FIGURATIVELY SPEAKING

I once read a simile,

that made me smile,

and an alliteration,

as long as a mile,

something about,

Peter Piper Picking,

but the lineation,

surely not clicking.

 

Also metaphors,

like flags a’flying,

raining cats and dogs,

aping clouds a’crying,

apostrophe giving life,

imagery clean and concise,

weaving words together,

ending in a clean splice.

 

We oft’ use ambiguity,

to fog men’s minds,

allowing the reader,

images of all kinds,

and create personification,

the epitome of distillation,

for inorganic representation,

creating images of exemplification.

 

Oh – – – excuse me,

did I lose the meter?

I am now exposed,

as a poetic cheater,

I never promised you,

to maintain fidelity,

my mind flew away,

in apt sylly-bylity.

 Copyright W. Tomosky 2018

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FIVE RED APPLES and AMBIGUITY

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Jorge Luis Borges, Karl Kraus, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Monk Eastman

Both Karl Kraus and Ludwig Wittgenstein used language to get us thinking.

Wittgenstein used the method of “literal autopsy”; thus dissecting a simple statement and asking us to ask ourselves what language is and to think about how we use it.

Kraus searched for every missing comma and other literate errors. He used these examples as a metaphor for what was wrong with the world and a base for his polemics.

A favorite example is Wittgenstein’s “Five Red Apples.”

Five Red Apples

Now think of the following use of language: I send someone shopping. I give him a slip of paper marked “five red apples”. He takes the slip to the shopkeeper, who opens the drawer marked “apples”; then he looks up the word “red” in a chart and finds a color sample next to it; then he says the series of elementary number-words – I assume that he knows them by heart – up to the word “five”, and for each number-word he takes an apple of the same color as the sample out of the drawer. — It is in this and similar ways that one operates with words. — “But how does he know where and how he is to look up the word ‘red’ and what he is to do with the word ‘five’?” — Well, I assume that he acts as I have described. Explanations come to an end somewhere. – But what is the meaning of the word “five”? – No such thing was in question here, only how the word “five” is used.

So that is the way Wittgenstein makes us think. He asks us how we really know what “apples” are, what “red” means and what the term “five” signifies. What he intimates is what he hasn’t said about the subject. How did the grocer know there were charts? How did he know which chart? How did the grocer know that five was a quantity and not a star or a bird?

Whereas Kraus’ example, would be signified by a time when people were generally decrying the Japanese bombardment of Shanghai. Kraus, at that very moment, was struggling over one of his comma problems.

“I know that everything is futile when the house is burning. But I have to do this, as long as it is at all possible; for if those who were supposed to look after commas had always made sure they were in the right place, Shanghai would not be burning.”

Kraus makes us think about all the connections between his comma being missing and Shanghai. He makes us think about the Japanese, the war and the bombardments. He makes us think about news-writers who may be as sloppy about reporting important events as they are about not paying attention to their commas. Do they really understand the importance of either?

So, now that I have repeated Wittgenstein’s and Kraus’ words and their philosophies about words, I will be expected to say something brilliant.

How about if I say something only half-brilliant, something dusky, something foggy, something like the crack of dawn on an overcast day, something ambiguous?

I can and I will. But first I must confess to being a hypocrite.

I once departed a very large corporation where clarity was honored. It was a learned characteristic for me; not instinctive. To be ambiguous was the kiss of death for one’s career. I learned my lessons well and survived.

Upon departing that corporation I joined an Ivy League university where ambiguity was used as a tool. Muddying the water was a well-practiced skill; especially at the faculty level. The ‘faculty senate’ minutes were bathed in ambiguity. And I don’t even want to get into the ambiguous statements used in meetings of individual departments. Responsibility could be avoided by being ambiguous about one’s personal thoughts and opinions.

So that is one half of my confession on hypocrisy.

I hated ambiguity.

Now, I must confess the other half.

I have learned to embrace ambiguity. Why? Because; it enhances the reader’s experience.

I know; that is a very strange thing to admit.

I do not say it because I am a lazy writer. I say it because I realize that if two people read something there will be two versions of whatever was written. And if two hundred people read the same writing there will be two hundred versions of what was written.

That is the beauty of the written word. Each person’s mind sees a different image. This is not only true for the story, as a whole, but for each individual word.

Forgive me for introducing another philosopher of words; Jorge Luis Borges.

Borges uses the ambiguity of words to fool us, to turn us around, to make us think such things as “Is he telling us a true story or making up another one of his glorious lies?”

Borges was the master of obfuscation and ambiguity. He would lead his writings with facts and figures and places and dates and documents, then, once he had us hooked, he would unwind his fiction. Or, he would lead off with a fiction and then give us a truth.

For example;

“Whether profiled against a backdrop of blue painted walls or of the sky itself, two toughs sheathed in grave black clothing dance, in boots with high-stacked heels, a solemn dance—the tango of evenly matched knives—until suddenly, a carnation drops from behind an ear, for a knife has plunged into a man, whose horizontal dying brings the dance without music to its end. Resigned, the other man adjusts his hat and devotes the years of his old age to telling the story of that clean-fought duel. That, to the least and last detail, is the story of the Argentine underworld.”

 

Borges now has us hooked; our imaginations have us located in the back alley of some Argentinian city. But as he continues we find ourselves in a much different venue.

 

“The story of the thugs and ruffians of New York has much more speed, and much less grace.”

 

And midway through the story of “Monk Eastman, Purveyor of Iniquities” Borges finally offers what it is that Monk purveys.

 

I, wishing to remain ambiguous, leave this small missive hoping to have planted two seeds in your mind. My agency is complete. It is now your turn.

 

THE END (but not of ambiguity)

Unlike Zuckerberg; “It is not my mistake and I am not sorry”

It is time for another unabashed self promotion for you to click on.

Old Ralph and Fred; at it again

Well now I have to apologize.

I APOLOGIZE.

Glad I got that over with. I hate apologizing; especially since I am always right.

Yesterday, you know, when I showed you that picture with all the guys on top of the log and they were about to roll it away with those big cables?

Yes – – – that picture.

Well I called it the Logmobile. But it is now obvious to both of us that this is the real logmobile.

Douglas Fir? I thought only redwood trees got that big. But you can see that the bark is much different.

Much like a basset and a blue-tick coon dog. Their barks are different also.

That was a good one. I thought it up all by myself.

So here we have the logmobile sitting on a truck and the truck sitting on a brick paved road. This sure ain’t any forest picture. And that sure ain’t Cousin Delamarter there by the truck. I have no idea who they are. Just another picture that Aunt Lizbeth sent to us.

It says right there on the sign Seattle, Wash. if my eyes serve me correctly.

I bet that is the mayor and the governor of the Washington Territory standing there in their nice clean britches on a brick-paved road to hold their feet up.

Sure ain’t no forest picture.

Nice truck. Must be in good shape to hold up that big log.

Reminds me of another Old Ralph and Fred story. This time they weren’t fight’n. Well – – – they might have been fight’n at the beginning of the story but by time they were done with the story they were friends again – – – as usual – – – almost.

Seems like Fred bought a rusty old truck so the two of them could go fishing way back in the woods on short notice. They used the old lumber trails.

On one trip they hit a big rock and it put a hole in the oil pan. All the oil leaked out and before they knew it they burned out a bearing or two. They left the truck and went fishing while they talked over what to do. The fishing took a day or two – and the talking probably turned into shouting.

They sure didn’t want to leave that beautiful old truck there. It was Fred’s first truck – – – and besides – – – the porcupines would chew the tires right off the rims.

Now if these two boys were gonna be fight’n this would be the time to do it; while they were arguing how to fix the truck.

But Old Ralph, he’s sort of clever you know.

They pulled the oil pan and fixed the hole with sap tar from a pine tree. Fred shot a bear and boiled the fat right off it. Old Ralph replaced the burned-out bearings with bear hide. Wrapped ‘em real tight-like — and then bolted the piston rods right around that hide. By time all that was done the oil pan patch was hardened up. They had enough bear oil to almost fill the oil pan. They started up the engine and the fix lasted until they got back to Fred’s place.

Then they got in a fight when Fred told everyone that he fixed the old truck by himself while Old Ralph kept on fish’n.

Those two old boys sure loved each other.

 

THINGS MY BIG BROTHER UTTERED

                                       An Oldie  ——>  1/1/2012

        (where has time gone?

 

Over the years my brother made a variety of wise statements. I am not sure if these thoughts were original or if he liked them to the point of memorization. Perhaps I have failed to credit an unknown originator or author. If so, please notify me and I will correct the situation immediately.

 

ON MY INABILITY TO GRASP LOGIC AND REASON

 “You couldn’t pour pee out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel.”

This advice I received very often. Usually it was offered after I had attempted to accomplish something that required dexterity; physical or mental. I suppose that includes everything I ever attempted to do in my brother’s presence. This observation by my brother stopped when I reached the age of fourteen.

 

“You couldn’t hit a mule in the ass with a banjo.”

This observation I also received very often. Typically it was uttered during a baseball game or when throwing rocks at innocent little creatures; which included other children.

 

“If I wanted any crap out of you I would lift off the top of your head and scoop it out.”

This was a common retort used to rebut anything that I had an opinion on, or at other times, if I offered unsolicited suggestions or advice. It always worked. It was my brother’s form of limiting free speech with political incorrectness.

 

“Did your mother have any children that lived?”

     This was his old fashioned way of saying “You are dead to me” or “Do you really consider yourself a human being?” This inferred that I was not in his league. To be charitable I must say that this was not meant to be mean. It was meant more to get a laugh from whoever happened to be within earshot.

 

“Listen, I think I hear your mother calling.”

This was an obvious insult to get me to remove my corpulence from his immediate area. The first few times he said those words it was more of a ploy. Of course I was naïve and really thought my mother was calling. So I went home. 

 

“Go pee up a downspout.”  (or sometimes “up a rope”)

Now every logical person knows that these are impossible tasks. So what did this really mean? It means what every good insult means; e.g., “go _____ yourself”, or “Bese mi culo”, or “Up yours” and on and on and etc. It was simply a conversation ender. It could be used if he was losing the argument. Or, it could be used to end a conversation that was going nowhere. But at the tender ages of us, who used it, we had no idea that a conversation was going nowhere. They were just conversations; or better yet, bull sessions.

 

“You look just like Joe Kaiser the Iceman.”

Mom always loved me best (honest, really, she did). So if my brother thought I was getting special treatment from my mother he would raise the question of who my father was. That way he could insult both my mother and I at the same time.

 

“You snaggely toothed, walley eyed, pimple faced, jerk – – – – – -”

This observation usually occurred whenever I was able to get the upper hand on my brother (which was not very often). I inserted the commas because I believe that this was not one single description of me but rather several strung together as in a list of my finer attributes. I am still unsure of the “walley eyed” part of this. It may be in reference to a walleyed pike whose eyes shine diabolically. This was ONLY THE PREAMBLE to the additional vocal abuse that I knew would follow.

 

ON NATURE

“Spring has sprung,

The grass has riz,

I wonder where,

The flowers is?”

This was a typical late winter saying as he and I sat around the kitchen table drinking coffee and eating “windmill” cookies. No, I don’t know the brand name and I can’t remember the flavor. They just had a windmill shape. Besides, we were not supposed to be drinking coffee and eating cookies for breakfast. That’s what happens when the parents had to go to work in the shoe factories before sunrise.

 

“Thirty days hath September, April, June and November; all the rest have thirty-one, except Grandma, – – – and she smokes a pipe.”

This utterance occurred at various times; sometimes when we were trying to determine when school started, or when the river swimming might end, or even calculating the number of days until our birthdays.

 

“A robin on my window sill,

Sang while I laid in bed,

I smartly closed the sash,

And crushed his friggen head.”

            Big brother was never much on robins, flowers or other such things he considered “too pretty.”  Customized cars could never be too pretty for him. Internal combustion engine sounds were “beautiful.” Natural things, – – – not so much.

 

 

“Take a young lad fishing today,

And throw the little son-of-a-bitch in.”

            {NOTE:  This is known to be a quote made by a psychopathic old-time comic. If I can ever remember the comic’s name I will pen it in right here  à  __________________________. It may have been Fatty Arbuckle.}

But that is all beside the point. My brother used this saying because he knew that I loved fishing and would disparage it at any cost. It was his loving way of calling me a little son-of-a-bitch. Has anyone noticed how he always seemed to bring my mother into the conversation? She was a saint and he knew it. I guess he just disassociated my mother from his comments.

But she did love me best!

 

And big brother and I really did love each other.

 

Behavior Modification OR Brainwashing?

 

Anti-Social Behavior Disorder

 

I receive several blog posts from a person who is very knowledgeable about bio-life; my term not the bloggers. The blogger knows much about birds, amphibians, beetles and various other insects. The posts always enlighten us.

In one recent post there was a story about a gentleman from the UK who had been caught netting birds; illegal netting at that. He was properly tried and paid his required fine.

Now here is the surprising part; he was also convicted of the crime of anti-social behavior!

How does one commit such behavior and who is to define what is social behavior as opposed to anti-social behavior? Allow me to allow Wikipedia to allow the United Kingdom to define it, to wit;

An Anti-Social Behaviour (sorry, they don’t know how to spell in the UK) Order or ASBO is a civil order made against a person who has been shown, on the balance of evidence, to have engaged in anti-social behaviour (again, with the spelling?). The orders, introduced in the United Kingdom by Prime Minister Tony Blair (Bill Clinton’s buddy) in 1998, were designed to correct minor incidents that would not ordinarily warrant criminal prosecution.

Now let me stop the definition right there (for the time being).

So if there is an incident that does not warrant criminal prosecution then why are there charges placed against the individual? Does not that constitute a form of “Double-Jeopardy” or injustice? I, for one, certainly think it does.

And where does the prime minister get the nerve to introduce such a miscarriage of justice? Is he the arbiter of justice and anti-social behavior? Let us hope not. Now we continue with Wikipedia:

The orders restrict behavior in some way, by prohibiting a return to a certain area or shop, or by restricting public behavior such as swearing or drinking alcohol. Many see the ASBO as connected with young delinquents. In July 2010, new Home Secretary Theresa May announced her intention to reform anti-social behavior measures for England and Wales with the abolition of ASBOs in due course in favor of alternative ‘community-based’ social control policies.}

OH MY GOD!  It looks like Home Secretary Theresa May (if she still occupies that office) wants to abolish ASBOs and replace them with “community-based” brain washing policies.

I don’t want to beat a dead horse but I just have to say “1984.”

As The Good Reverend Al Sharpton would say; “God-almighty, god-almighty” and then for post effectiveness and after proper hesitation one more “God-almighty.”

There are a lot of things coming to the good old USofA from the UK.  

I like:

Ø  Benny Hill

Ø  The Goodies

Ø  The Beatles

Ø  Monty Python

I dislike:

Ø  Uni-sex toilets (I would rather burst a kidney)

Ø  All English restaurants (cardboard chicken and dried out burgers)

Ø  Chastity belts (especially rusty or double-duty ones)

Ø  ASBOs (of any ilk)

 

So – – – if we are going to get ASBOs or “community-based” brainwashing centers here are some of my suggestions to be considered as anti-social behavior:

Ø  Socialism (of any type; and this is at the top of my list for a reason

Ø  Nose picking (this is the worse type of physical anti-social behavior)

Ø  Wiping it off under the bus-stop bench

Ø  Watching TOSH.O

Ø  Margaret Thatcher bashing (why wasn’t she named queen?)

Ø  Hording recordings of The Monkeys

 

Allow me to finish off the definition of an ASBO as per Wikipedia.

In the United Kingdom, an ASBO may be issued in response to “conduct which caused or was likely to cause harm, harassment, alarm or distress, to one or more persons not of the same household as him or herself and where an ASBO is seen as necessary to protect relevant persons from further anti-social acts by the Defendant.” In England and Wales they are issued by Magistrates’ Courts, and in Scotland by the Sheriff Courts.

Please allow me one more “GOD_ALMIGHTY!”

Why doesn’t the UK (and poor Wales and Scotland who somehow got tagged into this whole mess) just use “restraining orders?”

My brother-in-law and his whole family got a “restraining order” against me and it seems to be working out just fine for all of them (for now).

Copyright W. Tomosky 2018

HOPE

 

Little Miss Hope,

aren’t you just an adorable little thing?

You sit there in the bottom of Pandora’s box,

waiting for one of us to pick you up,

admire you, and give you a big hug,

possibly a little peck on the cheek also.

 

 

Yes, I have to admit it, you are promise,

but is it real or just a false promise?

Surely, at times, you give us courage,

often laced with confidence and optimism,

even anticipation of your possibilities.

 

So why did the Greeks close the lid,

no, – – – they slammed the lid – – – shut! – – – ;

on Pandora’s box, or rather she did,

so said Hesiod, when he spoke of her,

and the gift that the Gods had given her.

 

And there it sits, that despicable box,

completely empty, except for you Miss Hope.

You have little playmates with you,

don’t you Little Miss Hope? Like desire,

and potential, and good prospects.

 

Are they real or are they transparent,

like dream, want,  wish, and yearning?

But you didn’t answer me Little Miss Hope,

why did Hesiod have Pandora imprison you?

Oh, come now, you know, don’t be shy.

 

Yes, that is correct, you are the only evil,

that has remained in the box, oh yes you are,

you are evil, you certainly are.

You cloud men’s minds, especially when,

you are with your companion, Change.

 

What a cute couple you make,

Little Miss Hope and Lord Change,

Once again you have fooled us Miss Hope.

Do you and Lord Change have progeny?

Are there little Hopes and Changes,

in this bright future of ours?

 

Or have you worn out your welcome?

Are we now wise to you Miss Hope?

Have we opened our eyes to you?

You saw all the evils that escaped,

when Pandora lifted the lid,

are you Little Miss Evil in disguise?

Are you a counterfeit emotion?

 

Yes, I believe you are, Miss Hope.

I think you let us believe,

only what we want to believe,

I think you let us hear,

only what we want to hear.

 

It is a good thing that the Greeks,

saw all those evils that escaped,

from Pandora’s box, before you escaped.

Otherwise, we would not have a clue.

what you do to us Little Miss Hope.

 

It is just so sad, that those Greeks,

left your name laying around,

we may never have known you exist,

Little Miss Hope; we never would know,

That there are two sides to you,

an encouraging one,

and an evil one.

 

And we thought that only the Romans,

had Gods that were two-faced.

 

But you are not a goddess are you?

You are just a little wayward emotion,

running around inside of us,

fooling us, and playing with our minds.

And yet we think we love you.

 

Copyright W. Tomosky
12/6/2017

THE COLLECTED WORKS OF WALDO

Once again, it is time for a bold and bare-faced self promotion

of my work meanderings.

All twenty books and their covers are show below;

AND — not only that

there is a free preview of each book.

(For the sake of all that is holy; purchase at least one. As they say on each cover there is a free app that allows most all devices to mimic the all-powerful Kindle.

Click on one or click on all, there is a non-pecuniary introduction to every book.

BUT WAIT! —— there is a notice that you must look for in the top right corner of each book image that you select. That image says

That may take a few seconds to show up.

 

 

No common thread binds my work together. This should shame me, but it does not.

Allow me to make a few statements about my youth and later life. They are irrelevant at this moment. However, the picture will become clear very quickly.

As a young boy I spent my time on the river banks and gravel pits. I was attracted to any unique stone that I spied. I am not speaking of pretty or brilliant stones. I speak of stones that are different than most. Some had spots, others where layered in various colors, a few had a depth of history and they all appeared to gain in their attributes when sprinkled with water.

I have worked as a laborer, tool and die maker, programmer, educator and system analyst. My favorite locations are the Adirondack Mountains, Puerto Rico and Germany. I have two favorite rivers; one for my youth and another when I matured.

I closed out my life of labor as a licensed amateur Paleontologist, a shovel bum working in an archaeology department and a delivery driver for a four county library system in upstate New York.

As an adult I continued being attracted to the unique. These were not the stones of my youth. These were unique personalities and events. They had depth, breadth, integrity and appeared to gain in their attributes when sprinkled with fiction. My mind, unconsciously, collected them.

I placed these tales on the window sill next to my prized stones. Nothing happened to the stones. The tales, however, appeared to combine and change. Some became laced with horror, others with philosophy. What surprised me were those that I became emotionally involved in. As a laborer I could not foresee literary fiction or essay. And how was I to know that there were two faces of religion? Was this my deepest burden?

No. My deepest burden was to know that I would start out a sentence with the word “and.” This did not keep me from writing in the manner that I wished, despite all the advice that I was tortured with. I believe my style and the unique way I look upon life will bring you to tears of laughter, joy, sorrow and wonderment; most of it basted in allusion and eeriness.

THANK YOU FOR READING

AND LISTENING TO MY TALE OF

WHOW WOWE WHOOOOW 

WOE.

 

© Waldo Tomosky

CORRECT or INCORRECT?

 

THE CRAVEN

Standing before my porcelain station, holding myself in adulation,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

                   Gently tapping, there came a tapping on the door.

Time lost for a specific duration, electric shaver in total gyration,

My desire for proper sanitation, made me continue the operation,

                             It was ablution, ablution; and nothing more.

 

My mind delved into creation, my eyes went into dilation,

There shown a sight I do abhor, toothbrush lay upon the floor.

                   Feverish rapping, came the rapping on the door.

My brain had a great fixation, echoing the boss’s quotation,

It was a personal damnation, “get your rear into ambulation,”

                             Oral castration, with nothing more.

 

That sudden urge for cessation, from this horrible avocation,

Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
                             Came a screaming through the door.

Considering a great temptation, imagining a brilliant oration,

Could I bestow (to great ovation), insult to the old crustacean,

                             Tis only frustration, and nothing more.

 

Razor required no more rotation, I closed down the operation,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I do implore;”

                             To the apparition behind the door.

The mind ended its conflation, of those effects and causation,

I clothed myself in total deflation, all wound up in consternation,

                             Only this ambiguation, and nothing more.

 

As I drove, a wonderful narration, developed in small proration,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;

                             These opportunities I decided to explore.

What I would tell that old cetacean, speak my mind without negation,

YES! this would be my salvation, I would end with a clear summation,

                             T’would be liberation, and forever more.

 

Arriving at my destination, full of hate and unbridled temptation,

Soon again I heard a tapping, tapping somewhat louder than before.

T’was coming from beneath the carriage floor.

The sound seemed without location, continued for the duration,

T’was but surely a tire deflation, drove past the service station,

                             I knew it was inflation I must pay for.

 

I entered the factory in sedation, past the bulletin board notation,

T’was there sat the stately Alsatian of the profitable days of yore;

                             That morning, having visited the liquor store.

He was on his third potation, grey matter in permanent stagnation,

His thirty-year marriage in litigation, she had discovered lustful temptation,

                             He perched, and sat, and nothing more.

 

Obviously bloated from constipation, taking an “in house” vacation,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance he wore,

                             He was the original, nothing more.

I hoped for some salvation, my mind in scattered formation,

My nerves under heavy taxation, no time for mental relaxation,

                             It was trepidation of the swinging door.

 

At last my mind exited stagnation, and entered electric sensation,

Though its answer meaning ….little relevancy it seemed to bore;

                             Not much confidence was I able to restore.

Then within a minute a relation, seem to offer an honorable dictation,

Whilst I spoke with great elation, a proposal with substantial salvation,

                             I had every last answer; to answer fore.

 

I offered him a free year’s potation, while I remained on probation,

Two words, as if my soul within those two words, I did outpour.

                             “Gift Card” – “Gift Card” at the liquor store.

It was such a brilliant mutation, of supposed logic without citation,

This distraction of the Boss’ vexation, I had promised him sedation,

                             Numbing of the mind, forever more.

 

Startled by my apparent salvation, my reply aptly spoken with oration,

“Doubtless,” said I, what more, “I utter this because ‘tis thee I do adore,”

                             My soul… my soul…  I left it lying on the floor.

With the devil had I flirtation, I lied with nary a minor reservation,

Had my job I saved for the damnation, to pay dearly for my temptation,

                             Working in rotation, with other sinners ever more?

 

I had made the supreme ablation, severed conscience from all temptation,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat to the Prince of Darkness’ iron door;

                             Till the dirges of all Hope that melancholy bore,

T’would be an asset for formation, of my newfound creeping gradation,

Unto the bowels of hell’s creation, my business acumen allowed filtration,

                             To cheat and scheme with great fixation, forever more.

 

Now I sit in the chair of that great Alsatian, at my side a spotted Dalmation,

An anti-Seraphim visits, whose footfalls step, step lightly on the tufted floor.

                             The boss has departed, and left behind his wife Lenore.

I am not the worker but the recreation, of that creeping incremental gestation,

Forming a thing rife with awful predation, reflecting my old boss – the crustacean,

                             Gifting me his radiant carnation, Lenore, my lovely Lenore.