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Charles Sturies Oct 2017
I like a tough steak at a regular steak house
(I'm one of those people that doesn't have to have everything tender)
Filet Mignon the spaced out king
pricey Prime Rib
a juicy T-Bone
steak kabobs
a decent well-done steak sandwich,
the non-fatty round steak that
mother used to make
a real rare piece of steak
a cooked by me steak at a
real nice steak house
where the gimmick is cook your own
except for their steak kabob
same with Mister Steak,
that and Outback Steak House in general
Longhorn's will do for something like that!
Charles Sturies
BELOIT CAFE

by

TOD HOWARD HAWKS



For Vicki Whitaker



Chapter 1

"Two eggs, over easy, double hash browns, and coffee, black," said Sally.

"Got it," said Leo.

Leo was Leo Lottman. He was also a genius, but he never cared about that. He had been the cook at Beloit Cafe for six years. He had gotten the job just after he had graduated from Beloit High School. He was 4' 9" tall, so had to see the whole cafe through the small crack in the right wall.

"Order up," yelled Leo.

Sally came over to pick up the order and took it to her customer. The other waitress was Mildred. Both had been working there for 10 and 12 years respectively.

Both Leo's parents had been killed in a car wreck when he was a junior in high school and had to spend his senior year with his uncle. He easily could have won a scholarship to KU, but having been socially shunned all his growing up, he was content to live a private life.

Leo got a job at the Beloit Cafe as a cook. He also rented the room above the kitchen. He loved classical symphonies and reading books on American history, as well as other subjects. The only person who never shunned him was himself.

Beloit is a small town in north central Kansas with a population of 3,400 citizens. In it is the Kansas Industrial School for Girls. On occasional Sunday afternoons, he had gotten permission to go there and talk to those girls interested in the history of the United States.

"Oatmeal with raisins, buttered white toast, and a large glass of whole milk," yelled Meredith.

"Got it."


Chapter 2

After the Cafe closed, Leo slowly climbed the stairs to his room.

The first thing he did was to put on Rachmaninoff's PIANO CONCERTO #2. Then he was ready to absorb himself in all things American. He had already read Howard Zinn's A PEOPLE'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. For example, Leo knew that eight men who became President of the United States also owned slaves themselves. George Washington had owned slaves and Thomas Jefferson, the man who wrote "We the People," owned more than 600 slaves. Now he was exploring and enjoying poems written by American poets.

Take, for example, Frost's MENDING WALL, Leo might say.

"The lines I enjoy most are (1) "Something there is that doesn't love a wall" and (2) "Before I'd build a wall/I'd like to know what I was walling out or walling in."

Provocative, Leo thought.

"Or let's examine Emily Dickinson. She wrote a poem titled "I'm Nobody - Who are you?" I think the title tells everything you need to know who she was, a brilliant, but secluded, woman. Lived virtually her whole life in her bedroom. She wrote often about death, probably because she was slowly dying within. I don't think she was ever loved."

"Walt Whitman--let's take a look at him through his poetry. I think Walt Whitman was the emotional antithesis of Emily Dickinson--wide open, not shut as her bedroom door was. I see Whitman as the first American hippie. After you read I SING THE BODY ELECTRIC, read LEAVES OF GRASS.

Leo was getting sleepy. Who wouldn't be after spending hours on his feet?


Chapter 3

"French toast with maple syrup, two lightly poached eggs, bacon, and a cup of coffee with cream," said Sally.

"Got it."

There seemed to be a lot more people coming in to eat breakface this morning. At 4' 9", Leo could see whichever waitress was leaving an order, but could not see the full cafe, which was why he often looked through the small crack to the right in the wall. In a way, this was a metaphor of his life.

Leo was thinking about what he would talk this coming Sunday afternoon at the Kansas Industrial School for Girls. Probably American history, but he was also thinking about a fellow named Tod Howard Hawks and the many poems of his Leo had read and liked on the Internet.

Among a number of Hawks's poems he liked were SOLITUDE AND GRACE, I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER'S DOWN, and SIMONE, SIMONE,
Leo had read all of Hawks's poems, over a thousand of them, as well as his aphorisms and essays. He had also read his novel, A CHILD FOR AMARANTH, which Hawks had posted on the Internet, which meant people could read it for free. Leo admired Hawks's magnanimity, but he wanted to pick 10 more of Hawks's poems to share with the girls.


SOLITUDE AND GRACE

I will wander
into wilderness
to find myself.
I will leave behind
my accoutrements,
memories of medals,
of past applause
and accolades,
accomplishments that
warranted degrees
and diplomas
portending future
successes. I like
who I am, who
I have become. No,
I love myself, and that
is my greatest achievement,
the acme most men
are blind to as they
mistake wealth for worth.
Most would say
I will be lonely,
but they are wrong,
because I will always be
with my best friend ever,
my real self. And I will
share my joy with
squirrels and rabbits
and deer, with bushes
and broken branches
and brush, with rills
and rivulets and rivers,
with rising and setting
suns and countless
stars coruscating in
night's sky, I will say
prayers to piles of pine
and sycamore limbs
that once were live,
but now make monuments
I worship. I am at one
with all I prize. My eyes,
even when they are closed,
see their beauty. I know
I will be blessed forever.
I lie on my bed, Earth,
and wait to join all
in solitude and grace.


I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER'S DOWN

I write when the river's down,
when the ground's as hard as
a banker's disposition and as
cracked as an old woman's face.
I write when the air is still
and the tired leaves of the
dying elm tree are a mosaic
against the bird-blue sky.
I write when the old bird dog,
Sam, is too tired to chase
rabbits, which is his habit
on temperate days. I write
when horses lie on burnt grass,
when the sun is always high
noon, when hope melts like
yellow butter near the kitchen
window. I write when there
are no cherry pies in the
oven, when heartache comes
like a dust storm in early
morning. I write when the
river's down, and sadness
grows like cockle burs in
my heart.


SIMONE, SIMONE

Simone, Simone,
I'm all alone.
Simone, Simone,
I'm all alone.
Simone, Simone,
please come to me
and bare your breast
for me to rest
my shattered heart
upon a part
so soft and warm.
Simone, Simone,
I'm all alone.
Simone, Simone.


Chapter 4

"Ladies, it's nice to be with you again," said Leo.

"This afternoon, I'd like to talk a bit with all of you about the beginnings of our country. After that, I'd like to share with you some poems written by a very talented fellow.

"Our Constitution of 1787 ratified slavery with the 3/5th Clause, thereby making slavery legal in all 13 nascent states. My question:  How can you reconcile slavery with democracy?  My answer:  You can't. Slavery is anathema. It is immoral. It is repugnant. The child of slavery is racism that permeates our nation today. People whose skin is black are still being discriminated against to this very day. The period from 1890 to 1920 saw more lynchings of Blacks than during any other comparable period. The grotesque fact is that eight men, eight presidents of the United States of America, were slaveholders themselves. George Washington was a slaveholder. Thomas Jefferson, our third president, who wrote the preamble WE THE PEOPLE, owned more than 600 slaves. This is how our "Democracy" got started, which I find repugnant.

"Now I wish to share with you a number of poems written by Tod Howard Hawks."

SOUTHWESTERN KANSAS

When you fly to southwestern Kansas,
you see a different kind of Kansas.
The land is flat,
the sky big and blue.
and the folk, the common folk, well, they get along.
The common folk get along in southwestern Kansas.

On a ranch down near Liberal,
the black night roars
and the wind is wet.
All are happy tonight, for there is rain
and tomorrow the pastures will grow greener.

In the morning when the sun first shines,
the tired hands
with leathered countenances
and gnarled fingers
awake in old houses
made of adobe brick
and slip on their muddy cowboy boots
and faded blue jeans
to began another day of long labor.

On the open prairie made green by rain,
tan and white cattle huddle together
munching on green grass and purple sage.
A new-born calf bawls.
Her mother, a Hereford cow,
is there to care,
and the baby calf ***** her belly full
of mother's milk.

About 60 miles to the north,
and a little to the west,
the sun stands high in a blue sky
dotted with little puffs of white.
At noon in Ulysses,
folk eat at the Coffee Cafe;
Swiss steak, short ribs, or sweetbreads
on Tuesdays
with chocolate cake for dessert.

The folk, the common folk, well, they get along,
the common folk get along in southwestern Kansas.
They got a new high school and a Rexall drug store,
a water tower and a drive-in movie theatre.
They got loads of Purina Chow,
plenty of John Deere combines,
and co-op signs stuck on almost everything.
And they got a main street several blocks long
with a lot of pick-up trucks parked on either side
driven by wheat farmers
with silver-white crew cuts
and narrow string ties.

Things are spread out in southwestern Kansas.
A blanket woven of green, brown, and yellow
patches of earth sown together by miles of barb-wired
fences spread interminably into the horizon.
Occasional, faceless little country towns
distinguished only by imposing grain elevators
spiraling into the sky
like concrete cathedrals
are joined tenuously together by
endless asphalt streaks
and dusty country roads,
pencil-line thin and ruler-straight,
flanked on either side by telephone poles
and wind-blown wires
strung one
after another,
after another
in monotonous succession.

But things, things aren't too bad in southwestern Kansas.
Alfalfa's growing green
and irrigation's coming in.
Rain's been real good
and the cattle market's really strong.
The folk, they got the 1st National on weekdays
and the 1st Methodist in between.
The kids, they got 4-H clubs and scholarships to K-State.
And Ulysses, it's got all the big towns got--
gas, lights, and water.
So the folk, the common folk, well, they get along.
The common folk get along in southwestern Kansas.



THE WAY THAT WINTER COMES AT ME

The way that winter comes at me,
as if a stranger from a side street
cold and dark accosting me. I turn
my collar up. He hollers, "You, there!"
Faster I walk, fear chilling me,
a lamp post but a grey ghost in the fog.
This ****, winter, mugs me. He hits me
in the face with frozen fists. He grabs me,
stabs me in the side with knives
of ice, slices at my heart, the home
of hope. Supine, frost forming on
my brow, I pray to boughs of willow
trees:  pines will sing my elegy. My mind
drifts like snowdrifts:  a mitten lost...
fingers, nose, toes frostbitten...
a lake of isolation...a sleigh with no
horse...a blizzard of insanity.
My blood thaws the frozen ground,
then freezes.



GOTHS AND VISIGOTHS

I read of Visigoths and Dark Ages,
nomadic tribes, enormous rage
toward an empire falling,
fires and fleeing,
a desire for being
eternally at rest.
We walk through the ruins
of our empire romantic,
fires still burning,
a yearning so fierce
it's piercing our hearts.
The Franks and the Vandals
and Visigoths dismantle
the art and the ardor
we knew before the fall.
The walls have all crumbled;
that is all I remember.
The Ostrogoths have dismembered
the love we once shared
a millennium or so ago.
I am leaving the ruins
of my own Middle Ages,
turning the pages
of my own darkened soul.
I am solely my sage now,
trying to engage now
the vestige of happiness
the rest of my life.



A STILL LIFE

Pardon me, sir.
May I borrow
your squalor
for a photograph?

I love
the repetition
of those wrinkles in your brow.
Hold it, please.

The contrast
of your black skin
against the white plaster chipping
is marvelous.

When I
get them developed
I'll send you a print,
They'll look great in my portfolio.

Thank you
and your wife
and your eight kids
for this pose in poverty.


A DEEPER NIGHT

In the night
there is a deeper night,
in sorrow, a deeper sorrow,
in your sorrowful eyes more
sorrowful eyes I descry,
the deep night of your eyes
as I lie beside you, your head,
then your head lying on night's
pillow, deeper than a hollow hole
filled with tender tears as you tell me
of the night, the deeper night of your life,
your hair wet with deeper tears
on night's side of your visage
when you had to leave your son
to save yourself and him, a hurt
the still hurts, a deeper night hurt
you share with me through deep night
sobs, deeper sobs, wetting your checks
and neck and night hair, the hurts
the deeper night hurts that robbed
you of yourself and him, of how you
had to go in order to return, the sinuous
path, convoluted and constrained,
to leave the night to be able to come back
in the day. All I could do was to hold you
and let you sob and shake until you finally
saw the brightest sun in your heart.


MOON OF CHERRIES BLACK

Cherries black by water
flowing, berries blue,
the hue of Father Sky.
Bluffs and buffaloes
a long time ago, the
Great Spirit permeated
land and lives. Eagles
flew in hearts of men;
honest words were spoken then.
No token treaties, no entreaties,
arrows flew like truth to hearts
on antelopes. No interlopers,
no antebellum prairie schooners,
no sooner had they come than
bison hooves were no longer
heard. They herded red men
and women and children like
chattel. Wild dogs knew better.


SILVER SPOONS

Some people love their silver moons,
China closets in velvet rooms,
hand-rubbed walnut round pearls of glass,
antique notions to preserve a past,
while others love their silver moons,
orange sunsets, October tunes of bluebirds
sighing through sunburnt skies,
green fields soft where lovers lie.


IF I COULD MOUNT A MOUNTAIN

If I could mount a mountain
and ride it to the sea,
I'd gather up the waters
to make a bath for thee.
I'd rinse your hair with violets,
your ******* and thighs with myrrh,
and as you rose I'd cover you
with strands purple, silver, gold.
If I could garner galaxies,
I'd make for you a ring
and ring it round your finger
for eternity.  I'd call on all
the continents to make for you
a bed, a majesty of meadows,
white billows for your head.
And underneath the tapestry
God wove on Heaven's loom,
with love and lust I'd plant my
seed in your soft and sacred womb.


THE BUTTERFLY SONG:  A Lullaby for Katie

Tell me why, oh butterfly,
do you fly so high.
Tell me why, oh butterfly,
high up in blue sky.

Tell me, pretty butterfly,
with your wings of gold,
are you as kind and gentle
as I'm always told?

Tell me, golden butterfly,
will you come to me
and light upon my shoulder
to keep me company?

And when night falls, my butterfly,
please let your golden wings
illuminate the darkness
until the bluebird sings.


WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO SUFFER?

What does it mean to suffer?
Is it better to buffer ourselves
from turmoil, or does the oil
of hate and hurt serve some purpose?
Are we animals in some circus,
parading like elephants inelegantly,
passing through wire hoops?
We tire, we droop.
Are we poor men in soup lines,
hoping for salvation,
fed with propitiation?
Our faces show no elation:
they grow ashen.
Shall we cash in the bonds
our mothers never gave us?
Love's dearth has thus enslaved us.
Just put us in our graves and
let us live in Mother Earth.


The girls and Leo had a long, trenchant exchange for almost two hours. Leo found it exhilarating. The girls had never engaged others in their regular classes as they had that Sunday afternoon.


Chapter 5

Leo was listening to the 2nd movement of Beethoven's 7th Symphony while
he was reading about the "TRAIL OF TEARS" and President Andrew Jackson.

We, the white people, were the first immigrants to what became known as the United States of America, Leo thought. All the people and politicians can't see that, right?, pondered Leo. Are they simply dumb, or are they being duplicitous? Actually, Leo thought, this was a genocide of what we now call Native Americans.

The INDIAN REMOVAL ACT was signed in 1830 by President Andrew  Jackson. 60,000 Indians of the "five civilized tribes":  the Cherokee, the Muscogee, the Seminole, the Chickisaw, and the Choctaw nations. Over the course of this diabolical walk from the southeastern states to what is now Oklahoma, it is estimated that 16,700 perished from diseases and murderous conditions, as as well as anti-Indian racism. Those groups that "helped" the Indians keep moving along included the U.S. Army and state militias. Forced displacement, ethnic cleansing, and mass murders, among others, kept these human beings moving westward allowing the United States of America to aggrandize more land west of the Mississippi River.

Leo lay on his bed for a long time. He had finished listening to Beethoven's Seventh Symphony and was now enjoying Dvorak's NEW WORLD SYMPHONY. But the longer he lay there, Leo wondered if Dvorak was dreaming of a new, budding world, or whether he was listening to the preamble to a demonic future. Leo knew the hydrogen bomb was like the atomic bomb, only a thousand times more powerful.


Chapter 6

Leo remembered General Philip Sheridan said in the 1860s "The only good Indian is a dead Indian." Every time Leo saw Hotah come into the Beloit Cafe, Leo thought of Sheridan and almost puked. Hotah, a Lakota Sioux, was a little older than Leo, and over time the two had become friends. Hotah had grown up on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, the poorest place in the USA. The drug addiction, alcoholism, and rampant poverty drove Hotah off the reservation, down through Nebraska, and into north-central Kansas where he made for himself a home of sorts for himself in Beloit. What the two had shared was a life of pain and intelligence.

"Leo, hello," said Hotah.

"Hotah, it's good to see you. How have you been?" said Leo. "Just a minute. I have a few more supplies to stock," said Leo.

The Cafe closed at 8 pm. It was 7:45. There would be no more customers. Leo closed the Cafe every evening.

"There, that will do it. Like a cup of coffee?" said Leo.

"Sure," said Hotah.

Leo poured two cups of coffee. "You like your coffee black, right?" asked Leo.

"That's right," said Hotah. Leo drank his coffee with milk. "Pick a table and I'll be with you in just a moment," said Leo.

Hotah picked up the two cups and put them on a table close by, then sat down. Leo joined him.

"I'm thinking I'd like to drive back to the rez and wondered if you'd like to join me," said Hotah.

"I think I could work something out," said Leo.

The Wounded Knee Massacre occurred in the winter of 1890. Hotah's great-grandfather and nearly 300 other Lakota Sioux died in that slaughter. Each year Hotah made a pilgrimage to the cemetery about ten miles east of Pine Ridge to honor his slain great-grandfather.

A ceremony called "Ghost Dance" performed by groups of Lakota Sioux had frightened nearby settlers. A detachment of the U.S. 7th Calvary Regiment confronted almost 300 Lakota Sioux men, women, and children and after a rifle was accidentally fired, the massacre began. Hotah's great-grandfather was killed.

"Do you think we could make the round-trip in a week?" Leo asked Hotah.

"I think we could do that," said Hotah. "My old Honda should get us there and back."

"I've accumulated some vacation time. When do you think you'd like to go?" asked Leo.

"How about next week, say Saturday?" said Hotah.

"Things around here are pretty flexible. I'll ask tomorrow and let you know tomorrow evening," said Leo.

"Great!" said Hotah.


Chapter 7

"Good news, Hotah. Saturday will work fine," said Leo.

Driving from Beloit to Pine Ridge is not like drawing a vertical, straight line. It's a lot of zigs and sags. Hotah had made this trip many times. He could make this trip without a map. Travel time is between 5 to 6 hours. Once they got to the rez, the two could stay with Hotah's relatives, the Brave Bulls.

Saturday morning Leo and Hotah got into Hotah's old Chevy pick-up and headed northwest. A number of small Nebraska towns Hotah and Leo passed through. After crossing I-80, they stopped at a cafe in Philipsburg. Then they traveled through Breadwater, Alliance,  and a number of other small towns until they passed through White Clay, then into Pine Ridge. They had planned on meeting Hotah's older brother, Akecheta, and his two younger sisters, Macha an Whicahpi at Pine Ridge's gas station and convenience store.

Hotah got out of his pick-up, went over and hugged his brother and two sisters, then introduced them to Leo.

"Pleasure to meet you all," said Leo. Akecheta had suggested that everyone come over to his house, relax, chat, then have dinner.

"Well, this is my home," said Akecheta. "Welcome." It was mid-afternoon by now and Hotah and Leo were a bit worn out. They all went inside and found a seat.

"Coke or Seven-Up?" said Akecheta. He took all the orders, went into the kitchen, prepared the drinks, served them, then took a seat. "Here's some chips if you're hungry."

"Glad to have Leo with us. You and Hotah will be staying with me. The girls will be staying with their mom. Our parents are divorced," said Akecheta.

Leo was beginning to unwind. He was used to standing for hours, but not so used to sitting for 5 1/2.

The group was starting to feel quite comfortable with each other. Leo asked the girls which grades they were in and which subjects they were studying. He mentioned that every few weeks or so he met on Sunday afternoons with a group of high-school girls and spoke about different topics. Akecheta, it seemed, was a very good athlete. The Yankees were scouting him.

Turns out, Akecheta also was talented in the kitchen. He excused himself and finished making dinner.

"Anybody hungry?" said Akecheta. "Dinner's ready."

So what was for dinner?

Wasna:  A traditional dish made from dried meat, fat, and berries.
Vegetables and corn:  Wild vegetables such as turnips (timpsila) and corn.
Thahca: Bison meat served as roasted, stewed, or dried.
Frybread.

More than enough for everyone around the table, and delicious.

After dinner, the six sat around and chatted. Hotah and Leo were tired from their day's trip. The next day, the two were going to the Wounded Knee Cemetery. It was time to call it a day. Akecheta took his sisters home. When he returned, he found Hotah and Leo asleep.


Chapter 8

Hotah and Leo got up early. After eating breakfast, they quietly went  outside and got into the pick-up. The morning air was cool.

It would take the two a bit under a half hour to reach the cemetery. There would be no conversation as they headed toward the cemetery. Leo understood this trip was a prayer.

They reached the cemetery. Detritus, not rose petals, greeted Hotha and Leo. It met all who came to this sacred place to remember those who were slaughtered that frigid day--men, women, child--in December, 1890.

Hotha and Leo sat in silence. The spirit of thousands of buffaloes of the past could be felt. No sound but the wind could be heard. Hotha could hear cries, screams from the massacre of a century ago. His tears wet the dry earth.

The sun rose slowly in the blue sky. First Hotha, then Leo, slowly rose to make their way back to the pick-up. Cries and screams slowly abated as they headed home. Neither spoke a word.


Chapter 9

The Badlands were first inhabited 11,000 ago. The Oglala Lakota Sioux originally occupied all of the Badlands;  today they control a small section called the "Stronghold District," still a part of Pine Ridge Indian Reservation.

Hotah and Leo took a number of drives through what is now Badlands National Park. As they drove, they chatted.

"The indigenous peoples have really had it tough," said Leo.

"When we speak English, we call it "genocide," said Hotah.

"All these atrocities...." murmured Leo. "You would think by now that peoples who have superficial differences between them would see them by now as, well, "superficial." Instead, for millennia, peoples who are fundamentally the same find a reason to **** each other. That's crazy, isn't it?"

"I think "crazy" is a sane word to describe the situation you're talking about," said Hotah.

"You know I like to read history. Let's see if I can name a few," said Leo:

"ANCIENT TIMES:  Assyrian Empire (900-600 BCE) known for their brutality against those they conquered;  Roman Empire (27 BCE-476 CE) various atrocities including mass crucifixions and the sacking of cities like Carthage.

"MEDIEVAL TIMES:  Mongol Conquests (1206-1368). The Mongol invasions led by Genghis Khan. Widespread destruction and mass killings;  Crusades (1206-1368). Religious wars. Much loss of lives on both sides.

"EARLY MODERN PERIOD:  Spanish Inquisition:  (1478-1834). Torture and execution of thousands accused of heresy. Transatlantic Slave Trade:  (16th-19th centuries):  Enslavement and transportation of millions of Africans to the America.

19TH CENTURY:  Congo Free State (1885-1908):  Exploitation and atrocities committed by the Belgians under King Leopold II.

20 CENTURY:  Armenian Genocide (1915-1923):  Mass killings of Armenians by the Otttoman Empire;  Holocaust (1941-1945):  Genocide of six million Jews by **** Germany;  Rwandan Genocide (1994):  Mass slaughter of Tutsi by the Hutu majority;  Bosnian Genocide (1992-1995):  Ethnic cleansing and mass killings of Bosniak Muslims by Bosnian Serbs.

21ST CENTURY:  Darfur Genocide (2003-present):  Atrocities committed in the Darfur region of Sudan;  Syrian Civil War (2011-present): Numerous war crimes and atrocities committed by various factions.

"How do you remember all of this, Leo?," said Hotah.

"Photographic memory," said Leo.

For the next few days Hotah, Leo, and Akecheta hung out in the latter's home. It had been a great time, but it was time to head back to Beloit. Hotah and Leo thanked Akecheta for his kindness and generosity, but the old pick-up was waiting patiently.


Chapter 10

Hotah and Leo got home on Saturday.

Leo was scheduled to meet with the girls at the Kansas Industrial School on Sunday. "I need to pick out ten more poems," he thought. Also, he needed to decide on which era of American history he would discuss with the girls.

Leo chose these ten poems by Tod Howard Hawks to read.

WHO WILL BE THE FIRST?

Who will be the first
to volunteer
to be poor, homeless, and hopeless?

Who will be the first
to live
with no love, hope, and will?

Who will be the first
to be
illiterate, ostracized, and forgotten?

Who will be the first
to suffer
enslavement, lynching, and death?

Let me be the first
to say
"This is not right!"

Let me be the first
to believe
"This is not honest!"

Let me be the first
to embrace
what's kind, generous, and caring?

Let me be the first
to love
you. you, and you.



WHAT IF WIND AND WHITE CLOUDS

What if wind and
white clouds blow by
without a sound to be heard.?
What if all hearts and souls
be one without red, yellow,
brown, black and white skins
What if one kiss is a kiss of all?
What if we miss these truths
throughout our hours? What if
love is all that matters as we scatter
through our myriad lives?



WHAT IF A POEM WELLS UP?

What if I sit
in a silent room?
What if I speak
only to myself?
What if I utter
no words? What if
a poem wells up inside
me unconsciously,
no trying need there be.
I think I should type it.


BUT I SHALL HOLD LOVE

For what is the most precious gem?
It is the blue diamond,
but I shall hold love.
And for what is the greatest wealth?
It is to own more than any other,
but I shall hold love.
And for what is the greatest honor?
It is to have all others bow at your feet,
but I shall hold love.
And for what is the greatest glory?
It is for one to be remembered by all forever,
but I shall hold love.



WE HAVE MINED OUR MOUNTAINS

We have mined our mountains,
we have fished our seas,
we have felled our forests,
we have gathered our grains,
but we have not embraced
the infinite energy of our souls,
which is love.



A NATION, A NOTION

A nation, a notion,
Hegemony or honey,
A cruel ruler or a kind mind,
All for one or some for all,
Aggrandize, or wiser still,
Enough for billions,
Gentle hands for a broken heart,
Lavender love to assuage the pain,
Head on your pillow,
Alone in the dark,
No fear as sun rises,
A nation, a notion,
Take some lotion
And spread it
To dissolve
All borders.



TO SHED MY TEARS

I am sitting on the curb in late July between Al's
Barbershop and Harry's Hardware watching ants
making their way to the gutter where they disappear.
Busby, Nebraska is not a big town--in fact, it's not
even a small town--in fact, it's not even a town. It's
three blocks long, but Ethel's Cafe is open for break-
fast and lunch. And most importantly, it's on the
way to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation located
in the remote southwestern corner of South Dakota
where I'm headed on foot. I've been to Pine Ridge a
number of times. Something calls me there from time
to time. Not sure what it is--kind of like a spiritual
whisper. Only got 23 more miles to get there. I walk
wherever I go--reminds me of Wordsworth's THE
WORLD'S TOO MUCH WITH US. I say I'm going
to Pine Ridge, but actually I'm headed to Wounded
Knee Cemetery, about ten miles east of Pine Ridge,
where so many of the Lakota Sioux men and women
and children were slaughtered, then buried, the
last massacre of indigenous people by the U.S.
Army in 1890. I sit on the ground and cry and cry.
The dry grasses soak up my tears as fast as they
hit the ground.



I WALK MORE SLOWLY NOW

I walk more slowly now.
The miles are longer than they used to be.
I know where I want to go,
but now I forget to turn left and turn right.
Here comes a pretty woman.
I say hello as she passes,
but I hear nothing.
I saw her, but I guess she didn't see me.
I walk by trees and flowers
that used to be green and red
and yellow, but now are grey.
I need to get my glasses fixed,
but I cannot find them.
I miss Shep, my dearest friend ever.
I hear him barking,
but he died a year ago.
I walk more slowly now.



I FEEL SORRY FOR YOU NOW

I used to hate,
but now I love, I
feel sorry for you now.
I feel sorry you
were never loved before.

You who loathe
and discriminate, I
feel sorry for you now.
I feel sorry you
were never loved before.

You who wish
that hell be black, I
feel sorry for you now.
I feel sorry you
were never loved before.

You who'd torture
and even ****. I
feel sorry for you now.
I feel sorry you
were never loved before.

You are humankind,
but still unkind, I
feel sorry for you now.
I feel sorry you
were never loved before.



I AM REALIZED

Life begins at conception.

For a human being to be able to love, she/he must first be loved, usually by
her/his biological parents, other times by her/his surrogate parents. If the newborn is not loved, she/he will suffer great pain, possibly even dying.

Most human beings do not receive the love they need;  thus, they will
unconsciously compensate usually in one or more than three ways:  accrual
of power, not to empower others, but to oppress them;  aggrandizement of
great wealth;  or achievement of fleeting fame.

If, on the other hand, they are loved, they will love all others throughout their lives, realizing their own personhood, which is their innate sacredness. If they are not loved, they will realize one or more of deleterious behaviors.

When all die, those who have realized their real selves will not have to return to Earth to live another life, because their souls have become pure love that bonds with the pure love of infinity, which is reality that has no form, no beginning, no end. They have become enlightened and will be so forever.

Those who did not realize their real selves will need to return to Earth in  new lives unconsciously to make another attempt to attain enlightenment.

Human life is an illusion, but because of love and self-realization, it remains nonetheless paradoxically the path to the reality of eternal love, which is God.

Know truth by untruth.



Chapter 11

Leo had just selected 10 more of Hawks's other poems to share with the girls this coming Sunday afternoon, but he also had to decide which era of American  history he would discuss with them. Finally, he decided on the genocidal period from 1860 to 1890 during which General Philip Sheridan is alleged to have said, "The only good Indian is a dead Indian."

Sunday afternoon came quickly. Leo enjoyed reading the poems to the girls and discussing with them the period from 1860 to 1890. But he was worn out and immediately returned to the Beloit Cafe, walked up the stairs to his room and lay on his bed and fell asleep instantly.

Monday morning, it seemed, also came instantly. By 7 am, Leo was ready to cook, and he did. And it was a long day. Most interestingly, that evening was the first time he saw that lady who came into the Cafe right before it was to close. Even more interesting was that the lady kept coming in every evening around the same time.  

"Have you noticed our new customer," asked Sally.

"Well, I've seen glimpses of her," said Leo.

"The interesting thing about her is that every evening she comes in, she's crying," said Sally.

"Crying?" said Leo.

"Yes," said Sally.

"Has she ever spoken to you, Sally?" asked Leo.

"Not personally, but she always orders the same thing. I think it's Swiss Steak," said Sally.

"That's right. Someone orders Swiss Steak every evening of late. It has to be her," said Leo.

After talking with Sally, Leo walked over to the crack in the right wall to see this mysterious lady. There she was, putting her handkerchief constantly to her eyes. I wonder what's bothering her, thought Leo.

The lady kept coming in every evening at the same time for more than three weeks. Leo kept checking her out every evening. Nothing had changed.

On Thursday evening of the fourth week, Leo did something that he had never done before. After Sally had placed the lady's order--yes, still Swiss Steak--Leo left the kitchen during working hours for the first time and slowly walked over to the table where the lady was sitting.

"I'm Leo Lottman, the cook. I'm concerned about you. Are you OK?" said Leo politely.

The lady was surprised the cook came over to her and asked if she were OK, but internally she appreciated his kindness.

"Your first name is Leo, am I right," the lady asked.

"Yes, you're right," Leo responded.

"It was very kind of you to come over and ask me if I were OK," said the lady. "By the way, my name is Julia."

"I didn't intend to interrupt your dinner, Julia. I haven't even cooked it yet--the Swiss Steak, right?" said Leo.

"My husband was killed in a car wreck," Julia *******.

Leo was stunned. "Oh, my god! I'm so sorry. My parents died in a car wreck when I was in high school," said Leo, his voice quivering. "I had to go live with my uncle. I suppose I need to go cook your Swiss Steak. And, by the way, don't feel you have to rush. I'm the only person working at this time of evening, so when everyone has eaten, I close the Cafe. I enjoyed talking with you, Julia. I hope to see and talk with you again."

"Leo, you're so kind. Your voice warms my heart," said Julia.



Chapter 12

Leo lay on his bed and thought about Julia. Tears and fears, a poem, Leo thought. Leo could relate to those two things. He thought some more. If Julia comes in tomorrow, I want to go over to her table again and just check in, Leo thought. And she is beautiful and nice, thought Leo as he continued to lie on his bed.

Leo had never interacted with a female until this evening. His heart was warmer, too.

He had been listening to Mozart's Symphony #40, which he loved. But as he listened to it this night, this Mozart's symphony sounded even sweeter. He was dreaming, thought Leo, even though he was still awake. And though he had cooked so many Swiss Steaks, Leo was thinking he'd love to cook them every night. Finally, he dozed off.

Morning did not come soon enough. Leo had never felt this way before, but this new morning Leo felt like he had never felt before. There was a spring in his step and a smile on his face. Leo was happy. He had never felt happiness before. There was something in the air that before was never there. This was great stuff, Leo thought...and felt.

Leo was almost running down the steps. He couldn't wait to start cooking. Eggs, hash browns, grits--whatever you want, thought Leo. Sally, one of the two waitresses, saw a different cook, a different Leo, than she had ever seen before.

Service at the Beloit Cafe had always been good, but as this day unfolded, Sally and Mildred had never sensed this level of happiness permeating the Cafe. Nobody spoke out about it, but it was palpable to every customer and staff. What was going on?, everyone thought.

Leo was extraordinary in flipping pancakes and frying bacon. Eggs--anyway you like them. Cereal--any kind you like. Coffee--we have the best. The Beloit Cafe was humming.

This workday was going by fast. The afternoon went by so fast, the staff barely noticed it going by. Leo felt he could run a marathon. Sally and Mildred were talking about seeing a movie together. If there were a dog in the Cafe, it would be running around tables and chairs. It might even have puppies.

Leo had been checking the time all day--about fourteen times. This time when he looked again at the clock, it was the magic moment. It was quarter to 8! And sure enough, Julia walked in and went to her table. As Leo and everyone else knew, there were no other customers coming in this evening and all the staff except Leo were gone. Eureka!  

Leo couldn't wait. After a few moments, Leo walked over to say hello to Julia.

"Good evening, Julia. How are you feeling tonight? I hope better." said Leo.

"Good evening to you. It's nice to see you again. I am feeling better tonight. Thanks for asking," said Julia.

"I'd like to chat with you a bit, but I know you want your Swiss Steak," said Leo.

"Don't worry about the Swiss Steak. It's not going to walk out of the Beloit Cafe," said Julia. "I'd enjoy chatting a bit with you, but tell me if you feel we're going on too long."

"Won't hesitate, but I am now a free man, if you will," said Leo. "My time is NOW my time. Where did you grow up, Julia?"

"I grew up in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. I'm not a great skier, but I do love the mountains," said Julia. "Where did you grow up?"

"I'm a hometown boy. I've lived my entire life in Beloit," said Leo, "But I feel I've been many places and done many things, because I love to read and listen to classical music."

"Oh, that's interesting, because I love classical music, too. Probably because, as a child, I took lessons and learned how to play the violin," said Julia. "Who are your favorite composers?"

"Well, I've listened to a lot of classic music by different composers, but if I were stranded on an island far out to sea, I'd love to be able to listen to the works of Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart," said Leo.

These beautiful chats continued for several weeks.



Chapter 13

After this many chats, both Julia and Leo felt comfortable in each other's company.

Leo had decided to make a proposal of sorts to Julia.

That Monday evening, Julia came into the Cafe and sat down at her table. Leo came over to welcome her.

"Good evening tonight," said Leo. "How has your day been?"

"Just fine, Leo," said Julia. "And how about yours?"

"Well, the first thing I do every day now is to see if we still have enough Swiss Steaks. I have good news for you, Julia. We do!," said Leo.

Julia laughed.

Then Leo laughed, too.

"I have a question for you, Julia. Are you familiar with Beethoven's third symphony, Eroica?", asked Leo.

"Oh, yes, Leo, but I haven't listened to it for quite some time," said Julia.

"In that case, I have an invitation for you. Would you like to come to my room after eating another Swiss Steak and listening to Eroica? I have it," said Leo.

"Oh, that would be great!," said Julia. Julia never found out that Leo's invitation to Julia was the first invitation to a woman in his life.

"Well, I better start cooking your Swiss Steak now," said Leo.

Leo's heart was beating like crazy.



Chapter 14

Leo gave Julia a lot of time for her to eat her Swiss Steak. When he saw that she was finished, Leo walked over to her table.

"Well, Julia, how was your Swiss Steak tonight?" Leo asked.

"It was as good as all my other steaks have been," said Julia.

"That's good to hear," said Leo. "Are you ready to hear some beautiful music?" said Leo.

"I am now ready," said Julia.

"Just follow me," said Leo.

Leo walked across the room, then walked up the stairs to his door.
Before he opened the door and turned around. Are you OK after your hike?" asked Leo.

"I'm eager to listen to beautiful music," said Julia.

"Beautiful music coming right up," said Leo as he opened his door.

"This is my humble abode, Julia. I only have one chair and it's for you," said Leo. "Beethoven's Eroica, one of the masterpieces! Relax and enjoy."

Leo put Eroica on the turn table and turned the record player on. Leo sat on his bed. His heart was not pounding now. It was exuding serenity.

Beautiful music supplants all other feelings. Listening to Eroica was like relaxing in a warm pool. You didn't just listen to it. The music flowed through you. Finally, the music ended.

"That was so beautiful," said Julia. "Thank you, Leo, for sharing that with me."

"My pleasure, Julia," said Leo, then led her downstairs to the exit of the Cafe.

"Thank you, Leo, for brightening my life," said Julia.

"You're more than welcome," said Leo, his heart pounding again.

Julia walked home and Leo went back to his room, then lay on his bed, and before he fell asleep, thought this had been the best evening of his life.



Chapter 15

Leo and Julia continued their relationship. A number of times, Leo asked Julia if she would like to listen to other classical masterpieces. She said she would. After several months, Leo asked Julia if she would like to go out to a fancy restaurant for dinner. She said she would.  After that, they began on the weekends to go see movies. Julia invited Leo over to her home for dinner. Then Leo and Julia decided to take a week's trip into the Rocky Mountains. A year later, the two announced to the Cafe's staff they were engaged. A year after that, Julia and Leo got married. And a year after that, Julia gave birth to a baby boy.

In life, you never quite know what's coming next. For Julia and Leo, it was love.
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Where do we meet
    Oh! No He_*
Getting onto
the next courses
Oh La- La "Cheri"
K>ANSAS>>City

_ Prime spot pretty

 let's >- jump ))) To Love
Please raise the horses

What a skirt steak in her
Petticoat Junction
Going to Kansas City affection
Different tribe or breed
What needs to love me
tender Elvis meet Beavis Buthead
    More  T.L.C  
computer DOC Tick Tock
IRS taking a meat beef
chunk is everybody drunk
IOS what is really the meat
Business Politician Trump

Subscribe well done
Cooked or rare spooked
Taking a Spin City kick
She got canned and licked
The prime meat hot seat

The ******* who arrives
first class steak knifes
Ms. Pork hard chew 
Mr. Beans second rate
Dark pumpernickel
Saloon *******, he
is eating
The young tender
chicken leg

High five thigh? Hands
up Robin Fly
Save the meat "let it be"
  "Let it Be" Beatles
The beat Colonel deep fried
Grade A rare meat slicing

Eating in a board meeting
The pig meat market
of pricing

Doe a deer
he loves
International beer
A very sensitive time
Slaughterhouse no way out
His poker face meets
potato heads beef jerky
Surrender Weds
maple smiles picky
The rich Syrup
Disney Mickey Mouse
Kansas City Wonder
meat house

The beauty of animals
"Moms kettle she is talking
to Parrots" meat
the market for rings riot
Six enemies making
6 rounds
Six servants 666 carats
Robin smiles heartily
"Campbells Chicken" little


He's the Beef Man stew
If you only knew

He's spitting tobacco chew
She peels the potato for the
meathead bad to the
T-bone Dachshund I Bone

Garlic knots heart of the
Sausage wearing the
meat corsage Superbowl
My sweet basil good soul
Grilling your bullhead
Pirate Ribeye steak pupils
Mr. "Billygoat" Bachelorette
Hair flat crepe Suzette

Moms Korean style fuss
coleslaw
what a seesaw
Playing Porgy and Bess
 Scarlet the red rare meat
Rolling stone baking pin
Mississippi one or two
Under my meaty thumb

Comes in three-4-5-6- Lucky 7
-Crazy 8 furries
Nine meat ribs-10 babies
with bibs
Hungry Man meat when!!
Country plaid tablecloth
"Kansas Men" of the cloth
The Pig approval
Kansas City Mayor
new arrival

Family together eating
Don't eat our animals
Why is life so unfair
Feeding the poor
with cans
The bad cut of meat devil
this is not the "Grade A"
This is not a ring
circus trainer Bullseye

Robin coffee animal-friendly
Two peas in a pod I pods
  I tune like Gods
Were the luckiest people to have
animals  

The Floridian with dog murals
Palm trees green thumb
plants sunshine events
The symphony dog tails
of hunts
Whats to compare her twilight
eyes hold the moment stare
Talk to the animal's hearts care
The barbecue all the meat men and the women who love their fruit listen to the Owl lady how she hoots those Kansas city slicker boots and the Hehaw have a good time with family and friends treat the animals with tender loving care
Delta Swingline Feb 2018
1.  I want to be able to write a poem on a brick. And then huck that brick through my enemy's window and drop to the floor laughing because the brick was not only a physical metaphor, but it was also a poem that literally broke windows.

2. What if I wrote a poem on a leaf? Watching photosynthesis weave its way around ink and make sun its life source poetry. Word on nature, and art in word.

3. Oh, how about a haiku on a pillow? Like a short bedtime story for those up at 4am and down at 5pm, you need just a few more words to hug your dreams tight.

4. I'd really want to write a poem on a steak... And then put that steak on a grill and taste poetry that I wrote with a steak metaphor... Which is cool because it's a steak metaphor cooked on a steak that I'm eating which tastes like the steak metaphor I wrote on the steak...

Yes...

5. I'd like to write a poem on a helium balloon. Maybe sending up poems to the sky like weary prayers might make me feel hope again.

6. I wanna put a poem on a lock and key. Representing tragedy of a girl I knew. She kept her friendship with me under lock and key... Probably because when we went to France I gave her that lock and key and she didn't care.

7. I'd like to put a poem on the underside of the blinds hanging in my window. That way I'd have more of a reason to keep them down other than wanting to keep my room dark because I want to sleep longer.

8. I want to write a poem on an iPhone screen in permanent marker for no other reason than that I think it would be kinda funny.

9. I'd love to write a poem on a vinyl record. I hope some famous artist does that and get that thing preserved. But if they do end up doing that, I deserve all the credit.

10. How about a poem written on the inside of a sweater. Something so sacred, and so close to you. That it really does have to be hidden away?
This poem is to be typed on a computer.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.i left an excess of a B somewhere in here... within the confines of a word giblet... i probably thought: bigger... bouncier... gibblet looked better... and so very far removed from goblet... i'm not going to look for it.

i haven't done much today -
and i don't suppose i will finish this day of
with some grand poo'em...
but one can almost be proud
to have perfected a chicken breast roulade...
the rest of the chicken missing
the butterfly? well... bound to a very
decent soup... clear and not atypical
western cream-soup...
but the roulade! the roulade!
no... you don't beat the butterfly *******
like you might turn to: "sadistically"
for a schnitzel...
you do beat the meat,
but you more or less... press down the mallet
onto the meat, until you reach
the right equilibrium of pressure and
there's that squish-sound / feel of the *******
expanding...

if it was a whole roast chicken:
of course i'd stuff the space between
the skin and the ******* with some thyme
infused butter... to capture the richness...
but this is a roulade...
the stuffing? goats cheese... toasted almonds...
fesh dates... thyme...
i might have just over-balanced
the equation with the dates...
but as i explained to the fussy-eater:
what are you implying that we do not
serve poultry with a sweet attache?
cranberry sauce and turkey?
and as i've learned...

it's best buying potatoes from a turkish
outlet by the 25kg bulk...
from a warehouse where the buyers
walk with bundles of money and do not
use debit card "finger" prints...
the free passing of money is still retained
in some tiers of society...
but the idea, regarding the potatoes is
to poach them from a bath of cold water...
once they start boiling leave them for
five minutes, then turn the heat off
and wait for the bubbling water to stop...
drain them... then leave them on
the already turned-off stove to get rid
of any excess water...
drizzle some chilly infused olive oil
onto the baking tray, place each potato individually...
then drizzle some olive oil onto them...
shove them in the oven when the roulade
is finished...
my first most pristine roulade...
of course you have to pan-fry it to get some
colour... the filling is kept intact given that:
goats' cheese is no mozarella...

it doesn't melt and subsequently ooze out...
and the whole lot should be be done within
the hour... the roulade can be pressured
to go for 25 minutes...
depending on the colour of the tatties...
i still had to take it out and "glitter" it with
a 1:1 ratio of honey and lemon juice...
the remains of this juice i designated on al dente
cooked greens... there was no need
for a dressing...
left-over red cabbage coleslaw...
that helps... sweet chilli sauce with some mayo
and crem fraiche...
it even looks the prettier picture:
leftover but it still works...
***** of a ******* butterfly *******!
of course it was going to spit oil back at me,
i was frying the skin... the fat from the skin
was melting the skin was getting crisp
and mingling with the olive oil fat...
also... it's a myth that the temp. should
read: 165°F... that's really just a circa...
mine read 156°F... and given the time i let
it rest...

oh right... this is not a food blog...
perhaps the moon is just too beautiful tonight
to have to attach words to it?
perhaps my love is better left alone and unused
and it doesn't demand sleeper idealism
for it to be celebrated?
it's cooking food... it's not a hip-replacement
surgery...
when cooking was married to chemistry:
i sometimes miss the laboratory
and the cooking up of esters...
my new found calling is in cooking...
and something i... wouldn't exactly want to earn
money for...

and what is surgery if not elevated butcher's ******>antics? oh no, it's needed...
but the meat is supposed to be raw
from beginning to end...
and if i was only given the chance to recycle
a recipe for a stake tartar...
or sushi... well... it wouldn't be much...
esp. when i come into my own
and cook an indian **** of spices...
but then again... the indians butcher their meat
in their curries...
i've come to some serious realisation...
the indians butcher the meat with their curry sauce...
it comes down to baking the meat...
in order for the meat to still retain its
original juices...
i quiet enjoy that little detail of cook...
in that: i don't remember the last time i was
in a restaurant...

i can't imagine eating while having to talk...
conversation over food is no better
than sitting in field of grazing cows
and their leech clouds of flies all bothersome...
with regards to the quality of the meat....
there is always some excess of meat from
the butterfly ******* before you start moulding
them into a shape that will satisfy it being
rolled...
it's a supreme joy working with a whole
chicken... i sometimes wish i was also the man
who could see the whole procedure of:
and be involved in the slaughterhouse...

oh god... the brute village beheading is
rather uncompromising... one chicken is caught
and beheaded on a stump of wood...
the head still moves with its last remaining
short-circuit tongue extending out of the beak
and the eyes roll... and then all the other chickens
congregate and perform a Kuru ritual of pecking
the blood... sipping it...
that's how killing a chicken in a village
looks like... i can't imagine an industrial scale
precision... but i would't mind...

every time i hear of veganism: the ethical argument
i start conjuring up an antithesis of
cannibalism... which is not exactly edgy given
my catholic background (i haven't been
confirmed, personal choice):
this is my body, this is my blood...
i hear a vegan talk i make a fetish of
imagining cannibalism...
believe me... these limbs look akward...
to begin with... where can you find a *******
drumstick of poultry on it?!
nowhere!

only a few days shy off today i made a most
delightful broth of chicken hearts...
i can't explain how the sight of washing...
oh... around 30 pultry hearts feels like...
given that they're hearts and not the entire chicken...
but as ever... the internal organs are a delight...
pork or poultry liver...
poultry hearts...
poultry stomachs...
cow intestines...

come to think of it... you never really cook meat...
you... curate it... it become a fine art specialist...
for those who turn to veganism or the vegetarian
"alternative": perhaps they never curated meat,
perhaps they simply butchered it?
the chicken roulade of butterfly poultry *******
always came out dry-*****?

after all, wasn't ol' Adoolph the one to say:
'hello mr. carrot, hellooo jew no. 1269230 of
auschwitz'... that's the puberty of my distrust
for vegans... they were never able to
cook meat properly... they probably ate
a decent piece of it served in a restaurant...
but when it came to cooking it themselves...
they would have probably butchered
a pasta and never reached the quality: al dente...
either...
and i'm worried that they can't cook
vegetables al dente either...
so it's back to the gulag of roots overcooked
and turned into mush...

oh i believe that meat is butchered...
but it's from the actual butchery...
it's from a lack of respect in how it's finally
"cooked"... well... curated...
are vegans the sort of people that never
ate a stake tartar... or found the most
arisotractic flavours in the giblet?
oh my god... if you can eat a drumstick
of chicken clean to the bone...
and, like me... sometimes bite off
the budding pulp of the bone for the marrow
gnash?
perhaps that's why i own cats...
delicate courtesans of the table...
a dog would go hungry at this table...
sharpnel of bones and some lurking marrow
in the "shins"... and that's about it...

you can never truly be a vegan...
not unless you repudiate the fact you've only
tasted muscle tissue...
what about the giblets and the cartilege?

every time i would perform oral ***
on a woman i could only conjure up one distate...
this is not a steak done rare...
this is not an oyster...
this is not a steak tartar...
there are "things" pulverising this meat...
there's an unexpected pocket of heat
in this... "thing"...
this is a sensation that lends itself
to the pastry section of my diet...
a warm apple pie... a custard drizzle
over some chocolate sponge...
oh qui qui... the marvels of a bilingual mouth...

if the meat is of good quality....
as the chicken roulade i made today...
and there were leftover snippets...
which i fed to the cats...
and the meat was eaten... in totality...
i was eating good chicken...
cats regarding meat are like...
those ancient jobs equivalent to...
Halotus...
god! give me a chance to own a cat!
i'll name him: Halotus!
he'll be my meat taster...
he'll tell me if i'm eating bad meat...
i'm not a Claudius but...
this cat could very well be the next Halotus!
dogs eat leftovers...

beside this one instance of catching
a female mosquito by the leg
and feeding it to a cat...
the most pleasure i ever received was
when i was preparing a rainbow trout
for grilling...
the head couldn't be used since:
i wasn't planning to cook a base fish stock...
so i plucked those pearly eyes from the head...
and my... what a delight they were...
not me... the cat...
i'm guessing that's the equivalent
of me gulping down an oyster...

female maine **** fascination with dairy
products...
any cream will do... even cheap-oh cheese...
dairylee spreadable...
but all manner of cream whipped...
i've heard of cats being fond of red wine...
i once owned one that was fond
of... olive brine...

again: what's with this need for people to cook
your food? what sort of decency of conversation
can one have when presented with food?
i don't like restaurants simply because:
well i can't exactly cook roadkill...
and shooting at birds is not my kind of thing...
so if i can't catch it and **** it...
i can at least: cook it...
i distrust what i eat that i haven't prepared
myself... notably the hygiene dilemma...

it really is on my head whether i'll catch
salmonella when i sometimes drink a coffee
with a guilty pleasure of mine:
whisked egg-yoke and sugar... on top of the coffee...
that's my problem...
but eating is never a synonym with conversation...
and it's never necessary to loiter and wait
for someone to shove pretenses above
the food in the first instance of: the waiting staff...

i blame the rise in veganism surrounding
the people who never allowed themselves to appreciate
the animal: in total...
there's no fun just sticking to ingesting muscle
protein... first you have to cook it properly...
this chicken roulade didn't have to reach
the internal temp. of 165°F - that's a circa proposition...
at 156°F and allowed to rest is just as good...
because it's an art-form to cook meat...
then again: what's cooking and what's about
to be curated?

the people who turn to veganism are also the people
who never bothered with gibblets...
the liver, the heart, the stomach,
in some cases the intestines...
hence my critique of Islams critique of ol' porky Bella...
this most unique animal...
which you can eat in total...
tenga deep fried pigs ears...
again: the cartilege...
ethics my *** if all you know about a pig is a bore
chop or a **** or... you never get into
the knitty-gritty details of the interior of
an animal... lamb is a stinking meat...
it's hell-rot when the male is slaughtered...

oh right! right! how could i forget the star
pinnacle... poached giblet supreme...
the neck... if you know how to eat a drumstick
down to the bone...
poached poultry neck...
the teeth and tongue wandering around
the crevices of this elongated spine...
i can imagine monkey's extended coccyx
tastes as tender... but only among
the macaques...
otherwise: when what's about to be eaten...
can be elevated to a status of ****** fetishes...
gimps in leather...
when rummaging among so many
boyscouts & aenemic vegans...

i'm yet to taste this, one specific, delicacy...
flaki (flački) is not new to me...
i need to marry a girl from ******* Masovia...
somewhere in the vicinity of Płock...
for i can eat some černina...
duck blood and clear broth soup...
as long as most of the animal is used...
the dogs can have the rest
and so can the vegan ethics society...

but of course this is no an anathema...
or some curated vendetta...
all the roots in the vicinity...
even the fungus... can vegans eat fungus?
are you sure?
what about those "thinking" magic mushrooms
that... if you looked into 1960s:
quick-n-easy philosophy courses...
the fungus is the botanical hitchhiker
that strapped itself to the humanoid brain
and... broadened our horizons and what not...
can you eat the godhead 'shroom?
it might just very well be...
that i'm picking a half-brain half-mushroom
entity in some alcohol to allow myself
to ease a tongue out from
its standard formality of the mollusk...
and waggle waggle waggle brute...

but yes... one is most certainly butchering
a piece of meat when one cooks
a broth... or a curry... unless its a gibblet
of sorts...
to "curate" muscular meat in a broth of a curry...
poaching it to death and worse than death:
dry...
it's about allowing the meat to retain its
natural juices...
how else to enjoy a poultry butterfly breast
roulade - with the natural juices still intact?

- i stopped paying attention to these *******
moralists...
if you have ever figured your way around
cutting off the butterfly of ******* for a roulade...
and you know what it feels like
when you stuff the space between
the meat and the skin of them
with some butter and fresh thyme...
and you're still not circumcised...
well... that's what skin feels like...

how else to reiterate? Ava Lauren is probably
the best example of a brothel beauty...
mandible beauty... something that contorts
and appeals to a perspective of cubism...
wretched beauty of the squashed square
into a pseudo-rhombus contort...
at least doing it from time to time leaves me
without a single buoyancy of thought regarding:
am i having enough, am i not having enough:
and if i'm not having enough -
what are the chances of me contracting some
s.t.d.?

bad beef...
again... juxtaposing a reiteration...
there's something worse than visit a brothel...
there's the... visiting a resturant..
i can't stop thinking about alien,
unwashed hands, preparing my food...
it's already one kick-in-the-***** not having
hunted the food... but to be left ******-over
twice by not having cooked it?!

at least if you know what flesh feels like
between the two crucibles of
death's kiss and man's tongue tease...
you will know when...
you will at least know when...
death comes with its kiss...
and its breath... the meat will turn all
yucky... as if a mollusk decided to prance
upon it in an imitation zigzag...

hence? i have no respect for islam because
islam has no respect for Miss Porky Bella!
seeing how most of the lamb -
except for the kidney in a steak pie
is not wasted...
the pig could feed two african villages...
if done properly...
while a lamb would only serve a pittance
for a poor man of yemen harem...

again: the pig is the enemy...
while not making crab meat a haram is not?
vulture meat... scavenger meat...
that's a: o.k. but the sophisticated nature
of the pig: sophisticated in that:
almost all of it can be eaten...
that so much of it can be you would probably
burp out an oink...
done properly...
the giblets in tow...
pity that such a desert god would never
appreciate the pig becoming a dog on
its truffle hog days...

beside all the arguments...
imagine how the "one true god" goes down
on a platter of those ignorant Beijing folk...
Warsaw testing! Warsaw testing!

pristine my *** when all they ever do
is eat the muscles and never appreciate the detials...
no wonder they become aenemic vegans!
at least butchering a vegetable is less of a concern...
you can almost get away with butchering a root...
it is... oh most certainly it is a shame...
when you can't cook meat properly...

but at least i never feel ever as bad going to a brothel
seeing the sort of people who venture into
restaurants...
i don't like being cooked for, i don't like being
"waited" for...
i don't like this modern orthodoxy affair
of a restaurant... i wish these people
learned something about how meat is: never cooked...
and how... it's always most certainly most necessarily:
curated...

pedantic? perhaps... you should have seen
me in that athenian strip-club with two-clingy *******
either side of me... starwberries in their *****
and we are all fine and giggling...
stealing kisses from prostitutes is: truffle hog
"learning" parabolla...

a date and a "promise" of *** is always
a limp **** affair...
i always want to know whether what i'll be eating
still entertain the existence of salt...
or whether i'll have to find alternatives
of: extracting the juices and finding the right
bites...
because love is long over-due and i'm not going
to butcher it further with whimsical hopes...
my love is a dead love is no ideal...
my love is donning a ball and chain of memory:
i have left the better parts of myself
in the wrong sort of people...
they're hardly coming back...
the people or the pieces of me...

but at least i can attest that:
oral *** and the cool crisp gulp of an oyster
passing the Charon of my tongue...
oysters are only fascinating to eat...
because you always want to concentrate
on the fact that: you're eating something that's still
alive... not even a steak tartar or a sushi slice
gives you that hope and thrill...
unless... you're hoping for some tapeworm
embryo being lodged in the flesh...
which how man can almost arrive
at the conception of foetus and womanhood...
i can't be impregnated: exclusively...
i can't be... pregnant: exclusively...
but i can allow a parasitical tapeworm
to become my new-born-*******-out-abortion...

inclusively... how else?!
i'm also tired of being left immoral by the act
of *******...
not unless you know what not being circumcised
feels like... and what chicken skin feels like...
the people at the restaurants...
a palette disgruntled by minor changes of heat...
and... there's always a very precise detail
when it comes to the temp. of a piece of meat
being cooked... and when it's allowed to epilogue
when resting to ****** with all its juices
left intact...

over-sexed society, are we?
at least doing the one-eyed-bandit's favor
doesn't allow me to ferment...
to pickle such repressive thinking...
itself pitched against: in itself...
and these this Radeztsky March forward...
over-sexed also can imply:
not exactly culinarily-savvy...
these are always twins walking side by side...
and they are always siamese problems...
over-sexed implies...
not cuninarily-savvy...
the better part of this critique is already wide open...
why all these cooking channels,
all these cooking programs?
and all this ****?

can't **** can't cook? broomstick! and to sabbath
with you!
i can't no better comparison...
over-sexed and also: terrible at *******...
******* is terrible to begin with...
you can't exactly quip yourself with
having done some lessons in tango or salsa...
the chances are that the *** turns out to
be a laughable take on tango and
you're going to step on a day-dreaming
dancing partner...
it's exactly what's it's supposed to be:
a gamble at best...
but when you throw in bad cooking?
recipe for disaster... bad dates that begin
in a restaurant and arrive at a black-out
bedroom with cockoon *** under
the bedsheets with you gasping for air!

'god let me out! let me out!'
howard brace Feb 2012
Inconspicuous, his presence noted only by the obscurity and the ever growing number of spent cigarette stubs that littered the ground.  It had been a long day and the rain, relentless in its tenacity had little intention of stopping, baleful clouds still  hung heavy, dominating the lateness of the afternoon sky, a rain laden skyline broken only by smoke filled chimney pots and the tangled snarl of corroded television aerials.

     The once busy street was fast emptying now, the lure of shop windows no longer enticed the casual browser as local traders closed their premises to the oncoming night, solitary lampposts curved hazily into the distance, casting little more than insipid pools mirrored in the gutter below, only the occasional stranger scurrying home on a bleak, rain swept afternoon, the hurried slap of wet leather soles on the pavement, the sightless umbrellas, the infrequent rumble of a half filled bus, hell-bent on its way to oblivion.

     In the near distance as the working day ended, a sudden emergence of factory workers told Beamish it was 5-o'clock, most would be hurrying home to a hot meal, while others, for a quick drink perhaps before making the same old sorry excuse... for Jack, the greasy spoon would be closing about now, denying him the comfort of a badly needed cuppa' and stale cheese sandwich.  A subtle legacy of lunchtime fish and chips still lingered in the air, Jack's stomach rumbled, there was little chance of a fish supper for Beamish tonight, it protested again... louder.

     From beneath the eaves of the building opposite several pigeons broke cover, startled by the rattle as a shopkeeper struggled to close the canvas awning above his shop window.  Narrowly missing Beamish they flew anxiously over the rooftops, memories of the blitz sprang to mind as Jack stepped smartly to one side, he stamped his feet... it dashed a little of the weather from his raincoat, just as the rain dashed a little of the pigeons' anxiety from the pavement... the day couldn't get much worse if it tried.  Shielding his face, Jack struck the Ronson one more time and cupped the freshly lit cigarette between his hands, it was the only source of heat to be had that day... and still it rained.

     'By Appointment to Certain Personages...' the letter heading rang out loudly... 'Jack Beamish ~ Private Investigator...' a throat choking mouthful by any stretch of the imagination, thought Jack and shot every vestige of credulity plummeting straight through the office window and amidst a fanfare of trumpet voluntary, nominate itself for a prodigious award in the New Year Honours list.   Having formally served in a professional capacity for a well known purveyor of pickled condiments, who  incidentally, brandished the same patronage emblazoned upon their extensive range of relish as the one Jack had more recently purloined from them... a paid commission no less, which by Jack's certain understanding had made him, albeit fleeting in nature, a professional consultant of said company... and consequently, if they could flaunt the auspicious emblem, then according to Jack's infallible logic, so could Jack.  

     The recently appropriated letterhead possessed certain distinction... in much the same way, Jack reasoned, that a blank piece of paper did not... and whereas correspondence bearing the heading 'By Appointment' may not exactly strike terror into the hearts of man... unlike a really strong pickled onion, it nevertheless made people think twice before playing him for the fool, which sadly, Jack had to concede, they still invariably did... and he would often catch them wagging an accusing finger or two in his direction with such platitudes as... "watch where you put your foot", they'd whisper, "that Jack's a right Shamus...", and when you'd misplaced your footing as many times as Jack had, then he reasoned, that by default the celebrated Shamus must have landed himself in more piles of indiscretion than he would readily care to admit, but that wouldn't be quite accurate either, in Jack's line of work it was the malefactor that actually dropped him in them more often than not.

     A cold shiver suddenly ran down his spine, another quickly followed as a spurt of icy water from a broken rain spout spattered across the back of his neck, he grimaced... Jack's expression spoke volumes as he took one final pull from his half soaked cigarette and flicked it, amid an eruption of sparks against the adjacent brick wall.  Sinking further into the shadow he tipped his fedora against the oncoming rain, then, digging both hands deep within his pockets, he huddled behind the upturned collar of his gabardine... watching.

     It was times such as these when Jack's mind would slip back, in much the same way you might slip back on a discarded banana peel, when a matter of some consequence, or in particular this case the pavement, would suddenly leap up from behind and give the back of Jack's head a resoundingly good slapping and tell him to "stop loafing around in office hours... or else", then drag him, albeit kicking and screaming back into the 20th century.  This intellectual assault and battery re-focused Jack's mind wonderfully as he whiled away the long weary hours until his next cigarette; cup of tea, or the last bus home, his capacity to endure such mind boggling tedium called for nothing less than sheer ******-mindedness and very little else... Beamish had long suspected that he possessed all the necessary qualifications.  

     Jack had come a long way since the early days, it had been a long haul but he'd finally arrived there in the end... and managed to pick up quite a few ***** looks along the way.  Whilst he was with the Police Constabulary... and it was only fair to stress the word 'with', as opposed to the word 'in'... although the more Jack considered, he had been 'with' the arresting officer, held 'in' the local Bridewell... detained at Her Majesties pleasure while assisting the boys in blue with their enquiries over a minor infringement of some local by-law that currently had quite slipped his mind at that moment.  Throughout this enforced leisure period he'd managed to read the entire abridged editions of Kilroy and other expansive works of graffiti exhibited in what passed locally as the next best thing to the Tate Gallery, whereupon it hadn't taken Jack very long to realise that it was always a good place to start if you wanted free breakfast, in fact the weeks bill of fare was tastefully displayed in vivid, polychromatic colour on the wall opposite... you just had to be au-fait with braille.
                            
     No matter how industrious Beamish laboured to rake the dirt there always appeared to be a dire shortage of gullible clients for Jack to squeeze, what would roughly translate as an honest crust out of, and although his financial retainer was highly competitive he understood that potential clients found it bewildering when grappling with the unplumbed depths of his monthly expense account, which would tend to fluctuate with the same unpredictability as the British weather, the rest of Jack's agenda revolved around a little shady moonlighting... in fact he'd happily consider anything to offset the remotest possibility of financial delinquency... short of extortion... which by the strangest twist was the very word prospective clients would cry while Jack beavered around the office with dust-pan and brush sweeping any concerns they may have had frantically under the carpet regarding all culpability of his extra-curricular monthly stipend... and they should remain assured at all times... as they dug deep and fished for their cheque books, and simply look upon it as kneading dough, which eerily enough was exactly the thick wedge of buttered granary that Jack had every intention of carving.

     Were there ever the slightest possibility that a day could be so utterly wretched, then today was that day, Jack felt a certain empathy as he merged with his surroundings... at one with nature as it were.  The rain, a timpani on the metal dustbin lids, by the side of which Beamish had taken up vigil, also taking up vigil and in search of a morsel was the stray mongrel, this was the third time now that he'd returned, the same apprehensive wag, yet still the same hopeful look of expectation in his eyes, a brief but friendly companion who paid more attention to Jack's left trouser leg than anything that could be had from nosing around the dustbins that day... some days you're the dog, scowled Beamish as he shook his trouser leg... and some days the lamppost, Jack's foot swung out playfully, keeping his new friend's incontinence at a safe distance, feigning indignance  the scruffy mongrel shook himself defiantly from nose to tail, a distinct odour of wet dog filled the air as an abundance of spent rainwater flew in all directions.   Pricking one ear he looked accusingly at Jack before turning and snuffled off, his nose resolutely to the pavement and diligently, picking out the few diluted scents still remaining, the poor little stalwart renewed its search for scraps, or making his way perhaps to some dry seclusion known only to itself.
  
     Two hours later and... SPLOSH, a puddle poured itself through the front door of the nearest Public House... SPLOSH, the puddle squelched over to the payphone... SPLOSH, then, fumbling for small change dialled and pressed button 'A'..., then button 'B'... then started all over again amid a flurry of precipitation... SPLASH.  The puddle floundered to the bar and ordered itself a drink, then ebbed back to the payphone again... the local taxi company doggedly refused to answer... finally, wallowing over to the window the puddle drifted up against a warm radiator amidst a cloud of humidity and came to rest... flotsam, cast upon the shore of contentment, the puddle sighed contentedly... the Landlady watched this anomaly... suspiciously.

     The puddle's finely tuned perception soon got to grips with the unhurried banter and muffled gossip drifting along the bar, having little else to loose, other than what could still be wrung from his clothing... Beamish, working on the principle that a little eavesdropping was his stock-in-trade engaged instinct into overdrive and casually rippled in their general direction...  They were clearly regulars by the way one of them belched in a well rehearsed, taken-a-back sort of way as Jack took stock of the situation and was now at some pains to ingratiate himself into their exclusive midst and attempt several friendly, yet relevant questions pertinent to his enquiries... all of which were skillfully deflected with more than friendly, yet totally irrelevant answers pertinent to theirs'... and would Jack care for a game of dominoes', they enquired... if so, would he be good enough to pay the refundable deposit, as by common consent it just so happened to be his turn...  Jack graciously declined this generous offer, as the obliging Landlady, just as graciously, cancelled the one shilling returnable deposit from the cash register, such was the flow of light conversation that evening... they didn't call him Lucky Jack for nothing... discouraged, Beamish turned back to the bar and reached for his glass... to which one of his recent companions, and yet again just as graciously, had taken the trouble to drink for him... the Landlady gave Jack a knowing look, Beamish returned the heartfelt sentiment and ordered one more pint.

     From the licenced premises opposite, a myriad of jostling customers plied through the door, business was picking up... the sudden influx of punters rapidly persuaded Beamish to retire from the bar and find a vacant table.  Sitting, he removed several discarded crisp packets from the centre of the table only to discover a freshly vacated ashtray below... by sleight of hand Jack's Ronson appeared... as he lit the cigarette the fragile smoke curled blue as it rose... influenced by subtle caprice, it joined others and formed a horizontal curtain dividing the room, a delicate, undulating layer held between two conflicting forces.

     The possibility of a free drink soon attracted the attention of a local bar fly, who, hovering in the near vicinity promptly landed in Jack's beer, Beamish declined this generous offer as being far too nutritious and with the corner of yesterdays beer mat, flipped the offending organism from the top of his glass, carefully inspecting his drink for debris as he did so.

     A sudden draught and clip of stiletto heels as the side door opened caused Beamish to turn as a double shadow slipped discreetly into the friendly Snug... a little adulterous intimacy on an otherwise cheerless evening.  The faceless man, concealed beneath a fedora and the upturned collar of his overcoat, the surreptitious lady friend, decked out in damp cony, cheap perfume and a surfeit of bling proclaimed a not too infrequent assignation, he'd seen it all before... the over attentive manner and the band of white, Sun-starved skin recently hidden behind a now absent wedding token, ordinarily it was the sort of assignment Jack didn't much care for... the discreet tail, the candid snapshot through half drawn curtains... and the all too familiar steak tartare... for the all too familiar black eye.

     To the untrained eye, the prospect of Jack's long anticipated supper was rapidly dwindling, when it suddenly focused with renewed vigour upon the contents of a pickled egg jar he'd observed earlier that evening, lurking on the back counter, his enthusiasm swiftly diminished however as the belching customer procured the final two specimens from the jar and proceeded to demolish them.  Who, Jack reflected, after being stood out in the rain all day, had egg all over his face now... and who, he reflected deeper, still had an empty stomach.  Disillusioned, Jack tipped back his glass and considered a further sortie with the taxicab company.

     "FIVE-BOB"!!! Jack screamed... you could have shredded the air with a cheese grater... hurtling into the kerb like a fairground attraction came flying past the chequered flag at a record breaking 99 in Jack's top 100 most not wanted list of things to do that day... and that the cabby should think himself fortunate they weren't both stretched flat on a marble slab, "exploding tyres" Jack spluttered, dribbling down his chin, were enough to give anyone a coronary... further broadsides of neurotic ambiance filled the cab as the driver, miffed at the prospect of missing snooker night out with the lads, considered charging extra for the additional space Jack's profanity was taking...

     And what part of 'Drive-Carefully', fumed Beamish, did the cabby simply not understand, that pavements were there to be bypassed, 'Nay Circumvented', preferably on the left... and not veered into, wildly on the front axle... an eerie premonition of 'jemais-vu' perched and ready to strike like a disembodied Jiminy Cricket on Jack's left shoulder, looking to stick its own two-penny worth in at the 'Standing-Room-Only' arrangements in the overcrowded cab... and at what further point, Jack shrieked, eyes leaping from his head as he lurched forward, shaking his fist through the sliding glass partition, had the cabbie failed to grasp the importance of the word 'Steering-Wheel...' someone wanted horse whipping, and as far as Beamish was concerned the sole contender was the cab driver...

     In having a somewhat sedate and unruffled disposition it had fallen to Beamish... as befalls all great leaders in times of adversity, to single handedly take the bull by the horns, so to speak and at great personal cost, alert the unwary passing motorist...  Waving his arms about like a man possessed whilst performing acrobatic evolutions in the centre of the road as the cabby changed the wheel came whizzing around the corner at a back breaking 98 on Jack's ever growing list... and why, Jack puzzled, why had they all lowered their side windows and gestured back at him in semaphore..?  Rallying to its aid, Jack's head and shoulders now joined his shaking fist through the sliding glass partition and into the cabby's face, "Who" Beamish screeched with renewed vigour ,"Who Was The Man", Jack wanted to know... *"a
It was just another ordinary day at the Pub.
I  as always at the helm tending bar hitting on hamsters and making crude jokes that usually walked the line and got me banned from a site that I was a living legend on.
Remember kids there is no Hello without Gonzo.

Hey Gonz you really need to do something bout the restroom some nameless bland writer that I probably liked cause I thought she looked hot said to me as she walked towards the bar.
What is somebody jerking off in there again ****** !
I swear creative ******* sure are a frustrated ***** bunch.

Just then a old man walked from the restroom .
Granddad  what did I tell you bout using the restroom?
Huh the old man replied with that look of who the hell am I am what the **** is this ***** behind the bar saying .
Yeah I get that look a lot .

Granddad !
Huh?
What's that ?
He replied again as he staggered to the bar smelling of whiskey and **** yeah almost like Lindsey Lohans new perfume ode to a ***** well minus the ******* and bitter smell of a burned out former child actress.

What's that your saying?
The restrooms father time what did I tell you ,there strictly for paying costumers go use the alley where  I keep your house slash cardboard box .

Oh yeah and by the way you still owe me rent duh just cause your old and related to me doesn't mean you can just sponge off me who do you think you are some washed up drunken writer who haunts a nearly dead website like some strange perverted ghost ?

Hey did you hit the blood bank you old ****?
But son they told me I can't go twice in a week or I could die!
Look old man if you cant do that then you better hit the street start jerking off truckers I swear it was good enough for grandma you lazy **** .

I swear you give a semi senile old **** a spacious alley and wonderful box to live in as you take his social security and this is thanks you get.
Oh well least when he passed I can still collect his checks I'll just keep him in the walk in box nobody will know the difference .

Hey ******* don't talk to that  nice old man like that.
A voice Interrupted  me as I was about to remind father time he needed to sign his check duh how else do you think I fund the bar?

You really are a ***** Gonz you should be ashamed off talking and treating that nice old man so terrible.
I couldn't believe the gull of this women and although I was slightly distracted by her ******* I had to keep  focused cause this story had to end some ******* time .

Miss first off may I say welcome to the Pub and you have a great rack.
***** you perve ! , She said in her angry yet I could tell she secretly wanted me cause I'm a totally delusional egotistical ******* writer who is really long winded and enjoys cheap laughs and even cheaper hookers but only in moderation like Jesus kind of sense .

What to much?
Well you haven't read **** yet kids .

Miss I realize you may view me as a totally kickass writer and dude that you secretly want to have a goodtime in the backroom with .
Drop dead **** ! the woman replied .
Yeah I could tell I was wearing her down.

What gives you the right to treat this old man so cruel?
Duh cause he's my family silly woman and it's not like I'm cruel to him
in fact I treat him great don't I grandpa?

I haven't eaten in four days .
The old man replied .

You poor old sweetheart the woman said as she put her arms around the old man as he began to cry what a total ***** .
It's okay I'll get you some help .
Oh thank you so much your such a nice lady .

What the hell !
I herd the woman say in a semi state of shock as she realized in her effort to comfort grandpa he had grabbed a handful of some tight **** .

Get your hands off me .
The woman shouted but grandpa was stuck to that women like a tight pair of jeans .
Come on sweetheart give pop pop  some love.

The old demented ******* said.
***** this the woman said as she drove her knee about five miles into the old ****'s junk.

The old man fell to the floor as all five of the regulars laughed and the dudes had to cringe .

You people are all insane ***** this place she said as she walked out the door .

The old man climbed the barstool in the woes of agony a frustrated climber trying to hit the peak of that really tall mountain that I cant recall it's ******* name oh yeah Adele .

Give me a *******  whiskey and a ice pack you little *******.
I swear pops that act never gets old you alright?
I said as I poured the old ***** a strong one and handed him a steak.

What the hells the steak for ?
Duh the swelling ******* besides we got to thaw it out anyways
somebody ordered one from down the street and would it **** you to shave I'm just saying the owner of the site really already dislikes me enough already.

Yeah you kids are ****** up with your cellphones and computers and your shaved ***** give me the old days where men were men and weren't afraid to be men and smell like men not French ******
speaking of ****** dam I miss your grandma .

Yes the Gonzo clan it's so great to come from such a long line of misspelling drunken ***** loving perverts .

You know pops maybe we need to pick a new scam to run on the yuppies I don't think you can take to many shots like that anymore.

Hey are you saying I'm old ?
Well when the first boat trip you ever took was on the  Mayflower I'd say so gramps .

Well did that order for the steak include any seafood?
No why?
I replied as I poured me and the old man another.

Well cause it looks like there getting some ***** with there steak.

                                          Fin

Stay crazy hamsters

Gonzo
Mateuš Conrad  May 2022
chasm
Mateuš Conrad May 2022
i remember this one outing i had with "friends"
from high school, we used to go to the cinema
get some food at Frankie & Bennies...
this one particular time everyone was ordering
a steak and chips and what-not...

everyone was making the order: well-done... please!
oh god... i couldn't stand it!
why would you butcher a fine cut of beef: twice!
why?! why?!
there's a ****** good reason why you don't
butcher beef twice...
might as well asked for minced beef: some *******
spaghetti Bolognaise or a ******* burger!
cut-off ****(e)... dog food! hundessen!
might as well asked for some roast beef:
but that's doubly butchering the meat!

there's a reason you order undercooked beef...
the same reason why you have a steak tartar...
there's a reason...
   frankly?! i'm not surprised the Hindus do not eat
beef... it's not some ******* allegory of:
the cow gives us milk... it's our mother...
well... the goat gives milk too...
no... the Hindus... i find... stopped eating beef
because: for all their alchemical wonders of
their Raj-spice-kingdom:
they couldn't master a way to eat beef: proper...

****... my chin's itching...
i haven't brushed my beard today...
although i brushed my teeth...
need to get rid of this itch....

.....................................
.................­....................
......................................

ah... that's better... just wetted it...
it's easier to have wet ***** on your face
that you're about to comb than it is to have
dry ***** about to get pulled put by each
stroke of the comb...

but they ordered a well-done steak...
you don't eat a steak "well-done": like you don't
eat cooked herrings
or cooked sushi...
                some things are supposed to be eaten
raw or at least semi-, raw...
the meat is more tender when partially cooked...
you can't! can't! can't!
eat an overcooked piece of beef!
there's no such thing as a well-done steak:
there's only trash!
            that's called doing the double-butchers'...

steak bleu... or rare... or medium rare...
depending on the "girth" of the platter...
i'd say... respectively:
well seasoned either side... sea salt... not your
conventional crap... pepper?
in the pestle and mortar... not the pre-ground stuff...
bleu? 20 seconds either side...
rare? 35 seconds either side...
medium rare? fluctuating change of temp.
and about a minute either side...
  
i respect what i eat...
at that gathering... my "friends" looked at me
oddly... he's eating rare beef...
and what the rest of you ******* are having
roast ******* dinner
and a tapeworm phobia?!
like you can't eat cooked herrings:
the biggest tapeworms known to man
are bound to sleep in aquatic creatures...
that's not going to stop me from enjoying
my Baltic sushi... dill... gherkins... creamy sauce...
mmm...

   i've become sort of lactose intolerant...
well... as much as i love milk...
   i need it to be doubly filtered... or whatever the hell
they do with it that makes it drinkable for me:
i'm not a massive fan of yoghurts...

doubly butchering a cow by cooking it
well-done... what barbarians!
esp. a steak: now... i can be very pretentious
when it comes to food...
obviously! i don't want to be eating
******* oat-meal that's reserved for cattle
when i could be cherishing a cherry!
it's that simple!

mind "you": i woke up today and thought...
hmm... so the gods came to a standstill...
i know the Hebrew deity is a deity eater...
former gods of the other Semites soon became
angels: fallen angels...
the fallen gods of the people and their alphabets
(phonetic encoding practices)
became eroded... Cuneiform... dead...
the Egyptian Hieroglyphics: dead...
      let's face it... the latter?
hardly practical... even though...
it took the time to ***** the Eiffel Tower
to overshadow the Giza Pyramids...
       the Roman use of letters as a concept for numbers...
that's pretty ******* genius...
VI + IV = X... come on... the numbers were
already hidden in the letters...
    b + G = X (6 + 4 = 10) -
                
                what's 0? a squashed version of O
-micron...
   can you draw a 3D version of a circle on paper?
a pyramid and a cube is simple...
hmm... Islam has a powerful fascination
with the cube... while Christianity stresses
the triangle...
            you could like you could insinuate:
the eight standing and eight reclining
               8                                  ∞

bb, bb... bbbb... (BBBB)...

            but the gods apparently came to an agreement...
the Latin script would flourish...
the Latin gods? eh... they were already
the plagiarisms of the Greek gods...
but the planets would be given the names
of the Latin gods... not the Greek gods...
scientific constants would be given to the Greeks...
because the Latins "forgot" to give noun status
to their letters... like ah: is not alpha... etc.

but... ha! the Slavic gods would disappear...
completely... no questions asked...
personally?
as long as the Norse gods remained intact...
the Glagolitic script: precursor of the Cyrillic has...
job done... the runes also have remained...
and why? why did the Hebrew deity have such a hard
time... undermining both the phonetic encoding method
of the Greeks and the Latins...
weakness... the jealous one:
even as he tried to march forward with his most
precious son being sacrificed...
Lucy... the hey-zeus... dangling on a crucifix...
couldn't: wouldn't: can't! undermine
something elder: as much original and as much
true as himself...

i sometimes pity him: mr. ******* bombastic...
i'd love to see him... unravel the x-ray scribbles
of the Dao-menschen... of the Mandarins...
with his: futile 'ebrew!
               really? he can?!
personally...
i have three favourites...

i'm usually disguised as a doppelganger...
i'm usually some famous rugby player
or Brad Pitt...
              i have a headache: thanks but...
eh... i also want to think about al dente pasta...
shadow-thief?! visage-thief...
whatever the correct term...
  
   i'm more inclined toward the gods
of technique...
             i don't like the sensibility of nothingness...
the sober: persistent: ping-pong
with nothing whereby you... hit a ball and...
oops! no echo... the ball doesn't come back...
the relationship with nothing is unlike
a relationship with deities...
nothing is a glutton...
                  you can't play squash with nothing...
there's no echo within the confines of believing:
all of this came from nothing...
nothing...
                      nothing...
      i don't buy the 00s atheistic popular crap...
because? no dinosaurs in the book of Genesis?!
literal reading? right...
so... no dragon on the flag of Wales?!
   no great: fire-breathing lizards?!
             crocodiles?! where?!
                     people weren't reading poetry back when
there was a potato famine! were they?!

the, language, is, *******, poetic! by poetry it implies:
metaphor subsequently: mythology...
what?! expect ******* journalism from the year 500 B.C.?!
******* gullible people...
like we all want a libido / a journalistic insomnia
of always wanting to have a ******* / being informed
about... **** all there is to be known!

fair enough: the Hebrew deity once duped
the white northerners to adopt his ****** sacrifice
of a "son" as salvation: as instigator for war
upon war upon war...
      now?! he's currently panicking...
oh ****... these same people have become somewhat
sensible: it no longer matters with the resurrection
of the state of Israel...
time to... turn "one's" attention toward Africa!
yes! ******* brigade moves on!
eh... and some remnants of it still persisting in
H'america... but what's new?!

- must have woken up dreaming about deities...
i must have...
who are my two favourites?!
the architects... the technicians...
in Greek: Hephaestus...
   in Norse? Höðr... or Brokkr...

the unifying concept of monotheism that runs
parallel with the globalist agenda...
any: every idiot can spot this...

but i felt wondering...
am i, ambidextrous?
         i don't think i am...
           i closed one of my eyes...
i'm right-handed...
which eye do you think i closed: to keep balance?
my right eye, or my left eye?!
Odin: dearest provider of puzzles...
hangman Judas and taboo breaker...
since i'm right handed when i write:
although: the genius of QWERTY implies
that i'm somehow ambidextrous
when facing a typewriter...
i... i closed my right eye...
ah... balance!
                if i were to script an imitation...
take my right eye...
i'm left-eyed...
  i see better with my left eye...
i close my right eye...
my right hand... superior:
    ius-manus-superior...
how is that grammatical, correct?!
superior-manus-iua?!
right hand superior...
                  esp. with an eye missing...
i can thereby stroke shadow dogs...
shadow dogs: figments of my imagination...
i can touch the "lips" of death...
              i'm right-handed therefore
my left eye is both a telescope and a microscope
envy... while by supposedly missing right
eye: is my arm...
and with it... i yield: all the clues concerning
mastering "nothing"...

my current "god"?! the diacritical markers
in Cyrillic...
notably... like that represented: Cyclops
eye of Dajjal in the triangle...
i have a letter... well... "letter"...

                         Щ... perhaps smaller might help:
щ...
                i'm pretty sure diacritical markers will
help... because? what i am revealing?!
the tetragrammaton: the H1: laughter generator...
and the H2: the vowel catcher...
ha ha... contrast with ah... ah... eh?!

point being...
   Щ = ŠČ
                        what's that?
two hidden S'es... or Zeds... schcheka: it: (the dog)
barks... not... no no... not: the dog is barking...
the dog: barks!
that's two rugby goalposts of H hidden in diacritical
markers... or... if you were to employ the Cyrillic...
a little accent on the huSH (ш) with the "comma"
being added to exfoliated the CHatter...

this is my anti-Hebrew sentiment with regards
to lettering...
oh... the Greeks and the Hebrews have been
bedfellows for all these years...
trying to complicate their language with
a technicality that only Down Syndrome sufferers are
able to read...
not on my watch...
    
you're not bringing this alphabet down...
however much you wish you could...
even sending this horde of Muslim impotent ****-wits
of frustrations... it's not going to work...
i'm going to be the gate-keeper to this
phonetic encoding...
like... haven't you heard?!
the internet was born from these letters?!
it wasn't... born from Katakana...
Hanguel or Mandarin ideograms...
or spaghetti Mr. Dubai pants of Arabic...
****-wits... what?! meow meow:
dog took a ****... bark bark: a cat took a ****?!

am i "right-eyed!? i never thought it ut...
well... if i'm a proponent of the the right
hand... when writing... although...
give me a keyboard: both hands are used...
i kick a pebble down the road using my right foot...
i must be more inclined to prefer my
left eye...
            
the Hebrews can salvage their ****-hurt belief
in undermining the Gentiles
with having sacrificed "their" son of "god":
retaliating with a planned invasion
from the Muslim tribe...
honestly? these women are worth being
sacrificed... they're not my mothers,
they're not my sisters...

if "Europe" is to be ***** by another
Mongol invasion... look at me?! am i worried?!
i know i'm dealing with mollusk Arabs
with as much stamina and
grit as...
don't ask... they are probably going to get
their fluffy toys of makeshift puppy pretend
it'sa dog... it doesn't ****, it doesn't ****...
there's no worse curse than wearing black...
dealing with pet fur...

i do think about...
"think"...
about... allowing myself...
eyelashes... to be substituted for.... a  concern
for a lack of shoelaces...
i do "think" that i want to walk
in shoes... i want to echo to scream!
echo: foot-notes!

spuckefreuer!
                   blutenwasser!
faltenwurf-die-erde!

der berg: steht...
         der ozean: welle auf welle,,,
stein auf stein...

          etwas besser deutsche-mensch....
imaginär: drachen...
                                     zungenschlag....
und: zephyr.
Creep Dec 2014
I'm a photographer, and I can't picture you and I together.

If I were a stop light, I'd turn green everytime you passed by, just so I don't have to see you any longer.

I thought happiness started with an HAPPI. Why does mine start with NOT U?

Are you a camera? Because every time I look at you, I run and hide.

Do you have a map? I need to figure out a way to get the hell away from you.

Do you live in a corn field, cause I'm just gonna harvest you and sell you to someone else.

Are you a parking ticket? 'Cause you've got Violation written all over you.

You look cold. Good. Freeze to death.

Can I have directions? [To where?] To get the hell away from you.

I'm not drunk, I'm just intoxicated enough to tolerate talking to you.

I was so disgusted by your face that I ran into that wall over there. But thank god I don't have insurance, so don't bother telling me your name and number.

Is there an airport nearby, cause I'm gotta get on the next flight to Antarctica and get the hell away from you.

You look so familiar… didn't we take a class together? I could've sworn we had physical education, where I was educated how to physically hurt you.

If you are a steak, I'd say you are too meaty.

Can I have a picture of you? So I can show Santa what I don't want for Christmas.

There must be something wrong with my eyes, they've started bleeding at the sight of you.
somebody told me
by the killers

— The End —