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Aug 2013 · 1.9k
Destiny Is A Son Of A Bitch
Susan Hunt Aug 2013
DESTINY IS A S0N OF A ***** 01-22-11

Destiny most certainly means death
But down here, ***** murders are allowed.
A Low profile is seen as weak, soon
slaughtered by their predators.

Truth: Oakland gangsters are serous.

They bang it for the colors,
colors of their territory
collateral damage lay dead
in the street; the rotting innocent.

This conflict, this senseless war
between three colors, blue, red and black
is why violent Oakland is now called
..... "Baby Iraq", yep you heard me: BABY IRAQ

a ****** occurs every three days
....over red, blue and black.
They say they fight over turf and colors.
I think they're the same damm thing.
Thier colors mark the poles like dogs.
The scent of the enemy is evident.

Intel from the neighborhood walls
reveals the constant dissonance
and the unwillingness to lose.

A grenade of spray paint,
criss-crossing, the others' lines
until it's time to get some respect,
Ya feel me?!?

I hear this phrase so many times
it hardly phases me anymore.
Yeah, I feel ya, dude,
now whatcha gonna do?

This one boy's eyes had me mesmerized.
As he talked softly into the distance.
He began to rock in a sad back and forth,
as his homies began to surround him

He was the wise one, the shot caller
even with  his weak form peeing in a bag
hanging from his wheel chair.

Javier was wearing black, the color from his hood
He was just a gang affiliate until color blue
( or was it red?)pulled up and shot him...
he's no longer walking, in a wheel chair instead.

He was beautiful I fell most in love
with his angelic face with an elf's chin
coffee with lot's of cream color skin
He was smooth as porcelain

He had a youthful moustache
and a memory of a war veteran
He is a gang member now,
in the middle of a warzone.

"Be Bait", "Play Chicken",
take chances, on the enemy's
turf, become victor or victim

Names of games, dangerous,
and fun provoking the violence
passed down through each generation
Some sort of genetic adrenaline.

The series of small deadly battles
leaves a smell of fresh gun powder
asphalt and blood spilled iron
three colors pouring out,
turn into the color of wine.

Hopelessness is proven out
by the swollen death count,
mounting up, the line of corpses
waiting to be thrown off gurneys
entering the morgue, then
tossed into the freezer
with the rest of them.

Baby Iraq has become
a force of its own on the street.
If they ever figured that out,
They'd be running the nation.

They are too caught up
in their fathers' hatred
History repeats, written line by line
Raw power in the clutch of stupid minds,
begins and ends with small apocalypses.

In dire situations, they eat their young,
like ******
The gobbling up of offspring is
nothing new or unsacred.

It's what they do to
postpone their own fate.

Any beneficial gain is not felt yet
but will be, in the events that
did NOT happen

They don't get it
there is no benefit.
They all just die.
Susan Hunt Jul 2012
CHAPTER ONE: THE DEMISE OF A YOUNG GIRL SEPTEMBER 1975


I had not seen my father in over two years when he showed up at my mom and step dad's condo. He had a slick knack of disappearing when laws were broken and he was wanted for questioning. He had an even better ability to re-enter when the heat was off.

My father owned three nightclubs in Oklahoma City. His first was the Silver Sword, and then he opened The Red Slipper. After he met his second wife, they together, opened the Jade Club.

All were successful, but the Red Slipper had a reputation. On a rare occasion, my dad would take me with him to open up the place. At first, it scared me. It was so dark in there. But as the lights came on behind the bar, I fell in love with the atmosphere.

Bobby Orr’s hockey stick hung on the wall, along with an endearing note from F. Lee Bailey. At six years old, all I knew was that they were the objects that made my dad beam.

I learned to play pool by standing on a phone book. I watched the colorful smacking ***** bounce around the most beautiful color of green I had ever seen. Chalking the stick was a chore, but after nearly poking my eye out once, I soon caught on.

It was a struggle to climb up on a barstool, but it was worth the effort. I sat at the bar and had lunch: popcorn, pretzels, peanuts and Pepsi.

As I grew older, I saw less and less of him, until he became a stranger, drifting in every once in awhile.  Every few weeks or so, I would come home from school, and see his car in the driveway.

This always shot fear and excitement through me. The air of unpredictability always made me want to ***. Unfortunately, most of the time, we were locked out of the house for a few hours, so I would have to *** in the back yard or at the neighbors. We waited on the stairs for the front door to open. And it always did, by my mom. She usually looked satisfied and serene but other times, I saw dread and sadness on her face.

Ever since I could remember, my dad had been a string of disappointments for me with a few indescribable moments of pure enjoyment mixed in between He could be kind, funny and like a real dad sometimes, that was the dad I missed. I tried to hold onto those experiences, even though he was such a mean ******* most of the time. But mostly, I just didn't know him.

Their divorce became final around the summer of 1972, but that didn't stop my mom from loving him. I don't know why, but she chased him frequently, going out to bars with her friends, trying to get a glimpse of him, and maybe more.

The last time I’d seen my father had not been pleasant. When I was thirteen, he broke down the door to our apartment and went straight to my mother’s bedroom. The noises were terrifying. The screaming, and punching sounds were followed by my mother’s whimpering, begging, groveling.

"How dare you do this to me, Patsy!? And behind my back! You could have at least told me!"

My dad had bailed himself out of jail that night. She promised him she would never seek alimony or child support again. Her lawyer was wrong. It wasn’t worth getting killed over.  

Shortly after, he had to leave the state. It had something to do with a low-level mob deal involving an insurance fraud. Too bad, it involved burning a building with someone in it. My dad became nothing but a memory, which faded away over time.

**

Alcohol and tobacco were constants in my family, so when my older brother, Tim, started smoking at ten years old, I don't remember much protest from anyone. I was seven and when my sister Abby, turned ten the next year, she also started smoking.  All the older kids were smoking cigarettes. I wanted to be cool, so I puked and coughed as I practiced. By the time I was ten, I too, was inhaling properly.  Around that time, I was introduced to *** by my sister's boyfriend. It did help my mood, somewhat, but it wasn't enough.

By 1974, I was using drugs from my sister’s boyfriend. John was a true drugstore cowboy. At first, he committed burglaries, which were easy at the time. There were no sophisticated electronics to stop someone from cutting a hole in the roof of a pharmacy. It took only minutes to pry open the safe that contained the narcotics. Then it took maybe another minute to fill a pillowcase full of every variety of amphetamines, barbiturates, valiums, etc.

It wasn’t long before I graduated to using morphine, ******* and then overdosed on Demerol. My stepfather sent me to a treatment facility in Tulsa Oklahoma, about one hundred miles away from Oklahoma City. The Dillon treatment center didn’t accept clients under age of sixteen but made an exception with me. I was a walking-talking disastrous miracle...or a miraculously saved disaster.

They figured that since I was fourteen, the sooner the better to start my road to recovery. Apparently, they didn’t condone sneaking *** and valiums in to the facility. I was kicked out of Dillon after about a month.

I came back home and laid low. I went back to Hefner Jr. High and enrolled back into the ninth grade. I quietly picked up where I left off, going back into business with John. My job was to sell the safe stuff; valiums, seconols, white bennies, ***, etc.


Summer came; I turned fifteen and had developed a tendency to over test my wares. I overdosed and nearly died in the hospital several times, which had led to my current predicament. Nobody knew what to do with me.

In August, I entered the tenth grade...for two weeks. I was expelled, (you guessed it) for dealing drugs. I was on homebound teaching twice a week with little supervision. My mother worked, my step-dad, **** ,worked, and I was home all day. However, I was not just sitting idly around. I was into enterprise.

**

In September, I overdosed again. I was quickly killing myself and my mother didn’t know what to do to stop it. That is why what happened was not my mother’s fault. But it wasn’t my fault either.

I never figured out how he knew where we lived. My mother moved over at least fourteen times in between the time I was six and twelve years old. Yet, here he was, at our front door, with his undeniable ‘ah shucks’ charm. His modesty was convincing. His timing was incredible. My mother stood frozen, her mouth agape. **** took the lead. He placed himself between my mother and father.

“You must be Gary Don, my name is ****; I’m Patsy’s husband." **** had never met my dad, but he'd heard enough about him to surmise who was standing at the door.

"Um, yeah, I'm Gary Don, it's nice to meet you ****", he said; as he offered a friendly hand shake to ****.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you, I was just in Duncan with my parents and they suggested I stop by and talk with you before heading back west. It's about Susie....

"Yes, Patsy said you called yesterday. We weren't expecting you this soon, but it's no problem. Why don't you come in and tell us what your plans are? Patsy, honey, would you mind putting on a *** of coffee?”

This unfroze my mother and she scurried to the kitchen. I was still in shock at seeing my dad’s face. I retreated to the staircase, but poked my head around and caught him glance at me. I flew up to the landing. I could easily escape up the rest of the stairs to my bedroom.
I was small enough to remain hidden on the landing, and heard the conversation between my mother, my dad and ****. **** was the classiest, most even-tempered adult I had ever encountered. I wished I could stop hurting him and my mother.  

My mother sat down two cups of coffee on the dining room table where my dad and **** sat. As she retreated a few steps back into the kitchen, **** politely probed my dad. My dad had the right answer for every question.

He swore he was a completely different person. He had changed. He had no hard feelings, instead he was back to help. He was remorseful for being an absent father and he wanted to make things right. He was back for a reason. He had heard that I was in trouble with drugs and school and he felt guilty for that. He had the answer to my problems. He was so convincing, so….humble, almost shy.

As I listened, I began freaking out with fear and excitement. I always wanted my dad. The last time I tried to live with him, it didn’t work out; he sent me back to my mother’s after a month. Now my dad wanted me! He wanted to save me, take care of me!

He lived by himself now. He was the manager of The Palace Restaurant/Hotel in the little town of Raton, New Mexico. It was a refurbished hotel, built over a century ago The ground floor was an elegant bar and restaurant. He was making very good money, he paid no rent and he had an extra room for me.

With a population of 6000, it was not a place to continue a lucrative drug business. Also, he would enroll me into the little high school and I could get my diploma. I could work in the restaurant in the evenings where he would keep his eye on me. Then, there was the horse. He would buy me a horse. And on and on and on.

The logic and sincerity of his argument was convincing. So there it was. An hour later, my bags were packed. I was going to live with my father in New Mexico.

That’s how in September 1975, my father whisked me away from my home in Oklahoma City, under the guise of saving me from my own demise. I was stolen and held captive in Raton, New Mexico for what seemed like forever.

My dog, Baron was coming with me, I refused to go anywhere without him. He was a tiny black and tan Dachshund. I got him free when I was fourteen, when I got back from Tulsa. To me, he was priceless. He was my best friend. He couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds, but his heart was huge.

I talked to him about everything and he consoled me by nodding, and licking me on the cheek non-stop…or he would admonish me through his expressions and demeanor. I had lived with Dachshunds since I was seven, so understood their language pretty well. Baron understood humans better. We developed a rare communication that worked well for both of us.
Herman, our older dachshund had greeted my dad cordially. Baron couldn’t figure this out, he expressed his apprehension. He looked at me and conveyed,

“Well, if Herman isn’t worried, I guess it’ll be Okay, right? Right, Susan?”

I was sorry I didn’t have an honest answer. I did my best to settle him.

“Sure, this’ll be fun, a whole new adventure!”

As we drove West, toward the Texas panhandle, Baron kept the conversation going by his curious interest expressed by wide eyes and attentive ears. My dad amazed him with his knowledge of history, geography, geology, astronomy, world geo-politics, weather, music on the radio, literature, mechanics, religion and countless other topics. I knew he was faking his fascination with my dad. He knew he was doing me a favor.

There was not a dead moment in the air. An occasional “really?” expressed by me was enough to keep my dad’s mouth running. I was thankful for that. It kept my attention away from my jangle of emotions. As we drove through the night, I was conflicted, scared, excited, happy and worried. I didn’t know where I was going, or who was driving me there.

My dad’s jovial demeanor comforted me. He made The Palace sound like the perfect place for his little princess.

When we arrived, it was late, after 10pm., Baron was exhausted. I stood on the corner and looked up. I gulped. The three-story building was like an old gothic castle. It was a huge rectangle with the front corner cut back with a fifth wall about ten feet wide. This provided the entrance with two giant oak doors. Baron was less than enthused by its foreboding appearance. I had to agree.

Dad ignored my hesitation. “Come on, you’re going to love this place!”

He pulled open one of the oak doors, which had to weigh at least five hundred pounds. I was hesitant, but thirsty. Baron’s squirming had started to annoy me. I went forward filled with adrenalin.

The initial entrance was a small round foyer with a domed ceiling of cut glass. It was about six feet round. As I stared up at the beautiful little pieces of color, I heard my dad chuckle.

“See? I told you, there’s no place like this!”

Then I saw the true entry to the bar, a set of small bat winged doors that swung back and forth. He pulled one of the doors back, beckoning me forward. He looked down at me with a tender expression.

“Welcome home, honey, this is home now.”

As we entered the bar, I was dumbstruck. Baron was not. I stepped back in time, to 1896, into The Palace Hotel.

The bar took up half of the first floor of the hotel. It was the most captivating centerpiece of the establishment. The mirror behind the bar was the longest continuous piece of reflection glass in all the states, the brochure proclaimed. A brass foot rail extended the length of the long cherry oak bar A few feet behind was a waist high railing just like the saloons in old John Wayne movies.

The carpet was a deep royal red interlaced with black swirly patterns. Bright golden paper covered the walls. It was smooth and shiny with raised curly designs made out of felt or maybe even velour. God, I just wanted to reach over and run my fingers across it!  

The wall opposite the bar had windows that were quizzically narrow and impossibly tall. Lush maroon velvet drapes adorned them, parted in the center to provide a view of the quaint town just beyond the sidewalk.

I looked up at the ornate ceiling, which seemed a mile above me. It was covered with tiles of little angels that all looked the same, yet different. The angels danced across the entire ceiling until it curved and met the wall. I got dizzy looking at them.

“You can’t find ceiling tiles like that anywhere! My dad grinned. “They’re covered in pure gold leaf!”

I didn’t know what pure gold leaf was, but the word ‘gold’ impressed me very much.

He introduced me to the staff. I l blushed when he said; “This is Susie, my favorite little girl!” I had never heard that before. The whole crew greeted me warmly, all smiles and friendliness.  

I always paid attention when Baron got nervous but I chose to ignore him. I jostled him in my arms. My stern look at him stopped his squiggling, but his look back conveyed that I was clueless.

I, however thought, Okay, I have died and gone to Heaven! I was enchanted. My fascination with this magical setting made me feel happy; I was in the neatest place I had ever seen. I’m going to love it here!

On the first night, my dad led me around the ground floor. The restaurant was as elegant as the bar. To the rear of the restaurant, there was a large commercial kitchen. Off the rear of the kitchen, he showed, me a short hallway to the back exit. To the right, a huge staircase led to the two upper floors of dilapidated hotel rooms. A manager’s apartment had been converted from several hotel rooms connected together on the second floor, just above the entrance to the hotel.

We ended up back in the bar and sat at a table for two. Crystal, the head bartender stayed on for a little while longer after the rest of the staff were allowed to go home.

Sitting at the table, he ordered Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry. I had never had Cream Sherry before, but it tasted like candy with nuts and I had no problem going through numerous rounds in a very short time. I was hungry but I was too nervous to eat.

Baron, however, was ravenous. My dad fed him little pieces filet mignon and French bread with real butter. He played cute for my dad, sitting up and begging. He jumped up, putting his paws on my dad’s leg, wagging his tail like crazy.

I was a little befuddled until I caught his sideways glance that said, “I do not like this guy, but I gotta eat, I’m starving. You’re the one falling into his into his trap, not me.”

Ouch. “Baron, sometimes I wish you would shut the hell up.”

After having his fill, he settled into a wary sleep on top of my feet. I never worried about losing Baron. Where I went, he went, period.

I wasn’t aware when the bartender left. The bottle was on the table before I knew it; he kept my glass full. I was five feet tall and weighed 106 pounds. I had a lethal level of alcohol pulsing threw my entire body…and I had my daddy.

I was in a haze. Actually, it was more of a daze than a haze. My vision was
Susan Hunt Jul 2012
CHAPTER ONE: THE DEMISE OF A YOUNG GIRL SEPTEMBER 1975


I had not seen my father in over two years when he showed up at my mom and step dad's condo. He had a slick knack of disappearing when laws were broken and he was wanted for questioning. He had an even better ability to re-enter when the heat was off.

My father owned three nightclubs in Oklahoma City. His first was the Silver Sword, and then he opened The Red Slipper. After he met his second wife, they together, opened the Jade Club.

All were successful, but the Red Slipper had a reputation. On a rare occasion, my dad would take me with him to open up the place. At first, it scared me. It was so dark in there. But as the lights came on behind the bar, I fell in love with the atmosphere.

Bobby Orr’s hockey stick hung on the wall, along with an endearing note from F. Lee Bailey. At six years old, all I knew was that they were the objects that made my dad beam.

I learned to play pool by standing on a phone book. I watched the colorful smacking ***** bounce around the most beautiful color of green I had ever seen. Chalking the stick was a chore, but after nearly poking my eye out once, I soon caught on.

It was a struggle to climb up on a barstool, but it was worth the effort. I sat at the bar and had lunch: popcorn, pretzels, peanuts and Pepsi.

As I grew older, I saw less and less of him, until he became a stranger, drifting in every once in awhile.  Every few weeks or so, I would come home from school, and see his car in the driveway.

This always shot fear and excitement through me. The air of unpredictability always made me want to ***. Unfortunately, most of the time, we were locked out of the house for a few hours, so I would have to *** in the back yard or at the neighbors. We waited on the stairs for the front door to open. And it always did, by my mom. She usually looked satisfied and serene but other times, I saw dread and sadness on her face.

Ever since I could remember, my dad had been a string of disappointments for me with a few indescribable moments of pure enjoyment mixed in between He could be kind, funny and like a real dad sometimes, that was the dad I missed. I tried to hold onto those experiences, even though he was such a mean ******* most of the time. But mostly, I just didn't know him.

Their divorce became final around the summer of 1972, but that didn't stop my mom from loving him. I don't know why, but she chased him frequently, going out to bars with her friends, trying to get a glimpse of him, and maybe more.

The last time I’d seen my father had not been pleasant. When I was thirteen, he broke down the door to our apartment and went straight to my mother’s bedroom. The noises were terrifying. The screaming, and punching sounds were followed by my mother’s whimpering, begging, groveling.

"How dare you do this to me, Patsy!? And behind my back! You could have at least told me!"

My dad had bailed himself out of jail that night. She promised him she would never seek alimony or child support again. Her lawyer was wrong. It wasn’t worth getting killed over.  

Shortly after, he had to leave the state. It had something to do with a low-level mob deal involving an insurance fraud. Too bad, it involved burning a building with someone in it. My dad became nothing but a memory, which faded away over time.

**

Alcohol and tobacco were constants in my family, so when my older brother, Tim, started smoking at ten years old, I don't remember much protest from anyone. I was seven and when my sister Abby, turned ten the next year, she also started smoking.  All the older kids were smoking cigarettes. I wanted to be cool, so I puked and coughed as I practiced. By the time I was ten, I too, was inhaling properly.  Around that time, I was introduced to *** by my sister's boyfriend. It did help my mood, somewhat, but it wasn't enough.

By 1974, I was using drugs from my sister’s boyfriend. John was a true drugstore cowboy. At first, he committed burglaries, which were easy at the time. There were no sophisticated electronics to stop someone from cutting a hole in the roof of a pharmacy. It took only minutes to pry open the safe that contained the narcotics. Then it took maybe another minute to fill a pillowcase full of every variety of amphetamines, barbiturates, valiums, etc.

It wasn’t long before I graduated to using morphine, ******* and then overdosed on Demerol. My stepfather sent me to a treatment facility in Tulsa Oklahoma, about one hundred miles away from Oklahoma City. The Dillon treatment center didn’t accept clients under age of sixteen but made an exception with me. I was a walking-talking disastrous miracle...or a miraculously saved disaster.

They figured that since I was fourteen, the sooner the better to start my road to recovery. Apparently, they didn’t condone sneaking *** and valiums in to the facility. I was kicked out of Dillon after about a month.

I came back home and laid low. I went back to Hefner Jr. High and enrolled back into the ninth grade. I quietly picked up where I left off, going back into business with John. My job was to sell the safe stuff; valiums, seconols, white bennies, ***, etc.


Summer came; I turned fifteen and had developed a tendency to over test my wares. I overdosed and nearly died in the hospital several times, which had led to my current predicament. Nobody knew what to do with me.

In August, I entered the tenth grade...for two weeks. I was expelled, (you guessed it) for dealing drugs. I was on homebound teaching twice a week with little supervision. My mother worked, my step-dad, **** ,worked, and I was home all day. However, I was not just sitting idly around. I was into enterprise.

**

In September, I overdosed again. I was quickly killing myself and my mother didn’t know what to do to stop it. That is why what happened was not my mother’s fault. But it wasn’t my fault either.

I never figured out how he knew where we lived. My mother moved over at least fourteen times in between the time I was six and twelve years old. Yet, here he was, at our front door, with his undeniable ‘ah shucks’ charm. His modesty was convincing. His timing was incredible. My mother stood frozen, her mouth agape. **** took the lead. He placed himself between my mother and father.

“You must be Gary Don, my name is ****; I’m Patsy’s husband." **** had never met my dad, but he'd heard enough about him to surmise who was standing at the door.

"Um, yeah, I'm Gary Don, it's nice to meet you ****", he said; as he offered a friendly hand shake to ****.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you, I was just in Duncan with my parents and they suggested I stop by and talk with you before heading back west. It's about Susie....

"Yes, Patsy said you called yesterday. We weren't expecting you this soon, but it's no problem. Why don't you come in and tell us what your plans are? Patsy, honey, would you mind putting on a *** of coffee?”

This unfroze my mother and she scurried to the kitchen. I was still in shock at seeing my dad’s face. I retreated to the staircase, but poked my head around and caught him glance at me. I flew up to the landing. I could easily escape up the rest of the stairs to my bedroom.
I was small enough to remain hidden on the landing, and heard the conversation between my mother, my dad and ****. **** was the classiest, most even-tempered adult I had ever encountered. I wished I could stop hurting him and my mother.  

My mother sat down two cups of coffee on the dining room table where my dad and **** sat. As she retreated a few steps back into the kitchen, **** politely probed my dad. My dad had the right answer for every question.

He swore he was a completely different person. He had changed. He had no hard feelings, instead he was back to help. He was remorseful for being an absent father and he wanted to make things right. He was back for a reason. He had heard that I was in trouble with drugs and school and he felt guilty for that. He had the answer to my problems. He was so convincing, so….humble, almost shy.

As I listened, I began freaking out with fear and excitement. I always wanted my dad. The last time I tried to live with him, it didn’t work out; he sent me back to my mother’s after a month. Now my dad wanted me! He wanted to save me, take care of me!

He lived by himself now. He was the manager of The Palace Restaurant/Hotel in the little town of Raton, New Mexico. It was a refurbished hotel, built over a century ago The ground floor was an elegant bar and restaurant. He was making very good money, he paid no rent and he had an extra room for me.

With a population of 6000, it was not a place to continue a lucrative drug business. Also, he would enroll me into the little high school and I could get my diploma. I could work in the restaurant in the evenings where he would keep his eye on me. Then, there was the horse. He would buy me a horse. And on and on and on.

The logic and sincerity of his argument was convincing. So there it was. An hour later, my bags were packed. I was going to live with my father in New Mexico.

That’s how in September 1975, my father whisked me away from my home in Oklahoma City, under the guise of saving me from my own demise. I was stolen and held captive in Raton, New Mexico for what seemed like forever.

My dog, Baron was coming with me, I refused to go anywhere without him. He was a tiny black and tan Dachshund. I got him free when I was fourteen, when I got back from Tulsa. To me, he was priceless. He was my best friend. He couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds, but his heart was huge.

I talked to him about everything and he consoled me by nodding, and licking me on the cheek non-stop…or he would admonish me through his expressions and demeanor. I had lived with Dachshunds since I was seven, so understood their language pretty well. Baron understood humans better. We developed a rare communication that worked well for both of us.
Herman, our older dachshund had greeted my dad cordially. Baron couldn’t figure this out, he expressed his apprehension. He looked at me and conveyed,

“Well, if Herman isn’t worried, I guess it’ll be Okay, right? Right, Susan?”

I was sorry I didn’t have an honest answer. I did my best to settle him.

“Sure, this’ll be fun, a whole new adventure!”

As we drove West, toward the Texas panhandle, Baron kept the conversation going by his curious interest expressed by wide eyes and attentive ears. My dad amazed him with his knowledge of history, geography, geology, astronomy, world geo-politics, weather, music on the radio, literature, mechanics, religion and countless other topics. I knew he was faking his fascination with my dad. He knew he was doing me a favor.

There was not a dead moment in the air. An occasional “really?” expressed by me was enough to keep my dad’s mouth running. I was thankful for that. It kept my attention away from my jangle of emotions. As we drove through the night, I was conflicted, scared, excited, happy and worried. I didn’t know where I was going, or who was driving me there.

My dad’s jovial demeanor comforted me. He made The Palace sound like the perfect place for his little princess.

When we arrived, it was late, after 10pm., Baron was exhausted. I stood on the corner and looked up. I gulped. The three-story building was like an old gothic castle. It was a huge rectangle with the front corner cut back with a fifth wall about ten feet wide. This provided the entrance with two giant oak doors. Baron was less than enthused by its foreboding appearance. I had to agree.

Dad ignored my hesitation. “Come on, you’re going to love this place!”

He pulled open one of the oak doors, which had to weigh at least five hundred pounds. I was hesitant, but thirsty. Baron’s squirming had started to annoy me. I went forward filled with adrenalin.

The initial entrance was a small round foyer with a domed ceiling of cut glass. It was about six feet round. As I stared up at the beautiful little pieces of color, I heard my dad chuckle.

“See? I told you, there’s no place like this!”

Then I saw the true entry to the bar, a set of small bat winged doors that swung back and forth. He pulled one of the doors back, beckoning me forward. He looked down at me with a tender expression.

“Welcome home, honey, this is home now.”

As we entered the bar, I was dumbstruck. Baron was not. I stepped back in time, to 1896, into The Palace Hotel.

The bar took up half of the first floor of the hotel. It was the most captivating centerpiece of the establishment. The mirror behind the bar was the longest continuous piece of reflection glass in all the states, the brochure proclaimed. A brass foot rail extended the length of the long cherry oak bar A few feet behind was a waist high railing just like the saloons in old John Wayne movies.

The carpet was a deep royal red interlaced with black swirly patterns. Bright golden paper covered the walls. It was smooth and shiny with raised curly designs made out of felt or maybe even velour. God, I just wanted to reach over and run my fingers across it!  

The wall opposite the bar had windows that were quizzically narrow and impossibly tall. Lush maroon velvet drapes adorned them, parted in the center to provide a view of the quaint town just beyond the sidewalk.

I looked up at the ornate ceiling, which seemed a mile above me. It was covered with tiles of little angels that all looked the same, yet different. The angels danced across the entire ceiling until it curved and met the wall. I got dizzy looking at them.

“You can’t find ceiling tiles like that anywhere! My dad grinned. “They’re covered in pure gold leaf!”

I didn’t know what pure gold leaf was, but the word ‘gold’ impressed me very much.

He introduced me to the staff. I l blushed when he said; “This is Susie, my favorite little girl!” I had never heard that before. The whole crew greeted me warmly, all smiles and friendliness.  

I always paid attention when Baron got nervous but I chose to ignore him. I jostled him in my arms. My stern look at him stopped his squiggling, but his look back conveyed that I was clueless.

I, however thought, Okay, I have died and gone to Heaven! I was enchanted. My fascination with this magical setting made me feel happy; I was in the neatest place I had ever seen. I’m going to love it here!

On the first night, my dad led me around the ground floor. The restaurant was as elegant as the bar. To the rear of the restaurant, there was a large commercial kitchen. Off the rear of the kitchen, he showed, me a short hallway to the back exit. To the right, a huge staircase led to the two upper floors of dilapidated hotel rooms. A manager’s apartment had been converted from several hotel rooms connected together on the second floor, just above the entrance to the hotel.

We ended up back in the bar and sat at a table for two. Crystal, the head bartender stayed on for a little while longer after the rest of the staff were allowed to go home.

Sitting at the table, he ordered Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry. I had never had Cream Sherry before, but it tasted like candy with nuts and I had no problem going through numerous rounds in a very short time. I was hungry but I was too nervous to eat.

Baron, however, was ravenous. My dad fed him little pieces filet mignon and French bread with real butter. He played cute for my dad, sitting up and begging. He jumped up, putting his paws on my dad’s leg, wagging his tail like crazy.

I was a little befuddled until I caught his sideways glance that said, “I do not like this guy, but I gotta eat, I’m starving. You’re the one falling into his into his trap, not me.”

Ouch. “Baron, sometimes I wish you would shut the hell up.”

After having his fill, he settled into a wary sleep on top of my feet. I never worried about losing Baron. Where I went, he went, period.

I wasn’t aware when the bartender left. The bottle was on the table before I knew it; he kept my glass full. I was five feet tall and weighed 106 pounds. I had a lethal level of alcohol pulsing threw my entire body…and I had my daddy.

I was in a haze. Actually, it was more of a daze than a haze. My vision was
Apr 2012 · 745
PEOPLE ARE FALLING 04-15-12
Susan Hunt Apr 2012
People are falling like rain
all around me
i don't know why
I'm still alive.

I watch the poor souls
pour down in big droplets
their blood is like water
so thinned by the pain
of the needle and what it takes
from their bodies, from every living cell.
It is Hell, this deadly rain.

We wish it wasn't true
but that doesn't stop
the real nightmares
where i chase the next high
in some strange parking lot
of some strange apartment complex
I don't know him, I know her but now
she is gone

She is mad at me,
I hit her in the mouth
but she asked for it,
over and over and over
until I couldn't take it no more
and Lonnie is nodding out
in the backseat as we wait
at the shell station
for the real deal

There she is, she drives up and
drops off, I tell her to hurry on
and leave so she don't get hung up
with the police, cuz
they are on their way
if Erin don't shut the fck up and drive.

Get out of my car, *****!
*******; I got your fiddy.
Hit the gas and, drive me home.
And Lonnie hung on in the backseat
But now, Lonnie is gone.

And here comes Sig and lil Bit
wettin their pants waitin for it
But E!
What about those roses from Don?

They don't matter much do they?
Unless they got 100 dollar bills
attached to every bud, you will
**** him like a sweetheart wont you?
How could you swallow that nasty sh
t?

Short's phone is dead
Slim aint answerin
Ten don't pick up neither.

Where are we, babies??
What the f**k do we do now?
Apr 2012 · 691
I Know Feel Hate
Susan Hunt Apr 2012
I NOW FEEL HATE  (03-01-10)

How can I feel so much hate?
For someone I love so much?
Why do I now hate myself,
for not being someone that isn’t me?
How does she control my fear
by a simple sound in her voice?
Her annoyance with me is complete.
I am cast into a chasm of shame.
How do I disappoint her so easily?
When I’m trying so hard to please her?
How can I fix my bad behavior?
How can I break from this tyranny?
How can I mold myself into what she wants?
What does she desire that I don’t provide?
Again my frustration makes me want to die.
I am sick and tired of asking why.

Why am I pacing back and forth?
Why am I’m gritting my teeth?
Why am I trying to keep the word
“YouF#ckingB%tch” from spitting out of my mouth?
I DON”T CARE ANYMORE
I am standing on the edge of a very steep *****
I am utterly at the end of my rope.
My rope of hope slips through my hands.
I can’t relate, I don’t understand.
She tells me I must let go of the rope.
It’s frayed, like me; I have come to its end.
I am desperate for her to pull me up again
She says my rope of hope is broke.
Then I realize as I fall away
down the cliff to sure unhappiness.
My rope of hope has given way.
I look into her eyes as I tumble down.
From what I see, it’s bad for me
I see the glint; she is holding the knife
She has spliced my rope to humanity.
She was successful.
I now feel hate.
From my gut to my bones,
I tell myself
I will never love again.
Susan Hunt Feb 2011
One day, at least a million years ago,
I lay in a patch of sweet clover
mixed with grass grown plump and soft
The dew of the evening was wet and cold.

In the summer I was sweating
and the sun was  sweltering hot
I sought refuge every evening
A magical lawn in every night,
I'd look to the stars in wonder.

When I lay down, it stretched all around
I was endless and so was the field.
It fit me I knew, everything was perfect.
And then, my body would separate
from myself, I began to wander.

Dear Friend:  Have you ever watched a plane explode?
Right in front of your eyes? Even in a dream?
Knowing what is happening, yet also knowing
there is nothing you can do to change it?
From the sky, it arrives. I look up
out of the corner of my eye
Just in time to watch it disintegrate,
just in time to witness their demise.

The bodies and metal floating down
don't look dangerous, but they could be...
if they land on me. but, I'm frozen.
It is dark and light in the sky
at the very same time.

I take in the great shock, the horrible sound;
from all the rubble that is raining down.
Is heaven coming to me?
...or am I heaven bound?

Next to me falls a piece of debris
its force spins me around.
I start my jagged crawl on my stomach
to a hopeful higher ground.


I try not to rip on the scrap all around.
But inevitably, I scrape a gape in my leg;
I've no reason to yell, I do not feel it.
It was like I was watching the future.

I wish I could see what is going to be
before it happens in front of me.
I strain to stand up on both feet
But this is no longer an option for me
Walking is now a lost luxury,

I hit my forehead on an errant piece of metal
It does not belong in the wonder of the four leaf clovers;
in this green pasture where sodden grass surrounds.
Me, as I drift between sleeping and dreaming,
I cry.

With the grass, my pillow under my head,
Once again, I begin to dream.
But, I’m woken by my whimpering
As I wake up; I let out a small sigh

I look up from the soft, safety of my grass blanket.
My eyes bleary, watch the white puffs of cotton
as they sail across the dark blue sky.
The clouds are reflections of my thoughts;
my ships, sailing across the ocean blue.

They pass freely, so close to me.
They reach down and touch me.
I smile.
But still, they move away.
Into a world beyond me, they dance.
I wish I could fly off and dance with them.
I turn my head and see a four leaf clover
so close to my eye, I can only focus on
that one four leaf clover, as it looks back at me.
God is with me. He chuckles in a gentle way.
My conscience is keen, listening as He speaks to me.
I take in His words completely.

“Child, Life will always be as it is today.
Death is not evil, life is not pure.
Do not lose your sight of me.
What changes is your belief in me.
I recognize your wild eyes, your grimaced frown.
Darling, don't give up, you have now been found.
Magically I breathe life into your mouth.
Yes, gently, gently, you slowly calm down.
You are in my arms, I am with you now.
Let your tears fall on the grass’s green
Let the four leaf clover soften your face.
I promise I am here and I will never leave
You are now forever bound in My grace.”
(©Joint project between G…and sjhunt-bloodworth 08-29-10)
Feb 2011 · 2.4k
A Cat And A Bird
Susan Hunt Feb 2011
I wake up and see so many things,
always different from yesterday.

Today I'm going fishing.
But I must not allow myself
to focus on the worms or
on the death of the worms,

We went out early in the morning,
before sunrise,
The early bird catches the worm;
the early worm catches the prize.

And we caught many more
than the others!!
Getting up before sunrise
is a secret known to the wise.

On the end of my cane pole, a bamboo stick, really,
hangs a thin fishing line, about twenty feet out,
Attached with a bobbin, a lead sinker and a hook

Threaded on the hook is the worm
which I've lowered into the water
from the pole I'm dangling from
the low dock jutting out into the pond

I see the first fish I catch!
I feel powerful and horrible
and proud at being the best!
My catch is the biggest one yet!

It is similar to a cat chasing a bird.
The bird is innocent,
but the cat gives in to the chase
with no ill will, instead,
blessed by God, the gift...to be a cat.

It is not easy being a cat.
God gave to the cat, nine lives
to fall back on, in case of being
thrown off a roof by a ruthless
boy who is curious to see
if it will land on it's feet.
The cat is now down to eight

A bird chased by a teenage kitten
must learn to fly if it's to survive.
Nature's timing for the offspring
does not support favoritism.

But it happens anyway.
There is always one in the nest
That the mother bird loves the best.
(© Written by sjhunt-bloodworth 02-05-11)
Susan Hunt Sep 2010
MY GOLDEN FRIEND, EMILY DICKENSON 08-05-10

I have not the metaphors, nor the similes
Lined up for the experts in a perfect row
to scrutinize, critique my work with glee,
searching to find some flaw in my flow.
Then my friend brings a light of gold.

A little blue book rests delicately
It sits on my knees beneath me
as I sit on the steps, outside in the heat.

I read, not fearful, I feel her safety.
My mind peers out, I begin to see.
Emily, Emily!  You so humble me!
To an angel, I confess my deepest need.

She conveyed to me, what frightened me
I could not escape my worn out scripture.
Now, I can perceive a bigger picture.

The world does not orbit around me.
It has never been just about me
I exist for it, when will I believe?
My insipid perception has been deadly.

When I accept this fact, I’ll be set free.
I will love me and others willingly.
I'll see the beauty above and around me.
Emily, Emily, your soul surrounds me.

For neither fame nor fortune did you begin
To put down on paper, your thoughts to your pen
You refused publicity, and your fame.
which you held with the deepest disdain
though for you, it was so honorably gained.

You graciously chose a pure heart, instead.
As I crawl into my restless bed,
I place your words beneath my head.
(© Written by sjhunt-bloodworth 08-05-10)
Sep 2010 · 763
THE MISSED SUN STILL RISES
Susan Hunt Sep 2010
THE MISSED SUN STILL RISES 05-10-10

I Survived, Living Dangerously,
On My Own High Risk Behavior.
To My Chagrin, I Was Not Hindered.
A Savior Did Not Appear For Me.

Pretty, Smooth, Witty, Cool,
As Seen From The Outside.
Angry, Ugly, Sad...A Cynic,
Roiling...Boiling...Burning Inside.

Short, Slight, Blonde, Bright.
A Lonely Loner In The Crowd.
A Walking, Talking Mannequin.
Slowly, Surely I Turned To The Night.

I Saw The Many Sunsets.
So Many, Many Sunsets.
I Saw Fewer Sunrises.
I Was Too Late For Them.

Dark And Black, Was My Slumbering;
No Pain, No Fear, Forever Comforting...
I Slept Through Births, Deaths, Christmas, Easter...
I Slept Through Uncountable Years.

I felt a dog's lick tickle my ear.
Forever I'd felt nothing so near.
I began to awaken, I began to hear
a whisper whistling, "I Am Here".

A foreign light hit my closed eyes.
I raised my eyelids with all my might.
Through curtains I looked at an ancient site.
Wakened, I rose from my own demise,
I would at least watch my last sunrise.
(© Written by sjhunt-bloodworth 05-10-10)
Aug 2010 · 836
CATTLE CALL
Susan Hunt Aug 2010
CATTLE CALL: AN ESSAY: 11-02-08

When I lived in New Mexico, I had a horse that was boarded near a swine slaughter house. Pigs are a lot smarter than cattle, they fight what's coming.

CATTLE CALL

The searching, beseeched eyes do not want to comprehend what they see. They want to see what is not there. Nothing is rehearsed, nothing can be reversed. The entrance to the road to heaven is covered and caked with fresh and old blood. It doesn’t matter; it will all be washed away at the end of the day. The cattle on their way…

A flurry of civilized displays of authority betrays the carnage ahead. It is expressed in a familiar foreign tongue. Doom is heard in its cadence and has several meanings, one is relief, and another is surrender. A calm tempo begins among the men up on the ramps. Lips move, softly and firmly encouraging the forced movement into the unknown.

A lilting voice like a psalm is heard “Go on little doggies, go on. Go on little doggies go on…” The cattle need no prodding as they follow an unusually familiar path. Through mazes of fenced corridors going back and forth, a sense of calm spreads through the ranks. Just plodding forward, following and leading the others brings a peace to the heart.

The need to understand gently floats away, replaced by a sense of safety. Gone is the need to comprehend, replaced by a yearning to accept what makes no sense. There is meaning intended but it gives way and sinks under the thousand ideas flooding the limited space of consciousness. Yet, nothing penetrates that brings any value.

Then instinct takes hold and even the most complex mind finds trouble discerning the real from the lies, but doesn’t quit trying to form a sound reason for what is happening. The ones in charge feel no shame, they claim no blame, their motives are clean; their intentions are good. They are human and settle for what gets them by.

At the end of the day the slaughter is done two thousand head killed stripped and hung. Food for the masses, I can’t disagree. I still love beef, but it disagrees with me.
(Written by sjhunt-bloodworth 11-02-08)
Aug 2010 · 728
HOW DOES GOD WORK?
Susan Hunt Aug 2010
HOW DOES GOD WORK? 08-18-10

How is it that two young teenage girls can get up early to go to school so they can attend an early morning prayer group in the lobby of their school, only to put themselves in the line of fire of a teenage lunatic who walks in and starts shooting?

Why, God? WHO ARE YOU, GOD? WHAT ARE YOU, GOD?

This is a true account of one of the first school massacres. In Kentucky, in 1997? A kid is so abused and disillusioned with his young life, he freaks out. He kills his mother. He tortures his dog to death.

In preparation for the final payback. An attack at the school with all guns blazing. Heath High School, fourteen year old gun man.

In an interview, he said, “My mother never loved me!”


Why does everyone thank God when they survive catastrophes? Why are they in the catastrophe? Are they thanking God, then? Hell no! They are pleading with Him. The pleading may lead to nothing and they fall out of the sky in an ill-fated airplane “accident”.

Yet, if they survive, they are praising God almighty. Why?

Why do we damm God when we hate life, and praise God when we survive it?

Why is life so ******* haphazard and unfair?

These are my questions:

If God is so powerful, why doesn’t He give us some answers? Why do I have to witness so much ******, mayhem, abuse, and pain? Why don’t I see more miraculous salvations from sure death?

It’s too late for me, but why doesn’t He help the innocents? The creatures we see on TV commercials, who are maimed, beaten, and dying in front of our eyes? Where is His sense of justice? Where is his sense of “Humanity”?

Why do I remain, with no reason to live? Why not take me, instead of that poor abused dancing bear? Or that beat to death donkey? Why?

Am I worth more than His other creatures, much more innocent and helpless than I?

Why?
(Written by sjhidontknow 08-18-10)
Jun 2010 · 786
A BUM DEAL MADE ME NOT
Susan Hunt Jun 2010
A *** DEAL MADE ME NOT 01-23-10
Moral Conundrums

Dilemma Number 1:

If you won a million dollars and were told that you could give it all away to the needs of others or you could keep it all to yourself, what would you do?

My Honest Answer:

I’d keep it and sneak it back around from my profitable endeavors. So yes I would keep it, only to further my ability to give back more than a million. Seriously. If I thought I didn’t have the ability to do that, given the chance, then I’d rather quickly fade away and give it all to the Humane Society.

A happy medium, ethically, would be all of the above, or I think I would be happy dying trying!

Dilemma Number 2:  

You pull off the interstate and wait for a green light. You are turning left, so you must wait. It is raining, hard. It’s 55 degree’s, unusual for Florida. The woman outside your window is over seventy, and toothless, wet as a tired sewer rat. But she is not a rat. She is or was or could have been someone’s mother.

She certainly was someone’s daughter, but that doesn’t really matter much, never has, and never will sometimes, always. Out of ten there will always be one sometimes or no-times child. There will always be those with and without. There will always be that “have more or less” mentality based on sentiments of the basest of humanity.  

I have a dollar…until next week. One dollar. Until next week. I have some food and some cigarette butts. I have an adequate amount of liquor…to make it to next week.

None of this really penetrates my brain. I want to feel the cold rain falling on my hand as I wish her the best and silently express my gratitude to God.

In some sort of way, be it the way which is chosen and taken by me… and everyone else. I must stop thinking like this!

I alone can make a difference, I will make a difference; right here, right now! I feel it in my gut, my brain, the burning turmoil inside my soul!

I turn off the exit going east on I-192. My tires were fine moments ago. Now one blows. I skid to a stop in front of a gas station. My hand is out; I need a little change to call for some help. My dollar is gone, but I’m not.
(©Written by sjhunt-bloodworth 01-23-10)
Susan Hunt Jun 2010
THE COURSE CHOSEN   06-29-10 (In Memory of Rachael Ruinard 08-02-74 – 06-29-00)

I must finally, completely convey to you
There is not one whit that you can do
To stop the course of whatever I choose
Don't worry, there's nothing
that you have to loose

It’s your new beginning, a life without pain
You shudder and quiver; you shake off the pain
You  let all of it go; you sail away to live again

My clowded eyes soon become
insufficient resevoirs,
Drops of heavy salt escape
and weigh heavy on my awkwardly bent  
lower lashes, causing a pain, aching and dull
At long last, the tears slide from my eyes,
followed by untold more
They etch acid rivulets down my  chalky cheeks  

unwsavering watchiung your departures
watching all of my efforts form a pool at my feet
It will soon be as if I have never been
Heavy with tears they remain unblinking It is time to exit, to quit hurting others
I’ll set my schedule after seeing my mother
She’s the only one I don’t always bother
Quick breath, I pull back in time to see.
I’ve led her to the brink of my insanity.

I tell her goodbye once more to soothe her
I spare her the knowledge, my agony wounds her
There really is no need to tell her
that none too soon, I'll be six feet under

I have no more will with which to conspire
A certain something is now required
A trickle of strength from those I’ve inspired
I’m tired, tired, just deadfully tired

My path is written in a fat wide ink
A river unwritten, of which I can’t speak
I agreed with you on an indivisible pact
It is broken now, by your unspeakable act

I try to drive off the causeways sometimes
But I live another day, which is no surprise
I think back to the moment of my demise

At that very last moment, at the end of my life.
After  convincing myself be to numb and blind.
Some sort of enigma rearranges my mind

Instead of watching my certain fall to death
I wake up to the smell of my acrid sweat.
In the nick of time, a blink of an eye.
I pull myself back from the electric fence.

I’m too scared to let go, please do me a favor
When I near the fence, push me into the wire
There I will leave towards my destiny, higher.

I’ll have gone with peace, not just one desired.
Soon I will be pulled from the eclectic wires
and tossed into licking pits of their fire
Or the dogs may eat me when they so desire

You build false conventions; you massage your convictions
I’m not just a patient with all sorts of addictions
I am your social condition with all its afflictions
I am hurt. I am real. I am not your fiction
Leave if you want, my path is clear
your trepidation is ugly, I sense your fear
You have no experience of what you see here
I do. I react to the evil that’s near.
You gave me up, you turned me out.
You did not know what my life was about
I believed you cared; I felt your concern
Only I decide, now, which way to turn.
You had to let go, my hand slipped out of yours
My life was quick, my thoughts endless hours
It is right for me, I don’t feel God’s ire
I will sleep better, I am not a liar

Above the gloom, doom, and my own deception
my unknown spirit is once again woken
Your eyes try to say something unspoken
But its not really you, you’re a humble God’s token
I will never again bow beneath myself
To gain the acceptance of someone else
I do what I do, I take my chances or else
Mother will bury me under an Oak’s dark shelf.

Once you held on, but your hands became wet
You haven’t learned the real lesson yet
The blame is a claim I own and regret.
by sjhunt-bloodworth 06-29-10 - A Day that will live in infamy.
Jun 2010 · 1.4k
EVIL IS AS EVIL DOES
Susan Hunt Jun 2010
EVIL IS AS EVIL DOES 10-13-09

Evil is as Evil does. Thoughts are just that.... thoughts. Deeds are deeds. A thought is not a deed unless it is carried out.

I am a good person; I know that for a fact.

BUUUUT...........it doesn't mean I always do good things.

Still, most of my crimes are altruistic. I risked my entire sanity the other day as I left  Sam's Club/Costco, etc.

I was walking back to my truck and parked next to me was a BEEAAuuutiful Porch convertible, Black; doe skin interior, all leather and polished wood.

16 inches away from me was an 800.00 Dollar Ipod, resting peacefully and securely in its little Ipod holder mounted to the dash. SIXTEEN INCHES.

I got in my truck and got out of my truck. Again, I got in my truck and out of my truck.

My Godchild, K had just had her Ipod stolen.

So, I figured "*** for Tat".

Being as stupid as I can be (on record), I went for it. The car alarm raised me higher than my truck. Panicked, I sped out of the parking lot and called my therapist. In a frantic voice, I disillusioned "OH, My God! I've just committed ******!!!”  Or at least that's how it felt.

My neighbor was swimming in my cheap above ground pool when I got home.

She asked a simple question: "Well, Hmmmmm....did you take the Ipod from the vehicle?"

Now this puts a completely different spin on my sin.

"Uh, noooooo, uuuhhh, I was just looking at it!"

I couldn’t believe how easy it was to change my view. But she was right, I hadn't committed theft, I almost did. And I'm the kind of person that would chase someone down in a parking lot to return his unknown, dropped, wallet.

This one always get my head spinning: …”Even though I walk In the SHADOW of the Valley of Death”….

Uh, wait a tic. The SHADOW of a bee can not sting you. The SHADOW of a cat can not scratch you. The SHADOW of a snake can not bite you.

What the fuuuh?  I kind of get it. Our brains are weird. Our thoughts are strange. Thank God for that...most of the time....

Love, Susan

PS: But I'm still kind of ****** at the arrogant *******, who so blatantly demonstrated how rich he was.
Jun 2010 · 752
TRUE HORROR OF THE WORLD
Susan Hunt Jun 2010
TRUE HORROR OF THE WORLD 05-12-10

How can one explain the true horror of this nation?
How can one explain the true horror of this world?

There is no way to explain evil.
There is no way to explain GOD.
There is no way to explain God’s plan.

There is no way to make it work out even
There is an awful unbalanced *** for Tat.
Vengeance is a LUXURY for some.

It is not mine.
That time is long gone.
That is, if it ever existed.

Forgiveness is my only tool left.
What a dull, unused piece.
I will have to sharpen it.
(©Written by sjhunt-bloodworth 05-12-10)
Jun 2010 · 3.0k
THE FERRIS WHEEL
Susan Hunt Jun 2010
THE FERRIS WHEEL

I’ve always trusted machines, especially big ones. Like the ones at the annual county fair held at the Oklahoma City fairgrounds. After 2 weeks, the closing ceremony was always held in the main bull riding arena with a captivating routine performed by Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. Even their dead horse was on display throughout the whole time of the fair. His name was Trigger and he was stuffed. Roy Rogers was so in love with Trigger that he couldn’t go on without him. So he had him stuffed and carted him around whatever circuit they might be on. It was a sad but interesting display. But now he had a new Trigger and new tricks which were somewhat entertaining.

In the fall of 1971, upon this particular day Matt, a friend of mine and I convinced my little brother Wayne to go on the biggest ride at the fair, the double Ferris wheel.  It was a Ferris wheel shaped like an 8. The two wheels were loaded one after the other. As the seats were filled the ride would continue going up, up, and up then reaching the apex of two circles, sitting in a little grated seat, held in by a bar that locked you in at the at the beginning of the ride. When you reached the top it felt like you were riding a cloud. Going over the top of the Ferris wheel was an unimaginable thrill, it was built to guarantee a belief that you would in no way survive. Then you would swing back and forth, waiting for the other circle of seats to be filled before the real ride began.

As Matt and I got into our seat, Wayne hopped in next to me. We heard the clangs of the operator shutting the bars over the riders locking them into place. But when we got to the operator, the familiar clang was more like a clunk. The bar had not latched. We were not locked in. Now in the back of my head I took this in, but I chose to ignore it. We went up a little higher as other patrons were clanged tightly into their seats. Then as we went up, people started getting bold, swinging their legs, rocking their seats like a swing chair. After moving up about 80 feet, Matt began to swing ours. ”This is cool, huh” he said, trying to hide any little creep of fear. “Yeah, this is really great”, I agreed. But I didn’t do anything to cause the seat to rock anymore than it already was. Wayne was silent, his eyes clenched shut.

All of a sudden, the whole apparatus raised us up into the atmosphere. I swear we were at least as high as the tallest building in the Oklahoma City skyline. I could tell Matt was truly scared and he had quit rocking the chair. That didn’t matter. One last jolt threw us over the top and the “safety” bar swung wide open, out and away before coming back slowly to rest on our laps providing no safety whatsoever. After the bar swung out a couple of more times I was convinced we were going to fall to our deaths and become county fair legends. All three of us clung to the grated back of the seat, our fingers drained of blood by holding on so tight. We came down three times past the operator of the Ferris wheel before we got his attention. But Wayne was clutched so tightly to the back of the seat; you couldn’t have separated him with a paint scraper. He would have died there had we finally not gotten the attention of the operator and the operator’s boss.

It was becoming apparent that something was dreadfully wrong, so the ride slowly and painfully came to a stop. Passengers at the top were swinging their seats unaware of our impending death. Finally the double wheel cranked our seat to the exit platform. We couldn’t speak. The breath was out of us. Yelling at this time was impossible. Everyone remembered Wayne. He was white as a ghost and his lips were blue. He had clutched so hard to the back of the seat the whole side of his face was imprinted with the grate. I found this very curious. There was a pattern similar to a waffle imprinted from his forehead to his chin. He was still white but the lines in the imprint were deep red. His eyes remained closed until I was able to convince him that the ground was 2 feet below him. Finally he let go, and all three of us were pried from the seat. The ground never felt as good as it did that day.

We were still crying and shaking when the Manager of the fairgrounds arrived and removed us to the calming area which also doubled as the baby animal petting zoo.  We sat down in the petting area allowing the straw to dry our pants as all three of us had literally peed in them. As our pants became drier, we became a little calmer and we began petting baby lambs and chicks.   Then I looked across the way at the oddities booth. I had been in there that day. They had all sorts of gross weird things in there. I was fascinated. Some of the exhibits were pickled and some were still living.  I saw 2-headed babies in pickle jars and a calf with a leg sticking out of its forehead. I didn’t even want to think about that now. Too late. I bent over and puked so hard my eyes bulged.
(Written by sjhunt-bloodworth a long time ago)
Jun 2010 · 2.3k
MY TREEHOUSE 12-02-09
Susan Hunt Jun 2010
MY TREE HOUSE 12-02-09

Hi. I’m hyper-active. I also don’t pay attention very well. They say I have “attention-deficit” but I’m starting to think that it’s not a deficit, it’s an attention overload. I get distracted easily because so much flows through my brain at one time. Add that to hyperactivity, it’s no wonder I’m accident-prone. They wanted me to wear a helmet but I flatly refused.

I have a tree house. I’ve always had a tree house or a fort of some kind. I’m not a kid anymore, but each year that passes by; I get younger, by one year. If I get back to age 30, I’ll be amazed. But that’s a long ten years away. It’s better than turning sixty.

I’m short. I’m small, and I can climb like a monkey and drink like a buffoon.
Sometimes this combination is very entertaining. Sometimes it’s just completely annoying…to others.

There was only so much I could do as a kid. By the time I was six, my younger brother, at age two and a half, was as tall as me. I punched him regularly, if he annoyed me. But I took up for him, a lot. He remembers me wailing on a kid twice my size, because he’d hit my little brother. I don’t remember, but my brother recalls me swinging and yelling “You don’t hit my brother! Nobody hits my brother, ‘cept me! Take that, you *****!”

As the giant fell from a kick to the groin, I’d haul my little brother home, by his ear, telling him to STAY OUT of trouble. I couldn’t be there every time he needed me.

I’m not 6 years old anymore, but explain that to the neighborhood kids. Each year, they get taller and I get smaller. Time and again, I am outgrown. When they get to a certain height, they try to lean their elbows on top of my head, or tussle my hair. That’s when they learn what I’m really made of! These are kid’s I’ve been scaring at Halloween since they were toddlers.

Even though my tree house is for me, I must say it does attract a lot of attention, from adults and kids alike. There is not one neighbor, young or old who has not climbed up there.

With a whimsical fascination, a whisper comes out….”I’ve always wanted a tree house…just like this…”

Yep, me too. That’s why I keep working on it. That’s why I have more scrapes, scratches, abrasions, tears, bruises and bug bites than anyone I know. And I wear shorts all the time, so they show. I sometimes appear to have chicken pox. But it’s just poison ivy.

Everyone that knows me doesn’t really notice; it’s just a part of me. But sometimes, strangers will look at my tanned, scraped, burned and just plain injured skin and gasp.

Before they know it, they’ve commented behind their hand. “Good Lord, child, what happened to you?”

“Ooooohh, just life”, I say as I scamper out of the liquor store.
(©Written by sjhunt-bloodworth 12-02-09)
Jun 2010 · 658
LETTERS TO ANNE - PART TWO
Susan Hunt Jun 2010
DEAR ANNE SEXTON:  05-14-10

Dear Anne:

You were so precocious as a child,
needing to be the center of attention.
Yet you were very, very sick inside.
Such a tragedy when you died.

I look at your beautiful face,
And I wonder what you did not see.
There were not enough accolades
to fill your soul’s empty space.

The ache of loneliness resonates
throughout your expressions;
in your pictures, your poems, your letters.
My heart is breaking, I feel just like you.

You saw yourself as a stranger.
I see you as someone I love.
My feelings, you express so well.
My sorrow is complete, you are now above.

Dear Anne.

Tormented demons forced you blind
to your natural beauty of yourself.
God, I wish I could turn back time.
You left so much behind

I wish I could talk to you.
I wish I could convey
That life is full of pain, yes.
But bearable if one maintains
a true survival instinct.

The wish to leave must be turned aside.
You were alone, a small boat, lost in the sea.
Your attempts to survive were thwarted.
Your mind convinced you otherwise.

I will never forget your struggle,
It resonates within me.
You called yourself “a bag of bones”
Yet you attracted anyone you wanted.

Your flirtatiousness was infectious.
Boys flocked to you as you played
a game of “want me, but don’t need me”…

Your words are torturous and keen.
I miss you. You explained me.
I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me.

But it’s too late.
You never even knew me.
In 1974, you killed yourself.
I was fourteen.

I’ve attempted the same since I was fifteen.
God must have a purpose for me.
Or maybe He likes my suffering,

You succeeded.
Was it guts? Cowardice?
Illness or madness?
What did you see?

Are you at peace now?
Do you now have the peace I crave
to stop my crawling stomach?

The pain is great, almost overwhelming…
Why did you succeed instead of me?
(Dedicated to Anne Sexton, 1928-1974 RIP)
(© Written by sjhunt-bloodworth 05-14-10)
Jun 2010 · 2.2k
LETTERS TO ANNE - PART ONE
Susan Hunt Jun 2010
DEAR ANNE FRANK: 05-14-10 ( Part One of Letters To Anne)

Dear Anne:

You were so precocious as a child,
needing to be the center of attention.
Yet you were very, very strong inside.
Such a tragedy when you died.

I look at your beautiful face,
And I wonder what you did not see.
There will never be enough accolades
to calm the pain of  your empty space.

The ache of loneliness resonates
throughout your expressions;
in your pictures, your poems, your letters.
My heart is breaking, I feel just like you.

You saw yourself as a lover of life.
Your words are so full of hope and  love.
My feelings, you express so well.
My sorrow is complete, you are now above.

Dear Anne.

Demented devils forced your demise.
The natural beauty of yourself never dies.
God, I wish I could turn back time.
But you left, still believing the world is kind.

I wish I could talk to you. I wish I could convey
that life is full of pain, yes.
But bearable if one maintains a true heart
and a belief in your God’s reprieve.

The death of your mother, your sister.
Your wish to stay was forced aside.
You were alone, a small boat, lost in the sea.
Your attempts to survive were thwarted.
Your mind convinced you otherwise.

I will never forget your struggle,
It resonates within me.
They turned you into a “bag of bones”.
Yet you attracted anyone you wanted.

Your flirtatiousness was infectious.
Boys flocked to you as you played
a game of “want me, but don’t need me”…

Your words are torturous and keen.
I miss you. You explained me.
I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me.

But it’s too late.
You never even knew me.
You were sixteen when you died.
I wasn’t here, it was 1945.

I’ve attempted to die since I was fifteen.
God must have a purpose for me.
Or maybe He likes my suffering,
My shame is in my last uttering.

You succeeded.
You made it where I want to be.
Do you still believe what you wrote?
“Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart.”
Anne Frank

You have always had the peace I crave
to stop my crawling stomach.

The pain is great, almost overwhelming…
How did you succeed? Would you help me?
(Dedicated to Anne Frank, 1929-1945 RIP)

OTHER QUOTES BY ANNE FRANK;

Everyone has inside of him a piece of good news. The good news is that you don't know how great you can be! How much you can love! What you can accomplish! And what your potential is!
Anne Frank

italicHow true Daddy's words were when he said: all children must look after their own upbringing. Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands.
Anne Frank

How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.
Anne Frank

I don't think of all the misery but of the beauty that still remains.
Anne Frank
(© Written by sjhunt-bloodworth 05-14-10)
Jun 2010 · 978
CAR CRASH
Susan Hunt Jun 2010
CAR CRASH  04-20-10

I swerve instinctively
As I see the red brake lights in front of me
Too bad, he didn’t see
in time to stop more instantly.

He is dead now.
The front of his Corolla is
Untimely married.
To an 18 wheeler’s back end.
Sorry, friend.

I don’t even know you.
I’m just glad I’m not you.
A human is now turned to ****** goo.
God, I’m glad that was not me, but you.

Wow. That could have been me
One or two seconds, that would’ve been me.
I careen around the grotesque site.
I almost hit a car in the lane to the right.

Why, when my life flashes before my eyes
Is the very same instant I beg not to die?
I’m feeding myself an incredible lie.

My usual mantra is “I want to die!”
“God, please take me, I want to die!
“I hate my life, I want to die!”

But it wasn’t me
It was someone else’s turn to be free.
Free? Of what? Of Life?
Since when did I disvalue my life?

Since when did I start to like my life?
I don’t know, and I’m not sure that’s a true statement
I dream of crashing into side rails all the time.
Go ahead, and just get over this strife called my life.

I look back in my rear view mirror.
Death could not be seen any clearer.

Man, I must rethink who I am
I must take a look at my cavalier stance
To life.
I appreciate life more than I can appreciate
The acceptance of my own.
(©Written by sjhunt-bloodworth 04-19-10)
Jun 2010 · 726
AND IN THESE DAYS
Susan Hunt Jun 2010
AND IN THESE DAYS 06-04-10

And in these days,
rain was expected every afternoon
and did not disappoint.
The rain offered nothing cool.

It brought no respite from the heat.
As the Sun re-appeared, we knew what to do...
We jumped and landed into the pool.
We skinny-dipped through the mid-afternoon.
Such a relief! I felt my heart begin to beat!
A cold beer put my shakes to sleep.
I begged my body for my love to begin.
And you were here, waiting, with me.
The rain washed everything to bright and new.
What a splendid love-filled afternoon.
We sat naked in the back yard,
as early evening set...at our table for two.

I read Anne Sexton aloud for you.
My voice, I knew, enraptured you
Rising after my exhaled words,
I watched my ******* captivate you.
I was delighted. And so were you.
And in these days we were together.
We became one, no longer two.
And as I drank whiskey and water,
You drank your sweet iced tea…

The smell of my clove cigarette
became the nostalgic reminder.

A lasting memory...of these days…

(© Written by sjhunt-bloodworth 06-04-10)
Oct 2009 · 2.6k
JACOB’S LADDER
Susan Hunt Oct 2009
JACOB’S LADDER (Written by Susan J. Hunt 09-29-09)

I’ve been told I have no coping skills
More than a few times. It’s the same old line.
Then what the hell am I doing here?
I’ve survived up to this time.

A big fat zero, the test spits out.
Yep, that’s me no coping skills, probably ready to ****.
I have nothing to help me become my best.
Honesty is an asset, but doesn’t appear so from the tests

So sometimes, I have to lie. I don’t like to, but I must.
Otherwise they’ll t to run at me with a restraining jacket
Before I jump out a two-story building and land in the brush.

I’m very quick and wily.
That’s got to count for something.
I break no bones and run away.
All are amazed at my escape.

That’s what I’ve learned as coping skills.
I drink and do other sins, but I would never ****
Even to my detriment, I just don’t have that will

I’m not crazy. I’m not insane. I just see things differently.
I’m not Sybil or Ted Bundy, I just have issues within me
The fact is, I see more harm, I carry it inside of me

I’m working on my coping skills
and my social skills as well.
I’m working on them the best I can.
So far, it’s gone not so well

You couldn’t tell how sick I am
as we cross the street and pass.
Not that I would harm you,
I would offer you my flask.

My sensitive nature is on overload
I see every misdeed
Not that it matters much,
I’m too involved with me.

There must be a way to crawl out of this pit
I need a Jacob’s ladder.
May I become more alive and aware
Of how I can sincerely, matter.

— The End —