scrunchymacscruff

SIRS: Poem seeks POET! FOR fantastic fun LIFE. Must be mature and free to travel. Me: Unfinished..craftily conceived by the stroke of a pen! multi-lingual and verse-a-tile, A-hem! full of surprises and inventions, but not! appreciated by the general poetry loving public, –LOVE! meditating with the monks; swimming with cetaceans in deep ocean rivers; or simply hanging – pendulously – on a rope off the side of a cliff making love with the MOON! boxing shadows over the crispy pre-dawn waves; and if we fall in the abyss, C’est la vie, –Sinatra, you,YOU! Unpublished, unemployed, and underrepresented, –living in Mom’s basement? with a guitar and harmonica; and two or three chords and a cat..or glockenspiel if you will, YOU! are a heroic someone who dares taking risks, dauntless! unafraid of the social ostracization, –or any other thing! intimately familiar with the sting of rejection’s up close and personal, even..feckless DEATH! repeatedly!! slings, arrows, and all of the rest of it..spear-guns. Your durability’s legendary (with the cop’s), your sensitivity to aRT’s, one of the Modern Wonders! Me? I’m yours! you’re my Poet Laureate ‘Billy’ Shakespeare and I shall be..your muse! amused? To-do’s: 1) Make contact, –Write me down on a scrap of loose paper in your typical scrawl, doctor-ily, and straight from the heart..ad libitum! no scratch-out’s or second guesses permitted; for extra points, dust off that old ROYAL portable, insert a sheet – standard 8 1/2 x 11 – and type it up! 2) Delicately, enter me in the next Poetry Contest comes rolling down the tracks like a desirous streetcar, plunging into that “..dark and stormy night.” and see what beautiful music we make together, according to, –Them! NEA, NPR..FBI? &NASA; or any of the other 50+ SO-CALLED experts..nincompoops! Oy!! and – next stop – Si! the presidents hanging the prized golden medal for poetry upon your proud, sweating neck in the White House Reception Area..hoary head bent down, chin tucked in chest, eyes squeezed shut (in ecstasy) to receive due recognition, Ach! long overdue, too, –’cause we’re so good together! you and me, what a great relationship!! without you, I could not BE! YOU are thee greatest poet!! I adore you..you, you,YOU! Love, Your Poem

~c. Ps: THANKS! you been a great audience. Pps: I shot a poem in the air..where it fell? it’s in your hair.

Looking down, through an aperture, unruly white hair, and whiskers..jaws of a cave! at blackness, nothing. Mind is a blank. Brain wants to see something so it notices nondescript Coffee-cup cradled in hoary Hands. This is the same view HE has seen since time immemorial, since YOUTH, now receding to the VERIZON with a mild, melodramatic flair and that, instantly..from School days and WILD IN THE STREETS, to morning farrts, –The Big Deal of the Day, nowadays. Coffee, Black..with White cat, Steve’s cat. Steve in heaven. We shared a lot together, me and my old friend, routinely running afoul of the local authorities as well as state and fe’rrels..in partnership, strong union, against the necessary evil in our mists; and in the thick of things we had each others’ back, shared each others’ dreams..and set-backs, always helped (each other, with problem-solving, –when dealing with The Governemnt to try and do something they’re making you do, there’s always some trap-door you fall through and wind up paying way more than you bargained for, far more than was initially demanded..a set-up). Steve was the only human who faithfully suffered my constant outflows of poetry and the continuous revisions of it, bore them with cheer, and good grace; and a stoicism that can only happen when you’re dealing with a person..descended from the Greeks. CHAPTER TWO..

Chapter 2 I remember the county. It’s not really personal with them, nothing is..unless you make it that; but it always feels personal, even though, when you break it down it’s not, the devil is in the details. And it’s only about the money; it’s always been about the money, and power over the underservedContinue reading “Looking down, through an aperture, unruly white hair, and whiskers..jaws of a cave! at blackness, nothing. Mind is a blank. Brain wants to see something so it notices nondescript Coffee-cup cradled in hoary Hands. This is the same view HE has seen since time immemorial, since YOUTH, now receding to the VERIZON with a mild, melodramatic flair and that, instantly..from School days and WILD IN THE STREETS, to morning farrts, –The Big Deal of the Day, nowadays. Coffee, Black..with White cat, Steve’s cat. Steve in heaven. We shared a lot together, me and my old friend, routinely running afoul of the local authorities as well as state and fe’rrels..in partnership, strong union, against the necessary evil in our mists; and in the thick of things we had each others’ back, shared each others’ dreams..and set-backs, always helped (each other, with problem-solving, –when dealing with The Governemnt to try and do something they’re making you do, there’s always some trap-door you fall through and wind up paying way more than you bargained for, far more than was initially demanded..a set-up). Steve was the only human who faithfully suffered my constant outflows of poetry and the continuous revisions of it, bore them with cheer, and good grace; and a stoicism that can only happen when you’re dealing with a person..descended from the Greeks. CHAPTER TWO..”

Eyeball, golden eye..eye, Innes’ fishbowl looks at ‘Goldie’ Fisch, flatly swimming, looking (seeing, –?) through glass, rhymes with..SASS, don’t back-sass! you, um, you, –uh-oh, poetry!! have, some respect..for your elders, thee elder poet’s (bad dog’s! sic ’em!!) The glass, holding the water bright, clear, contained all in a mass, unified waves wiggles light about the goldfish’s liquid..flight! suspended, jiggly translucent boun-daries, seeing, fish-eye lenses, –electro-magnetic forces flow – from somewhere – in wires to coil copperhead bursting telephone’s bell..bubbles! does FISH hear it ring? at liberty, in his lil ol’ world, his make-believe kingdom, in the sea?? Si??? See, I’ve had these questions for some time, on my mind, but never gotten ’em answered..yet! I worked around food, once, around the clock, –I rocked, part time surfer, see? sea rider! when I was younger with no hair on my chinny chin-chin and was bunk-mates with ‘Humphrey’ up north in nineteen-eighty-five (we resided down at Neptune’s Youth Hostel, in thee inne together, til he split for a jag east up the ‘Sacramento’..and they couldn’t turn him ’round, –“NOW DON’T YOU LET THE POLITICIANS..TURN YOU ‘ROUND, TURN YOU ‘ROUND, TURN YOU ‘ROUND! NOW DON’T YOU, LET THE POLITICIANS, TURN YOU ‘ROUND, MARCHIN’ IN THE FREEDOM BA-A-AND..A-hem!”) So, –But I was told, then, to do that (the food service) I must wear a hair-net, it’s the law! Wot? Goldfish swimming in eyeballs ocean, oceans ballroom seems to understand..a net! a net, placed meticulously on one’s head, Annette, can only send ah, a message: TODAY you will not find a hair in your precious soup or goldfish’s bowl, Whoop-dee-doop-dee-doop! our ancestral hole, at Anathoth – Loop-da-loop – here’s her LAGOON! “Shoo-bop! shoo-bop! WHOO!” where lawyers came from (primordial broth); and – Kennedy said it once – “If one is enslaved, then all are not free.” JFK..See? So what then? should we all be wearing our goverrment hair-nets be-cause of the flu? the asiaTIC flu?? so it won’t spread, even on a thin slice of nice and sturdy, grainy white/wheat bread (to me&you); or, like a whale will we be, for-ever caught..in Annette? i wonder. Bach’s fishbowl contained no fish, but a (infinite) variety of musical notations in abundance, there, swimming in his fat, bar-o-quee head he, the leading Kapellmeister, put’em all down on paper..whale of a score them was, –Saint John’s Passion, for one, ’nuff said? Well..Alexander’s ragtime naval forces band found their way, THERE! where bam-boo orientals’ rickety boats wantonly sailed thee uncharted waters in nasty&foul weather’s a-like and beat the Hindoo’s there, thee Injuns (but no squalls); but in the end it killed um, –like they always do. Simply put his golden goldfish brain could not contain all of Persia’s charms, and schemes – he held some in his arms (perchance, dream) – to forge his worldly kingdom, bought through a new bloodline..with fancy wives THAT was the plan; and never again to see the Athenians’ coast he loved so dear, –he was a sort of god to all of them..Greeks! (he said so, and they said, “Yeah whatever whatever works..Dude”); and that same failure, of identity I suppose, was one of Caesar’s, too..in a sense. Senses lie, kings lie; rugs, the Persian rugs, they do lie, and so do I, I lie – I lie like a rug (Pers’an my lips!) – ‘neath the hostile searing sun that regards me not! no, not ’til the battle’s won, except to get me a sunburn and not a tan, why! because I-europeancaucasiancolony-boy, born ‘n’ bread, of corn..of course! corn-bred..like I said. And even, if CAREFULLY under sun’s rays like roasting marshmallow’s (courtesy of Egyptians and their, hole-istic healing scien-ces, on a shtick, Oy!) I turn not swarthy and brown, like they..like the suntan-products-for-sultans ad’s suggest (or imply); but burst in flames and blacken! as was the case, legendary! so to speak, of the un-prison’d Icarus, Son of Dedaluszilla, ex-caped! box-kiting it, with flaming arrows whizzing by on cool afternoon’s summer breeze, and crash-landing, “Summer breeze, makes me feel fine!” in the Mediterranean, –see? on the rocks, what! WHY? ’cause wings of wax will not do, no! no, never, not for me, and not for YOU! the hot wax, the hot AMARICAN wax. Well, that’s it..let’s end this doggerel now, once and for all (for now..for all you poet dogs), and go and visit, a Z00! and see the animals, including snakes there, –their all, like..wow. [Sic]

~c. Ps: Return my forever..Please! Pps: Find-a the poem’s in the pizza..and save the whales. Of course!

Q: Given all the Socio-economic political terrorisms BEING LEVERAGED against us..what with The covid, COV! COV! and all, can we ever look forward and expect to have another deal like the WOODSTOCK arts&musci festival, peace&luv?, –ANSWER: YES, It’s handled, It’s been arranged, LIVE! TONITE ONLY: DEAD SUSPECTS..BRAY-FART..SHEEP THRILLS! LOS CONTAMINANTES; y Los Vatos! Plus Special Guests: TEN-4; also, THE SAMUEL DRUCKER EXPERIENCE (More to be announced as the ‘artists’ continue to get signed, don’t miss it, this the concert of the century..tickets, while they last!)

~c. ps: Just added! IVORY and the SOAP-SCUMS&INT 0’ERNIT and the DOT-COMMIES..Thanks you’ve been a great audience

What happens when you eat ice cream (yes, that’s a statement). I don’t know what happens to you, then, but when I am getting it out the dog hears the freezer door open and comes right over there by me. She’s a golden retriever more or less, I don’t know if that’s important; but she hears everything (like magnetic door-gasket seals separating from the ice-box going, “KRACKLE!”). Dogs and poets are like people..who like ice cream, –Hooked! (they are). Greeks didn’t make ice cream because they got no ice, ’cause over there the weather’s nice; and there were poets, too..and flies! like cause and effect; which didn’t go unnoticed by THEM! the Greek’s they had the scientists, too, believe you/me, –though, it could all be false..or lies. But anyway I guess they invented the poetry (da Greeks did it didn’t just invent itself). Poets don’t tell it like it is, they tell you a story..about WHAT IT IS (brother). Philosophers – immortal ones like James Brown: “It’s a ma-a-an’s world..” – did all the hard brain work while poets, poets do what comes easily, naturally..the clean-up; and that touches on philosophy, but is not bound by it. Well philosophy is great, up to a point; until it is consumed by its own rules (weighing heavy upon the SOUL). Where is the fun in that? Poest,POET’S! poets connive to figure it out how to bypass the rules, and people hate that about us. “Well we have to do it like this so why shouldn’t they?” Good poets are few. And they hate all the bad poets. Why? because the bad poets suck all the oxygen out of the room whenever the awards are being handed out..for the poetry (for more on that see Rod McKuen; whose name I believe is a bad poem by the way, I think..I think you should think about it). The Unknown Poet probably, when no one was looking, will donate a turd..in lieu of a word. Is that called concrete poetry? Maybe, after it hardens some: Exhibit A (might take a few days). Is it any good? turd, at the gate; ‘stead-o’-words..like on a scrap of paper, –Mate?? Only the gods of poetry know that; but taken as a HOLE, and left for the philosophers or linguists to decide, it may be brilliant! or just sour grapes. I believe that’s a fable..from the Greeks of course, most of our stuff IS, like left-overs from estate sales set up on the Mount Olympus, nothing new under the sun, beating! beating down on the heads of all us poet-centaurs gamboling among goddesses, strumming our lyres pen-in-hooves ‘neath humm’s of beehives, –cemented up,UP! in limbs of trees..lazy spring afternoon, pollenating on fawnskin’s goat! get yours? did I, did I?? But as for the common volk (another word for common is vulgar), TURD, all you folks (and poetry councillors), that is something worth thinking about..turds, like words (a rhyming pair the hobbyist-poet Benjamin Franklin fancied) can have many meanings, and shades thereof; but you will aks/ask yourself (no doubt), “Is that a dog-turd?” If so, then we shall accept; but IF a poet’s turd THEN we hate it..because we hate poets (because they reject rules and get away with it and it’s unfair; and we hate THAT about THEM.) So! to know the difference you have to have somewhat of a discriminating palate; else you are plainly just another run-of-the-mill plebeian, eating your plain Greek yogurt..no fruit, no nuts. But it’s just raw material after all, having no value or even an existence until one of the gods changes it, by making it into a something, with a mild output of divine energy, “Zzt!” maybe add little honey; or changing it, from its sort-of earthbound condition..like, like when a man-poet starts his finger-painting project, tentatively smearing at it a bit, –floors, walls; or even a girl doing it, girl poet-goddess! poking at it wit-a-shtick, “Oy!” but that’s getting into the nebulous area of PERFORMANCE ART’s a thing to be avoided..egregious! all philosophers agree: VOTED Worst Art (genders and sh**s-for-brains notwithstanding). So! now, getting back to what happens when you eat the ice cream..not YOU,you personally, but rather, the figurative YOU, the collective YOU..the humanity all around us/you’s, which, “..oh! the humanity!” which..well, I don’t know about all of that, oarawluvyooz; but only I..I, THE JURY-POET! decider of poetry contests (and totally unbiased by the way) what happens with me when I get da ICE CREAM. So here it is

totally. This gets to the core of the science, BELIEVE SCIENCE! (you must). So, as we are told by the neurologists – which is a branch of medical science – when you taste the ice cream, and you’re like, going, “MM! MM! mm-MM-mm!” you are not actually having a direct experience with the product onContinue reading “What happens when you eat ice cream (yes, that’s a statement). I don’t know what happens to you, then, but when I am getting it out the dog hears the freezer door open and comes right over there by me. She’s a golden retriever more or less, I don’t know if that’s important; but she hears everything (like magnetic door-gasket seals separating from the ice-box going, “KRACKLE!”). Dogs and poets are like people..who like ice cream, –Hooked! (they are). Greeks didn’t make ice cream because they got no ice, ’cause over there the weather’s nice; and there were poets, too..and flies! like cause and effect; which didn’t go unnoticed by THEM! the Greek’s they had the scientists, too, believe you/me, –though, it could all be false..or lies. But anyway I guess they invented the poetry (da Greeks did it didn’t just invent itself). Poets don’t tell it like it is, they tell you a story..about WHAT IT IS (brother). Philosophers – immortal ones like James Brown: “It’s a ma-a-an’s world..” – did all the hard brain work while poets, poets do what comes easily, naturally..the clean-up; and that touches on philosophy, but is not bound by it. Well philosophy is great, up to a point; until it is consumed by its own rules (weighing heavy upon the SOUL). Where is the fun in that? Poest,POET’S! poets connive to figure it out how to bypass the rules, and people hate that about us. “Well we have to do it like this so why shouldn’t they?” Good poets are few. And they hate all the bad poets. Why? because the bad poets suck all the oxygen out of the room whenever the awards are being handed out..for the poetry (for more on that see Rod McKuen; whose name I believe is a bad poem by the way, I think..I think you should think about it). The Unknown Poet probably, when no one was looking, will donate a turd..in lieu of a word. Is that called concrete poetry? Maybe, after it hardens some: Exhibit A (might take a few days). Is it any good? turd, at the gate; ‘stead-o’-words..like on a scrap of paper, –Mate?? Only the gods of poetry know that; but taken as a HOLE, and left for the philosophers or linguists to decide, it may be brilliant! or just sour grapes. I believe that’s a fable..from the Greeks of course, most of our stuff IS, like left-overs from estate sales set up on the Mount Olympus, nothing new under the sun, beating! beating down on the heads of all us poet-centaurs gamboling among goddesses, strumming our lyres pen-in-hooves ‘neath humm’s of beehives, –cemented up,UP! in limbs of trees..lazy spring afternoon, pollenating on fawnskin’s goat! get yours? did I, did I?? But as for the common volk (another word for common is vulgar), TURD, all you folks (and poetry councillors), that is something worth thinking about..turds, like words (a rhyming pair the hobbyist-poet Benjamin Franklin fancied) can have many meanings, and shades thereof; but you will aks/ask yourself (no doubt), “Is that a dog-turd?” If so, then we shall accept; but IF a poet’s turd THEN we hate it..because we hate poets (because they reject rules and get away with it and it’s unfair; and we hate THAT about THEM.) So! to know the difference you have to have somewhat of a discriminating palate; else you are plainly just another run-of-the-mill plebeian, eating your plain Greek yogurt..no fruit, no nuts. But it’s just raw material after all, having no value or even an existence until one of the gods changes it, by making it into a something, with a mild output of divine energy, “Zzt!” maybe add little honey; or changing it, from its sort-of earthbound condition..like, like when a man-poet starts his finger-painting project, tentatively smearing at it a bit, –floors, walls; or even a girl doing it, girl poet-goddess! poking at it wit-a-shtick, “Oy!” but that’s getting into the nebulous area of PERFORMANCE ART’s a thing to be avoided..egregious! all philosophers agree: VOTED Worst Art (genders and sh**s-for-brains notwithstanding). So! now, getting back to what happens when you eat the ice cream..not YOU,you personally, but rather, the figurative YOU, the collective YOU..the humanity all around us/you’s, which, “..oh! the humanity!” which..well, I don’t know about all of that, oarawluvyooz; but only I..I, THE JURY-POET! decider of poetry contests (and totally unbiased by the way) what happens with me when I get da ICE CREAM. So here it is”

Cats are kind of a design miracle, you know? poetry in motion, as it were! They start out in a pile..squeaking blobs of wet fur, squirming inside a cardboard box lined with towels (or blankets), –eyes taped shut, fighting over a teat; and next playing army all over the house, springing an ambush from around the corner of a chair..with conspicuous scratches to the upholstery; or taking out a machine-gun nest at the top of the curtains, clawing his way to the top, carrying a hand grenade..in the skin of his baby teeth! then, a little dry food with a milk chaser. Eventually Mom cuts them off, they’re on their own, now..in front of the supermarket, confined, once again, to a cardboard box; and a sign hung on their stiff little necks: FREE KITTENS “Mom! Mom!! can we keep this one? Ohh, pleeze, he’s so cute!” A horrible fate; but then it sure beats a free one-way ticket to the research-lab’s. And there’s always the not unlikely chance that that kitty-cat will be the next king, sweet-smelling in his fur..sweet as his own spit! and an early retirement. New ruler of the old neighborhood:

~c. “Here, kitty-kitty!”

To0 whom it (is that shows a total lack of) concern’s: Dear (MCCC) president, As a former pupil enrolled in your fine school I am somewhta appalled at having to write this, a letter of protest against the department at MAT..you can kindly take out the ‘ART’ part of Media Arts Technology (exclamation-point). I went to mcccx to finish a degree in art I almost concluded in 1984 but in any case did not. I was just going for one semester to take a print-making course..something

I had overlooked while attending USC; and when discovered, I found they were only able to hand me a dummy diploama at the graduation ceremony (a ‘dummy’ this dummy still has). There at Oceanside (MCCC junior-college), I found the class I needed to finish the req’s for my Bachelors’ and was excited beyond measure when,Continue reading “To0 whom it (is that shows a total lack of) concern’s: Dear (MCCC) president, As a former pupil enrolled in your fine school I am somewhta appalled at having to write this, a letter of protest against the department at MAT..you can kindly take out the ‘ART’ part of Media Arts Technology (exclamation-point). I went to mcccx to finish a degree in art I almost concluded in 1984 but in any case did not. I was just going for one semester to take a print-making course..something”

Sunday’s message, NOTES: Unto him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood, 6 And hath made us kings and priests unto God and his Father; to him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. When I was a child I spoke as a child..for now through a glass darkly (our understanding of who we are to the Father)..behold I shew you a mystery..we shall not all sleep; but we shall all be changed. Psalm 23..O! taste and see that the LORD is good. -and the sea shall give up her dead. Revelation 4:6 And before the throne there was a sea of glass like unto crystal; and in the midst of the throne, and round about the throne, were four beasts full of eyes before and behind..lion, calf, man..flying eagle. 11 4&20 elders: Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honor and power; for thou hast created all things, and for thy pleasure they are and were created. 5:4 And I wept much, because no man was found worthy to open and to read the book, neither to look thereon. 6 ..9 ..thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation; 10 And hast made us unto our God kings and priests: and we shall reign on the earth. 11 ..beheld, heard voice of angels, beasts, elders..10kX10k&k’s&k’s..all creatures, heaven, earth&everywhere: (w/a loud voice) Worthy is the lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, &strength&honor&glory,&blessing. (1st at the throne, then every creature every where) then the 4 beasts said amen and the elders fell down and worshipped him that liveth for ever and ever. 6:9 5th seal..those slain for their testimony 7:3..20:4 ..souls of them..beheaded for the witness of Jesus and for the word of G_d 13 And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered 21..saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first were passed away; and there was no more sea. 2 ..new Jerusalem..(bride..coming down from God out of heaven..pure gold, like unto clear glass..22 no temple therein; for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it.) 22:2 ..river, water of life clear as crystal proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb..either side of river was there the tree of life..12 fruits..yielded every month: leaves for healing of nations. Take no offense for the love of G_d

~cris ps: Somebody said I preached it good. Wife, actually.

Doves (hearing them in my ear) cooing, are landing on your head, your hair softly flaming in a new sunrise; a lizard, little black one with tiny dots for eyes, crawling across your nose, smells something. It’s this poem..terrible, –Surprise!

~c. Ps:Did the Russians invade Washington, yet? Nan-cee! they’re coming to getya, Babe..Chuck-ee! Chuckee-cheeze..Louise.

WHY I LOVE VLADIMIR PUTIN – TOP 10: ~10) Because..he’s not Pelosi&Chuck Shmoomer; 9) He’s not lindsey graham; 8) The FAKE news hates him; 7) He is leader of a great country with an amazing history; 6) He’s not obamma; 5) Like those mentioned previously God has placed him in a position of authority in the manner of kings..and I aught to respect that; 4) Because he’s not Barbra Streisand&Joseph Stalin; 3) According to FAKE news he has a nice looking girlfriend; 2) Girlfriend is in Switzerland..if FAKE news-journalists can be trusted; and

NUMBER 1: Because Jesus commands it and that should make it a piece of cake. ~c. PS: Pray for President Putin to settle peaceably with People of Ukraine and souls to be saved. Pray for the Republic (USA), return to God..in Jesus’ name, Amen!