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Ari Feb 2010
there are so many places to hide,

in my home at 17th and South screaming death threats at my roommates laughing diabolically playing  videogames and Jeopardy cooking quinoa stretching canvas the dog going mad frothing lunging  spastic to get the monkeys or the wookies or whatever random commandments we issue forth  drunken while Schlock rampages the backdrop,

at my uncle's row house on 22nd and Wallace with my shoes off freezing skipping class to watch March  Madness unwrapping waxpaper hoagies grimacing with each sip of Cherrywine or creamsicle  soda reading chapters at my leisure,

in the stacks among fiberglass and eternal florescent lima-tiled and echo-prone red-eyed and white-faced  caked with asbestos and headphones exhuming ossified pages from layers of cosmic dust  presiding benevolent,

in University City disguised in nothing but a name infiltrating Penn club soccer getting caught after  scoring yet still invited to the pure ***** joy of hell and heaven house parties of ice luge jungle  juice kegstand coke politic networking,

at Drexel's nightlit astroturf with the Jamaicans rolling blunts on the sidelines playing soccer floating in  slo-mo through billows of purple till the early morning or basketball at Penn against goggle- eyed professors in kneepads and copious sweat,

in the shadow tunnels behind Franklin Field always late night loner overlooking rust belt rails abandoned  to an absent tempo till tomorrow never looking behind me in the fear that someone is there,

at Phillies Stadium on glorious summer Tuesdays for dollar dog night laden with algebra geometry and  physics purposely forgetting to apply ballistics to the majestic arc of a home run or in the frozen  subway steam selling F.U. T.O. t-shirts to Eagles fans gnashing when the Cowboys come to town,

at 17th and Sansom in the morning bounding from Little Pete's scrambled eggs toast and black coffee  studying in the Spring thinking All is Full of Love in my ears leaving fog pollen footprints on the  smoking cement blooming,

at the Shambhala Center with dharma lotus dripping from heels soaking rosewater insides thrumming to the  groan of meditation,

at the Art Museum Greco-fleshed and ponderous counting tourists running the Rocky steps staring into shoji screen tatame teahouses,

at the Lebanese place plunked boldly in Reading Terminal Market buying hummus bumping past the Polish  and Irish on my way to the Amish with their wheelwagons packed with pretzels and honey and  chocolate and tea,

at the motheaten thrift store on North Broad buried under sad accumulations of ramshackle clothing  clowning ridiculous in the dim squinting at coathangers through magnifying glasses and mudflat  leather hoping to salvage something insane,

in the brown catacombed warrens of gutted Subterranea trying unsuccessfully to ignore bearded medicine

men adorned with shaman shell necklaces hawking incense bootlegs and broken Zippos halting conversation to listen pensive to the displacement of air after each train hurtles by,

at 30th Street Station cathedral sitting dwarfed by columns Herculean in their ascent and golden light  thunderclap whirligig wings on high circling the luminous waiting sprawled nascent on stringwood pews,

at the Masonic Temple next to City Hall, pretending to be a tourist all the while hoping scouring for clues in the cryptic grand architect apocrypha to expose global conspiracies,

at the Trocadero Electric Factory TLA Khyber Unitarian Church dungeon breaking my neck to basso  perfecto glitch kick drums with a giant's foot stampeding breakbeat holographic mind-boggled  hole-in-the-skull intonations,

at the Medusa Lounge Tritone Bob and Barbara's Silk City et cetera with a pitcher a pounder of Pabst and a  shot of Jim Beam glowing in the dark at the foosball table disco ball bopstepping to hip hop and  jazz and accordions and piano and vinyl,

in gray Fishtown at Gino's recording rap holding pizza debates on the ethics of sampling anything by  David Axelrod rattling tambourines and smiles at the Russian shopgirl downstairs still chained to  soul record crackles of antiquity spiraling from windows above,

at Sam Doom's on 12th and Spring Garden crafting friendship in greenhouse egg crate foam closets  breaking to scrutinize cinema and celebrate Thanksgiving blessed by holy chef Kronick,

in the company of Emily all over or in Kohn's Antiques salvaging for consanguinity and quirky heirlooms  discussing mortality and cancer and celestial funk chord blues as a cosmological constant and  communism and Cuba over mango brown rice plantains baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies,

in a Coca Cola truck riding shotgun hot as hell hungover below the raging Kensington El at 6 AM nodding soft to the teamsters' curses the snagglesouled destitute crawling forth poisoned from sheet-metal shanty cardboard box projects this is not desolate,

at the impound lot yet again accusing tow trucks of false pretext paying up sheepish swearing I'll have my  revenge,

in the afterhour streets practicing trashcan kung fu and cinder block shotput shouting sauvage operatic at  tattooed bike messenger tribesmen pitstopped at the food trucks,

in the embrace of those I don't love the names sometimes rush at me drowned and I pray to myself for  asylum,

in the ciphers I host always at least 8 emcee lyric clerics summoning elemental until every pore ruptures  and their eyes erupt furious forever the profound voice of dreadlocked Will still haunting stray  bullet shuffles six years later,

in the caldera of Center City with everyone craning our skulls skyward past the stepped skyscrapers  beaming ear-to-ear welcoming acid sun rain melting maddeningly to reconstitute as concrete  rubber steel glass glowing nymphs,

in Philadelphia where every angle is accounted for and every megawatt careers into every throbbing wall where  Art is a mirror universe for every event ever volleyed through the neurons of History,

in Philadelphia of so many places to hide I am altogether as a funnel cloud frenetic roiling imbuing every corner sanctum sanctorum with jackhammer electromagnetism quivering current realizing stupefied I have failed so utterly wonderful human for in seeking to hide I have found

in Philadelphia
My best Ginsberg impression.
Millar Hill May 2012
Bob Marley Spoken Word                                                                                                                                  5/1/2012
What comes to mind when I say; Bob Marley?

Is it a stereotypical ‘idea’ of a Rastafarian; ***** dreadlocks & *** smoker?
Or is it a …
An intelligent and talented man; who wanted change in a positive way?
   Yeah he had dreadlocks and didn’t see any harm in the herb. That was his apart of his religion and beliefs. You can’t call yourself a true fan if that’s the only reason you’ve liked him because he smoked ***. It’s time to get over that; you need to realize what he truly was about. He gave us knowledge about history, Uplifting and positive rhythms, happiness when you’re down, music to stop us from worrying when shaken and songs of freedom. This man told us powerful messages through his music. This guy was brilliant and I sure as hell don’t think of him as a ***** dreadlocked *** smoking Rastafarian.  Who’s a bad influence on children, most definitely not! Children should listen and gain knowledge. We in the world are lucky to have a man that lived; who still lives in millions of hearts away. I’m glad we had such a wonderful human being he is one of the biggest inspirations to me. I will live to tell messages in my writings that will be a part of history.
-  One Love
mark john junor Jul 2013
the day done
she drifts in with the tide
washes up on my shore with
the tattered remains
of her girlhoods smile
in a keepsake box in the
pocket of her long grey coat
she speaks her thoughts but they are
tangled like seaweed
worn and worn like driftwood
she tells me her intents
and the lost sailor aspects of her soul
and her words linger on the air
like kestrels in the breaking of a storm
wheeling high above
wheeling high above
and the tears flow quietly
each one burning slowly into
my heart
I turn out and set sail
into the inky sea
blind to the trail
but rather than face her downfall
I attach myself to the darkness with a passion
of the task of finding my handmadien
of scorned empire
and saving her from herself
and all her internal wars
she was a shy young woman
in the years on denvers river road
a shatterproof demo for the better living
to be found just the other side of that
infamouse greener grass
that keeping up gets you in the end
a byproduct of the heart attack they give you
at no extra charge
standing naked feeling all kinds of uncomfortable
they question everything except your sanity
they are sure that's the one thing you've lost
I get her home at last
only to find she is nearly only
a chocolate bunny that's been chewed on
and her words telling me she must leave
are just forebodings of nightmares she gets
about Easter egg hunts
and viper roughness of being eaten alive
I'm a Easter bunny...I thought I was a rubber duckie!!!! LOL. :-)
Ottis Blades Jan 2014
I had a dream I smoked some ***** with a Rasta Man
while we jammed in the name of the lord to some tunes
the children of Africa roaming free like wild beast
once the cradle of civilization turned into tombs
by the ungrateful, heathen souls that ran amok
in the name of annihilation and war.

But we are fearful pious men, as we inhaled the herb
the grass is the shepherd that nourish us like Giraffes
the sky is the ceiling that we reach with our blessed hands
the rivers gives us skins like Crocs to be able to survive
harsh whether, the blood-stained desert left behind by men
witnessed by the pale eyes of the torture souls of this land.

And so we inhaled and puffed like chimneys in a North Pole night
we talked about the smiles of our seeds stretching far and wide
how beautiful is a voice when it’s brought to life by a loved one
how the scent of a pure woman can bring the dead back to life
deadlocked, we are dreadlocked like grapevines until Jah lets us
the mental slavery that keeps us chained to the ships of our ancestors.

We never once conversed about the frail indignity of the mortals
the uselessness of hate, the ways material possessions can’t help you
we reached Nirvana without taking our feet off the common ground
we shared a spirit, bonded between long hits made of peace and love
in the freedom of those free thinkers tinkering with words without rest
in the children of Jah, daydreaming at night in a warm bed made of bread.
Ramonez Ramirez Feb 2011
Angie works the alleys that reek of greasy sausages and ****,
where beer-bellied men appear
and vanish into doorway varnish of invisible rooms,
spitting on their own doorsteps, stubby fingers
running over stained vests and wire wool guts.

Harry lives out yonder where plastic bags’ ballet shoes are made of glue;
he is sharing a hit
with a dreadlocked kid, just another invisible face,
a phantom-surfer nurse, to assist him in
chasing the ultimate high on highway number twenty-two.

Invisible, hairy hands hold her down; Angie has to swallow,
she can feel the pulsating vein
of a softening **** over her tongue and swollen lips –
she gives it a good old slap against her cheek,
grabs the package, and makes sure no one follows.

Harry’s clawing at a face in that place where reality floats
between the tip of the needle
and the desperate edge of chemical dependency -
his little angel taps him on the shoulder;
he turns around, and stabs her in the throat.
(20 minute poetry)

Death defying?
No
I'm lying, I
do it
every day and that's
the way of it,
It occurs to me this
way is ****, but
what else can I do?

Two years
of bull and I had
two years to
pull out.

My life takes a right
turn? a roundabout the
wrong way to go. I
know this and hope that I
miss the head on.

Death defying? I
ain't even trying you'll
know when I am.

Cheap wine
Hard time
The sentence
Is up for
Review.
Ramonez Ramirez Feb 2011
Insomnia came knocking on my door at half-past three.
The Angel of Death had long passed out,
fishnets tight around her throat,
a ***** needle dangling from just below the knee;
the Tooth Fairy was trading milk teeth for *****
on the corner of Fear and Doubt
with a nervous gentleman who had a head like a goat.

Insomnia knocked three times, and let herself in,
tatty robes behind her like torn leather,
scraping over cold tiles, over my skin;
sweet lullabies oozed over her chapped lips
in a voice as old as dry weather,
a storm of emotions conjured, a concoction
of cold blood, sour grapes, and bad trips.

Insomnia stayed the night, stretched out on my bed,
told me to write something nice about her,
or the curve of her armpits instead;
I can’t, I said, they’re dreadlocked in fur,
so I crawled in next to her, put my head on her breast.
A sigh of satisfaction moistened her lips,
*There, there, deary, lets take a rest.
mark john junor Nov 2013
her afternoon daydream
done for the day is now folded
as the sun slips behind the trees
the lush green leaves burn with golden light
as afternoon gives way to night
clouds once fat with rain from the sea
now race to the west
seeking the mountains where
ground touches sky

her afternoon daydream wiped away
by her lips a neon red gloss movement
these two dreadlock angels
sunbathing ******* in our backyard
on the verges of my mind
no words to her glances
just checking on a tapping old crow
tapping the inky surface of a tablet
tapping tapping
her afternoon face appears suddenly
at my shoulder as she slips me a kiss
tapping at the portals of my soul

the sun having set
the trees now only rustling shapes framed
against the stars
the lush green leaves
burn with the fainter glow of distant suns
as my heart burns faintly for distant loves
but it is my woman
her dreadlocked patchouli scented body
wrapped around me
its her in my heart
its her who burns brightly in me
who ignites me
to burn with the golden glow of
a setting sun
Brycical Mar 2014
A heart deflates
into a circular fire,
burning a tunnel in reality
so a dark train of thought can barrel through.

Hieroglyphic crocodiles swim
into a stream to eat gazelle.

A universe is just the iris
of gods.

I grew up in a cactus hut
that was atop the boogeyman's hat.
'Ol Skullface evaporates like a rippling image
in water...
dreadlocked lightning
bottle sips on the venus flytrap's *******.

Maybe I'm the combination of Bob Marley's dope smoke
& Dali's pipe steam.
That right there
was his psychedelic ego
he o rarely sees.

The Native American sound in my brain
reminds me of beautiful cave paintings
in candle lit screams & moans
echoing.

Bamboo lightning
sword frightening shimmers
in the light.

Tribal war paint vicious sharp drumbeats;
fangs ready for battle,
a head bobbing mystic predicts victory
in the shadows;
glowing.
Ashes from the evening smoke means we've won,
thanks to my brain eye.
Sasha Ross Nov 2012
I
snowfalls
an epic battle
boom
crashsmack
the white blanket
here
never covers that city
we fled this place for
more mistakes than fingers
and toes
avalanche!
car wheels can
not
navigate
the areas the
4, 5, 6 barrels through
what a problem for
exposed skin
a nose red
ice in your hair
wet.
why didn’t you just
wait

II
for the express train
the local makes me
sick
you know closeness gives me
hives
even if
everyone is
the son
(or daughter)
of someone
each birth celebrated
if only for a moment
the white haired mowhawk man
bald girl
the dreadlocked boy
standing
so close
his exhale
is my next breath
in

III
to the same routine
of forgetfulness
even you
and me
deeming ourselves
the lost children
rust-belt transplants
we too had
futures planned for
but
not
this
living on nicotine
secondhand books
and
pin-up girls on the walls
there’s cat food
but nothing in the cupboard
except

IV
a wooden rosary
wrapped around
too-thin wrists
for a good luck charm
anti-drug shirts
for irony
and combat boots
so there is no mistake
you are not your father’s
child
sprung like Athena
from a thought
already formed
armed and ready

V
to rage against the idea
that we are the products of
an upbringing
less than ideal
and we oscillate
back
and
forth
between a sense
of pity and belonging
because long ago
we lost track of what
was the truth
and what were the
things we manufactured
to make life more
interesting
and
god I love you but
you trouble me
I texted while you

VI
can’t seem to hold
down
a job
coffee and camels
don’t pay for themselves
maybe this attention
deficit
is real
not just something
made to
keep
us
still
during classes I won’t
show up for
except when I want
attention and you’re already
spent
falling all over
yourself
and then me
because

VII
we stopped pretending
months ago
this was anything
other than a practice
in dating each other’s
mothers
but I can’t be the only one
who knows how to roll
our cigarettes
while you shower
with no curtain
and I lean back
letting steam mask
the smoke that’s not allowed
in an apartment with no heat
and no door ****
less fighting
more complaining since

VIII
the mattress is
on the floor
who can afford a bed frame
these days
but it’s probably for the best
the windows won’t close
all the way
anyway
it’s snowing inside again
and you note
men leading lives
of quiet desperation
it isn’t nearly as poetic
as it sounds
so your mother argues
but fights to say:
oh how I love you

IX
so
love,
find the bright
in the gray
dinginess
rings loud
you’ve been
hearing
colors
again
smelling sounds
olfactory hallucinations
brought on by a lack of
overhead lighting
mark john junor May 2014
her scarred lip held a song
it was a hard song
moving like a candle on the dusty road
restless in the bitter wind
feel it in your dry mouth like the taste of snakes
feel it like a misery of the dry sand

but its her song and she sings it to me now
as she gathers the weeds and small bitter things
that will be our penance as a meal
i cast out a whip and its thorny threads
and it catches her eye
looking into me
the sea tilts
and capsizes the rowboat carrying her song to me

my hair is a dreadlock at the root
my hair ends in a fray
which end would you choose
i told her the fray
because the devil rides the dread
like a wild horse its eyes aflame
she holds my hand and will not speak
i kiss her hair
and wait for the sun to save us

and the candle burns brightly on the dusty road
the devil bears the burden of our wares
in exchange we carry his brother
she cradles this child of our fate
it tangles its tiny fist in her dreadlocked hair
and i saw that the fray was mine alone
so i tangled it in my lips
for my own song
a soft one of lovers
HRTsOnFyR Apr 2017
I met an insomniac through a Craigslist post

Who alleged: She’d stolen > 2000 hearts

On subways/escalators/sidewalks – men turn to toast

(By her gorgon glance, she boasts, even testicles depart) .

How does one ensnare one fashioned of nails and sap?

By invisibility, mirrored shield, winged boots, curved sword?

The heart’s armor, thus arrayed, can easily entrap

This goddess, dreadlocked in her own umbilical cord.

But I do not stoop to conquer, but to please

This walking paradox, over-caffeinated, old soul

Intoxicated by words, music, auteurs (esp. Scorsese) ,

You’re my aurora, glowing green, in the north celestial pole.

Slacker, artist, writer, words have escaped you:

You lay breathless at the foot of your wandering Jew.

by Beryl Dov
Jonny Angel Jan 2014
It was a ritual scarfing
spiced-eggs at the subbase,
then heading up
to the mountaintop
to check on
the cumulous-situation.

From the banana house,
one can see for eternity
the tips of Tortola & beyond
& grow fond of such splendor.

The beauty of such moments
can sink deep & stir hearts.
Even the stoutest of pirates
can cry behind the patch,
get snatched by this passion,
reveal his hidden treasure.

My blood-eyes always
seemed mesmerized,
pleasured
by the ***-filled hours
spent down on Back Street
before each maiden voyage.

The trips to Drake's Seat
to confer with the
dreadlocked-donkey man
were always my final stop.
For he had select bumblegum-*****,
homegrown at market prices,
to change perspective
& buccaneers ya know,
certainly need that fix.

Those warm Trade Winds
whipped through
the Inward Passage
while lobsters boiled
on the shore,
and there, raised up
high on the edge,
my stiletto kniving sapphires,
I understood
the true meaning of freedom,
riding supersonic
under golden suns,
in a world
so alone & starving.
Jonny Angel Feb 2014
Dreadlocked from another planet,
she bathed in pachouili,
held the universe
in irises of azure.

I found comfort
swimming
in the small
of her delicate back,
she was an expert
on pleasure.

She displayed
a skull & crissbones,
a pretty butterfly
& held me captive,
chained to her playground,
where I detonated.

And the sounds she made
above me
were out-of-this-world,
I still think I'm gone,
exploded
into another dimension.
Undeniable, completion
What can be said?
I proved you wrong again and again.
Followed
Stalked, hunted, preyed upon
Forever
Forever a meaningless walk with no destination
Empty mind, forever
What are you?
Surely a creature even as feeble as you must have some goal. Walking towards somewhere
No goal, no where
Is this real?
No need for any form of sustenance, 10 days, 30 days, 78 days, 116 days later I still follow. This earth is larger than I could have ever imagined. Walking east, 2000 days have passed still walking.
An eternal desert barren of life, geographical differences, and sand
Rocks, dirt clumped too large to be considered sand
My compass is right according to the position of the sun. East is still the direction
No where have we arrived
An emptiness so lonely I am it now, the only other thing here is it. To which I continue to follow without question
Forgotten long ago why I follow this being, so long. I remember only to follow. Never looking back
If never seen this creatures face. It has the back of a ***** man. Rags for clothes, dreadlocked brown hair down to halfway its back
It cannot be human
I must observe closely so I run to it. So does it. As if it knew I was going to run the exact time I take off. Same speed, I’m not gaining a ******* inch. Stop
Breathe
So does it
Hmm…
Continue
Back always faces me, it knows I follow
It must
It seems it is always watching something.
I see nothing in front of it
I drop my water jug, as I pick it up I realize it is empty
Barren
Dry
Hot to touch.
How long has it been since it was full?
I don’t remember filling it, or even using it
I check my pack for something
Where is it?
It has been on my back this whole time I thought
Gone
My hands are empty
The jug has disappeared
What?
I have been focused on this person for so long. Have I lost need for sustenance as it?
Why?
Where have I been walking?
How long has it really been?
I’ve seen the sun set
I’ve dreamt of catching this person, reaching a destination. We fall asleep at synchronized times, as do we awake
Or do we?
I cannot remember fully the sun setting. Or raising for that matter it stays directly above my head blistering my scalp
It’s hot; the heat is merely getting to me
Continue
Wait, I panic
Pinch
I’m not dreaming
I must shout to this person
I don’t remember the last time I spoke, if I ever could. Mouth is as dry as this desert
“H-H-HELLO!” I crackled.
Someone is screaming behind me
I haven’t looked west since I started
The same being is facing its back to me when I turn around
I turn around same image, same distance.
What?
I look at my clothes, rags, barely covering my ******
The people that surround me are covered in the exact way
When I look at one then the other their hair moves in such a way as if they have quickly turned around like I just did
I move my arms as I stare at their backs. They mimic my movements exactly. There is not a giant mirror surrounding me. I would have hit it, and it would’ve showed my face. Not that I can remember what it looks like anymore, I can’t explain a ******* thing, confused, helpless alone with myself it seems
How eternal does it last?
One following the other upon millions?
I MUST BE DREAMING.
If so I will turn south
To walk side by side with them
Continue
Cana Feb 2018
I don’t see enough written about the bluest seas
The azure splendour calling to adventure
The myriad of islands and islets
Floating emeralds in a sapphire expanse

Dreadlocked smiles and gleaming eyes.
A heat easily quenched by the crystal seas
Privateers delight is easier to understand

You could drown here. You could die here.
Casually suffer an infinite torture and blissfully grin
Into the endless summer.
A Freedom Feb 2020
Intentions, a dreadlocked mind of a poor yet gifted creator, drawing rainbows in jail cells, visualising infinity of how soon is too long to comb its extensions. A freeman in a guardhouse is a hostage of a guaranteed glory's probation.  
~
despite entrenched familiar
obsessive compulsive disorder behavior
distracting me courtesy
countless what if scenarios,
particularly before undergoing
voluntary drastic makeover
as iterated in a previous poem,
and briefly recounted here
as foregoing Samson personification
now please don't blame Delilah!

Once the decision made
(two weeks ago
September twenty fifth
two thousand and twenty four)
to finally liberate yours truly (me)
(cue the following
Jean Jacques Rousseau quote)
"Man is born free but everywhere is in chains"
accommodating torture chamber
ala complex edifice,
(albeit invisible) *******

as tangible substitution
for undersized male member
(Sigmund Freud would be smiling)
heavily weighing down mine psyche
from harried styled
uncombed/unbrushed hair
evoking an immediate
message of nonconformity,
at last fixation nipped in the bud
immediately after beautician
rubber banded and scissored

hirsute trademark feature, a characteristic
larded with immense security
unequivocally not only
constituting a major emotional sink,
(but additionally posing environmental danger
as a potential superfund site)
long overdue for cleanup
hyperbole incorporated
to jump/kick start courtesy
tipping figurative hat
to faux generative artificial intelligence,

which amazingly
immediately delivered segway
vis-à-vis refreshing lightness of being
after bird's nest gratefully shucked off
loosed a horde
of dreadlocked exhausting fretfulness
(in addition to a rash of undiscovered biota)
linkedin to catastrophization,
whether the water
would unexpectedly cease flowing
while richly shampooing shock

of prized tangled mane,
or the electricity
would suddenly witness a power outage
disallowing the hair dryer to function
such irrational worries
(despite the unlikelihood
of either unexpected
inconvenience to occur),
nevertheless quite tiresome
sustaining outrageous thought patterns
exacerbated anxiety buzzfeeding

like nattering nabobs of nativity
and undermining peace of mind
when week after week, month after month
finally brought to a screeching halt
such debilitating mental exertion
suddenly ushering deliverance
videre licet a lightness of being,
and immediately allowed,
enabled and provided much
sought after psychological relief
likened to a gust of fresh air,

I vouchsafed to myself and the missus
to abide by much easier to manage
more fashionable impression,
thus swiftly tailored relief arose
once bedraggled unkempt ratty
and infrequently unwashed coiffure
shucked off once and for all,
no matter such drastic similar
transformations of appearance
peppered the life and times
of one long haired pencil necked geek,

whereat hands of time
would elapse bajillion times
inadvertently drawing unwanted attention
to out of vogue nineteen sixties hippy doo
invariable readopted as security blanket
to stave off
uncomfortable risks
foisting interpersonal experiences
upon head and shoulders
of deplorable basket case
unwittingly referenced from Hillary Clinton.

— The End —