Taking what life throws at me one pitch at a time
Take a peek at the beak to tell a crow from a raven forevermore
It's Monday morning
So time to get your crow on
My fine haiku peeps
🐦⬛
fresh wind is welcome
under the blankets after
night chill hot air fill
be careful with whom
you #associate with in
waxing fascist times
Chill of a night kill
Watch Associate eat crow
Wash it down with bile
Personal Advert:
So my little pierogi
Roll around with me
In some flour and butter
See what fun we can boil up
Follow time's arrow
Feel it in my marrow
Fly straight and narrow
Invert the advert
Give us your money to solve
The crisis we made
The crisis we made
Can be solved with your money
Advert the invert
Raconteur Rancor
spinning bilious narration
to all who'll listen
Rancor is the anchor for the soulless stanker wanker
the more he stretches
the truth the more elastic
it becomes for him
if it finally snaps back
will it hit him in the puss
Once the leaves yellow
The beach is best for strolling
Once swimmers have gone
Once upon a time
Got a splinter in my calf
Embedded for life
Reminds me with every step
Of that October moment
But a splinter of wood to keep us warm for the winter
No fork in the road
More of a turnpike splinter
Out of control spin
Less plausible than
a vignette in pulp fiction
Current governance
Splinter my timbers
Pulp my frost. Defrost the calf
Pump and dump plunder
Running with scissors
Tripping fell down and went slash
The gash was ghastly
October quickly churlishly churned
from mostly to vastly ghastly
clouded judgment brain
impaired by the fine drizzle
of grain alcohol
ghastly pharmaceuticals
and delusions of grandeur
Need an oasis
Away from constant drizzle
Of drivel du jour
another feral
fetid fabulation spun
from festering ooze
the nineteen nineties
a blur of awful choices
from professional
personal, financial swamps
to metaphysical bogs
Track the pink bunny
All under the hunter's moon
A #blur in the night
showing the whole world
the soft pink underbelly
of Corruption Inc.
The frisky fiend frolicked in the fetid fungi forest
Working in downtown Chicago of the nineteen eighties, I witnessed first hand the class warfare dujour. The jagged edge of the serrated social strata was clearly defined. You had your “fern bars”, where the yuppies (Young Urban Professionals) went. Then you had your tried and true old timey taverns, where the yuffies (Young Urban Failures) were known to gather. Both types of establishments were clustered together in or near The Loop
Pardon my gross generalizations, but I feel comfortable making that observation in hindsight. Then as in now, no faction has cornered the market on knuckleheads. Both groups grinding against each other in the serrated gears of commerce.
Ah, good times .
I think forever
Is a conundrum because
Nothing ever is
Time spent together
In a forever embrace
Cherished memory
Belief system held
Spawn from mistranslated texts
Misanthropic takes
Alternate realities
The conundrum of all times
Low tide shoots the moon
Raising stakes; win lose or draw
High tide calls the bluff
Phrazez that Payzez
Irritable mental gestures
That don't even resemble thought
Sow the seeds of discord.
First till the swampland
Plant the narcissistic seed
Reap bitter laughter
Always a future
That sprouts from what we do now
Act with that in mind
seems a whole nation
must sublimate the peaceful
to serve avarice
Phrazez that Payzez
The disordered divine
Beauty is a shape open to feeling.
If you step on mine
Then I'll have to step on yours
Life in a minefield
Unsteady hands with a key
Leaves many scratches to see
On the escutcheon
That protects the truncheon
Behind the locked door
That can break the glass
In case of emergency
I wear an escutcheon
Over my head to protect
My many stimuli keyholes
From falsehood formed truncheon
Metal escutcheon
Around perception keyhole
Is scratched and pitted
From inanities truncheon
Efforts to unlock function
Evil was seeping
Torture attic was weeping
Eaves dripping with red
A Scroll Threw Life 