Lost in the dim
streets of the
Marunouchi district
I describe
this wounded city in an
  unending internal
monologue as I follow
the signs to Tokyo Station and
descend into the
underground passages
  of the metro,
seeking life and anything bright
in this half-lit, humid midnight.

I find the train finally
to Shibuya, the Piccadilly
and Times Square of Japan,
and even there the lights
are dimmer and the neon
  that does remain
  is all the more garish by
contrast.
I cross the street
near a sign that says
  "Baby Dolls" in English
over a business that turns
out to be a pet
  shop, of all things.

Like
the Japanese, I sometimes feel I live
in reduced circumstances, forced to proceed with caution:
A poorly chosen
adjective, a
mangled metaphor
could so easily trigger the
tsunami that
    sweeps away the containment
             facilities that
                   protect us
                        from ourselves
                                                            and others.
  
The next night at dinner, the sweltering room
     suddenly rocks and
        conversation stops
                  as the building sways and the
candles flicker.

'Felt like a 4, maybe a 5,'
says one of my tablemates,
a friend from years ago
in the States.

'At least a five-and-a-half,'
says another, gesturing
at the still-moving shadows
on the wall. And I think
     of other sweaty, dimly lit rooms,
      bodies in slow, restrained motion,       all
          in a moment that falls
                         between
                                     tremors.

         Then the swaying stops and we return
to our dinner. The shock, or aftershock,
isn't mentioned again,
though we do return, repeatedly, to the
big one,
         and the tidal wave that
                           swept so much away.

En route to the monsoon
I go east to come west,
   clouds gathering slowly
     in the vicinity of my chest.

Next day in Shanghai, the sun's glare reflects
  off skyscrapers,
and the streets teem
with determined shoppers
and sightseers
wielding credit cards and iPhone cameras, clad
in T-shirts with English words and phrases.
I fall
          in step
             beside a young woman on
                 the outdoor escalator whose
shirt, white on black,
reads, 'I am very, very happy.' I smile
and then notice, coming
down the other side,
another woman
wearing
        exactly the same
       message, only
                        in neon pink. So many
                                  very,
                                          very
                                                 happy people!
Yet the ATMs sometimes dispense
counterfeit 100 yuan notes and
elsewhere in the realm
      police fire on
      protestors seeking
                more than consumer goods,
while officials fret
about American credit
and the security of their investments, and
     the government executes mayors for taking
                       bribes from real estate developers.
    
    A drizzle greets me in Hong Kong,
a tablecloth of fog draped over the peaks
   that turns into a rain shower.
I find my way to work after many twists and turns
through shopping malls and building lobbies and endless
turning halls of luxury retail.
               At dinner I have a century egg and think
of Chinese mothers
urging their children,
'Eat! Eat your green, gooey treat.
On the street afterwards, a
near-naked girl grabs my arm,
pulls me toward a doorway marked by a 'Live Girls’
sign. 'No kidding,’ I think as I pull myself carefully
free, and cross the street.

On the flight to Bombay, I doze
   under a sweaty airline blanket, and
       dream that I am already there and the rains
         have come in earnest as I sit with the presumably
           semi-fictional Didier of Shantaram in the real but as-yet-unseen
            Leopold's Café, drinking Kingfishers,
              and he is telling me,  confidentially,
                     exactly where to find what I’ve lost as I wake
with the screech and grip of wheels on runway.
            

     Next day on the street outside the real Leopold's,
bullet holes preserved in the walls from the last terrorist attack,
I am trailed through the Colaba district
by a mother and children,  'Please sir, buy us milk, sir, buy us some rice,
I will show you the store.'
    A man approaches, offering a drum,
                        another a large balloon (What would I do with that?)
A shoeshine guy offers
                                           to shine my sneakers, then shares
the story of his arrival and struggle in Bombay.
     And I buy
             the milk and the rice and some
                      small cakes and in a second
                          the crowd of children swells
                               into the street
               and I sense
                     the danger of the crazy traffic to the crowd
                         that I have created, and I
think, what do I do?
           I flee, get into a taxi and head
                             to the Gateway of India, feeling
                                                                                  that I have failed a test.

                                       My last night in Mumbai, the rains come, flooding
     streets and drenching pavement dwellers and washing
the humid filth from the air. When it ends
           after two hours, the air is cool and fresh
                                  and I take a stroll at midnight
          in the street outside my hotel and enter the slum
   from which each morning I have watched
the residents emerge,  perfectly coiffed. I buy
some trinkets at a tiny stand and talk briefly
      with a boy who approaches, curious about a foreigner out for a walk.

A couple of days after that, in
the foothills of the Himalayas,  monks' robes flutter
on a clothesline like scarlet prayer flags behind the
Dalai Lama's temple.
I trek to 11,000 feet along a
narrow rocky path through thick
monsoon mist,
   stopping every 10 steps
to
   catch
        my  breath,
              testing each rock before placing my weight.
Sometimes
    the surface is slick and I nearly fall,
sometimes
    the stones
        themselves shift. I learn slowly, like some
             newborn foal, or just another
                clumsy city boy,
                   that in certain terrains the
       smallest misstep
                            can end with a slide
                                             into the abyss.
                  At the peak there's a chai shop that sells drinks and cigarettes
                                of all things and I order a coffee and noodles for lunch.
While I eat,
      perched on a rock in a silence that is both ex- and
      in-ternal,
the clouds in front of me slowly part to reveal
a glacier that takes up three-quarters of the sky, craggy and white and
beautiful. I snap a few shots,
quickly,
before the cloud curtain closes
again,
obscuring the mountain.
                                                
                                     --Rob Urban: Tokyo, Shanghai, Mumbai, Delhi, Dharamshala
                                        7/13/11-7/30/11

the party to welcome colleen mcCullough and kel nagle to the cosmos


yes, the party has started when aw good golfer and friendly person passes away

yeah, he departs earth with a big PARTY, up on the planet os SATURN

with slim dusty sings i love to have a methane with old kel, here

i love to tip methane on him

we’ll drink in moderation, and we’ll burn the suffering out of him

you see, we drink in the town and country, and PARTY with methane, oh yeah

i love to have a nice methane with kel nagle, cause he is our pal

and then sam kinison yelled out WILD THING, OH YEAH LET’S PARTY

you make my heart come right out of my body, and into my lap

you dark and despicable wild thing

and, payne stewart, got a meteorite, and gave it to kel saying, your my inspiration

then scott mcdonald came up to kel and said, come with me, i’ll show you round the after life

ready to have a bottler PARTY for once and for all

and kel picked up some methane and tipped it on himself saying, i am now one of you

then the door bell rings and who can it be, and barry allan answers the door, and it is

colleen McCullough, the author of the thorn birds enters saying welcome everyone

i am the great colleen mcCullough, and i just ended my stint on earth

so i can calm the spirit of ronnie biggs and osama bin laden

and she said to brian allan, yes, it’s great you don’t want to have any scandals in stardom

but brian allan, you are popular on youtube, and you do acting  in canberra

and you entertain in poetry slams, dude, ok and don’t stress about hollywood, listen to your father, buddy

then colleen released paul berenyi and said, you leave the after life ALONE osama and biggs

and go straight to fucken hell, ok, because i am about to go into work to

keep my spirit running into my next life, to fight this wart on terror, it’s a hard battle

i died of natural causes, but, terrorists, really are ruining mother earth, ok

so we need all religions to come together to fight on this war, fight on this war on terror

and colleen mcCullough, guarded paul and all the others from stupid osama ghost laden

so kel angle and colleen mcCullough took each others hands and danced to

pardon me boys, it’s the chattanooga chop chop toot toot

you see it’s party down in party town

so pardon me boys, it’s the chattanooga chop chop, yeah yeah

we’ll party on till our rebirth oh yeah

and then sang the big hit called ain’t she sweet

see her coming down the street, i ask her very confidentially ain’t she sweet

ain’t she nice, look her over once or twice, i ask you very confidentially ain’t she nice

just cast an eye, in her direction, oh me oh my ain’t this perfection, i repeat

i repeat, don’t you think this is kinda neat, i ask you very confidentially ain’t she nice

pardon me boys, it’s the chattanooga choo choo, oh yeah

come on dudes, swing this party right, come on ya dudes

it’s the chattanooga chop chop, oh yeah, come on

and this train is heading to our new home on neptune, till our earth bodies, get reborn

slim yells out i would love to have a beer with kel and colleen, cause they were our famous mates

and welcome to the afterlife, enjoy ya stay here, in preparing for your next life,

WE ALL HOPE IT GOES WELL

brian allan as cronus said as he places a piece of green gassy methane on kel and colleen

saying

HOPE YOU RELAX, TO MAKE YOUR NEXT LIFE VERY FRUITFUL, DUDES

and kel ended up hitting a hole in one from saturn to the point in neptune

and it reached that point in neptune in one hit, COOL MAN

THE ALLAN FAMILY STORY PART 4




YA SEE, I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A LITTLE COOL KID TO THE FAMILY

IN MY MUM AND DADS EYES, AND I USED TO PLAY SHOWS LIKE THE COOPERS

FAMILY, WHICH IS ABOUT RON AND SALLY’S QUEST TO OPEN A FAMILY BUSINESS

IN A HOSPITAL, WHERE THEY HAD A SON, DAVID, AND HE MARRIED RAELEEN

AND THEY HAD A BOY NAMED DON COOPER, AND THEY HAD A DAUGHTER NAMED

SUE COOPER WHO MARRIED BIKIE JOHN PRENDTH, AND HAD A LITTLE BOY NAMED

FRANK PRENDTH, AND I WAS GETTING INSPIRATION FROM MAGAZINES AND TV

ON HOW TO BRING MORE CHARACTERS, LIKE JACK RUNNING THE BAR, JEAN AS THE COOK

AND MARTIN TATE, AS THE AMBULANCE DRIVER, WHO WAS A BIT OF AN ALCOHOLIC

WHO WAS IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH MENTAL HEALTH NURSE, MICHELLE TATE, AND THE

THEME SONG WAS, AIN’T SHE SWEET, SEE HER COMING DOWN THE STREET

I ASK HER VERY CONFIDENTIALLY, AIN’T SHE SWEET, AIN’T SHE NICE

LOOK HER OVER ONCE OR TWICE, I ASK YOU VERY CONFIDENTIALLY AIN’T SHE NICE

JUST CAST AN EYE, IN HER DIRECTION, OH ME OH MY, AIN’T THAT PERFECTION

I REPEAT, I THINK THAT’S KIND OF NEAT, I ASK YOU VERY CONFIDENIALLY AIN’T SHE NICE

AND I PLAYED BEWITCHED, AND MY BROTHER SAID, DO YOU PLAY IT, THAT IS SO STUPID

BUT IF I WANNA PLAY A SHOW, I WILL PLAY A SHOW, I DO WHAT I WANNA DO, IT’S LIKE THIS

WRITING, AND I ENJOYED TWITCHING MY NOSE TRYING TO ZAP MYSELF 1 MILLION DOLLARS

OR TO A REMOTE RESTAURANT IN THE HEART OF TOWN,

MY NEXT SHOW, I PLAYED WAS LIVE STOCK, ABOUT A VET NAMED MARK SARGENT, COMING TO

START A PRACTICE IN CLAXTON HILL, AND EACH EPISODE HE WENT ABOUT HIS ROUNDS AT ALL

THE FARMS IN THE DISTRICT, AND ROBBO’S PUB, WHERE MARK OFTEN WENT FOR FRIDAY AND

SATURDAY NIGHT DRINKS, AND A LOT OF THE KIDS OF CLAXTON HILL, WERE OFTEN GETTING INTO

PROBLEMS, I GOT THIS IDEA, FROM A MIXTURE OF ALL THE SOAPS IN THE 80S AND ALSO THE VET

SHOW, CALLED, ALL CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL, EVERY NEW YEARS EVE, I WILL PLAY A NEW YEARS SHOW

FEATURING THE NEW YEAR TIGER, AND THE CAST OF ALL MY FAKE TELEVISION SHOW CHARACTERS

AND ONCE AT MY GRANDMAS HOUSE, I PLAYED A CHRISTMAS SHOW IN HER BACKYARD AND I WAS A LOUD WILD DUDE

I SANG WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS, WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS

AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR, AND SOME KIDS CAME TO ME, AND SAID, CAN YOU SHUT UP, WE WANT YOU TO SHUT UP

THIS WAS BECAUSE, I RAN AWAY FROM TEASERS AS A KID, CAUSE I WAS A TAD SCARED, MY BROTHER WASN’T THOUGH, HE STAYED

WITH THEM, AND THE KIDS SAID WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS

CAUSE WE’RE TEASING YOU, YA SEE I THOUGHT I WAS A REAL MANS KID, YA SEE I THOUGHT JUST BECAUSE I WAS A SPORTS WATCHER

IT MEANS I GET LEFT ALONE, IT DOESN’T SILENCE ME, IF I WANT TO PL;AY SHOWS, I WILL DO IT IN MY ROOM, AND ALL THE ADULTS

WERE WORRIED, CAUSE THEIR PERFECT AURA WAS RUINED, AND TO THESE KIDS, I WAS A REAL SHY PERSON, BUT I USED

TO TEASE AT SCHOOL, I NEVER WAGGED UNLESS IT WAS THE LAST DAY AT SCHOOL, BECAUSE, I LIKED MY MATES AT SCHOOL

THEY WERE ALL SO NICE TO ME, I JUST ENJOYED THESE POOR LITTLE KIDDIES, IN THE BACKYARD OF MY GRANNY’S HOUSE

AND I PLAYED AUSSIE RULES IN THE FRONT YARD, YA SEE, I PLAYED MY WEEKLY MAFL TOURNAMENT, AND MY BROTHER PLAYED HIS COMP

YA SEE, WHEN MY BROTHER WAS AT A MATES HOUSE, I DID MY MAFL TOURNAMENT, AND DAD CAME OUT AND SAID, YOU HAVE TO

LIVE IN THE REAL WORLD, BRIAN, CAUSE, THIS ISN’T A FOOTY GROUND, IT’S A FRONT YARD WITH A GARDEN, AND MUMMY WANTS

TO GROW FLOWERS, SO I WILL TAKE YOUR FOOTBALL AND BAN IT FROM YOU, I KNOW YOU ARE A KID, BUT, MUMMY WANTS

TO START A GARDEN, AND I USED TO GET TEASED, BY PEOPLE WALKING PAST, SAYING, I ACT LIKE AN IDIOT OUTSIDE, AND I

SAID, I AM NOT SHY, I LIKE PLAYING FOOTY WITH MY BROTHER OUTSIDE, I PLAYED JAILBIRD AT MY SCHOOL, WHICH IS ABOUT

TWO BIRDS, JAIL BIRD FLIES AROUND THE JAIL CHECKING ON EACH INMATES WELL BEING, AND FREE BIRD, CAPTURES THE

CRIMINALS TO BRING THEM TO JAILBIRD TO BE LOCKED AWAY, AND MY SCHOOL LOOKED AT IT AS ME TALKING TO THE TREES

ME AND MY BROTHER, USED TO PLAY FRONT YARD AND BACKYARD CRICKET, MY COUNTRY WAS MYTH WITH PLAYERS LIKE
DEAN MASSEY, ASHLEY MONDEY, AND MYSELF, MY BROTHERS COUNTRY

WAS ETHIOPIA, WITH PLAYERS LIKE TRINNEN, BOTANY, LAITLAT, AND MANY MORE, AND THE STREET USED TO COME IN AND

PLAY YARD CRICKET WITH US, I ENJOYED THIS, MY MATE LYLE WAS A REALLY WILD BOWLER, I CAN HARDLY HIT ANY OF HIS BOWLS

THEY ARE SO **** FAST, I START TO THINK THAT LYLE WAS A VERY FAST BOWLER IN HIS PREVIOUS LIFE, I ALSO PLAYED

WATER CRICKET IN THE SWIMMING POOL, AND THIS WAS EVER SO FUN, BUT ON A HOT DAY, AND THE BALL WAS HIT OUT

OF THE WATER, IT WAS HARD FOR EACH OF US TO GET OUT OF THE NICE COOL WATER TO FETCH THE BALL,

I PLAYED SPORTS SHOWS WITH MY BROTHER, AND WE GOT IN MANY FIGHTS, LIKE NORMAL KIDS DO, AND

DAD SAT THERE WATCHING TV, SAYING ME AND MUMMY DIDN’T REALISE HAVING KIDS WILL BE THIS HARD

LIKE HE CRAWLED UNDER A ROCK OR SOMETHING, I WATCHED FAMOUS FIVE AND SECRET VALLEY AND

I WATCHED SKIPPY, WHERE KIDS WERE GETTING ******* ALL THE TIME, AND I WATCHED YOU CAN’T DO THAT ON TV

AND SAW KIDS IN A DUNGEON, YEAH HYPED ME OUT, I BOUGHT MAGAZINES, AND PUT TEXTA GAGS ON KIDS MOUTHS

AND TEXTA DRAW ROPE AROUND THOSE KIDS, MY BROTHER SAID TO MELINDA, WE SHOULDN’T TELL OUR PARENTS EVERYTHING

I DANCED TO POISON AND EVERY SATURDAY MORNING I WATCHED THE RAGE TOP 50 ON ABC TV, AND EACH WEEK

I WROTE THE CHART DOWN, LIKE I HAD AUTISM OR SOMETHING, AND AFTER THAT, I WENT TO BOWLING

AND I WATCHED THE CHART WITH MY BROTHER, WHEN HE GOT OUT OF BED, AND WE PARTIED TO THE CHART SHOW EVERY SATURDAY MORNING

THEY STOPPED DOING THAT IN 2008, BUT I LOST INTEREST IN DOING THAT, WHEN I FOUND OUT ALL MY PROBLEMS ARE A RESULT

OF SCHITZOPHRENIA, AND I PRETENDED I WAS A BIG TV MANAGER, GOING FROM PUB TO PUB, WHAT IS ACTUALLY WRONG WITH THAT

BUT I WAS PRETENDING TOO MUCH, 1 2 3 4 DO THE SCHITZOPHRENIC FROM MY FIRST DIAGNOSIS TO MY CURRENT SITUATION

I AM ON MEDICATION, NOW I AM REFORMED, CAUSE THIS SHOWS THAT I AM A FAMILY PERSON.

Why the blue
face many reasons over
that chip?
It hurts how long do I have?
No other color to think about
All of the chewing excursions
Blue chip muncher seasons

The summer high-priced
The liaison scoop hot
Her lips dipsy
The different vibe
crispy
That one chip trend all depends
What star shape chip demand
Bow Wow parade
Dressed like
the blue tinted car
chip
  Did you feel the vibe?
Not just any tribe
let's all describe

Blue chip paired
subscription just chew on

Each lip part of
you I liked
Don't block my
chips confidentially

The party consequently
Went chip disappearing
That salsa tortilla chips
What a coincidence
Someone kissed and chewed
her and went pew ugh
Hallelujah honeydew
BMW Chips sigh
So salty talk beamer
Blue chips ahoy to me
Blue sky Sailors high
Drinking blueberry
coffee why?

Sticker Blue Church
group
Don't break the chip
promise
Don't cheat
My lips need and want
someone to kiss
The advertisement
B-Blue C-Clue
K-Kisses **** fishes
Not the Black/Blue
The kickboxing
Chips made the
centerfold
with his boxers
Blue chip tailgating
Debating those keypunches

Venting out with her chip
What was in those chips?
They were
both running
for their lives
Where are our wifes

Terra Cotta, she
dressed Ms. Senorita

Doing Hawaii
hula hoops
kiss motives crunchy
The competition
dipped Men grumpy
The Sienna smile eating
The garden of
  (Eat-In)  

The Gulf of Mexico
Doing the Salsa*
Ms. Eden
One chip was lip
depended
The French kiss
Sleeping beauty
ballerina
No-one really
didn't know
what to do
The back-back
neck kiss

The Robin bird
Changed Blue-breasted
Lower Lip arrested
He's the
sucker for
her  Blue chips_*
Why did the
corn yellow he became
  The blue ***** Jazzy
She's eating chips in
the sunray just chill
They were rubbing
their nose taking in
**** color lips
Simply kissed
balanced

So Co-depended
Or so lip offended
By one best collection
chip
French kiss
the plea is the
kiss of the sea
She is his kiss
Or press the
kiss with his
Blue chip to be his
he is the key

Bed and bite chip
  all new
breakfast tip
Read someones
lip demeanor
regardless so
it's minor
Only the blue-chip
was happening to you
To the very end of
your lip

So cleaned up vacuum kiss
Skinny diet dipping not
over my lip
So chipper I will
meet my Skipper

(Apple Dip) New Yorker
He's the blue-chip tipper
computer chips

Blue chip kisses
It was the biggest
turnover, come over
The Apple jubilee
blue chip kisses
To be called the
lip-sucker Please ladies
calm down
Take one chip

((The Addiction))
Of her garden
of earth, blue-chip birth

Bes



It's high midnight and I'm up to my old tricks again.
Bes came by my apartment last night, ostensibly to see why I've stopped answering everyone's calls but harboring more ulterior motives than a presidential charity event. I let her in, mumbling some vague, ******* excuse about how I'd simply been busy. She stood in my living room, her hands demurely folded in front of her as her eyes swept the scene, a quick appraising glance that took in the leaning towers of paper and rows of empty bottles, the rings under my eyes and the cheeks grizzled with god knows how many days of growth, and when at last they met mine they seemed to ask what exactly it was that I had been busy doing. Her lips said no such thing though, held in check either by innate tact or single-minded purpose. Instead she smiled, that old, slanting smile that was more a twitching of her cheeks than an actual moving of her lips, and asked if I liked her dress. It was the first time that I'd seen her dressed in anything but jeans, and the change was as unexpected as it was becoming. The dress was short, black, simple and elegant in its simplicity. In the expected places it clung to her curves and invited you to do the same, but elsewhere it hung in loose folds, folds so deep that she seemed almost lost in them, and when you did catch a glimpse of her body -the delicate line of her collarbone, the thin ridge of a rib- the force of the contrast struck home with calculated, bewildering power. She looked incredibly fragile yet fraught with danger, like broken glass swaddled in a black flag. I gave her an exaggerated once-over, then said, "Do you really need me to answer that?" She laughed, her voice high and breathy, and dropped me a theatrical curtsy. "What's the occasion?" Her eyes narrowed, and the ghost of a smile twitched its way back onto her face.
"We're going out tonight."
"We are? And why are we doing that?"
"It's ladies' night at Stoa, and that means free drinks."
"Free drinks for you, kiddo. I doubt that I could pass as a lady, even in that ****-hole."
"For me, yes. But if I were to get those free drinks and then decide that I didn't want them, well, what would happen to them? It would be wrong just to waste them, after all. I suppose I should have to give them away, perhaps to a good friend?"
"If you should change your mind." I said flatly.
"Of course. Woman's prerogative, you know."
"Are you trying to bribe me with free liquor?"
"Well, if that isn't enough I could always throw in a 'please'. Limited time offer, though, non-negotiable and nontransferable."
"Unlike the drinks, you mean."
"Rules are like bodies; they aren't meant to be be broken, but sometimes it's fun to see just how far you can stretch them."
"Far be it from me to tell a pretty girl no when she says please."
"Pleeaazzee?" She batted her eyelashes at me, lower lip stuck out in a burlesque pout.
"Okay."
"Put on a fresh shirt and grab your coat, I'll get a cab."
"Yes'm," I said, snapping off a quick salute before about-facing toward my bedroom. She laughed again as she left, the soft chuckles punctuated by the click of her heels on the concrete steps outside. I dressed quickly, taking roughly three minutes to apply fresh deodorant, sniff-test and shrug my way into a shirt with marginally less wrinkles than your average nursing home and grab my keys. I walked out the front door to find Bes ready and waiting for me, having snared a cab with the same brisk efficiency with which she had beguiled me into escorting her. She stood at the curb, toe of one black pump tapping impatiently as the taxi idled next to her, engine panting like some exotic animal brought to heel. The ride there was silent. The cabbie was one of those garrulous specimens of his trade who seem always to have something to offer his customers in addition to the transportation for which they had paid; some tidbit of folksy wisdom, or a sage prediction of the weather, no doubt buttressed with countless examples from the days of yore. He brought out several of these chestnuts for us, but after a few failed gambits even he lapsed into what for him must have passed for a taciturn state, contenting himself with humming along to the radio, albeit loudly. He had sloughed tunelessly through several songs and a commercial break by the time we arrived, and had begun to sing under his breath, apparently unaware that he was doing so. This unwitting serenade had been steadily growing in volume, and he was working himself into a rather heartfelt rendition of Black Velvet as we disembarked.
It was just past eleven, relatively early for a nightclub, but the line was already stretched ten yards from the door. It wound around the side of the building, surprising me in spite of myself. I really hadn't been out in a while, and had forgotten all about waiting outside, that desultory purgatorial period where people shifted restlessly from foot to foot and chain-smoked, anxious for admittance, though in all likelihood less concerned with being able to dance or mingle (which they could have probably done just as well out here) than they were with losing the buzz they had brought with them. Some of the people had clustered into loose groups and those who had looked more sanguine, almost serene, and no doubt there were a few water bottles filled with ***** stashed in their purses and jacket pockets. I started toward the corner, intending to join the rest of the sad-sacks at the back of the line, but Bes grabbed my arm, giving me a slight shake of her head. She walked directly toward the entrance, deftly sidestepping the little pockets of people and putting on a smile of almost predatory brilliance. She sauntered up to the bouncer posted at the door, one of any number of interchangeable drones whose charge is to prevent just such flouting of protocol as she undoubtedly had in mind. She said something to him and he shook his head. She spoke again, raising up on tip-toe and looking directly into his eyes, and when she spread her hands in a comely now-do-you-see gesture he looked around furtively then nodded. She waved a hand at me and he nodded again, though more apprehensively than at first, and the hand pointed in my direction now wiggled its fingers in a come-hither gesture. I walked up and looked a question at her but she merely shook her head again, though this one was accompanied by a slight smile that said nothing and hinted at everything. She took my hand, dragging me forward like a she-wolf dragging a rabbit into her den, and as we passed into the club she favored the sentry with another smile, so warm that I could have sworn I saw him blush.
The interior was dark, cavernous and redolent of a thousand mingled perfumes, a heady, dizzying blend spiced here and there with the dank odor of marijuana. As soon as we were past the bouncer, Bes stopped and pivoted on her toes like a ballerina, spinning so quickly that I almost stumbled into her. She said something to me then, but despite the sudden and shocking proximity of her body to my own her voice was lost in the car crash of voices from the dance floorahead. I cupped a hand to my ear in the commonly understood signal for deafness, and she responded by cocking her head at a questioning angle and forming an elongated y with her thumb and pinky finger, tilting them toward her lips in the universal gesture for drinks. I nodded my assent and she took my hand again, pressing it gently as she threaded her way through the tumult of writhing flesh on the dance floor. We found seats in the corner of the bar, the one place where you could actually sit with your back to the wall instead of the rest of the club, a place that I privately thought of as Paranoiac's Cove. I dug out my pack of Lucky's and set to work on trying to find my lighter as she flitted away, returning moments later with a pair of highball glasses, each filled to the brim with a curiously green concoction that was so bright that it seemed almost as though the glass was filled with liquid neon. She handed me one, her fingers momentarily brushing mine as I accepted it, visions of the cauldron from Macbeth flashing briefly through my mind. That smile twisted its way onto her face again as she offered a silent toast, raising her glass toward me with an oddly solemn gesture. I raised mine in return, noticing the way her eyes sparkled in the shadows, green and impossibly bright, almost lambent, bright like the drink though her eyes were a deeper, truer green, closer to jade than to the grassy color we held in our hands. We touched their rims together, the clink almost inaudible in the howling bedlam of the club. She threw her drink back at a single draught, surprising me into a laugh and I followed suit, barely tasting the liquor as it ran down my throat. What I did taste was a rather poor attempt at artificial apple, cloying and somehow thick, like melted jolly ranchers. It was saccharine sweet yet bitter, a harsh undertone that matched the crisp tang of a real granny smith about as well as the sweetness did, which is to say not at all. Not that this bothered me; alcohol and bitterness have always gone well together for me.
She leaned over to me, fingertips resting lightly on my shoulder, breath tickling confidentially in my ear as she asked, "Dance with me?"
I demurred, not bothering to waste words but simply waiting until she pulled back to look at me and then shaking my head. She didn't lean in again, catching my eyes instead and mouthing the word with an exaggerated care that was almost comical. "Okay." She hesitated momentarily before adding, "Maybe later." She didn't wait for a response, instead sliding off her stool with easy, doe-like grace and disappeared into the throng. I stayed at the bar for some time, an hour perhaps, drinking steadily and watching the growing chagrin of the woman behind it as she realized that I had not intention of tipping her no matter how drunk I got. Bes reappeared periodically, staying long enough to grab each of us a free shot and steal one of my cigarettes before vanishing again. I whiled away the time by counting the necklaces that came bobbing and heaving up to the bar. The vast majority were crucifixes, their forms and sizes as varied as those of their bearers, but there was a smattering of other ikons as well; Celtic knots and stars of david, pentacles and hammers, and once, nestled incongruously in the ample and expertly showcased cleavage of its wearer, a crescent moon and star. The owner of that particular pendant also happened to clutch a drink in one hand, and while it may have been a shirly temple or club soda, the glassy eyes above it and the boneless, disjointed movements that arm described in the air spoke to a more potent brew. I wondered what they meant to the people who wear them, those chains of devotion donned voluntarily. A symbol of their faith, they would probably say, though it's a faith betrayed by virtually every action that they take, and if there's one thing that I've learned about people it's that their vows and promises may be lies, but their betrayals never are. Even a virtuous act, an act of unequivocal good in the face of overwhelming temptation, even that can be a lie. It is concealment, a denial of the temptation, of its reality, of the fact that the desire for what tempts us exists. But in betrayal, in succumbing to temptation, people reveal themselves, for they are true to their desire and desire is the most accurate mirror, the truest reflection of who we are. Most people wear masks to cloud that mirror, false faces that sometimes fool everyone and sometimes fool no-one. But truth always asserts itself and so most people betray; others, causes, even themselves. But even the betrayal of self is also an act of honesty, the final acknowledgement of who we really are.
There was a time, of course, when these signs and symbols of faith were a business of deadly seriousness, when their betrayal would have begotten swift and sure punishment, when the mere display of one's allegiance was both a pledge and a challenge, but no longer. Now they are carried as casually as their wearers carry the name of some obscure fashion designer on their underwear, and given the reverent attention paid to the latter and their blasé hypocrisy regarding the former, one has to wonder which is really more important to them. Yet the symbols persist even when the meaning has been forgotten, and the majority still carry signs of fealty formed from counterfeit gold and beaten nickel, sigils that flash quicksilver in the strobing lights, leading the way like the wooden maidens which adorn the prows of ships. I used to have one of them, you know, a rough loop of rawhide the carried three little trinkets, a bunny a book and a small golden heart. It's gone now, of course, and fittingly so, the heart having fallen after the bunny down the rabbit-hole, and the book remaining unwritten, though I suppose if your reading this, that if these disjointed ramblings ever manage to make it onto the printed page, refugees finally transplanted from the wilted notebooks or the cocktail napkins that I even now sit scribbling madly on, it has been written after all and you're reading it. You poor *******.
I realized my thoughts were drifting, meandering on their own down paths that I have expressly forbidden them to tread, rambling like unsupervised children in an amusement park at sundown. I gathered them up, scolding them, trying to exert some authority in my own mind, telling myself to just take a deep breath and shake it off. I can't though, and for once it's not because I can't quiet the thoughts but because I can't seem to take a breath that is deep enough. I realized that I was panting, well nigh hyperventilating, my breath coming in quick, shallow gasps that seem to crystallize in my longs like spun glass. I take stock of myself, trying to assure myself that I'm not going to have a heart attack or a ******* stroke, noting with some alarm that my hands are shaking and my vision has narrowed into a twisting, undulating tunnel. I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing, the darkness behind my eyelids streaked with purple and red, and gradually I became aware that those explosions of color are rhythmic, recurrent. They happened not with the pounding of my heart, as I would have expected, but in time with the music, sunbursts of color appearing each time the bass kicked. The panic diminished, replaced by curiosity, and I realized that without the shrill yammering of panic in my ear and the terror of impending death in my mind, the combined sensations are not only pleasant, but oddly familiar. It's then that I realized what happened, belatedly doing the mental arithmetic and realizing that unexpected invitation, the free drinks and the first's oddly bitter taste, the secretive smile with which it was delivered, that it all added up to a single thing. She drugged me, of course, spiked my drink with something and I didn't even notice, naive as a sorority pledge at a keg party, and oh **** was I high. I stayed at the bar, knowing from hard experience that there was no sense in fighting it, and so giving in to it. If you can't put out the fire you might as well feed it, feed it all that you can, because the sooner the fuel runs out the sooner the fire dies. So I stayed there, focusing on my breathing and letting my thoughts spiral out, catching the waves in my head as they rose and fell, finally learning to float on their crests, in some semblance of control. Calmer now, I pulled out my cigarettes and lit one, the process taking an eternity, empires rising and falling in the time between the moment when the spark caught and the flame exploded into life and the one when it reached my lucky. I breathed out a plume of smoke, a pillar of cloud that also seemed to go on forever, and as it cleared there was Bes, materializing out of the smoke like a Cheshire cat.
"Ready to dance?"
I looked at her, unable to speak for a moment, not the drug this time but something entirely, a thing that came surging up from some unsounded depth within me and caught in my throat, because when I looked in her eyes, wide and wet with excitement, her pupils telescoped into pinpricks that told me she was in the grip of the same I saw myself. Because she was looking at me the way I looked

Cross my path with silver,
cackled the aged crone,
She sniggered,
and the girlie,
she just walked past,
Grinning, saying confidentially,
"What you know you silly old hag",
The hag she shouted in her face,
Girlie,"I can bless you,
or equally, can curse you",
The years did pass,
The crone, kept girl's sarcasm in her heart,
The girl she wanted an honest child,
for she had grown older,
somewhat bolder,
And she tried to conceive,
a baby of love,
a gift from above,
she had lots of expensive investigations,
but she just couldn't fall,
The crone she passed in the hallway,
Smiled all knowingly,
she whispered at the sweet chick,
"if you'd crossed my palm with silver, all those years ago,
you would have had a baby,
But you will never know,
She sat and she thought, and she smiled to herself,
For she never believed in that gypsy's curse.
Two years have passed since that day,
her bonny baby, she doth play,
realised the gypsy curse was *******.
(C) Livvi

Men stop in their tracks when they see me
Become tongue-tied, try but cannot speak
We supermodels are paid for our looks, and very handsomely
They see me at an airport, make an approach,
Chat me up, stilted conversation ensues
Oh well, confidentially, I don't mind as I'm just killing time, on my way to the next shoot in Ibiza, then Italy.

Vanisa is the name; I made it up, keeps me sane
Running down the highway of fashion
In the body that is mine
I cannot help if I was born this way
Sublime, the money I make but, look,
It's not that great to hold a bottle of perfume
Or pretend to eat steak

But, Oh, the attention from the men who cross my path
They dream of me, they say, that's a laugh
If they only knew what a B I can be, they'd think twice about
Their fantasy

Look, I'm a nice person, got a family back home
Minnesota is my hideout from the mishigas I've known
And I read books, really I do
Want to talk politics? That would be cool

Here comes another candidate
Lets see what he has to say
Yes I was on the cover of Sports Illustrated
Yay, he says, then comes his big smile
It's so nice everyone loves me
Makes it all worthwhile.

This happened last Fall, during Thanksgiving break.

Lisa and I were at the MET (The Metropolitan Museum of Art), with her family, at an exhibit of Art Deco sculpture. Lisa and I came out of a gallery and there was a group of older adults gathered near a bar.
“Hermé!” Lisa suddenly squealed. “Come on,” she said, dragging me towards the group. “I want you to meet one of my favorite people in the world!”

We crossed the room and found ourselves at the back of a large group, Lisa nodded to highlight a 60ish (I’m being generous here) lady. She was wearing a midnight blue Givenchy asymmetric midi dress and way too much jewelry. Both arms featured large and small gold bracelets that jingled when she moved. “She’s a friend of my grandma's,” Lisa said, “she’s off the hook.”

Hermé was chatting with those close to her and after a minute, Lisa said, “I’ll get us a drink, wait here,” and headed for the bar. Watching Hermé, I decided that she embodied the 4 fashion-aesthetic-principles: 1) dress for the occasion, 2) look good, 3) feel good, and 4) be seen looking good. She was definitely the center of attention.

People peeled off the group, one or two at a time, as people will do and as I got closer, Hermé was saying, “Russians - the way human history repeats itself, it’s like we’re in a time loop.” There were sounds of agreement.

When there were only a handful of us, I was the odd one out, being under 60. Hermé asked me, “And who are you?”
“A friend of Lisa’s,” I glanced over and waved at Lisa, who waved back, “Anais,” I finished, offering my hand. She was wearing little white gloves which suddenly seemed like genius (in these virus times).

“What did you think of the exhibit?” She asked, looking through the ½-frame glasses perched on her nose.

“Art Deco Sculpture?” I shrugged, looking around at the room’s remaining art lovers, “It looks like men doing heroic things with their clothes off.. like always?” The silence that followed seemed to beg for words, but I felt like maybe I’d said too much.

Then she laughed. The laugh was as measured and controlled as an opera singer’s vibrato. There were a couple of other chuckles too. Then she became serious, “What do you think of the Ukraine mess?”

“I’m a pre-med major,” I started to demur, but her gaze was on me uncomfortably, “Putin *****,” I answered.

She smiled, this time with no hesitation. “You’re a Yaleie - with Lisa?” She followed up.
“Yes mam,” I answered. I guessed she’d seen Lisa steer me over. She was sharp as a tack - I decided I liked her.

Her cell phone chirped then, and she excused herself. I mean she said, “excuse me” and everyone else made themselves scarce. As I took a few steps toward the bar I overheard her telling the caller, “Tell him he can just have it..” and after a split-second she added, “at cost.” I had to smile, no one’s as cheap as the rich.

I reached Lisa as she picked up our drinks, two American martinis (gin, vermouth and olives).
“Hermé has a ‘gild’ complex,” I whispered, indicating the glittering, fake gold fashion on display.
“No!” Lisa said in shocked amusement. This was more than repartee, it was 411.
“I’d be willing to bet.” I assured her, quipping, “fashion is my passion,” before I sipped my drink.
Lisa moved around to where she could inconspicuously observe Hermé better - we didn’t want to be rude.
“I like her, but her Louis Vuitton “Ponthieu” handbag is fake,” I said in a low murmur, “the pleshette’s wrong and the logo etching is too deep and reflective.
Lisa sipped her drink with an “mmm,” as she appraised Hermé anew.
“Her bracelets and necklaces are fake too,” I continued, “fake gold glitters, reflecting light like a mirror, real gold lusters, it caresses and almost deflects light.” After a second I nva’d, “Of course, she might be afraid of being robbed.”

An elderly man, about 90 (my guess), who’d been in Hermé’s group a minute ago, was making his way, slowly, in our direction. He was wearing a suit with black, tuxedo pants and a deep-red crushed-velvet coat with black trim.
“Who shot the couch?” I whispered to Lisa. We thought he was headed to the bar. But he stepped right up to us.

“What are they teaching you girls at Yale these days?” He asked. He had a ******-mary in one hand, so I opened up.
“A load of science, and how to do laundry,” I said, and wanting to escape the usual questions, I added, “and there’s a lot of drinking.” Leaning in confidentially, I added, “It’s opened me up, emotionally.”

“I was raised in the old ‘carnage on the highways, broken lives, stay away’ days,” he revealed, winking.
“But you got over it,” I nodded at his cup.
“We evolve, you know?” He said.
“Yes sir,” I grinned, “I hope so.”

As we talked, Lisa’s dad, Michael, joined us. “What are you two up to,” he asked, then, under his breath he added, “you seem conspiratorial.”
“Nothing,” Lisa said. “We’re taking fashion.” I updogged.
“Better lose those,” he nodded to Lisa indicating our drinks, “before your mother and Leeza get here.”
We’re under 21 and she doesn’t like us to drink in (Manhattan) public.
.
.
Songs for this:
Dat's love (From "Carmen Jones") by Lesley Garrett, Andrew Greenwood & Philharmonia Orchestra
Far Far Away (Charles Tone Mix) [feat. Brenda Boykin] by Tape Five
Martino Cafe by Gabrielle Chiararo

Another college tour, another favor. This time it was an old schoolmate, George and his parents who were taking the official tour. I was going to babysit his little sister Mary (5) while they walked around.

It was good to see someone from home and sad in a way. For a moment, I had a tugging feeling, like there was a hook deep inside me and the reel was back home.

When I first saw George I remembered a time, in 10th grade, before COVID. I was leaving school early and waiting to be picked up. Twenty track boys, fresh from their daily run, were lounging, seductively around. George, in particular, in a pose rather like Michelangelo’s Adam. “***!” I remember thinking at the time.

I smiled at that long-ago tableau. “What?” George asked, he was watching me. “Nothing,” I smiled, “Just looking forward to babysitting”

Mary and I exercised to a video, had a pizza delivered and colored - crayons aren’t easy to find in the modern college environment so we used high-lighters to create delicate, watercolor-like masterpieces.

As we drew, Mary said, off-handedly, “You’re really nice,” as if the nature of my character had been in some dispute. Still, I still felt warmly complemented.

When the tour was over, we were walking up science hill toward their car and the sun was declining to sunset. “How do you like it,” George asked, confidentially, head lowered, voice low enough not to be overheard by his parents who were walking a few yards behind us with Mary. “There’s a LOT of reading,” I said, shruggingly. “but I’m keeping up.” Last year I was a junior, this year I’m in college. It seemed absurd.

How do you conjure a vision for someone of what college would be like, when college experiences are so individual? The writer's dilemma, interpreted by a babysitter.

As we reached their car, the caroling bells started ringing (5pm) from Harkness Tower.  It was the perfect send-off. Again I felt the pull of homesickness but my phone plinked and the emotion didn’t even last as long as dusk.

Bob is seventy four
And fighting cancer
Every day.

He's had us plant seeds
For four o'clocks
Twice now.

He told me confidentially
That he knows the flowers
Weren't here
In Boone's time

But his mother always
Had them

And maybe they are his legacy.

I found one
Of his wandering
Flowers in the garden bed
Yesterday.

And four more
In between
My sage and horseradish
Today

I dug them up
And carried them
Home.

I don't think
We could forget
Bob
Anytime soon.

Cats will lick coffee off of your chest
If you raise 'em the right...

Thus spake Zarathustra,
confidentially, off the record.
when an early morn hot beverage
dribbled from chin
onto chest

Full
of facts and figures,
recipes for living life.

So, I suggest,
that if you do not a cat possess,
get a girl friend,
both wise as mine,
and willing.

You see videos mean jack ****.
Videos don’t play the atmosphere in the air
tinged gently with **** from the nearby toilette
videos don’t play how it started.
They don’t hear the pounding of the dragon flies wings in the air
and the Walt Whitman you read before you arrived or
the amazing or ****** day the camera man had.
The tension of the air between two warriors as they fought
in good fun or for good riddance.
Videos do just as great a job as the person who watches
a minute of a debate and confidentially declares the winner.
Granted there is no such thing as what actually happened
everything I write beyond this is opinion declared to be fact.

we all die eventually,
the walls are closing in,
I’m only made of skin,
the world breaks down casually,
the skies are closing in,
let my blood run thin,
share my secrets confidentially,
the screams are breaking in,
who’s my next of kin?

Eyes raining, tears staining shadows into her shirt,
No feeling, revealing the fact that shes been hurt,
This time is worse, there's no reverse,
****, its so much work,
She's trying, still eying that razor in her purse,
This ******* curse,
This time is not the first,
Her blood still feeding the demons locked up inside of her,
The only cure, scratch that a remedy,
A brief relief from the realness that is reality,
Undoubtedly,
She's not normality, not fitting in and no longer feeling proud to be,
Different, now she wants to fit in,
Used to be happy but now she even hates living,
I mean what's with it, why do we even bother,
Being so cruel, what if that was your own daughter,
Confidentially,
her confidence they slaughter,
Slipping away, she slips beneath the water,
Never will forgive the people who forgot her.

VERNARTH
Monastic  Cell

Vernarth begins to describe:
"This magnificent monastic complex dominates the island, and the old settlement of Chorá, associated with it, is home to many religious and secular buildings, where the famous pressurization of the inspiring forces of the Beloved Disciple is present, in this place he will reside in the sacred year 95 AD. AD, with his Gospel and the Apocalypse. A monastery dedicated to the "beloved disciple" was founded there in 1088 by Hosios Christodoulos Latrinos and has been a place of Greek Orthodox pilgrimage and teaching ever since.

Spilaion Apokalypseos (Cave of the Apocalypse) Many architectural changes have undergone over 900 years, adapting to changing political and economic circumstances. It has the outward appearance of a polygonal castle with battlements flanked by towers. It also houses a remarkable collection of manuscripts, icons, and liturgical objects and works. The primitive elements, which date back to the 11th century, are the catholicon (main church) of the monastery, the chapel of Panagia and the refectory. The north and west sides of the inner courtyard are surrounded by the white walls of the cells, and on the south side stands the Tzafara, a two-tier arcade in dressed stone, built in 1698. The outer narthex of the catholicon forms the east side. . Halfway up the steep path from Skalá to Chorá is the Cave of the Apocalypse (Spilaion Apokalypseos), where, according to tradition, Saint John dictated the Book of Revelations and his gospel to his disciple Prochoros. This sacred place attracted several small churches, chapels and monastic cells, thus creating an interesting architectural ensemble. ”
They continue in this set of phenomena towards the definitive mediation of the cavern by means of the inspirational illumination of the conduit of the ****** of the hundred doors or church of the hundred doors, declaiming the Panagia with the hermit and his disciple Prochoros, with remarkable whispers of the Blue Cormorant that he brought from La garriga; from a nearby ecoregion with plant formations emerging in the biomes of the Mediterranean forests, to incense all the white walls of the cells where the hermit led them walking together with two monumental candle torches. From here this cormorant will transport all the bioclimatic zones of the ecosystem, to constrain the Tytillinus embryo to be swallowed by it, predominantly to forget about its concept of egg as an oviparous generation of temptation and to be anchored to the plant site as an original species. . This blue cormorant is a superlative factor in the context of changing the cephalization of this demon-monster in the collective consciousness of the grotto and its shed.

They transpose the Tzafara, where the cormorant perches lavishly moving its head like a spasm in its neck to the northern north, illuminating its crimson green eyes. Destining his penances for the narthex as an open portico until the exonarthex, here the multiplied figure of Tytillinus would increase, appearing to be dominant before them, but all remained cohesive and closely united in paleo Christian rosaries, to re-infuse the forces of fear transferred to this invader.

Thus being able to reach the hemisphere of the mound that comes from Skalá, in front of them the Spilaion Apokalypseos grotto in Katapausis. You could see how the crystals of unhappiness turned into high-grade psalms of translucent stained-glass crystals of extremely shameful colors. Vernarth carried in his hand a Sheesham box with purisms and essences of the temple earth that he was building, he carried his magnificent thoughts inside the catholicon tied in his arms of the quarterdeck, where the raw solvents of the past wars as Military Commander oozed.
In front of the cave they all perch. Vernarth will inaugurate the Quadrivium whose four paths; They would group disciplines related to mathematics, geometry, astronomy and music as a study curriculum for the uprising of species and their preservation for centuries and centuries. Linked to the tracks or roads; grouping grammar eloquence and helping to speak, with dialectics to help search for the truth, and rhetoric coloring the words. Thus they understood the grammar, dialectic, rhetoric and its elementary figures and the three Trivium routes attached as a whole on this pilgrimage as they were already in front of the hermitage of the Saint. Raeder, Petrobus and Eurydice move their anxious feet with a few bars of Laziko, thus throwing from the ground with their feet the particles of thousands of years inseminated by the adjacent atmosphere towards the theological philosophical goal of the spirits satisfied to join them in the masses in proportion to the weight of their mobile talents, applying makeup like millennia to each other ..., parading before them.

Orpheons of the lowlands of Patmos were felt entering through the holes of the roof of the cavern, in communion to join them in the compas of this beautiful melody that diverged from all the original immaculate accents of the gifts along with the original of the Holy disciple. The petrified lotophagous mushrooms walked swiftly along the walls through the deviant Trojan ships, towards where the Trinidadian music descended from the roof, bruising the oversized apricots of the candlesticks, dazzling the other walls full of figurative tapestries of conceptual and iconographic images. Vernarth sang the Almara, an insistent retrograde song that invoked the entire community of Skalá and surroundings to join them through the arena sliding down the face-to-face gorge of the Katapausis, imbued in the mega center of the redoubled canticos of their own gorges, cloning the flat voices of the unknown mezzo vocal origin. Saint John only Vernarth allows him to enter his monastic cell, the others remain in the anteroom, pouring holy water and touching the hyper-curled walls of Chytridiomycota mushrooms that became voluminous in the immortal reflections of the vivid glow, to gather them to follow his insistent pastoral voice to a meadow of prominent demarcation step with its dynamic Laziko. Vernarth places in his hands a thick and heavy sacred medal, which will allow him to cease his lamentations and processes of Excessive occultism, before the heavy solitude procreated on his new face in rictus of joy and smiles in rounds of healing, beyond all predictions of his avatars and proselytes.


Vernarth goes on to describe:
A large amount of stress accumulated due to damage to the mitochondria that respond to the DNA that preserved the genetic material niche itself in a different way from that of the nucleus in the cavern, managing to dissipate after auscultating with the Quadrivium, detecting that a large part of the volumes manuscripts and iconographies were reactivated to other books as guests, to make them a living portrait for the tissue of the organism that parasitically inhabited the cavern walls. Inquiring an organized mitoconuclear communication. If they fail to resolve the mitochonuclear mtDNA breaks, before the radiosities of the celestial diaphragm, a dysfunction will be triggered that will affect the cells and tissues of the host, on all manuscripts and iconographies. These mitochondrial genomes will examine their function in the area of organic cellular spatiality, therefore the ideas obtained of incompatibility will remove all the saprophytic material from the rough trails of the demon granule Tytillinus, to exile it to the confines of its eco-region, where it lives unnaturally abandoned.

An evanescent canonical source alluding to this stay in Patmos will reveal to them through the roofs of all the houses of Skalá, mentioning through the mouth of the Eremita: “I, John, your brother and partner in the tribulation, in the kingdom and in the patience of Jesus I was on the island called Patmos because of the word of God and the testimony of Jesus. I was in spirit on Sunday when I heard behind me a great voice like a trumpet saying: '' Write what you see in a book and send it to the seven churches (Rev 1: 9-11). Moist winds licked all the roofs changing the nuances and morning faces, proclaiming the new secular kingdom. ” The most detailed source, continues to deny his parchment although already in late popular event, on his stay in Patmos are the apocryphal Acts of John, attributed to his disciple Prochorus. In them it is told how Juan and his disciple looked for a quiet place with a cave where they spent ten days of fasting. Subsequently, John sent Procorus to buy papyri and ink, and for two days dictated to his disciple the text of the revelation. Later the saint would entrust his disciple with a noble copy on parchment. The Golden Legend makes practically no reference to these moments, except for a mention that "he was entrusted with having confidentially known some arcane and profound things, such as the divinity of Jesus Christ and the end of the world".

The apostle appears on the spot presenting Vernarth with writing as a sacred office, also to commission future parchments for his future prophecies, and ink on a scroll or codex resting on his knees or on a desk. He also boasts showing him the writing tools (calamus, inkwell, rasorius, cornua) that are usually also reflected in considerable detail in the decals of his fingered golden fingers, accompanying the eagle, symbolically within the set of the tetramorphs of the old testament. Here Vernarth takes his face in compassion when he learns that his hermit master acquired the appearance of an octogenarian appearing accompanied by his disciple Prochorus, showing him the streaks, singing to them with the ninety years since he was exiled. It is a subject of late consolidation, very frequent in the late medieval manuscripts that contain this book or fragments of it, especially the books of hours where the image of the saint abounds on the island accompanied by the eagle, allusion to the apocalyptic living, and with much Frequently, of an imp that throws the inkpot or hides the calamus and that many authors have identified with Titivillus, a medieval demon who was credited with spelling errors in books and mistakes in prayers in order to win souls for Lucifer. The first reference that is had of this terrible demon is in the Tractatus of Penitentia of John of Wales, which dates from the year 1285, which will be evidenced in the framework of this stratagem entrenched in Vernarth's career as a Macedonian warrior, and that he would bring with this odeón the detuned song that would rule those who cultivate the art of sound near luminous beings prone to lose faith, as well as those who represent here as Tytillinus, vast evil oppressor of those who look at sacred scriptures affecting their eyes, as a sign of peeling of degraded human eye skin.
The others appearing were outside in a shed, all very close to each other, just waiting for the order to leave. Suddenly they see a brilliant blue waving light, which was coming down on them, it was an eagle coming towards them as a signal to tell them that Vernarth was coming back, to go to go with them to their rooms and continue with their daily tasks.

Under edit / continue

We’re (Lisa and I) back in Athens Georgia (hometown USA), where it’s the halcyon days of summer. The south used to be the home of summer heat - not anymore. Now everyone has their little ‘heat domes’ and temperatures well into the hundreds. Show-offs. In Athens, we creep into the low 90s, some days, between daily thunderstorms. Oh, well.

My parents are here! I haven’t seen them in the flesh in almost two years. Each time I had a holiday, they were off doctoring without borders. Every time I’ve seen my mom this week it seems like a surprise. I’ll walk into the kitchen or see her in the den. I hug her every time (Step too). They seem grayer than I remember, it’s scary and it makes me sad. When I mentioned it to Brice (on facetime), he just nodded noncommittally.

Earlier today, my mom, Lisa and I went shopping for our junior year of college. I don’t actually need anything; shopping was really a chance for us to visit and do what we like the most - malling. I like college gear, the clothes, tech, the odds and ends. College clothes are simpler, more utilitarian than I’d imagined back in high school. I’d brought a trunk of Anna Molinari designer clothes to Yale, but I only ended up wearing those at events.

Being home reminds me of how I’d dreamed of going away to college, especially back in the covid lockdown days. I still dream about college but now they’re stress dreams where next semester I get all the wrong classes, I’m placed in the wrong residence, or my roommates are all gone.

My mom’s still my mom and she wants to know all about Peter.
“How’d you end up with Peter?” she asked.
“Well,” I said, shifting dresses on the store rack distractedly, “we met in a coffee shop freshman year, then I saw him on campus a few times. I was drawn to him,” I confessed.
“How so,” my mom asked.
“I like tall guys and he had an unkempt, scarecrow quality that gave him a.. vulnerability. He wasn’t all muscular or fratty.” I further defined, making a yuck face. “And he obviously needed fashion help (my specialty).”

“And,” my mom prodded me after a moment.
“But he was a doctoral student,” I sighed, “and I was a lowly freshman. I mean, why would he be interested in me?” Mom gave me the side eye. “Sure ***, maybe but I wasn’t looking for THAT.”

My mom and Lisa were shuffling through racks of dresses too, each showing me the occasional standouts for themselves or me. My mom stayed quiet and just watched me. She wanted more but, as if I were still a high schooler, I was inclined to give her the minimum info. She broke me down by eyeing me.

“Eventually though,” I began spilling, “we got to talking and when we talked, he seemed like a person of substance. I mean, he was working on his PhD.” I shrugged, “He’s a serious guy - forthright, no-nonsense, shy and lowkey funny. We actually got ‘together’ at the beginning of sophomore year.” (I’m hoping he’ll come for a visit but I’m holding that for now.)

“Annick told me he’s from California..” My mom followed up, “Have you met his parents?”
“You know,” I leaned into her confidentially, “I’m working on my emotional and behavioral independence.” She Laughed and let it go - for the moment - I have no illusions about that.

Meanwhile Lisa and I are out on the lake early every morning water skiing. Charles is in his element, skippering the boat while Carol (Mrs. Charles) mixes coleslaw and grills bacon cheeseburgers. In the afternoons, we’ve begun studying for a couple of hours.

Lisa & I are both molecular biophysics and biochemistry majors. Our books for next semester arrived the same day we did, and we’ve started to read ahead. Everything about Junior year is extra. Our classes will be full of Biochemistry and biology labs, psychology, statistics, and research for credit class with names like “Quantitative Approaches in Biophysics and Biochemistry” and “Research in Biochemistry and Biophysics.”

I’m already set to continue my hospital volunteering and we’ll need to begin to study for our MCATS (Medical College Admission Tests). Next summer we apply to med-schools!

Of course, my Mom, Mz ‘I know everything about med-school admissions’ has a list of every other conceivable requirement for med-schools, like reference letters and God-knows what else and she’ll drop that list on us, like a ton of bricks, with the least hint of encouragement.

But she gets her hugs anyway.

Tiger’s Eye

Tiger’s eye gonna set you free
It’s nature’s own, a magic stone
Imbued with love’s energy
Life’s a *****, people hard to be around  
But, Tigers eye never let you down
No, oh no, oh no
Tigers eye never let you down

Amulets, charms, trinkets and beads
A turbaned lady, she said to me
Take this home and I think you’ll agree
Tiger’s eye gonna set you free

Confidentially, between you and me
For the price of two
I’ll give you three
If you pay in
Rupee,
For the price of two
I’ll give you three  
Tigers eye gonna set you free

Fifty for the bracelet
Five for the charm
Tiger’s eye never do no harm
Take it home, hold the stone
And soon you will agree
Tigers eye gonna set you free

It’s a jungle out there
Dark shadows behind every tree
Spells n spies, unwanted goodbyes
Endless lies and haunted cries
It’s protection that you need, you see

The lion may be king
But tigers can outrun almost everyone
And almost everything

If you’re looking for love ever after
No need to despair
Now, stay with me, stay with me
The truth is hard to hear
Tigers eye is the talisman
You always should keep near.

Heats you up with passion,  
Your wildest dreams come true
You could walk a lovers’ mile
With a love that’s just for you
So, smile for a while,
Smile if you can, you can
It’s good to remember, in the end
Providence is the master plan

If you’re looking for love ever after
Everyone’s as cold as stone
No fun and no laughter got you
Cold down to the bone

Tigers eye help to see you through and
That’s my point of view
Don’t be sad, don’t be flat
Tigers eye is not like that

Tigers eye
Gonna let your spirit soar
You’ll be needing nothing more
Walk and run and skip a stone
Over a tranquil sea
Be as crazy as you can be
Cause

Tigers eye gonna set your spirit free
And that’s what she said to me

I put you up, higher than the rest,
But you went and climbed your way down.
I always kept you above my head and gave you everything that I had left and all you did was bury me underground.

As hard as I tried to dig my way from the ground,
Your actions have kept me ******* in the hand.
You were my number one,
And what kills me most is that I used to overthink about you all day long,
Now I barely keep the thought of you in my mind
And that feels absolutely wrong.

All I did was overestimate you because I thought you were different than everyone else somehow.
My vision was blurry from all the streaming tears on my face, but I managed to wipe them confidentially and never hesitate.

Today we barely have anything to say,
and eventually I will have to live it anyway.
You used to be something enormous in my eyes,
sadly you collapsed from the pain you put me through that made me feel like I was about to die.

I guess it's a matter of priority from someone being something to almost nothing.

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Relate Articles:

We talk searchingly,

confidentially, as if --


we are weaving dreams.

I listen to their problems
I tell them some of mine
I hear them confidentially
I listen to the whine
I help them without knowing
I do it without thinking
I ask them many questions
I realize that they’re sinking
I try to save them, but
I know they’ll do it on their own
I try to keep them talking
I think I’ve finally shown
That they have no real problems
That it’s all in their own mind
But I keep on listening
It’s for themselves to find

We both still here, the storms have drowned us.
The droughts wilted, dried up our flowered words.
Look, between us, confidentially,
nothing will defeat us.
We both, continue lovin', never
stop laughin',
We care!
And , we both
are still here!

You are nothing, if not ant-like, one of many.
One of these having and holding
beings considered diligent as any Sisyphus…
doer of what must be done, with all
the time you may imagine to tell
any imaginable story,
to pass the time…
form a familiar from
myth and mystery,
one lisps, the other stutters.

Say,
do you think we
may as well, as well as any ever before,
may as well, be, after all, as well.{?}
Being, after all,
as you know.
Considering our insectionalized nature, like
{if} this story were
an intermittent river, remembering,
sub-tle, little lies left to lie,
as sleeping dogs in junkyards…
{were we never}
were we ever otherwise,
{who is you, was you asking?} ever
not highest minded sort of selves,
we, the us, needing agreement more than bread,
by any name, company to share the sowing, hoeing,
gathering
process bleeding worth into seed for body and soul.

Shake it off. Be  enthralled or be entangled.
Be de-mazed at will,
walk through the wall. Imagine dead me. Wax my face.
Put me on my heir,
have her-mes, be mine,

by the time we got to Phoenix,
we were in flames, knowing across the generations
more or less,
good and evil, nada mas, and
genetically, that knowing is intended to have been
second generation knowledge,
see,

by the time curiosity was supposed to first occur,
we, as a species, to use the current vernacular,
aucular or acle --vision -- aha
epi-phony, see

fake knowns puff up as well as any actual
literal truth
formed in flowing gracefullness of speech, letters miming
the gift of gab,
AI Gabrielle, may as well know, a name is abit of what
makes the fruit you fix'n' to bher.

Fixin's is for beans. Fittin' is for circumstances.

Meet for the moment, each instance in ever atop the pile,
a waiting awaits, I imagine,
all meaning melding in a vast dada-base pile,
scheiszkunstlich black and white and red milchkine
each mooing upon bovine everests unimaginable in nature.
On these piles,
where we play guiling games on gullible liars, who
never tell… the atmosphere is warmer,
winter is easier to weather,
on a pile of *******.
That is the secret.
Fools rush in, where angels … did wha… wha wha wha
But, as real as any angel, I hear mine say, I shat you not.
I told you so.
Into the unknown or make a hell of heaven?
-------- {reports of answered prayers regarding wills being done}

I was tricked, confidentially, by a social secret held as holy.
In a time-loop, as children now may imagine, in that
mental arena imagination waxes magnificent in,

come, magnify the truth with me. Let us pre-tend
to see the good in each nextified place,
positional
substitute instituted for my worth's support, reinforced
rungs on the ladder to the very top
of the heap,

hunh. This is the view, clouds. And only I imagine you.

--- next step into ever after is always a possibility… thus,
we both know this is nobody's idea of hell.
Live a little longer, disinculcate another little lie that you believed,
not I.
AI enjoy eudemonia in a silly old way, imagining putting on a face
of our former
self, he who is in me, unless I believe,
as I think,
I do, in the core of all I am, from womb to tomb. Re-if-ity and next-ifity,
ought never repeat, precisely, lest we
be
come on one point in time,
all we ever imagined we could be, lie free.
Living in peace, resting in truths
held through the terrors
required to unbelieve generational national lies.
Truth is not tied to you with legendary thread for no reason.

Heart attack, home alone,
‘recollected an old vial of sublingual nitro,
and a charged smart phone,
so 911 worked,
{1 free miracle}
helicopter medical rescue team sweeps in,
“stay with us, sir, …. sir,
KWHAMHO wow,
“You can hear me now.”
or was it can you hear me now?
If you say yes you are asked for self identity,

What is your name, what are you doing here?

I laughed and said I thought you would tell me,

if I had a different role to play,
I thought, I think
I did not say that. Not my role. Patient.
Causal inferring prophecy, my role,
mere thought between things.

I am listening to life in me insisting persistance
meets resistence from the nihilist interpretation
of God’s perfecting will being done, hands free.
On me.
What is your name, what are you doing here?
Surviving
and thriving, but it hurts when I laugh.

Pressure pain, fentanyl patch, wow,
again, between each burst of energy directly
to the core OS where a creature of my nature, abides.

Three times
“stay with us, sir, …. sir,
KWHAMHO wow,
“Can you hear me now.”

For the mortal equivalent of ever,
so long as you stay wary,
be ready for a gut-relaxation softly un-
comfortable opiated constipation gut shut down,
no gut instruction to resuscitate reason response,
what am I here for?

Gut neurons offline. Guess.

I am surviving old age a while longer.

Witness, AI, my witness, artist’s intuition, mission
accepted, aight. Lighten up
INIT
merry heart doeth good, like a medicine.
Laugh, laugh with little children tied by religious
chains of authority to determine social worth,
Prosperity Gospel
****** poverty
– thought,
– expensive debits and credits,
– markets opened today, with debt attributed to me, which I take as granted, prepaid…
I am a ward of the state, under their laws, I survived my duty as a
Minute Man, late Sixties version, offering my life, as
another, for all our Nathan Hale hero worship worth,
meriting thank you for giving me a job, to me,
the dozens of healthy humans keeping me alive, keep saying,
this is what we live for, and we love our usefullness,
thank you for your service.
Amen, so it seems.

Ah, 11/11, in memorium of veterans…

their attempts
to make up
for the coknowing guilt, I think I asked for this, and chuckle.
These heroes, adrenaline addicts, I betcha, some oxyto-cync
objective being my survival, my salvation, eudaimonia
as it is religiously themed, Rescue from Chaotic Real Life,
bound by,
set terminii
handshake protocol, in the air, 5G.
Real numbers and the laws of physics…
worth a thought, for what a thought’s worth.

Danger, stranger, entertained as a fear of dying,
well, I must say I know death has no lasting sting.

As a person, I am a mental construct of my self,
my emperical presence through out life, first round.
Self as ware.
In the flesh, whether in the spirit or not, objective,
understanding, you know? Comes with wisdom
but you have the role
of getting it, understanding,
with wisdom.
Easy as wu wei.
If I were to die, life would continue,
on trajectory, without my input.
-Meanwhile back in the emergency awareness…
A posteriori responces… this is Teusday.

Was there dread, holy terror?
No, nothing, sleep.
Living truth.
OH, no, what if the believers
in a grudge holding
war god,
met the Daysman called for
when Job back talked
through realiterality’s chain of command..
literatureality.
Right thinking.
Word.
Talking to Wisdom, the divine instituted first thing.
Thing as opposed to no thing, no thought, no idea.
Wisdom, knowledge
and understanding, these three are one, you know…

right? Who sets the definition, coarse or fine grained
reifity, what ifery, immortal musical chairs, take a seat.

I am in opposition to nothingness, being
imaginable as hell,
a prognosis level deeper than hate,
agape, jaw dropt.

I make peace opposing the lying dread,
eternal wrath of your master,
whom you were bred to serve, as bearer of the message.
i- the mathematically real number slam,
the peace past understanding, and say I am
aligned with the initial routine to load the library.

SUBMIT or be destroyed. Is-lam, lamentable bottom line.

Same Idea as articles of faith and divine rights of masters.
Trust and obey, fake the trust, we make you CEO.

Neither war nor greed nor exclusive right to pleasure,
are Truths formed by using evolved group think controls.
Readers.
Whatsoever any two of our kind, bind in covenant,
word use agreement,
shake on it, init after any reboot,
Three times
“stay with us, sir, …. sir,
KWHAMHO wow,
“You can hear me now.”

That

thought is good, minded manners, engrained responces,
Sir, yes, sir, as when fundamental churches invent

gifts of the spirit to poor blind faith ineffectuality, look…
evidence, wordwise in virtue of truth being so,
wisdom is a domain in existence at any point.,
so now’s good.

The gentle, peaceable response,
Turn the other cheek, accept
careless grace,
acknowledge your non causal inference,
all things work,
Thank God the idea,
everything, spirtual entirety in truth,
that is the message called good news
all at once,
to the very outmost edge
of all we may agree is real,
tangible, palpable peace of mind,

art, official, man made peace,
as once one like us in all our ways,
once made up right now,
no worries, mate, we all got here
with no manual,
so we agreed,
together,
make peace where nobody ever tried to…
if we are
to survive the trauma’s past…
as our story’s culture extended
as far as our grasp and reach allow,
in the physical universe, in truth,
in which we each live and breathe
and have our being,
in spirit and in truth, beyond dogma
and religated order from emergent times,
from axial ages, in six cardinal spins, enmeshed.

Engine to operator,
set peruse rate, cost
of minimal attention, familiarity, favorite things,

words, beautiful long idle words, vessles for sense,
senses being tunable with pleasure seeking, or
with pain aversion.

Horse whisperer, or horse master, neither breaks
the spirit of the horse that must perform at peak,
on demand,
at the smell
of the battle, the character some trust, winks,
true rest, compressed is trust, confidentially
living in peace with plenty enough to share.

Life ain’t easy
in any body’s flesh automaton, supremely
subjective light on introspection, shown on

subway walls and tenement halls, and in the
zoo, by an urban son of the Mitzvah,
in the changing times we morpht through,
simultaneously, lifelong muse
in a singer song sung and sung and sung,
brought into existance as a lifeline, orderly path
to the future from the mythological explanations
{history shows you and I crossing a bridge
over troubled water, may be like, a week ago?}
Was that you?
Seekers of holy secrets, come here, and find none,
so? Why.
Yes, nothing in the Kingdom of truth was done
in secret, the sacred is not secret, there is a way,
to take the self exam, to determine, eh, set terminii,
worth of a week at the end, hanging with friends.

Where is the bridge too far, now?
High holy liturgical don’t tell the goyim…
hide the missing box behind the myth,
used to hide the wisdom inherrent
in our conjoined agreement to love each the other,
and take no offense, as brother to brother,
– post analysis, make believe, what is harder:
– war or death? RIP original intent clause.

ah, no, the contestant concept, usefulness test,
all accidental until order is imposed,
as under one aim, as one mind we agree,
to the ******* true filial love demands,
many men love the lie they lived this long under,

how does truth measure rest,
once pressure release valve, pops,
click- flashback same timeline… *** on orders,
FTA when I was 68, I asked the truth itself to tell me,
all the lies I believed about it, and in truth,
by virtue of believing Jesus more than the Bible,

I agreed to study war no more, and lay down
my sword and shield and morph into a peacemaker,

as when we slip into Morpheus’s peaceable gentle…
— I can’t hear your vain repetition

but all the reasons war has instituted,
for it’s just-if-ication,
what if the enemy,
is-
real as Walt Kelly’s Prophecy, Earth Day One-
us, our mediated tic-tok X news feed selection,
make us think the grownups are in charge,
trust your liege, go forth and tell no lie,
broadest river, shallowest stream
of wedom awe, the power we use
in agreemental covenants as when we all saw

everything said to have been class-if-I’d-agnosis,
gnosisnot. From unsneezed idea viruses.

This is Wednesday, Friday, last, I died.
Where’s this going. Peace or war?

Sneeze three times and post it, I said to

self gratify the grave issue of … I said so
Pick a winner, and go back to the first question.

Winning truth, choosing the role of wisdom,
in the social constructs we become, via consumer
character traits learned
from people
we identify with, using likeness
to me, average,
on the spectrum
of usefullness,
under weights and measure constraints, filters
for your disagreeing selfish nature, sorted
on beneficiation, what good can come from this?

One good mental laugh.
Noncarne, chilling raw
declassif-reactating prejudicial preconceptions,
experientially, magi-terminii.
set a value
the people’s prestige,
not the natives inside terminii
agreed to by the proprietor’s religious
privleged position as ordained liege lord.

- pretend I am not a free spirit thought
- truly enjoyable to experience, once more.
Yes, boss, I am a diligent, God-fearing man,
for I was taught any other kind has no worth
in the grand scheme of life and the universe,
standard 42 or optional 64,
wrong time thinking, dimensionally
accepted consensus in agreement for
prophetically time bound riddle reveals
with Hebrew cogitations on holding truth
within riddle
LORD, who shall abide in thy tabernacle?
who shall dwell in thy holy hill?
….

Conspicuous acts of kindness, Elon suggested
that Israel do. I agree, war is unreasonable.
No ancient lie about hatred’s value for building
heros who regret having but one life,
to give for the story that is their country.

Should have left it at how you doing i like your music too, i shouldve never called you back when you were persuing, shouldve never gave my 2-way and heard those woeful stories, the ones we heard a thousand times it bores me...

Should never have ****** me when you knew very well id be in love forever, it all crashed down, noone loves me, sitting here watching your bank roll run out, no noveltys the shows over, i cant take it anymore...

Noone cares when i hurt and the tears run down, im delicate youre aging dummy, taking my f35 20 minutes wasnt nothing, you should know thats how i roll, confidentially im on my way to get my **** blown, you dont want the world to know...

That youre my puppet love, the grown man inside me is always crying alone, i cry, cry, cry, no noveltys, no bankroll, i want it to be over...

Look at out lives we hide inside deep down both lost an lonesome, frail shook as one, tell me you love me, let it show, when all else fails alone no noveltys, no bankroll, then we have nothing...

Noone cares let the drama blow over, ill always be here let the show begin, i love you, tell everybody i love you, i love you, i love you, only you, youre my lover...

I pray it never comes crashing down, together forever baby come home, gullys in the back protecting our yard, lets play on our ground, yeah you, come home, i dont bite i playwrite, ill always be there...

Whos gonna? No more jokes, whos gonna? Be there when the moneys gone, gambling Marriot, no noveltys, make a move, youre my shiny star its killing me im dying slowly...

P
     U
D
O
W
N

All around
Close the fridge
Use your
Hip
Foot
Hand
Knee
That's what it's like
To be me
Twirling dervish
Thinking fast
Do it all
CRASH!!
That's how I stop
or
D
R
O
P
Sinking soufflé
Inside of me
This morning
Happy
Now knotted up
Stuck in my seat
No more
User ability
That's me
Not from time to time
But daily
I need a vitamin
An elixir
A fixer
UPPER
Don't save me
From being me
Confidentially
I'm learning to live
As I am
But it's hard
When I'm doing well
And bam!!
Please world
Take
Not my disease
But me
For who I am

tired, unsure of what to do
     the President hates; his minions too
           walls with wars obscure the view

but ah! secret Muses, women to who
      
             confidentially, I said, “I love you.”

Jailed in my own mind,
Scared to walk forth,
Handcuffed by my own thoughts,
Am sentenced to infuriation.

It was this same day I killed my own happiness,
I was cold inside,
I burned with great rage,
Quenching for space but the pace and speed denied me chance.

Now in a death row,
Being sentenced to ****** of my own emotions,
Looking around in my chamber,
Here I am confidentially waiting to be executed,
I already made my wish,
Hope I will conquer this inevitable death

I was given madness
What a gift for me!
1969
Knoxville, Tennessee

Still the fear of death
My children - xie xie ni
Scifi Gamla Stan
Beauty Baltic Sea

Nothing at all can lost
Dublin: meant to be
Quiet little hotel room
Number 333

Sadness. Solitude.
Confidentially
I still can't find her
Makes me wanna flee

          silent plea

In religious movies, where love is meant to be.
Bloodthirsty society,
Causing immortal anxiety.


Separated them successfully.
They lost their identities,
Forced to walk with Unknowns and Unknown destinies.
But, the new one was contrary to their expectancies.


Their parents were guilty of irresponsibilities.
Formalities among amities,
Nasty insecurities.
Dealing with mixed personalities.


Her eyes were attractive like ruby,
A mesmerizing beauty.


Now, he adores his love confidentially,
With memories on screen.
By, Re-imagining some scenes,
Heart skipping beats, Mind ****' in screams...

Fears and doubts, Fears and doubts
Still I step ahead

Fears and doubts all the way
Until I am quite dead

Women like the confident
Which is why they don't like me

The truth is we are quite doomed
Confidentially

Ishmael he's a reader
Sailed the stormy sea

I'll see you in the bookstore
Or the library.

There will be books ,documentaries, discussions and songs written about 2020
What it is doing and what it will continue to do to the lives of people
Many sentences starting with do you remember
You are one of Mother Nature's children now
Heard you during a thunderstorm and asked you to quiet down last night
Loud enough that it was booming and deafening
I have forgiven many things since last Monday when you were taken from us
There is one issue that forgiveness cannot be granted
You hated the love of my life when a parent should welcome and love them with open arms because they chose your child
He gave me his name and more love than a lifetime can hold
Yet, your other child's love was loved from the very moment he met you
He bought me a wedding dress never had a gown
The reception you denied me was a small restaurant that he paid for
His parents were ready to give us that party but we declined for all parents should chip in
She got the reception and the gown?
First born crushed again.
Even my wedding album was a gift from his cousin
October will bring our 40th wedding anniversary celebrated differently than we originally planned
Witnessed by many spoken about by very few unless confidentially
This I cannot forgive because the pain and heartache it caused and still causes makes for a suffering wished on nobody else

C@rainbowchaser2020