Kooky King Kong kapellmeister

just jabbering gibberish (A - K)

Again, another awkward ambitious

arduous attempt at alphabetically

arranging atrociously ambiguously

absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.

Because...? Basically bonafide belching,

bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,

bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting

bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,

boasting bougainvillea background.

Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap

chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,

chafed centenary, codifies communication

cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably

cheerful college coed.

Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,

doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood

descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring

dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,

deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor

Demento double, declaring depraved

daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck

derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.

Eccentric, edified English exile,

effervescent, elementary, echinoderm

eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,

etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional

emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,

eschatologically entranced, elongated

elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,

effectively experiments, emulates epochal

eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,

exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting

emphysema.

Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative

flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,

fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,

felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,

flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,

faceless, feckless, financially forked,

foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled

feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,

fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs

"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating

fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.

Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,

goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,

genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,

gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,

garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,

gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic

giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy

gewgaw gazing gesticulating guy,

geographically generically germane,

gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,

guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns

ginning gumpshun.

Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,

haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,

hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely

hackneyed, heathen, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,

hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,

Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic

heterosexual Homo sapiens historical heirloom,

homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.

Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,

idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,

irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,

ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,

insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble

itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating

immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted

inside igneous intrusions immensely

imperturbable improbable.

Jovial jabbering jinxed January jokester

just jimmying jabberwocky

justifying jangling jarring juvenile jibberish

jubilantly jousting jittering

jazzy jawbreaking jumble

justifying, jostling, Jesus;

junior jowly janissary joyful Jekyll

joined jumbo Jewess jolly Jane;

jammed jello junket jiggled

jeopardized jingled jugs.

Kooky knucklehead klutz

knowingly kneaded, kicked, killed

knobby kneed kleptomanic.

My mother always had her birthday-

the one thing my father remembered, due to his children's tentative reminders.

Her stocking was always half full, and most years she was the one to fill it.

She only did it halfway, herself, too, feeling undeserving, thanking Santa for the sake of our happiness.

Belittled by a man with a wandering eye, a cabinet filled with vases that hadn't housed flowers in twenty years.

I remedy it now. I give her an oversized stocking overflowing with love and gratitude,

flowers on every holiday, treats just because.

Some women fear their daughters will make fun of their own mother at their fathers behest,

but I am nothing like my father. I am my mother's mirror image- one that will never insult, or spout insecurity.

Mirror holds

stranger's eyes —

both blink first

Time dissolves

in glass pools:

hours drown watching

Face wears

different masks:

all tell truth

Past lives

behind pupils —

future stares back

Wrinkles map

roads untaken:

skin keeps score

Years stack

in corners:

eyes grow heavy

Mirror whispers

ancient names:

memory drowns now

Glass ripples

with questions:

answers sink deep

Self splinters

into decades:

which one's real?

Reflection holds

longer talks

than reality allows

Morning finds

night's ghosts

still searching glass

Despite being a nineteen year old bride

she wed Boyce Brandon Harris

half a decade her senior,

(where I ranked less than a twinkle in their eyes)

during the month of June 1955,

not quite half a century later ~ May 4th, 2005

death severed the pledge she did troth

linkedin wifely role,

cuz against her will she died

at most four weeks to be more exact

golden wedding anniversary never witnessed

raging against accursed grim reaper

countenance succumbed into collective sorrow

life force forever absent snatched away,

yet magically transformed

into the breathing edenic idyll

courtesy green thumb of eldest sister of mine

once livingsocial mother of ours

invoking trademark contagious l'chaim

flickering aura, charisma, instant karma

persona could not hide mommy dearest

physically eclipsed after

rigor mortis displayed deathly pallor

bonafide grateful dead

signed, sealed and delivered

human cargo into crematorium.

Born November 13th,1935,

the presence of long since deceased mother

her absence acutely recounted on said date,

no matter familial relationship between us,

who begat yours truly (me)

fraught with antipathy,

especially when writer of these words

felt he long overstayed his welcome

as I racked up living with parents

while being a long haired

pencil neck baby boomer geek

experiencing dating women for the first time

courtesy thursday night contra dance.

Books ravenously digested

and female protagonists he brood

as an illusory substitute for this dude

whose retreat into his bedroom

kindled like tinder unidirectional family feud

and donned Samson guise as a protective hood,

whereby Beatle browed,

foo fighting literate philosophical thinker

envied groovy hippies of the late nineteen sixties

riffing lyrics of fab four

fabled melody of Hey Jude,

where testosterone laden fantasies

triggered whet dreams housed lewd

seminal urges pestering spouse,

who offtimes rarely in the mood

for a quickie with the dickie.

Mein kampf as a thirty plus year old groom

test teasing prophylactics embarrassing

purchase never made at local drugstore

unsurprisingly, obviously, invariably...

birth control taboo subject, best to ignore

subsequently intercourse awkwardly coordinated,

consummated, completed extempore

synonymous with phallic fulfillment

gonadal hormonal secretion

on par with the mythic sheet with a hole

through which prude and archaic

as modus operandi methodology

maternal grandparents supposedly copulated,

hence bun in the oven between self

and future missus Matthew Harris

wrought premarital sex bon jure.

I trot out essential tidbits of poem

acknowledging birthday of dear ole mom,

who succumbed to deadly terminal illness,

she lost lease on life, and met her demise

sooner than indomitable will clamored to live

approximately nineteen and a half years ago

from May 2024, who frequently asked me,

but never received acknowledgement

during her livingsocial years did abjure

(as the sole son)

communicating HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

Impossible aery mission

to pinpoint when advent of zygote

triggering miraculous bitta bing bitta bang,

whence deoxyribonucleic acid wrote

legacy of mortal maternal demise

only a hunch backed up

that mystery to unleash

feral fiendish fornication once smote

yielded unicellular spore

while in utero ~ early/mid

February I ain't exactly sure

nineteen hundred thirty five - dirt poor

Harriet Harris, fourth, last born

(interesting enough shared same birthdate

with eldest sister twelve years her senior)

fetched vicinity Coney Island offshore

by stork, became favorite progeny begat

courtesy Morris, and then swore

celibacy forever more

Rebeckah Kuritsky heretofore

harbored inchoate genetic fore

boded, encoded, inscribed

deadly mutations housed,

fetched, dispatched and bore

flawed BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes sketched

affecting circumscribing her allotted mortality

orbitz equaling about six months shy

of three and a half score

unknowingly, unsuspectingly, unwittingly,

her biologic fatal demise indelibly etched.

Breast cancer first brush

sounded death knell

Harriet clocked approximately

six months shy of being a septuagenarian

orbitz around the sun,

she underwent grueling radiation

plus chemotherapy

carcinoma eradicated allowed,

enabled, provided breathing spell

reprieve accentuated, galvanized, punctuated...

newfound zealous zest almost

nothing could quell

significance pray tell

new lease on life to sell

lib berate cherish, relish, whish

each precious moment

thwarting pell mell

adversity with bon vivant elan

and gusto to issue rebel yell

kickstarting, making breast

livingsocial aye bell,

especially after despite... er... well

her double mastectomy,

she looked fabulously swell

courtesy silicon implants

slight downside reconstituted

racked busty bosom

susceptible to ooze gel.

Many years post remission telltale

diagnosis, viz ovarian,

despite requisite hysterectomy

emotionally did impale,

she instinctually, intuitively,

invariably, yet quiver and quail

against impending demise 24/7 did assail

guardian angel(s) of no avail,

nor did yours truly proffer nurturance

resentment smoldering within this male

red hot poker anger lambasting me

peppered with ultimatums to vamoose,

never got resolved ensuing estrangement

deterred reaching out to embrace,

hearing raspy fading breaths exhale,

miserably tethered with tubes

when she did severely pine ail

and grievously bewail

corporeal essence ashen pale

awkwardly, helplessly, stupidly... I stood

formidable grim reaper foe whisked mother

to Elysian fielded dale.

It's ok...

It'll be... alright.

Flicker out, fading light

Dawn approaching; dying night

Apparitions here; deathly sight

Soldiers gone; pale as white

Nazi games; Jewish plight

Fuck around; firefight

Red hot flame; hose delight

Dancing dames; fuck on-sight

Vietnam; nations' fright

Took too long; apolog-ite

I'm sorry; that's just not right

Absurdist dreams; reality bites

Comedy's dead; still, keep it light...

It's ok; It'll be... alright

The monstera plant you gave me last spring sits in the kitchen window, its leaves pressed against the glass like palms seeking warmth. One leaf has developed brown spots, crisp at the edges where it forgot to unfurl completely. The others reach in their characteristic splits and perforations—nature's design to let wind pass through, to prevent the broad leaves from tearing in tropical storms. Even in failure, there is adaptation.

I've watched you study this plant, your fingers tracing the aerial roots that snake down toward the soil, searching. "Is it dying?" you asked last week, pointing to that imperfect leaf. The question carried more weight than its four words should bear. These days, you ask many questions like this—about the shrinking monarch migration, about the empty lots where meadows used to be, about the summers that burn hotter each year.

The truth is, I don't always know how to answer. The leaf is damaged but the plant grows on, putting out new shoots with a persistence that seems both foolish and brave. This morning, I noticed a tiny leaf emerging, tightly coiled like a fist. It will take weeks to open fully, to reveal whether it will be whole or split, perfect or flawed.

When you were small, you used to imagine yourself as a plant—usually a dandelion, stubborn and bright, breaking through sidewalk cracks. Now at thirteen, you see yourself more like this monstera: reaching for light while anchored in shadow, carrying the marks of hard seasons while pushing toward growth.

What I want to tell you is this: Yes, there is damage. Yes, there are leaves we cannot save. But look at how the plant keeps unfurling new possibilities, how it finds ways to continue even when the path forward isn't clear. Look at how it adapts—not by becoming harder or more defensive, but by creating spaces for the wind to pass through, by learning to bend without breaking.

The brown-spotted leaf will eventually fall away. But today, right now, a new leaf is uncurling in the morning light, carrying all the complexity of our moment—the inheritance of damage and the insistence of hope, the hard truth of loss and the harder truth of continuation. We cannot know what shape it will take. We can only tend it as it grows.

caliginous clouds of Melanoplus spretus blocked out the light not two hundred years ago

Yet that same creature has now disappeared forever, possibly caused by crushed eggs from irrigation

The world is worse now, caddisflies haunt the extinct species list on Wikipedia

Because their homes are dying, drying,

the separation between rivers and rivals, spawning and spiraling,

between what humanity owns and what we have stolen

has disappeared completely.

The electric light overhead hums in agreement that this

cursed world is wrong, humanity had wronged ecology

And yet the sound of those katydids will never be recovered, Katy-did, Katy-did

Survival of the fittest means surviving the surround sound landscape of automobiles and

I am not one of the believers in outdoor cats not causing the apocalypse

Creatures’ worlds are ending, mine just happens to not be; though I will wish sometimes that

I may go extinct instead, since my long-staring soul cannot handle so much splintering of ecosystems that were once whole

Once whole, once hole, one hole, if there’s a hole I would like to fall into it please

And maybe forget to return to reality.

The kitchen faucet drips. Has been dripping for weeks now. Sarah watches each drop form, swell, fall. The sound marks time like a metronome gone wrong.

She could fix it. Should fix it. The wrench sits in the drawer beneath the sink, waiting. Her father taught her about plumbing when she was twelve. His calloused hands guiding hers on cold metal. Tighten until it catches, then a quarter turn more.

The water bill comes higher each month. Red numbers growing like a fever.

Morning light stretches across linoleum. Sarah stands at the counter, coffee cooling. The drip keeps its rhythm. Her phone buzzes. Mom again. Fourth time this week.

She lets it ring.

The nursing home costs more than the mortgage now. Forms pile up on the kitchen table, white sheets stark against dark wood. Her father's signature grows shakier on each one. Some days he remembers the wrench, the lessons. Some days he remembers nothing at all.

Drip.

The sound follows her to work. Echoes in fluorescent-lit halls where she processes other people's paperwork. Her cursor blinks between numbers. Red to black to red again.

Drip.

Her supervisor asks about the quarterly reports. Sarah nods, says nothing. The cursor keeps blinking. The numbers blur.

Home again. The mail slot spits more forms onto the mat. The kitchen stays dark but for streetlight through unwashed windows. Sarah opens the drawer. The wrench is cool and heavy, like memory.

Drip.

She stands at the sink. Water beads, swells, falls. Her father's voice comes distant now. Tighten until it catches. The metal turns under her hands.

Something snaps.

Water spurts angry, hissing. Sprays across her shirt, her face. The stream grows stronger, wilder. She fumbles for the shutoff valve. Can't remember which way it turns.

The floor floods black in the dark. Sarah sits against cabinets, watching water rise. Her phone buzzes on the counter above. She lets it ring and ring and ring.

Morning comes grey through the windows. Water soaks the forms, bleeds ink into patterns like memory fading. The dripping has stopped. The silence roars.

I saw a Cooper's hawk today—Accipiter cooperii—perched on my neighbor's dead maple like it was auditioning for stillness. The way its slate-gray wings folded so precisely against its body, a masterclass in efficient design. What struck me wasn't the hooked beak or the rust-barred chest, though both were textbook perfect, but how it held its head: tilted slightly, as if listening to something beneath the surface of the air.

I've been thinking about that tilt all day, how it mirrors the way I've caught myself leaning into conversations lately, my right ear leading as if it could somehow pull meaning from the spaces between words. My body's been doing this more and more—compensating, adjusting, like the way a plant will bend toward light even when you're not watching. The doctors have a name for it: progressive unilateral hearing loss. As if giving it a clinical name makes it less like drowning in slow motion.

But that hawk, with its asymmetrical pose, wasn't diminished. Through my binoculars, I could see each feather articulated like fingers, the way they shifted in the wind like pages of a book being thumbed by an invisible reader. The bird wasn't missing anything—it was gathering, collecting data from every direction, its whole body an antenna for survival.

Sometimes I wonder if loss is just another word for transformation, the way a hawk's skeleton is honeycombed with air sacs, hollow places that don't make it less but rather lift it higher. Maybe my body, too, is learning to hollow out new spaces, to let sound travel different routes to reach me. When the hawk finally launched itself into flight, it didn't so much push off as release, letting gravity reshape itself around its wings. I stood there long after it disappeared, my head still tilted, listening to the emptiness it left behind, surprised to find it full of something like hope.

"Oh, lights go down

In the moment, we're lost and found

I just wanna be by your side

If these wings could fly

For the rest of our lives"

mostly feelings in me,

so communicating through songs

(something to start with

while there is too much ocean

in one small human being)