Slug is the word

of the moment

I'm chuggin'

It's the throat-

coating trail

in metallic

That digs faster

than sound

to the innards

Like a bastard,

I'll be poking

out the url

Waiting for

the bloody

answers

Clawing at

stickiness

in the skin

Coming up

as mollusk

of things

I just

cannot

handle

2023 SEP 20

the Blue and White

have much in common

both choking red

at the collar

once for the service

and again for the dollar

lucky is the artisan

and independent farmer

peddling their wares

at unchained hours

in the public market

2023 SEPT 10

Sometimes

we are too big

for the short schrift

the VIP'd list

we fall off

a cliffhanger

centimeter

by centimeter

and cling

to ourselves

by fingered

felt stained tip

and illegible

penmanship

churning

beneath

murkiest

thought stream

and crushed

gravitation of

who's pulling

who or what's

what what

in what

sleepy

worldview

I see you

pleased

as a settled

tawny punch

side by side

holding out

this much.

2023 AUG 30

Floccinaucinihilipilification.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Author's note:

the longest word in the English Language is "pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis," a type of cancer cause by inhalation of fine particles of quartz. This does not make for much of an "anything at all" two-word poem.

I wanted to avoid "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," which is used as an expression when one has nothing to say, and opted for a couple words slightly shorter, which paired surprisingly, meaningfully, well.

"Floccinaucinihilipilification" is the designation of something as having no value... and I pondered long, what might that be? I wanted to add an s, but the plural form is same as the singular; incomprehensible, but this I choose to pluralize for added length and thoroughness.

All in all, the word has a cadence and sentiment unto itself, capped by the Title...

hence, a complete long poem, in exactly two words. About anything at all. Yes, we're complicated, we know; and we don't know.

Here is a link to the pronunciation:

https://youtu.be/J6zmWVTbDmg?si=CIWANWfN8dT4i14D

And now,

we're on the Clock,

if you're wandering

about these parts,

that stopped;

that werk,

that maybe

Funktioniere:

yeah, that crank

over there not here

ticking . . .

in Silence,

waiting . . .

for Time off—

2023 AUG 18

It's tough for me to write about my first Honda Civic because of the car crash in 2014.

The ill sensation of time slipping into thick molasses when something pushes outside your control, is no exaggeration. It has unmatched force. When a dark haired gangly specked high schooler driving daddy's Benz rear ended us on the highway (not braking in time for an unanticipated but minor slowdown) my little red bullet shot towards the utility truck in front of us.

It had, of all the damnedest things, a ladder projecting out top right. Passenger side. Mercifully for the low profile of my car, the ladder missed by narrowest sliver. On buying the car I had been warned that this was a "dangerous" vehicle.

I was told 1) I was sure to be subject to routine police profiling for possession or DUI spot checks; 2) If I should ever get into an accident, the road-hugging that I loved would surely mean being crushed under whatever car, van, or truck, might be in front.

When the impact came from the back, I remember deafening silence, the milky sky, tranquility broken by my own voice flowing from some dark hollow recess, asking my tall friend Mark without turning my head:

"...will we stop?"

and his hesitant gruff, "I don't know..."

and then whoosh, crunch, the crush of metal, and shattering of glass behind us.

We were in shock, but we weren't hurt. Half an inch from the ladder. The windshield could have broke just from the force of impact, but it didn't. I was on the passenger side this time. Mark was behind the wheel. He was an excellent driver and loved that Honda maybe even more than I, without jealousy, just with a sense of camaraderie in fine rides.

Thanks to that low profile, we knew we had suffered less than we would have if we had taken bumper to bumper impact. That would have snapped us into neck braces. Lack of airbags meant we were full witnesses, unwhipped by canvas. The whole incident played out for us across the windshield like reality tv on Netflix.

The preppy kid was beside himself knowing Daddy would be livid. We watched him agonizing into his cell phone in the middle of the street oblivious to the oncoming traffic that a was skeetering around our debris. And the utility employee from the truck in front wanted to lay into us, but when Mark redirected him to the culprit, the guy took one look and gave up. I guess the Benz and the thought of the kid's Daddy put him in check, so he huffed back into his truck and took off as soon as we exchanged all the proper papers with the cops who pulled in amazingly quickly.

The truck was unscathed, except for a red smooch my puckered hood had left on the white bumper.

I felt for the kid. The face of his Mercedes was smashed, windshield shattered. He was obviously new to driving, though just a few years younger than me really. Eighteen maybe. I couldn't help but wonder if the experience would change him in anyway or if this was destined to only be a financial/ social mishap in his life. A small blip in his curriculum-vitae.

Police would not let us drive out. Safety. Something was leaking from the underbelly, so I had to call a tow truck. My sister drove out to pick up.

Nothing was rougher than seeing my Honda, battered and bruised like a boxer in the corner of the tow yard when Mark and I went to visit to assess the damage and drive it out. Insurance said it was "totaled." Crash was rightfully deemed not our fault. Recompense was $1,200. It wouldn't cover the cost of repairs, and it wouldn't amount to much of a vehicle as replacement. Certainly nothing comparable to my Honda.

"You gonna fix it?"

"Hell yeah."

The magnificent beast had three more years of life until my nephew busted it up. We fixed it again. But when he crashed it soon after that, I left it up to him, prodding his fighting spirit I suppose... but he scraped it.

Fact is, not everybody knows how to love a car.

says that Face

across the bar

you know

like the one

in the

billboard

who has

to have

it all

the bonded

money grill

the sterling

dozen

parked cars

in his twelve

car garage

the trophy

lady seated

in the

nail salon

three kids

in attention

before the

blaring 56"

flat-screen

cinched or

clinched was

it clenched

I meant

He's selling

you something

it's in the eyes

but I'm not sure

what it is

it's hard to

hear when

everyone's

cheering for

the team,

the home

team?

no one's

asking &

you want

to Trust

somebody

but

you're not

sure what's

the fuss

over

what

game or

station or

never mind

the score

taken

you have this

doubt and

you're trying

your damnedest

to drown it

cause

what is

this

extravagant

animation

all about &

what's going

on anyhow?

You swear

you've seen this

passing by

faster on TV

taken notes even

& you thought

you'd roped

your old school

beliefs

Everything is

saying Trust me:

you don't belong

in here;

And if not,

then

where?

Melancholy offers

a free refill &

you picture

the corner of

your rented room

where Claustrophobia

has all but f*cked

you over

So you go &

you tell yourself

that you go out

to be

among people

where poetry

is written

across blank faces

and you have

grave doubts

as such

but you Trust

yourself

to fill in

the missing

details

And so

you hold

your place

and you keep

your piece

holstered

yes you trusss

you Truss

yourself

to take a

breath

and

exhale

Something

is after all

in there...

God or life

or Faith or

even if it's

only Death

...It is

there

and it

will

wait

2023 AUG 04

...I was going to write about how Rufus Wainwright botched Hallelujah for me, among other great songs, but then I ran across this ditty of his that I've never heard before and the unfeigned boredom of this well-respected Canadian crooner really got to me extra.

So here is the link to that song instead:

https://youtu.be/hll_pO59ksc

...if Time

is destined

to be...

Wasted,

*hiccup*

(and it Is)

then my

regret is,

*Ssip ... ssiP*

that you

are not,

wasting

It with—

*