“That’ll be $58.16”

The delivery man waited patiently,
      hands outstretched for our money,
but tonight, the only other thing we
      had was our young love.

Tonight was magic.

Broken fingers,
      Fortune cookies,
You in your sky blue Dr. Seuss shirt,

      and me shivering in the
sub-zero space between the
hotel lobby and your heart.

But no, tonight we were sophisticated.

Tonight was love.

Nerdy couples,
      a fake dance floor,
no room for any of us,
      let alone our love;

me teaching you how to Wobble,
you falling all over the place,

but I still remember the way you
smiled at me.

Tonight was serenity.

Long lines to get water,
      aching feet,
            glitzy strobe lights,
                  cheesy music,

John Legend,
All of Me, of course.

Room keys that got us nowhere,
except maybe my heart,

and phones that died all too quickly,
just like the night did.

Tonight we were rebellion.

We danced all night,
      rushing blood in shaky palms,

Not Coke,
but Dr. Pepper in our cups,

it was just you and me, in
this dizzy world of
      hot pink and aqua blue disco lights,

I knew that if I fell, you would catch me,

      and no matter how strong I felt,
you still pulled me in
      and held me close,

because tonight we didn't care what others thought.

Tonight we were together.

Hands and hearts entwined like leaves on a bush,
      young, awkward, naive brushes,

the classic teen nerd couple.

Just for the night at least.

Because even if you could hold me in your hands,
I’d never be the one in your heart.

You thought you knew anger,
but it was spite in a thin foil wrapper,
poised like candy,
poisoned with tiger's whiskers.

Harbored depression since elementary,
but didn't know the weight till it was
in your stomach and your fists
and you cringe with pain
every time you talk.

Relieved to hear somebody say they can't
give a **** about what you feel like.
Medicine; snake oils,
cured to hear that you can't
give a **** about what I feel
like anyways.

God graced us with it's absence.

Thought you knew absence
middle school crying
in bed over how insignificant you are,
but bitter nihilism
dropping out of college twice
taught you emptiness.

Keep thinking that thought uncovers
more direction and technique,
beauty through function,
but
John Cage is meaningless as a system
and chaos as a instrument of
wonder and progress.

The amateurs think
about what the legends do.

There's a voice on the phone
telling what had happened.
Some kind of confusion,
more like a disaster.
And it wondered how you were left unaffected,
but you had no knowledge.
No, the chemicals covered you.
So a jury was formed
as more liquor was poured.
No need for conviction;
they're not thirsty for justice.
But I slept with the lies I keep inside my head.
I found out I was guilty.
I found out I was guilty.
But I won't be around for the sentencing
'cause I'm leaving on the next airplane.
And though I know that my actions are impossible to justify,
they seem adequate to fill up my time.
But if I could talk to myself like I was someone else,
well then maybe I could take your advice
and I wouldn't act like such an ******* all the time.

There's a film on the wall
that makes the people look small
who are sitting beside it,
all consumed in the drama.
They must return to their lives once the hero has died.
They will drive to the office,
stopping somewhere for coffee;
where the folk singers, poets, and playwrights convene
dispensing their wisdom;
Oh dear amateur orators.
They will detail their pain in some standard refrain.
They will recite their sadness
like it's some kind of contest.
Well if it is I think i'm winning it, all beaming with confidence
as I make my final lap.
The gold metal gleams,
so hang it around my neck.
'Cause I am deserving it: the champion of idiots.

But a kid carries his Walkman
on that long bus ride to Omaha.
I know a girl who cries when she practices violin,
'cause each note stands so pure
it just cuts into her,
and then the melody comes pouring out her eyes.
Now to me, everything else,
it just sounds like a lie.

Forbidden plant
Mixes with fire,
Inhaled deep,
Held within
Until it burns;
Cough it hard,
Raise the chin,
Sit up straight,
All change color
Of pinks and purples,
Yellows and greens;
Sights beyond
Fade to black:
Amateur cinematics.
Stumbling feet
Throws car keys
To the conscious smile,
Who drives at 55 mph
When the dash reads 15.
Sit and rest,
Gather those thoughts;
Pessimistics argue
Mundane topics,
As the mind wanders
Through dark skies,
Picking and pondering
The out of reach stars
Before awaking
With sleepy regret.

Its length is known as “one year” by realists,
Also referred to as “anniversary” by idealists,
But “four seasons” is how I would like to call it
As with the passing of time I learn him bit by bit.

We met in front of Record Hall
On a rainy night and boy did I fall
For this one man named Timothy
Who approached me differently.

We first found each other online
But he was unlike the other swine
Looking for a body and easy ***,
Trying to buy me with their checks.

Plus, he did not follow the ordinary formula
Like “coffee sometime?” which is just so blah;
Rather, he proved that he had read my profile
Attentively, so I imagined he must not be vile.

He did not mention or imply anything ******,
So I started to credit him some trust accrual;
He opened us up by relating to my stories
And spoke smoothly with sarcastic ease.

I fell for his chivalry and charm
As well as his unstinted smarm,
His passion for engines and parts,
Never giving up until it all starts.

He won me over with his corny memes,
Matching weirdness, and future schemes;
His unfaltering boldness and fearlessness,
Manliness, and, in due course, closeness.

A spontaneous boy who does puzzles with me,
A romantic gentleman who invites me to the sea,
A free-spirited dude who is a spirits connoisseur,
An audacious chap who is a cooking amateur –

He has a nerdy side as he likes to figure things out.
He has a masculine side as he enjoys working out.
He has a brave side as he goes off-roading in his Jeep.
He has a sweet side as he pulls me closer in his sleep.

He slyly squeezes out my personal info
From myself and makes me go “Woah,”
As he discreetly plans adventurous trips
Which makes me want to ****** his lips.  

He is not afraid or disinclined to reveal his worries.
He is not abashed to update me on his **** stories.
He was not nervous about exposing his cover letter.
He was not anxious about taking me to his mother.

Weight? He does not ask me to gain any or lose.
Change? He needs not fix or loosen my screws.
He takes me as I am, not as a mechanical robot.
He finds sufficiency in all that I do and have got.

He does not care that I wear makeup or look like a dude.
He does not complain that I take long to finish my food.
He disregards that I do not adhere to societal standards.
He discounts that I occasionally think and act backwards.

He makes me relax and loosen up in his presence;
He emits a homely atmosphere and is my defense.  
Hell, we even start doing ***** lovey-dovey acts
Such as calling each other’s names in several packs.

He uses his witty senses to title my works,
Which, to other people, may stir up smirks,
But he does not give two ***** about them;
As long as we represent to each other, a gem.

We are compatible and agree in many manners;
We are avid Android users, not iOS supporters,
We take pleasure in dallying under the covers,
We enjoy mysteries and psychological thrillers.

We follow a handful of seasonal anime together
And we tend to swiftly marathon them altogether.
We even have our own convenient organization
In times when we watch anime together in elation.

He asks, “wanna watch” when there is an update
And picks a title; I agree and say “ready” and wait;
He says “go,” I thumb him, we watch simultaneously;
Then, whoever finishes first sends a thumb amiably.

He tries to pass time with me after work so demanding
So he sometimes falls asleep and leaves me hanging.
However, he impresses me in still choosing to be dutiful
All the while exhibiting humanness, which is beautiful.

I am pleased that we have similar likes and interests,
Glad that both tally with “real love will stand any tests,”
Blessed that both are open to expressing affection,
Thankful that we are looking in the same direction.

Even apart, I admire his strong patience,
Extending over many hours and nations!
Oh, I almost forgot – he is also tall and fit;
The more I think, he has it all – you name it!

The list of what I love about him keeps growing,
With things to cherish constantly overflowing;
I cannot expect more or imagine anyone better,
So I find myself dedicating to him this love letter.

Gosh, how I miss our sessions of wine and cheese,
Cinematic baths and interlacing, candlelit bodies,
Our woolgathering moaning and perspiring mess,
Many nameless moments and silent togetherness!

April 6, 2015, on OkCupid, he gave me a look;
April 11, 2015, he “friended” me on Facebook;
April 15, 2015, he suggested meeting up to study;
April 18, 2015, he dated me and became cuddly.

All this from last year… one year forward, today,
We are still together and have not gone astray –
As long-term and long-distance partners, we are
In the hardest, yet happiest, relationship by far!

I feel my words haven't rung true from the start
Because crucially
The reality
is I was never that good to begin with

I only wanted to make some light out of this dark
But the emotion is
A bloatedness
Of my own self-inflated ego and pride

I could never call this as an attempt at art
Nor should others
There are greater wonders
By those who can truly inspire

But still, I try to play my own small part
In this scene
Against philistines
To fail is never a reason to retire

It’s a fallacy, ‘to be or not to be’
actors strutting and pouting across
a stage, their black shoes burning
holes into the painted wood,

Their words lacking conviction
each action, merely an action,
but it’s what they have to work with
that holds the key, he secret ecstasy,
The escape route from Hell

Knowing that, given the choice,
‘to be’ is not where the scales will
settle. We are wanderers clutching
at straws of adventures, but we will
pick the short one, eventually

Where then do we go? When there is
no ladder made of gold to climb.
no pearly gates nor a wizardly,
kindly face

‘The play’s the thing’
wherein we catch
the conscious of
ourselves

"There's a bit of ******* at the bottom of our most sublime feelings and our purest tenderness."                          Denis Diderot

"I hang onto my prejudices, they are the testicles of my mind."
                                                          ­                           Eric Hoffer
                  
"A writer who presents men and women as creatures truncated below the waist is exposed as one who goes about without his trousers saying, 'see, I have had my testicles removed."        Norman Lindsay

"If it has tires or testicles, you're going to have trouble with it."
                                                                ­                         Linda J. Furney

"I saw some amazing, beautiful, invigorating parts of America, but I saw some dark parts of America, an ugly side of America, a side of America that rarely sees the light of day. I refer, of course, to the **** and testicles of my co-star, Ken Davitian."     Sacha Baron Cohen

"One hundred women are not worth a single *******."     Confucius

"You’re such a crybaby. (Tee) Let me almost shoot off one of your testicles and see how you cope. (Joe) You shouldn’t have moved, Joe. It was your fault. (Tee) Yeah, everything’s my fault. (Joe) Good, then we agree. (Tee)"                                                    Sherril­yn Kenyon

"Women don't have ***** and they don't want *****. That amateur psychology crap that women want penises. And they certainly don't want testicles. Because you know no women in her right mind is going to carry around a bag that she can't put stuff in."  Bobby Slayton

"I had an ASU student looking for it in my shop last week, and he defined the Bacchants for me as 'those drunk chicks who killed that one dude because he wouldn't have *** with them.' His professors must be so proud. I asked him if he knew what maenads were, and instead of correctly answering that it was just another name for Bacchants, he bizarrely thought I was referring to my own testicles - as in, "'Ere now, mate, don't swing that bat around me nads.'" The conversation deteriorated quickly after that."             Kevin Hearne

"I am not a fan of Sigmund Freud because his theories are not *******."                                                       ­           Richard Wiseman

"I noticed that all the prayers I used to offer to God, and all the prayers I now offer to Joe Pesci, are being answered at about the same fifty percent rate. Half the time I get what I want, half the time I don't...Same as the four-leaf clover and the horseshoe...same as the voodoo lady who tells you your fortune by squeezing the goat's testicles. It's all the same...so just pick your superstition, sit back, make a wish, and enjoy yourself."                        George Carlin

"My voice is the only material thing in which I can still reveal myself. Go ahead and cut off the hand or the testicles of a voice. Try to find the head of a voice, the orifice through which it passes, or even the ******* to which you can attach the clips of your electrodes. Nothing. Resonant tooth."                                                         Abdellatif Laabi

"Beware of averages. The average person has one breast and one *******."                                                       ­ Dixie Lee Ray

"I would rather eat my own testicles than reform The Smiths, and that's saying something for a vegetarian."           Steven Morrissey

"We all know what feminists are. They are shrill, overly aggressive, man-hating, ball-busting, selfish, hairy, extremist, deliberately unattractive women with absolutely no sense of humor who see sexism at every turn. They make men's testicles shrivel up to the size of peas, they detest the family and think all children should be deported or drowned."                                 Susan J. Douglas

"Touch her, and I'll freeze your testicles off and put them in a jar. Understand?"                                                     ­ Julie Kagawa

"My writing routine is everyday I put a record on, the same one since 20 years. Then I burn a stick of incense, I put perfume here on the insides of my soles, I paint my left ******* red, and I write."
                                                         ­       Alejandro Jodorowsky

"The ******, which has come to represent Canada as the eagle does the United States and the lion Britain, is a flat-tailed, slow-witted, toothy rodent known to bite off it's own testicles or to stand under its own falling trees."                                         June Callwood

The feast of the Ascension of Jesus Christ,
also called Ascension, Thursday of the Assumption
or sometimes called on Holy Thursday,
recalls the Christian faith in Jesus' physical
ascension to heaven. ******* Chick puts
it in the *** Real Amateur Fudendo Paulina
Novinha 18 years old Muto Gostosa;
Second No Cue Del Rei Do Real Do Gap /
Amateur ******* Paulina Young, 18 years
very hot banged her *** King *******
***** chin ***** gets hard **** Great Harem
**** Worldwide **** black teen has a hard
*** adventure with a tattooed white guy.

Petite ebony Cutie Nala Kristine's neck
destroys daughter owes her ******* Redhead
snapchat her *******. My sister finds me weird
because I want to **** her FilthyPOV
Step-Brothers **** - Slutty stepsister
will not stop until it meets S7: E7 woman
touching my **** on the bus - teen girls
snapchat. The best compilation nooo no no,
please no *** and crying **** stepsister *****
for money: Unforgettable *******
with two hot Brazilian babes - unbelievable
crisis, castrati and Vanessa Carvalho
interracial *** now and then woman
fake taxi the luckl Ie guy ***** with the Czech
Nathaly Cherie cosplay lesbian pokemon -
Asia Siberia, hellia sigh, lurid lady daughter
and her parents INSANE TENDER DATE -
Stifle me, hit me, let me come! Real Wives Stories -
Luna Star, Tommy Pistol - Now you see me, ** - -
The little housewife Taylor Sands gets ****** ****!
Cherokee D'*** vs. CJ Wright **** Close Latina
Casting; Please do not run into me! I do not wanna
be pregnant! Wife **** My **** Baby -
18 Years ******* **** & **** Compilation -
Amateur Allure This **** ****** my ****
while my boyfriend fainted in the room. Daughter
Banging Neighbor In My Office Chair *******
*** On *** Boy, Big *** Wife Forgotten Lola
Mellow *** Licking Guys 18 And 20 Years With
Their ***** On My *** **** Is Heaven Puma
Drifting And Loving YOUNG Sally D 'Angelo
20yo Asian **** star Katana has a full ***** filled
with ***** lesbians **** has *** with small teen
Gina Gerson Hot Latina ***** random **** show
and tells ***** a hard BBC What happens to a man
who masturbates every day? HORRORPORN -
Siamese twins MY STEPMAMA IS MY ******
MODEL Danisha gets her ***** and throat stretched
Revenge ***** her ex-boyfriend with her stepbrother
X-Empire Small teen Latina Katya Rodriguez squirts
daddy's Bam! visions everywhere Ebony teen Demi
Sutra ***** older man Private e-gym, he can **** her
wherever he wants - mouth, coño y culo - Lucky man,
beautiful redhead with a tiny wet *****, loves to ****
your mother, she ****** me, Yes de! - Emily Willis,
Jade Baker and Crystal Rush; Redhead's mom Brittany
O'Connell piercing her ***** in **** stockings,
get ****** by Mona Divine with ebony girl *******
Jenna Jameson, Jill Kelly, Kai.

Strati is an electric car developed by Home Motors and manufactured in collaboration with Cincinnati Incorporated and Oak Ridge National Laboratory. It is the world's first electric car to extensively use 3D printing during the production process. The Feast of the Assumption of Jesus Christ, also known as the Assumption or Maundy Thursday, recalls the Christian faith in the physical ascension of Jesus. ******* Chick is in the ***. Real Amateurs Goblin Paulina Novina 18 year old mulatto Gastro Girl Second No Cue Del Rei Do Real Do Gap / Amateur ******* Paulina Young 18 years very hot banged her *** king ******* ***** to chin ***** gets hard **** big harem ******* worldwide **** Black Teen has one hard *** adventure with tattooed whites. Petite ebony cutie Nala Kristine's neck destroys her daughter, owes her a ******* and the redhead snapchats her *******. My sister finds me weird because I want to **** her. FilthyPOV Step Brothers **** - Slutty stepsister will not stop until it hits S7: E7 woman touches my **** on the bus - teen girls snapchat. The best compilation nooo no no, please no *** and cry. **** stepsister ***** for money. Unforgettable ******* with two hot Brazilian babes - incredibly crispy castrato and Vanessa Carvel *** now and then. Fake Taxi lucky woman ***** with Czech Nataly Cherie Cosplay Lesbian Pokémon - Asia Siberia, Hella Sigh, Wild Lady's Daughter and her parents Insane Offer - Smother I, hit me, let me come! Real Wives Stories - Luna Star, Tommy Pistol - Now you see me, ** - - The little housewife Taylor Sands gets **** ******! Cherokee D'*** vs. CJ Wright's **** Close Latina Casting; Please do not run at me! I do not want to be pregnant! Wife ***** My ***** Baby - 18 Years ******* & ******* Compilation - Amateur Allure. This **** ****** my **** while my friend fainted faithfully. Daughter banged my neighbors in my office chair ******* *** on *** Boy, Big *** Wife Forgot Lola's Mellow *** Licking Boys 18 and 20 years with their ***** on my *** **** in heaven Puma drives and loves young Sally D 'Angelo, 20yo Asian pornstar Katana has a full ***** with ***** lesbians. **** has *** with little teen Gina Gerson; Hot latina ***** random **** show and tells a hard BBC *****. What happens to a man who masturbates every day? HORRORPORN - Siamese twins MY STEPMAMA IS MY ****** MODEL Danisha lets her stepbrother X-Empire stretch her ***** and her neck; Revenge ***** her ex-boyfriend Latina Katya Rodriguez squirts daddy Bams visions everywhere Ebony teen Demi Sutra ***** older man in a private e-gym, he can **** her where he wants - mouth, ***** and *** - happy, beautiful redhead with a tiny wet *****, loves to **** your mother, she ****** me, ha! - Emily Willis, Jade Baker and Crystal Rush; Redheaded mom, Brittany O'Connell, piercing her ***** in **** stockings, gets ****** by Mona Divine with an ebony girl ******* Jenna Jameson, Jill Kelly and Kai. A castrato is a kind of classical male voice that corresponds to a soprano, mezzo-soprano or alto voice. The voice is produced by castrating the singer before puberty, or occurs in someone who never reaches ****** maturity due to an endocrine condition.

Sometimes I crave to write just to feel my keyboard brush against my fingertips
I agree with their word of choice with the press of a comma
A small betrayal when they rewrite our secrets

But I crave that deep ache that turns my bones brittle
That heartbreak plea for more when the space bar sings

"No more," My tongue pleas

But the stories are tangling around my body like a noose
the stitches in my skin are reopening with the press of a button
and at last, I feel free.

_________

"What have you done."

Pressing save with a confidence the tongue will always lack.

"Something you should've."

I did my best to show love to you,
but I guess I'm just too much of an amateur to figure it out.
During our golden hour,
I thought that I had you locked in my heart.
But in my darkest hours,
I felt you fading from my fingertips.
I know I can't make you love me,
but you didn't have to waste my time.
You really hurt me,
leaving me to overthink.
If you have other plans, I would understand,
but you didn't have to leave my messages with no reply.
You really hurt me,
making me believe that you really loved me.

I'm trying to meet new people and everything in between.
I like to get drunk on patios, porches, tailgates, and float trips, and any outdoor scenario.
I have a definite weakness for all things sweet.
Pipeline rig welder in the making.
Ask me, voted most likely to succeed in highschool.
I watch too much netflix and enjoy crying over Frank Ocean.
I am going to sue the **** out of you.
I'm a guy that sometimes carries a pocket thesaurus.
Socially conscious dude who probably drinks too much.
Amateur chef. Banjo Jedi.
New to this Midwest life.

Those poor, misunderstood teachers,
Counting down days till retirement.
Like grunts in The Nam,
Waiting for a reprieve like it was a
Papal dispensation or a Presidential pardon, or
Last minute stay of execution from the Governor.
Teachers: dying a slow death
On the same lame stage day after day,
Performing amateur comedy,
Hosting their very own Karaoke Club;
Filling barely enough seats in the joint
To crack their daily job satisfaction nut.
The kids who do show up for class are too bored,
Or too apathetic to stay awake,
Heckle you or walk out.
Most teachers hate their jobs.
So many teachers, so many miserable mooks
Wishing they had some other job, any other job,
Like plumber or astronaut,
Mortgage broker or CIA assassin,
The last two with similar personality & career profiles
On The Myers Briggs Type Indicator MBTI® Step I Interpretive Report. Anything’s got to be better than being
Trapped in a 40 by 40 foot box all day,
Stuck in some Dungeons & Dragons classroom
All day with 40 chaotic, evil, teenage
Gary Gygax-ed kids, used to entertainment
Of higher quality and sparkle.
The cardinal sin of teaching:  Thou shalt not be boring!

Teachers complain constantly about how bad the money is,
Having to work almost 185 days a year,
Whining about only getting 8 weeks off in the summer &
Every freaking holiday on earth known to man.
Snap out of it: you get paid what may be one of
The last livable, middle class salaries in America,
Not to mention health and defined retirement benefits, &
You’re still kvetching.
Meanwhile, Good Teachers—
Those deliriously happy few,
That small rare band of subversives,
Maybe you can count them on one hand &
Still feel lucky you had that many—
I’m talking about the good teachers,
Who view teaching as an art form,
Atypical teachers with both brains and heart.
These are the teachers that make the difference.
These are the vital early role models we need
To encounter when we first leave home as toddlers.

I can still hear you, Mr. Feeny:
“I want you to go home this afternoon and open a book! I don’t care what you had otherwise planned, I order you, nay, I command you. Go home and open a book.”
Books are sine qua non.
Good teachers start out by reading a lot of books—
That’s the brain stuff.
It is life lessons of the heart, however,
That really counts,
Stuff they’ve learned the hard way,
The pain they’ve felt personally,
Particularly while young themselves.
That’s where the heart comes from.
And for **** sure they never read about it
In whatever passes for textbooks in
Most graduate schools of education,
Largely lame crap masquerading as academic rigor
In the diploma mills serving the education profession these days.
I taught in 15 high schools across the American southwest &
I’ve known some really breathtakingly dumb,
Essentially illiterate teachers.
Even at the highest institutions of higher learning,
The average educator of teachers is
Rarely known for intellectualism.
With the possible exception of Diane Ravitch,
Jonathan Kozol, Paulo “The Brazilian” Freire--&
Maybe that Marxist hold-out, Eric “Rico” Gutstein--
Instructional staff at most university
Graduate Schools of Education are not
Taken seriously by the rest of the academic faculty.
What was your source of heart, Mr.Kotter?
I can assure you, it was not something you
Picked up at a teacher in-service, Gabe, &
Welcome back, by the way.

If you remember one thing about
Teacher licensing, remember this:
Albert Einstein, at the height of his fame &
Intellectual prowess, could not walk in
Off the street from out-of-state, or
Anywhere else in the universe, &
Qualify for a secondary single subject
Preliminary license to teach physics.
Not in any public high school classroom in
California or in the state of New Mexico.
He simply lacked the requisite education,
Hadn’t taken the plenitude of pedagogic courses,
Expensive college credits in such vital subjects as:
Methods of Teaching Science for Dummies;
Educational Technology for Idiots;
Band Aids & First Aid;
Tae Kwan Do for the Inner City;
Teaching & Testing the Test Takers;
Touchy-Feely 101, 201 & 301;
Understanding Special Kids:
Gifted Kids, Not-so Gifted Kids,
Kids with Attitude & Kids with ADD;
Curriculum Simulacrum;
ELL/Cross-Cultural Learning;
Self-Esteem for the Worthless; &
Last but not least, Foundations of Education:
Sarcasm & Humiliation for Fun & Profit.
And I didn’t even mention taking & passing
That sublimely subtle CBEST or NMTA/NES,
Teacher licensure tests,
Essentially 8th Grade literacy exams
Quite a few applicants take 3 or 4 times
Before earning a passing score.

Blame society?
Blame the parents?
Blame the politicians?
No, teachers:
Blame yourselves.

Our town was to have a rail-line
Circa the mid eighteen nineties
This story has surprised my ears
A local amateur historian apprised me just recently
Documents to support this claim are archived in Sydney

Not far out of our town
On a well know property in the district
Two surveyor pegs are still in existence
Marking the route the rail-line was to track
Though the Forefather's rail-line was never bedded down

The powers that be government leaders of the day
Shelved these impressive plans
They never saw the light of day
Ribbons of steel not coming to fruition
Leading to our town

Other town went ahead rail-lines were established to them
Out town alas and alack missed out
Look where Tamworth and Armidale are to-day
Rail being in their favor
Our town was left to languish and to be dispirited
Going no-where no-where to go

Our Forefather's now lay in their graves
Not quite resting in peace
Their rail proposal for our town unrealized
Good ideas die along with good intentions
Hence their unsettled repose

Our town could have been a regional town
Industry and population dotting the landscape
Rail would have assured our place
The Forefather's rail proposal long since shelved
Consigned into the passing vapor of time

my mask is pretty.
Its got happienes all over it.
Gleaming smiles, and a convincing laugh.
My mask has no fear.
It shines when nothing else will.
It's a great actor,
successful poet,
talented singer,
amateur artist,
great thing little mask.
My mask shows people hope.
Serenity,
insanity.
my mask remembers the person behind it, too.
The countless tears that strolled down my face.
It remembers the fears I have of going home,
returning to emptiness
My mask reminds me that I'm alone,
while taking me to others that could not even care.
My mask has a plastered smile when I just want to scream.
It strangles me,
"reputations
reputations"
it wants me to be someone that I want to forget!
This mask may make me look good on the outside,
but honestly
I'm dead on the inside,
like a tree
still standing,
but not functioning
Like ****,
I can't be who I want to be,
because that person is far stranger than anyone you've ever seen.
I can't
be
myself
this mask I hold buries me in my own darkness.
It holds the knife to my throat.
My mask saves me but curses me.
This reputation I hold is supposed to define me.
But I'm losing everything
everything
the girl I like is fading away
my best friend is noticing my flaws
nothing is working
anymore
MY TOWER IS BREAKING
MY MIND FADING.
<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Into a word
of
chaos
I am dying.
This mask is burying me beneath the surface.
It's consuming me.
Eating my life whole.
This ***** of a feeling.
This....darkness.
Is all because it makes me good
This mask brings me a feeling of belonging.
But after all,
it is
just
a
*mask

Herpetologist meets actress (Cameron Diaz).
If he's funny he's me.
South America or Africa (on location).
In a diamond mind.
The protagonists (lovers), the diamonds, the miners and the minders.
By minders we mean watchers, organizers, supervisors.
As all art must: choose a focus.
The personal is political said Cameron on the night bus to Quebec.
I had never met a girl so willing to make love in public.

To what extent is violence necessary? And
is that the essential question or
should violence be accepted as man's state, fate
a more essential question existing beyond or below
peace or war. Perhaps
the religious and (for the irreligious) sacred injunction
against egregious violence exists
to still ourselves
to open ourselves
to the deeper question. That Cameron Diaz is funny and beautiful
is hopeful. And the telescope and microscope have extended
the eye's appreciation. Under the microscope
Cameron becomes a collection of foreign, alien, uncompassionate,
      selfish, self-organizing
organisms. Frightening, inexorable, fascinating
to the scientist in you!

To the telescope
vanishingly small, infinitesimal as the farthest sun
only smaller
smaller by magnitudes of magnitudes of ten
and incinerated in a nanosecond. Gone
from the movie (photographs the contents of which move
for the naked eye).
I cannot help what I do or hope.

Anyway, it's a love story
or science project, socio-political documentary. An essay.
An essay about how it is actually impossible to say what you mean
but it is possible with a lifetime of meditation and study to shut up
and know what you meant.

Now I'm deaf.
I can see Cameron Diaz but not hear her.
The guy, the herpetologist, at first colorless turns out to be
colorful as a bird or snake!
He knows a lot about snakes, and birds! Not only how they mate
but what they eat
(amateur botanist)
where they rest
what they do with their pain. Do they get depressed?
Can they have guests?
How do they judiciously employ violence to organize and defend
the nest.

The international collective remains insufficiently organized
resulting in violence and threats of violence that interrupt
commerce, procreation (love) and the pursuit of happiness (Cameron
      Diaz)
at least for certain populations, sometimes.
Otherwise, most men, most times, live in peace excepting
flood or fire God or man may
choose to impose.
I lay in my bed and listen naked.
Have a good day (Diaz).
The goddess does not exist, except as bone.

Around this time (July)
the queen yellow jacket (redcoat) searches
blind and deaf
for a ledge or cavity to build a city of her descendants
safe, that they can defend.
Most cities
prosper, undisturbed
and sleeping peacefully, overwinter. We, however,
remain active, Cameron Diaz makes winter movies or
love stories in South America, and I
delight to imagine her herpetologist. Or one who
discovers the sun
around which a habitable, understandable, compatible
orb orbs. Or
maybe the movie's about the revolution, soldiers dying defending
this dictator or that dreamer
and the movie completely failing, not even trying, to explain how
the sons and daughters of the dying soldiers (miners) feel
fishing alone, hunting for wisdom, thereafter.
Sure, these men chose violence, not Cameron Diaz, and were not
farmers, botanists or herpetologists
their tools could have been and should have been the telescope or
      microscope
but are there enough microscopes and telescopes to go around
and did we not (taxpayers, moviegoers) encourage them to
defend Cameron Diaz?

Man's world is insufficiently organized to preclude violence
in allocating resources (Cameron Diaz).
When we invade Iraq
to defend our allies and interests
with rockets and rocket throwers, Rockettes and Cameron Diaz
each man (each Diaz) must make his
own individual choice
whether this war
is worth fighting for or the next or the worst.
Go to jail, go directly to waterboard, at the hands of
your local police, chamber of commerce.
Learn how to walk the desert and the universe.
The names of rocks and planets,
that being the only answer to the hyperorganization that is a cancer on
      our insufficient organization.

I was reading Foreign Affairs
The Case Against the West by Kishore Mabubami (Cameron Diaz).
How can I relinquish my privileged position
sit still, lie naked
until what constitutes consent of the governed and non-violent change,
      Cameron Diaz,
to her herpetologist
is known.

This morning,
I walked with god and man, and animal

I've come to believe,
no other possibility,
He denies me sleep
as His insurance policy

some One wants to be sure,
someone sees His sunrise poem,
He selected this ancien regi-man
to be His admiring audience,
with deer, squirrels, rabbits, a red fox, an osprey
always complaining, why do they get
the cheap seats

so up at five,
no jive,
gotta get there early,
for a good seat,
on the dock by his name

watch the color blue transgender
from feminine elegy elegant pale
to peacock royal male,
the water,
a contributing editor,
phases in with a steely grin,
with ermine whitecap hints
and an orange marmalade sky homage,
I cannot try to describe

and here is where man comes in...

as the tableau reveals a still life
come to be,
a painting enlivened,
come to me free,
bursting with
effervescence and
animal life tribunes,
paying on...

strange...

my Pandora app
back to back,
plays for me
Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue,
hard upon it comes
Saint-Saëns's
The Carnival of the Animals

and I
enfeebled amateur,
needy for a
word titan Titian,
can think only
this trite thought:

I know not who is the
instrument and who
is the
artist,
but virtuous us,
We, all, now-capital-buddies,
now, all, well-color-capitalized,
god and man and animal,
crooning a chorus of appreciation

let this "accidental" miracle,
this collaboration,
enthuse me,
to live happily
with anticipation
for just one more day...

June 2014

God, You are my Dwelling Place.

My Rock and my Wings in times of trouble.

You are the Hand that lifts me up when I stumble.

I thank You for Your love and kindness.

I thank You for listening to my voice, my prayers, my cries, and my supplications.

Continue to renew my mind and spirit to conform to your thinking moment by moment.

Every day is a new start.

When my soul is overflowing with anguish, so much so my bones are crushed,

I will look to You to drain it from me.

I will look to You to set my soul free from such an outpouring of grief and fear.

May Your love sustain me; may Your love guide me.

I need Your help, Father.

Thank You for Your unmatched, unfailing, and rescuing love.

A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.

A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.

A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.

And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.

He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.

Hi, I'm an insecure poet
Just like I don't like myself
I don't like my poetry
I don't know but sometimes
My poems aren't just it
They are unclear and weird
Like my personality is
They're short and stout
Just like I look physically
They sometimes rhyme too much
Like I overdue too much
Sometimes the free verses
Seem like the amateur I am
And everything's clichéd
Like my creativity got ******
They're hairy and dark
And ugly and scarred
But most of the time
They're just all over
All over excellence
Just like my neighbour
Is all over men
And I try too hard
I get all over it
But when I let go
No matter that I'm fat
The breeze carries me forth
No matter that I'm dark
I shine
And my creativity
Crawls out of crevices  
To create poetry
That warms the soul

Hope is, by definition, a feeling of expectation and desire for something to happen, a feeling of trust**
Hope carries anchors on it's shoulders, afraid it will only meet the standard of almost
We all hope, but we do not all receive
Hope is the product of human weakness
We long that's why we aspire
Imagine how weak man is, we are not like birds that can fly when we want to go to places or we want to see people
We are frail and easily inflicted with illnesses
We are fragile bottles that easily break physically and emotionally, hence the development of the helmet and airbags
The study of human emotion called psychology and psychiatry
And worse, we die, that is why men searched for the fountain of youth to no avail
Hope helps us to move on and continue
Hope is a wish, hope is a motivator
Hope gives a reason to keep going
Hope is the whisper telling us that it will get better in time
But I ask, why do the hands of my clock have arthritis
Hope is not a liar
Hope is encouraging but hope is also deceiving
Hope is joker, a trickster
Like an amateur magician, everyone could see the trap door but me
Hope will disappoint you
Hope is not perfect, hope does not always work out like you think hope should
But hope is valuable, hope keeps balance
Hope carries the unable, the dreamers, the optimists
Hope is the guide
Without hope, we're lost
Without hope, we're nothing

Pretty Princess, primped in pink, never really stops to think about the idiocy she spews on a daily basis.  The dog cowers in the corner, afraid to be faced with her scarily unchaste, omniscient hands.  She certainly possesses a vast knowledge of the canine race QUICK, before the vet arrives, act in haste, lest the dog be victim to her knowledgeless, black-hold gaze!

Pretty Princess, never faulting, ever daunting, continues the endless flaunting of her limitless skill.  Planar geometry and collegiate calc are no problem for the persistent resident Isaac Newton, who scribbles phony calculations and bogus numerations on a Hello Kitty scratch pad.

Pretty Princess works by the candlelight of her over-bright, tower-tall, double-wide lamp and paces across her pink and purple flower-*** rug as she fantasizes about the greasy local pint-size **** who’s oh-so dreamy in his Nike cut-off dishrag.  From her desk, she scrawls the inane on a beat up, college ruled, blue-green, hand-painted notebook, for all to see, but none to name.

Pretty Princess is unstoppable, tearing through the grocery aisle where Earl Grey and Einstein fall into place betwixt bacon, sausage, and salmon paste, and then for show, she takes the liberty of becoming the resident nutritionist, which here means “amateur ‘botchulist’”, as she tells us what we’re doing wrong.

Pretty Princess keeps a hidden diary wherein are written all her fiery rants and new to-hit lists, saving space for all the boys she wants to kiss and yes, even room a tear stain or six BUT, she claims, it doesn’t exist.

Pretty Princess is afraid of her secrets, afraid of leaking them to the outside world where that entire girl would become just another whirl in the machine of elementary girls’ gossip.  That unrelenting pack of wolfish half-wit rug-rats, teeth bared and armed with magic hands, would seize the Princess in their dastardly plans BUT, they say, it’s only for a single day that Pretty Princess is robbed of her dramatic time at play.

Pretty Princess is unheard outside her environment, her voice never reaches above the casement of the teacher’s oblivious predicament because she’s completely preoccupied with the class’s rampant evil stride of impending doom.  The classroom bully sits, high atop his throne, and from his face is evil shown only to those who know how to see it.

Pretty Princess knows how to see it.

Pretty Princess comes home crying more often than not, misunderstood by her snotty, hot-headed teacher or “witchess”, and storms to her room in haste, leaving Mother to pick up the pace, lest the wrath of a pre-teen girl blow up in her face BUT, much to her disbelief and in some sense a strange relief, the truth comes out.

Pretty Princess just wants to be heard.

(Dedicated to Eric Onyebuchi Jibero)

What an excruciating blow
You have dealt me!
A brute's uppercut offloaded
A smashing hit delivered
Like a monstrous boxer
Desirous of fame
With an amateur to tame
At this one bout too many
Wherein you have hit me below
The belt as a sadist deriving joy
From my anguish
And relish
From my enormous loss

Oh mower,
Nay hewer,
Can't you feel anything?
Can't you see?
Can't you reason for a while
With your prey?
Can't you pause to ponder
Just for a brief moment
So you can take a good decision
Choosing the right tree to fell
Instead of bringing down a mere
Sapling with your obedient saw?

Why deal sweeping blow
On a mere rookie?
Can't you distinguish
Between the ripe and the unripe?
Between the hen and the chick?
But hawks like you can pick
Meat amidst bones as Moses
In a basket amidst bulrushes
Of Nile to spare from Pharaoh's
Infant-eating sword
And in wisdom did you wait
Patiently to visit Methuselah
At the zenith of hoary hair

Master of double standards
Eyes gorged
Conscience seared
Heart cold like frozen chicken
******* dry and drooping
Like a hag's
A ruthless scorpion
That stings even babes

Rampaging ravager
Notorious brigand
Marauding machinery
Eliminating without scruple
Whoever you choose
Whose hireling are you?
God's or Satan's
Or both?
A blank cheque you flaunt
To cash as you wish
But can't you condescend to a negotiating
Table when a mere sapling is marked
For a cutting down?

Being a professional boxer
Long in this senseless trade
You should have seen the heap
Of pain you would leave
In my heart by this cruel blow
Against a budding amateur whom
You have served voracious earth
Whose stomach is a leaking tank.

Everyone has a dream job.
As do I,
But mine is common,
And yet not.
Literature.
Novels.
Poems.
Writing; the scratch of
Pencil or pen on
Porcelain-white paper.
It calls to me,
My heart.
"Novelist, poet
Her works are
Great," is what
I want people to say, in
My name.
Not some silly
Amateur.
A professional.
Like Edgar Allen Poe or
Shakespeare.
Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue.
Oh, writing's in
My blood.
Not music or
Construction.
My hand curves
Around a writing
Utensil like
A lover's hand
Caressing their
Sweetheart's
*****.
I could write
Forever and ever,
Like an eternal heartbeat,
But every heart's
Gotta end,
As does every song,
And so does this
Poem. Until then,
Does the beat stop.

It feels as though
There is a tightrope beneath my feet
A blindfold surrounds my eyes
And in my heart, a heavy beat

I am not sure how long I have been walking
Or how much farther I have to go
Nor if I fall,
How many lifetimes it would take,
To hit whatever's down below

There are days I feel like wings
Have sprouted from my back
And I feel like I am light as air
Running swiftly down this track

Sometimes I feel like falling
Just to see what's underneath
That maybe on the ground are your arms calling
I haven't the faith to take the leap

Most of the time, however,
I am trying too hard not to shake,
My balance is the victim here
When my time, I choose to take

This tightrope I've been walking
Has been braided so carefully
By all the words I ever think
And let out
So carelessly

Perhaps I am too heavy
To walk a rope as thin as this,
Weighed down by burden, lies, and stress,
One wrong step,
Would I be missed?

It has laid patiently in the recesses of my phone waiting for its day of glory. And 7 months of gestation has finally birthed diligence.
Besides it’s high time I tell this story otherwise I’m just going to (intentionally) forget and never write about it.

   * 11th Feb 2014 - 20th Feb 2014.

This isn’t merely an account of my journey to the beautiful south (my native) but also a personal record of my thoughts during my stay there. If things don’t seem to fit, you’re making the mistake to trying to make sense.

[raw/unedited - start of log]


!) *Getting there: Last night I opened the compartment door to an old man wetting himself with his lungi lying at his feet. Like a busted tap, trickling down his draws, he stood there in a decadent mix of ecstasy and shame.
I held open the door to let him pass.
I can’t say for sure if he saw my disgust seeping from the lines on my face, but I tried my level best to act indifferent. I am good at it.
Incapable of relieving oneself in one’s hour of need? I’d rather be dead. My stupid pride wouldn’t let me live another day.
The next morning we happened to get off closer to our destination than we intended. So did gramps. The stubborn mule, despite his aged regression and insanity wanted to get to the next platform by walking over the tracks. And like a Saturday night drunk he fell and laughed and drooled until he got what he wanted. **** me to hell if I see the day that I walk in those shoes.
There is nothing else I’d hate more.

@) There is where?: Welcome, this is day one. Boredom.
Stuck somewhere in the middle of ignorance and bliss. Con-*******-fused about my place here. It’s slow. Things are slow here. That much I know.

#) Blend: Sleepless smelly nights with the things that should not be. Asleep at last, half past 3. Awake again within 6 hours, no less, to a breakfast late enough to be breaking bad on me. Ants bit me, indigestion ****** me. Noises haunted, I was daunted.
Literally, everything is coconut oil. Last night it felt like a coconut took a crap in my mouth and its byproducts came out my rear end—or did they?

$) Relate: So I have a cousin sister here. Two actually and a handful of brothers too. I finally know something of the other side. I’m strangely liking this. Just knowing is enough it seems. I’m not a good brother.

%) Drift: A dead, calm, quiet night. The silence is almost overwhelming. Even the crickets can’t break through the static. [Sitting under a waxing moon on a lush green lawn surrounded by trees and vibrant silhouettes of the night sky] Such natural beauty freely available without demand. Who wouldn’t be lazy? The mosquitoes.
During the rains, the visual quality of this place reaches heavenly heights. And that should give you a fairly good idea of how stunning this place is the rest of the time. It’s only February.
If I lived here I’d never be the same. Good or bad? I choose not to wonder. But while I’m here, I’m going to soak all that I can in. I suddenly see so many different ways life could go by stepping out of my own comfort zone. It’s Ironic. But then all good wisdom is wasted upon amateur blabber that only soothes the soul momentarily. Nothing profound or earth shattering comes from the realization. Ah, there’s that comfort zone.

^) Halt: I can see why they call Kerala ‘God’s own country’, Because everything stays the same as though that’s how it was meant to be. 40 years or 50, makes no difference. The natural order of things here stays unchanged. It’s the opposite of how Bombay works. You can’t turn a blind eye for two seconds in fear of losing something that won’t alter your life inconsequentially. Yes.
Here, I could leave all my valuables outside the house for a week and no one would even bother. I may have exaggerated but not by much.

&) Eggo: This ‘person’ I’m with is insufferable. Good, great and jolly when HE chooses to be but a first class ******* the rest of the time. Makes me wish I wasn’t born to choke on his arrogance and idiocy. Whoever stuck that tree trunk up his *** must have had reasons I could relate with. This is all the love I can express. It’s hard to admire someone so narrow minded and primitive. I won’t lead, neither will I follow. Ego will meet eggo.

) No excuse: So I can be left at the table alone for as ******* long as it takes for me to finish, but for this man’s tantrums, for the impolicy his *lonely dinner creates (which he prefers, DAILY, back home) I have to oblige and start when he says so, only to have him leave when my plate isn’t even half empty, with a casual, “take your time” mental punch to the back of my head as though there’s nothing wrong with this whole ******* scenario.
Thankfully, all of this was succeeded by a full, beautifully bronze tinted moon floating in a cloudless ocean of sparkling diamonds and weeping crickets still struggling to overpower the silence; failing miserably.
I wouldn’t mind sitting here alone forever but alas, not all things are this easy. And this night will again wilt into day and the sad fight will spoil or be forgotten, conveniently. Eventually you learn, they all fester.

() Sugamano? (how are you?): My bowel movements have yet to reach an agreement with my diet. My cousin is going to teach me Malayalam through mail. Somehow I approve of this despite the several offers that I have declined from my friends in the past. Maybe I’m glad that my family just got bigger. It’s very important that I realize and cherish my ties. Who knows? I might end up being a nobody and moving here when I’m all withered and choked up with regret as a failure in denial.

!)) BAA BAA BOO BOO: My cousin’s kid. He looks a bit like me when I was that age. Wait, he isn’t even of age. He’s freaking 9 months and he’s crawling, rolling, slapping, pulling, strangling, screaming and imitating words people say around him that he can barely pronounce. I want to eat him. He’s cuter than anything I’ve ever seen. He’s gonna be a lady killer if he doesn’t go black (like most mallus do).

!!) Bliss: Classical night sky… Twinkles dance to the grand tune. Fireflies fall like stars, confusing senses to enthrall with exquisite precision. Feel the cosmos swallow thoughts and words as they mean nothing at all. If the sky shifted now, gravity would take a hike. And sooner than it takes for realization to set in, this world would become peaceful again.

!@) Role playing: The elephants are sight seeing on the backs of trucks. Humans are the escorts for these mammoths here. No more show business for these executives. They make sure the men serve as the slaves they own.

!#) Saving memories: I am a man who has forgotten how to smile. Even my tears can throw on a better performance for the mirror that breaks me. I have to force and instant’s glee to burst one out. I cannot hold joy as tightly as I do hatred or sadness. Family photos are the worst. I have to conjure a series of mental comical disasters only to maintain a smile that is fit for a *******. And that is on my best day. Every other day, however, it seems as though I’m constipated.
I spent the most awesome day today with my cousins who I barely knew 5 days ago. Although I haven’t spoken to them freely due to the language barrier it nevertheless feels like home. They’ve been thinking about me all the years we’ve been apart. Now it’s my turn to think about them. And it’s going to take quite a strong blow to the head to erase these wonderful memories I’ve had the pleasure of creating with them in my short stay here.

!$) Reasons: Valappad beach. If there is any place I would love to go to relax, to party, to be lost in thought and marvelous beauty for hours, to ******* OD and die, that would be the place. The beach stretches on forever. Horizon to horizon of clean white sand and foamy water. You could build castles as tall as skyscrapers in this sand. Gorgeous plantations just before on the shore line. Goa fails in comparison. With an enormous sky looming overhead and the ocean that appears to fall off the horizon you can’t help but wonder how such a natural work of art sustains itself. It doesn’t. The locals here do. All the trash from the beach is brought back inland so that there are no compromises with respect to visual ******. The ****** grains hug your feet and as soon as you hit the water you’re done for. It brings back a surge of euphoria that only your first spliff of hash would give you otherwise. I would give up the stash in a heartbeat for this fix. I wouldn’t mind being this high for the rest of my life.

[end of log]

wind like a south wind carrying a plane south
deposits him, beneficiary of a backwards current
on a branch with nothing companionable in sight -
no answer, no voice to answer, no voice,
no alarm, no succor - just an afternoon
and nothing pressing. No urgent business,
maybe only the rigors of trying to prevent
there being urgent business later.
He's not all smooth. A little feather
cowlicked on his narrow jaw, and I don't know
how he bathes, what he eats, what he wants,
who would want to eat him. I don't really understand
anything that is going on around me. But look,
I understand more than him:
  the tree is dying.
Oak wilt blew in from Canada,
took a long time coming and finally cracked the veins
and this one is all bad on the inside, a meal of
corked-up flesh, big spongy patches and tainted roots
at the search.

(Amateur diagnosis. The tree is probably fine.)

There is a similarity neither tree nor bird know about.
Or his legs know it, and that message
is stuck somewhere. Or he's afraid.
The blighted oak is all fungus and refusal, and he:
his skeleton is spun from delicate copper.
If you open him up, he's like a penny -
pretty, and useless in this economy.
People and things always trying to get rid of him,
and he's listening because he knows it,
and he's singing because he knows it.

Open the tree up and the whole food chain comes down with it.
(Listen to your sweet flesh that wants to go on living.)

It's not a curse, not specifically:
just one fragile thing standing on another
but - count mercies -
too light to break it.

A basic brazier licking behind a splash of yellow, he chirrups.
His song comes from the throat.
His song is about something he saw once.
His song is unquestioned, muscle moving
without will.
  His plumage is mostly air
  And the tree is anchored in the ground
  by the very thing that chokes it,
and we're all standing together:
me, tree, bird. At least until
I finish my sandwich, packing the greasy paper in
a rectangle, with unquestioned neatness,
and leave whistling.

wear clothes. I know about safety, cats and speeds. I hope that's my child. Also, "Mother and Me" of the final day. The children watching the birds, flies, fingers, feet and both George in Europe, Germany, with Rick, Germany, Italy, Italy, African deductible. Hit. Children, dogs and sports games are harmful. See, for ACI, Jung, Balance, PSA for Kids (ACI, Jung, Balance FSA). please send your parents ... and they did. "Kenny, our son and for both the young and strange ". European in Europe Roberts Roberts Capital city small and the city's largest cities in the world. 10 syndrome, Robert Roberts, Bob 500, Casio Pho Yoshi Soto, Italian Bean Vifef and Philo of Lincoln, 100, Italy Italy Sicily Sicilian Australia and Kenya 100,100 glass; Pandemonium still xXo fauna VINDOO 10, 1996 Cicco 200,000 miles away from his father and data network. over 200,200, 4 of European sports related Images, Blubber Bob Boyk Oakville Ice Science and Exploration Revolutionary Stock amazing. (USA); and Australia and many Asian countries at 100 and 100 in Kenya and 60 percent. Italy. Since coming into variance, and opposing the Dragon Gold Radio 4 Pike, Media, Tule, Tanzania, children and the illness of the child protection and education. Tismar 12 10 10, 10 10, 200 - 200 - Mark Robert Roberts, Bob Robert - In 1996, color style, age two days, pigs and 1000 of sounds, Italian, *** S 200 and similar means. 4 English has only to start an amateur companies. However, 100%, Canada, Australia have a size four-dimensional, wood and animal size. 1 2: black, 6, 20, was troubled by the fear of Black - you, George, George; 200 to 200 parts, especially from Canada and the United States. Liver and intestine, and clean the horse. Fourth, as we grow our brothers and sisters, for our 500 years anniversary, Robert, Tom Philip Pole Lip leather in Brazil 00 00 00 Vitamins and minerals in 2004, 100 forests with Italy, Australia, Kenya Eritrea or fruit, 6, 10 Yellow 10 days. December 12 students to be. 10. There is grace under control. George, George wear clothes. I know about safety, cats and speeds. I hope this is my child. In addition, "Mother and me" on the last day. Children are watching birds, flies, toes, feet and both George in Europe, Germany, from Ric Germany, Italy, Italy, African deductions. Hit. Children, dogs and sports games are harmful. See, for ACI, Jung, Balance, PSA for children (ACI, Jung, Balance FSA). send your parents ... and they did it. "Kenny, our son and too young and alien." European in Europe Roberts Roberts Stolica is the largest city in the world. 10 band, Robert Roberts, Bob 500, Casio Pho Yoshi Soto, Italian Bean Vifef and Philo from Lincoln, 100, Italy Italy Sicily Sicily and Kenya 100 100 glasses; Pandemonium is still the fauna of XXo VINDOO 10, 1996 Cicco 200,000 miles from his father and the data network. over 200,200, 4 photos related to European sport, Blubber Bob Boyk Oakville Ice Science and Exploration Revolutionary Photo amazing. (USA); and in Australia and many Asian countries in 100 and 100 in Kenya and 60 percent. Italy. Hendrik, Pork, Media, Tule, Tanzania, children and disease. Tismar 12 10 10, 10 10, 200 - 200 - Mark Robert Roberts, Bob Robert - In 1996. The style of colors, the age of two days, pigs and 1000 sounds, Italian, *** S 200 and similar measures. 4 English only needs to set up amateur companies. However, 100%, Canada, Australia has a four-dimensional, wooden and animal size. 1 2: black, 6, 20, was disturbed by the fear of black - you, George, George; 200 to 200 parts, especially from Canada and the United States. Liver and intestines, and clean the horse. Fourthly, when we grow up with our brothers and sisters, in our 500 year anniversary, Robert, Tom Filip Field Leathers in Brazil 00 00 00 Vitamins and minerals in 2004, 100 forests with Italy, Australia, Kenya Eritrea or fruits, 6, 10 Yellow 10 days. December 12 will be. 10. Grace is under control. George, George. Keep your clothes on and ask for a hint. Be aware of your health, cats and make-up. I think I'm a teenager. In addition, "my mother and my name" is the last holiday in the city. Fingers, turns and toes, legs and bridges. You see children and other Europe and Ukraine, especially Scorpio BC, Germany, Italy, Italy and myself, Africans and teenagers, George and see. He says. The Canadian government is very respected. 161 ******* and more. It is not important. He knows children (ACI, Jung, Balance, FSA). Animals, dogs and games are harmful. Please, make a complaint to my parents, but ... they will not do it. "Kenny is our son, but he is proud that he is western and strange.

My Lucifer, unwitting Muse, dog-eared Vonnegut,
          afrobeatnik third eye, howls escaping
from your headphones, wailing about secrets, about infidelity,
          about analyzing life until there ain’t nothin’
left. Then you shuffle by in your black and white Adidas,
          hair in twists, wearing the striped sweater
of nihilistic intent, quoting the rants of Holden Caulfield
          in your blog like you never didn’t know him.
I never asked to know you, to want who I can’t have
          when I can’t even love myself. And every fiber
Of my being yearns for reciprocation. What is there
          to return? What is there to feel, you meditate on truth,
fallen angel in the parlor of rebellion, blasphemous goodbye,
          bright and morning star simpering like crickets in the palms
of daybreak. Your musicality radiates from subway chatter
          and overheard profanity down El Camino Real.
I take in your ballad at my post office mailbox,
          in the abandoned echoes of daydream monologues.
You’re a philosopher, exploring theory of mind, a cartographer,
          mapping the labyrinth of your deepest desires.
Tell me again about desires, demonstrations of divine sadism. Tell me
          about human empathy, the animated faces of wordless expression,
the metaphysics of free will, my beginning and my end,
          alpha and omega, my fortress in the land of chic.
Blasphemous hustler, let your idealism simmer, your wit, your mojo,
I come to you an amateur, a neophyte, a lowly scab
in the strike against ignorance. Give me my melody, my song,
          my one-hit-wonder of all that is cliché and unknown.
But I can’t be the other woman, your girlfriend, your aspiring
          ******* bunny only 10-bucks-a-throw. Your highness-who-yells-
his-ideas-into-the-ears-of-echoes, your every quirk spellbinds me.
          Each day I wake to your entourage vibrato.
I am held captive by your brooding stare, empress of liberal
          doves. You visit in my dreams when the sky is a force of darkness
viewing light through peepholes, your flaws an aphrodisiac, a love drug,
          a fast hit in the basement from the ecstasy of words.

Dear Poet Friends, the famous Coffee House is located opposite Presidency College (my alma mater) at Calcutta, it was set up during the British days, initially known as The Albert Hall. However, this poem has been inspired by an old Bengali song . Hope you will like it. Thanks, – Raj Nandy

MEMORIES OF COFFEE HOUSE OF OUR
                      STUDENT DAYS

Those nostalgic memories and our colorful dreams have
receded with the past.
Our regular evening meetings at the Coffee House has
flown with time’s arrow, - since nothing lasts!
Be it summer, monsoon, or winter, we had regularly met,
To exchange notes and gossip, even heated discussions
use to take place.
Our old friend Nikhelesh had left for Paris, and Moidul
settled in Dacca, as I last heard.
Guitarist D’Souza of the Hotel Grand now lies buried in a
walled cemetery next to a church.
Betrayed in love singer Reena Roy is spending her days in
a lunatic asylum alas!
While Amol suffered from a raging cancer, life had proved
merciless for him till the very last!
Renuka was perhaps the happiest amongst us all, having
married a millionaire husband as I have been told.
She lives in a luxurious bungalow covered in jewelry of
diamond and gold.
Sanyal of Art College who drew pictures for an Ad Agency
those days,
With wide eyes listened to the narrations of Runa Roy, the
amateur actress, during those Coffee House days.
Long haired Basir, the amateur poet, has been forgotten in time;
None of his poems got published, his talents had remained
unrecognized!
Between sips of coffee and cigarette smoke heated arguments
use to take place.
Topics ranging from politics, poetry, art and football, were
very popular even in those days.

Those black round wooden tables and chairs still remain
unchanged to this very day.
But with the passing of time the faces of its occupants have
all changed, as generations have faded away.
Thus the cycle of life revolves as new flowers bloom.
But the Coffee House shall continue to last through many
a moon.
                                                           ­      -By Raj Nandy of New Delhi.