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Doubting Thomas luxuriates under Dylanesque milkweed

made fibrous threads...constituting heavy blanket
(crocheted by the missus)
on a cool Autumn like morning...

to stave off experiencing getting
chilblains, goosebumps,
or subjected to the blast of cold air
wafting thru the opened bedroom window
on a frosty early August morning
about a month before official start of Autumn.

Quite refreshing the brisk temperatures
courtesy a cold front
that allows, enables, and provides
a harbinger and foretaste
when those hazy, hot, and humid, languid
and torpid days of summer quickly forgotten
as the lazy fox jumped over the brown dog
the latter slumbering
after weathering triple digit temperatures
record breaking heat waves
for the history books.

Though generally prone to being tired
subsequently driven to be a caffeine junkie
unable to swing from trees like me monkey
forebears, I get energized
after an early afternoon siesta
in tandem with the missus
unwittingly actualizing, employing,
implementing, and underwriting
Sir Isaac Newton's first law of motion
also known as the law of inertia, states
that an object at rest will remain at rest,
or if in motion, will remain in motion
at a constant velocity
unless acted upon by an external force.

The above immovable status of one body,
albeit human an ideal synopsis of yours truly
all throughout his doggone life, especially
when a student (at the School of Hard Knocks)
remaining deaf, dumb
and mute to the webbed wide world:
if asked a question responding with
my quintessential shoulder shrug,
which characteristic inherited
courtesy our youngest
and second born daughter.

Cold winter days 
seem closer on the horizon,
when yours truly sequesters,
and cloisters himself with bad company -
not by personal choice -
i.e. those pesky fruit flies riddling man cave
within four walls of apartment unit b44
for seven long years of penal solitude
(denuded of cell bate)
unlike conventional Norwegian bachelor farmers
living social during their Neptune salad days 
and a side apertif of powder milk biscuits.

Ungroomed hair on head and face
found my mother back in the day
when I unfortunately lived under the same roof
as an emerging adult 
with mother and father;
she resorted to hashtagging me
(her one and only prodigal son)
as a member of the Ubangi tribe,
the name of peoples
who live in the Congo River basin
to the west of Mossaka,
while the Binga Pygmies and the Sanga
scattered through the northern basin.

Being demonized, humiliated, 
lambasted, psychologically 
like totally vilified et cetera 
(courtesy mommy dearest, 
who referred to me 
when a little boy as her monkey) 
kickstarted inferiority complex
and a love of bananas.

I ofttimes consider myself the missing link,
a hypothetical extinct creature   
thought to be an intermediate form 
in the evolutionary line between 
modern humans and their ape-like ancestors
scraping his knuckles along the ground
as he ambles along 
the boulevard of broken dreams
ejaculating primal grunts and groans
essentially the mating call
inevitably invoking ribald hyena like guffaws
from uber hominids within the human jungle,
who managed to lyft themselves 
by their bootstraps.
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