It ain’t like ahm a teacher ner nuthin.
Ahm jess a regular person, nothin spayshul
Ah ain’t no docterr of rocket science
Ahm jess a working guy, and kinda playful.
Ah half tah admit, ah do get things wrong
And sometahms ah can make a big mess
But ah do have minny, minny good points
And ahm a rilly good person, irregardless.

But things like writin’ readin’ and
Readin’ writin’ and sech lack that stuff
Ah stopped carin’ ‘bout at twelve
‘Cause ah found it more than kinda tuff.
Ah mean, it ain’t lack ah ain’t never
Gunna need to know reedickaluss stuff lie cat.
Ahm jess gunna graduate and then
Ah’ll go to work with Dad and drahve a bobcat.

Ain’t nobuddy needs algebra for that
Er fer workin’ at the factory line ever day either.
And it sher ain’t like ahm a teacher ner nuthin.
Ahm jess a regular person, nothin spayshul
Ah ain’t no docterr of rocket science
Ahm jess a working guy, and kinda playful.
Ah half tah admit, ah do get things wrong
And sometahms ah can make a big mess
But ah do have minny, minny good points
And ahm a rilly good person, irregardless.

But things like writin’ readin’ and
Grammer and other sech borin’ stuff
Ah stopped carin’ ‘bout at twelve
‘Cause ah found it more than kinda tuff.
Ah mean, it ain’t lack ah ain’t never
Gunna need to know reedickaluss stuff lie cat.
Ahm jess gunna graduate and then
Ah’ll go to work with Dad and drahve a bobcat.

Ain’t nobuddy needs algebra for that
Er fer workin’ on a factory line ever day either.
Ah sherr don’t need it to work digging
Er runnin’ sewer lahns er plummin’ pipes neither.
So, folks can jess give up on tryin’
To turn me into some kinda egghead scholar.
After all, it was good enough for my dad
To go to work, and work hard to earn a dollar.

If the beautiful pea green boat had been painted battleship grey,the owl and the pussycat would have stayed at home and not 'sailed away for a year and a day',but it wasn't and they did.
The story ends quite badly some would say quite sadly,the pussycat got rid of the owl,stating in his defence, that fowl was for the eating of and not for spouting like a whale in Edward Lear's fairy tale.
If only the boat had been painted battleship grey the owl might still be with us today.

The 7 wonders of the world
Is quite a sight to see
But it don't compare to what we have
In the hills of Tennessee

Uncle Zebs cow is a big ole thing
Quite a sight to behold
That cow's so big that when they milk her
Her udders even have to unfold

Cousin Zeke has a six-legged mule
And man that thing is fast
One time he raced a bobcat
And the bobcat finished last

My granny's teeth are made of wood
Of course, they were bought from a store
But ever since that termite season
She don't use them much no more

Aunt Imojean has a twine collection
That she started when she was three
I guess if we unwound that thing
It'd reach clear 'cross Tennessee

Cousin Jake has a rattlesnake
He pickled and stuffed in a jar
He caught that thing a year ago
Trying to run off with his car

Uncle Randolph has this chicken
Who howls and barks at the moon
That poor chicken is so dadgum old
That she has to be fed with a spoon

Uncle Sam has the seventh wonder
An invisible moonshine still
We ain't seen it since he made it
But it's somewhere on that hill

So, after you think you've seen it all
You haven't seen anything yet
Come to the hills of Tennessee
And see things you'll never forget

I am the newborn bobcat
sleeping in my den
I am the call of the raven
piercing the noontide air
I am the wind
blowing through the trees
I am the seedling
nestled in the ground.

I was the rain
falling at the dawn of time
I was a mighty and proud elephant
Crossing the mountains in search of battle
I was a dinosaur
colossal tyrant king
I was the coursing waters
of the once-great flood.

I will be the storms
that will split the sky
I will be the insidious plagues
that will haunt tomorrow
I will be the fire
that will devour lives
And I will be the end of the world
Coming closer and closer.

Let 'em hear ya in the cheap seats
In the nosebleeds

Trashed and thrashed
The stove heats up the whole house

The beauty pageant is being judged by those who have been bribed and the biased

There's no room at the inn
To the barn, I guess

Ring in the morning
As today's hectic schedule chimes in

The chimney sweep preforms rhinoplasty on a bobcat
And sends windup toys to Goodwill

I christen thee, Backwards!
Here, take this seven leaf clover for good luck

The house that I grew up in is growing old.
I can barely distinguish between the house and my grandfather, and both have given up. Tired..of people walking inside of them.
I used to fall in the house running around the hallway and through the kitchen and now I'm falling through the floor.
There is no one to say "Get out of my kitchen!"
I've never been in the attic and I've only seen my grandfather open the latch once; I'll never get to see what was stored.  I thought Katherine's ornaments could be up there, but neither knew what had been done with them.
It broke my heart to see what I had seen. I wanted to have those memories again but not all the money in the world could buy them back.
The magic I had grown up with is dying. There is no more children to fall on the cinder under the fur shed and burn her forehead, or see snow for the first time. And after making snow *****, running hands through water and letting Katherine rub them through her bony hands. It doesn't snow in Louisiana but for this house it did.
I loved being old at such a young age. Picking blackberries with him and learning to preserve them. Staining my mouth, cheeks, hair, hands, my shirt with Mulberry. Then rolling dough on the counter and staining it with little girl hands and thin fingers and bear paws.
And still the only jelly I'll eat is blackberry jelly.
Cards at the table with Katherine was the best. She had this laugh. More of a cough and she wouldnt stop coughing until she caught her breath and then I would laugh so hard and try to walk it off and trip over her oxygen tubes.  That machine  used to haunt me. It looks with green eyes at night and stood in the open doorway of the door that I never understood why it was there, it never closed anyway. The doorway I used to hide in that one nightmare  about the dinosaur that would chase me around the same hallways that my grandfather would. I've always loved dinosaurs after that.
And eating at the kitchen table where there was always honey because grandfather was also a beekeeper and loved honeycombs and fresh honey.  The one flaw in that table was the window where I always thought raptors or a bobcat would jump out of while I was eating and eat ME. Tough little five year old me would put up a fight and scream until Paw would save me.
  The dining room table where Granny Velgin always had pancakes. The BEST pancakes. Where I learned to make them years later along with paine perdu, or French toast.  Little Cajun french me with my French name and father who was Czech but I have a  Cajun French grandfather.

The magic that was the now 60 year old house is going. It was always "50 years old" every time I asked my grandfather how old it was. It was his childhood house too. He says he still remembers Granny chasing Ayo with a pan for staying out too late..and I still chase the Christmas lights we used to walk to see. I still chase my cousins around the backyard geese and chicken and duck pen. I'm still chasing the magic that sat in the attic of the house I never looked in.

She saw the face of Judas in him.
The bearded kiss festered no truth
and the metallic breath
exhaled putrid faithfulness.
The trampled petals spoor no lusting stares,
redolent no more
even as the tongue creeps by the shoulders.

The razors have summoned from the stinking room!
A slit in the neck
could rhythmically go by the thrusts unnoticed
But the chorus of the beasts
as shrill as the gongs of hell
maiming vengeance yet
not in the loss of blood will you die.
Not in my hands.

His demonic pleasures went on as the voodoo doll
resurrected in the beat of my own gongs.
Keep stirring as this spindle rouses my anathema!
his chest hairs
pint of blood
vulture’s beak
stallion’s tails
bobcat’s eye
dead evergreen
Deborah’s tears.
Stir and stir and stir!
Murmur satan’s prayer
mana mana mana boo!
ruba ruba ruba hoo!
Count the sands of the transient hourglass
expiring ‘fore tic tac sound.
Now her man froze,
bulging eyes, blackened pulse!


‘tis freedom, Deborah!

Free.

Doomed.




© Glenn Sentes
03-06-13

I’m  at work
Buzzing to get out of there
Out of the fluorescence
And the din of screaming children
As it downplays the howling heads
Of their mothers who
Dream of their children’s exposed
Necks and getting out of the grocery store
Before it starts to rain.

I am Bobcat Goldthwait
underneath
The large hanging lamps,
pale green as barge lights
I make little sounds with my lips
And tongue, little incoherent sounds
To push the time forward .

A man comes through
My line holding a beige patch
Of cloth
Over his exposed trachea beneath,

with a voice like he crushes cement
puts it in his coffee
and ***** it up through a fiberglass straw.,
He drops some
Toothpaste and a brush on the counter
And says to me with that mutilated
Voice:
“there are only two types of *****,
Big old *****,
And old big *****.”

His skin is blotchy in the cheeks
like the husks of craters seen from the sky,
and the corners of his mouth
are dry and cracked
snaking and splitting outward like dry riverbeds.

For a second I want to laugh so hard,
That people will think I’m crazy, and
Maybe one of the twitchy managers will have
Me committed.

If he says any more, it’s this:
“You’re young, enjoy it,
if you worry
About the fuckups now,
you’ll Be worrying
until you’re an old ******
and that doesn’t do you any good,
***** hates the old **** ups.”

It's supposed to be
98 and cloudless today.

By the time I roll in,
and park my car,
Roman's walking up to me,
his gold tooth a
full yellow smile in the sun.

“Hey meyer,
I need you to
Pull the box truck around,
We’ve got some plants we’ve gotta load,
Then we’ve got a landscape job
About an hour from here.”

“Are we gonna be back here
Today?”

“Probably not
until
late.”

The box truck
Is a holdover from the old owners
Of Ken’s Nursery,
It’s still got
Ken’s Nursery in large comic sans
On it’s rust-streaked sides.

The wheel wells are rusted
brown as salt deposits
On the shores of sulfuric oceans,
and little ringlets of decay
rock as the truck bounces;
It’s old springs
Giving back after all these years.

Today we have:
Forty-two veriagated ferns.
Ten dragon lilies.
10 cannas,
But cannas have to have a male and female to flower,
So 20 cannas collectively,
And we’ve gotta mulch.

By the time we’ve loaded all the plants;
stuffed the mulch in with the Bobcat,
And thrown in our picks and shovels,
My shirt is soaked through.

98 degrees and cloudless.

Roman walks to his car
and takes off his shirt
To reveal a pink belly
full of folding skin
and matted black upwelling *****
Singing with sweat-diamonds
In the unperturbed vision of the sun.

My shirt is soaked already too.

But even as I loaded the truck,
I thought about Melissa.

When I get home,
She probably won’t be there.

When the female is separated from the male canna,
Nothing dies, the two live happily ever after.

But the canna does not flower,
And doesn’t remember enough
To miss it.

Just continues quietly with a black bulb
The color of a skink’s underbelly.

The lone hungry coyote
Sends up a wraith's refrain
Sun melts in a crucible
Of purgatory pain.

The badlands. No man's land.
The sun bleeds crimson, rust.
Rattlesnakes and scorpions
Scuttle in the dust.

While the sky is falling
Making russet snow
The hills and rock are singing
The agony they know.

Unforgiving desert
Makes the bobcat scream
The moon face is crying
It's tears moan and gleam.

In a dream you take me
O'r the Martian scape
Your hand locked round my mind
Preventing my escape

Turquoise/silver stars
Fall onto my path
Just like Armageddon
Or its aftermath.

Black opals flame the hills
The brutal badland's tors
To hush my ragged breathing

Now... forevermore.


Soul Survivor
C. Jarvis (c) 2014
March 16

There's a dark wolf
behind my heart--
licking chops
ready to feast on the future
and guzzle the night nectar of what will be.
His smokey wings agape,
drawn to fly in to the moon's uvula.
The ash black fur smells of burnt strawberries.

A pale bobcat spectre leans
behind my mind...
smells like a gin bath...
       looks over its shoulder
longingly gazing into the murk-muck,
     that is.... the past.
Lavender eyes, and patterns of dirt
     on its sopping cold fur.

And here I am,
between the two...
a silent meditative fox
under the cherry blossom,
the breezy moment twirls the desert red fur,
nature's hum drums and strums the heart
as it grows into a lotus reaching for the  burning sun.

Out behind
the blood red barn.
Hauling off a cigarette,
all of 12 years old.

Across the spring sewn fields
at the edge of the treeline
a bobcat, seemingly oblivious
to my shenanigans, moves slowly, methodically.
Perhaps looking for some small snack.

The wisps of clouds
cast see-through shadows
on the landscape.

My mind drifts with the
run-of-the-mill thoughts.
Thoughts of a boy out of touch
with the adult work-a-day world.

I'm just trying not
to get caught smoking,
neglecting to take any precautions
like washing my hands
or even chewing some gum.

I don’t believe you.
There’s no way you could have
fended off those velociraptors
and their inter-dimensional captors
with a spork and a water gun.

No, you didn’t go into the matrix,
or find an heirloom of the Norse,
or find a cure for when your throat gets hoarse.

You most certainly did not bring forth
Satan with a glass-blown tuning fork
and those pictures you have are photoshopped.

A seismograph cannot detect a pulse
from that distance, you would have to be close,
so it did not help you defeat the devil,
which you’re undoubtedly making up as well.

You cannot throw marshmallows
into black holes, you would be crushed
by the gravity, far sooner than pushed
within marshmallowing range.

You did not ****, nor disembowel
a mutant roll of paper towel
nor did you invent the interrobang.

I wish you would just please quit trying
to convince me that you came back from dying
especially after you weren’t mauled by a bobcat.

You did not inject yourself with nanobots,
or anonymously author a Times Best-Seller
about the struggling wife of a poor bank teller.

Stop deluding yourself, Johnny, it was only a dream.
Son, go back to sleep.

Trickling water through a brook,
Down from the mountain and into a stream,
Gently carving into the land a tale,
A sad yet happy tune for all to hear.

Mountains to those not from here,
Hills to its inhabitants,
Safeguarding those who live here from the poisons of the modern world,
Locking away it's people in a small slice of time.

Moonshine is made here,
Where the big bucks wander,
A place where the turkey, elk, and illusive bobcat roam free,
Where the hawks, warblers, and grouse abound,
Bears trundle,
And hill folk dance and sing.

People read my poetry
But I rarely see a 'Like",
Would it be better
If I had a Harley Davison bike?
If I talked the language
Of "Born To Be Wild",
And I wrote some poems
About a love child.

Well honestly
My life was a little bit like that,
One marriage after
I hooked up with
An overseas bobcat,
Younger by ten years
She looked like she was eighteen,
My oh my, she was cute
Better than anything I had ever seen.

We met and talked
Three days later we were married,
It grooved with my profile
Crazy desires partially buried,
I didn’t know her
She didn’t know me,
Heck, we didn’t speak the same language
But it was fine with what I did see.

Fast-forward
Now it’s twenty-three years later,
You might ask if I had been twenty-eight
Would I have considered a date with her?
Oh my god, she was just as cute
Back when she was a teenager,
But I couldn’t know her then
Nor was it time to make a wager.

Not seen or heard from
you
in awhile.

I sat on the bus today,
with the strength of vinyl,
and a girl slinked by me
in a flower-print sundress.

Her plastic bra-straps stradled her shoulders,
akimbo
and slippery wet.

And the man in the front seat
almost lost his head,
when the bus rolled.

Not seen
or heard from
by some other woman.

Took a drive this morning,
ate my cigarettes,
inhaled gasoline,
put my feet on the curb
leaned on my hood,
and not seen or heard from
I waited for the movie to start.

The bobcat yowl of an NSX
pronounced the night
as quick,
and your serrated memory
cuts
like it should.

Not seen or heard from
you
in awhile.


I bet you smoke
with the other waitresses
and waiters,
busboys,
hosts,
hostesses,
managers,
line cooks,
and
chefs.

I bet you have a good time
in that tiny cafe,
where you run
from table to table
with that wild hair,
and can abandon yourself
to short-term memory
and long-term

loss.

Not seen or heard from you.

The guys from the demolishing
Team accidently broke a door
In the basement.

Things happen, but this door was
From the original building; built
In 1920. Covering it in bubble wrap

And writing HANDLE WITH CARE
All over it didn't help. The
Lithuanians were in a hurry;  

No match for a speeding BobCat.
I carried the corpse out to the
Container, and thought to myself:

I'm gonna be the last man to ever
Knock on this *******...
I set it down (the oak thing was a

Good 95 years old), and wrote
On it in my finest lettering.
Chamber.

Took off my glove and stood there,
Gently rapping, calling out to
The guys by the forklift:

HEY! Name the bird, boys!
No response. Sometimes I feel like
I might not belong in construction.

I grew up and still live in the "Blackest state in America".
I live simply two counties shy of the "Blackest county in America".
I did not see color until just recently, and I'll tell you why.
If a white cisgendered person opens up their Tumblr, Tumblr will tell them "goodbye".
If you go to Button Poetry and watch any African American's poem, they will tell you that the white person is dangerous.
Stay away from us.
These words.. they sadden me..
I did not see color until recently.
My best friend is a lesbian, I've dated a black man.
But no, all white people are the same, stay away from as many as you can!
I've asked my friend, Lexie, (her mom is black, her dad is white)
I've asked her what her opinion was on this fight.
Her eyes swelled with tears, she simply can't understand
Why some choose to like or dislike people for whether they are light or dark skinned.
And this is why Pocahontas is my favorite Disney princess.
She teaches everyone can love anyone, race and color are pointless.
I have asked the grinning bobcat why he grins.
It's because I have learned to paint with all the colors of the wind.
Maybe it's your turn to learn to do it, too.
And that's the only way you can find this war to end, I promise you.
I did not see color until just recently.
And now I wish I could go back and learn how to unsee
all the crap that this newfound vision has caused me.

Cold , clear water from that hand dug well could break a spell of thirst
faster than a July thundershower , quick as a swamp rabbit running Camp Creek , swift as a Bobcat scurrying to the top of a Sycamore Tree ...
Cool as a November morning , clear as Dad's list of chores , smooth as a
fresh brushed Quarter Horse , as welcoming as the evening view of home ...

The morning sun slowly rises
Above the great white mountain peaks.
The cold wind blows unmercifully
Through the vast deserted valleys
The trees creek and moan
Under the immense pressure of the wind

As quick as the snow began
It now ceases
Lulling the landscape into a hushed silence
The wind has died
The falling snow no more
The tranquil scene lay untouched
In front of heaven's door

How much longer will this tranquillity go undisturbed
How much longer till nature awakens

Soon in the distance
A chick-a-dee is heard
Then a roaring bobcat
Nature is slowly unfolding
Her graceful wings of life

As the day passes
And the sun climbs higher
In the deep blue sky
The snow begins to melt
The brooks begin to bubble

distant visions of dancing women
giving pause to the loggers
reeking of pine
wine glasses *****
and clinking friends make amends
sending bygones to faraway lands
bark chips in unkempt beards
appear in the florescent glow
to show a road map to the mountain
crags and snags left
for wildlife habitat
rabbit foot key chain bangs
the leg of a drunkard
who flunked out
yet runs the equipment of
a multimillion dollar outfit
no quit in the eyes
of men realizing self-worth
through **** of the earth
taped fingers set chokers snug
upon trees laid like rungs
up the barren hillside
fireside chats about bobcat tracks
and the rack on the elk that got away –

My spirit travels a road of smiles.
Streetlights are friends frolicking in place.
Mistakes pile up into traffic jams.  
But I'm a walking jetpack.
Setbacks are happy trails.
Been there, done that, blazed the darkness.
I promise to go the way of the adventurer.
Getting lost is finding my way.
Staying chin up and heart out, a bobcat of a man.
I stand, in the onslaught, caught in the rain.
Insane are the naysayers shaking their heads.
They may as well stay in bed laying dead.
Never praying for anything.
This is for the adventurers out there inventing our truth.
Never losing our youth as we breathe it in from a cigarette.
And you can bet, when in danger, we don't become strangers to us.
Tragic turns to magic, fear turns to tears which hydrate our peace.
And moments of happiness that we clamor through.
Become the blueprints of our soul.
So when it's all said and done, we carry on our enchanted worlds.
For the life of the adventurer truly never unfolds.

-Carm 4/8/14

Stupid questions require curt answers .. Engage truth , commit thy rage upon rice paper , delicate unlike publican , thespian , braying *** like
painfully obvious , politically charged shadow puppets against a lighted stage !
Unable to fly high enough alongside a chosen group of your peers ?
Perfectly reasonable to light upon placid waters , disappear ..
A pack of coyotes , seeking fifteen minutes in the sun ?
Remain fastidious and occupied with your own backyard !
A wayward mouth that fosters hate and destruction ?
Remove thy tongue , let it locate a new owner !
Adorned with all manner of material wealth , sneering at the plight of others ? Step in the cold , dark woods with howl of bobcat , naked and afraid , relearn thy place amongst your brothers !!

Furniture burns quite well should the -
need arise
A quilt will cover a whistling window
Thick socks make good mittens , a fiery -
book of Sandburg will heat my soul most dandy
and smitten
The lake shall provide fish just as -
the charcoal grill will offer a place to heat them
Snow will turn to water , mother woodland will offer -
plentiful piedmont herbs , roots and berries to -
sustain and medicate
When these material nothings are depleted-
I will forage the landscape as needed
Determined as the bobcat , frozen as the hunting heron
With cold reserve and insatiable hunger* ...

Knag's , branches shaped like hands and long limbs
Eerie expressions on knee high stumps
A 'Witches Nose' hanging off a Red Oak
A Pumpkin Head glare in the Pine bark
Hoot Owls playing mind games in the -
cool dark
An old Bobcat screaming to the Harvest Moon on a
lark
'Possums with glowing eyes
Sudden breezes on quiet nights
Brown Bats flying around porch lights* ..

I am from the hills
from a place where all you can see and smell are pine trees
I am from nowhere yet somewhere
from the yellow grass that flows with the wind.
I am from the bobcat growls and owl hoots
from deer prancing across the open fields.
I am from scorching summer heat
from the cold winter blizzards
with which I remember the heat of the fire
warding me from the evil chill.

I am from old movies and music
from action figures and Legos.
I am from the nerd brigade
from the straight-A club.
I am from a place where knowledge is power
and power is everything
From deja vu and nightmares
from which my mind is scared and perplexed.

I am from the teachings given by Master Yoda
“Fear is the path to the dark side
fear leads to anger,
anger leads to hate,
hate leads to suffering.”
and the advice given by Mace Windu
“Be mindful of your feelings”
from all those friends who also helped me along

In my room was Star Wars everywhere
With Han Solo on the dresser, away from the Millenium Falcon.
With Yoda on the computer desk, giving wisdom to all who work.
With young Anakin on the bookshelf, dreaming of his future.
I am from those moments
to which I want to forget.
Painful, memories are.

I concur with the calling Red-tailed Hawk -
in stoic visage over the painted field
At peace with the Spring farmer laboriously -
yearning to ever increase his Fall yield
I've knowledge of each grain of sand ensconced -
in myriad granite stones on the midnight path
Open to wisdom with the eyes of an Owl , in tune
with my past as the Buck patrolling the hardwood line
Settled as the Turtle Dove on daybreak frosted moors
As protective of my forested home as the wrath of
ravenous Bobcat , tempered with the hope of every songbird
in flight

Medicine is all relative.
The trick is to find something that makes you feel okay by the end of the day.
I think I've found one that works well,
(with a slight side-effect of sometimes making the next one a living hell.)

But I've found an antidote for this problem:
Bacon, eggs, toast and coffee.
Though I can't have more than three or else I'll get all jittery,
and start saying really weird things,
which may drive me to self-medicate a little more the following night.
You know, just to feel alright about all of the weird things I may have said and end up regretting later on.

Luckily, there are medicines that can erase regretful memories,
but you probably shouldn't have more than six of these,
or else some really weird things may start happening.

Like remembering where you parked the opossum car in that one dream you had when you turned thirteen,
while forgetting that today is your nephew's fourth birthday.

Here, I got you this.

"Hey, I don't think that's really an appropriate gift."

"What do you mean? I would've been thrilled to've my own taxidermied bobcat's head when I was six."

"There're so many things wrong with that sentence that I don't even know where to begin."

Medicine is all relative.
Subjective, if you will.
If what works for you doesn't work for them,
well then, who gives a ****?

We've all got our own illnesses to deal with.

I stood there on the cusp of something on the day the world was ending,
at her doorstep she was waiting, for this rag doll of a body,
but the bobcat of my mind was tightly sprung as if the clockwork had malfunctioned and it wound into the ether where infinity existed
and that day I wrote her name in stars across the milky way,
she smiled at me.

It never changed the course of things, the ship set sail across the seas and it was later that I realised the sea was me in sail across the oceans of her eyes,
her lips were signed in silver and I took the chance to kiss her but it blinded me in darkness and the stars that she had given, were so cruelly taken from me by some sailor on the port side and
she smiled.

There was time and then was nothing and the nothing filled with laughter which then rolled across the ocean and I knew the moment after she would smile,but then the thunder of the beating of my heart kept me from sleeping,
so, wide-eyed I watched the ending and it seemed like a beginning where I stood there on the cusp of something greater than the being and the being wasn't anywhere at all.
She stood there on the doorstep and the whole thing kept repeating as if the universe was cheating me of a final armageddon,
she just smiled.