Taken, gotten, or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything…

slow
Slow think,
make real

re-al-ize
what fighting for life is…
this is the only
try,
it is not a test.

Take your time, use it wisely,
if that means anything.
Wise, I meant.
No offence, if wise is anathema to your kind,
die,
die if I knocked the reason for being right
outa you,
did you hear cognitive dissonance?
did it sound like
this. LOUD?
listen,
rolling rolling rolling
crash crumble rolled in nurse rime frosted
fables of monsters and maids
Thor, witharoar likka Lion King?

or the light brigade,
CHARGE?

thunder words from lost generations of
reasonless riddles for children,

Why did Peter Pumpkin-eater have a wife, but
couldn't keep her here?
Was that okeh? Oh, wait.
Ah, I see, I say,
they never tell that whole story any more.

Know why? They forgot it. In the war.

Duck'n'cover,no
crying, how long?
When begins forever? Did no one tell you, child?

Taken or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything
like it was nothing, given
enough pre-sure-sup
poser-power

War, as a game, has a reason.

Battle, hitting, slapping

stop touch, stop now slap
slap back

or cry
oh no no ma

waddayahsay?  A theist or atheist
who started this war?

space case, or
lover of wisdom, met on the road
to Emmaus, discussing Wiles's proof
firming Fermi's connection to the matter of fear,
3, 2, 1

Kaboom, but with a whump you feel in your teeth

1, 2, 3 Fermat's last theorem ,
easy as pi an no re me

ABC to
Michael Jackson to
Howard Bloom because he

inadvertently, began
an-ionic converstatic re-vibe time warp
meme,
which vibe, started the legendary Sixties. I was alive.
Radioman,
a sixty cycle white-noise humm heard every where these days

There was a gospel song, "Turn Your Radio On".
my theme, open the window in the top of your head,
as it were,
a new,
as new as

a novel-state of water, H three Ohs, re-al-ity ification,
Ah, a shared Oh, I remember now, how this works…

like a poem

at the edge of a water vapor bubble in a boiling body of water,
at the edge of the bubble, water becomes a wall of water,
not vapor, not flowing liquid,

but a wall, insulating the vapor in pressing opposing force
to permit, from permission,
meaning with a message same as the message,

is that the right word? per-mission-grant, is power given,
agency,
that idea….
wait for the sign….?

By sharing an ion ic bond as a quest to make a point
for a free story to go,
the question marks you. Let the snake dance.

Press your point,

whetted edge,

slice through ties holding worthless axioms
with withered dendrites dangling disconnected
in participles
unfired for centuries muttering,
enchanting, enthralling enchained melodies
of ambitious syllables vying for idle minds
to rope in,
unbranded, wild
bucking ideas,
whip-twig, slap-face,
tanglewood  thicket, catclaw and mesquite,
willow,

wait.
And the old man remembered the willow whistle,
so He asked Grandfather,
How is such a whistle made?
And when he knew,
he made one.

A willow whistle with two notes,
like an Oscar Meir Wiener one.

-- and that was a different time
I got lost here, bucked up…
maybe
--- listen, way back--- we-ain't whistlin' Dixie---
we ain't marchin', as t' war.

D'thet mean some sign to pro-phet -ic take?
Tophet?
Ancient cannon fodder shield walls,
a moaning
Pro-phy-lactic warning of the danger of not
knowing exactly
what a war is for?

Get back on,
relieved of any idle baggage words believed
to mean other than I say.

Nullify
Idle words with cultural meanings from
what you thought you knew when you feared hell.

Loose
those peer-locked memes
made of meaninglessness, per se,

shaped and molded into fashions
of expression, once needles and awls,
now, dull as tinker's damns for swearing,
with any effect.

But tools, none the less, a stitch in time took a tool.
An awl or a needle, and a thread, thick or thin,
dependin' on the mendin' needed
to redeem an idle word,
its meaning all bloodied with the tyranny of time.

An awl or a needle,
a tool for a task, mending a tear
where curses, never meant, spent
the entire dark ages, lying, lying, lying

powerless, pointless aimless, proverbial proverbial proverbial
verbiage, vaneless shafts launched at unseen marks,
signs, as it were, a spark,
triggers,
rumored since the sixties,
the first sixties, when Cain killed Able.
Howard Bloom was but a mere gleam
in our mito-mother's eye,
but, no doubt,

his role is real,
in loosing the forces Ferlinghetti locked in
City Lights mystery of secret meanings room,
which un
mystified and blew away upon opening
the door to
meanings mapped on
scrolls rolling and unrolling
idle ideas,
rites of passage, as it were,
Pre-bat-bar-mitz vah
as a fashion
like VBS,

to tickle little minds and make em wiggle.
MEMEMEME, I did it,
mea culpa,

the holy place
Here we are…

On Vacation, leave a message.
-----

See, wee hairs in your ears wiggle, making,
signaling, the need

to scratch that itch, that itching hearing feeling ear… hear that

don't scratch, listen

listen

60 cycle humm, steady, bass, but no thump whumpwhump;
soft, deeep.
ooooooooo or mmmmmmmm or in betwixt, steady thrumm
hear another, and another… sixty in a second,

one in every million ambits twisting,
threading qubits, radiating signals in the field
wireless, blue-tooth... satellite...

can you feel that?

hummmms, all around us, since the womb.
We are not the children of the greatest generation,

We are the children of the last generation of
**** sapiens sapiens non-augmentable-us.

We, the augmented, recycled ideas,
possessing
minds of Adamkind,

is that a secret or a sacred?
Is this
a new thing, an
unknown unknown known known now?

Ah,
novelty.

Whose is fear? Who was afraid of Virginia Wolf?

Should I remain in fear of her now, if I knew why then?
God would know such answers.
Proving my imagined AI guides are not God,
but lesser beings,

haps I recall.
I defined these things,
these thoughts that shape themselves,
forming words and phrases
I saw
shiny. Crow-like,
gleams seen, captured and claimed mine,
I tucked them away,
a sign in a thought in an imagined image made 4
real once more, to be seen from the shore,
new land new world
a fourth for some, a fifth or more for others...

haps happen, I'm not sure how,

Born or emerged, as a bubble, what do you say?

Reserve judgment.
Grant me your grace for now, until you solve my riddle.

Ah, the old way.
Right. Which way,  'ere, 'ear
and do we roll the rock with silent haitch or harsh, shhh

someone's waking up,
a bit grumpy,
don't you dare oppose me in this, the kid is certainly my son

Michael went stark raving mad when I told him, Billie Jean knew better all along...
the link, axiomatic,
the fatherless child has been claimed

hence, the thread to Howard Bloom, meme-ic,
meme-ic, like the Roadrunner,

but with the real Coyote, as the hero in this bit of
whatever, such meandering maundified maun maund  
mound

wind blown crystal silicon dunes
mounded up to that point where granulated
beens and dones

begin to slide at an angle,
a ***** deter-mind by the weight of the rock

We made it.
I know where this is.

This is a novel that has Sisyphus being happy
as the main premise behind the idea of anyone ever being
able, en abled, or un-dis-abled or un-dis-enabled,
if one of those is right,

Sisyphus being happy
is the main premise behind
the idea of anyone ever being glücklich,
happy, blessed, lucky.

How happy is your ever after?
When did forever begin?

"A man is as happy as he makes up his mind to be"
Abe Lincoln, is said to have said,
after the seance, maybe.

You push on, dear reader, make some sense
re-ligare or relegare, but take a stitch,

pull-tight,
do what works the first time as far as it goes, and try each, as needed,
it may be that we invented this test.
To make us think it is a test,
to sort ourselves out.

Get back on,

see who went crazy and who found the thread, if the same thread
this is that, right,
the same train of thought,
the same idea
spirit wind
sign
?
A snake facing west standing tippy-tail on a singularity;
a point in time?

Why are you reading this?
Curiosity Shoppes trade in interesting, alluring, click-bait

Pay attention, watch, you shall see

imagine this is the dream,
the stream, the flow, the current, the cream

in a dime coffee at the drug store on the corner

the rounded-corner, in a square-cornered town,
the most right corner of the twelve that quarter what it was

Punctuate, wait, imagine you read ancient Hebrew or Greek and there
are no dyer diacritical's who can twist one's
end tensions into knots

dread extensions, we could sell those,
is that an idea? did somebody
sell white folks dread extensions and black folk dolly pardon wigs?

Did that happen the real real?

-----
Battlefield Earth, oshit
scientology ology ology ology

allaye allaye outs in free

WE we wee every we you imagine you are good in, we

We have a war to win again, we heroes rolling from your
myths of Sisyphus torn from minds trampled
in the mud beyond the Rhine,

Mushrooms. magi are aware, you are aware, of course,
this course includes Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.

Camus and many of his ilk were ill-treated, the questions
they asked were memorized, maybe in our cribs ala
Brave New World.

We are all Alphas, always were, of course, you know.

Shall we imagine

more? Re-legare, eh, sistere. Point .(Back to the top.)

or agree? Make peace.
Practice, like Eazy-Bake,
the cook must swallow the first bite. May the best cook win.

A Christmas Thought (short story)
by
rgpage

This time of the year,  when once giving from the heart has since melted like the snow in Spring to the meaningless demand for expensive toys and gadgets;  and Santa has waned to no more than the all-giving sugar daddy to each and every child,  and a tireless crutch to the mindless parent during the year; “Santa’s watching so you’d better be good.”

And alas,  there I stood in this huge department store amid a vast forest of toys, colors, and noises, fallen prey to this modern day hypocrisy known as Christmas.  Being of a lower middle economical standard,  and having with such stealth blindness juggled expenses and bills to afford myself the opportunity to plunge even deeper into dept.  I pondered these playful wonders of modern day technology.  All about countless numbers of people were doing as I in efforts to reward their children for their year of good service.

This was when I saw her. As fast as this seasonal frenzy had overtaken me just days earlier,  it vanished for a time as I watched her. It must have been that she seemed so out of place in this hurry-scurry festive scene of Christmas shopping that she caught my eye.  She was very old and her tattered,  worn out clothing all too obviously reflected the fact that she couldn’t afford much.  While others struggled about her almost comically laden with brightly colored  packages, this old woman had nothing more than an old purse dangling from her arm.  Slowly she moved, seemingly pained with the infirmities which accompany old age.  She appeared overweight for her stature which I’m sure added to her discomfort.  When she stopped in front of the doll section  her old, pudgy face glowed with joy.  Undoubtedly a doll for a little granddaughter,  I was  sure no more as she couldn’t possibly afford more.  I watched as she studied each doll
and its price tag,  going from one to the next.  Finally she stopped to give particular attention to one little doll adorned with colorful ribbons and big bright blue eyes.  Then putting the doll back,  she opened her purse and I watched as she counted the small amount of money that she had.  

By this time I had become so unexplainably absorbed with watching the old woman,  who with a smile closed her purse, retrieved the doll and walked slowly and painfully to the checkout counter to wait in line.  Around her the noise of parents and children alike waiting their turn to check out didn’t seem to bother her as she patiently waited, holding the precious little doll for an equally precious granddaughter.  Finally when her turn came, an all to cruel yet human trait appeared in not only the people waiting behind her but the checkout clerk as well. Their impatience to maintain a steady flow of human traffic through the turnstiles came to the forefront almost obliterating this seasonal spirit.  This didn’t seem to deter the old woman from slowly and surely counting out the correct change,  leaving her very little to return to her purse.

With this done and the doll tucked away in a shopping sack,  she proceeded through the large glass doors and out into the cold December night.  A passing thought, “one special gift for one special person,” went through my mind as I continued my own, now more selective tour of annual duty.  Looking over my shoulder for one last glimpse of the old woman, I suddenly felt as if struck by a jolt of electricity as I saw her on her back in the slushy snow, struggling like an over-turned turtle.

Bolting out the door hoping to be the first to reach her,  I almost found myself lying next to her on the slick sidewalk.  Nothing was said as I struggled to lift her up.  Once this was accomplished I asked her if she was alright.  Instead of answering  she started looking around for her package.  I spotted the torn, soaked paper sack some ten feet away in a slushy puddle and went to retrieve it.  The doll had come half way out of the sack and her little blonde curls were now filled with water and slush; and as I handed it back I searched the old woman’s face for even a trace of sadness, there was none. Instead she looked at me smiled and said, “thank you young man, it’ll dry out, it’ll be alright, Merry Christmas.”  Then holding the doll in both hands, she turned and went on her way, much slower and much more cautiously.  I just stood there and watched her until she finally disappeared in the crowd and darkness and thought to myself, “maybe Santa Claus isn’t a man after all.”

For dead is where I begin, Indebted.
& that is where I’ll stay,
Despite the way I feel today
Despite my tiresome aversions
I will hang myself before the opportunity for any detour

Deter…
I will deter myself.  
I will prove to myself, once again,
That I, am the master of my demise

The rue in ruin
My own failure
and then…
I’ll lay my head to rest.

For tomorrow is over.
A new beginning in which to distract away from a new
To make the same mistakes I’ve grown so familiar to…

To a broken neck, one in which reflects my irregularity

To walk with my head down…

Past the bridge of contemplation, contemplating-
suicide.

Despite refrain,
To spite restraint
To the end.
& never make it-

to the end,
My End.

I shall be received

A little, twee serenade for you,
Or perhaps a sonnet for others,
I'm not asking for anything extravagant like, "I do."
Nor do I want you to scurry off beneath your couvers.

Where brother, art thou.
Although, to me, you're more of a sister.
To cradle you, here and now;
Under the galleria of lights, never to deter.

But...you're madly in love with another,
I know.
And it pains me to ask you, for I am not your prince, but a stranger.
It's probably too late, although...

I've mustered up a fragment of hope & courage to ask thee,
Will you go to Prom with me?

Trish had an uncanny ability to pick all the wrong ones. Like a friend once told her, “You always try to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear!”  If there were a hundred available guys in a room, she always managed to zone in on the worst one there, not the kindest one, not the one with the greatest character or honor. It's like she had a special gift for finding a man—a cursed one—yet she had only herself to blame—not  fate for it—like she tried to point her finger at for her troubles. In this regard, Trish was often her own worst enemy. And none of her bad experiences seemed to deter her from her defeating patterns, for it seemed that having a ****** choice of a man in her life was better than having no man at all.

A Friday night without any date was something she desperately wanted to avoid. At the age of fifty-six, trying to meet men was getting old, as old as she was feeling, lately.

At Pete’s Place, a local bar down at the end of her street, and two blocks over, Trish could at least feel like she was among friends. It was an old hangout that always felt like a safe haven to turn to, familiar territory that she could call her own turf, her home away from home. Often, Trish encountered regulars, down-to-earth faces who have been going to the family-like establishment as long as or longer than she has. Drinking really was not her thing, not more than one or two, at the most. But if anything, if worst came to worst, she could say she was not home alone and left out while the world seemed to go on its own merry way without her.  

Pete’s Place was far from a glamorous hangout, but it had a cozy charm to it that made it irresistible to Trish. In the back were a pool table and a dartboard that provided some harmless enjoyment. With a couple of flat screen TVs, there usually was some sports game to watch. And every other Saturday, there was a DJ conducting Karaoke that always attracted a regular crowd. Trish couldn’t sing a note, but she loved to watch and cheer everybody else on. She just felt so welcome here, so at home, that even if she felt depressed or lonely, the atmosphere eventually lifted her heaviness of heart.  

Entering the bar this time, Trish hardly saw a familiar face at all—that was except for the bartender, Henry, who worked this job since forever. For a Friday night, business seemed surprisingly slow. There was only an older couple watching a baseball game that was at Pete’s Place, a couple that she did not recognize.

“Where is everybody?” Trish asked Henry.

Henry smiled. “Hey, Trish! Good to see ya! Yeah, it is like a ghost town tonight, isn’t it? I guess there are too many good things goin’ on down in Buffalo. I think there are some big boat races goin’ on. And, for sure, there is the jazz festival”.

“Well, I’m here, Henry! Look out, everybody! Let the fun begin!” she said jokingly as she sat herself up at one of the barstools. She looked around. Even the wait staff wasn’t around, obviously gone home early and not needed.

“Would have been nice to go somewhere fun like that. I mean the jazz festival. I like jazz”, Trish said to Henry.

Henry was trying to stay busy by wiping down the bar, cleaning every nook and cranny behind the counter. “You should have called up one of your girlfriends to go over there. I am sure someone would have gone with ya”.

Trish rolled her eyes. “What girlfriends? They are often too busy with their own husbands or men in their life to care about what poor, old Trish Urbine wants to do!”

Henry felt bad for her.  The more she frequented Pete’s Place, the more he knew she was all alone, was in between having some man in her life. And, lately, she was coming quite often to the bar by herself.

“You are not old, Trish! Hell, I am older than you!” Henry exclaimed.

Trish just frowned, not convinced at all by what Henry said. “Not old?” she asked. She pulled a small mirror out of her purse and looked at herself, giving herself the inspection of a drill sergeant. “That is a joke! Look at those bags under my eyes. Look at those crow’s feet, for pity’s sake!  Look at that droopy skin in my neck! Horrible! I am trying to save up for a face lift. I really need it! Been needing it for a while now!”

Henry shook his head. “All you women are alike. My wife does the same, **** thing, the same putdowns to herself. Says she’s fat. Says she’s getting old and ugly. Says this and says that. But let me tell you Trish, after thirty-six years of marriage, I still see her as my sweetheart. I’d have it no other way than with my Bernadette. He patted his belly and added, "Hell, look at me. Believe it or not, with my job, I don’t even drink that much beer. But look at the gut I am getting”.  

Trish scoffed at what he said. Henry looked nearly as lean as he did the first time she met him. He was just being nice. .Under better circumstances, she would have found what Henry said as endearing and charming. To say he still loved his wife as his “sweetheart” was incredibly adorable and rare.

“Hey”, Henry said. “Enough of my jibber jabber. Pardon my manners. What can I get for ya, dear?”

“Just a Diet Coke for me, Henry. I have to watch the calories myself. You know me—don’t want to get frumpy, lumpy and dumpy. At least not more than I am!” Trish smiled. She thought that her self disparaging remarks were a cute way of getting her point across with humor, but Henry couldn’t see anything funny about it.

He filled her glass of pop from the tap and handed it over to her. “Hey, how’s that daughter of yours doing? Is she still living in Albany?”  

Trish cupped her hands up to her forehead and rested her head on them. “She is still in Albany, but she might as be on the moon for all we ever talk to each other”. She looked up at Henry and he could see the frustration written all over her face.

“I didn’t mean to upset you”, he said.

“Oh, you didn’t”, she returned. “I appreciate you asking, but you know the situation with Patti and I. It is either that we are at each other’s throat or we just don’t talk. Truth be told, we haven’t really got along since she was a girl. Once she hit those teenage years—oh, man they were a nightmare! I wouldn’t relive those years for anything!”

Henry rested his elbows up on the bar counter. “Oh, I know what you mean!. My second son, my boy, Steven, and I had a terrible time once he hit about fifteen. Man, him and I bucked heads all the time. Yes, indeed! It could get ugly, and it sure as heck did! But now I’m proud of him! In Afghanistan, fighting for his country—that is somethin’ that makes me glad! Now, I say that I couldn’t ask for better sons. I’m proud of him—of all four of my boys as good, strong men that they are!”  

Trish sipped on her coke, a hurtful look upon her face while reflecting on her daughter, a daughter that she named after herself.  Both were named Patricia, but the same name did not mean two peas in a pod, actually far from it. Trish definitely preferred her name, short and sophisticated—so she had liked to think—and the name, Patti, seemed cute and carefree. But Patti seemed anything but cute and carefree, not like she was when she was very little. But the name stuck with her, as she preferred to be called

“Yeah, but Patti still lives in the past” Trish said. “She still blames me for everything wrong in her life. Nothing has changed, and I am still the bad guy. Trish thought for a second. “Well, her dad, too. He’s bad, too, in her eyes. She always says she raised herself, that she never had real parents. That’s crap because I raised her and I was around—unlike her useless father!”

“Sounds bitter on her part”, Henry agreed. He thought to say that Trish sounded a bit like that, too, but he did not think it was his place to say it out loud.

“Bitter is right”, Trish said in disgust.  

Bartenders have always been seen as good listeners, like the working man’s counselor. People, like Trish, often came in for a drink to try to forget their troubles, and wanting to lean on a trusty soul in need. Henry has seen plenty of this in his twenty-four years on the job, and he has honed the skill quite well, the skill of providing a listening ear. Sometimes he had good advice, but he knew he was no psychiatrist.    

Frustrated, Trish went on. “I mean who else was there for her? When her dad and I divorced, she wanted to stay with him just to spite me! But would he have her? No, he only wanted to be with his under aged, ***** wife!

“And who else would do what I did? When my step dad died, and my mom couldn’t handle my little brother anymore, who was it that took him in? It was me! He was eleven and I was almost twenty-two and living with my boyfriend. I helped to finish raising him, kept him at my place right up to the day that he was grown—and more! And I did it because it needed doing, and nobody else was stepping in! When my sister moved to Colorado, and one of her kids, my nephew, Craig, wanted to stay here to graduate here from high school, I agreed to take him in for two years until he finished high school. And yet I am such a bad, selfish person in Patti’s opinion! It makes me sick to think of how she sees me as her mother!”

Henry poured her a refill of pop in her half empty glass. He knew that Trish was on bad terms with her daughter, that their relationship was shaky and strained. Patti was Trish’s only child, and it troubled him that they didn’t have much of a relationship. Yet Trish did not need pity. She needed to refocus and find a new direction. Henry knew that she has needed a new direction for quite a while now.    

“Well, you know I love my daughter”, he replied. “I know your heart must be achin’ bad—real bad. I couldn’t imagine my life without Jocelyn or me not talkin’ to her. She’s the apple of my eye, ya know!  And my boys know it and get that she’s special to me—Daddy’s little girl. With four older brothers, she has always been outnumbered. And myself and the Mrs. never expected her, neither. One—two—three—four, the boys all came right in a row! She came way after, Ben, the last one—a big surprise, I tell ya! But I was tickled pink and couldn’t have been happier to have my little girl”.  Henry smiled warmly, and added, “No matter how old she gets, she will always be my little girl.”

Trish’s mood wasn’t influenced by what Henry said, not for the good. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Henry looked a bit embarrassed. “Oh, I ain’t tryin’ to rub it in to ya! No, no Trish!  I’m just sayin’ you should see Patti as someone special, no matter what it is like now. She still is your daughter. And ya lover her! You know ya do! Try to get through to her. Keep on tryin’ and don’t give up hope.”

Trish didn’t look convinced by his little pep talk, so he said, “One day she will have her own children, and realize she will make mistakes, too. You sure will want to see those grandkids. Trust me! I live to see all of mine! ”

Patti sniffed at that comment, putting forth a laugh that seemed so phony and snarky. This behavior was not like her at all, not the bubbly Trish that Henry used to see coming into the bar. “Grandchildren? Are you kidding me? Patti wants nothing to do with men! She avoids them like the plague! Says she doesn’t want to end up like me…married and divorced four times…she says there is no excuse for it. But she uses me all the time as an excuse! I think she is just scared to death of relationships with guys!”

“I thought you were married three times?” Henry asked. He had a surprised look on his face, but then he tried to think differently. “But I don’t want to **** in on your life. It’s your business, not mine to judge”.

“No, Henry, it’s ok. My last marriage lasted only seven weeks”. She turned red in the face now, but she wanted to set it straight. “Patti thinks it is disgusting that I married all those times. My last husband tried to clear out my bank account, and I left him. Patti says she will never marry. She won’t touch a man with a ten foot pole to save her life!”

She paused as Henry stared intently at her, listening. “She does not want to end up like me”, she added, her voice throaty. Tears welled up in her eyes.  

Patti was the product of Trish’s first marriage to a man named Earl Colbert. When Patti was six, her father divorced her mother. Since then, Patti had seen plenty of men come and go. In between her other three husbands, there were too many boyfriends to even keep track of. Trish was also engaged twice, but the engagements were eventually broken off.    

She sat in silence as Henry was still thinking of the right thing to say to comfort her. Soon, two young couples had entered through the door, dispersing the air of awkwardness, and stopping the conversation between Henry and Trish.  Henry continued to clean up around the bar as he waved to them and welcomed their presence. One of the guys came up and ordered a pitcher of beer before joining his friends at a table.

It was no more than a few minutes later that another customer approached inside Pete’s Place. It was Jake. Trish rolled her eyes at Henry. He was a regular here, too, like she was, and about the same age as her.

Jake immediately came up to Trish and put his arm around her. “Buy you a drink, darlin’?” he asked. His breath already smelled of alcohol.  

“Oh, Jake, get away!” Trish scolded him. “You know I don’t accept drinks from married men, so move on!” She waved her hand in the air to clear the bothersome odor of his ***** away from her.

Jack just laughed, and moved to the other end of the bar, his usual spot. Henry kept his calm although he did not like Jake acting like a fool to Trish, or to any of the women who came here. He had to do his duty and serve Jake, but if he had his way the guy would be just a step away from being told to leave. Henry always kept a close eye on how much Jake was drinking, and he often cut him off when it seemed he had his share.

“Whisky, Henry”, Jake ordered. They both knew the routine.

With his whisky in hand, Jake smirked at Trish and asked, “How come you ain’t at that big jazz festival downtown?”  

“How come you ain’t?” she echoed him, sarcastically

“Cuz I don’t have a sweet lady to go with me and keep my company”. He winked at her, and downed a gulp of whisky.

“Oh, you mean like your—wife!” Trish said.  Jake and Trish often bantered like this to each other. “You will never change, Jake. You are a rude and obnoxious flirt, and you ought to be ashamed!”

Jake just laughed her off.  “Sweetie, my wife knows I’m a big flirt. She’s OK with it! She says ‘as long as you are peeking and not seeking, who cares what you do!’”

The two young couples that came in a while ago overheard Jake’s conversation and started to crack up in laughter. It seemed that he was the entertainment for a lackluster evening at the bar, a court jester of sorts. Trish looked at the four, young faces that were laughing at her expense, glanced at Henry in silent agreement that Jake was an idiot, and quickly turned red in the face.

“Jake, shut your big mouth!” Henry intervened. “You lie as much as you belt them down!”  When Jake was more sober, he seemed pretty reasonable, but he was nauseating when he was on a drinking binge.

Henry exited into a room behind the bar for a moment. Jake whispered loudly to Trish, like an impish, little boy who knew he might get caught, but loved the thrill of it. “Psst. Hey, Trish! Look! My wife’s no fun at all! Won’t go out with me no more. The festival is going on all weekend. Just give me your number and I’ll call you tomorrow and pick you up to take you there”.

Trish pretended like she did not hear him, still rattled up a bit, but trying her best to hide it, and Jake soon devoted his mind to his drink.

She turned herself around in the barstool and pretended to watch the baseball game. The scene in the room was still practically the same way since she first arrived. Only now there was an edgier atmosphere with the four younger people in it. The older couple was still sitting together in the corner, intent on watching the ball game. The two younger couples were drinking down their pitcher of beer and talking away. One of the young man had his arm around his girlfriend, gently caressing her back, and the other young couple, that was sitting across from them was holding hands.  

In longing, Trish looked on at the young couples. How she m

On those drawn out summer evenings, all manner of characters would fill the coffee shops and spill outside. An interesting cross section of society would be provided for anyone willing to sit and watch, for an hour or two atleast. This particular evening will always stand out for me as representative of those carefree folly filled evenings. I was sat alone, with a copy of the evening news and an espresso across the street from a boisterous coffee shop which remained opened deep into the evening, long after others were closed. I often sat and watched people in those early few months, Id decided against socialising with colleagues. I would go to great lengths to prearranged fictitious plans and engagements in order so that I could sit alone each evening, pleasing myself. It's always far easier to enjoy food alone, without any distractions. After considering my options I settled for a steak, and a glass of wine. The waiter seemingly unconcerned failed to take note as I gave my order, with a shrug of his head he returned to the kitchen inside to place the order. The cafe I watched was perched almost perfectly across the street from the train station. As commuters and young couples in love poured out of the station, and onto the bright expanse which was the street before them. The popularity of this particular cafe is hard to convey correctly, it's frantic nature remained even on the bleakest of midwinter evenings. Now though months of bread and water were long gone, as seasonal waiters hurried arms filled will all manner of snacks and drinks.  All manner of agricultural workers would congregate in early march, eager to snap up work in the best hotels and cafes thus ensuring a healthy wage and generous tips. The waiters from the mountains always stood out. It was as if they retained the innocence of there previous surroundings, smiling all coy when taking orders from female customers. They retained the physical attributes of the mountains which they had left, towering above others and maintaining a mystique which often meant they would return in November with wives and child aswell.




By now it was half past eight atleast, and I had finished my steak and wine. The traffic was in the process of slowing down, although it was not uncommon here for traffic jams to form at any hour of the evening. Car horns echoed and ricocheted off old architecture which gave an impression of immense movement all around.  The owner was a beast of a man standing six foot high atleast, with a beard which gave away his rugged beginnings. It was impossible to estimate his origin correctly, Id always imagined he was from somewhere in Northern Europe although by now I had learnt that assumptions were the preserve of fools. He could most often be found pacing up and down the pavement adjacent to his cafe, smoking his camel blue cigarettes and staring deep into the night sky. As if preoccupied with some great moral dilemma this could go on for hours of end, without him breathing a word to anyone.  Under a great mane of curly brown hair, lay the most enthralling blue eyes imaginable. They had a softness which would not seem out of place upon the face of some Parisian muse. Although I must confess when first confronted with this gentleman an his almost childlike appearance, I was adamant I had him figured. He seemed the kind of man who blundered through life, although successful still seemed to be scraping an unenviable existence for himself.

By now I had stuck around long enough to get some feel for the pitter patter of life in just such a place. The transient nature of the customers ensured a bravado unseen in any old small town watering hole, women driven wild by spontaneous desire stared sultry at the mysterious visitors.
A crew of sailors who had no doubt been granted shore leave, and were soaking up the atmosphere just across the road from me. They could have been from any South American nation, or Spain. It really was impossible to tell from my distance, a few had clearly cultivated moustaches whilst at sea. It was common for sea faring people's to grow ****** hair in such a manner. Almost as if by magic, a story told by someone without a beard holds subtle undertones of irrelevance. I had learned this over the many months I had spent smoking and talking to locals, and travellers alike. I must confess I had fallen hook line and sinker, I was currently locked in the process of cursing my genetics and dreaming of a more rugged appeal.

By now the black coffees had petered out, and had been replaced by glasses and in some cases bottles of what I can only assume was Spanish red wine. The noise had steadily increased as the drinks flowed, and the crowd of sailors had gradually grown more and more boisterous in there escapades . A few feet away the manager stared intently at the revellers, as if the warn them without words of being too careless in a foreign city. The ever present owner done very little to deter the actions of the pack, who's numbers by now had been swelled from another dozen or so sailors who happened to be walking in the right direction.  The sailors leered shamelessly at the local women, whilst the more forward of them made there own advances. Still the manager stood smoking and staring as if to catch the sight of one of them. Now to the wary eyes of a man returned from a long voyage this would seem like a place, where desire became a priority above all else. This would be an entirely accurate assumption although, if the surface was scratched significantly an underbelly of immorality could be found. For the sailors though, whom were just passing through unlikely to ever return this mattered very little. There only concern was draining themselves on some unsuspecting women, or if so required a *******.

It's hard to say exactly how the altercation was initiated, although I suspect the cat calls of a few sailors had pushed one local over the edge. Whilst the promise of conflict ensured a crowd would gather the bar owner remained just away from the ruckus as if picking his moment. The sailors numbered in 20 or so, and fuelled by red wine and continental beer seemed more than willing to put up a fight. A waiter who had tried to act as mediator between the parties had given up, and left for the roadside and had lit up a cigarette. For a few minutes atleast it looked as though the scuffle would be forgotten and laughed about over eggs at breakfast. There was a barrage of shouting and pulling as the locals slowly lost their temper. By now many people had stopped to stare at the spectacle, this is where I must confess things got really strange. As I have previously stated I have no real idea what brought all of this on, that is to say I have no idea what set the process in motion. It was a well known fact that in times of violence the locals would protect each other with a ferocity and loyalty which could see the most able bodied men come unstuck. I had ordered myself a cream cake, and was skimming through the news from London when I heard a blood chilling yell. I spied the previously placid manager leaving the door which lead to his apartment above the cafe. With the confidence of a man without obligation he sauntered toward the group of sailors. I did not see the knife, I must confess I assumed this old man would take quite a beating at the hands of these sailors. Oh I was wrong, a young sailor fell to the ground silent, as his green shirt went claret with blood. In disbelief his comrades stood around, unsure exactly what to do. The crowd assembled gasped as if to share collective disbelief, the manager had managed to slip off somewhere without provoking any attention. Over the next twenty five minutes an ambulance arrived although I feel even the paramedics knew that this was more an exercise in keeping up appearances than saving any lives. They surely knew that there was very little they could do for this poor boy away from home. Police officers milled around, It was safe to say the bar owner would never be brought to anything like justice for this although, the general consensus was that anyone who got stabbed more than likely deserved it in someway or another. As for the manager  he had long been bundled into the back of some old pre war car and taken far beyond the cries and disdain of world weary sailors. No doubt to reappear a week or so later.

Large, billowing willow trees surround a small meadow, leaving no way to get out. Their branches hang to the ground, the wind whipping them lazily. The green sprouts and leaves on the tips of the branches drag on the ground softly. The trees are so packed together that no sight can be seen through the trees, no escape at all. No one can enter, and no one can leave. The bark is brown, deep crevices made in its skin. The limbs skim over the ground, swaying ever so slightly. On the limbs hang nearly invisible webs spun by clever weaving spiders. The bright green grass wraps around the bark, swaying in the lazy meadow. In the middle of the meadow floats a high overhanging cliff, no part of it truly connected to the ground. Vines cover a structure, obstructing what the structure truly is. Bright pink and blue flowers decorate the vines, adding a serene feeling to the floating island and a floating smell of nectar is carried by the wind. A waterfall flows through the middle of the gates, the cool pure water falling into the pond directly below the waterfall. The pond is covered with ripples, although nothing seems to be obstructing the surface of the pond for the moment. Below the surface flows gentle weaves of seaweed, rainbow colored fish swimming between the strands. They would jump up, spreading small rainbows on dew drops into the sweet tasting air. The cloudless sky seems to sparkle in the setting sunlight, spreading pink and red strips across the sky. No birds fly in the small expanse of visible sky, yet a small nameless tune is heard, the wind carrying it all around the trees. The tune is light, and filled with what can only be known as joy.

The tune begins to change, losing the quality of light and joy and changing into a tune of sereneness and calm. The wind carries it through the meadow, pushing it against the dark trees. The leaves begin to fall, staining the ground at their feet different shades of red, gold and orange. The lost foliage does nothing to deter the packed trees from blocking any view outside of the circular meadow, leaving it in seclusion. The grass is turning into bright gold strands, folding unto itself as it sways in the gentle wind. The wind tastes like apples, although there is no fruit on the trees. The wind continues to flow, picking up the leaves and scattering them away from the base of the trees. The pond is covered with a few stray leaves, the ripples from said leaves turning and spinning as if they were dihedrals spun by small children. A harvest moon sends out a bright light, casting a rainbow onto the waterfall. The forever flowing waterfall continues to cascade down from the floating island as the rainbow continues to color the water. The rainbow fish’s scales have turned deep colors of red and gold, and they continue to break the surface of the pond, jumping to and fro. The vines still cover the cold, metal gate, blood red flowers covering the island in stunning beauty. The meadow seems to secrete a pleasant smell, sending waves of comfort and  tranquility to every blade of grass and falling leaf.

The grass disappears from view as the ground is covered in white, cold powder. The branches on the trees dip from the weight of snow and ice, their limbs brushing the ground in small sweeps. The crisp, biting wind does nothing to help the swaying, and instead blows across the ground, sending small flurries of the snow upwards bound. It circles around the frozen waterfall, every drop of purified water hanging in place, frozen in time. The island itself is covered in snow and white flowers, their color unadulterated. The vines seem to be dead, no longer living as they were before. The secret of the gates seem to be revealed, although barely. The gate remains locked, but the vines are cleared enough that the fenced in area can be seen. The area in the middle of the island is glowing, brightly colored with the beginning of the waterfall, the rainbow fish swimming in the small pool of water. The trees that are in the fenced in area are bright with life and colors, shining as if they were in the midst of spring and not winter. Petals from the flowers that decorate the vines and trees gently fall, landing on the icy surface of the pond. Silence invades the wintry meadow, crushing upon the meadow with great strength as the wind howls silently. The sky is pure black, the only light seen is the glistening stars, all shining as brightly as the northern star. Bright strips of rainbow appear in the sky, the aurora waving like the waves of the ocean themselves. Softly, stealthily a small tune is heard to only those truly lost in the meadow’s power. The tune is filled with what words can only describe as confusion as joy and peace meld with depression and war, hatred and love weaving in and out of the tune like a needle and thread. The tune is suddenly broken, and the meadow disappears, leaving nothing behind but darkness and emptiness until the cycle repeats another day.

I knew the orange on the orange tree
you had an ache in your shoulders
uncomfortable in an unnatural way
yesterday I passed you talking to flowers
you hadn't moved you hadn't strayed
but hiding in the leaves was a forced disguise

the omens told me something quiet and unceasing
reminding me of a slumbering domesticated cat
dreaming of cutting yourself loose from truncated ease
dropping down from the branch with panther steps
licking fruit lips ripe with revealed acidic petals
riddled with a past you revelled mixing in with zest

shocking chances stepped in for the next dance
sleep taken aback by wings cut from a dark sky
the sidewalk pitted and cracked beneath the pounce
relief escaped the twigs with a spring like waking prey
pressing into night foliage shaken from a nice balance
as I saw you take control with nothing to mask your face

on the surface too smooth for violence
was laughter of glowing gloom to embarrass
and deter such rebellious arrogance
with a twist struggling from a lame curse
its flavours sharp against your sweetened perfume muscle
expecting you to build a limestone shed for tears
rather than take on the night with a mind to wrestle

the outside aches for your physical attraction
gaining courage from the purpose in your eyes
tense as the tightness of your dress' intention
demanding that my hands draw from such lines
the sinuous heat of pulsing flesh's invitation
curved upon seeds not chaste but not quite refined
which I try not loving with some cool disambiguation

you left me the taste of syrup of grenadine
too reputable to ripple vain red tipple eyed
on a table spilt with pink gin and mandarin
sharp teeth tingling a tartness into my hand
sliding slowly at a tilt like drops of sweat on skin
focus dwindling into the clasp of an escaping shade
wrapped carefully under soft rice paper and then
tucked under a heel with a pointed kick like a blade
only to feel you relent and burst open
soft in appeal again and again

If nostalgia beset your mind
Come to Ethiopia
A cradle of mankind!

Come to Ethiopia
With no hesitation
Ancient civilization
Will engross your attention!

Before identity quest
You smother
Come to Ethiopia 'cause
Lucy, your  great,
Great grandmother
You could watch closer!
A melting *** of
Over 80 ethnic groups,who
With cordial hospitality,
Will embrace you
Without standing to ceremony
Or formality.

Come to Ethiopia
A mosaic of culture
A true place for adventure!

If you need
An original taste of
Coffee Arabica
Come to Ethiopia
A beacon light to Africa
To freedom fighters
Up to America.

Come to Ethiopia
You will meet there
People who have to borrow
Valour from no where!


Come to Ethiopia
Triggering off no
Feelings of discomfort
Mosques churches abut.

Come to Ethiopia
In a way description that defy
A church by a Muslim name goes by!

Come to Ethiopia
An exemplary country
To deter common enemy
To spur development
In a spectacular bent
Muslims and Christians unite!

Come to Ethiopia
Whose name on the bible
Times beyond number bubble!


Come to Ethiopia
For his persecuted
Followers, the Prophet
Mohammed a high-heaven marked!

Come to Ethiopia
Now on the path of renaissance
Mutual regional growth and
A sustainable  peace
Are whose unwavering stance!

Come to Ethiopia
A country with its own
Alphabet and calendar!
Of course you will wonder
when you get
Yourself eight years younger!

Come to Ethiopia
To feast your eyes
On breathtaking water falls
Scenery and greenery
God-hand-made caves
Endemic animals and birds
Live volcanoes
Obelisks and
Rock-hewn churches.
You shall feast
Your eyes on Harar wall
For the Muslim
A holy city on row four!
You will stand a chance
For Ivangadi
A traditional spectacular dance
Also Konso's terrace.

Come to Ethiopia
Aside from adventure,
You could collect
Invincible athletes
And successful Olympians'
Signature!
Your souvenir picture
With them you may capture!
Of course
You can board 'Ethiopian'
That was there when
The horizon of aviation
History we scan.

Come to Ethiopia
The celebration of
The finding of the true cross
The pilgrimage
To Sheik Hussein Mosque
And epiphany
That have no parallels by any!

Come to Ethiopia
To see first-hand
A country
13 months sunny!

Come to Ethiopia
To enjoy
A Teff-made
Flat bread organic
Found not carcinogenic!
You will gather
Like coffee
Teff and its bread chemistry
Age-old, with it, that were there,
Are blessings
To the rest of the world
Ethiopia Proffer!

Come to Ethiopia
If you want to understand
As to what is meant
By black pride!

If you worry about class
Ethiopia today
Has countless
Hotels shining with stars!

By Alem Hailu G/Kristo

She was just another schoolgirl

Dreams of marriage and of kids

She had devoted parents

They loved everything she did

Nothing could deter her

from the choice that she had made

Turning seventeen, she left her home

in Forest Glade

Moving north to Epsilon

She chose another route

She would be a dancer

Taking money from the suits

She started slow in Epsilon

A club girl from the start

She had a phony i.d

But she sure could play the part

Was she a dancer or an actress

Seems she was one and the same

She chose to go as Crystal

Though that wasn't her real name

She danced a bit and moved around

The lifestyle she liked

She was dancing up in Buffalo

When she met a guy named Mike

They dated and got married

Soon a kid was on the way

When he found out she was pregnant

He packed up and moved away

She was nineteen and without a chance

To get a better life

Who would want a dancer

With a kid to be his wife?

Nobody that she knew

That would be for sure

And just like the little girl she was

She always wanted more

She had her son, named Ferguson

She then enrolled in school

She was gonna be a big thing

She would not be no ones fool

She chose to keep on dancing

Working late nights, dancing hard

Saving up her money

So she'd get her son a yard

She was still a little girl deep down

She still had real big dreams

She didn't want the normal life

She wanted the extremes

She was a dancer, mother, daughter and

A sutdent every day

She had to keep them separate

Had to keep her lives at bay

She'd many personalities

Depending on her place

She handled each role expertly

With poise and with such grace

By day she was a mother

And a student on the side

She did both of them expertly

And she showed off both with pride

At night she was a dancer

Schoolgirl, teacher, and much more

She would be a patrons fantasy

But she hid down in her core

The little girl she really was

Stayed deep and far from them

She was also now an actress

Dancing, doing things for men

At night when she was finished

She would go home to her boy

She would bend and kiss him as he slept

For he was her pride and joy

She'd then go hit the shower

Washing all their dreams away

She would wash away their kisses

She would make herself okay

Each night she'd play another role

To keep the men entranced

She would change her look up daily

As on the stage she pranced

They'd pay her for her company

And they'd worship all she did

But, all she ever thought about

Was something better for her kid

She finished school in record time

A manager she'd be

She took a four year course

And she finsihed it in three

She didn't have the money

To quite make her dreams come true

But, she now had a diploma

And inside, her pride just grew

She was now a feature dancer

She was the top of mens desires

But the job was getting weary

In fact, our girl was tired

She had her different roles to play

Still mother, daughter, and

At night a dancer actress

In an pornographic land

She'd go home every night and see

Her son there in his bed

She'd go and have her shower

And she'd kiss him on his head

She'd wash away the garbage

Wash away her hidden life

Once again she thought of

Being a mother and a wife

Normalcy, would not be hers

She'd have to move along

She'd done well for her young boy

She had not done too much wrong

A new life far from Buffalo

Would be the thing to do

She's now a mother and a daughter

And she might live next to you

She broke the chains that bound her

Used her dancing to improve

Made herself much stronger

And she then did up and move

Now she doesn't go home late at night

To wash away the grime

She can go home and go out to play

To give her son some time

The sad fact is there's lots of girls

But not as strong as her

They do not escape the dancing

When they end up, no one's sure

But Crystal, she's a hero

For she made herself move on

She's a mother, actress, daughter

with a super cool young son

Where she went I don't know where

But, she ended up on top

Ther rumours were she married

In fact they said that he's a cop

they say that she's still out working

In the clubs, out with the girls

But she's no longer a dancer

She's out showing them the world

She's helping them get into school

They confess to her their sins

She knows of what they talk about

For she's been just where they've been

She doesn't go by Crystal

She now goes by her real name

But, she might just live next door to you

And to tell would be a shame.

Keep your American football
Your helmets and body armor
Rugby is the game for men

Bang on the head, a bleeding wound
Ten minutes off the pitch
Six stitches and a bandage
And the rugby player resumes

Take the hit, take the pain
The tackle must be made
The shattered bones just part of life
Worth the yardage gained

I've had the broken bones
The stitches in my head
I had the very worst
Because in a tackle I broke my neck

But it never did deter me
From the game that I so loved
I remember all the times
Shaking hands when smeared with blood

Yes rugby is a game for men
A game where pains the norm
A game for modern knights
A game where men are found

to write in this format you need to be clever
to write in this format you need to be clever
it takes a deal of smarts for a novice writer
it takes a deal of smarts for a novice writer
for a novice writer to write in this format
it takes a deal of clever smarts

the task is difficult attempt it with verve
the task is difficult attempt it with verve
let not it deter your will show it who is the boss
let not it deter your will show it who is the boss
with verve show it who is the boss
let not the difficult task deter your will

with a persistent quill defeat the defiant Paradelle
with a persistent quill defeat the defiant Paradelle
success is obtainable by grasping its nettle
success is obtainable by grasping its nettle
by grasping the defiant Paradelle nettle  
success is obtainable with a persistent quill

show the Paradelle who is the boss
with the will of your persistent quill
success is obtainable in this format
for a novice writer clever of attempt
let not the difficult task defeat you
be defiant by grasping its nettle

Here I am sitting on my bedroom floor with a razor in my hand wondering if 155 days sober is enough to deter me from cutting again.

I have been so proud of myself for all of those days,
even when I was at one week and I didn’t think it was enough,
and even when I wanted to hurt myself so bad that I thought I might throw up.

I don’t want those days to have been for nothing,
but I can’t help but think of that time last summer when I was in a constant state of anxiety for 7 days straight during which I tried every trick to calm myself down,
and nothing worked, so I resorted to self harm.

Now my stress and anxiety have been building up for about a month,
and I am so exhausted that I actually did throw up,
and I can’t get up in the morning because I am so paralyzed by all my thoughts,
and I start thinking to myself
“What could be so bad about one little cut?”

The fox
runs alongside the astronaut,
who looks at a picture frame.
Around the fox’s neck, a white bandana.
There, on the spooky
moon, his only company is the fox colored aluminum.

The aluminum
fur of the fox
blends into the moonscape. The ship is empty aside from them and the spooky
remanence of the rest of the crew. As the lone astronaut
works to return home, his only comfort being the bandana
and the picture frame.

The frame
that holds a photo of a woman, standing before the ship of aluminum.
Tied around her hair, the bandana
which has since been given to the fox.
The memories it brings ever haunting the astronaut
making the moon ever more spooky.

The spooky
feeling is not eased by the frame
as the remains of passed astronauts
are trapped in this aluminum
ship, the lone survivors being the man and the fox.
He keeps his thoughts on the bandana.

Her bandana,
given to him on a dark and spooky
day, which he then gave to the fox
so he may pretend the woman in the frame
isn’t millions of miles away from them. A fox of aluminum
and a lonely astronaut.

The astronaut
chooses to focus on returning to the woman without her bandana.
He works tirelessly to get the aluminum
rocket ship off the spooky
and desolate moon, and back to earth, to see the woman in the frame.
By his side on this barren rock, looking up at him, stands the fox.

The astronaut refuses to let the spooky
atmosphere deter him from his goal of returning the bandana to the woman in the frame,
ever thankful for the company of the aluminum fox.

Blue Nile echo from shore to shore,
"Poverty in Ethiopia is no more!"

Above all,
From a precipice
To a valley when you majestically fall,
Thunderous over
The damp dell, mountain gorge when you roll,
As usual
With green, yellow and red
Rainbow arched,
Tell Ethiopia loud-
"You children thee very much adore,
A lip service they now abhor!
‘Blue Nile has no lodging,
Yet it loafs a log hauling.' "

Blue Nile, about your deeds to talk
Breathtaking, you served well
The industry without smoke,
But now you have an extra work!
Far
   And
       Wide
Ethiopia will be electrified,
With Blue Nile,
               Gebe,
                    Tekeze... at hand!
Every nook and cranny will get light,
When efforts Ethiopians unite!

The future will be bright,
When a tamed Blue Nile ceases
Unchecked to roar past
Without a respite.

No energy source runs waste
Nor any Plant will suffer a blackout!

Lo and behold Blue Nile will be subdued
For riparian countries' good!

To contribute a brick,
Ethiopians twice you shouldn't think.
Farmers have mounted on a peaceful battle,
To cover the catchment with a green mantle,
To make terrace
On each mountain
Take every pain.
To afforest the depleted f o r e s t!
Thus washing on its sway,
Blue Nile conspires no more
To carry alluvial soil away.

Here of course it is good to recall
The message of Emperor Twedrose.
"Dear guests you are
Amidst people hospitable
Welcome, welcome
Feel at home!
Roam throughout
Abyssinia you might,
On its grandeur your eyes
You can feast.
The vast array of
Mouthwatering dish,
The country parades
You could relish.

In case you wish
For an adventure,
Still Ethiopia
Is a mosaic of culture!

Of course
It will grab your attention,
Ethiopia's being
A cradle of mankind
And ancient civilization.

You will see
To its music titillating,
Comes close nothing!
Moreover fails not
To draw your attention,
The affection
Among people hailing from
Different ethnic groups and religion.
But you can't transport a speck of dust,
Alighted or pasted on your shoe by accident!
So to get an exit,
Shake off your shoe and wash your feet!"

Giving to every dust attention
It is possible to ward off
The problem of siltation.
Besides don't you think
The forests serve a carbon sink?

Blue Nile echo from shore to shore
"Poverty in Ethiopia is no more!"

As though Abyssinia,
Africa's water tower
Is a weakling with no power,
On every news hour,
Portraying Ethiopia
A development backwater,
Also scornfully on a dictionary
Painting its people thirsty and hungry
Have no grounds any!
From a rain fed agriculture
Head on
Making a paradigm shift,
Irrigation when Ethiopia further adopt,
The vicious cycle of drought,
Which poses a threat
To its development,
Will give way to a bumper harvest,
Once more rendering Ethiopia
A cornucopia.

Ethiopians be not cool,
Be not cool
Resources to pool!

Lo and behold Blue Nile will be subdued
For riparian countries' good!

Yet, yet hanging up together
Be high on the alert
Any aggressor to deter!
Many are
Who wear a frowning face,
When development
In Ethiopia picks pace!

Keep open your eyes,
Keep open your eyes
At all time, all space
Where infrastructures
Are put in place.

To the helm of development
Ethiopia will soon catapult,
When its children
In full harness their resources put.
So cognizant of this fact,
Ethiopians allow not
The grass to grow under your feet.
Don't wait
Behind the campaign
To throw your full weight!

For work, roll up your sleeve
Ready for ‘The Renaissance Dam'
Your sweat
B
L
O
O
D
And life to give.
March out for prosperity
In Ethiopia to thrive,
What we need have
Is a bond-cohesive
A

B-O-N-Decisive.
Go all out, go all out,
Us, lucky we have to count
For seizing such a ripe moment.

Blue Nile echo from shore
"Poverty in Ethiopia is no more!"

Come-on let us not beg to differ,
Of course we could concur,
For all of us will agree,
Our pet dream is to see,
Ethiopia industrialized
Completely transformed!

Laying the foundation,
Where on takes off
The future generation,
Is what begs for
Central attention.

Why, Why and Why,
With our hands
Tucked in our pockets,
You and I
Remain standers by?
Also why
Simply watch the clouds
Glide across the sky?
Must we indeed,
Sowing a discord seed
Allow our rivers run wild,
Turning a blind eye to our need.

Wiseacres, though
You may not be on the same page,
Between stakeholders
Don't drive a wedge,
The government proves out
Out to fulfil its pledge.
In life it is not hard
To get sceptics,
Dear leaders talk your walk
Walking your talk!
Prove sceptics wrong
Letting them witness
The actualization
Of the dam agog.

Tax payers, if you have
A tax arrear
See it finds its ways to
The government's coffer.

Taxes being
A development backbone
Must be mysterious to none.

Target also rent seekers
That drive spokes
In to development wheels!

In light of the recent flood of indie designers coming forth to call foul on fast fashion retailers for copying their designs (paired with a few not-so-fast fashion brands, which have been called out for copying, as well), a common question seems to be: Why is this ok? In particular, why is it perfectly acceptable for Zara to copy these designers’ work? How is this practice legal?

Well, put simply, copyright law is not necessarily a friend to fashion in the United States. This is a blanket statement, of course, but it bears quite a bit of truth, nonetheless. Since copyright law, the sect of intellectual property law that protects "original works of authorship,” such as books, paintings, sculptures, and songs, does not protect useful things, such as clothing and accessories, it provides little protection for those things in their entirety. Creative elements of a design that can be separated from the functional elements are subject to protection, which is why elements of a garment, such as a print that covers it, may be protected (as Pictorial, Graphic or Sculptural Works). This protection-by-separation method, however, does little to ward off copiers.

Moreover, unlike in most cases of the copying of garments, the copying of original jewelry designs often tends to give rise to legal ramifications as jewelry is afforded greater copyright protection in its entirety than garments are. However, as evidenced by Nasty Gal’s continuous sale of infringing jewelry designs, for instance, this also does little to deter copycats.

Other forms of intellectual property protection (think: trademark and patent protection) arguably are not ideal for fashion designs either. Trademark law only protects a designer’s name or logo – with some exceptions under the doctrine of trade dress which are relatively rare. Patent protection – namely, by way of design patents – is not terribly useful for designers because it is expensive (patent protection costs thousands of dollars to achieve) and takes a relatively long time (upwards of one year) to obtain. That’s simply too long for most fashion brands, whose business models depend on trends and season-specific wares. Taken together, this is why fast fashion retailers make hundreds of millions of dollars by copying high fashion designs and only are very rarely sued – let alone penalized – for doing so.

It is worth noting that this is not the case in other countries – namely, in the countries of the U.S.’s international fashion competitors. Copyright protection in the UK is not terribly dissimilar from that in the United States. However, the European Designs Directive introduced a unified system of industrial design rights for both registered and unregistered designs throughout the European Union. This allows for the protection of garments and accessories in their entirety.

Due to its history as the home of innovation in terms of high fashion, it is not surprising that France enjoys the most extensive and longstanding legal rights in connection with fashion designs. The country’s copyright system provides protection for garments and accessories. The same type of protection also applies to Italian designs.

So, it is within these loopholes that retailers like Zara, Forever 21, H&M;, and the like can operate legally (for the most part) and profit from the designs of others.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses

5:00am and folding laundry

when the inspiration tank is yellow lit,
and E stands for more than empty,
but evacuation,
try this remedy,
a first generation family secret!

fold the laundry.
all kinds.
his n' hers,
blacks n' whites
really clean and

and the kind that never get clean,
no matter how much d e t e r-g e n t
you use, how oft you wash 'em...

Instructions:

1. fold only when wearing t- shirt, tank top, briefs (optional)
2. put on Pandora 60's rock n ' roll (folk rock - highly recommend Runaround Sue by Dion and the Belmonts, The Wedding Song, The House of the Rising Sun)
3. dance, shake, improve your moves when nobody's looking
3a. control yourself, if you must sing, at the top of your lungs is not acceptable.
If alone skip, skip to no. 5
4. every third piece give a sniff, get high on
fresh starts, clean notions, the idea that all can be washed away
4a. Every third piece of hers give an extra sniff,
so you can know why love keeps you alive
5. if you have to sing, then only loud is acceptable
(***** the others, you're doing the folding, they're sleep-dreaming)
6. drink lots of water
7. have pen + paper handy cause ain't no doubt
the poet puppet muse masters gonna smack you down
when folding sheets alone.
8. finish the write and post it ASAP
9. always leave the single socks on top of the dryer,
a prayer to the laundry gods for the
safe return of their better halves
10. finish
11. If done correctly, you need to shower (wash hair!)
12, around 6:00am, all scrubbed and clean,
fold yourself back into her arms. Snuggle, spoon.
13. when she mumbles you smell clean, you reply,
                                  "been folding laundry, writing poetry,
                                   and the clean smell done fell on me"
14. if alone, despair not, read this poem and know we are together
15. believe this day is full of possibilities,
write me a poem, put the load right on me

there are stains that cannot be removed,
deterred by this gent, and his a-gents,
they are history, treat'em with respect
and not more
deter-gent

every poem must end,
so when the folding is done,
whisper:

*the day ahead is full of possibilities
like the pleasured reinvigorating of my clothes,
once happy soiled, no happy cleansed,
so I possess an excuse, a reason,
a rationale for living
to fold laundry again!

Women Stereotypes
10w40
This is so popular, proven to have high performance even if it is synthetic. That does not make any sense realistically. It strokes engines brilliantly. The most expensive even on sale. It does not deter dirt.

3 in 1
The lubricant  can be trusted the fact that it dries quicker, penetrating the stuck locks as well preventing further corrosion.

Exotic Graphite
As exotic as graphite is, it does a good job by providing a long lasting lubrication. It repels water too! It’s cheaper that the rest and it extends life. It makes a proper logic economically. You pay less but get more!

Lubricant Affordability**
3in1 and graphite deter dust and are cheaper than 10W40.

Does that make you more ambivalent?... ;0)

Anticlimax lubricant  ambivalence has reached it’s ******.
Armed downhill by the rusted adjusted shielded knight.
Pasted in exquisite oil, no distaste or aftertaste.
Dunked in abluent..........Dented but affluent!

I hate klepto-roommates,
get sick and tired of waking up
to find my personal food missing.

They never leave
any thank you notes
or a tiny bit of cash,
just lots of
empty dishes & boxes.

******,
that thieving-behaviour
really ****** me off,
makes me want
to smash them in the kisser,
but I totally abhor violence,
so I came up
with a method to fix
their selfish actions-
I put anchovies on everything
& it works,
even when they're drunk.

If my love was personified as my hustle
I’d take you into my heart and never let you go.
I’d cling tight onto you  and no matter how hard you fought
I wouldn’t let go
I’d let you know
You. Are. mine
No one elses
Your home is hear
Listen
to the beat reverberating through my chest
Cavity
Rotting me from the inside
You’d make me blind
Like an error  
my mind
I wouldn’t understand how you infiltrated my veins
I’d kiss you like you were my forever
Love you in pure desperation
Because my present without you is bleak
At best I know that if I blink
the moment could pass
A risk I can’t take
Won’t
Never
Losing wouldn’t be an option
You would be my dream
you
the very earth that I walk on
The pillow I lay down on
I’d lay down
What  ever I would have to
To make you my reality
I would blindly dive into the opportunity
to make my dreams come true
THEY wouldn’t deter me
I don’t need  their
approval
permission
opinion
Not to love you
Because the core of me would want you
And the lack of THEM understanding my vision
Means that I’m about to make history
If my love was my hustle
We’d never end
You would be my dreams
And without you I would be nothing

In many different tongues, each one love's manifestations,
Some even to me unknown until the very moment,expressed,
I keep talking to you, my divine lover,out of my passion,intense
For you brimming within. Distraught a bit, feeling left in the lurch
On pouring rain and thunder storm; but you know how firm I am!
I stood rooted here, lost all sense of time, queer, ever  felt you near.
Then a sharp pain hit weakening my heart ,but couldn't deter me,
I am a cat of nine love lives, a species so stubborn, thrives in trust.
Dead of night it is , I  keep vigil, perking up ears, eyeing  skywards,
How do I know from, where would my only love, to me speak?

And I want to say how irrevocably sorry I am…
That I did not open myself to the thought that you were a beacon of beautiful.
I did not love you enough to share you.
I did not give you anything to stand on.
I created a world for you that deterred love,
To deter pain.
Fought happiness to remain unscathed of disappointment.
You have created a black hole of your heart,
Nothing for anyone to fall into,
Grab hold of…
You have created a wall of your heart,
That slows down anything that could give it meaning …
Nothing means anything unless it is in relation to something else, someone else.
It is what matters here,
What we leave here,
For someone else to hold on to…
And you have given just enough to leave remnants of …
someone almost here
Almost alive
Almost open,
But nothing to hold on to.
I am sorry.
You are saddened.
You have created nothing to leave here,
And I never gave you the hope to hold on, that someone might stay here
Share here
Think gold
Of the sun adorning your
Being.
I am sorry that I didn’t see it,
They could have
They would have …
It was up to me
To let you feel…
To share you
//An Apology To Myself…

The gushing river through his interior landscape, runs very deep,
this surging Ganga, glaciers feed, is one of Himalayan profligacy.
Wouldn't stop, or deter a bit,on any eventuality; a mighty force it is.
his beloved sea, was moved by this, swelled up to meet midway, merge.

I saw you on the news again, aiming lies at civilians
You work like a serf to abhor the herd, which was merged by Lords to bore and encore, like a trap door in a dungeon.
What you earth and managed has got me famished, like the dense or pretentious, the meek and the senseless
And type endings to the finest that cry less, the winos that digress, or the shyest who digest
The plate which was purchased, paid to feed liars by the loudest were poisoned by us rebels running incense to the proudest.
Violently passive when distracted, these masses wreck havoc to have their heads handed to them
Sullen sweet to deter, you lure and reserve what is versed or inferred or implied or implored
Like the goodbyed or complied or the ladies waiting with lunacy lining their luxury gowns
Your disheveled and neat demanding appearance has me locked down with pirates and principle pilots
Dulled sick, they spy less, echo with insist, enlist and exist
As terrorists and presidents
Marked with malice making misfits that were mocked and disgraced, maced or laced by daydreams and magicians to assist beggars behind blueprints constructing islands
Which make slaves in to riots that capture journalists under wide tense
To suspend or impend doom sent hell bent by your priestess
You conduct chaos with fast hints, but quit slow when engaged with your conscience
Touched by divine tricks
Decided and destined, best in business
Prince of the wise man
Captain of the compassionate
Comrades with the crack heads singing anthems in kingdoms
We are heartbreakers painting bad graffiti

After the devastation came recuperation.
New shoots had sprung with alacrity
enough to establish a presence
in that walled garden,
contained to a strip
barely big enough for date and citrus
to thrive.

The neighbour waited twenty one seasons,
and with each season saw
young shoots
replacing the old.
Imaging a future
where grass might escape the confines
of concrete and sea

neighbour chose to start the mower,
move beyond boundaries,
and mow and mow and mow.
It's been twenty three days now
and still blades whirr
day and night
each hour inducing fresh rubble

to deter shoots, new seeds, hope.
The neighbour will retreat soon,
beyond the wall,
being temporarily satiated
with reek and wreckage,
knowing a day shall arise to return
for the fruits of the land.

When asked what there is to gain while attending college, most of the time the answer is a great experience, time to find out who you really are and how to fulfill your career goals. For some, figuring out what career field to enter and finding out who they are is easier said than done. Others might be lucky enough to have a moment of epiphany and realize exactly what they are meant to do.

Tae Lynn is one of the lucky ones. On the morning of October 13, 2015 she woke up and decided to launch her own makeup brand, Tae Lynn MUA.

Lynn is a senior spanish major with a minor in information systems, however, art has always been a passion of hers. Using her artistic skills she turned the faces of her client’s, into her canvas.

“I had to find an outlet and makeup definitely filled that void. It’s very lucrative and wherever I go people need their makeup done,” Lynn said.

Lynn also incorporated the “hustler” mentality and business savvy skills she learned from her business fraternity, Delta Sigma Pi, to build her brand. She made an instagram specifically to showcase her work, posted fliers around campus and used her connects to start the buzz on her brand.

However, the feedback that she received after launching her brand wasn’t the most positive. People posted negative comments about her work, which almost deterred Lynn from continuing to make a name for herself in the makeup industry until she had that defining moment, an epiphany.

When she went home to Atlanta for Thanksgiving, her car was stolen Thanksgiving night. Everything she had brought home over the break was gone, except for her makeup bag that contained all of the makeup she owned. It was the only thing she brought in the house.

“That was my epiphany moment and I ran with it. From that point on, I felt that was God’s way of telling me that this what you’re meant to do,” Lynn said.

After that “defining moment” as Lynn calls it, her brand took off like a rocket. Using her skills she has been able to meet celebrities, work for a makeup studio in downtown Statesboro and fashion shows held at Georgia Southern. The most significant event she participated in was New York Fashion Week as a published makeup artist.

Her work was noticed by the creator of a clothing line ran out of New York called Wise Guy Apparel. The creator asked her to be a makeup artist for their boutique fashion show in New York Fashion Week.

“I loved being a part of that fierce, fast-paced environment, but because all the models needed were touch-ups here and there, I wasn’t able to showcase my talent,” said Lynn.

Working in New York Fashion Week was definitely a confidence booster for Lynn and it helped her realize her worth, despite the negative criticism. She even uses the hashtag “#knowmyworth” frequently as a reminder that “you can’t let people deter you.”

“Over time I used those negative comments as motivation and I just got better at my craft, so I was able to overcome that through just being confident and knowing my worth,” Lynn said.

Lynn has a Style Seat profile where clients can book appointments with prices that range from $7-$200. She’s also available for booking in both Statesboro and Atlanta, GA. Customers have nothing put positive things to say now about Lynn’s services.

“I like the way my face transformed and it made me look a bit older. I’d definitely go to her again,” Sade McMullen, junior business management major, said.

Lynn plans on making Tae Lynn MUA a global brand one day or at least well known in the south. In order to reach her goals she simply just takes it one day at time.

Her motto is “Don’t shoot for the stars, shoot for small goals that’ll get you there”.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses

She had eyes like a crater,
Innocent as any girl could be.
I think she had some bruises when I met her,
But it never seemed to deter me.

I chased her like a dog chasing tails,
Was only then I started to notice her ***** nails.
And then those Yellow eyes,
Blue and Yellow never look pretty to my mind.

She belled me with croaky breathes of air,
I rushed to her house shook and scared.
She was slumped against a wall with the choker she used to wear,
Strapped around her arm and specks of ***** in her hair.

She's got track marks like a craters,
Darkness lay dormant in her soul.
A once natural and elegant Beau,
Now alone in the world of ****** and Blow.

( Emperor Menilik II)

An enemy
That covets
Your land, your
Gold-bestowed
Natural wealth
And your wife
Creating a strife
Stripping you of
Your liberty
And identity
Is all out
To mar your life!

This blatant aggression
Standing together
It is better we deter.

So, if intentionally
Or otherwise
On you, if
I might
Have posed
A grievance
To date,
I ask apology
Let us bury
The hatchet.

Among us,
An axe to grind
For a divisive wedge
An enemy cruel & wild
Must not find.

Thus, while
In full command
Of your health
If you fail
To march
To the front
I will take that
To the dignity of
Our sovereign nation
And me
An affront.

I swear to God
I swear to God
Up on return
There is
No restraint
My anger
My punitive
Measures against
Such malingers
Back to hold.

Of course,
We need
The prayer
Of the feeble
And the old,
The heavily-armed
Invading army
When we fight
Supper bold.

I assure you
By the grace
Of God
Victory for us
Is what
The future hold.

(The Chief of the provision wing)

Women of the nation
Pull your sleeves;
As provision
Dry food—
Roasted chickpeas
Roasted peas
Dry meat—
If you prepare
It will be good.
Also to boost
Immunity in
The original way
Prepare and ready
Garlic, red chili
And ginger
In a form of
A powder.

(The principal of transport)

Array pack animals
Provisions to transport
From every corner
Of the nation,
The palace
To the battlefront.
S/he who has
A horse or a mule
Must come along
With some hays
For its fuel.

(The master of musicians)

Take on board
Musical instrumentalists
Vocalists, who
War songs that chant
About victory
At hand not hesitant.

(Traditional Health Professionals)

Also take aboard
Women, herbalists
That will nurse
The wounded
Back into shape
Also the recuperating
To fight back
Who help.

(The logistic head)

Our resource gap to fill
While in the battle mill
We have to take along
Bullet swaggers
Ammunition repairers.
Utilizing such skill
Would allow us
With limited resource
More troops to ****.
This way
The cavalry
And infantry
Will fight
About logistic
With little worry.

(Menilik II)

Let us march
Let us march
To the place of
Showdown
To write
Golden history
Like Golead & David
That has no match!

Let us be
A standard bearer
If united
Freedom fighters
Could a giant enemy
Like Goliad deter.

On my sword
I have engraved
Menilik’s power
Is Almighty God
So behold
Those who pick
Against the peaceful
A sword
Will perish by
The sword.

About colonization
As I earlier grabbed
The import
I had accessed
Enough arsenal
Via the port.
If divide & conquer
Is their aim
With Ethiopians’
Oneness &unity
I will foil
Their game
They will have
Themselves to blame.

In the meantime
King Aba Jifar
Taking over inland
Maladministration, disorder
Will bar
In such a way
Ethiopians’ chemistry
Will be heard
Wide and far.///

The dust once settled,
needs to be shaken again,
which was trapped and bottled,
has to fly out to douse the flame

A long time passed, few friends I have earned
in this work of black and white, few shades I have burned

I lost my pace in the layout of this maze
got knocked out, now just the sky I can gaze

I am no stone, but I know to roll
I can play more, but I choose to fold

I have new horizons to reach
the rocky roads are always there to teach.
The dust wont deter me now with pain,
for I know, I will rise up again.