**** angles.
This house has got plenty of **** angles. Tom knows, I don't. Tom knows more about that kinda stuff because that's Tom's forte.
Old Cochrane.

I'm not sure what disabilities he suffers from, but to be honest it doesn't seem much like he suffers. He's just a dude with a loud set of brains fixated on a very Cochrane world, sort of like Plato I guess, beard and everything, looking at the angles and strange asymmetric dots with a feeling that there’s some preternatural 'other world' where all of Cochrane's expectations are met and this house as well as the world would do ******* well to abide by it if it knows what's good.

Old Cochrane loves Superman Returns. I once saw him watch Superman Returns 3 times in one sitting, to the point that it became Superman Returns Returns Returns and for Chrissake if Metropolis were real I doubt his ethics would be much appreciated anymore but hey, who am I to say? I'm no Clark Kent but I'm sure Cochrane thinks he is, and if he's damnwell Plato he can damnwell be Clark Kent just as well as the next Kryptonian sucker to crash-land on planet Earth, and it's damnwell possible Cochrane is from Krypton for all I know, he's got some miraculous will-power and push, that's for **** sure.

He's always yelling, 'ober-der! Ober-der!' like he's some sad German screaming at the **** Poles across the Oder-Neisse line as if it were there **** fault. It's either that or Krypton is ober-der and he just wants to go home, or maybe his face gets red because he knows damnwell where Lex Luthor is hiding and he just wants our ******* help finding him.

I think Old Cochrane has a crush on Kevin Spacey.

I wouldn't know, but I'm making that assumption *** Cochrane looks pretty spacey sometimes.
Okay, that was just a bad joke. I'm not too good at jokes.

I have two coworkers named Ryan. To avoid any confusion we all just call them by their last names, Soprovich and Danyluk, but most of the time we just call Soprovich Ryan Sop, and I'm not sure if he much appreciates the nickname. Our bosses name is Pam Wadden and in response to her calling him Ryan Sop he asked if he could call her Pam ***.
Pam didn't hear that of course, but I heard it. And it was at that moment I made the judgement that old Ryan Sop is good at jokes.

Anyways to slide back to my point, once I was working with both Danyluk and Soprovich and as I was leaving, to shave a few seconds before my bus, I said, 'Bye.. Ryan..s'
that made them both laugh a little so I quickly made the judgement that I'm sometimes good at jokes but I never mean to be which is kinda Zen I suppose. Buddhist effortless effort or whatever they damnwell call it.

I've always been somewhat of an intellect, but not usually of my own freewill. I read a lot, but I sort of read like a ****** addict shoots-up.. just one more line, just one more paragraph.. and before I know it I've finished a book that kinda scared me but good ******* the high was fine.

I guess it's not really like that at all, but I like to think of it like that sometimes, it kind of excites my stomach in the good way, makes me feel like some ******* rebel reading **** the government has probably already burned or recycled into the paper bags I shop with at Safeway..
shopping at Safeway.. livin' life the Safe Way.. gatherin all the grosh-rees, yeah, you ****** know me
I forgot to mention I'm somewhat of a part-time rapper and 40% of the time I have rap lyrics pulsing through my head as my own inner monologue. I dunno why but it's always kinda made me proud to think the way I do and ******* does life get high and low and if you understood you would know what I'm talking about, but I know you probably know what I know, I just like to be a little pretentious about that kinda stuff *** if I pretend I'm the only one it kinda manifests in my attitude and I get girls easier.

True story.

Maybe.

Probably not, but if ya see what I'm getting at that assertion is part of the pretention *** I'm a ******* hipster for Chrissake, writing like J.D. Salinger, reading like Kerouac without the squinty drunk eyes of infinite sadness.

If i told you i needed help
would you listen?
Or would your silence
Echo off the walls.
See my life is like a car,
Sometimes moving fast
And other times so **** slow.
If i told you i feel hurt inside
would you not just hear
but listen
to what i said
I need someone to care.
Im tired of trying to fight alone.
Im tired of trying to survive at a table for one.
If i told you
I cry all over my body
And each tear is a knife
And they are leaving scars on my flesh,
Would you cut me a bandage,
Sop up my blood,
Or leave me to bleed out.
If i told you
I was alone and my demons are taunting me
would you get me out
Or would you keep walking
or keep scrolling...
Im not begging for attention,
But one cannot be expected to be alone and silent like a life long detention.
If i told you
I was ready to confess everything
Come clean from my secrets,
Strip myself naked so you could see my imperfections
would you care even the slightest bit
Or are you so selfish
And so ignorant
To walk on
And leave this person to die.
If i told you i was ready to die
would you blame it in cliche,
Or believe it and save me from damnation
Its time to think.
It could be up to you
This isnt just my world,
Its yours, too
and dont you want to be
somebody
To someone?
I need you.
Because all of these "if i told you's
Are becoming
**im telling you

.all this is suggesting is: i'll meet you half-way; given that "this" question was always going to hover over "us", given that there's a disparity between English: a people, and English: a language... evidently the natives cannot begin to envision themselves as a lingua franca peoples... no wonder, their language has been "hijacked".... the "xenophobia", but like kevin spacey said: well, i'm here, am i suddenly supposed to, *******? playing the ******* *****-eyed poodle is not on the cards, but at the same time, it's hard to envision this language, as a people... given all the infringing demands of the anglo-saxon economic model into areas, where displacement is rife, subsequently... i can understand the concern of the natives, given that i didn't transgress the base principle: don't **** their women. see what a mild spaghetti-custard blip of history we're getting into? i am expected to integrate, but i'm not expected to integrate. i am somehow expected to be told to do what others want, but at the same time, i'm expected to protect my individual rights... no "parallel" anlogy akin to a catherine perry song? no kitty-*******, just around the corner? i can see islam... you know its prime sense of failure? that arabic would and never will, become given the same lingua franca status of english... you're complaining, or is it me stating the facts? evidently is a language reaches a lingua franca potentiality and subsequent expression, the natives will suffer... i'm not a native, but i can only imagine... what the consequences are... being ram-packed with excesses in ***** purchases... so much for a protected status of international economic ventures... like: i am waiting for the intra-national economic counters... can't see them coming, or i can see them, in a Casandra conundrum variation. there's still the topic of the natives... rarely can the English be allowed an outsider perspective without a sediment of their language being used, by a foreign entity... now, or never, why? you have somewhere important to be at as of: tomorrow? can you blame the natives, given that their language is a lingua franca, and not just, relegation to a national idiosyncracy "pH scale" differentiation? as a foreign entity, you know what i've learned from living on the most outer aspects of London? sure as **** it's not Cheltenham... i speak the tongue, i'm no genius, it's only English after all, it's hardly anything near Mandarin... what i feel sorry for, are the jihadi buggers who were born here, and were never taught their native sprechen... whatever the hell happened to English, and what Islam is jealous of, it came about naturally... arabic was never supposed
to become the standard bearer, the lingua franca of commerce and disinhibiting individuals entrenched... which, implies? i can look at the natives, with a more piercing dedication: excuses... excuses could be had, if, your, language, wasn't as "******" as it currently is... seems like i've reached a status of post-integration... now, i'm asking the language, the sort of application usage cruxes, that a native, simply wouldn't.

                         there's just so much
                           baggage,
that madmen
can carry,
for the "sane" standard
bearers of civilization,
of civility...
    at least some
of these outliers have
the *****
to not cower behind
an insanity plea...
     most of the madmen?
imagine
a tiger in a cage...
after a while...
          the tiger becomes
tamed by
zoological structuring
of its day-to-day...
and everyone's happy...
but that doesn't make
the tiger into a *******
bonsai, a feline "companion"...
beside the point...
  it's when some medical
conditions are slandered,
exposed to metaphor,
misnomer,
             that the madmen
receive the package
of social constraints
"levitating" just above
the state of being dormant...
but in this scenario:
well... that settles it...
now we know what
a level-playing-field looks like...
intellect,
and the debacle concerning
trust...
               well...
i've learned of trust
the upside-down way...
    relationships,
notably with a russian
specimen...
              me, ******,
why was i thinking i wouldn't
be ****** over?
   oh... right...
i can claim all
the responsibility with
what i "did" with a *******...
but when it comes
to the "affair" of a woman:
of free disposition,
i'm suddenly the culprit...
psychic trenches,
there "we" are,
entrenched in some plateau
of what seems to be
Belgium,
   and there "they" are,
entrenched in the same
plateau...
            sigh sigh, one more
for the party...
point being,
   people have not unearthed
the + + + + +
aspect of this debacle...
it's now a level playing field...
everyone is suspect,
everyone is limited...
a true: forensic quest for
democracy...
  all the other incidents
came and went,
always, as if: in passing...
  so this incident can also
come, and go, in passing...
solidarity to what?
to whom?
or rather: with?
            i can deal with this
sort of indigestion
surrounding my day to day,
but before long:
what other sop-story is
supposed to grab my attention?
clarity of intent,
   unlike someone experiencing
a psychotic break-down
of the psychic labyrinth...
a transcendence of
the categorical incentive...
somehow:
  the categorical imperative
was never supposed to mean:
what it meant to begin with...
the categorical imperative
has somehow lost the whole:
living by the standard
of a maxim...
               given that all maxims
are true...
  much harder to "test the waters"
with aphorisms...
            sure,
observable facts,
    then...
               disinhibited fictions...
glorification?
  today i had a problem
killing an ant...
   i was taking a ****
and had a problem killing
a moth that decided to freak
out the inanimate objects
of the bathroom...
       yeah: oh sure, sure,
i'm all for Herod's "conundrum"...
point being:
   we now know what
both sides feels...
         we now know...
       that there are outliers
on either side of the "debate"...
one: i am suspect,
but two: so is the counter-suspect...
no sacred cows...
   no: i think i'll just milk
a muslim in new dehli
for the jyst and thrill of a per se...
- at least now:
s.j.      w?
                or the conservative
mediator crowd of:
      there for the sake
of outrage only on the behalf
of outrage-in-itself?
past the phenomenon,
i can only return to the anti-phenomenon
of the noumenon (per se)...
which is not disappointing,
seeing how the whole "feel"
of it is begs the crux
fathomability of the individual...
just another skim read /
listen to the modern day
                          pharisee...
heavy sighs,
   blinded eyes...
frivolous waggling tongues...
but deep down,
most of the people are
content with having to experience
a revision...
  the revision being:
a level playing field...
   behring just attacked
the elites...
this?
    this dog ***** pile of
media attention?
         good...
        now everyone's uncertain...
i'm not afraid to think it,
and put it into writing...
    after a while:
   you just tire...
   you get tired of hearing
just one side of the story...

      what could leave someone
extreme: glee "riddled"
just leaves me exhausted...
     but at least the schizophrenics
are off the hook...
at least there's still some
belief in personal restraints...
even with a debilitating condition...
at least these people
are not facing the collateral
stereotyping of someone
with: the clarity of intent...

         there's just me, at this point,
thinking to myself:
and why did "they" drug me
to the point of:
making "them" feel uncomfortable...
clearly my mental faculties
have not been
                 car-crash dimished...

welcome the new hybrid...
soul mongrel...
           what is it about the polacks
that has made them so...
immune?
     i guess only recently
Poland has celebrated
the centenary of independence...
i wouldn't know,
i'm strapped to England
in metaphorical strait-jacket
  (what is metaphor
compared to metaphysics?),
   sober, drunk,
drunk, sober, etc.
               i was given a crash-course
in multiculturalism,
i guess i assimilated...
   back in school there was
the popular irish gang...
and there was "my" group...
of all the outliers...
   we used to spend lunch breaks
playing cards...
but when i heard news that
i would only be fully integrated,
once i gave up my native tongue
which i used to speak in
private?
    that broke the camel's back...
the centenary of independence
of Poland...
i wouldn't know...
i'm in "exile"...
   which is: economic "war"
came to where i come from
after the fall of the soviet pact...
and...
                every time i go back
to visit my grandparents...
i am only associated
with that country by speaking
the language...
and boy, it's not so ******* rosy
on the inside, compared to what
is being pushed to the outside...
Poland is like a: death-zone...
**** me, even the Hungarians
know how to ***** themselves
when it comes to tourism...

    i am, in "exile"...
            come to think of it,
most of the Muslims in the west
have it worse,
but i blame their parents...
i had one Pakistani friend
in high-school...
   now that i succumb to
reminiscence... yep...
he spoke perfect Urdu;
    but all these outliers?
   what their parents did...
****** themselves into
an integration mechanism...
not retaining their mother tongue?
like all these,
western jihadi prospects...
speak about 10 words of arabic,
and they are "attempting"
to compensate...
   i somehow feel for them,
a complete mine-field
of a mind-****...
       like being impreganted
by a virus,
a cancer...
     the linguistic dysphoria...
so yeah: if everyone would please
like to make heavy scrutiny
of the blatantly obvious,
regarding the genital region,
and forget a sobering note of
worthwhile problems,
namely the language dysphoria
of muslims, in England,
feel free to keep looking
at the genital "problem"...
            
clearly there's a dysphoria horizon,
i would know,
given that i have retained
my mother tongue...
but they haven't...
               and all they want is probably
so little...
   i remember that my father
once called me
the bellybutton of the world...
referencing me as
   an english child...
  that's how the Polacks view
the English: the bellybuttons
of the world, center of attention,
yada yada...
                 gender "dysphoria"...
you have to be *******
kidding me...
              what about the language
dysphoria of Muslims
                    in the (v)vest?

jak to się mówi:
            tym co się od razu, ma?

i can understand the language
dysphoria, well,
being a 1st generation immigrant...
i can't imagine being
born to 1st generation immigrants,
not retaining my native
tongue,
   knowing only the tongue
of integration,
   it would feel alien...
   like i was impregnated
by a foreign body,
   retaining nothing of my "******"
natural resources...
so... the problem we've arrived at
is very real...
  more real than gender dysphoria...

hopefully i'm less "schizoid"
at the end of this marathon,
and more: relieved to be merely
bilingual...
entrenched bilingual -
            so no, not a polymath...
or rather: not a polyglot;
my maternal great-grandfather
apparently was,
spoke 7 languages,
disappeared somewhere near
Niagara Falls...

   the plan was: England, stop-over...
via Argentina
   and toward the U.S.,
****... seems i was side-tracked
into remaining,
being shackled to these isles.

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There’s always been a counter-culture.
And by counter-culture
I do not mean the CPAs or CEOs,
Or those money **’s at Goldman-Sachs,
Nor do I conjure up a ****** of Brooklynese,
Some De Niro or Pacino, or
Bobby-come-lately Cannavale--
This decade’s guinea strunz--
Standing on the back of the truck
Checking his hand full of dollar--
As in Almighty Dollar--bills.
Another hour’s pay & time to
“Count duh money.”
Nor do I mean Harvey Korman
In his greatest film role:
“Count De Monet,”
Part 1 of Mel Brooks’
History of the World:
Harvey as French fop, 1789,
And we may as well throw a
Sop to Cerberus with nary a
Bean Counter around, to be found.
And if you are with me thus far,
You may as well stick it out to the end.

What one word defines the counter-culture?
For me: RESISTANCE,
Any kneecap reflexive swim against the tide.
For Count DeMonet:  La Résistance.
When hair is short,
They grow theirs long,
Or shave their heads,
Pierce their tongues & *******,
Inka-dinka-dooing their epidermis,
Mere skin-deep commitment to Liberté,
Always the least tangible of
French tripartite banner slogans.
The French:
As always, putting up a good show,
Masters of illusion & flexibility
When it comes to ethnic integrity,
Captain Louie Renault, Vichy stooge,
Exemplar extraordinaire,
Double shocked to find gambling
Going on at Rick’s Café,
His morality to the wind,
Tacking strategically,
Playing it safe, as always, a
Fickle-finger to the weather.
The French: girlie men, bent over
Presenting bidet-puckered rectums,
For *** and Viet Cong humiliation,
Once again, declaring victory,
While slipping out the back door,
Wearing nothing but their socks.
But I digress.

The Counter-Culture,
A mile wide and a centimeter deep,
Putting up a good front,
A Potemkin still life,
In it for appearance sake,
Like Billy Crystal doing Fernando Lamas:
“It's better to look good
Than to feel good.”
Looking marvelous, of course,
All the girls want to be
The Dragon Tattoo girl,
Haunted & smart,
Solitary & suspicious,
Cybercrime wealthy.
Cashing in, raking in affluence;
The guys all with Bobbitt night sweats,
***** shriveled, shrunken ball-sacks,
Count De Monet
Counting duh money.

I was born to a woman who smoked cigarettes
and since I was a child, I tried to inhale blueberries until they
stalled my windpipe.

My mother taught me that word –
windpipe – after she coughed for hours upon hours. I
was so happy that day, imagining how I must have swallowed
windchimes for the doctors who helped birth me
in December’s final snow –
how I hoped they believed I sounded pretty, although

covered in that sop adults call life juice. Life juice sounds nice
but I had known babies who
came just as sticky as me and never got to breathe.

Windchimes, you know, the things
beautiful ladies in ankle-length dresses hang outside,
my daddy lived thirteen hours down the interstate and I knew
somehow that he owned one.

In my dreams, I touched it
and pulled on it. I twisted the copper-ends up like my
momma’s hair and pretended we were with my dad by some
lake where the breezes are heavy enough and I
am small enough for them to carry me up, up, and away.

Everyone insisted that windpipes are inside
while windchimes stay out –

I fixed that problem, too. I tried three times to plant chimes in
my ears, unglue parts of the skin there from myself
to make room for dangly jewelry. A tiny
slit was all I needed, but it would not stay open for long

and I never got to swing my head
pretend I possessed the ability to create music like how God
let my momma grow smoke. I never got to exhale.

The human sacrifices begin at noon. I must hurry to prepare the ruins.

Good: The pyramids retain their purity of line; the hieroglyphs balance out the skulls, more or less. Let us say, oh, two to one.

A Diego Rivera mural stretches from wall to wall of the Mayan ball court. (Are those blues really from nature?)

Heads will roll! I predict.

I need more coffee — any style. Bring me the big, steaming bowls of France that you must slurp two-handedly. Bring me the tiny espresso shots of Italy, bitter and inadequate, always calling for another cup.

Bring me café in an ornamental Mexican jar painted in bright ochres and reds. Set it on a geometrically designed serape with just a hint of purple on the fringe.

I will sop up the last drop of caffeine with my tortilla, while dining room tables multiply like serpents.

I must hurry. The sacrifices begin at noon.

Already, the humidity clings to my skin like a cheap cologne.

How stupid of me not to have worn a white linen suit, huaraches, and a Panama hat  (straw, of course).

In any case, I am the expert. My art criticism begins now.

Rivera’s human figures roll in a wave of revolutionary fervor: too rounded, too cherubic, too pastel. Industry, agriculture, fraternity, socialism. Hand me the hammer. But no bare *******, as in Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People.

A careless oversight. ****** always adds a pleasant focal point to a painting.

Suddenly, bad news breaks. The sacrifices have been called off; the ballplayers  have converted to Communism. Viva la revolución!

                                                 + + +

Frida Kahlo twirls her mustache to match the flair of Salvador Dali’s.

Her heart flutters for the Spanish surrealist, who has bug-eyes only for Gala.

Kahlo deigns to paint his portrait, which turns out to be another of her
 self-portraits. So many selves. So many portraits.

This one sports ample ****** hair and a monkey on her shoulder, who leans across to eat the gardenia behind her right ear. Or is it a carnation? Ah, carnations only calcify into clichés. Let us call it a hibiscus, and be done with it.

(Still, are those lurid colors from nature?)

I must hurry. The exhibition will begin at 2 a.m., the hour when all the wine shops close, and the retablos disappear from the churches. No respect for authority after la revolución. Only the self, the self. Always the self.

Kahlo twists her mustache into a braid for her next self-portrait: Liberty Leading the Mexican People. She squeezes into an orthopedic corset, bare-breasted.

I pull out my droopy Dali watch to eye the time. The hands cross at midnight.

I must hurry. Yet Kahlo insists I sit.

She paints my portrait with a spike through my spine, a shattered pelvis, and partial paralysis of the legs. I can no longer walk a straight line.

She thinks I am she, in trousers. The self, the self. Always the self.

My moustache grows heavier than hers, however, and I painstakingly pluck out the unibrow.

But I adore her monkey, with his close-set eyes. He eats a carnation for penance each morning, then primps before the mirror. The self, the self. The primate self.

More bad news: Dali cancels the exhibition. He has been demoralized by the retablos, which radiate beauty in six dimensions: height, breadth, length and the omnipresence of the Holy Trinity.

A genuine milagro: The streets fill with gardenias and hibiscus. The Mayan ballplayers convert to Catholicism.

A white skeleton dances with Kahlo in the moonlight. He wears her leather-and-steel braces.

No matter. I am the art critic, and I declare all Mexican colors indigenous, naturalistic, and caffeinated. Then I turn out the dining room lights.

A starry, starry night. The humidity sinks into the cenote.

Tomorrow, I shall buy a monkey and teach it to paint. All colors from nature, of course.

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I think that I shall never know
Why I am thus, and I am so.
Around me, other girls inspire
In men the rush and roar of fire,
The sweet transparency of glass,
The tenderness of April grass,
The durability of granite;
But me--I don't know how to plan it.
The lads I've met in Cupid's deadlock
Were--shall we say?--born out of wedlock.
They broke my heart, they stilled my song,
And said they had to run along,
Explaining, so to sop my tears,
First came their parents or careers.
But ever does experience
Deny me wisdom, calm, and sense!
Though she's a fool who seeks to capture
The twenty-first fine, careless rapture,
I must go on, till ends my rope,
Who from my birth was cursed with hope.
A heart in half is chaste, archaic;
But mine resembles a mosaic-
The thing's become ridiculous!
Why am I so? Why am I thus?