Three elements for this dollar us stream of consciousness quarter written before the price of even the most plentiful items on the periodic chart increased into the stratosphere. At the imprecise date and time of writing these words, I experienced one bummer with achy bray key lugubrious heart defying impossible mission to categorize quick as a whip chap edified, yet hardly glorified book smart sexagenarian, who now finds himself laboriously toiling away at his MacBook Pro (Retina, 15-inch, Mid 2015) with a 2.2 GHz Quad-Core Intel Core i7 processor, whereby every hard day's night with a shot of rhythm and blues doth whisk key domestic duress analogous to a set of mismatched bicycle "Riders on the Storm" (1971) the final song recorded by Jim “Bianchi” Morrison with The Doors before his death, serving as a haunting blend of true-crime narrative and intimate autobiography, nevertheless this eloquent wordsmith composed the following procession of words sprinkled with a taste of honey and sealed with royal jelly and peanut butter in an effort to lay claim to a fair share of rightful inheritance when the property on a penniless lane got sold to a twenty first century slave owner synonymous with the cosmic phenomena, where all across the universe disenfranchisement (specifically the webbed wide world and skein of life on planet Earth) fans of this nonpareil fabulous fellow with an iconic mop top trademark haircut signal my core flair being the black and decker sheep of the Rocky Raccoon Wolf clan of the cave bears within which I ranked as viz* characteristic, fantastic, intrinsic, linguistic, opportunistic, realistic, and universalistic *shortened from the Latin videlicet ("it is permitted to see"), where the 'z' originally represented a medieval Latin shorthand symbol for the ending - et nonestablishmentarian nonconformist (nonsequitur spewing) aura, charisma, dogma, enigma, persona affected me to act naturally in general and follow the beat of my own drummer, where essentially thy motto sans all I've to to do in dealing with circumstances frequently justified being purposely omitted and excluded fruits of thine family as all things must pass down the long and winding road of inheritance (all together now we the people of this pedigreed proletarian kingdom) ought to embrace the philosophy that all one needs comprises love in addition to money (lemme lay on all you sticklers affecting being zombies treating me like a pariah heep) in tandem with a picture of George Washington crossing the Delaware River while donning brand name outerware. Such voluntary simplicity to give one even a miniscule piece of the estate to this indigent only born son who induces envy in the hearts and minds of him that might be considered an overgrown baby. Whether rich man and/or woman globetrotting and welcomed with opened arms (devoid of hammers and sickles) when back in the U.S.S.R. (our fatherland or motherland) feigning generosity garnering philanthropic kudos, the legal tender exchangeable everything everywhere all at once for yours truly, now three score and seven year old contemplative, furtive, and intuitive day tripper prepares himself for an incriminating comment to the effect “don't bother me” - meaning yourself dear reader, whose presence most likely hounded more than eight days a week inquiring by nosy common schnauzer or paparazzi about every little thing, which queries might include the methods fixing a hole, flying, and/or how to be free as a bird. 
Anyway, ask that shyster lawyer to contact me, no matter that most of our relatives consider yours truly nothing but an outcast of poker flat and fool on the hill amidst strawberry fields forever, who would be glad all over to experience golden slumbers replete with good day sunshine dreams bursting forth singing good morning good morning before mucho hours later bidding this dada good night.
Lady Madonna will be beseeched to intervene (evidenced by lonesome tears in my eyes) whereby misery and the penchant for money (cause that's what I want) sought after from Mother Nature's son, and no reply expected from this nowhere man), who truth be told tires living within an octopus's garden in the shade ensconced within a yellow submarine surrounded by Lucy in the sky with diamonds forever, yet all the while aspiring to be a paperback writer, and though this rough draft appears hurriedly haphazardly patched together (please correct me if I veer far off course), the palpable prospect to be given the pink slip (green really my favorite color), those long dedicated decades at the Department of Delusion finds me flush with despair. 
Pension funds, retirement benefits and social security no longer solvent, thus fortitude forces this ordinarily shy person to summon forth the red badge of courage (without the reliance on powder milk biscuits – since severe reaction with lactose laced products send me making a beeline to the loo) to fight for what I consider to be the write way (yes – totally devoid per elements of style, but as the prophetess Melania Trump says who cares), and be granted a proportionate share of “Glen Elm,” so the house of my childhood now just a mere fragmented memory, and the destiny sans family home and downsized demesne of mine since February 28th, 1968, a domicile once locked in full Neilson or Nelson choke hold, that grand façade bitta bing bitta bang nothing but a poof of smoke.

Synonymous with a fragile 
incredible hulk anchored off shore
her frail exterior bows 
with stern weight beckoning with yen
at suffering being 
weather beaten since about nineteen ten
embodying painstaking craftsmanship 
from way back when
effort to build an during residence 
ruled as blueprint for den
not necessarily of or for thieves
but extraordinary rich 
and hard on their luck nouveau riche folks
fancying quilt and pen
predecessors of Barbie and her Ken
erected by strapping young men.

Since February twenty eighth 
nineteen hundred and sixty eight
until the date when this scattershot
electronic document set down
my then octogenarian widower father
echoing with ghosts
courtesy the Leipers, Herrs, Neilson
plus spirit of deceased mother 
per aforementioned past occupants
whither err not he didst visit 
the berth of his lady friend
who lived in Langhorne area,
which eminent domain 
fated to meet the wrecking ball
bye bye birdie 
qua hundred plus year old mansion
once a stately (now shabby) 
building intended as summer villa
now English Ivy 
covers invisible slate patio
once offering viewer lily padded fishpond 
(where froggy went a courtin) below decks, 
which once renown estate 
a mere dark shadows sitting 
on the edge of night
within the outer limits
of the twilight zone
versus former vestige 
of long since elapsed radiant glory
prompts this prodigal son 
to be somber and brood
if perchance there 
might be artisan with rehabilitating
and expendable energy and time to mend
at this eleventh hour 
til steely knife jaws demolish
this fixer upper 
before the entire complex edifice 
like Humpty Dumpty 
doth crumble and fall.

My father posted then removed a sign
for passersby (whether on foot 
or via auto) to glance and read
that indicated this original owner 
Captain Leiper located in register 
steered his shipshape 
tract titled "Glen Elm," 
a vast vibrant 100 + green acres
this dilapidated home, 
then now up for sale
yet nada buyer 
offered an acceptable price 
thus mine dada did decline
agreed on a deal with contractor 
vis a vis Gambone Brothers company,
who bought scrappy spit of land 
acres bandied mere crumbs of "bread"
explained by the end 
of november 2012 demolition crews 
did raze crucible 
of memory without fail.

Hence this one 
and only pseudo prodigal son 
self christened this olde poet wannabe,
whence this then 
previous January thirteenth 
two thousand thirteenth
when yours truly passed thee half century + 
three year existential longevity mark
decided to air his 
forlorn flagging stone temple pilot hope 
to elicit even a remote possibility
to stave off 
the annihilation of thine abode 
where many growing up years 
at lightning speed flew
and in retrospect 
prompts this mind to reflect 
on those decades many 
of which seem stark
none would be so awful 
if the habiliment 
became a pile of rubble 
thence prompting me to cry
witnessing nada trace 
of creative ambition exemplary innovations, 
when the hands of this father 
did carve and hew bye and bye
his signature imprimatur 
very by Dickens 
soon to become rubble 
yore rye ah heap.