7200
I ask myself that
question as the
Gregorian calendar
(an artificial
construct) zeros
in on yet another
January first,
which arbitrary
manmade
contrivance
(time pieces in
general) attempts
to cap cha this
tick lush tock
wah abstract
essence). A
whirled wide
webbed
convenience
prevails with
civilization
dependent on
the allotted
measured
invisible blocks
(albeit seconds,
minutes, hours....
decades, centuries,
millenniums)
without such
modus operandi
bedlam,
instagram,
mayhem, et
cetera would
run rampant.
Every waking
and sleeping
moment sans
existence
(even while/
when a potential
life manifesting
in utero)
avast BestBuy
Capitol-one
domain, egg
head fubar
groupon heartfelt,
knotted, linkedin
mumbling netizens
outlook
(progressive
quantity
severely
tethered) to
the articulation,
demarcation,
gradation contrived
expressed
formulation gear
ring Homo
intelligentsia
jerryrigged, kick
started, Lending-
tree, mortals nursed
on primetime,
quashed
restrictions
stultify the un
bridled variegated
whole-foods xing,
zombies assail
bodysnatchers
caparisoned
doppelganger,
eharmony
FitBits GoLong
hoover, insouciant
Jackdaws,
kindergartners
LivingSocial,
mine-crafting
narcissistic
onstar pinterest,
quicken router
startup, timepiece un
ceasing, vital
warnings urgent,
xenophobia
yin Zen.
No comprehension
extant within
this corporeal edifice,
who longevity
moves one
notch closer to
the century mark
come January
thirteenth. though
wrapped in this
anatomical,
cerebral, ethereal
gel, I keep
lamenting
merciless nagging
obloquy,
pestiferous
querulous ragging
slings tormented,
undergirded,
vitiated
worthiness,
x2c, zeal.
As a rhetorical
question, this mwm
doth query himself
asper, where
do I begin to
discover visa
vis myself, when
emotional, psycho
logical, and
spiritual flotsam
and jetsam
from prepubescent,
adolescent, and
early adulthood
washed up upon
the shoals of
middle age?
As this
baby boomer
doth approach
the closing
twelve months
of his fifth decade,
the sobering reality
of mortality,
dawns earlier, and
evinces drawing
dusk later, he reflects
on the for say ken
opportunities
(mostly crowded
around
the phase of
puberty) for
ever reminded
of his own hijacked
teenage (mutant
ninja turtle)
existence, which
oft times found me
withdrawing into
the figurative
tortoise shell
oven abysmal
mine kempf. Even
as of this writing,
the ark aid, charade,
facade, inlaid
masquerade,
staid black
parade bedevils
the better angels
within me.
Though outwardly
nary a
handy dandy
blues clues
discernible
viz mailer
daemons
(courtesy of
daddy's little
helpers - targeted
pharmacological
prescription
medication),
the sleep state
oft times serves
as a reservoir
dog dredging up
the ghost story
writ upon me
subconscious.
Matthew Scott
Harris looks him
self in the mirror
and sees a
Neanderthal
Man steering back
with a smirk at
this poor
reflection
of any particular
primate. This
bipedal simian
a generic John
Doe, whose
countenance,
one could easily
forget, or mistaken
for a Gorilla
(which identity,
would be a compliment
to me, and an
execrable, horrible,
intractable insult
to those majestic
regal simians.
