i went to sunny spain  for a holidayi went to see a bullfight while along the waythere were lots of people standing in a crowdthen suddenly a roar went up and it was very loudfollowed by a matador it gave me such thrill as a bull run from  a gate one he had to killthe matador he stood waving out his capeteasing at the bull as he began to gapethe bull he made a  charge towards the matador.he pulled out his sword and the bull went to the floorthe poor bull was bleeding and his eyes began to closethen came his last breath snorting from his noseit was very sad as i watched him on the floornever will i see a bullfight never anymore

there was a little bull a lovely little thing
he had a thought of one day fighting in a ring
he travelled of to spain to watch the bullfight show
then he got prepared so he could have a go
through the gates he charged towards the matador
who stood there waiting in the middle of the floor
the bull began to charge and chase the cloth of red
tossing it away with horns upon his head
the crowds they loved the bull and they began roar
threw  hats  up in air the and shouted out for more
the little bull was happy he put on quite a show
he had made  the people happy and gave there hearts a glow.

Which takes us on a direct path to:
THE  INCIDENT.
Say you are a normal man—whatever that means—
But say it’s late June of 1993 and you’re laying on the couch,
Scratching your *****, trying to intuit your LDL level
Based on the two bowls of the Old Lady’s Cholesterol Chowder.
The Old Lady-- you can call her Peg or Mrs. Bundy—
Served it up in her special legacy china,
An assortment of recycled tin foil casserole dishes &
Vintage melmac handed down by your mother-in-law.
You are on the couch giving digestion your best shot,
Still scratching your agates when Peg comes
In from the kitchen with your second glass of
Two-buck chuck and a smoking fatty she’s just ignited,
Miraculously without burning the house down.
The TV is on—the TV is always on because
The TV has had no off button since 1984
You are tuned to the CNN evening news &
A report comes on that makes you sit up,
Snap to attention, straight up and take notice:
"WOMAN CUTS OFF HUSBAND'S *****!"
The media shrikes in Atlanta have your attention now,
Your complete attention;
Your eyes are riveted to the telescreen &
Your blood pressure spiking at 240 over 140.
During the previous night of June 23, 1993,
John Wayne Bobbitt arrives at the
Couple's apartment in Manassas, Virginia,
Highly intoxicated after a night of partying.
According to testimony given by Lorena Bobbitt
In a 1994 court hearing, he then rapes her.
Afterwards, Lorena Bobbitt gets out of bed,
Goes to the kitchen for a drink of water.
According to a journal article in the
National Women's Justice & Defense
League of Psychotic Castrating *******,
While in the kitchen she notices,
A carving knife on the counter & "memories of
Past domestic abuse races through her head."
Grabbing the knife, Lorena Bobbitt enters the bedroom
Where John is sleeping & proceeds to
Cut off nearly half his *****,
Half his Johnson,
In this instance aptly named.
So you have some schnook who’s named
After the iconic Hollywood superstar John Wayne . . .
Now understand something, John Wayne—
The ******* Duke of Earl--
Personifies everything alpha male:
Physique, animal magnetism & a pair of
Huge ***** swinging in his chaps as
He sashays across the screen.
In real life he’s a bullfight & cigar aficionado,
A big game hunter and sport fisherman, &
A hard drinking Hemingway hero
Who spends most of his time aboard
A customized WWII U.S. mine sweeper
******* to a pier behind his house in
Newport Harbor, California.
He’s the proverbial man’s man, &
There’s no one like him in America
Until maybe Eastwood or Willis comes along.
There’s a statue of him out in front of
The Orange County Airport that bears his name.
I have a photograph of him hanging in my garage
Next to a Mad-Dog 20-20 poster.
But I digress.
We return to the Bobbitt story because
It gets better, keeps getting crazier.
After assaulting her husband,
Lorena leaves the apartment with the severed *****,
Drives around aimlessly for a short while,
Then rolls down the car window &
Throws the ***** into a field.
Only then does the loony ***** realize
The severity of the incident.
She stops and calls 911.
After an exhaustive search by
Volunteers from the local Humane Society,
The ***** is located, packed in the ice-slurry of
A banana-flavored 7/11 Slurpee, &
Taken to the hospital where half-**** John Bobbitt
Gets a short-arm inspection and treated,
Mostly for shock and awe.
His ***** is later reattached by Drs. James T. Sehn &
David Berman during a nine-and-a-half-hour surgery
Filmed by Ken Burns and broadcast in its entirety by
WGBH Boston, a stunning illustration of
Your tax dollars hard at work
At the National Endowment for the Arts.
An abridged version later becomes the season premier of
"Girls Gone ******* ******, Manassas!"
Lorena goes on Oprah to explain herself.

Lorena Bobbitt ((née Gallo) was born in Ecuador.
Her maiden name, ironically,
Means **** in English.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio in Phoenix had this to say:
“Deport the *****. She may have an INS green card
But there’s no way she had a government permit to
Go around lopping ***** off in Virginia or any other state.
Who does she think she is, Janet Napolitano?”
Napolitano could not be reached for comment.
Shortly after the incident, episodes of "Bobbittmania,"
Or copycat crimes, were reported.
The name Lorena Bobbitt eventually became
Synonymous with ***** removal.
The terms "Bobbitt Punishment" and "Bobbitt Procedure" gained
Social cache with a radical break-away sect of N.O.W.
COPYCAT Catherine Kieu Becker, 48 (Garden Grove P.D.)  
Woman Accused of Cutting Off Husband's *****
Pleads Not Guilty/ VIDEO: Watch Jennifer Gould's Report
KTLA News   10:40 a.m. PST, February 3, 2012 /SANTA ANA, Calif.
"A 48-year-old woman accused of cutting off
Her husband's ***** and putting it
In the garbage disposal has pleaded
Not guilty to all the charges against her.
Catherine Kieu, of Garden Grove,
Was indicted earlier this month on
One felony count of torture &
One felony count of aggravated mayhem.
She also faces a sentencing enhancement for
Practicing surgical medicine without a license."
Sign up for KTLA 5 Breaking News Email Alerts
Comments (130) Add / View comments | Discussion FAQ
Happy627 at 10:35 PM January 18, 2012
"So my x-wife is a violent drunken *****?
Never once did I ever think of hurting her
But now I see I was wrong.
Vengeance's is the true answer & payback is hell.
So basically I should put an M-40
In her *** and light the fuse.
I should be acquitted from any wrong doing
Because she was a violent drunken *****.
Maybe all men should do this to their
Violent wives/girlfriends & teach them a lesson.
Cyanmanta at 1:10 AM January 11, 2012
In response to Doreen Meyer:
"So you're assuming that because he was the victim
He must have done something to deserve it
In some small way?
Typical of convenient feminism:
Assume all female victims are innocent &
Pure as driven snow,
While dismissing all male victims
With the idea that 'he had it coming.'
I wish I could pander shamelessly
To the media for preferential treatment,
But sadly, I am male (or as feminists would say)
The Evil Gender."
Westfield at 5:47 PM Jan.09, 2012
She should get her own show on the ***** channel.
(Bravo). KABC radio's John Phillips & his girlfriend
Nathan Baker would love to watch it."
Sluff it off, take a load off, baby.
Take a load off?
“Take a load off Annie,
Take a load for free;
Take a load off Annie, and
Bom bom bom bom
Bom be bom— & Dddddddddd,
You can put the load right on me.”
Send “The Weight” Ringtone to Your Cell

. . . Snipped, fixed, neutered, gelded,
Emasculated, eunuchized, or castrated?
(Castrating Forceps  (www.alibaba.com/
Showroom/castration-tool.html).
Bobbittized!

there was a little bull a lovely little thing
he had a thought of one day fighting in a ring
he travelled of to spain to watch the bullfight show
then he got prepared so he could have a go.

through the gates he charged towards the matador
who was stood there waiting. in the middle of the floor
the bull began to charge and chase the cloth of red
tossing it away with horns upon his head
the crowds they loved the bull and they began roar
threw  hats  up in air the and shouted out for more.

the little bull was happy he put on quite a show
he made  the people happy and gave there hearts a glow.

That someone
Transcendental
But the scene got dangerous
Lady confidential
The Candle in
the wind of diamonds

Went International
A kiss all over
Continental

{A Scene}she play like
a *** phone
The Xylophone,
not a girl's best friend
Used as a weapon

The scenes crying your eyes
out being alone
Taught her many lessons

And those I phones will become old
The new science of acting is bold
Like the I-spy  you've been
Sherlocked
Pretty smile closed locked
Your earrings what big loop
He's draping the sheerness
The fairest of them all
escaping they need the
The darkness hitting those
stage lights
With your lover
Your body so lovely but
The scene changed to the

{Arsenic and lace}

never will he cover
Death becomes her

What happened to
your love scene
So-called part of your face
His words can devour
her footprints
The scene next required
dinner mints
Like tracking

The trance what a long trip
My taste bud acidy
Flying with lucidity
Meeting My Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

The scene was set up with one crack
To be naked no lines left out train track

The Prince looked away
Never to kiss her

But its I
In the scene, someone will bless her

The whole shebang act
Not some kind of
Seed planted
Whole wheat clean as a whistle
bagel
With your cute beagles
Watching your whole set
Like twins or double bet
What a set she has
Detective scenes of
Chocolate Bavarian cream
Vanilla sky the scene you had
was only perfect for
your dream
Doughnuts all cream
She slipped out of her
French crazy horse
burlesque
scene

The Nutcracker ballet
What meaning yearning
But waiting so long my steps
Got lost in his fire
The desire was higher than
Those outtakes and scenes
To do over again
Primetime someone
Will do the scene again
They skipped over
too many lines
Became the dark silhouette
The scene can be changeable
Channeling into someone
remarkable

We are not built up
to take instructions
We are the someone's
Walking the thin line
Or the thin man
Slim man scene
The restriction chair
Like the guillotine
was the fad
Getting scared and angry
Someone showed up mad
Was pitch black dark of the light
Flickers

Should a scene have teasing
No silly quite the drama so
theatrical they hired someone
Was she anyone well known
Like no artist over the website
He was teasing her hair I mean
That wet diving suit was
like the Rite
She got the look shopping
at Shoprite
"Like Loreal" but more surreal
What April fools commercial
Loosening his tie so political
Their discussion all
exceptions to the rule
Bullfight what kick
in the pants mule


She was born Nutty Professor of snickers*


The true believers and achievers
The passion within us
The colors come to ******
Like a scene
We know how to act when
we aren't acting
Like the punctuations
P...I...E...C...E...S
Those nooks and cranny
bits of pieces

Look at her nieces
they look guilty
When we are doing a scene
It's not necessarily about
being wealthy
Everything is
tangible you're on your own
Even if you're not well known
Like a movie extra
Extra read all about it
I am capable of acting anyway I can
Like my words are written
They can shine a stage to glisten

Huddled flocks pecking around
seasick seasick seasick
Stor-it-all ransacked for tax reforms
jupiter pinetrees form less pyramids a month plus shipping
Monoatomic white gold texas teatree oil of bullfight storefronts
coronas eject breast milk of magnessium sulphate under the table
dealers lower deck slips tips into his cup o soup for 99 cents
landsick landsick rot cod rot cod
dot dash doctor ankh eyes windup toys half price
sentences complete fusion conagra foods lose stock market value
Judgement night of the living end time shared ethical treatments
and other plastic surgeries
hydra lost all the fifties movie stars heads and robots grew back so quickly to take their places everyone pay it forward
ships mast ripping into the ocean spray on tans
compass spun bankrupt Say Jack E onasis
chaste chasis mer ka bah light bringer fire eater
danse macabre four pillars swatch at Sacs on fifth avenue
avec mon couer le chat screams cheshire teeth porcupine all over my new
dress shirt,  that stain is not going to come out
and playground beef factory farmed like high school mindgames
seasick seasick see it see
i see

She really was real in reality where I was too real in your past


It past us by with no pillowfights , mutual loss of trustfunds
we never had
, purposefully failed attempts to make little beastly humans grow in her stomach and burst out like aliens happen in her car on long trips.

lost art of making art artfully with out chiclet teeth blank eyes and jumping breaking stuffand hitchhiker guy twisting wills
by throwing green boxes into the dark on bike trails

or inviting things to watch ***** fountains ,
endlessly cutting out pictures
, orange ice cream menthol cigarettes and choco pyramids ,
fake friends find you when you run away from yourself
so don't play hide and go seek or you might be gone forever until the devil finds you and takes you to jailbird

jacobs ladder rung 9  times and I answered my phone
"Hello ?"  
It was the silence of God on the line.
The cosmic vibration of pure being.
I didn't listen for long enough and ran out of minutes.

there was a little bull his color it was white
he was very clever and very very bright
he took a trip to Spain to a bullfight show
hoping when he got there he could have ago
there were lots of matadors in fancy hats and suits
with a big red cape and wearing fancy boots
bull he couldnt wait till they called his name
and be the bravest bull in the hall of fame
they called for him to fight in the bullfight ring
ready for his charge the bravest little thing
running round and round chasing at the cape
the crowds they were  amazed and they began to gape
bull he was the bravest that they ever saw
everybody clapped and called out for more
when the fight was over they called out his name
now the little bull is in the hall of fame

An uncompassionate crowd of 20,000
are tensely sitting in a stadium
bloodthirstily waiting for a cruel spectacle
they call a ‘bulllfight’
which is actually a ‘bull-harass-and-****’.
This brutal bloodsport
is celebrated as a national artform
in Spain
so the matadors (bullfighters) strut around proudly
in their suits of golden thread
to loud cheers and excited applause.

The bull, frightened suffering,
is harassed and killed in three stages:

The first stage is called ‘tercio de varas’
‘the lancing third’
when armoured-horse mounted lancers
use a long sharp lance
to spear the bull behind his shoulder muscles
to weaken the bull’s neck muscles
and begin the bull’s loss of blood;

The second stage is called ‘tercio de banderillas’
‘the third of banderillas’
when the matador attacks the bleeding-weakening bull
with banderillas (sharp barbed sticks)
stabbing the banderillas above the shoulder blades of the bull
to anger and agitate
the frightened bull fighting for his life.

The third stage is called ‘tercio de muerte’
‘the third of death’
when the matador baits the bull
with a red cape
then stabs the bull with a steel sword
aiming for his heart
but often missing
leaving the bull suffering multiple stab-wounds
bleeding, slowly miserably dying.

I wonder
when will this barbaric bull-harass-and-****
be banned in all nations?

there was a little bull a lovely little thing
he had a thought of one day fighting in a ring
he travelled of to spain to watch the bullfight show
then he got prepared so he could have a go.

through the gates he charged towards the matador
who was stood there waiting. in the middle of the floor
the bull began to charge and chase the cloth of red
tossing it away with horns upon his head

the crowds they loved the bull and they began roar
threw  hats  up in air the and shouted out for more.

the little bull was happy put on quite a show
he made  the people happy and gave there hearts a glow.

there was a little bull a lovely little thing
he had a thought of one day fighting in a ring
he travelled of to spain to watch the bullfight show
then he got prepared so he could have a go.

through the gates he charged towards the matador
who was stood there waiting. in the middle of the floor
the bull began to charge and chase the cloth of red
tossing it away with horns upon his head
the crowds they loved the bull and they began roar
threw  hats  up in air the and shouted out for more.

the little bull was happy he put on quite a show
he made  the people happy and gave there hearts a glow.

Tango on a tightrope
Argentine Cross vibrating the line
like the strings of a Latin guitar
playing our song
only a spider’s web for a net
if we fall

Waltz on a wall top thirty stories high
our story tops them all
traffic below doesn’t even see
top hat and tails, silk gown
cocktails in our hands
Fred and Ginger sit it out to watch

Rumba on a rope bridge
hips sway in time
with the windblown span
gliding past missing boards
waterfall below shouts up to us
can’t make out what it says

Paso Doble on a plane
faux bullfight on a wing
Matador and his scarlet cape
pose and sweep
turbulence tilts the dance floor
ten thousand feet to the ground

Quickstep in the quicksand
feet so light in rapid step
no time to sink
flow across the surface
to syncopated beats
shoes left stuck to the floor

steps we mastered long ago

now we glissade and sweep
only to the rhythm of us
most challenging of all dances
and most natural of movements
always in step
dancing on the edge of our hearts

My love is focused stares across a crowded room, extended fingertips, longing.
My love is inopportune places at inopportune times.
My love is counting down the minutes until work is over.
My love is picturing his clothes in a ball on my bedroom floor,
my love is his clothes on me.
My love is wanting to open Christmas presents early, but worth waiting for.
My love is drunken nights sobbing on the bathroom floor, men are allowed to rely on their women.
Sometimes my love is a pumpkin spice latte, seasonal.
My love is jumping off a plane and opening a parachute, jumping off a bridge and feeling the bungee chord; thrilling, seemingly dangerous but I'm always protected.
My love is falling down seven times, standing up eight.
My love is my steadfast faith in what I can't see.
My love is renovating a burnt down city. Finding beauty in ashy remains.
My love is 4 AM night terrors, soft whispers, fingers through my hair.
My love is lust wrapped in a pretty package.
My love is fire, whether it keeps me warm or destroys everything in its wake depends on the day.
My love is "**** that guy baby, he doesn't matter, you're not alone, I love you, you're beautiful." My love judges people he doesn't know so my wrists stay porcelain, not Crimson.
My love hates my music but listens anyway, hates my glasses but looks at me anyway, hates my singing but sings with me anyway.
My love is a bullfight on eggshells. We know nothing of subtlety.
My love is a diamond in the rough, he's the diamond, I'm the rough.
My love is ******* up everyday and wearing his patience thin.
My love is holding the same hand, kissing the same lips, seeing the same eyes every day and never getting bored.

They say “life happens”
and it turns out, death waits.
I am like a bull
charging into his flourish
The matador, opposite of my emotion
I am lucky, for he is patient

It takes two to tango but
it’s just you in this
this dance with death
and as you slip away, into it
charging becomes
running
becomes running to
becomes running from
and in the end, it’s all just
running

This bullfight is anything but
a dichotomy
escapades are laced with
fear and aggression
impulses are masked by
roars of the crowd.
To them you’re not you, just who they think
they wouldn’t know emotions you don’t even know yourself

It is a fear.
Calves are trained to hate humans
conditioned and cultivated in fear
fight becomes flight
it is a game.

Run free in this coliseum
chase what is the end and what defines the beginning

By: Cedric McClester

He’s just a clown
In the bullfight
Who rarely gets
Things right
His statements are shared
To give us insight
But are subject to change
Almost overnight

He’s often billed
As the President’s lawyer
Or as the buffoon
Who’s an alibi destroyer
He’s often corrected
By his employer
Who lies as much
As a Tom Sawyer

Clearly the man is
A spotlight *****
Or better put
The President’s flunky
Who frequently gets
Like an ***** grinder’s monkey
A tad too cute
And a little bit spunky

He’s just a clown
In the bullfight
Or a convenient
Distraction
Who likes the arena
As well as the action
But as painful
As a tooth abstraction










Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

The dark dance calls softly,
like Night Shade or Oleander.
Just a little taste...
Just one more slow waltz...
I can smell her
wet orchid while I sleep.
She moves languidly through
my dreams, possesses me at dawn
with lambent steps.
The love is violent, like a bullfight.
It's sweet and treacherous, ferocious.
Fatal for one of us;
and she's been gored.

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “City That Does Not Sleep”


Sporting white top hats, the Sierra Nevada mountains
**** up against the new dawn's Andalusian sky, casting
craggy shadows across the quiet calles of Grenada.
Restlessly, the darkened city churns in its sleep.

Federico Garcia Lorca strums his yellow guitar,
tuning it to a cante jondos, a deep song of duende,
dark heart of flamenco and the bullfight and his own
fatalistic poems: moans of his inexorable execution

at Franco's hellish hands. Fascism fears the poet,
the ferocious oracle of duende, who rips out the
roots of authority, the dark clods of captivity, who
vows to dive underground, digesting bitter earth

like bullets from the firing squad. They shout, Victoria!
as Garcia Lorca's listless body slides along the bloodied wall.
Duende, he once told a lecture hall, haunts death's house.
It will not appear until it spies that fiercely angled roof.

                                        * * *

In the branches of the laurel tree
I saw two dark doves
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “Of the Dark Doves”


His mother bellows on the spirit's wind, over the hobbled
heads of the dead, in search of an inexpressible "new,"
the endless baptism of freshly created things, as Garcia Lorca
loved to lecture. Ending and refrain burn blood like glass.

Few mourners cast a spell over the public patrons gnawing
on his books, seeking some taste of destiny, identity, some
word of the eternal voice of Spain. I am no Spaniard, yet
I claim to be a poet. Garcia Lorca gifts me with his song.

Its maudlin melody marches up my spine, scorches
my eyes, which smolder under the noonday sun, spewing
ashes to ashes, igniting dust to dust. The dark memory
of the buried ruins of saddened Spain steadily seeps

through wilted wreaths tossed at Franco's feet. No
offering for the conqueror, they exude a sickly odor
of offal, of ordinary flesh rotting on shattered ribs.
Gunshot mixes with marrow, smoke fumigates the poem.

                                        * * *

No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “City That Does Not Sleep”


No one is sleeping, yet the world will not awaken.
The slain poet merits no notice. We bow our
heads in humiliation at the philistine ways
of savage, civilized societies. All cultural wealth

but poetry suffocates in its bed. Duende sends Garcia
Lorca’s poems soaring above feeling and desire,
above the consecration of form. How many enjambments
mire in dark waters? How many stanzas lay bricks

of marble and salt? Garcia Lorca sings of hemlock and
demons, of Socrates and Descartes. But the profane
choruses of drunken sailors shatter any hope for his
new poetic style. They reject all the sweet geometry

that maps the darkened heart of southern Spain, where
Moors and Gypsies set up camp, pulling sleights of hand
on gullible gamblers, assured that Andalusia knows no
other artifice than the machine-gun-fire flights of flamenco.

                                        * * *

In the branches of the laurel tree
I saw two naked doves
One was the other
and both were none
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “Of the Dark Doves”


Garcia Lorca lies on the floor to fence with the phantoms
of his future. His black boots shine in the saddened sun.
The fattened face of Franco appears: an anxious cry for
more water, for dousing naked doves in duende’s black pool.

Writers live and die like newly created roses. Aromas
rise from vast yearnings, inured to the penance of suffering.
Above duende's golden serpent, a crooked soldier salutes
the fruit of Fascism. Dawn's lemons dangle at the edge of time.

Only 19 years embody Garcia Lorca's high-strung calling.
An awkward teen at his writing desk, he scribbles notes
about his mellifluous malaise. Modernismo flourishes in the
shadow songs of caves. Dark doves coo. Duende never lies.

His mother wails, wrapped in her mantilla of Spanish black. Head
thrown back, heels clicking hard, she swirls against the fiery flanks
of flamenco. Prancing like an epic stallion, she nudges her anguished
son: asleep, asleep. Today, duende has entered the dark house of death.

you hear their anger, like a bullfight and your ribcage is the ring
your heart is the rodeo clown,
his job is to take the hits
if you’re not fast enough
you’re not good enough

Spanish steps
one rythm
solo vocals
just one hymn

The night unveils
above the platform
white owls screeching
in the night. A
tender arrival suits
himself all in red.
These ebullient moons of
the nights harken back.

The bloodstain of a
bullfight paints the
steps of the biblioteca,
across the street from
the church of The Santa Pina.

The blooming spanish
seed of a thousand nights'
planets consort dancing under
the moonlight's dress.

Only once a chance was
given to all these
prevailers of the
night.

Now in silence
a hot brass chortle
confuses and erupts and erases
killing midnight from the eve.

The moonlit night has
danced, the passing
trains ought forwards and on
ward and too and too,
and another night
passes from stillness
to excitement.

.i only wrote this to write... it's never about drinking for drinking per se, or to entertain "thinking"... for the first time in 4 months i took my usual night-time walk... i wanted to precursor spring... to fill the air with perfumes - so i washed myself - applied the deodrant... the almond cream, i trimmed my ***** hairs... i oiled my beard... i applied coconut cream to my face - a mango infused balm to the hands - deodrant to the feet - i left the house imitating a magnolia bush... or all that *** i get up to come the nights of yesteryear when spring finally comes and all the trumpets are alight with the wind rustling them and ushering our the scents...

at some point in my drinking:
i feel the puppet strings loosen -
and i arrive at a kuru dance spectacular -
it's hardly a dance:
it's more akin to a gimmick -
more: akin to sharpening a misnomer
on the stone-grinding-the-never-to-be-used-blade
of a synonym: blockage...
****... always with the blockage -
i can't really be making excuses:

does this even resemble a paragraph?!
once upon a time; perhaps -
but even now, without rhyme without
sparrow without a horizon
of the climbing sun -
above a horizon of mountains
of Macedonia in the cleft of a valley -
just pristine rising -
on the plateau of: where
sea fiddles with the sky and vice versa...

of a language best leftover to
a hangover of: much better use of it...
should i be bound to being sober,
being the better attired man...
when i would break the tide along
with Xerxes whipping the sea
into submission -
better well attired: purposively tailored...

a crackling sound from a snippet
interlude of how a bow-tie was born
simultaneously with the sparrow -
how man was so borrow the donning
of the tie with a crane's elongated neck -

but again: how is "one" to not tire -
gender neutrality of pronoun usage -
began with the royals - ends with the royals:
the crown is not even upon by head
and yet: this expectation's toll...

one "thing" to call it a poetic metaphor...
another to call it...
a psychiatric: hush hush: invite the broom!
it's oh so tiresome...
tiresome to have to want of this world...
nothing more than a transitional
escapade...
this life that needs a mortgage...
however taxed or not taxed...
with insurance fail-safe investments...

i see a sun... i call it...
the Switz take on euthanasia...
and i'm very much a fan of this:
when one, simply, becomes, tired...
and one can tire very easily...

i sometimes read the poetryfoundation.org
editorial spew...
at least they forget custard and
never, oh never never:
start the show off with fudge packing...
the ballerina breaks a leg...
a crescendo of sound makes it into
an orchestra of a waterfall -
the echo shouted into a cave...
learns of the vampiric inability to see
a mirror reflection...
the echo begins to learn to become silent...
the image is no longer seen,
the echo will never be heard...

the ice-sharpnel in the eye -
the cave has learned to glutton the would be echo...
gobble gobble it down it must....
it will not regurgitate any fleeting sound back...
and a day will come when
a man will start to philia - not love...
more: befriend his own shadow...
because it's not that beauty fades...
by that (circumstance)
there was always that interlude
of tampered with inflated beauty...
otherwise no delusion:
it was "fate" that it would happen...

and that will not stand
on anything but stilts riddled
with foundations made of sand...

an old woman's skin like creases
of forever folding paper -
but never quiet an art of origami -
more like creases - scrunches -
how an inflated ballon filled with
a dead body feels like
in dio and carbon dance -
then dipped into liquid nitrogen
will eventually look like -

like an onion dipped in the same liquid -
later picked up and smashed lazily...

what am i supposed to see...
something akin to Postnik Yakovlev's
or Ivan Barma's eyes were not gauged
out by Tsar Ivan:
dropping dogs from high-buildings
was a "thing"... st. basil's was also the last
sight of beauty before the moon allowed
her full blossom of *****...
or before the light scortched the eyes
into a fizzling out fiddle of
not lasting expectation: as ever...
this epitaph anticipation...

casual language: non-narrative...
no character study....
pork chops and a date with the halal
butcher... since the kosher one
"sort of"... "forgot"...
catching the tide of the "white flight" from
London...

absolutely no appreciation for
greek orthodox cenobite chants...
perhaps it's now wonder...
yugoslavia... how it didn't dissolve
peacefuly akin to the gorbachev plan...
because the serbs went sword for sword
with the muslims of the balkans...
and what not...

no... this is not poetryfoundation.org
type of poetry...
white is allocated to... what?
english? french?
i see the root of the argument...
in russia... it looks very much
termite infested: próchno!
which one would call: it's not driftwood...
it's spongewood... sinkwood...

but i have to thank the russians...
i need it!
it will not simply be: pleaSure...
it would be as simple if the anglo-ßaß
interchange were to happen...
but even then!
ж = ž = ż = rz...

you have these signs in your language:
but it's almost... like you can't...
rather than don't want to use them!
i need the russians' 'elping 'and...

с = s = ç

(х) - lo(ch) - i call it the drill -
oh is no och, faye dunn!
what's new?

no...

   ц (cy - niet ka ka)
c'erp...

ч contra х...
č / ч 'asem...

ж                         ш

                 щ

                 šč (,) that's added to the š'
is also a szczekam: i bark...

either these are the leftovers -
or these be the crumbs...

ж = ż = rz...
and therefore? depending which language...
caron r (ř) or caron z (ž) = ж...

it's very much unlike hiding a vowel...
as the hebrews do...

but i can only thank the russian encoding
of allowing me to stress
the difference between C and K in english...
greek is dead to ditto...

not quiet a с - or... cedilla attached - i.e. s...
certainly not a к...
i'm pretty sure the greeks have their:
phi and theta - psi and chi...

pivot letters from russian:

ц: plaцki - cakes -
ч: płaч - crying...
    velsh: pwaach...
х: хolera - cholera - c'olera -
otherwise: not latch but loch nessie...
ж: pleaßure...
   or... żart... but that does depend on
the caron... žart...
and half of the caron?
       źrenica - pupilla... pupil...

back toward:

ш + ч = щ...
i too was waiting for the following equation:

ш + ц = щ...
but no...

let's not discuss the variations
of й, у, ъ, ь, ю or я...

am i not entertaining a language i will not learn
to a level of conversation?
most assuredly!

зъ in roman would almost look like
ж - well... ż or the caron eventuality...
these are hardly shortcuts...

cheap - pointers...
shameless office-hours... nothing but b & w
printing - and making coffee for
the muggers of hours -

a break from solving a sudoku...
back into looking at russian -
oh... just the language... no painting needs
to be summoned...
although...

at the royal academy of arts...
when i was skipping lectures at U.C.L.
i spotted this eye-pleasure
in flesh and blood and oil and brush strokes...
and how it towered over me...

PHILIPP MALYAVIN
peasant woman dancing...
nothing exactly compares to seeing this
painting in real life -
hell - the mona lisa is...
a bit like a nail-clipping...
compared to growing your hair long
and then shaving it...

beauty or technicality...
if the royal academy of arts...
would showcase the bullfight by pyotr
konchalovsky -
what's this poem this poem this isn't
a poem this poo'em?

i lament the non-existence of diacritical
markers in the english lounging-attache -
the lazy tongue that thought...
i'm not willing to play with anagrams...
i am not a fan of anagrams -
every other language game to escape
learning a second language...
crossword puzzles -
to stick to the monolingual enterprise...

thankfully for some they were born
into english: sell that talking point in scandinavia
or belgium, or the netherlands...
somewhat germany, somewhat poland...
the tourists' lingo or...
where those movies come from...

why wouldn't i look at russian letters?
a fond break-away from any sudoku -
but only via russian can a distinction be made
when... some random english native
sees a suffix -cki...
-цки...

no: no amount of cyst or garcons or whatever
would ever prepare anyone for...
ч or... well (ch)atter... but not for the piquant...
dumać: to muse...

my mother tongue my affair it seems...
well... there's that...
or there's the netizen language -
or any portmanteau language in general -
but never to truly mind the hieroglyphics
of :) -

one lion roars - another lion yawns...
this most certainly sounds better in german...
eins löwe brüllt - ein anderes gähnt -
bad german is worse than no german;
at least bad german satisfies my basic fetish:
the per se.

/funny... the thing about the minotaur in a maze... the minotaur never faces the torero... a labyrinth does not allow for a charging bull impetus... how would a typical bullfight look like between a bull and a torero in a labyrinth? probably less... fame-arriving of the torero... with the spectacle in claustrophobia... the dead bull in both instances... but less... the concern for "heroism" on part of man... unless the lost man seeking answer, exit, end of the labyrinth... and the head of a bull atop a body of man... able to charge, zig-zagging!

no offense, but none taken,
but i sometimes prefer rye
to a french brioche, sometimes...
not always...
                         but i sometimes do...
who was that  m.d. who wrote
a book about *** differences,
having reread the lord of the flies,
revealing the "male" reading
"habits" of: bypassing the narrative
elements in order to get to
the dialogue? ****** didn't
cheat and read only
Aeschylus?
     bounds decreed eternally;
else would heart outstripping
tongue
  cast misgiving to the winds.
now in darkness deep it groans,
brooding in sickly despair,
and no longer it hopes to resolve
in an orderly web these
  mazes of a fevered mind
(prior to clytemnestra)...
straight to the dialogue!
       so much for the male
concern to mind the narrative
and bypass dialogues...
              or a: focus for a need to
make it: pivoting.
   bothersome attention to mind...
who knows what is
dialogue and what isn't
narrative, and how many people
sometimes are permitted
to appear, disguised as narrator...
no wonder then,
the taught scenario of solipsistic
narration, shying away from
the guillotine...
                 but if a doctor,
skips past the descripite bits of
lords of the flies chasing dialogues...
you sure he should be trusted
with a human anatomy?!
                no, i'm pretty sure i never
ever not finished a book...
however tedious...
            last time i checked it too me
2 months to finish a book...
but i did... not that it was boring
or anything,
  but it was, to me...
the corner stone of the subsequent
2 months... meaning?
within the 2 months i had other bricks
or lay down,
  the book itself?
           a corner i orientated my
two months against...
           as a way to digest time...
enongate it when necessary,
and shortening it when concerning
a "necessary" pivot...
                ****... a doctor rereading
the lord of the flies disclosing he:
passes the descriptive narrative
segments to get to the narrative?!
could have been a Shakespearean hafiz!
this is not even peacocking...
it's only making available what's
made ready...
      what is...
            closer than the sun,
to cradle a mind and revel in disclosing
it, to: another.

Sometimes we just need to say to ourselves that things will turn out all right.
The fact is, life now is never going to stop being a constant bullfight.

Mental struggles everyday are with us it seems on the hour.
How will we persist, from where will we get the power?

Since things adverse will always find their way deep into our skin.
No sense in our infinitely looking back at the negatives of where we’ve been.

Going forward from where we are is the correct key.
It opens the only door to our positive sanity.

Hence on, when that next dilemma comes along what can we immediately say?
Very simply,
It’ll be okay
It’ll be okay

I know that you are thinking, is this really going to do anything, and in you perhaps is much doubt?
But just think for a moment of all your past problems, and how you thought there was no possible way out.
Was God not always there to make you firm and stout?

The resolution came along did it not?
You certainly didn’t continue in the same confounding spot.

So once again I give you in just three words that with which to combat life’s endless situations of uncertain grey.
It’ll be okay
It’ll be okay

An additional piece of most important and wise advice that will solidify our recovery in all of life’s quandaries.
Remembering always with wisdom from God, all solutions to our deepest problems have no boundaries.

He’ll give us the way out when we don’t know how?
Leave us to crumble when we are in a difficult predicament, he simply will not allow.

If we ask from a heart of sincerity for help, he will always be there.
Please remember, our Heavenly Fathers love for us, is beyond all compare!

As a father most compassionate, when faced with trials, can you hear the reassuring words he to us will tenderly say?
It’ll be okay...
It’ll be okay...


J.I.F.


Matthew 6:34
34 So never be anxious about the next day, for the next day will have its own anxieties. Each day has enough of its own troubles.

James 1:5
5 So if any one of you is lacking in wisdom, let him keep asking God, for he gives generously to all and without reproaching, and it will be given him.

John 3:16
16 For God loved the world so much that he gave his only-begotten Son, so that everyone exercising faith in him might not be destroyed but have everlasting life.

1 Peter 5:6,7
6 Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God, so that he may exalt you in due time,  7 while you throw all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you.

Dressed in a black and white polka dot dress

You eat pie while sitting on the floor.

There is a table at the center of your one-story house with three bedrooms in the living room.

It is somewhere up north.

I left

For the department store.

Airplanes, cars, President, everything.

A department store worker helped me as soon as I walked in.

“I saw an image of myself on a postcard yesterday.”

“Last night, I dreamt I was playing basketball.”

“Maybe it’s space.”

    “with fuzzy hair,
      

“To father time: jealously.”

Like a woman and man,
    the soccer game is over.
        I wish you knew
            that it weren’t.

And that life can be described as baking a cookie.

That there are several ingredients.

First, you need cookie dough and a cookie

Roller.

II

A ghost is in your living room.

We are speaking two different languages.

We are arguing.

There are books spread out on the ground.

Sarah is painting the inside of her first house.

She places a ***
                For a plant
              On a table, outside
                          her house

Her house is painted white.

The trees are slightly blowing

When I leave the department store.

III

I wore an apricot shirt

Made my way to

My grandmother’s house on Freeman Drive

Then left for my apartment on Broadway in San Antonio, Texas.

IIII

“We are doing the same thing
            only you’re much
             more beautiful
              & I’m a thief
              looking outside
                  my window.”

I could lose everything
And there would still be
Billions of people I’d never
Meet. And millions that
Would never like me.

V

“Can you paint?”

Your body is enough.

Follow him:

the music, jobs, eighth grade plays, backyards, an increase in salary, a doll house, the broadcast on FM radio tuned into channel 153, compacting everything into a jar, a very delicate and antique jar, cranberry juice inside the jar, a doctor, the maximum amount of money a lottery winner can win, jackpot, retail stores, a playground, leaning into discomfort.
May 9th & 10th 2018

taste
is what Emily wants
so she thinks of ships that set sail
and attempt to reach the edge of the earth

but she finds no refuge only what you bought her
because before I left for home
a person who is assumed to be a bike shop owner and who wants an increase in salary
would be better for Emily, than me, why would I think, to write that Emily wants to taste the paint of a ship?

Emily rides her bike and plays with dolls

and is full of life

but she

does not want to go to the bullfight

she
closed her window
last night
before going to sleep
&
To my right is a warning sign

& last night before Emily closed the window

she thought of the ship and how it would taste to tear the paint off of the ship
and eat it
    In Emily’s dream,
she
      wore an apricot shirt
I know this because I used binoculars to peer into her dream
from my apartment’s window
but I felt strange so I began to laugh and
left my house
                     for Broadway
& took 410 to a bookstore called Chevers, which houses
3500 books of a variety of sorts
and I drove past a hospital and
was satisfied with my fuzzy hair
and the image of Emily eating the paint from a ship

It was 11:46 am on a Tuesday and

after passing the hospital,

I passed a soccer game

where 13-year-old boys played against each other

then remembered I left the oven on in my apartment.

The trees were beautiful on the way to the bookstore,

but I ignored them, I could only think of Emily.

But still thought,

“if I focus, I can thoroughly
pull all of the petals off
        of the flowers
from the side of the road”

And at the bookstore, Chevers, I picked up a book of psychology:

       I learned about
the factors that increase the risk for youth suicide
and self-harm.
I stole the word ‘coercion’ from a book of poetry
I thought, “this word is my insurance”
But still hated and that’s why I drank too much alcohol
in my youth and why I’m weening myself off the drugs I stole from a group of teenagers
who lacked the awareness that by the breath of a distant friend and the light that shines on me
& Adam and Eve, & gods, fin, who in their day could go home to their cloud and see the sunset
or beach, from heaven, or maybe it’s the ocean, or maybe it’s the skin of the sheep I skinned
where upon you asked me about the aromas, the smell of the sheep, after it’s skin has been removed.

I wanted badly to correct the wrong, that was why I was doing drugs and drinking and lying on the 50-yard line of a football field.

“it is supposed to be metaphorical,” you know, it allows me to cleanse myself, I think, sitting in my apartment, thinking of my day at Chevers.

“to cure the illness that is a lack of self-control and poor impulse control.”

Because obviously I should have taken the drugs from the teenager and given them to a police officer, that’s what greater men do, anyways.

juices batteries
Dodge performance vehicle
bullfight's bull, charger

Something light
By day or night
Is just not right
It is tainted with fights

From a cockfight
I have foresight  
Based on hindsight
It'll end in a fistfight

Also, if she is water-tight
And you break it over-night
Be ready for a bullfight
Your generation will end as a bombsight

Clad in a tight
Gives you no right
To cultivate her headlight
All rights reserved for "her night"

It will be my delight
To see you out of sight
Incarcerated just downright
Oh justice! How so sweet and right.