Jane A. Rug

who might be able, 
eager and willing to lend

me their life story, cuz mine...
shot thru with loop holes 
that I try to mend.


 

Oh my dog and golly jeepers June 2027...

alternately titled: Methacton graduating class of 1977
demarcates ruffly
née exactly fifty years since
I got hashtagged
as "the quietest kid in his class"
true to form, yours truly
did not utter a peep
being chicken 19.8.9.20
to draw the eyes and ears
of those to see
and listen respectively
to a puny senior (junior
to current senior wordsmith here),
who managed nevertheless
(dear me) to rack up majority votes
as a passive accredited student
to garner such underhanded prestige,
who graduated with dishonor able meekness,
who now vacillates whether to attend
upcoming XLIX-th reunion
at The Eagleville Taphouse
across the street from
Lower Providence Community Library,
where truth or dare be told,
(no matter the bell tolls for me),
I never befriended any classmate,
nor dated any girls -
intimidated by their ravishing beauty
towards this nirvana seeker
pronoun syllable non-verbal student
possibly afflicted with
high functioning autism
joining mamas and papas
of offspring music icons like
David Byrne of the Talking Heads
and pop singer Sia,
who comprised offshoot
of Bad Company with me
have openly discussed
how the autism spectrum
influenced their distinct
creative styles and public performances,
which engendered heart felt kinship
unbeknownst to them
regarding yours truly
one Limp Bizkit, Foo Fighting Beastie Boy,
who shied away from the madding crowd
analogous to a skittish animal
bolting at his own dark shadow,
especially when the edge of night
cast an eerie image
bitta bing bitta bang ie est en
exaggerated frightful magnification
courtesy the outer limits
of the twilight zone
try as he might
no ways and/or means
existed to detach himself
from his own monstrous silhouette
and as he relives
those academically, emotionally
and socially torturous days of yore
fractured cubist anomalous
days of his life as the world turned
remembrance of things past
tortured psyche where sole asylum
acquired tranquility within the four walls
of boyhood bedroom home of mine
at 324 level road,
which ramshackle mansion
long since razed to the ground
even though I roof fused
to drive past Stella's Way -
formerly our repurposed driveway
before papa of mine passed away,
he spent about a dozen
dirty deeds done dirt cheap
years of his existence
at Normandy Farms
independent living facility
while McMansions sprouted up
(like mushrooms after a healthy rain)
in place of approximately
a half dozen acres of wood land,
where doe a deer...
frolicked joie de vivre
ala gamely like
there was no tomorrow
in tandem with other fauna
while yours truly
struck up the tune
turkey and the straw
fiddling around on his makeshift
all purpose instrument
while traipsing along
overgrown once maintained
formal edenic gardens
that still held faint traces
of manicured floral pathways
just a tad more than
one hundred years after
Francis Scott Key
penned the immortal
words land of the free
and home of the brave,
which concluded near sacrosanct
music that induced small hairs
along the spine to tingle
where pièce de résistance
vis a vis I imagined to hear
"The Star-Spangled Banner,"
while alone within
my spiritual wilderness
imaging the United States national anthem
heard amidst the din
of 1814 after the bombardment
of Fort McHenry, said famous phrase
celebrates the country's independence,
resilience, and the bravery
required to defend foundational liberties,
now subjected to hemorrhaging
linkedin to Project 2026
where the figurative
clock turned back
prior to the then revolutionary ENIAC
(Electronic Numerical
Integrator and Computer)
completed in 1945
at the University of Pennsylvania,
said bulky innovation
revolutionized technology
by executing thousands
of calculations per second—
making enormous stride-rite steps
cue shoe man where defeat
stood stock still as music accompanied
the ears of Allied powers
clinched against axis and coordinated
toe tilly tellingly tallied
battle weary troops covering
over 1,000 times faster,
where ground control to major tom
facilitated missiles to be lobbed
against the Axis powers
more accurately than any
calculating machine before
during World War II
primarily purposed to calculate
complex artillery firing tables,
though later used
for weather forecasting
and atomic energy research
turning the red tide of war
into bloody season of the witch
courtesy brilliant bombardiers
against bellicose belligerents.