Archie was smart; at least he reckoned he was, because he had what he considered to be the good things in life: dosh in his wallet, a Cat in the garage, and a detach. in the green belt; all of which he had worked hard to acquire. Worked, is not exactly the word for it. Archie did deals. He reckoned he could always turn a fiver into a tenner an’ a tenner into a pony; a pony into a ton and a ton to a grand. He was one of the cash economy’s natural alchemists.  The folding stuff was the measure of a person, he reckoned. Archie never thought about anything; he reckoned everything, and nothing on God’s good earth was beyond reckoning, he reckoned. An ever-ready reckoner; that was Archie, and he loved himself for it. Only John Wayne did more reckoning than Archie, his old dad, bless him, used to say, thought Archie. In Archie’s world a grand was currency; less than that was just spare change. He reckoned he gave superior meaning to the expression ‘it’s a grand life’. The only blemish on Archie’s horizon as far as he could see was the lack of a class bird, or ‘ream sort’, as he preferred to say; hence this evening’s extravaganza at a posh French restaurant in the company of a beautiful lady. Archie only had two serious weaknesses in his existence: a fondness for the last word in a dispute about anything you care to mention, and his infatuation with his dining companion, the beautiful Carmela.


Carmela shared a common background with Archie. They grew up on the same council estate in the inner city. They were aware of each other’s existence as kids and teenagers, but they didn’t really know each other. Carmela was a quiet child and very singular; even in company she could be by herself. None but she was wise to her sense of solitude. She had three passions in life: knitting, sewing and weaving; the blessed trinity of her existence. Carmela interpreted the world by these three gifts. Here she was, she thought, weaving her way through an evening, in the company of three strangers. One she knew, herself, another she didn’t know at all, despite proximity and semi-shared origins. Then there was the complete stranger to the trinity: the waiter in his new and very polished shiny black shoes, “You can tell a lot about a person by their shoes”, Carmela’s mum used to say, she was thinking about that as the waiter appeared to almost pirouette into vision.


The waiter was a patient soul, it goes with the territory. The waiting game wasn’t something you should rush in to, he often told himself, in one of his more existentialist moments. He appreciated the irony of the comment in a Sartresque kind of fashion. He was from a steel town in the Rhonda Valley of South Wales. Iron was in his veins if not his appearance. A creature of paradoxes, that’s what he told himself he was. He liked that assessment of himself. It complimented his passion for all things French: French food, French wine, French philosophy, literature and art. He was learning the language at night school. Alas, his accent was as lyrically refined as the landscape that bred him He shovelled the words onto a conveyor belt of sound and meaning as best he could in the general direction of the person he was talking to, more in hope than in faith that they understood what was being said .The other passion in his life was tap dancing, and as luck would have it he could wear the same outfit for work and leisure, hence the very shiny shoes which allowed him to dance around the tables of the restaurant, practising his language skills on the clientele, His life work and leisure dovetailed with his ambition and he was pleased to wake up in the morning and set about the mortal trespass with a skip in his step. The waiter imagined himself to be a cosmopolitan and enlightened soul, in a very Fred Astaire kind of way, and life was a flight of stairs which he could ascend and descend in a Morse code type of style, just like Mr Bojangles.


The fare was fine. the wine was rare, but the conversation was spare until the cheese board arrived.” Good grub”, said Archie to the waiter. “We don’t do grub, sir, we only serve the finest Gallic cuisine in this establishment,” replied the waiter, in his usual mangled French, whilst smiling that smile that only waiters can manage when registering disapproval. Archie looked blank. It was Carmela who spoke: “C’était magnifique! Mes compliments au chef.” “Streuth! You speak better French than Marcel Proust here” said Archie.” I studied Fashion and Design in Paris for five years “replied Carmela.” “An’ I joined the Common Market many moons ago. It’s good for business” said Archie. The waiter was impressed: “Food, fashion, wine, Proust and Paris. This must be Nirvana” he said. “Great band, but a very dubious heaven.” replied Carmela, knitting together the threads whilst changing the pattern of the conversation in a very subtle fashion that was more to her liking.” “It’s only rock ’n’ roll” said Archie, an’ if you’ve ever heard French rock ’n’ roll it’s enough to make you believe in Foucault” “Foucault, my hero!” said the waiter, “a philosophical genius”. “According to Foucault, a knitting pattern is the hieroglyphic of a consumerist and decadent capitalist society.” intoned Carmela.” “And ‘A recipe is a critique of a cake’, said the great Structuralist philosopher,” interjected Archie, so if you serve the gateaux we may effect the collapse of western civilisation as we all know and love it”. “Allors, Let them eat cake” said the waiter, and everybody smiled at the irony of the comment.

The waiter bojangled his way into the night, tapping and clicking the pavement as he went.  Carmela and Archie got into a black cab. “That was a night to remember,” said Carmela, “very Proustian”. “A la recherche du temps perdu”, replied Archie, pleased as punch to have the last word. Carmela just smiled as she looked at Archie’s shoes.

(written 3-18-2014)



I just needed something different, something to think about: an alternative night, a different scene with new environmental stimuli. It’s true that if the stimulus is unchanging we will adapt, but for me, I live best being able to react to different things. Yesterday was fun for that reason.



I was going to drive, but then Alistair said Yarab was going out too and he offered to drive. I considered the gas money and how I would prefer to drink and not worry about driving, so I agreed. At this point, you and I were in amidst a discussion regarding me coming over too late– or not at all– and I was in a particular mood where I didn’t want to think about the relationship strain. I knew I was causing it, but it was nothing new, and nothing bad. I just wanted to actually see my brother since I was so suffocated and domesticated. I wanted a night away from Giovanni’s room, which made me feel like your little housewife, your obedient certainty assigned love.



Why did we stay so ignorant when we started with uncertainty? It was a beautiful stage of development, a coming-of-age stage of accepting my sexuality and exploring sensuality. We we drunk college girls, amateur philosophers and ****-smokers, confused about the world but idealizing a better world. That was the ideal of us. The truth was too tragic, but we endured it for so long that for one night I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to get away. I didn’t want to think about you. So I didn’t. It was inconsiderate of me to consider you worrying and upset, but at this point I wanted to enjoy myself and have fun with my brother when I figured you’d be sad and disappointed no matter what happened, so I may as well enjoy myself. I thought hard about it, but decided since it was Alistair’s birthday, I didn’t have work until 6:00 p.m. the next day, and yes, it was St. Patrick’s Day, I wanted to go out and celebrate. Sorry you didn’t want to come.



In the car, Alistair packed the bowl. They were smoking it on the way up and I declined but instead had a cigarette. Yarab said he was working with an artist who made glass pieces resembling scary, mystical-like creatures, and the bowl Alistair packed was one of them. It was mostly blue, and the front of it was a head where the **** would go into the top of the head. It had wide eyes, a big, sorcerer-like nose and big, scary-looking teeth. “Trippy, right? The line is called Enoch based off the book of Enoch in the Bible—which is actually removed in most but still a part of Russian Orthodox.” They packed it twice throughout the ride and I sat in the back, smoked my cigarette and thought about you and the night before me.



We were going to Harrington’s Irish Pub but it was packed (naturally), so we tried Cadillac Ranch (the bar was full there too), so we finally decided on Public House. We each had 3 Washington Apple’s between beers and conversations before getting food. I had two Yuenglings, Alistair had a Yuengling, three Irish Stouts and Yarab drank 3 Stellas. Alistair and I split nachos and a hummus plate. I’d never been there before, and I appreciated the upscale environment compared to cramped and loud local bars I was used to. It was quiet enough that we could talk and hold conversations, and our bartender, Sarah, was pretty, friendly and attentive. I thought about my restaurant experience and briefly thought about her and her life.



My favorite part of the night was when we were at Public House. The conversations were just interesting; they talked about Putin, Ukraine and Russia and how “of course the U.S. wouldn’t let part of the country join into Russia” and the proposal would be rejected by the UN; we talked about birdhouses and fireplaces and utilizing space in people’s yards, so that if the world changed for the worse and we needed to survive we would be able to; we talked about being arrested; we talked about the Zionists and the fake group of evil Northern European people who migrated and were rejected by both Islam and Christianity, so they essentially took over Judaism—and how the conflict between Israel and Palestine is a struggle for power with the Zionists and U.S.; all of this was relevant to our talk about how we don’t live in a Democracy but a Corporatocracy, and the world is determined by whoever has the most money and power.



Yarab talked about tolerance for other cultures and intolerance, telling us about the other day when his stepfather was at their house going over notes with a woman from Sudan. She and her company wanted to use a product (he was a rocket-scientist and worked on a greener product in 1967 which weapons would have less of an environmentally hazardous effect) of his, but before going over the professional aspects he basically insulted her culture and country, criticizing how wrong they were. Yarab said he was in the kitchen getting water and had to leave because he couldn’t help but laugh, saying how his step-father was brilliant but very opinionated and could be rude. “He’s a buddhist-atheist,” he said, and I thought of us chanting. I brought up Niechren Buddhism and the lotus sutra, expressing how nice it made me feel after. He said any way to get peace is a good one, but atheists shouldn’t be ignorant when talking about their non-beliefs because that’s just as bad as religious people talking about their beliefs. Alistair commended him on never forcing his beliefs on Alistair, and I asked what he thought of God.



He described himself as polytheistic, saying that there wasn’t just one god but many, and because of how everything in the universe connects and resembles each other there must be something to cause it, because it can’t be explained. I thought about the mystery of life and how it’s developmental to wonder about it, and felt secure in the fluidity of my beliefs which has a general principle, that life may not be a coincidence but it is comprised with a series of coincidences and connect factors which cannot always be explained or determined, but rather appreciated and analyzed to create a memorable life in which existence is valued. I didn’t ask further about his gods, but I figured the idea he held was similar to the atheistic view Alistair held and the scientific-spirituality I held as well.



It was interesting talking to another person about it besides Alistair, and the discussion changed and added to the one we had the night before, when Alistair and I were drinking ***** with ginger ale (while I tinted with green food dye). I’ve always appreciated drunk talks with Alistair because they were some of the most real conversations I had. I brought up the hour-long documentary “Obey” and confessed my frustrations about the consumerist-capitalistic society we live in, where it’s nearly impossible to change the system as we’re being monitored. Big Brother is among us, I noted, and I praised George Orwell as a prophet and how we are living in 1984 even though so many people fail to realize it and don’t care or consider the bigger consequences of it. There was something so mystical in our depressing little talk, and I felt empowered to reexamine my life and work towards something with meaning.



While maybe more spiritual than existential, I knew Yarab could understand these ideas and provide even more insight to the social issues which confined us, the same ones we were so immersed in. We toasted to Alistair’s birthday; we toasted to being Arab; we toasted to Franklin Lamb; we toasted to Palestine; we toasted to peace.



Alistair was in the bathroom and I asked Yarab whether it was possible to live outside Capitalism without rejecting social conventions, being isolated and living off the Earth away from society. He replied it was very hard not to feed into the system, and explained how even he felt like a hypocrite for living in the U.S. and being American when his family and people were in Syria enduring the hardship of resources, lack of employment and political regimes. He explained that it was necessary to be a part of the system but not buy into it, to use the system and eventually work towards changing it. “Like Robin Hood,” he said. I told him it was hard because it seemed so easy to get ****** into it, and he said work towards what you believe in. “You’ll have a clear conscience.”



Alistair came back from the bathroom, and he talked about going to Lebanon toward the end of summer. “I could study Arabic at AUB,” and I supported his idea. Yarab chimed in that he deeply respected my father because of his work. “He actually cares about what’s happening and he speaks from the heart.” I was proud of my father for his work, despite everything else, and thought it interesting that the one Syrian we happen to encounter in our small town was immersed in politics and actively followed my father.



“You should take over what your dad is doing,” Yarab said to Alistair, and Alistair agreed it would be a good thing to do. Alistair mentioned Fatima Hajj and my time learning about Palestinians and spent in refugee camps. “She died a week after Louisa interviewed her.” “Three days,” I corrected him, and I felt my insides turn as we reminisced on my accomplishments. Almost two years had passed, and I made no progress on my activism, besides an article. Two weeks was not enough to change the world, although from my feedback it was clear I had inspired many.



I told them both how I felt so stagnant and unintelligent, boring and unproductive regarding any progress of working towards something of importance.”Do what you can while you’re able. Even if you don’t see it grow, you can still plant the seeds. You can be a sheep or you can be a Lamb.” I was grateful that my brother had a friend who could think about the world in a way differently than the normal crowd of friends he had who just focused on losing themselves in substances with no thought of life beyond their boring little lives.



Alistair suggested I visit Beirut for a month to see visit Dad, make connections and see what else was happening in Lebanon, Syria and throughout the Middle-East, and my heart sank with nostalgia and the prospect of a dream. I could see us going to Lebanon, and if I went I would feel inflated with purpose, the way I felt when I went before, the way I felt I could change the world. Yarab agreed with Alistair and supported my journalistic endeavors, while Alistair mentioned Mediciens sans Frontiers. “I don’t know if I’d be able to,” and I thought about you, Camino and Arizona. I thought about ASU and AUB. “Rachel would understand if you went for a month right?” I didn’t want to listen what I knew would follow.

After finishing our food we went outside to smoke. Alistair drank his beer, I chugged mine and Yarab left more than half of his second Stella. “I have to drive,” so Alistair picked it up and emptied the cup in two stealthy gulps.We went back to the garage and the plan was to drive back to a house party in Accokeek. I didn’t know Elton, or what to expect, but from the company I knew they kept in Accokeek, I expected a drastic change in environment from the bar talk with two like-minded Arabs.



Alistair packed the bowl again, and I was offered to smoke but again declined. “We stopped smoking.” “Rachel smoked with me while she was waiting for you to get off work one day.” “What? Recently?” “Yeah, like two to three weeks ago or something. I was in disbelief. “Are you serious? We were stopping together! She didn’t even tell me!” I was angry, and resented feeling like a fool, believing that we made a decision together—only to discover my efforts were stronger than hers. “Don’t ask her about it though.”



“No! I’m going to. Here I am, not doing anything and she does it? Doesn’t tell me about it?? It’s not that she did it but she didn’t even tell me. Typical *****. We talked about it since and she just chose not to bring it up? And she’s here accusing me of things when I’m not doing anything wrong?”



“She’s probably projecting her guilt on you.” I thought about other times I didn’t know about something and remembered finding out and feeling so stupid. “Do you want some?” “Maybe I will.. but no. Not right now.” I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.



But I did. I asked you and we texted about it, and in the car I felt annoyed and unincluded, rejecting the **** that was offered to me. By the time we got to the house, I left my phone in the car. I was there to spend time with my brother, not get into a text fight over something that didn’t matter anyway. We went inside and I didn’t recognize everyone. I suspected I was the youngest, and I couldn’t help but observe I was the thinnest girl. People were playing beer pong and sitting at a table. Someone offered me a beer. I sat down on a couch. Alistair was getting hugs from girls and handshakes and fist-bumps from guys, and I made brief introductions with no real effort of talking to anyone. There weren’t many seats, and the most comfortable couches were facing the television where rap videos were playing. I hadn’t heard any off the songs that were on the playlist, and felt uncomfortable by the blatant sexuality and objectification of girls in the videos. The drunk girls were dancing to the music and singing along with the degrading, raunchy lyrics. “Can we smoke?”



I hesitated and held the bowl in my hand, staring at the green. I thought about putting it down. “I haven’t smoked in two months and twenty-one days,” I vocalized, and some guy (who didn’t smoked) responded “but who’s counting?” “Come on Weezee,” and after further hesitation I decided it was nothing new, and nothing bad would happen as a result. I brought the piece to my lips, lowered the lighter and inhaled. It was smooth, and I held it in my lungs for several seconds before slowly exhaling. I couldn’t feel it at first. It was passed around, and I took another hit. I thought about what you might be thinking about me, but pushed the thought from my mind. A guy made brief eye contact with me, and something about him seemed familiar. He had a beard and was wearing a hat, and I thought it was impossible I could know him. The other person who lived there asked if we could smoke in the room because the guy who asked me who was counting, and others, didn’t smoke. So we went. I hit the bowl once more and as we were standing I felt the high come to me, the surreal feeling of being and experiencing. In the room was myself, Alistair, Yarab, a guy with a ‘fro, Elton and the guy with the hat and beard. Someone packed the **** and handed it to me, but I refused; I was pressured and still refused. “I haven’t done this in a while, so no, I’m fine, and I’ve been drinking.” I think some were taken aback by how adamant I was not to push my limit, because it was so clear many people there viewed partying as pushing the limit.



Alistair introduced me to the guy with the beard and the hat as Mat, who worked at Chevy’s and now McCormicks, and I instantly recognized him. “Oh hey!” I said and hugged him, and he said “I thought you looked familiar. How’ve you been?” “I’ve been pretty good,” and I explained to Alistair that he worked with Alex at Bonefish Grill and was our server when we went in to her work once, years ago. They continued to smoke and I stood among them, half paying attention to conversation and half thinking about anything and everything else. There was a familiarity being among these people I’d never met, and the surrounding of burnouts. I wondered if everyone there was a server and that was all they did. I told Mat I worked at Buffalo Wild Wings as a server, my first serving job, yeah I like it okay, I guess, and he told me he knew Alistair through McCormicks. “I’m serving there too,” and I wondered how many restaurants he’d been through so far.



He told me he graduated from tech school and I congratulated him and asked, “which one?”, where he replied Lincoln Tech. I wasn’t surprised it was that type, and I told him I graduated from Salisbury with a degree in Psychology, which he congratulated me for. I felt it necessary to disclose I was taking the GRE in May and imply that, yes, while I am serving in Waldorf and my college degree doesn’t give me much to do in this area, I am going back to school and I am going to do more than stay around serving, like you. I was reminded of a poem I wrote and th

We use video games
To make video gains
Until the screen goes black
And reality attacks
We lose all our progress
In the deletion process
As we level up we devolve
Around the TV we revolve
The more experience we gain
The more moments we lose
Our memories forever stained
When this is what we choose
Our life inside a hard drive
Our life becomes a hard lie
We revel in being unwise
Rage quitting life
We enjoy strife
And avoid pesky light
When we live in the dark
With consumerist plights
We are all marks

Video games balance in a zone
Between game and art
The frustration starts
When art is confused for games
And games mistook for art
People take things to heart
And spitefully spew viper venom
If this is where games send them
Then why do we play?
We have no other way
To feel accomplishment
In a society that worships competition
Video games become the second edition
Of a life filled with loss
On our pixelated cross
We are murdered millions of times
Reminiscent of the millions of lies
That make us losers in the real world
Video games become our shiny pearl

The computer displays defeat
When our lives aren't complete
Because we need someone to beat
Not realizing our lives are conquered
By frivolous topics we've pondered
Our meaningless life squandered
And hope comes in the form of new releases
While inside our faulty headset is in pieces

The bus rumbles on,
it is an over crowded one -
not an unusual sight -
she stands in the space
reserved for women,
there's hardly any room
to breathe.
The broadcaster on radio
shows off her gift of the gab,
a popular film song follows;
a gush of wind
through the window
brings along smoke, dust
and other such components
of 'city-air'.
She looks out to see
impressive malls,
entrances to which, witness
beggars pursuing well dressed gentry,
in the hope of a penny or two;
billboards advertise
latest discount offers
appealing to her consumerist instincts;
constant honking of vehicles,
music blaring from an auto nearby -
these are common sounds
she is accustomed to.
The bus halts with a jolt,
she steps down,
tries to make her way,
through the crowd
avoiding hawkers lunging at her
from every side,
eager to make sales;
the smell of
pakodas fills the air,
autos carrying seven or eight passengers
limp away, surreptitiously,
at the sight of khaki clad men.
Out of the blue,
an elbow knocks into her chest,
she turns to look at the lout -
lecherous eyes mock at her impotent fury -
she mouths standard abuses,
walks away as if unruffled.
For this was not the first instance,
"Won't be the last either.",
she thinks at the back of her mind,
her heart chooses not to agree though.
She moves on,
pushing, shoving, cursing
her way through
'Battleground India'.

On row DH30A102
Buddha is seated,
meditating.
Underneath him
in dust covered boxes
a dozen more
radiate enlightenment,
waiting to be shipped out and sold
for 29.99 at your local store.

'Surely the fatman
will give our house
a unique Zen feel to it.'

Mumok Museum [24]

What am I doing in Vienna,
staring at cold sterile pop art as the whole entire world we're on burns,
in a city I never wanted to go to,
doing things that never really seemed that inspiring,

& it's not that I have an antipathetic attitude towards these pathetic fools,
in fact it's actually just the opposite of that because I'm an actual optimist,
which is why I don't feel inspired by bored cyborgs their wires or their tools,
& precisely why I'd rather gather flowers than be an actor for their power,

see I find more inspiration in a single leaf on a single tree by a river bank,
than from all the colors & lines contained within the walls of this museum,
which is why when I'm asked all the time what kind of poetry I read,
I reply I don't even read poetry see I don't find it in books I find it in seasons,

It's the same reason I don't need to go to church to pray,
because I don't need my messages from God to be translated by a human,

anyways where am I at & what am I doing?

Oh yeah Im at a museum in Vienna wondering where the inspirations gone,
& why everything seems so excruciatingly tiring,
see it seems we’re on the verge of a collective mental breakdown,
at the same time like we're on the precipice of a collective enlightening,

either way the system’s short circuiting & could do with some rewiring.

Why does every rags to riches story I know of those that've made it,
end in an overpriced designer outfit at home bored all alone & jaded?

Why is Consumerism followed like a religion,
I mean we're all made of the same DNA strands regardless of name brands,
I mean everything is just carbon hydrogen & oxygen anyways,
which may explain why materialism is immanent in every independent man,

while an apocalypse seems undeniably immanent &,
we dwell in the highest heights ever built still we don't totally understand,

we don’t worship Jesus we worship Visa,
putting good credit ahead of good morals,
don’t praise Muhammed in a daze we say our grace in front of TV Dramas,
no Buddha dreams just computers screens no real friends just PayPals,

& maybe that’s why it's easier to be blind than to see,
maybe that’s why we hide in museums behind Valentino sunglasses,
because we'd rather have expense tastes than be free,
but when you’re behind any type of four walls you’re trapped in,
whether on a Penthouse terrace with Paris in Paris,
or doing hard-time for white collar crimes with Madoff in a Federal pen,
either way we’re victims of our own additions trying to buy more time,
but running out of credit as banks are collapsing & the recession is relapsing,

so why even buy things when we know not so secretly,
that only Love will set us free from these retro restrictions & their trappings,

see,

the best things in life still are still free,
& yeah liberation is expensive & self renovations are extensive,
but freedom is priceless so live a life that's righteous,
seems that the Love Pyramid is the only pyramid that’s not a Ponzi scheme,

because we are all equal even if we’re not all treated equally,
that’s why some have no clothes while others wear designer denim jeans,
but these Diesels're 2 tight on my thighs this macabre carnival has no prize,
& I can do anything I want with my life but all I really want to do is breathe,

breathe,

breathe because this lifestyle is expensive,
but freedom is priceless,
even though they'll try to capitalize off of anything,
so they market it & try to price it,

I just,
want to find a place to relax & release,
& be free of all of this,
find true love & say “Fck off to the politicians & all their politics!”,

fck their programs fck their projects,
fck their ugly agendas dressed in artificially splendid splendor,
fck their quotas & their motives for treating human beings as objects,
fck their pre-programed consumerist culture of conmen capitalists,

fck there putting machines over human beings,
just to increase the place where their profit sits,
& I say all of this regardless of who it offends because I'm not an Apologist,
I'm more of a Lyrical Pharmacist,
who serves indiscriminate prescriptions in the form of transcriptions,
in order to assist in the additions that come from positive developments,
which will occur for sure once we switch the position we currently sit in,
& restore Divine Order once more in the name of Humankind's betterment,

in the game of life I play,
they know I'm so official that I don't even need a Letterman,

I just,
don’t know what else to say,
I don’t know why I’m at this museum in Vienna,
hiding away on the top floor writing this to you on a Sunday,

on the 5th floor got it all but I just want to give more,
I just want to gift these words then make my escape,
don't you get it I don't want to get more ****t,
if anything I just want to find a way to give more of what I have away,

just want to be alone,
but also want these words to be known so the truth can be shown,
but where do you go when you’re tired totally over it all,
& all you want to do is rest & write these poems,
but even with all you have you still don't know where to go,
because even with all these things you still don't have a home...

Hello,
could you please pick up the phone,
I’m calling because I still love you,
& I want to come back to you even though I know I’m already gone,

currently on the top floor of the Mumok museum in Vienna,
the floor is the 5th to be exact,
& yeah it’s true that I don’t know where I’m going,
but what I do know is I don’t think I’m ever coming back,

online & off track,
writing more words with more rhymes,
than any other living writer in contemporary times,
& no I'm not lying 'cause I'd never lie to you & yes those are both actual facts,

& yeah that’s a fact & yeah you can Google that,
but I’m going to follow that fact with a question,
before I forget to mention,
let me just ask you what I'm doing here in Vienna?



What am I doing in Vienna,
staring at cold sterile pop art as the whole entire world we're on burns,
in a city I never wanted to go to,
doing things that never really seemed that inspiring,

& it's not that I have an antipathetic attitude towards these pathetic fools,
in fact it's actually just the opposite of that because I'm an actual optimist,
which is why I don't feel inspired by bored cyborgs their wires or their tools,
& precisely why I'd rather gather flowers than be an actor for their power,

see I find more inspiration in a single leaf on a single tree by a river bank,
than from all the colors & lines contained within the walls of this museum,
which is why when I'm asked all the time what kind of poetry I read,
I reply I don't even read poetry see I don't find it in books I find it in seasons,

It's the same reason I don't need to go to church to pray,
because I don't need my messages from God to be translated by a human,

anyways where am I at & what am I doing?

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

from The Holy Trilogy Vol. 2: Mandalas
available worldwide 08/08/18