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Poem
Solitary rituals of mourning the write way, right?

Papa... bless his (your) heart and soul,
impossible mission your second born
sole male heir cingularly communicates,
viz his avocational crafted poem, since
written words, mine metier
write most pained words

with great difficulty, I
hesitantly, nonchalantly yet urgently call...
deep within bosom of master scribe
despite helpless tendency to bawl
inconsolably, cuz... sob...
honestly dad, I blink back unexpected tears

instinctually sensing regarding...
your final curtain call,
methinks (rather strongly intimates),
with unintended gall
intuit, the final encore
starring Boyce Brandon Harris

staged by nemesis i.e.
grim reaper well... since
April 9th, 1929 feted birth
celebrated amidst hall
of mountain kings actually
Aaron plus forefathers -

the latter disembodied,
ghosts of patriarchal, Judaic and genealogical
lineage since.... beginning of reckoned time
attired courtly getup couture,
appropriate for respective eras
whereby orthodox (just a hunch

acquired after visiting Notre Dame)
donned concomitant Jewish prayer shawl
trumpeted rock solid faith shofar
as I prevaricate, thus elaborate
the above illusory scenario concocted,
when gauzy troopers paid religious thrall

to holy fathers espoused
cultural preservation embedding droll
commentaries regaling glorified past
as well unbeknownst future naturally
predicting their humble people's
accomplishments modestly did extol

such who ha (think hands splayed
shoulder length apart palms upward),
yes... of course millenniums after
till celebrating prurience
bajillion years after purported
church lady playfully chided Adam and Eve Fall.

Now fast forward 
approximately six months prior all
across wide world yet tubby
webbed  oblate spheroid ball
infamous October stock market crash
yea, tis hard to imagine

thee as newborn learning to crawl
cuz now ye closely
approach River of Styx shoal
as thee life source
satisfactorily completed four and
score one year plus orbitz round the sun
with nary a trace of, New Yawk drawl,

tis mine grievance waged
against divine creator
allocating merely blink of eye
tenure upon terra firma
aware since birth, née since conception
so little consciousness allotted to each mortal
though phenomenal laudatory

encompassing long haul
characterizing life of smart Brooklyn boy
manifold quantum (virtually 
augmented physical) leaps surpassing
mine fumfering, dilly dallying, and ambling
forays linked into proto Neanderthal
descendent, who admirably succeeded
driving his (mine) mother and father up the wall.
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