W.W.A.R.D.?
Saturday, March 09, 2019
#MysterySolved #MovedFirstAndLast @ricoSacto #ricoSacto
GETTING LAID, A FIREMAN’S STYX*
Underneath a broken Ad sign on top of the brick building at Harlem & Lake, gangsters’ fight
There was a secret entrance underneath the cellar that crossed the road in a sewer of knaves
With the rats my grandpa showed me in the traps near Ohio & Wood street, a Sicilian delight
Where I come from, where I was born and suckled, nurtured near Ashland & Chicago Aves.
Comin’ home with candy from Brach’s, my grandpa popped a vein and into a coffin’s wake up
Never got to ask them why they came to die, caravan to a #DesplainesRiver cemetery mix-up
I couldn’t always be full of grace and Catholic virtue, but I did get out of Chicago alive, MFers
#Death nearly arrested my benign attention, God dam it, magnets attracted evil dog howlers.
Putting the hot porridge out to cool on the window sill the dogs came and waited for the end
When the silverware clinks on the bottom of the bowl for a remnant of a lick or two, depends
On the way I feel and the opportunity that doesn’t knock, sneaks up behind your old bones
Vibrations inside the heads, where the gongs bang, inside the kegs of suds, mash corn-pones.
Only you know and I know what this is all about, nobody else really cares much about life
Break hearts for real or figuratively from east to south and north to west sides, bytes of strife
Glory holes suckin’ the joy out of the last refuge of scoundrels, happiness in ignorant bliss
From One we come, maybe two, that’s alright, it’s this holy trinity ghost I can’t see, no tryst.
No changing the tune in the middle of a medley rant, just get your kicks on Rt. Seventy Three
Jersey to California to Alaska and Hawaii and back, love all 50 states of logic’s ninth illusion
Cats scratch autographs for the checks of debits, traded for silver pieces of eight, me booty
Function of the equations is to measure the Time in Space, to wonder if to be or not, is to be.
by
r j j stephan, i *Header is a tribute to my hometown, where I come from, Chicago Avenue!
c. March 9th, 2019 A.D. @ 10:10 AM PST { a cornucopia of noise from the diotynic dream }
{ drafted while simmering on goin’ to Starbucks (4332 Watt Avenue, North Highlands, CA) for a #Cappucino and listenin’ to Styx #PiecesOfEight #ImOK link @ https://youtu.be/8FkEtB075Ng?list=PLAFA5AC6331D3F6BD & a special treat about #ClimateChange & #Plankton on youTube link @ https://youtu.be/cpUf2EAmHxk }
W.W.A.R.D.?
Friday, March 08, 2019
#3DisasterInTheDesert @TheRollingStones #GotGreenMoss @Aristophanes
INTO WILD, OLD BLUE EYES’ SKIES
Put yourself in the place where nobody else has ever been, without a roadmap, expect success
It’s willed to flow down from snow-capped mountaintops all the way down to gravity’s recess
Impolite to disregard the nature of the sophisticated ladies and gentle people, even some men
To have been made up with coloring powder and face of he purple people eaters in a lion den.
Finest lookin’ skeletons walkin’ around on the surface, swim only when bikinis drop derriere
Below the Mason-Dixon line or above it, a struggle to survive begins with a farmer’s daughter
Finally the struggles end as body clocks stop, Time halts in the Space warp, burnin’ god’s eye
If you haven’t tried it yet, there’s no way you will, shoot shots in the end, sunrise up, then die.
For the sake of all orphans in empty space, collapsed into a Void of sisters without mothers
Sons of men and mice, roaches and the lizzards, priests, nuns and outlaws of step brothers
Peace and War just two places for shotguns and pistols, amending seconds, boom boom-pow
In the clouds of the beauties and their ugly step-sisters, nothin’ to worry about, ebb and flow.
Every time there is a reason to bake the dough, we run out of the gas to burn, can’t bake it
Fire and ice is both the necessary and sufficient reasons to suspect that real things are not
Real that is, jackin’ your style and puttin’ my money where my mouth is, I bet you ain’t shit
Not because you don’t think you are, I know the ego I see clouding your vision’s blind spot.
Spectacular lights as above, so below the conscious awareness of the spirit, the soul of Ra
Inside of a body or the small fragments of mutated acid down in the dessert salt mines of Ga
Lies to the chief, naked truths broadcast to the urchins’ decaying carbon, botchin’ my revelry
At least we got to surf the waves, tan on the beach, had ecstasy to the very end, I lied to me.
by
r j j stephan, i
c. March 8th, 2019 A.D. @ 4:20 on #RichStephan’s my #1 son born on this day in 1973 A.D. & he and his brother remain my only two contributions to the #Herd of the #BeastOfBurden
{ *drafted while jammin’ to #HITS of the THE ROLLING STONES 2018 LIVE concert on youTube link @ https://youtu.be/9WqQyMsonQ0 }
W.W.A.R.D.?
Thursday, March 07, 2019
#WhereDoYouThinkYouCanGo? #NowhereIsCloseEnough
A PRINCIPAL WITH #1 PRINCIPLE *
March on, during the “Ides” I learned Francis Bacon was Shakespeare, he hacked the whiffs
Another Bill of lefts and rights, uppercuts and roundhouses to knock out the conscious stiffs
A quip or two to persuade my father that I was that smart-asse all kids and adults fads’ trends
Systematic dissolution of conscious thought and bodily extinction and decay, #Good offends.
Not just because I love to shock monkeys and make ‘em uncomfortable in caps of coonskin
But also because I myself, need to focus upon it a moment, an asteroid-spawned, fool’s mate
So here we are the 48th year after the booze-fest of teenage angst, drafted in a monkey’s bin
On a mission for the head or tail of the human putsch from the continental drifts, atomic fate.
Proof for the indefensible, undefinable and unbelievable, only you know like I know, misters
Not for a small reason, a big deal, this is a big, big deal, so what, who cares, not me, you do
Long stem roses are all history, no more flowers once in a while, once a year anyway, boo
Not something I’ve thought about much but I’d say I’ve traded gold for a thousand flowers.
Go out on the weekends until you need to go drinkin’ on the weeknights and drink before 6
Or after 6, AM or PM, amazing how the fire in the water becomes One with your DNA’s #Six
The exit and the entrance remain closed to the denizens of this Twilight Zone, like it or not
You’re stuck for nine innings, four quarters, three periods or just the duration of God’s plot.
They said we inherited this from the First ones who muffed up the perfection of blood rips
But why the progeny must pay for the sins of the fathers sounds like Slavery, indenturement
Standards for society of the twenty-first century written on the basement of pyramid crypts
Out of sequence in chaos’ disorder, I’m in Time’s Space, Will of asteroids the Big Bang sent.
by
r j j stephan, i { *Happy Anniversary to whomever may have had a #FalseAlarm in 1973 }
c. Thursday, March 7th, 2019 A.D. @ 1:11 PM PST
{ drafted while #Grovvin inside of the womb of the Void where #Wiseguys fear to go & listenin’ to the #YoungRascals #AllTheBest on youTube link @ https://youtu.be/-OJlfgSBNkY }
FINIS ECSTASY
Wednesday, March 06, 2019
#ComeAndGitYourLove #RightHereRightNow
RAINING, SNOWING, CRYS O’ SKIES
NIMBY is the WORD of the day and that is what will be done from yesterday to tomorrow
Huckleberry Fin would have just moved on as the cartoon would have you believe, a low blow
On a factoid which may, in fact, be a gleaning of #FakeNews muscle cut to BBQ on the pyres
You and I know nothing more than anyone who has ever lived, as much as the unborn fires.
I gave it all when I did not want to give any at all, there is no will to power, it’s arrhythmical
The magic, the occult, the digital unknown left off by silicon valley UFO backengineer pals
Little glue sniffers who used to make plastic airplanes, cars and boats, high on glue you fools
Nobody told the 8 or 9 year old why he acted crazy as a loon, no psycho-analysis in schools.
Swearing to the slaves and the masters that this is all there is, there is no doubt that it’s true
Blind faith in the lizard brain inheritance of the evolved amoeba from the swamp’s residue
Upon the social media you and I pray to the gods that the server doesn’t crash into Katmandu
All there is left at the point of no return is Nothing but what you see, blinded by bloody blues.
Perfectly interesting pumping the sewers to ream through the pipes of the excreted groceries
Gold under the ground, stinking to high heaven, ferment what the bones shat into the ground
Love of pure air, pure water and your mother’s milk, the stuff inside the teats not the tin cans
Always subtract from perfection one way or another, I’ve once again stooped pretty low man.
I’ll die free, a man alone, married twelve times two, on a northbound train to the Yukon gold
Without ice and hot rocks that make the world go around, rollin’ country in the city’s house
Drawin’ lines in the sand, puttin’ fences and walls up higher than the goats jump, so I’m told
Wind and rain are what makes the world roll, our home’s skies cry, on a maggot and a louse.
by
r j j stephan, i “....if the tears roll down like rain....well then......you know......let her be!”
c. March 5th, 2019 A.D. @ 4:10 PM PST
{ drafted while listenin’ to Darius Rucker on youTube #LetHerCry & HITS youTube link @ https://youtu.be/WB5iDs-kxUw?list=PLME6FOIvldEW9Re-1NIKNpaClci359xdx }
FINIS
Monday, March 04, 2019
#FromA2Z #INeverBeenToHeaven & #IveBeenToOklahomaAndArizona
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