Kooky King Kong kapellmeister

just jabbering gibberish (A - K)

Again, another awkward ambitious

arduous attempt at alphabetically

arranging atrociously ambiguously

absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.

Because...? Basically bonafide belching,

bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,

bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting

bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,

boasting bougainvillea background.

Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap

chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,

chafed centenary, codifies communication

cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably

cheerful college coed.

Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,

doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood

descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring

dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,

deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor

Demento double, declaring depraved

daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck

derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.

Eccentric, edified English exile,

effervescent, elementary, echinoderm

eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,

etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional

emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,

eschatologically entranced, elongated

elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,

effectively experiments, emulates epochal

eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,

exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting

emphysema.

Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative

flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,

fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,

felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,

flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,

faceless, feckless, financially forked,

foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled

feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,

fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs

"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating

fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.

Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,

goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,

genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,

gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,

garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,

gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic

giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy

gewgaw gazing gesticulating guy,

geographically generically germane,

gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,

guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns

ginning gumpshun.

Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,

haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,

hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely

hackneyed, heathen, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,

hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,

Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic

heterosexual Homo sapiens historical heirloom,

homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.

Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,

idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,

irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,

ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,

insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble

itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating

immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted

inside igneous intrusions immensely

imperturbable improbable.

Jovial jabbering jinxed January jokester

just jimmying jabberwocky

justifying jangling jarring juvenile jibberish

jubilantly jousting jittering

jazzy jawbreaking jumble

justifying, jostling, Jesus;

junior jowly janissary joyful Jekyll

joined jumbo Jewess jolly Jane;

jammed jello junket jiggled

jeopardized jingled jugs.

Kooky knucklehead klutz

knowingly kneaded, kicked, killed

knobby kneed kleptomanic.

We've always thought pain was when we lose someone or an abstract close to us

But is that what it really is...

Different opinions on what pain is got me thinking

Have anyone really be in pain as what we are being told isn't really what it is

I came to the reality of what the feeling is like

At the first hit it gave me I felt lifeless slowly floating to the sky

Just as humans narrated pain I lost all in search of none

Endlessly losing my purpose in the search of me

But yet I got used to the feeling

Never could I get a sleep without the feeling of my newly found acquaintance creeping to my mind before drifting away to another world of fantasy

The life we live in became void to me.

Vice linkedin to carnal flesh this writer,

(a married heterosexual doofus, –

whose alter egos

named and highlighted courtesy

Gallant and Goofus) attones

to heat these lovely bag of bones

amazingly graceful human specimen

more so than required to generate clones,

whose jibber-jabber feeble poetic words

crafted for no particular rhyme nor reason

analogous to babbling drones

aging musculoskeletal physique groans

kvetching synonymously nsync

with (metronome like) tick tock

where alphanumeric, esoteric, and generic

garden variety alter kocker

(eons ago a foo fighting

beastie boy baby boomer) and/or like

kin himself to famous mummified Pharaoh

ala King Tutankhamun's moans

wrapped in long strips of linen,

indistinguishable among rolling stones

netting sometimes wrapped

each finger and toe individually

against many future unknowns

as the soul of mine traveled across cosmos

temporarily filling black hole sun,

and kerplunked across space/time continuum

easily mistaken for

pinteresting soundcloud virtual xylophones

providing an x uber rent lyft

along the edge of night

amidst dark shadows

to the outer limits of many twilight zones.

Hence, I will beg, borrow or steal loot

and make a fair trade

with a paperback writer,

who exudes profound wisdom

as keen philosophical thinker

oh no... no... no, this

non smoking bandit, nor drinker

will explain to police officer,

that me willingly doth plead

guilty as freshly showered stinker

without spectacles yours truly

can only blinker

if nabbed he

submissively relinquishes freedom

to do time inside

state of the art clinker,

where ample heat warms hoodwinker

covering mine rickety musculoskeletal,

while escorted to attend requisite

appointment with headshrinker

with the icy name of Mister Rinker.

Token Doubting Thomas here

resorted to life of

doggone petty crime without fanfare

for this common man

dirt poor bloke who doth air,

(not that anybody

will give a rat's a$$, nor care

a jot regarding me

squalid shiftless schlepper

bereft of a place to call home

anemic checking and savings accounts

with Citizens Bank

describes my financial welfare),

and similar to Scrooge,

(who mutters "bah humbug**"

grossly dislikes Xmas time of year,

not always the case with yours truly,

cuz as a lad din

Southeastern Montgomery County

one cute as a button little boy with

short cropped strawberry blond hair,

(unadulterated, accursed and unbiased

opinion), aye declared

papa tricked out as Santa Claus

divine and stood bug eyed

while shopping with mother

and siblings amidst

madding crowd

(at the King of Prussia Mall)

then no living nightmare

not like today November twenty ninth

tooth how sinned twenty four

bajillion people angrily glare

with livid rage expect

whistleblower shrill shrieking

against crass consumerism thru air

courtesy bull-let-in aiming crosshair,

whereat vendors pushing merchandise

hooping he/she can scare

up brisk business, hence

caveat emptor i.e. buyer beware

aside from aforementioned

hypothetical scenario - I won't ever

overspend credit cards,

which profligate net spending

occurs within glorious land

of bilk and money

Amazon qua America OnLine,

the home of the free..., where

distribution of wealth very unfair.

Yukon still experience

enjoyment of beauty,

according to this poet

of Perkiomen Valley

with less sense and sensibility

than a baboon, or other naked ape,

cuz his pride and prejudice got in the way

while seeking love and friendship,

nevertheless he can bet

dollars to donuts (with glazed eyes)

without oneself spending themselves silly

garnering mountain due of debt

subsequently cue sax and violins

gently weeping (think guitar coming

unstrung at every fret),

thus... ya gotta get get

aware simple pleasures

experience mindfulness, such as

zipping across globe on private jet

hobnobbing with rich and famous,

then swinging by utmost secluded

unconventional monastery, and meet...

nun other than one cell bated abbott

cost 'ello to thine reverent Mother.

* - The exact origin of the British Thermal Unit (BTU) is unclear, but Thomas Tredgold, a British railroad engineer, is the closest person to being credited with its discovery. Tredgold's definition of the BTU was the quantity of pounds avoirdupois that would raise the temperature of a cubic foot of water by one degree Fahrenheit.

** - The word "humbug" has been used since the 1700s to describe something or someone that is false or deceptive. It's also been used to describe a trick played on unsuspecting people. The word's exact origin is unknown, but some theories include: For example, you might say "Bah humbug!" if someone won't let children play catch on their lawn

My mother always had her birthday-

the one thing my father remembered, due to his children's tentative reminders.

Her stocking was always half full, and most years she was the one to fill it.

She only did it halfway, herself, too, feeling undeserving, thanking Santa for the sake of our happiness.

Belittled by a man with a wandering eye, a cabinet filled with vases that hadn't housed flowers in twenty years.

I remedy it now. I give her an oversized stocking overflowing with love and gratitude,

flowers on every holiday, treats just because.

Some women fear their daughters will make fun of their own mother at their fathers behest,

but I am nothing like my father. I am my mother's mirror image- one that will never insult, or spout insecurity.

A pain no one

Understands

Like an itch

You can’t scratch

A problem no one

Wants to face

Yet I must deal with it

On a day to day

Minute by minute

Unrelenting basis

It’s my own fault

Good decision

Bad decision

That’s inconsequential

As the years pile on

The self inflicted

Soul crushing pain

Only I can feel

I have become

Devoid of hope

One would think

There is no

Foreseeable solution

Other than escape

But I’m no coward

And as Camus said

“…in the end

one needs more courage

to live than to

kill himself.”

Within the lucidity

Of my existence

The only logical choice

In an absurd life

Is to suffer

The consequences

Of my choices

It's ok...

It'll be... alright.

Flicker out, fading light

Dawn approaching; dying night

Apparitions here; deathly sight

Soldiers gone; pale as white

Nazi games; Jewish plight

Fuck around; firefight

Red hot flame; hose delight

Dancing dames; fuck on-sight

Vietnam; nations' fright

Took too long; apolog-ite

I'm sorry; that's just not right

Absurdist dreams; reality bites

Comedy's dead; still, keep it light...

It's ok; It'll be... alright

Mirror holds

stranger's eyes —

both blink first

Time dissolves

in glass pools:

hours drown watching

Face wears

different masks:

all tell truth

Past lives

behind pupils —

future stares back

Wrinkles map

roads untaken:

skin keeps score

Years stack

in corners:

eyes grow heavy

Mirror whispers

ancient names:

memory drowns now

Glass ripples

with questions:

answers sink deep

Self splinters

into decades:

which one's real?

Reflection holds

longer talks

than reality allows

Morning finds

night's ghosts

still searching glass

The monstera plant you gave me last spring sits in the kitchen window, its leaves pressed against the glass like palms seeking warmth. One leaf has developed brown spots, crisp at the edges where it forgot to unfurl completely. The others reach in their characteristic splits and perforations—nature's design to let wind pass through, to prevent the broad leaves from tearing in tropical storms. Even in failure, there is adaptation.

I've watched you study this plant, your fingers tracing the aerial roots that snake down toward the soil, searching. "Is it dying?" you asked last week, pointing to that imperfect leaf. The question carried more weight than its four words should bear. These days, you ask many questions like this—about the shrinking monarch migration, about the empty lots where meadows used to be, about the summers that burn hotter each year.

The truth is, I don't always know how to answer. The leaf is damaged but the plant grows on, putting out new shoots with a persistence that seems both foolish and brave. This morning, I noticed a tiny leaf emerging, tightly coiled like a fist. It will take weeks to open fully, to reveal whether it will be whole or split, perfect or flawed.

When you were small, you used to imagine yourself as a plant—usually a dandelion, stubborn and bright, breaking through sidewalk cracks. Now at thirteen, you see yourself more like this monstera: reaching for light while anchored in shadow, carrying the marks of hard seasons while pushing toward growth.

What I want to tell you is this: Yes, there is damage. Yes, there are leaves we cannot save. But look at how the plant keeps unfurling new possibilities, how it finds ways to continue even when the path forward isn't clear. Look at how it adapts—not by becoming harder or more defensive, but by creating spaces for the wind to pass through, by learning to bend without breaking.

The brown-spotted leaf will eventually fall away. But today, right now, a new leaf is uncurling in the morning light, carrying all the complexity of our moment—the inheritance of damage and the insistence of hope, the hard truth of loss and the harder truth of continuation. We cannot know what shape it will take. We can only tend it as it grows.

caliginous clouds of Melanoplus spretus blocked out the light not two hundred years ago

Yet that same creature has now disappeared forever, possibly caused by crushed eggs from irrigation

The world is worse now, caddisflies haunt the extinct species list on Wikipedia

Because their homes are dying, drying,

the separation between rivers and rivals, spawning and spiraling,

between what humanity owns and what we have stolen

has disappeared completely.

The electric light overhead hums in agreement that this

cursed world is wrong, humanity had wronged ecology

And yet the sound of those katydids will never be recovered, Katy-did, Katy-did

Survival of the fittest means surviving the surround sound landscape of automobiles and

I am not one of the believers in outdoor cats not causing the apocalypse

Creatures’ worlds are ending, mine just happens to not be; though I will wish sometimes that

I may go extinct instead, since my long-staring soul cannot handle so much splintering of ecosystems that were once whole

Once whole, once hole, one hole, if there’s a hole I would like to fall into it please

And maybe forget to return to reality.

The kitchen faucet drips. Has been dripping for weeks now. Sarah watches each drop form, swell, fall. The sound marks time like a metronome gone wrong.

She could fix it. Should fix it. The wrench sits in the drawer beneath the sink, waiting. Her father taught her about plumbing when she was twelve. His calloused hands guiding hers on cold metal. Tighten until it catches, then a quarter turn more.

The water bill comes higher each month. Red numbers growing like a fever.

Morning light stretches across linoleum. Sarah stands at the counter, coffee cooling. The drip keeps its rhythm. Her phone buzzes. Mom again. Fourth time this week.

She lets it ring.

The nursing home costs more than the mortgage now. Forms pile up on the kitchen table, white sheets stark against dark wood. Her father's signature grows shakier on each one. Some days he remembers the wrench, the lessons. Some days he remembers nothing at all.

Drip.

The sound follows her to work. Echoes in fluorescent-lit halls where she processes other people's paperwork. Her cursor blinks between numbers. Red to black to red again.

Drip.

Her supervisor asks about the quarterly reports. Sarah nods, says nothing. The cursor keeps blinking. The numbers blur.

Home again. The mail slot spits more forms onto the mat. The kitchen stays dark but for streetlight through unwashed windows. Sarah opens the drawer. The wrench is cool and heavy, like memory.

Drip.

She stands at the sink. Water beads, swells, falls. Her father's voice comes distant now. Tighten until it catches. The metal turns under her hands.

Something snaps.

Water spurts angry, hissing. Sprays across her shirt, her face. The stream grows stronger, wilder. She fumbles for the shutoff valve. Can't remember which way it turns.

The floor floods black in the dark. Sarah sits against cabinets, watching water rise. Her phone buzzes on the counter above. She lets it ring and ring and ring.

Morning comes grey through the windows. Water soaks the forms, bleeds ink into patterns like memory fading. The dripping has stopped. The silence roars.