out the way they do (with an occasional mutation among humankind), but it balances with the universe. But sexuality is the purpose and the weapon, the heaven and the hell, the good and the bad and the euphoria of possibility. It’s denied in society with a civilization where one certain type of group can be the best and create power. And this balance is the key to all knowledge achieved by biology to "attract to reproduce"/"win wars". That kind of war is not in our power as humankind.

Men are a species and women are a species. To be human is to be an element of the evolving universe. Homosexuality usually isn’t a threat because it provides understanding, but in this world ruled by men, it isn’t! To compare humankind to a basic principle of the universe, the atom, a woman is a proton and a man is an electron. "Mutations" are neutrons. The man has the negative, aggressive nature and women are usually kind-minded and nurturing. But in a society where sexuality defines women, women are up against each other.

People are an element in the universe, and we reproduce due to gender aggression, or realistically, physics. We’re recycled stardust, after all. The point of this hypothesis is to provide an ideal for Utopia, where everyone is bisexual, but men and women are forever reproducing. Everyone is "wild" but wise and having *** to pro-create and understand our kind. We are evolutionary atoms. And love is two very powerful charges reacting strongly in a sequence. That’s what the universe does, it expands and creates.

The products of Earth—topography, geology, history, anatomy, biology, philosophy, physics, chemistry, oceanography, zoology and psychology–expand and create as well. Maybe there is a Great Creator, but it’s not comparable to the negativity created in the religions dominating societies.  It’s essentially what created the entire universe, not just what’s on earth, and not just humans. Humans, animals, plants, weather, planets and stars are all recyclables. We on earth are equally products of the universe, and after we die we’ll become something else. But religion, humanity and science aside, something made this universe. Something made our life and ability to think with secrets and balance, and whatever it is, it’s a ******* creative.

Welcome to Manila.

Feel free to fill your lungs with the nocturnal breeze

Signed by the nation's capital as it flows its life on the roads that lie under the moon's lunar glow.

The scents of Sampaguitas, rugby, human excrement, and the smell of burning gasoline

Constituting the sources of a rising problem that pollutes the air of a land

A land where people ignore the screams of health issues

For the latest news about events in the envied personal lives

Of hypocritical second-rate and overpaid actors who have become the annoying faces

Of household television screens in the Philippines.


To the left you'll see a wooden cart filled with discarded recyclables that serve as a livelihood by day,

And a bed by night as it stands on the road lined with the gutters

The gutters that serve as stomachs of the city, the only stomachs of the city that aren't suffering

From starvation and Ulcers as they are filled to the brim with the population's toxic waste,

Reeking into the air with a stench that only compliments

The smells of poverty and corruption, as the taxes that are meant to pay for progress

Are redirected to the politician's own pockets to be spent on his prostitutes and casino gambling.


Hear the music of manila; the harmonious sounds of infants that weep

As they are trapped in a living nightmare as they toss and turn and try to sleep along the roads

Buzzing with the sounds of beeping horns through the late rush hour traffic

Mixed with the sounds of the occasional clink of the falling silver peso coin into beggars' cups,

And other  homeless people  under the delusional impression

That pedestrians actually care for their well being and listen to their creaking voices

As they beg for spare change, while deep down they beg and pray

For a total change in the states of their starving lives.


The dark reveals the most candid face of the nation

like an ironic twist in nature as in the shadows, more is seen than under the burning  light of the
pretentious day.

The street lights are like the eyes that witness  ice picks piercing innocent  flesh
and purses being taken from passers-by

While in the shadows of alleys nobody sees the slow and painfully traumatic scenes
of young teen-aged girls being *****

And motorcycle gangs that rain semi-automatic ammunition into skulls of lawyers just stopping by at Shell for gasoline.

Seldom heard in the air are the faint whispers in heads that hold the scattered thoughts and memories
of depressed drug addicts walking along Chinatown near the railroad tracks

Inhabited by people who blame their neighbors, their families, and the government,

And never blame themselves for their lives that have brutally fallen beneath the vicious line of everlasting poverty.

Capturing scenes from fashion shows in the past, Glamourizing Ladies And Men modeling hosted their annual spring fashion show.

The event was a runway-style fashion show, with looks recreated from GLAM’s past. The show also featured talents ranging from poetry and singing to painting.

Patrick Davis, a senior general studies major, and Christina Brown, a freshman biological sciences major, hosted the show.

The introduction of the show was called “Once Upon a Time.” The scene was from a 2012 show and centered on a little girl’s favorite fairytales taking a twisted turn in her dreams.

It opened with the little girl getting told bedtime stories from her father.

After getting the stories read to her, the rest of the GLAM models emerged from under her bed and began to torment the little girl.

The ladies of GLAM then emerged for a scene named “Pop Art.”

“Pop Art” was created in 2012 and incorporated the use of recyclables such as newspaper, duct tape, water bottles, cups and more in the model’s outfits.

The models were dressed in outfits that they created.

The first model wore a dress made out of a plastic bag and yellow caution tape.

The next model wore a dress that was fitted and made of plastic bags and duct tape.

There was a flare skirt made out of newspapers, and another skirt was made using old magazines.

There was also a fitted skirt made only of caution tape and a flare skirt made of white foam cups.

The final outfit of the scene was a dress made of black plastic bags and caution tape. The caution tape was also made into a necklace.

The following scene was titled “Lust/Burlesque.”

Burlesque was created in 2013 for GLAM’s Halloween show “The Seven Deadly Sins.” It incorporated tasteful dancing and runway style walking.

This scene opened up with three models dressed in all black attire, performing a dance routine.

The models hit the stage in several costumes, many of which were handmade by the models themselves.

One model wore black shorts, a black cropped shirt and blue high heels with blue and white wings.

Another outfit used a cheetah print swimsuit, with pink coverings and a back piece made of twigs and feathers.

Alexis Scott, a junior pre-nursing major, performed her poetry piece titled “Honest Truth.”

In her poem, she spoke about a broken relationship with her father. She also spoke about hiding all of her feelings and often putting on a fake smile to the world.

“Yesterday I tripped on my self-esteem and landed on my pride,” Scott said.

The next scene of the show was titled “Concrete Jungle.”

This scene was adopted from a 2014 show and featured business attire with a fashionable twist.

Outfits from this scene included a pleated black dress with white stripes at the bottom, a gray handbag, and black heels.

Another outfit included a purple blazer, a crème and yellow floral printed top, black dress pants and black high-heeled shoes.

A model wore a blue fitted miniskirt, a black and white cheetah print satin shirt and black heels.

The scene after this was titled “Criminology” and was taken from a 2011 show titled “FAME University.”

This scene gave a glimpse into the mind of a woman when she has snapped.

The scene opened up with red flashing lights with four models doing a dance routine to Beyoncé’s “Ring the Alarm” and a monologue.

The monologue told the story about how each woman killed their husbands. The models wore outfits such as black shorts, black leather shirts, black boots and black high heels.

In a talent section, while Keyana Latimer, a sophomore sociology major sang, she was accompanied by Taleiya Baker, a junior music education major.

While they were singing, D’Ajah Douglas, a freshman studio art major, and Yasmine Washington, a freshman studio art major, painted pictures while Latimer also performed a tap dancing piece.

The show concluded with a final walk from all of the GLAM models wearing black and purple shirts with GLAM Modeling written on them, blue jeans and high heels.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

The City lights blinked out forever--literally overnight--with a sudden finality that caught even the most nuclear-winter-prepared/Guns N Ammo reading/Campbell's canned soup and distilled-water stocked/backyard-fallout-shelter-owning-survivalists completely off guard. Armageddon had always been there, sleeping just beyond the horizon line of our periphery, but it awoke fully clothed and ready to go to work that day.
It was an ordinary Thursday, just like any other. The MUNI lines were choked as always with angry elderly women clutching plastic shopping bags full of pungent vegetables, poultry, and recyclables as if their lives depended upon the contents of those bags (maybe they did) and the usual gaggle of gibberish-mumbling crazies talking to themselves with cellphones plugged into their brains, some without. 
That day, baristas were 5 minutes, 23 seconds late for work on a city-wide average. Bartenders were making their rent in tips as rowdy soccer fans converged in their local Sunset, Richmond, Mission and SOMA district faux-Irish pubs to watch the latest big championship match between Ireland and...some other country.
By Saturday, less than two days later, the desperate siren-blare of emergency vehicles, the insect hum of DPT tri-bikes carrying cutthroat ninja-sneaky meter maids ready to make their weekly quotas by slipping bogus $55 parking tickets under the windshield-wiper of your best friend's beat-up, barely-working mid-90s Mazda you were borrowing just for the night, and the cloud-cutting rotary-whine of channel 5 news traffic-report helicopters chopping through the sky had been silenced forever.  
As if sensing the absence of gardeners, street sweepers and garbage men, weeds grew out of the cracks of the streets and sidewalks with the newfound urgency of a wildfire. Leaves swirled through glass and concrete skyscraper canyons, settled, and slowly began forming mounds as if attempting to fill the spaces that angry elderly women with plastic shopping bags, cellphone schizophrenics, and drunken soccer fanatics had once occupied.
Speculation about how the End of the World would actually occur had always been a theological reference point for religious zealots hell-bent on giving the Book of Revelations some validity, but had taken on a tone of comical absurdity in the hands of post-Y2K pop culture and disaster movies. A horde of zombies rising from their graves and feeding on the flesh of small bands of living human survivors was one of the more popular, albeit fantastic, apocalyptic theories. Some predicted that robots would enslave us, some thought aliens would invade us, while still others--baring signs reading "THE END DRAWTH NIGH," arms stretched meaninglessly up towards the hollow heavens in the sky above--believed biological or nuclear warfare to be the most likely form of humanity's demise.
But by the following Thursday, speculation had become a moot point; none of it had mattered at all in the end as the power-grid of the City, and then human civilization altogether, had been suddenly switched off for the last time by an alcoholic rent-a-god, leaving the face of the globe devoid of any trace of the spiderweb-night-glow of terrestrial city-lights. 
Only the birds in the sky and the fish in the sea were spared to fill the blank pages of history that were to follow human(kind's) fading footprints.

*

Aeons later...
When those birds learned to read, they would see cryptic symbols inside a crooked heart jaggedly carved into a tree trunk surrounded by a mote of fallen leaves and ragged newspaper pages blowing through the streets like tumbleweeds.
Aeons later...
Those tree-scratched symbols would form the sacred commandments of a secret new religion built upon the ashen, worm-eaten remains of two skeletons holding hands and a ****** trail of broken hearts trailing from their ribcages into the worm-mouths of babes.

We're the dirt inside your trash bins
The lonely, awkward has-beens
Dead for the night
Could you turn on the light?

My wife always nags me.
This seems to be a problem with most women I marry.
Or most women in general.
They all nag me.
I'm laid back.
Or as my past wives say,
"lazy".
Sure, you could say that,
but I prefer the term,
laid back.
Anyway,
so my wife is always nagging me.
"Do the dishes" she says.
"Do the laundry" she says.
"Vacuum the house" she says.
Eventually, I would do it.
But the nagging got worse.
"Fix the squeaky front door" she says.
"Clean out the gutters" she says.
"Sort the trash from the recyclables" she says.
Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore.
I had enough.
So I took my wife,
and threw her in a vat of acid.
I watched as her skin slowly melted off her body,
like ice cream melting on an ice cream cone,
minus the stickiness.
I watched her hair dry up,
and disintegrate into nothing.
Her fingernails slowly fell off,
and her eyes began to slip out of her head,
as she let out a final scream.
She looked just as beautiful as she did the first day I met her.
My eyes feasted on the greatness before them,
although it does get kind of boring after the fourth time.
Nonetheless, I still enjoyed it.
There's nothing like throwing your half asleep wife in a vat of acid on a cold Sunday morning.

Mechanic
Photographer
Writer
Poet
Boy genius
Slacker
Son ?
Dad ?
Dad
What else do I see in the mirror
Why does the thought of me being you scare me in the most exciting way
We fight
You speak better with your fist than you ever have with words
And what if one day my words are jumbled in the cracking of knuckles
Don't cry son
Big boys don't cry
Choke it back
Be strict in a lenient way and
One day it will be you hated
One day it will be you who fight with the mother of your children
And stop fighting with the mother of mine
Why do you do this
Why is she crying again

Oh my god I am just like you
We are two of the only men that can bring her to tears
Say you'll leave
Say you'll leave and make her fall
She keeps grasping you In a picture


The Funeral :
which one of us will die first
With your old age
And my stupid addictions
If it were me would you cry
If it were you would I
No matter what would happen.
I gave an arm for you
And I would proudly give more

I look back to days of fishing in a creek
Getting our feet wet but still walking with shoes on because broken glass isn't forgiving in the slightest way

Where was your alcoholic rage that should have been passed down from generations above you
Where was that Irish man temper with a Portuguese flare
Where were you when the police picked me up and I was no longer your son
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
But somethings need to be burned
That trash cans with recyclables called to my eco friendly egotistical pyromaniac self

The words echo like that slap in the face At our kitchen table
You are dead to me
You were born first.
But on that day, I would die last.  

As time flies
Your health isn't standing
I'm slowly being force to migrate as the head of this house
This broken family with my brother moving up the street
Somehow still by your side
Out of one side of his mouth saying I love but out of the other side cursing your lies

Two daughters, that will be nothing like us
Two daughters that will be brought up in a broken generation  
Two daughters that put hammer to the nail finalizing the responsibilities that follow the title of
I an uncle
He a father
And you an elder

With these children around I've made the full discovery of something that has always been there

Through the hard times you've stuck by our side.
I love you dad

so,

i saw a piece of you
the other day.
i found you out in the yard.

and. i used to find you
                everyday,
but,

we are the inside of a silverware drawer when the lights go out.
We are an old can of soda
we are the underside of a frying pan.the hinges of medicine cabinet mirror.the back of a fake hand gun

a pocketfull of chemical hand warmers

The washing label on shrunken, favorite, sweatshirt-
storeboughtstarmarketpumpkinpie.
Brooding at the breakfast table.
a telephone that rings when you don’t want it to.
we are nylon down vest- reversible-  tucked inbetween
arm and
oilskin hat.
We are dead houseplants.

homemade radiator covers,
feet under the covers
we are  waking up
we are slacking off in class.hating other people.wading into bathtubwater. I. hurt her daughter

polished like a powderhorn.hurting like a can of vegetarian baked beans.
like an old pocketknife.

we are
pantsless in the hallway. we are backyard garden. we are tripping over the recyclables on a sunday.    
we are good radio song.
we wanted garlic.butter we got hotdogs instead.
That’s supermarket poetry. It hit us.
golden and radiant-
as the smiles in the   cereal aisle.
And it was cold outside.

the milk froze in the car

I know the quietest way
to crack an egg.
The softest way to close
a door. How to pour
the water into a tilted
glass so it doesn't splash
back. A bird chirps at
just under sixty decibels.
A light bulb sings at
fifteen. I dream
of polymer chains snapping
clean, recyclables humming
to each other at night
while they biodegrade
at a rate negligible
to the human timescale.
Twenty decibels: the chiral
calcite spiral of the snail
when it falls to the sand,
when it dies,
when a girl apologizes
for asking a question.

Hustle and bustle of underground merry plaza showcase, the underbelly, the underlife, the true essence of the show going on at 8, men speaking rhythmically, eating quickly, with waste boxes, recyclables, the news is digestible, a man forages for answers in his phone, digging with his thumbs, and another reaches through the speaker to try to hear the close, the head anchored up, the scarf hanging at the direction towards the sun, oh the glamorous walls and the anxious souls, oh the marble staircase and the jansport backpack, more cleaning services than surfaces, less times more money, more money, less time, time is like money, it freezes and then it flows, what was the expression again?  Only the smell of coffee is lucrative, only the stench of ***** diapers, babies, in a place like this, where murmers are murmurs and eat isn't required but fufilled then joked about over digestion, a proper coffee break, he is of an ash tray the men gossip, not directly, but imply, stick to facts but hierarchies fill in like water into a ravine, never obscene, silent struggles to an invisible top held by Rockefeller who is no longer in this world, his spirit keeps some sort of hope driving noses into the pizza lunches, and the limitless contemplaions, the tough desicions, men around coffee are women amidst vultures, who has a higher grasp, whose the one getting cursed, overdone, overpowered, the cards turning in silence, literally in glances, a polite face turns to a disappointed hatred in seconds, perfect, like a diamond

The rain drops drizzling
On the aluminum awning
Reminds me of the way your hands
Would gracefully tease piano keys
And make the most beautiful sound.
A man so kind he makes heartbreak
Taste like honey and settle the same way
On your tongue,
A sweetness savored,
from a sour savior.
I sort stale feelings like recyclables,
But can’t bring myself to throw anything away.
The way your floor is littered with pens and pennies,
Makes me think of how when you arrive home,
You empty the day and your pockets onto the ground
In a most imperfect fashion
When you are alone.
A crack in the mask
And a chasm in façade.
I deserve you,
Whether that is as a consequence
Or reward,
I will never know
For so bittersweet it has been to know you.

Much has been lost
Has been wasted
In vain
Have I granted
More former
Engagements
A claim
Have I harbored
More harbingers
Of my demise
Was I born
Have I worn
This whole time
A disguise
Was I really there
With her
Do I awake
Days
Have unnervingly
Quickened
Their pace  
I’m afraid
That it goes
All for not
But our scars
And tattoos
As our bones
Feed the earth
And the life it renews

(and cries out long day's journey into night,
no...not for Eugene O'Neill),
but rather being distributed
in their respective bins at Wegmans
Under the Elms

Dressed up in our Sunday finery,
(which attire frankly looks no different
than the clothes we wear on any other occasion,
nevertheless we try our level best
with steely mettle,
we haul gull *** to said location
in a concerted effort
to be romantic on those singular occasions
looking into the eyes of each other
and blowing a kiss
to the once upon a time fair maiden,
who caught mine heart and soul
immediately breaking free and clear
of reverie, and getting
back to the grubby business at hand
as we hurriedly distribute reusable materials
into their respective bins,
so we can commence shopping for food,
which dual purpose outing
(us old married couple codgers
feign being youngbloods in love)
subsequently came to be hashtagged
"A night on the town,"
(which title - after doing a Google search
unknowingly identical to
Rod Stewart's seventh album, released in 1976)
located at 600 Commerce Drive Providence
Town Center Collegeville, PA 19426‎.

The missus (once upon a time
and in a former incarnation
repurposed as a paper shredder,
thus I continually remind myself
not to put fingers of mine
anywhere near her teeth),
nevertheless counts herself
as a diehard advocate of recycling,
especially pulpy flesh
and goes the extra green mile, or two, or three...
to make her contribution
to ecological beneficence,
and within which eco conscious upbringing
our two daughters (now grown
and livingsocial on their own)
free and clear of birth parents
whose mien mean marred psyches
etched indelible opportunistic ugly yelp review.

Because the weather got so darned
(please feel free to substitute
your favorite expletive) cold,
(compard to six months,
when I bemoaned the polar opposite
weather related lament),
we stashed bulging bags
of empty metal cans,
plastic containers and empty bags,
glass bell jars, paper, et cetera
in our (actually mine)
2020 white Hyundai Elantra
leaving neither little room
for a driver, passenger, hitchhiker,
nor a corpse to get stuffed in the trunk,
which would pose an inconvenient truth
to a hypothetical lifeless body.

We promised ourselves
(girl scout's honor in my case,
and boy scout's honor courtesy the missus)
come the first warm day,
the above listed materials
will fill up the appropriate bins at Wegmans,
cause the facility where we reside
(Highland Manor Apartments -
managed by Crooks and Quade)
does not deal with materials
that can be repurposed.

Thus the reason without rhyme why
the five year old aforementioned automobile
strongly resembles the vehicle
ideal for junkyard dogs
on Sanford and Son's -
one of the countless sitcoms -
first episode aired January 14th, 1972
produced by Norman Lear,
which essentially follows the premise
where junk dealer Fred Sanford -
a older man of color
runs roughshod over
his son and partner, Lamont,
in a groundbreaking situation comedy.

Fred's money making schemes
routinely backfire, and he does
just about anything to get out of working --
up to and including faking a heart attack.

Aside from the father figure character
being rude, sarcastic, outspoken,
overtly prejudiced,
and pretty **** nasty
to his friends and family,
and other than outstanding belligerent traits,
the older man makes for a fine companion.

Additionally, the spouse used to save
compostable material in the freezer,
(and come the warmer months,
when spring announced
courtesy twittering songbirds
and light buds
barely peeking thru the cold earth
she will do the same)
buzzfeed leftover food -
to animals James Herriot would smile
on as All Creatures Great and Small,
All Things Bright and Beautiful,
All Things Wise and Wonderful,
plus various and sundry other book titles
paying homage to dear animals,
who populate and take refuge
within the strip of sum mall woodland
barely edible in the first place
that got blessedly
co-opted courtesy mold.

Actually most times the wife
who does patchke
(to fuss or mess around
in an inefficient or inexpert way)
surprisingly enough the I married
not quite three decades ago
does manage to hit upon
a flavorful cause célèbre
to be a Michelin success
earning the maximum number of stars
plus she starred and got showcased on
Top Chef Amateurs.

I pushed away my cup of hot tea and warm scones,
My throat constricted,
Tears flowed in torrents,
Refusing to subside.
I visioned the Dump Site I visited a few days ago.
The depth of poverty we do not know about,
Garbage Pickers abandoned by the world,
Everything about them permeated by the ghastly trash smell,
Discriminated by society.
Furhaha and her twelve children
Sat huddled under a plastic sheet,
Large puddles of  raw sewage scattered around them,
Emitting foul smell.
None of the children knows who their real father is
Furhaha and her two daughters time and again face ****** abuse and often ****.
What to do, where to go,
Too poor for health care or support.
The Dump Children walk, climb,
dig and ****,
Collecting recyclables,
Plastics, glass and metal,
For a meagre one dollar or much less for the survival of the family,
In return for cuts and bruises
from broken bottles, nails and syringes,
With sometimes risks of being buried under fresh garbage.
Please HELP!
They need love and care,
They need to be in school.

at Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School

As a Halloween costume,
one year during early grade school,
my father got the brilliant idea
for his sole son to be dressed
with one of a kind getup.

Missus Shaner
(the talon clawed, shriveled
relic of a dinosaur,
who taught fifth grade)
gave me first prize,
and subsequently felt so convinced
about authenticity of this kid
being “privileged white trash”,
she notified another kid
dressed as a janitor
to dispense with me
in the school dumpster.

The sanitation disposal company
drove me (and subsequently
dumped yours truly
among the real *******
in the dumpster)
to nearest landfill
loaded with all kinds of junk
such as food scraps, recyclables,
and soiled diapers.

Over a short span of time,
the detritus commingled
into one noxious brew
of a despicable fly haven,
whereby jiggling lifelike maggots,
jumpstarted, lunched, and nursed putrescence
re: reeking and teeming vibrantly
with yum zuck for a swamp thing,
I seemed to be metamorphosed
into sewer rat as if by some cruel hoax.

Nothing prepared, neither sickened
nor violated senses
of smell, sight, taste, and touch
to the maximum factor
intolerant of odoriferous odious stench.

Each pestilential assault
issued an appalling refrain
courtesy Fiona Apple's:
The Idler Wheel Is Wiser
than the Driver of the *****
and Whipping Cords Will Serve You
More than Ropes Will Ever Do.

Before mine myopic bespectacled eyes
(smarting from constant comet drubbing irritants
(which glasses – rather bifocals –
caked with smudge good as naught),
stayed wide shut from inundation
of said corrosive gaseous shaped
oxbow lake comprising wreath like wisps.

Liberty vis a vis in sight
envisioned visibly threatened offshoots
of tendril spikes; snaking sneakily,
sordidly slithering silently,
yet straightaway as a scene
from some spooky sideshow
or “haunted house”.

This ugly slop
splashed upon mine formerly
pristine academic uniform
appeared near identical
to the grub hub (the lunch lady served)
splattered sundry speckles
sans sundry detritus,
which found me writhing with nausea.

Thee nasty muck and mire
found this formerly introverted boy
transformed into a sponge bobbing
squarely panting creature
from the black lagoon,
whose skinny sea legs  
sought semi-solid surface
to stand upright position amidst
variegated flotsam and jetsam.

Dishabille appearance acquired
a fresh splattered coat of rancid slimy
green eggs and ham with bacon
covered gangly arms
(among other bit pieces of moldy clothes,
food and iconic library oddment)
ricocheted unpredictably as trash truck
violently shook up and down
all night long en route on this highway to hell
found me thunderstruck
(before being buried alive in Moyer’s Dump),
which toxic brew would be declared
a Super Fund Site
and shuttered in the near future.

Once Robert Hall wardrobe
affixed with a capitalone fancyfeast
of grateful dead road ****,
kickstarter from some automotive contraption,
and plenti of fish heads
(with thine square pants
trimmed with lovely bones),
I felt indistinguishable
from regular riffraff riding shotgun.

When random trucker parked and stopped,
the awful bin laden made ready
to empty contents within the mountain
of olfactory noxious material.

A thought occurred,
that now might be the golden
(or rather **** steeped) opportunity
to extricate myself
from morass of mish mashed,
spud nicked linkedin kindled juggernaut,
icky first class bric a brac.

at Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School
interestingly enough landed me a grubhub grab bag.

I rooted thru poetry anthology of mine,
and came across an unpublished poem
by one obscure poet (me), whose trademark
wit and wisdom hallmark
cardinal characteristics
of posthumous fame and fortune
largesse most likely
tabby bestowed upon grand kittens -
appended courtesy Facebook
since none of my two (both
twenty something aged) darling daughters
opted to be fruitful and multiply.

Courtesy brainchild of dear old dad
(actually when alive
and in his prime, he happened to be spunky
as an overgrown lad),
unanimous assent between him and mother
(she also when young, his junior by a tad)
both agreed their quiet natured son
(yours truly plus younger sister)
best be outfitted as *******.

Anyway, as a Halloween costume,
one year during early grade school,
my father got the brilliant idea
for his sole son to be dressed
with one of a kind getup.

Missus Shaner – long since gone to dust
(the talon clawed, shriveled
relic of a dinosaur,
who taught fifth grade)
gave me first prize,
and subsequently felt so convinced
about authenticity of this kid
being “privileged white trash”,
she notified another kid
dressed as a janitor
to dispense with me
in the school dumpster.

The sanitation disposal company
drove me (and subsequently
dumped yours truly
among the real *******
in the dumpster)
to nearest landfill
loaded with all kinds of junk
such as food scraps, recyclables,
and soiled diapers.

Over a short span of time,
the detritus commingled
into one noxious brew
of a despicable fly haven,
whereby jiggling lifelike maggots,
jumpstarted, lunched, and nursed putrescence
re: reeking and teeming vibrantly
with yum zuck for a swamp thing,
I seemed to be metamorphosed
into sewer rat as if by some cruel hoax.
Nothing prepared, neither sickened
nor violated senses
of smell, sight, taste, and touch
to the maximum factor
intolerant of odoriferous odious stench.

Each pestilential assault
issued an appalling refrain
courtesy Fiona Apple's:
The Idler Wheel Is Wiser
than the Driver of the *****
and Whipping Cords Will Serve You
More than Ropes Will Ever Do.

Before mine myopic bespectacled eyes
(smarting from constant comet drubbing irritants
(which glasses – rather bifocals –
caked with smudge good as naught),
stayed wide shut from inundation
of said corrosive gaseous shaped
oxbow lake comprising wreath like wisps.

Liberty vis a vis in sight
envisioned visibly threatened offshoots
of tendril spikes; snaking sneakily,
sordidly slithering silently,
yet straightaway as a scene
from some spooky sideshow
or “haunted house”.

This ugly slop
splashed upon mine formerly
pristine academic uniform
appeared near identical
to the grub hub (the lunch lady served)
splattered sundry speckles
sans sundry detritus,
which found me writhing with nausea.

Thee nasty muck and mire
found this formerly introverted boy
transformed into a sponge bobbing
squarely panting creature
from the black lagoon,
whose skinny sea legs
sought semi-solid surface
to stand upright position amidst
variegated flotsam and jetsam.

Dishabille appearance acquired
a fresh splattered coat of rancid slimy
green eggs and ham with bacon
covered gangly arms
(among other bit pieces of moldy clothes,
food and iconic library oddment)
ricocheted unpredictably as trash truck
violently shook up and down
all night long en route on this highway to hell
found me thunderstruck
(before being buried alive in Moyer’s Dump),
which toxic brew would be declared
a SuperFund Site
and shuttered in the near future.

Once Robert Hall wardrobe
affixed with a capital one fancy feast
of grateful dead roadkill,
kickstarter from some automotive contraption,
and plenti of fish heads
(with thine spongy bobbing square pants
trimmed with lovely bones),
I felt indistinguishable
from regular riffraff riding shotgun.

When random trucker parked and stopped,
the awful bin laden made ready
to empty contents within the mountain
of olfactory noxious material.

A thought occurred,
that now might be the golden
(or rather **** steeped) opportunity
to extricate myself
from morass of mish mashed,
spud nicked mine
linkedin kindled juggernaut,
icky first class bric a brac.

Common Cents 
past tense 
seems gone 
lost 
the cost 
more sins 
less gifts 
no presents 
just ask yourself 
WHY CANT WE ALL 
JUST GET ALONG
makes sense 
to much 
quite obvious 
without difference 
we all 
would be the same 
lame 
tame 
these pro-democritical
THOUGHTS 
lay them to rest
cots 
laser printed 
remarks 
robots 
marked dots 
melted down
recyclables in pots 
dumped in molds 
hault 
stop 
wait
what? 
one thing 
that cant be 
mass-produced 
to fill those plots
IS A GOD GIVEN HEART 
the cost 
for admission 
besides 
complete 
submission 
can be bought 
with 
common-cents 
from common-wealth 
knowledge 
is what im referencing 
not monetary values 
faith is free to adopt 
but itll literally be 
A GUARANTEED RETURN

but much to my relief, said mandatory inquisition (rather inspection) will take place sixty nine days later (due the math and inform me of any error if applicable), which date will be March 28, 2025.

My entire body electric went into system of the down mode after mistakenly presuming that the triumvirate would loudly rap on our apartment door (B44 in case ye happen to inquisitive). As a result yours truly and the missus knuckled and buckled down into high gear furiously scrambling to complete some grunt work, and tossing out recyclables ***** nilly plus bagged tempe intended for a future meal of mine.

At 0700 hours (indicated
courtesy notification slipped under door
less than twenty four hours)
hence foretold ill fate
by property (crooks and quade) management
the head honcho zaftig, kathleen bergen -
no nickname for her yet
(who replaced ******),
and Rich (text depeche mode) the snitch
at highland manor apartments
re: looming eviction implication
cuz yours truly and the missus
out of compliance
namely unkempt living space
within the walls of apartment b44
after residing within
said low income facility
going on eight years July first
two thousand and twenty five,
we experienced ongoing contention here,
which palpable tension
crackles, pops, and snaps
across the webbed wide world.

Courtesy social media platforms
in tandem with reputable poetry websites
allows, enables and provides
analogous soapbox to vent
after above identified triumvirate
done scrutinizing, interrogating, castigating...

Me and the missus
immediately sprung into action
rather each of our separate nervous systems
underwent uncontrollable bouts
of expansion and contraction,
(where we both
made a beeline for the bathroom)
analogous to severe toothache
necessitating oral surgeon extraction.

Three days later - January 21st, 2025
signals the visitation of inquisition
(cue ominous music)
obscure artificial illumination
looming dark shadows
presaging worse fate than death
rivaling close encounters of the third kind
outer limits of the twilight zone
monstrous sinister forbidding shapes
blotting sunlight plunging
highland manor apartment in total darkness.

Hence aforementioned feeble SOS
cuz our rented one bedroom unit
b44 not in ship shape,
thus me and the wife
not happy campers
(still in shell shock
after seeing the unexpected notice)
possibly forced to live in a tent
among bunch of other homeless people
along skidrow,
thus fruitless effort to yield
and appeal to top banana
figuratively precariously perched
on horns of dilemma
spurred me to posit supposition,
whereby sympathy for the devil witnesses
greater likelihood versus wordsmith
unsuccessfully, nevertheless creatively
blindsiding anonymous readers
spellbound to empty ***** nilly
bajillions of dollars
from their pocketbooks
and mail blank checks to yours truly
before coming to their collective
sense and sensibility bound with
pride and prejudice.

one helluva comparative
humdinger savvy shopper,
who can rattle off the best buy
for most any given item,
at the drop of a hat
analogous to baseball fanatic
(unlike myself who knows and cares
nothing about the game)
spewing forth Batting average (BA),
on-base percentage (OBP),
and slugging percentage (SLG)  
often referred to together
as a player's "slash line".

A fourth batting stat
known as on-base plus slugging (OPS),
which is a combination of OBP and SLG.

Other batting stats include runs batted in (RBI),
where a batter is credited with an RBI
when they score a run
as a result of their plate appearance.

Meanwhile back to the wife,
who would willingly truck
(courtesy driving our 2020 Sonata Elantra)
from one store or another
to purchase sought after item(s)
despite schlepping the extra miles,
and often scoops up goods
from clearance section,
and adheres to the postman's credo
"Neither snow nor rain nor heat
nor gloom of night stays these couriers
from the swift completion
of their appointed rounds"
often considered the motto
and inscribed in gray granite
above the entrance
to the New York City Post Office.

The phrase comes from
The Persian Wars by Herodotus,
written around 500 B.C.
during the wars between
the Greeks and Persians.

Herodotus referring to the Persian
mounted postal couriers,
who he observed with great admiration
and said were undeterred
by the elements
from completing their rounds.

The phrase was modified and approved
by the Post Office Department in 1914
by William Mitchell Kendall,
an architect at McKim, Mead & White,
the firm that designed
the New York General Post Office.

Kendall (the son of a classics scholar)
enjoyed reading Greek.

Every now and again, I accompany her,
after she tries in vain
to coax and wheedle yours truly
(with threats she won't
buy me any favorite drinks -
such as Kombucha),
nevertheless but frequently remain
holed up in our one bedroom apartment
disinclined to subject myself,

(a socially anxious aging baby boomer,
and lapsed long hair pencil neck geek to boot)
to the cruel embarrassment and harassment
linkedin with Samson syndrome
characterized courtesy lovely long golden locks,
(and rivaling the storied Rapunzel)
despite the small investment in shampoo
bully me prime target for mean people
who offer their unsolicited feedback

Matter of fact, she went out
earlier this saturday morning
(enjoying spate of cool temperature
for August seventeenth
and accompanied by light rain
courtesy hurricane ernesto
to unload bags of recyclables
jammed into the trunk
giving the television show
characters Sanford and Son
(a 1972 break out hit),
a run for their money.

Did you pass me and honk?
Or yell at me while I rode my bike, “get a horse!”     right?
( Even as I had a 4-wheel drive beast sitting in the driveway),
I smile because steel and gasoline can be fun
but never,  made ME    free.

There ARE  things I’ve done
that still live in the dark corners of my inner self,
but the things I DID NOT do
that’s what this is all about.

The things YOU DO should make you CRINGE and
the sickest part is that they DON'T

See, it’s the games you don’t play,
the garbage boardroom songs you don’t download or listen to,
songs I didn’t sing,
lusting ****** from radios or halftime shows.
(Tay Tay is gross, she doesn’t care about you, just your money.)
You probably don’t get it though and never will.
K- pop bletch !

Not a single Bieber note
has ever slipped its talentless nubby paws into this skull.
I wouldn’t know a Britney or Beyoncé track
if it climbed through my window at 3 a.m.
and danced naked leaving a snail trail on the kitchen table
nor would I call THAT art.

I can’t justify wasting the time
to sit still for baseball,
a game that peaked before the radio.
Or let squeaky gang-member basketball
drone its repetitive pointless idiocy in the background
like a sermon from a greedy, confused preacher.
I never asked for ANY OF IT AND I REFUSE TO FUND IT.

I never stepped foot in a sportsball theatre,
never cared who " won ",  ( what do they  " win" , again ? )
because every penalty fest mislabeled as a game looks like a rerun
of someone else’s father’s sad beer-fueled failure.
I succeeded without a team, without their vicarious lies,
without a locker room full of ****, sweaty dudes
slapping each other’s butts and prancing around.

So no, I never listened to AM radio.
So no, I never voted for a Republican.
Not once. Not ever.

I don’t own a gun.
I’m proud I’m part of a white community
where I don’t need one.
I don’t sleep with bullets under my pillow
or polish metal like a greasy prayer.

I served my country proudly,
with a good conduct medal.
I don’t chase their enemies... anymore,
because the last of MY marks
are already reduced to bones somewhere far away,
and I don’t need revenge
the way I need to breathe.

I have no enemies.

I don’t need A.I. to write my poetry or my novels.
My music and my art speak for themselves
and do it well.

I don’t have a soul-stealing spy glued to my hand all day.
I don’t pay to have my phone lie to me and keep me
in an echo chamber
like you and yours. Look around.

My kids once thought I was made of stone and stardust.
They STILL  love AND  respect me.
I’m proud of their black belts and MBAs.
( We drive the Tesla for them, because of them.
Same with the 2 solar systems. )

So don’t worry about me.     Focus on you.
I’m okay separating my recyclables
while you waste your energy begging your invisible sky daddy
to forgive and love you
with NO  results.

I know,  I don’t have to lie    to me and mine
and that’s enough    to keep my chin held right.
So I sleep well
at night.


#Treehugger  ,  #hippie   #patriot   ,   #Liberal ,   #truth ,  #Life , #done ,