Emmett Reckins The Road to Reality

When I was yonge some things were different than.

Wich is to say that I'm a different man

than who—or is it whom, or either or?—

I was befor. I herd that heretofore,

that God had up and made us out of stuff.

What stuff that is, I guest He had enough

to make a ball, and loads of other balls

Wich all strung up made His celestial halls

as bright as any diety could wish.

Let there be light, He said, and then some fish,

plus other varmints, sprang upon the earth,

wich was of vastitude and mighty girth

that some called Mother then, and do today,

but by some fancy name thats spelt this way:

Gaia. I learnt that spelling off of Bing,

wich is a kind of dictionary thing

like Yahoo, wich was long befor the age

of Goooooogle [note I splat there on the page,

like on my monitor, to many o's?

Looks kind of like a bowl of cheerios!]

See how I wandered off? My Pa once tolt me,

Emmett, pay attention!  Sure, he'd scolt me,

but I've a neck and shoulder stiff as any,

and I kin take a licking. I've had many

a boxing on the ear, plus a good whack

upon the nether part of this hear back,

as well as many a lashing by the tonge,

wich sometimes more than wallops often stung.

What I am on about is only that

the child is father of the man. Now what

that means is really simple. Just ask Wordsworth,

A poet who could tell you what a word's worth—

I know, I know! I stolt that rhyme, leastways

I think I might of. Might have?  Anyways,

the thing is, when your older, than you see

another version of Reality,

wich Roger Penrose wrote a book upon,

wich I in turn reviewed on Amazon.

I bougt it at St. Vinny's hear in town.

I mean that book of Roger's, who's no clown,

but is a mathematician and a physicist...

Hot dang!    The End.   [No rhymes for physicist.]

6.12.14

On Spring Break at Lake Havasu

Of legs and girls I sing, and may my lines
not prate of heroes, but laud concubines;
for I will sing of sloth and drunkenness,
the bay complexion, and the bleach-blond tress;
cheap shades that hide the windows of the soul;
florid tattooes, and such-like folderol;
the sandy flapping-flop of sandaled feet;
the hand-held signs, scrawled large and indiscreet:
Show us your tits!; the mayhem on the lake
where boats rip by with jet-skis in their wake;
where smells of suntan oil and ganja mix
with hot wings, tepid beer, and incense sticks.

In droves they come, when March is midway spent,
to waylay men who stare in wonderment,
stopped dead and ogling near-stark-naked imps
instead of settling for a passing glimpse.
No shirt, no shoes, no service, warn the doors
of restaurants, and big-rigs reading Coors
tangle with pickup trucks in traffic knots
where clutches of inebriated tots
pump fists and holler in the open beds;
where hammered hotties, flaunting beads and dreds,
flash townies, and where startled motorists,
naive to throngs of exhibitionists,
surrender sanity and crane their necks
to spy the bare skin of the fairer sex;
stunned at the wheel, bereft of self-control,
all for a naked female areole.

But should we trespass on their innocence?
Dilute their beauty and concupiscence
with talk of prudence and sobriety,
the sacred tenets of society?
Force bland proscription on their happy lots
with moralistic lists of thou shalt nots?
Alloy their juvenescent joy with cant,
because their wits are dulled, their clothing scant?

No, let us leave them to their raucous sport,
and may their lithe and lissome limbs cavort
in vivid sunshine that can do no wrong,
unless it be to bring to light a thong
entrenched in cloves of flesh that give distress
(plus a faint memory of manliness)
to leering Aqualungs who lurk by palms
and take such visions as a kind of alms;
who, fourty years before, would not be shy
to breathe a compliment, or wink an eye.
And let the hearts of lasses swell the more
when, blue-haired ladies fled, they take the floor;
and may we bent and stodgy bulls harrumph
our bitter envy, when young bucks galumph.

3.16.2013