a bissel meshuggah by matthew scott harris
A Bissel Meshuggah
this alteh kocker nostalgically reflects being ma late mama's boytchik (now, she long since deceased, whose cremated remains of day scattered to all points on compass) fondly referencing both sisters as dabchick incongruously sprinkled her Brooklyn brogue, especially when angry, she quickly segued from mild expletive fiddlestick the latter playfully aired, when kibitzing wit bubeleh reminiscing being dirt poor, nonetheless zee mother every now an again homesick regaling the whole mishpokhe (meaning us brood of kids) interrupting herself with frequent non sequiturs discombobulated anecdotes switching subjects as if external forcefield jimmying a joystick interleaving disparate threads with subsequent tangential linkedin snippets with feigned lovesick chatting 'bout cockamamie "Grandpa Moishe" and his chaim yankel posse (to escape hen pecking nudnik" grandma Rebecca"), a trenchant termagent bubba, not averse to incorporate dreck in the same sentence with zayda ostracized him scoring figurative placekick, whence upon his schlepping back home met with "silent treatment" dampening rollick king atmosphere choking tearfully "mother" recounted farblunget anger thick lee palpable extremely discomfiting, particularly when ("mom's") girlhood friends bore witness aye gavalt, where penury churned moribund thoughts viz empty cupboards devoid of bare necessities a figurative apropos yardstick.
MATTHEW SCOTT HARRIS made his unheralded tithing debut on January xiii, mcmlix, a brutally cold winter day back when snow used to fall heavily out the sky. His father—formerly employed as a mechanical engineer with General Electric—heard the powerful lungs of this gangly newborn prior to being permitted to cradle said infant.