ON BEING YOUR GREAT GRAMPA
Don’t expect much if anything from Santa and so everything will be all yours, hook the dare
The whole shebang falls at your feet, whatever there is, whatever can be is all safe in there
Waiting inside the snowman’s soul with nothing but a pink cheek and a black, licorice lip
Still One with the morning dew and twilight blinkin’ of planetary stars, sailin' with no ship.
Punks comin’ from everywhere in every neighborhood, lookin’ for top gun of the showdown
Eyes wide open and being saved from the boil and freeze of the rotation’s eight ball on loan
Space between the index and ring finger is infinite, blind faith is a jacked-up, joker’s scheme
To eat you for supper, shake off the miscalculations and move on, be mastermind of memes.
Center of the number line from positive to negative around the zero of nothing, it’s up the jig
Purpose is the Way to cope with the hopelessness of being alive in the middle ground, not fair
Who came before or after you won’t make a difference after we let the candle-blown back hair
Summer or Winter, Autumn or Fall are the measurement of the wobbling spin, a revoltin’ gig.
No ho, ho, ho and no jinglin’ bells heard echoing in the streets, turnpikes and freeways jacked
People that don’t know each other drive along together to see someone they know, #Fakefact
Comfortable in a soft recliner with a warm, silk quilt in front of the open fireplace’s hot flame
Recollections of the past, dovetailing into presence, the presents that ain’t there to lay blame.
#FakeToys and #RealMcCoys for the girls and boys, children of the ripped and torn, my kin
Let their women make all of the noise to the teachers who taught the objective to the subjects
Becoming a man OR woman is to be One who does unto everyone else, in ONE’s only ZaZen
Be in the groove to love holy grandkids from a mystic conduit, Emptiness’ vault of #Fake sex.
Look into my eyes and see what I see inside of yours, me, all of me in the reflection’s own sun
No matter to worry about since it’s neither here nor there when it’s a matter of state of mind
Energy of the gluons, protons pullin’ their own microscopic weight in no particular direction
Waiting days and nights for the shakedown, of another POTUS Trump run, free sons of guns!
by
Richard Joseph Stephan
{ “...A treasured work of art, locked in a room in my heart!” -- @ Dino Paul Crocetti; June 7, 1917 – December 25, 1995}
c. FREEZEMBER 10, 2018 AD @ 5:05 PM PST
{ drafted for THE GREATEST GRANDCHILDREN OF ‘MY’ GRANDPOPS & GRANDMOMS listenin’ to #WhenYoureSmilin by Dean Martin link @ https://youtu.be/jxBgiYOzmQo }
F I N I S
W.W.A.R.D. ?
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