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Jeff Gaines Aug 2018
Mark A. Williams
                            SEPTEMBER 14, 1962 – JULY 23, 2018

___________________­

Wow Mark,

Was so, so saddened to hear this news. I haven't seen you in over ten years, but as kids, we had some amazing adventures, didn't we? Partying, camping and swimming at the Hudson lime pits. Mowing down on Pizza and pitchers of Pepsi (and as we grew up, BEER!) at Pizza Hut. (We knew the numbers to ALL the songs on that jukebox by heart!) Hanging out and looking at the stars through Budvido's telescope, listening to Doctor Demento. Laughing hysterically as we ran through Monty Python skits as everyone looked on in total puzzlement because THEY wouldn't discover them until YEARS later!

Building underground forts in the North Woods. You, Budvido, Zeke and I playing pinball at 7-11 for hours and hours. Watching Bands, chasing girls and playing Foosball or Pool at the Touch of Class Teen Club. You gave me my first Imported beer . . . a Lowenbrau. I will always owe my passion for those German beers to you and it was fitting that Budvido bestowed you with that moniker.

All through Jr. High, sharing a seat on the school bus. You, Matt, Tom, Buddy and I cruising around late night on our bikes for hours. Hanging around in the Jasmine Lakes sign with hijacked beer or getting free bags of Burgers from Burger Queen when they closed at night! Jousting with shopping carts on our bikes in the Winn-Dixie parking lot. Sitting up all night in Jimi's room after climbing in through the window or going on endless space cruises with him and Raymond in the Toyota.

(RIP Jimi Carlsen)

Sneaking into the nudest Colony and skinny dipping! Always cracking up at the school lunch table. Swimming in my pool and terrorizing my sister and her friends. (Allegedly) Trashing that crook Fast Eddie's produce stand after he refused to pay us for a full day of picking watermelons!

Good times, indeed . . . Some of my most precious memories.

I can only pray that you know that I wouldn't trade my youth or you in it for anything in the world and you will be sadly missed, Lowenbrau, my old friend.

I hope that where you are, your beers are ice cold and that you and Jimi aren't having to glue the Hookah  back together.

Jeff Gaines
July 28, 2018
Such a sad task, to say goodbye to a friend with last words that may never had been spoken up until then. As it happens, this friend and I often relished in our youthful exploits, but still ... I'd not seen him in ten years. Because ... life happens. He had fallen on hard times and was bouncing place to place and I too was moving and living all over. We had spoken on the phone here and there and that would have to suffice.

I  haven't posted in weeks and I haven't read in almost 2 months. THANK YOU to those who have the patience with me to still read me, even though I can't reciprocate at the moment. I will, when time permits, come back and catch up on all of you. It will take me days and days!
Ari  Feb 2010
In Philadelphia
Ari Feb 2010
there are so many places to hide,

in my home at 17th and South screaming death threats at my roommates laughing diabolically playing  videogames and Jeopardy cooking quinoa stretching canvas the dog going mad frothing lunging  spastic to get the monkeys or the wookies or whatever random commandments we issue forth  drunken while Schlock rampages the backdrop,

at my uncle's row house on 22nd and Wallace with my shoes off freezing skipping class to watch March  Madness unwrapping waxpaper hoagies grimacing with each sip of Cherrywine or creamsicle  soda reading chapters at my leisure,

in the stacks among fiberglass and eternal florescent lima-tiled and echo-prone red-eyed and white-faced  caked with asbestos and headphones exhuming ossified pages from layers of cosmic dust  presiding benevolent,

in University City disguised in nothing but a name infiltrating Penn club soccer getting caught after  scoring yet still invited to the pure ***** joy of hell and heaven house parties of ice luge jungle  juice kegstand coke politic networking,

at Drexel's nightlit astroturf with the Jamaicans rolling blunts on the sidelines playing soccer floating in  slo-mo through billows of purple till the early morning or basketball at Penn against goggle- eyed professors in kneepads and copious sweat,

in the shadow tunnels behind Franklin Field always late night loner overlooking rust belt rails abandoned  to an absent tempo till tomorrow never looking behind me in the fear that someone is there,

at Phillies Stadium on glorious summer Tuesdays for dollar dog night laden with algebra geometry and  physics purposely forgetting to apply ballistics to the majestic arc of a home run or in the frozen  subway steam selling F.U. T.O. t-shirts to Eagles fans gnashing when the Cowboys come to town,

at 17th and Sansom in the morning bounding from Little Pete's scrambled eggs toast and black coffee  studying in the Spring thinking All is Full of Love in my ears leaving fog pollen footprints on the  smoking cement blooming,

at the Shambhala Center with dharma lotus dripping from heels soaking rosewater insides thrumming to the  groan of meditation,

at the Art Museum Greco-fleshed and ponderous counting tourists running the Rocky steps staring into shoji screen tatame teahouses,

at the Lebanese place plunked boldly in Reading Terminal Market buying hummus bumping past the Polish  and Irish on my way to the Amish with their wheelwagons packed with pretzels and honey and  chocolate and tea,

at the motheaten thrift store on North Broad buried under sad accumulations of ramshackle clothing  clowning ridiculous in the dim squinting at coathangers through magnifying glasses and mudflat  leather hoping to salvage something insane,

in the brown catacombed warrens of gutted Subterranea trying unsuccessfully to ignore bearded medicine

men adorned with shaman shell necklaces hawking incense bootlegs and broken Zippos halting conversation to listen pensive to the displacement of air after each train hurtles by,

at 30th Street Station cathedral sitting dwarfed by columns Herculean in their ascent and golden light  thunderclap whirligig wings on high circling the luminous waiting sprawled nascent on stringwood pews,

at the Masonic Temple next to City Hall, pretending to be a tourist all the while hoping scouring for clues in the cryptic grand architect apocrypha to expose global conspiracies,

at the Trocadero Electric Factory TLA Khyber Unitarian Church dungeon breaking my neck to basso  perfecto glitch kick drums with a giant's foot stampeding breakbeat holographic mind-boggled  hole-in-the-skull intonations,

at the Medusa Lounge Tritone Bob and Barbara's Silk City et cetera with a pitcher a pounder of Pabst and a  shot of Jim Beam glowing in the dark at the foosball table disco ball bopstepping to hip hop and  jazz and accordions and piano and vinyl,

in gray Fishtown at Gino's recording rap holding pizza debates on the ethics of sampling anything by  David Axelrod rattling tambourines and smiles at the Russian shopgirl downstairs still chained to  soul record crackles of antiquity spiraling from windows above,

at Sam Doom's on 12th and Spring Garden crafting friendship in greenhouse egg crate foam closets  breaking to scrutinize cinema and celebrate Thanksgiving blessed by holy chef Kronick,

in the company of Emily all over or in Kohn's Antiques salvaging for consanguinity and quirky heirlooms  discussing mortality and cancer and celestial funk chord blues as a cosmological constant and  communism and Cuba over mango brown rice plantains baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies,

in a Coca Cola truck riding shotgun hot as hell hungover below the raging Kensington El at 6 AM nodding soft to the teamsters' curses the snagglesouled destitute crawling forth poisoned from sheet-metal shanty cardboard box projects this is not desolate,

at the impound lot yet again accusing tow trucks of false pretext paying up sheepish swearing I'll have my  revenge,

in the afterhour streets practicing trashcan kung fu and cinder block shotput shouting sauvage operatic at  tattooed bike messenger tribesmen pitstopped at the food trucks,

in the embrace of those I don't love the names sometimes rush at me drowned and I pray to myself for  asylum,

in the ciphers I host always at least 8 emcee lyric clerics summoning elemental until every pore ruptures  and their eyes erupt furious forever the profound voice of dreadlocked Will still haunting stray  bullet shuffles six years later,

in the caldera of Center City with everyone craning our skulls skyward past the stepped skyscrapers  beaming ear-to-ear welcoming acid sun rain melting maddeningly to reconstitute as concrete  rubber steel glass glowing nymphs,

in Philadelphia where every angle is accounted for and every megawatt careers into every throbbing wall where  Art is a mirror universe for every event ever volleyed through the neurons of History,

in Philadelphia of so many places to hide I am altogether as a funnel cloud frenetic roiling imbuing every corner sanctum sanctorum with jackhammer electromagnetism quivering current realizing stupefied I have failed so utterly wonderful human for in seeking to hide I have found

in Philadelphia
My best Ginsberg impression.
JM McCann Aug 2015
We outlasted the moon!
In a timeless place we did it!
The pull of the moon and the rise of the sun irrelevant!
A group of warriors who couldn’t be more different, as I see myself
in grey —faded color, colors that will never cease to exist!
A rapper from south Africa, a student fluent in Chinese music, a girl with no bounds from down the road, a cyclist from Manhattan, a quiet devil from Belfast, and two girls who could be twins from Mexico all of us surived!
The famous campus— empty a bond forever, only the flies
dance with me!The pizza crust from what
feels like eternity or last week at this point fresh on the table,
still two hours before the day begins, eyes droopy, faces baggy no idea
where the sun is a blink sleeping, eternity awake the music on and off replacing  conversation occionsally tossing condoms a laugh, talk of favorite memories.
only sif (not sure what that was) hours ago pitch dark, lost with a welcome room
Sleepy travelers some head off needing the destination and rest wanting to jump offand hit the ground running, we made it walking as a bottle cap falls from an open window at three four disappear as the night lights turn off around me.
The ones who left early no less brilliant, I owe them all so much.
I will not begin to describe them because they could all take up a book of memories.
Funny stories then sad ones as it becomes clear to the tellers that one is in the making all it was, ice cream followed by a half hour, thrilled at company to Ashelies ice cream
after farewell song.
Reality chugs along.
A door opens, nobody comes along.
At three in the afternoon dizzy as light starts to claim the clock-tower.
Dizzy sick and unable to think in the afternoon the prophet before hand calls straight-mistake, (the first N4 alcoholic hungover never another drink I swear before drinking )
At ten that night out of the timeless room it’s one hour then fifteen minutes then another then thirty disappear.
Dancing on the table music and stories. Later that night or morning, at our lowest bit of energy. pumping iron. Pulling back together with a friend from the other side of the planet falling back letting go getting sprung up in the famous campus. Dancing on a tread mill shirtless together in the dimly lit gym.
Is there anything more divine?!
Then quite in the timeless room, at 3 in the afternoon sick missing the talk of a life claiming “there is no love without sacafrice", at 6 in the night I’m sleeping  debating heading home on that paved road opting instead for "who knows?!" At six in the morning, out of the timeless room, I’m the only one out, writing this as the drone of the song continues from the windows of fellow warriors, briefly drowned out by a helicopter. The beloved campus dead quite even birds asleep. Before the iron deep in the morning pool and talk of maybe being social accidentally sinking the 8 ball. At twelve in the alleged dead of night a room trashed unknown and the words spread a half mile out and brings the head honchos down to the timeless room, at three saved from sleep by a prior story of farting in sleepers faces woke me just in time in the timeless room. At sometime the door opposite the timeless room opened and a long narrow stroll around leads back to the timeless room, at some time time in the timeless home my presence maybe anxiously sought or ignored. The ecstasy and disbelief to see the sun, running back to the warriors who I just wished well at the sun! The same planets with vibrant colors. I will never forget the warriors but maybe their names.
I swat at a fly that was never on my arm.
I think of the infinities of time I will miss later.
My hearing worn thin with my sight, the birds songs lost their fullness
though in our business it’s very likely for the better
as I look to see the clock tower fully conquered,
I wonder if my parents will assume intoxication,
it is impossible to do this tail justice, though it will likely
end in the same spot: dizzy  complaints of exhaustion
getting sick and bliss before the end.
I have known the warriors  for 3 days, yet I know them better than family.
Outside the timeless room I learn partying means drinking with others
to bad dance music, the kind that kept me awake, as the smoke of
others cigars enter my lungs and the take truly ends in the same spot I trying to survive the eternal earthquakes after a long journey to say good-bye and in the timeless room,
the light stays the same. Some foosball in a timeless place in reality its a language or
a wreck room, in truth the room was always spinning, as my head is now.
To everyone who has there thank you. This was the final night of a charity summit. The organization is Narrative 4 which in essence de-otherifys people. War's start only aganist people who are consisdered "other" and the powers that want war otherify the group. The charity is very youth based and open to ideas so they bring a group of students to weigh in on the direction of the charity at yearly summit. If you have any futher questions about N4 please message me.

Anyway I wrote this at 6 in the morning after pulling an allnighter, I had lost the notebook I wrote it on but found it earlier today The day this I felt like **** from being overtired and my brain wasn't working right for the vast majority of that day yet it was the final day and we all planned to stay up late and it turned out to be an allnighter, it was a wild ride their and one I hope to never forget.  The night after the allnighter, I slept for 14 or so hours.
natalie  Dec 2012
Then
natalie Dec 2012
A lifetime has passed
since then.

I sat for hours on
that fetid bus,
excitement knotted in
my belly like a nest
of twisting snakes,
until we arrived and
nestled in the mountains,
South and West.

Our cabin was on the fringe,
just as I was, back then.
I spread my bed and
settled down,
made myself a temporary
home.

Days passed with but
little consequence--
rock walls
and
human foosball
and
oversized
jawbreakers
and
a giant swing;
corn dogs in the
sand of the
volleyball courts
and ice cream on
the balcony
at the overlook.

We hiked uphill
to find a waterfall
as utopian as
my foolish faith,
and there we
basked under the
Carolina sun

I climbed
and slipped
until I found a
perch behind
the roar.
I can still feel the
goosebumps
upon my pale
adolescent skin.

When I grew bored,
I scaled to
the top and
jumped
feet first.
Claire E Aug 2013
I went into my old bedroom today
Old pictures of us still hang from the pink walls
The one of us all dressed up as hippies with our flowy dresses and flowers in our hair
The one of us in the photo booth at the arcade where we would waste our Friday nights  
The one of us where you have that black eye from a baseball to the face
The one of us at summer camp making friendship bracelets which I've kept all these years  
The one us skiing together with our snow pants and rosy cheeks
The one of us at softball practice in our grass stained uniforms
The one us swimming in the lake some summers ago
The one of us sleeping in a bathtub because all the beds were occupied
The one of us playing foosball in our pj's while on vacation that one winter
I stared at them for what seemed like hours
Reliving the memory of each photo
And then I had an urge to rip them all down
To tear them from those pink walls and douse them in gasoline
Cause they left me yearning and wistful
They represent a time and a place I want back
A me I want back
A friendship I want back
You were an irreplaceable friend
To look back on it is bittersweet
Part of me looks back fondly at it all
We shared so many moments together it's hard to pick a favorite  
We chased the unknown together like storm chasers in the scariest of weather 
I can't quite put into words how much you meant (mean) to me
And I will never forget you, even if I tried
Then there is the other part of me
The part of me that is left with this insurmountable emptiness
This longing for something that is so far gone
Because I know that is a time and a place I will never get back
That is a me I will never get back
That is a friendship I will never get back
And the realization that time travel does not exist  
Is the most sorrowful thing of all
i'm 9 in nairobi
playing foosball with a masai man
whose lip and earlobe
(both well-stretched)
bounce against his face,
he hangs lip over nose,
ears over ears,
we play on

funny, those kinds of scars
began with young women,
east african, who
fearing ****
and kidnap
from the north,
cut holes
in lip, in earlobe,
lifted skin of stomach
to slice smooth turtleshell shapes,
rubbed camel dung in wounds for better

scars,
which meant:
resistance, meant:
freedom, meant:
don't take me away,
don't steal my life.
funny
those scars
mean beauty now.
funny, these scars
on my wrist, funny how
much i love life now.
funny scars
Marco ASF Couto Aug 2013
I'm sitting on a disgusting all ***** chair on the cellar of an old chop-house.
The eternal boys from my time who failed at school and as consequence failed at life, play foosball.
The girl which I saw before entering the toilet with a scissor now comes out with a piece of hair in her hand.
Another girl stands in the corner, her back on the wall, beer in her hand, she doesn't stop looking at me.
Can't say If I know her. She approach me, she grabs a chair and sits right besides me. "You have no Idea what you are doing here"
"I can't say you are wrong" I reply. "1998. We wanted to take over the world". Now I knew. I looked at her and I recognized her eyes.
"You were right...". I said. She waited for the rest of my point. "...The Problem of the dreamers is that they never sleep together."
She knew what I was talking about but she choose to skip it. "Are you trying to get me to your bed after all this time?". I looked again back to her, my hand on my pocket.
"No. Take 20 cents and go have fun with the boys". I stand up and left. Her name was "Love". Never saw her again.
Rohit Mane Jun 2018
Enclosed in a room when I saw her for the first time,
With the beige attire that made her glow in the light,
Her face so pretty, and her hair so sleek,
But her smile was the thing that made my day complete…

The aura that surrounded her was so peculiar,
The glee in her eyes conveyed that no sadness can come near,
Her petite stature seemed like a sculpture made with utmost care,
Even the sculptor, I guess, couldn’t help but marvel at the wonder he made…

As she manifested in front of me our eyes met at first,
I couldn’t help but notice her lips with that supple curve,
Never was I so conscious about the way my heart beats,
Never did I know my mind had the ability to stop thinking in the moment of need…

Her dainty hands moved swiftly across the foosball table,
The warmth of her presence perfectly complemented the weather,
The cheerfulness of hers felt like a bliss to be a part of,
Her leap of excitement exhibited the sweetness she was made of…

As the game progressed the score-line moved up and down,
And though I was losing the game, for the first time I didn’t frown,
Maybe her body across the table was the reason behind my calmness,
The game ended up with me winning but somewhy my heart muttered, “**** it.”

She hung her bag over her shoulders and began walking away,
For some reason I wished the time would freeze and make her stay,
But she turned that moment upside down, like she heard my heart’s cry,
As she turned her beautiful eyes on me and muttered a soft, “bye.”
Andrew T  Apr 2016
FML
Andrew T Apr 2016
FML
Some years ago, on a Monday, I met Joyce at Whitlows.
I bonded with her over bourbon and cokes.
She wore a black dress; sloping V, open back
It clung to her thigh, as though her skin
Was coated in sweets: sugar, honey, syrup.
Her face shined under the light overhead:
Denim eyes, velvet lips, an upturned nose.
She went to G.W.; read Junot; rode thoroughbreds;
Spoke Arabic; ate okra; watched Kubrick.
At the foosball table, I touched her wrist. She touched my arm.
The next day, after coitus and coffee,
I went to my car and found a ticket.
Gigi Tiji  Dec 2014
Untitled
Gigi Tiji Dec 2014
One step forward
two steps back a sin
there's more firewood
for fireside saccharine
you understood now but
you really shouldn't could
in fireball frenzy fruits fryin
those fickle foosball fantasies
buying pickled paradigm
pipe dreams
war paint
Willard Jun 2018
do you feel like a boy, boy?
or just like a bad person?

you like it when your bangs
touch your greasy blackheads,
when girls squeeze your earlobes
while you kiss on the staircase,
and the way your calves
look like mayonnaise covered gerbils
every time you flex in the mirror
or cross your legs in the coffee shop.

you don't like playing foosball
and going through all the scenarios
on how people question your being.
                 metro?
           "we don't have those in Nevada"
            

you label yourself as a straight white boy,
because you can't call yourself a feminist.
you want to be a feminist,
but you're a wannabe feminist
according to the ones
you let down and continue to
because you're not quite a man,
yet you aren't female.

what are you, exactly?
according to the history books
we only know what masculinity is,
femininity a vague genre tag of
every other piece of music made
when villages aren't burned
and the ****** has to wait
another day before becoming
a prize in Heaven.

do you feel like a man, boy?
or nothing at all? cause
you can't feel like a bad person
       when you don't feel human.
cleaning out drafts

— The End —