GRANTED, GARGANTUAN GOURDS
GRACE GARGANTUAN EGOS.
THEY GRACIOUSLY AND GRADUALLY
GRAVITATE, (THROUGH GRAVITY),
TO GIANT GROUND BASED GARAGES.
GUARANTEEING THAT GREAT BIG,
GIANT, GARGANTUAN GOURDS,
GETS GOOD GROUND ROOTS
GROWTH POTENTIAL...GRADUALLY!
Arson murder of 9 persons after the content of the tailor shop was stored in the garage Ciro Gargano his business Partner fireman gene Kalinowski the great cover up resulting in many more arson murders back off me with terrorist threats my prayers are with the fire captain who perished in that garage I’m totally reminded of Gargano arson murders 9 people died I have no fear of your intimidation very sad when city officials working for a wannabe crime boss covering up his arson murders doesn’t matter who you send to light the match set the blaze lives are taken I know what you did how you hide behind the undesirables to set blazes in garages trash cans tailor shops Fbi warned me my life would forever be in danger today my Chicago flag is hung in memory of all the lives that persished in your fires
Terrorist Brother
By Cathrin Stuart
A bully is too kind a word to bestow
On a person who will stoop ever so low
To inflict pain and torment on an innocent
A person that is pure evil and malevolent.
Like a dung beetle he looks for crap
Always tending to for a slap
Then he hides behind big brother
To make those he torments suffer.
His younger sister could not escape
Beat and trapped her under stilted place
Bruised, bleeding, soiled she begged and pleaded
She must feel how in boarding school he was treated.
If anyone took him on for what he did wrong
Mommy and daddy would join the throng
Blaming everyone for his bad behaviour
Not accepting lack of discipline their failure.
Burning down classrooms or garages
Mommy covered and paid the charges
Stealing his parents blind or drunken threats
Excuses and pity they make with no regrets.
They protect their terrorist like he is something precious
Beat his wires, took their money, a parasite - heteroecious
Abandoned his daughter; to put herself through school
Yet you may not object to this person so cruel.
A listless wall-clock tocks.
Pedestrians sleep-walk to their garages,
strung out nightwalkers arrive home
to unwind main springs.
Neighborhood cats want in and dogs out.
Pet-free I arise
to pee.
Hung upon marshmallow bones
I roll back onto the perspiring mattress,
Its pillows are still drunk on mind-fog.
The slamming of distant doors
tweaks fine ear hairs.
The clock stops to rethink the notion of time,
hands flop out of its face,
those hands will never reach the floor,
not until bare feet repossess the rug,
nor until my toes can hack their way through
its pile weave jungle,
only then
will the wall commence to tick,
and a thick-tongued world clock in.
Lumbering bulldozers grind
and rip trees and shrubs
from the empty lots, competing
with gas fumes, the noise
of trucks, and honking horns
on the busy thoroughfare.
Two gracious houses,
once precious home to families,
but long abandoned
and fallen into disrepair,
smashed to kindling,
hauled away for scrap
Just up the grassy hill
behind our senior residence,
we’ll watch another
commercial business go up.
Recent car wash on the corner,
now another bank? Fast food?
Alongside our apartments,
in the past, a Christmas tree farm,
sweet smelling pines replaced
with roads and new homes,
manicured lawns and two-,
sometimes three-car garages.
Countryside eaten away
by ever-increasing population
with insatiable desire for the
shiny, new, bigger and better,
for the quick and easy,
immediate convenience.
Afternoon teas exchanged for
socially beneficial cocktail parties.
Casual-, even sports-wear, in
the finest restaurants, rudeness
and boorish comments the norm,
“Gracious” suffering a slow death.
There may have been neighborhoods
with green lawns, playgrounds, and ballfields
a short walk from houses with enough
bedrooms for everyone.
Houses that stood apart from one another,
so owners could park cars in garages
set towards the back and then walk on paved
walkway to back doors leading to kitchens
with modern appliances,
but I live with five others in a three-bedroom
six-room railroad room apartment fourth floor
walk-up in a six-story row tenement house
on a block with twelve other buildings,
exactly the same.
Built-in the late eighteen or early
nineteen hundreds.
Buildings riddled with cracked walls,
leaking ceilings, stuck windows,
overflowing toilets, mice, and roaches
that were there to stay, with garbage cans
'most missing covers' in alleyways
that rats owned after dark, leading, to.
Courtyards with ‘No Loitering’ signs posted,
where we played hopscotch, hit the stick,
marbles, red light green light one two three.
Where Valerie’s mom jumped into from
the roof to.
That summer’s day my mother said that
‘we were moving’.
A picture
Behind the mountain, as seen in this photo
I lived, in a small village, for 31 years
The hillside of the mountain only had a few farms
narrow tracks fit for sheep and mules
The houses had narrow entrances because
the people were not of tall stature and lived modestly
and believed in God
The men didn’t live long, and the women usually
went on living twenty years more; the reason for this
I blame the Medronho, which is imbibed too often.
The hillside exploded one-day building activities
for people (tourists) to find Portugal a beautiful
a place to live and get old.
Only when people get old do hanker
for the country, they came from and sold out
that was good for real estate, and prices went up
so much so that the hillside became a sought-after place
almost posh, with garages and newly asphalted roads.
When driving to my home behind the mountain
I had to drive around, but now it is possible to drive over
the top and down, which is good for those who like heights
But it must be said, the old road was more seer friendly
Nevertheless, the mountain is charming in winter light.
PS. The phone was not charged
I feel sorry for the dead rat.
It was not an urban or country,
it was a suburban rat; it had a code of behavior.
It never infested, or stole
it strolled these leafy avenues
with a certain rodent pride.
It’s Autumn
and the trees are aflame with
medium income wealth,
the foliage lush
cultivated to be plush.
Yet here under a mighty maple
lies the body of a noble rat;
rigor mortis
cannot hide from our eyes
its once lordly existence.
With my foot,
I cover it with a blanket of
regal red and golden leaves,
as if it were a fallen eminence
of a minor kingdom,
a place where even rats
may claim title
to two or even three car garages.
The sidewalk is littered with pavement crack weeds.
The road’s full of hot tar mirages.
It leads past the neighborhood’s untended needs,
Trash cans and one-car garages.
The curbstones have ceded their sovereign role
Of guiding the rainwater’s current.
As dammed as they are by their dandelion shoal,
They act as a drainage deterrent.
I noticed a penny pressed into the road.
Its owner had long since departed.
I pried up the copper and made it my own,
And felt one cent less broken hearted.
Fire does not discriminate. She treats us all equally.
She consumes everything in her path – wood, cotton, linen.
Leaves gray and black smoldering devastation behind.
Popping and crackling, she inches up like a snake.
Trees, houses, sheds, garages, churches, shudder and fall.
Bowing to her majesty, as she races past, ignoring their genuflection.
Deaf hands knit a screaming dream.
Dream a lot and randomly create.
Create a mind-site to build upon.
Upon a stone sharpen your wits.
Wits flutter in brain-boxes.
Boxes stack the air in sealed garages.
Garages open to let a dashboard Jesus out.
Out of the tomb, daylight-time is saved.
Who will be first to climb the dawn light?
Daybreak stretches its gray tendons
to high windows,
dim reflections foreshadow
strings of geese -
all is a leaving.
Some wake up in cardboard boxes.
Some drive ahead of themselves,
the overheated skid backwards into empty garages.
Cops in Irish pubs drink whisky
with black morning coffee.
The night is slow to die.
There’s a virus going around they say.
Some wake up dying,
some night-walkers go home
to their daydreams.
The town will wear a different mask for a while,
on the freeway rubber rolls to elsewhere.
A limp light gutters,
shadows run low, scuttle into dank corners.
A last skein of geese has passed.
I am at my window watching,
some concrete cells are empty,
some watchers will not sleep again,
not before the next gasp of night
steals their breath away.
You've heard of me.
You've seen me around.
I nest in cabins, garages, sheds,
Trailer parks, abandoned buildings,
Even on your attic.
I'm not as cuddly as I look,
So don't come near me,
Or dare try to pet me;
You'll get a nasty bite on your finger!
Yes, I'm quite temperamental
And ferocious.
I'm a pest and a half
Who have invaded
almost every habitat you can imagine.
I'm a havoc-wreaker
Who does damage to gardens,
Crops and poultry;
I even knock over trash cans
while scavenging for food.
I hunt both on land and in water,
Munching on insects, fruits, nuts,
Mice, fish, frogs, turtles, etc.
I have gray fur, a ringed tail,
Black stripes on my face,
Long dexterous fingers
That can twist knobs and open doors.
I'm solitary and nocturnal.
I'm a Raccoon.
Date written: 11/14/2021
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Freedom, gone fishing!
The Peaceful Transfer of Power?
One Nation, stolen by Fraud,
With Liberty and Justice for none?
Tragically, our National Guard sleeping
in garages
All questions, new regime dodges.
~Malarkey Regime~
1/23/2021
~4~
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