Killing Grandpa (2)

Corvidae as the crow flies
it’s a good year to die, ’cause
COVID caw-caw hurrah boo

yea true, my father died at 72 —
a cancer the grim blamed on him
and I at 71 demeaned by life
in Corona, a neighborhood
in Queens, New York

Might say in spirit furor
I’m a beer near Flushing Meadows
of the World’s Fair fame, 1964, though Dad
on Malta had his black market museum:
illegal guns in the ancient Hypogeum,
hiding missiles for dismissal of war

It’s a good year to die an honorable death.
the Grandchildren are nervous, but
I’ve put together some cleanly new
legitimate business for them to inherit.

Yeah, I know they want me dead.
Don’t blame them much…
but for fun I remember how I
let them play in the secret tunnels
yeah

it was exciting for them
to play in my tunnels,
and I let them hide in the
safe room so they could
listen to the oosh bang-bang
and smell the gunpowder,
hear the machine guns, the oofh-ow
swoosh, bat-a-tat-tat, ow-arg-uh, thud
zing, zing, chuh-chuh-chud, and muffled
screams, and it was so good to
smell the barbecue of the foiled.

Yeah, a little lie:
I told them their Grandpa
sold toys, and did laundry.

Yeah, kids, I told them
our crew liked
splashing red paint
on manikins:
it’s a war game, and
we always clean up.

Told them well:
Grandpa hated dirt, but
he made billions of dollars
washing things, and doing demolition.

They loved me, Grandpa, and
since childhood they’d
never officially known I
laundered money and
sold weapons to clandestine
really funny-owned groups

Early they heard fairy tales galore
they were to believe as required
and as they were told about me:
he didn’t like public dirt’s roar
so he washed donor money; yet
he gave their poor children toy guns
to play with, unrestricted for causes

Although they stopped believing in Santa Claus
and the tooth fairy as young adults
they inferred that by consulting
the guns and the washing machines
Grandpa controlled with computers.

I heard that Cousin Joe
called the kids
with great news:

he had shortness of breath and a high fever.
heard the kids all gathered
for his very own sneeze party.

It’s a good year to die, and
I know the kids have
a conspiracy to kill me, but

it’s OK.
I welcome them home
to party close-up with me
because they will give me
an honorable death
with shortness of breath, but
they were the only ones
I truly loved to play with.

Killing Grandpa

Corvidae as the crow flies
it’s a good year to die, ’cause
COVID caw-caw hurrah boo

father died at 72 —
cancer who the grim
blamed on him, though
he suffered.

Might say
I’m 71 from Corona
a county of Queens New York, or
I’m a beer near Flushing Meadows
where they had the World’s Fair, 1964

It’s a good year to die an honorable death.
The Grandchildren are nervous, but
I’ve put together some clean
legitimate businesses for them to inherit.

Yeah, I know they want me dead.
Don’t blame them much…
I remember how I
let them play in the secret tunnels
yeah

it was exciting for them
to play in the tunnels,
and I let them hide in the
safe room so they could
listen to the oosh bang-bang
and smell the gunpowder, the oofh-ow
swoosh, bat-a-tat-tat, ow-arg-uh, thud
zing, zing, chuh-chuh-chud, and muffled
screams, and it was so good to
smell the barbecue of the foiled.

Yeah, a little lie:
I told them their Grandpa
sold toys, and did laundry.

Yeah, kids, I told them
our crew liked
splashing red paint
on manikins:
it’s a war game, and
we always clean up.

Told them:
Grandpa hated dirt, but
he made billion of dollars
washing things, and doing demolition.

They loved Grandpa, and
since childhood they’d
never officially known
I launder money and
sell weapons to clandestine
funny-named groups

Early they heard fairy tales
they were to believe as required:
he didn’t like public dirt
so he washed people’s money
and gave their poor children toy guns
to play with.

Although they stopped believing in Santa Claus
and the tooth fairy as young adults
they knew that
the guns and the washing machines
Grandpa controlled with computers.

I heard that Cousin Joe
called the kids
with great news:

he had shortness of breath and a high fever.
heard the kids all gathered for a sneeze party.

It’s a good year to die, and
I know the kids have
a conspiracy to kill me, but

it’s OK.
I welcome them home
to party close-up with me
because they will give me
an honorable death
with shortness of breath, but
they were the only ones
I truly loved to play with.

Sharing

I want to touch you
in all the wrong places
because I see you everywhere I go

everywhere I want you;
everywhere I see you, and
I want you to love me
as much as I do you

Oh sorry,
I didn’t mean to embarrass you
with my enthusiasm, but

Don’t we have fun?
I know we do. I
know we laugh so well
when we hear each other
love the world we share.

Oh in such drama that I see,
you kiss the world and me, and
though I want to share you, can you
come home to my game,
to my play with you, when we
celebrate our sharing.

Presuming the Transformation

   Start from a Prompt: Presume

The Sun presumes to speak for us
in sunny moods to warm the day, but
our fall from grace in lugubrious mud
inclines us not to kiss or forgive.
==========================
     Version 2

Il sole presume di parlare per noi
di buon umore per riscaldare la giornata, ma
la nostra caduta dalla grazia nel fango lugubre
ci spinge a non baciare o perdonare.
————–
     Version 3

The sun presumes to speak for us
in a good mood to warm up the day, but
our fall from grace in the lugubrious mud
urges us not to kiss or forgive.
===================================
     Version 4

The sun is supposed to speak for us
in a good mood to warm up the day, but
our fall from grace in the lurid mud
presumes a kiss to forgive the rain.
————–
     Version 5

De zon veronderstelt voor ons te spreken
in een goed humeur om de dag op te warmen, maar
onze val uit de gratie in de lugubere modder
dringt er bij ons op aan de regen niet te kussen of te vergeven.
——–
     Version 6

The sun is supposed to speak for us
in a good mood to warm up the day, but
our fall from grace in the lurid mud
urges us not to kiss or forgive the rain.
=====================================
     Version 7

Ο ήλιος πρέπει να μιλήσει για μας
σε μια καλή διάθεση για να ζεσταθεί η μέρα, αλλά
η πτώση μας από τη χάρη στη γεμάτη λάσπη
υποθέτει ένα φιλί για να συγχωρήσει τη βροχή.
————
The sun must speak for us
in a good mood to warm the day but
our fall from grace to full mud
assumes a kiss to forgive the rain.
======================================
     Version 8

If the sun must speak for us
in a good mood to warm the day
let our fall from grace in storms and
assume a kiss to forgive the rain.
=================
     Version 9

Αν ο ήλιος πρέπει να μιλήσει για μας
σε καλή διάθεση να ζεσταθεί η μέρα
αφήστε την πτώση μας από τη χάρη στις καταιγίδες και
πάρτε ένα φιλί για να συγχωρήσετε τη βροχή.
——–
If the sun should speak to us
in a good mood to warm the day
let us fall by the grace of the storms and
take a kiss to forgive the rain.

Selfie

Because she knows
my arms are shorter than
the river is wide or is
longing in turmoil

she shipped me a selfie stick
across the Amazon divide

but I’d like to decide
we’d race with dueling sticks
at three paces, and run
a hush to photo finish