Today is Donna’s birthday –

All these many years later
I still remember it –
several times today I thought of her
and gently waved hi

Donna was the name of my first baby,
(short for Donald, my ex)
my girl baby who lived for 4 days
and then changed her mind.

She was a summer baby too.

When I think of both Donnas
I see tiny, Italian angels
petite , pretty little things
with brown golden hair.
I still see the dimples on their faces,
and the bright black light shining in their eyes…

Tonight I hold a candle in their memory
Tonight I drink to the summers of their birth,
Knowing that their lives will always live in me –

Both Donnas,
One, who came to me in childhood.
magically fused by friendship and something more –
and Baby Donna,
whose fragile body held such sweet life

Both Donnas,
who have been with me
through so many changing skies…
inside of me
where their faces are etched in crystal
and their wings
form a door.

Hodge Podge

I entered a shop titled paraphernalia in Canary Row as I started to enter a raw sea breeze rose it
Blew hard against my back little did I know I was about to enter a new world the place set the

Mood so much nothing that set everywhere but was in perfect order what a place to search for an
Indefinable item moving from one discarded disgraced piece to the next then an item of interest a

Pearl among bitter residue a case of leather with gold initials they were meaningless but they
Seemed to gleam like the time I approached a man setting in front of his house I was just a kid

Although I had lot of zeal for the things of God well it couldn’t be a worse situation as far as
Timing goes I just left a woman’s house that tended bar I thought what an opportunity she will

Be thrilled to see what is in store for her life that bespoke despair that has been more years than
I like to think about but when I shook her hand it was like taking a cold wet fish and holding it
I’m not being insulting just truthful the naive blur I was in was quickly taught a lesson it was like
Having a propitious sale on beautiful blue water and all held promise of good things unfolding

But the sea is the master of surprise that is it’s most captivating quality so from nowhere a
Knifing Wind rips the sail loose for a bit chaos rules that was my feeling as I stumbled away and

Came upon this man as said it wasn’t perfect he was opening mail just relaxing and I show up
And I’m Arguing this in my head to God he won’t listen it will just be repeat of what happened

But as I Passed his fine big car the sun glinted on the chrome and in that briefest of moments
God Spoke this is who I want you to talk to sounds good no God was talking to a deaf guy what

A Picture A tiny speck saying oh sure to the one who created this speck an all the rest so I
Soldiered On he probably thought what his problem I exuded a lot but none being confidence

Well after a Quick hello and in the next breath ready to say goodbye the spirit within started
Speaking Winsomely He dropped his guard I didn’t stick my foot in my mouth and we talked

Close to two Hours and at the end he gave me the greatest compliment he said you are a great
Salesman and it meant a lot because that was his line of work again don’t have contempt for

Small things so the Case intrigued me and spoke of promise so I purchased it a bit of history
Picked up a last stop for durable goods and it was such an announcement for the times it came

From it had forties written all over it when I picked it up I felt movement that felt like loose
Papers moving instantly it became more valuable what if it was an old movie script they have all

Kinds of stories about How Hollywood was everywhere up and down the coast and didn’t I bunk
Next to John Steinbeck’s son when I first got to Fort Ord the initials were in fact JS maybe he

Started another Story like Cannery Row Tortilla flat a sequel to Grapes of Wrath my heart raced
As I envisioned Spencer Tracy carrying this very case with the script for Tortilla flat they were

Both drinkers Maybe they switched cases in a haze of drink not unlike the mist that socks in the
Monterey Peninsula whatever it was I had to get alone and search the contents so I returned to

My sea Cabin at Big Sur it was already famous then Jack Kerouac spent time there he opened
Many Doors for me I took to the road in an imagination and later in real life I love the sea so the

Cabin Inside looked like a miniature museum of all things nautical I had the immense fire place
Roaring and the sea howled incessantly and the cabin groaned and creaked slightly what music it

Played To enhance the moment I doused the electric lights and lit the lantern you picked it up to
Carry it and you saw yourself as the old man trudging his way up the difficult path to the light

House Walking against a contrary wind so I placed the lantern on the great table that rested on a
Driftwood base sure I paid too much for it in Carmel but it was the best five hundred I ever spent

The twisted gnarled wood glowed with sea glory so now the time came to open the case with
Excited fingers I pressed and they released and I opened the lid in the shadowed light the paper

Might as well have been Silas Marner’s gold it was paper like rich parchment and strangely it
Had a golden quill I thought typical California you could find anything if you searched very

Long Of course no ink or well to put into it but since I am a calligraphic buff that likes that
Exquisite Way of writing I had the necessary equipment to get started writing with such richness

Crashing Against my heart and mind lost souls at sea and only their case survived it was time to
Write something the quill glowed the tip dripped as black blood the sound of it scratching sent a

Shiver through me the paper licked the ink and pulled it deep within its aged pores for hours I
Was truly lost on a sea of ink well what did you write well friend that is when the pirate in me
Arises and I have to say you will have to wait for the book but I will leave you with this it is

Dedicated to two Donnas’ one who got me restarted and the other that blesses me and others
With her soulful writing not the end by a long shot

she's got a face like a 1990's beauty queen
high waisted shorts
hair pulled over the top with a miniclip
gun tucked in the back
miniclip
on the front of
her blouse
setting them up
knocking them down
converse allstars that she paid $50 for
grazing the rocks by the waterfall
that she poses in front of

dear 1990's beauty queen
you'd like to be innocent again
but your brown eyes
are locked and loaded
it's just a small trick of fate
that you were born in this decade
the girls here are machine gun prima-donnas
and you were born into them
your high-waisted shorts
won't let you out of it

After lunchtime, and before tea
Donna quietly bade farewell
to Mr. Samuels
and to herself.
Calmly, she twisted the bolt
into the lock
and pleasantly drew the curtains
closed.
She gratefully glanced at a photo
of her dog
and touched the piano as an
afterthought.
Making quite certain that everything was
tidy, Donna swept up
some dust she had overlooked.
and then after lunchtime and before tea
on a perfectly pleasant tuesday morning
in a perfectly pleasant day in Donnas life
she sat herself down in the
center of the parlor
and without hesitation
ceremony
or further ado,
in 2 swift motions
cleanly slit her wrists.

I like to drink in taverns
Where you get beers and a shot
Where the glasses all are *****
And the women all are hot
Where there's blood stains on the dance floor
From a brawl the night before
And you know there'll be some more there
Before they close the doors at four

Line Dancin' Badonkadonks
or Boot Scootin' Prima Donnas
Are never on our floor
There's none of them among us
The good ol' Texas two step
Is all you'll  find round here
With both dancers smokin' smokes
and both holding a beer

We're not a bar for yuppies
We're a bar your dad would go
We're a bar with old time music
We're a bar you all should know
We're a bar with old time values
We're a bar with out a name
We're your bar son, your bar
We're your bar son, your bar


Umbrella drinks and blue lagoons
They can keep them in the city
For any guy who drinks that stuff
Well...to me...he's too **** pretty
A shot of Beam, a glass of draft
Waylon on the old juke box
Another shot, a few more beer
And this place really rocks

We don't serve drinks you can't pronounce
Or that take too long to pour
We like our music really loud
Hell...that's what country's for
You don't come here to sit and talk
You come to have a party
So, barkeep...one more time around
And lets start drinking hearty

We're not a bar for yuppies
We're a bar your dad would go
We're a bar with old time music
We're a bar you all should know
We're a bar with old time values
We're a bar with out a name
We're your bar son, your bar
We're your bar son, your bar

I am from nothing.

From privilege thoughts
and poor choices.

I am from rumpled
school uniforms
and skinned knees.

From the stinging
taste of red clay
to the black and
blue sleeves of
prepubescent rage.

I am from
giant dogwoods
whose long-
reaching branches
scrapped against
that endless,
black celling.


The forever
nights, holding
on to Dogwood
limbs. Eyes un-
blinking. Starring
into the abyss
of creation.

From
Cap’n Crunch
and chocolate
milk to black
coffee and cigarettes.

I am from
absent brothers
and forgetful
fathers.

I am from
awkward crushes
to adolescent  
wet-dreams of
the budding
tulips walking
down our halls.

From the
class clowns
to the wall-
flowers.

From the
****-ups
to the
Prima
Donnas.

From the Sunday fields
of old and new
to the Wednesday
rivers of the born again.

I am from
the warming
light.

There is a world that no one knows
Where life unnoticed grows and thrives
Where birth and death and all between
Are scrutinised, yet are unseen

Where innocence and purity
In white are welcomed, full of hope
Impinging slowly, edging in
Life’s colour forming character

Where independent yellow gloats
In fierce teen triumph ‘Look at me!”

With fun and laughter orange glows
And reaches high in happiness
Experience and independence
Rich lessons teach and edges darken

Their lives on show, rough judgement falls
And ‘I prefer the red’ is thrown
About and listened to and felt
And colours deepen, darkened hue

In wind and rain and sunshine showers
Red develops, life impinges
Bright happiness or blood-red wisdom
Growing older, growing wiser

Where petals turning in reveal
Quiet pom-pom introversion
While out-turned fingers stretch with glee
Prima donnas, dancing, twirling

Where purple self-awareness turns
Each pink and mauve and lilac from
The bloom of youth towards life’s wane
Yet far enough away, rebelling

Where days grow shorter, sliding past
Yet hands stretch out and cup each face
And noses breathe and fingers touch
And bees buzz past and voices rise
And babies cry and old men laugh
And yet unknown, unseen, life slows

Bright-eyed the purple-rinse brigade
With sparkle-induced energy
Remembering and reminiscing
Their days they fill with endless chatter

Late Autumn falls and nights draw near
White heads do droop and slip, like snow
Fine petals drift into the breeze
An echo whispering til Spring.

Lisas and Cheryls in halter tops walk the
Halls of Stoughton High full
Throttle, coiffed fleece fiercely feathered,
Tonys and Tims trawling in tow, toting
Texts.

Tims and Tonys slip
Slyly away, skip shop, talk
****, **** a doob behind
Bob’s Baitshop’s garbage dunes, tunes of
Geils and Seeger and Stones, applaud
Lisas and Cheryls, laud deserving
Donnas and Dianes (but dude, don’t
Let on!)

See,
A solitary Tony takes to one shapely
Cheryl’s sultry swagger, staggers, blathers
His rathers, turning her hair’s fair feathers
A-flair, she helping his hand higher up her hip, her
Cup, her concupiscent luscious lower lemon-lacquered lip, he agog, a *****
Dog with a bone.  And a libidinous loner
Lisa prefers a particular turgid Tim, digs
His Doors tee tucked
In to tight tan cords, affords
Herself a longer linger as his fingers
Dangle, thick thumbs hooked in belt. Looked at,
Felt, ***** his hip, flips a nod, draws a
Sneer, paws her rear, she his
Haunch, he steady and
Staunch, Steady and
Staunch
Not gonna
Launch
Steady
gawdamnsunuvabitch!
Thaws the sneer
Right there.
High gears it outta here.

So, we know beautiful people are leaving
Just as a crab with a soft shell hides under rocks
But the Debs and Donnas only have to hide for a short time
Because we are the rocks of safety
The hate mongers are not poets
Not inspirationalists
They are the ones with a one inch *****
Those who desire the fulfilling *** of poetry
But cannot achieve the ******
And so you who write
Be it good or bad
Ignore the poison barbs of bitterness and hate
Just be yourselves

Fable XIV, Livre IV.


« L'excellente caricature ! »
Disait un jeune coq en riant aux éclats :
Un chapon, malgré l'aventure
Qui l'oblige au moins *** de tous les célibats,
Vouloir être chef de famille !
De poussins quelle bande autour de lui fourmille !
S'il était sincère aujourd'hui,
Il conviendrait, le pauvre hère,
Qu'entouré des enfants d'autrui,
Il croit quelquefois être père. »
« - D'accord, dit le Manceau, mais quelquefois aussi,
Conviens-en, l'ami, tu crois l'être ? »
« - Compère, autour de nous je ne vois, Dieu merci,
Qu'enfants auxquels j'ai donné l'être. »
« - Poussé par le plaisir bien plus que par l'amour,
Lovelace de basse-cour,
À demi, je le sais, tu leur donnas le jour.
Mais quel soin les a fait éclore ?
Sous ton aile, en naissant, vinrent-ils se ranger ?
Dans le besoin, dans le danger,
Es-tu le protecteur que leur faiblesse implore !
Entre eux et toi jamais fut-il rien de commun ?
Pas un ne te connaît, tu n'en connais pas un.
Séparons-nous ; et puis, observe
Vers qui les conduira l'instinct reconnaissant.
Tu leur donnas la vie... une fois ; et moi, cent ;
Chaque jour je la leur conserve.
Les doux soins dont tu te défends,
C'est la paternité. Prodigue tes caresses :
Tu peux avoir eu des maîtresses,
Mais tu n'as jamais eu d'enfants. »

The girls I knew upon distant shores
Courtesans to prima donnas to wall flowers to debutants to Thai street ******

I love them all

Some hated me some begged me to stay
Some jumped on me some walked away

Like herding a field of cats

In search of love around the world
Now back in this USA can't even so much as talk to a girl

They all now just walk away
Like herding a field of cats

Permanent publicized
conversation starters
attract clueless puzzle boxes
and old timey trouts
that burden and scold you
with guilt trips and pestering inquiries.
Infuriating terminology
and slang words to describe
such masterpieces.
They leech on to you
at random moments
in random places
with every stupid question
they divulge at you
but you're instantly equipped
with locked and loaded snappy answers
to provoke the easily offended.
Destroying something beautiful
like putting a pile of veggies
on a meat lovers pizza,
is like the gratification
you seek and desire
when watching their perplexed faces
from such brash responses.
Needle under the skin
is more tolerable than
these under the skin
comments and remarks.
Good advice from ultra maroon
simpletons is the Jurassic Park
of depression.
Nobody wants to be told
who to be,
where to go
and how to live.
Pending disbursement,
talent and greatest length of thought
to the quickest impromptu impulse,
from the bottom of the barrel,
jailhouse kitchen magicians
to the top notch Picassos,
you get what you pay for
with your everlasting
ink splatter decisions.
Branded Artists catch a bad reputation
of arrogance and incompetence
from snot nosed prima donnas
if every demand of precision
isn't met to their
thoroughgoing adequacies,
like a humble peasant
who hasn't transformed
into a human footstool
for peevish princesses.
Manifestations constitute
preservations of tattoos
as art through the
eye of the beholder, like
a painting on a canvas.
Judgmental eyes and
inexperienced blank pages
will come and go
but your happiness
and symbolic reminders
of a certain time in your life
are what counts.
No matter the colour,
perspective,
proportion,
slightest imperfection,
how controversial or ridiculous,
significant or futile,
you've made your lifelong commitment
without shame, regret or remorse.
In the end, we are all the same
decaying organics as everything else.

Fake smiles on plastic lips
Prima facie prima donnas
press play on broken records
cheap words on repeat.

'Beauty' preens on billboard prints
as sundown slicker paints the sky
over 'salt-of-the-earth', white-collared wage-mules
and souls too worse for wear.

So they lie, yes, while they lay
in flesh caskets upon prime real estate tombs;
"I've lived the life," they'd say while peering down
on those who lived just to live.

And the world plays this sad charade
in clockwork symphony every single day
as its asphalt veins pump with diesel fumes in streams
from the steel entourage with their precious cargo.

So press play on broken records
for humdinger proof
your sorrowtide serenade
the grovel & groove.

Over recent years I've watched the ebb and flow of talent coming and going through our little pond of creativity. There is a steady group of consistent writers who contribute regularly to the pool. They interact with each other amiably, encourage, enthuse and occasionally, mildly criticize the work contributed. Many demonstrate their dissaproval with a stoney silence, some leap up and down, others pontificate.
Generally we all splash around and find satisfaction in our own damp sphere of appeal.

We who dwell in the creative waters of this pond are comfortable with our lot. We are satisfied that we are in common ground with like minded people. Few rock the boat.

Diversity is the theme where the offerings range from personal tragedy to outpourings of passion and love. Political posturing has been known to rile whilst others have been brought to tears of intense sorrow. Gales of laughter occur and the odd snicker of amused connivance sneaks out from many, quite involuntarily.

We have no William Shakespeares, no Nerudas, few of the calibre of
Leonard Cohen or Emily Dickinson....but we do have layers of excellence. Inspired outpourings frequently amaze from the most unexpected corners of our gathering. There are those who elevate themselves above the many on frequent occasions but any and all of us are capable of producing the odd inspired Masterpiece.
We all aspire to produce our very, very best as happily often as we are able.

Sadly there are those who choose to retreat into the ether, vanish with their art into obscurity for reasons of their own.... leaving a vacuum in their wake...and then there are they who tragically slip under the veil of death. All of us have lamented the passing of these dear souls, recalled the valued past moments shared in their verse and their companionship.

Occasionally, a gem wades into our pond, producing work of such clarity and inspired quality, words and phrases of such unqualified beauty and enchantment that they command universal attention and amazement. These poets shine like the sun and are the focus of the moment of the many....admiration, inspiration, enjoyment and occasionally, feelings of envy. Few of these shining stars endure for long, for they recognise and realise their talent, their potential, and aspire for higher things. They tend to migrate to poetic elevations in ponds of a higher strata.

Yea verily, there be elevated ponds in this domain, reaching right to the very top! Stratified ponds in rarified air where, unless you measure up, you don't belong! Expectancies are decreed and insisted upon in these regions. Membership is limited, controlled....and expensive. It costs to belong up there and membership is not without a constant level of stress. In these waterways you are dealing with the very top echelon of performers, the egos and the prima donnas and the fancy. There is an insistence on adherence and compliance. Here you are either in or you are out...and expulsion, from this  domain at these heady altitudes, can be sudden, permanent and quite malevolently viscious.

So thee, who may aspire to soar up there with the eagles, ponder the benefits of thy current caste, breathe the clear air and sip the nectar of this pleasant province. Count well thy blessings and then consider the quiescence and the harmony of your current company prior to making any descision to venture to take that leap!

With respect and gratitude to the denizens of HP.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
24 March 2024

It was Donna Darling’s annual dinner party
A Cotillion approved eatery
Six spoons and six forks
The wrong one, and all the glares one bore
And then waddled in Miss Pillsbury
Her stumpy feet too short to
Do anything but waddle
Uninvited she was
As she always was
Squelching her way
through the narrow doorway.
As fourteen perfectly styled heads
Shuffled their feet under the table.

Boom! Clash!
Six spoons crashing
Six forks attacking
Poor old lady Judith’s knee
As she groaned in pain.
Donna scratching her head
Eyes darting through her invite list
Top-to-bottom, Top-to-bottom
Screech! Went the chair,
Scratching Donnas hand polished marble floors
Like nails on a chalkboard.

Oh, and what she did next,
Almost sent Donna to her upstairs bedroom
To pop some unprescribed ******
As the stout woman grabbed soup
with her chubby hands
And started gulping it down
Before it ran through her fingers.

Frazzled Donna tried, oh she tried
To salvage the integrity
Of her fancy dinner party
Unfortunately, at the moment
it was running down the table
From Miss Pillsbury’s double chin.
Swooosh! Went old lady Judith
As she skated across the marble
Like an Olympic figure skater
Only to crash into Donna’s perfectly organized
stainless steel kitchenware.

Donna ran out screaming and crying
Nobody’s seen her since.
And as for Miss Pillsbury,
I’d be surprised if she noticed any of it

Personne pour toi. Tous sont d'accord. Celui-ci,
Nommé Gladstone, dit à tes bourreaux : merci !
Cet autre, nommé Grant, te conspue, et cet autre,
Nommé Bancroft, t'outrage ; ici c'est un apôtre,
Là c'est un soldat, là c'est un juge, un tribun,
Un prêtre, l'un du Nord, l'autre du Sud ; pas un
Que ton sang, à grands flots versé, ne satisfasse ;
Pas un qui sur ta croix ne te crache à la face.
Hélas ! qu'as-tu donc fait aux nations ? Tu vins
Vers celles qui pleuraient, avec ces mots divins :
Joie et Paix ! - Tu criais : - Espérance ! Allégresse !
Sois puissante, Amérique, et toi sois libre, ô Grèce !
L'Italie était grande ; elle doit l'être encor.
Je le veux ! - Tu donnas à celle-ci ton or ;
A celle-là ton sang, à toutes la lumière.
Tu défendis le droit des hommes, coutumière
De tous les dévouements et de tous les devoirs.
Comme le boeuf revient repu des abreuvoirs,
Les hommes sont rentrés pas à pas à l'étable,
Rassasiés de toi, grande soeur redoutable,
De toi qui protégeas, de toi qui combattis.
Ah ! se montrer ingrats, c'est se prouver petits.
N'importe ! pas un d'eux ne te connaît. Leur foule
T'a huée, à cette heure où ta grandeur s'écroule,
Riant de chaque coup de marteau qui tombait
Sur toi, nue et sanglante et clouée au gibet.
Leur pitié plaint tes fils que la fortune amère
Condamne à la rougeur de t'avouer pour mère.
Tu ne peux pas mourir, c'est le regret qu'on a.
Tu penches dans la nuit ton front qui rayonna ;
L'aigle de l'ombre est là qui te mange le foie ;
C'est à qui reniera la vaincue ; et la joie
Des rois pillards, pareils aux bandits des Adrets,
Charme l'Europe et plaît au monde... - Ah ! je voudrais,
Je voudrais n'être pas Français pour pouvoir dire
Que je te choisis, France, et que, dans ton martyre,
Je te proclame, toi que ronge le vautour,
Ma patrie et ma gloire et mon unique amour !

Ô ciel ! je vous revois, madame,
De tous les amours de mon âme
Vous le plus tendre et le premier.
Vous souvient-il de notre histoire ?
Moi, j'en ai gardé la mémoire :
C'était, je crois, l'été dernier.

Ah ! marquise, quand on y pense,
Ce temps qu'en folie on dépense,
Comme il nous échappe et nous fuit !
Sais-tu bien, ma vieille maîtresse,
Qu'à l'hiver, sans qu'il y paraisse,
J'aurai vingt ans, et toi dix-huit ?

Eh bien ! m'amour, sans flatterie,
Si ma rose est un peu pâlie,
Elle a conservé sa beauté.
Enfant ! jamais tête espagnole
Ne fut si belle, ni si folle.
Te souviens-tu de cet été ?

De nos soirs, de notre querelle ?
Tu me donnas, je me rappelle,
Ton collier d'or pour m'apaiser,
Et pendant trois nuits, que je meure,
Je m'éveillai tous les quarts d'heure,
Pour le voir et pour le baiser.

Et ta duègne, ô duègne damnée !
Et la diabolique journée
Où tu pensas faire mourir,
O ma perle d'Andalousie,
Ton vieux mari de jalousie,
Et ton jeune amant de plaisir !

Ah ! prenez-y garde, marquise,
Cet amour-là, quoi qu'on en dise,
Se retrouvera quelque jour.
Quand un coeur vous a contenue,
Juana, la place est devenue
Trop vaste pour un autre amour.

Mais que dis-je ? ainsi va le monde.
Comment lutterais-je avec l'onde
Dont les flots ne reculent pas ?
Ferme tes yeux, tes bras, ton âme ;
Adieu, ma vie, adieu, madame,
Ainsi va le monde ici-bas.

Le temps emporte sur son aile
Et le printemps et l'hirondelle,
Et la vie et les jours perdus ;
Tout s'en va comme la fumée,
L'espérance et la renommée,
Et moi qui vous ai tant aimée,
Et toi qui ne t'en souviens plus !

Go to hell you daisy-eyed Rue21 priestesses
Clamoring for significance in ***** dressing rooms
Ashy skinned in clumsy selfies, splayed out like convenience stores
There's dust on your shelves and all your candy is stale.

Go to bed you pajama-pantsed prima donnas
bleached blonde and child-weary, swiping plastic for apple juice
Can't you see I have to go to work?
Pick your ******* cigarettes already!

Go to church you ******* hypocrites
You incessant fat barking chihuahuas
If Karen at the office is so insufferable,
why don't you just leave?

Go **** yourselves you snide social statisticians
prancing around prize racehorses
You'll be glue on somebody /else's/ eyelashes when you're done.

It's not all that it's cracked up to be
even when you're good and get the key
that lets you in
free from sin
unlike me who'll never be
a member

but I'm quite sure
the muses or the fates
can't hide the fact
that Heaven is full of
council estates.

shrinking violets or
prima donnas
have one thing in common
they're all dead and goners

. Imagine cherubs and seraphim
stood at the gates
handing out halo's
to all of your mates,
and don't forget the
council estates
there'll be rent when it's due
or you'll be out on the street
there are plenty of homeless
here you can meet
Jersey lil's
and cowpokes that drawl
Kilroy the star of many a wall

the ghettos
let's not forget the ghettos
the heat of the day
the union go-slows
the unending songs
of angels
lost souls at odds with
the angles

heaven is the dumping ground
and I being of sound mind
with a grip on things
wouldn't go.