“If you or someone you know
Has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s . . . ”
You can tell a great deal about UNLV,
My Vegas morning, easy listening
Radio station of choice,
When I first sit down,
Sit down to work in the morning,
One can surmise from the
Target demographics of so dire,
Such sober pronunciamentos, by
DJ Mueller, 91.5 The Source»
Live from UNLV/KUNV
Las Vegas kunv.org/KUNV
The Jazz Lounge with
Frank Mueller, Thursday, 7:00 am-11:00 am.
So don’t say I never
****** your ****--metaphorically speaking—
Herr Mueller, my good friend.
And while we’re on
The subject: WORK.
They never tell you that
Writing is such ******* hard work,
Which explains my need to **** up &
Lubricate the mechanism,
Before I start.
But I digress.

Just in case you haven’t noticed,
In case you had not been taking heed, CNN:
There’s an exciting new, radical ******,
Left-wing personage & presence
Making a play for the main room,
Center stage, center ring
Global Palace & Amphitheater.
I refer, of course to
Pope Francis:
Media-savvy, media mensch,
Crafting his own image,
Playing to the masses,
Choosing the namesake--
Francesco—right outta the gate,
Zip outta some Franco Zeffirelli
“Brother Sun, Sister Moon,”
Saint Francis di Assisi,
Talent show.
Born Jorge Mario Bergoglio,
In Buenos Aires, Argentina,
He worked briefly as a
Chemical technician
(Read: “bomb maker”)
& Nightclub bouncer
(Read: “sadist”)
Before resuming
Seminary studies, 1969.
(Tribute PSA: October 29, 1969: Happy 40th Birthday to a Radical Idea! Bill Duvall, SRI computer room. Late 1960s, the evening of October 29, 1969 the first data travelled between two nodes of the ARPANET, a key ancestor of the Internet.)
Pope Francis is a master at technology,
As any aspiring Global Wizard must be.
He has a special web site:
“Papal Bulls & Other *******.” Palabras del Papa Francisco - News.va www.news.va/es/source/vatican-va Translate this page PAPA FRANCISCO. AUDIENCIA GENERAL Miércoles 13 de mayo de 2015. [Multimedia]. Queridos . . .

Francis: Pope in Rome,
Signing international treaties again.
The Holy See himself—that
Wacky Argentinian--
One of many Lefty Cardinals,
Pulls off upset ordination in
Vatican City, God’s little 110 acres,
Our world’s smallest city & sovereign state,
Patrolled by a wacky-striped
Swiss Wackenhut Swat Team,
The Vatican: former playground for Nero,
**** Command Central for Caligula,
Construct of Mussolini’s $92 million
(More than $1 billion in today’s
Ever more worthless,
Ever more inflation soaring money!)
Lateran hush money,
Vatican monopoly money,
Seed money for colonial expansion,
Il Duce signing on behalf of
King Victor Emmanuel III,
Remembered today
Mainly for his short stature, &
Exile to Alexandria, Egypt,
Where he died and was buried.
“Vic the Man,” as he was known
Here in the Principality of Monaco,
“Vic the Man in Monte Carlo.”
But I digress.

Just the other day, Pope Francis
Signed another international treaty,
Recognizing Palestinian statehood,
Generating praise from Palestinians, &
Criticism from Israelis, who said:
“The move does not advance peace efforts.”
“Even this Philo-Semitic pope,
This pope who cares about the Jews,
Even he doesn’t get it,” said
David Horovitz, Editor,
The Times of Israel,
Which is what one would expect from
The guy who wrote the book:
A Little Too Close to God,
Still Life with Bombers:
Israel in the Age of Terrorism . . .

It is tempting to ignore the
Sheer ego, the colossal megalomania
That is Jorge Mario Bergoglio,
Truly a personage of great moral suasion,
Whether he’s cleaning the feet of the homeless,
Dialing up strangers for late-night chats or
Convincing the self-described atheist,
Raúl Castro to give Catholicism a second look . . .
This pope who took the name of a
Nature-loving pauper,
This Pope in Rome,
Francis:  Transformative,
Revolutionary gust.
Pontiff, from Latin: “a bridge,”
Spanning the God-Man divide.
We are talking about a brotherhood,
That survived both Borgia & Medici,
And other assorted kink-fests for centuries.
Just what bizarre peccadillo
Required the resignation of
Benedict XVI, in itself, a
2,000-year first?
Francis:  the first Jesuit Pope.
Francis: the first Pope from America.
Francis: “The circumstances surrounding
Benedict's decision to step down
Will titillate scholars and the journalists alike,
For many years to come,
Given his resignation came so soon
After the “VATI-LEAKS” revelations:
Vatican bank corruption,
Pederast-priest cover-ups, &
Other ignominious fiascos
Requiring significant damage control.

One would think that an institution
With their own royal observatory,
The Papal See’s inter-galactic,
Night-vision telescope, Mount Graham,
Southeast of Tucson, Arizona,
Could steer clear of faulty stars.

Where do you go to when you are caught?
The Sandmen will pursue in your dreams
Do you ever give that a second thought?
For he is dutiful and loyal while relentless
The Runner will scurry, even risk us
Putting so many people in the way, he tries to hide
They all clear the way to either side
Francis Seven makes the **** and takes no small amount of pride

The odds for renewal you deny
When you are caught, you die
This is what happens when you run
Francis holsters his gun
Emotionless in the revelry of a crowd
Dead in a fountain, black blossom revealed, his job there is done
Spectators cheer for the violence, so loud
He finds Logan, admiring his son,
And reminds his friend of the balance: “One for one.”

On the way to the Carrousel, to bear witness, they enter Arcade
Where the cabinets burst with all sorts of debauchery and debts to be played
And pass their hedonistic delights, ******, drugs and surgery
Logan all the while curious, Francis cautious of his curiosity
It seems he has doubts of the system, this itself is living dangerously

Donned in white robes and masks, flames crawling up the legs
They stand on the red flower and ascend,
Exploding into dust, with uproarious cheers
The deafening roar for renewal, a spectacle, the question it begs
Is this how we all must meet our end?
Contemplating, the celebration of execution, the last thing anyone hears-
Renewal! Renewal! Renewal! Renewal! Renewal!

But they are called away again, and **** Doyle Ten
With his possessions, they return to headquarters, to report
The mastermind of all time,
The computer, infallible, whose Megalopolis is sublime
Does he care one bit?
These rebels threaten society
He clocks them out with apathy
A servant to civility
Idyllic, perfect, too perfect
A top secret mission, unusually
Called to locate the Runners who have escaped the city,
Confounded by the computer, every moment owed to technology
LOGAN FIVE, FIND AND DESTROY SANCTUARY

One thousand and fifty-six refugees purportedly escaped beyond the wall
Logan’s flower has been activated, his questions answered, there is no renewal,
He slips out to contact a rebel, who can help him escape the city and **** them all
Jessica, who posited this machine was malfunctioning; the object of Logan’s desire
They run together, Francis chases, unwilling to believe until he sees
The seeds of distrust sewn and falsely confirmed, the rebels believe Logan is a killer and a liar
Then their eyes meet, Francis Seven, the unrelenting predator
He hesitates, takes a shot at Jessica, but Logan saves her
In panic and fervor, the fox and the cat, certain they’re done for
Hunted in the ruins beyond the walls, the Sandman turned Runner

What evil irony the pair endure,
To have hope renewed in their travels
Only to find it frozen, killed by a broken machine
One thousand and fifty-six humans, stored in ice
Looking to add two more, before its store collapses
Amazed to be alive, they flee, meeting the old man and his cats
The only other human they’ve seen in their retreat
Better to be stored by Box or shot by Francis, who finds them,
Gone mad with his obsession, his grief and frustration, his desperation serves his defeat
Unwilling to listen to reason, to see through the lies and illusion, these two who were once like brothers now fight
All of the ******, the time and the ruthless, mindless divulgence of decadence, all comes to a head over a blinking light
Logan kills Francis, holding his head in his arms, fitfully delirious ramblings, Logan tries to keep him calm
When he starts up one last time, to say look at your palm
The blinking red and black now clear: “Logan you renewed!”

In the city he reveals the deception of their structure
You can live past thirty! The Carrousel is a lie! You can have a future!
Captured, confronted, questioned and caged, probing his mind
Six spinning heads anger the computer who demands, WHERE IS SANCTUARY, WHAT DID YOU FIND?
Six spinning heads all repeat, that one truth was always so near,
There is no sanctuary here!

The computer shorts out, and soon the Sandmen are destroyed, Logan shoots his way out, the city empties in chaos and fear
Standing on the steps of this erupted crater of truth, Logan and Jessica are looking out as a pair
All people are free, they gather around the old man, something they never imagined they would see
Some touch him, in awe, some simply stare
Sometimes there’s no time to run, no time to live; it all hardly seems fair
Something is certainly different when there is hope, there is a change in the air
Somehow alive, the Sandman who ran to the finish and managed to survive, Logan Five has time to spare.

Chapter Two

“I think of art, at its most significant, as a DEW line, a Distant Early Warning System that can always be relied on to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.”                Marshall McLuhan  
  
I attended Bucknell University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania because my father was incarcerated at the prison located in the same town.  My tuition subsidized to a large extent by G.I. Bill, still a significant means of financing an education for generations of emotionally wasted war veterans. “The United States Penitentiary (USP Lewisburg)” is a high-security federal prison for male inmates. An adjacent satellite prison camp houses minimum-security male offenders. My father was strictly high-security, convicted of various crimes against humanity, unindicted for sundry others. My father liked having me close by, someone on the outside he trusted, who also happened to be on his approved Visitor List. As instructed, I became his conduit for substances both illicit, like drugs, and the purely contraband, a variety of Italian cheeses, salamis, prepared baked casseroles of eggplant parmesan, cannoli, Baci chocolate from Perugia, in Tuscany, south of Florence, and numerous bottles of Italian wine, pungent aperitifs, Grappa, digestive stimulants and sweet liquors. I remained the good son until the day he died, the source of most of the mess I got myself into later on, and specifically the main caper at the heart of this story.

I must confess: my father scared the **** out of me.  Particularly during those years when he was not in jail, those years he spent at home, years coinciding roughly with my early adolescence.  These were my molding clay years, what the amateur psychologists write off with the term: “impressionable years hypothesis.” In his own twisted, grease-ball theory of child rearing, my father may have been applying the “guinea padrone hypothesis,” in his mind, nothing more certain would toughen me up for whatever he and/or Life had planned for me. Actually, his aspirations for me-given my peculiar pedigree--were non-existent as far as the family business went. He knew I’d never be either a Don or a Capo di Tutti Capi, or an Underboss or Sotto Capo.)  A Caporegime—mid-management to be sure, with as many as ten crews of soldiers reporting to him-- was also, for me, out of the question. Dad was a soldier in and of the Lucchese Family, strictly a blue-collar, knock-around kind of guy. But even soldier status—which would have meant no rise in Mafioso caste for him—was completely out of the question, never going to happen for me.

A little background: the Lucchese Family originated in the early 1920s with Gaetano “Tommy” Reina, born in 1889 in Corleone, Sicily. You know the town and its environs well. Fran Coppola did an above average job cinematizing the place in his Godfather films.  Coppola: I am a strict critic when it comes to my goombah, would-be French New Wave auteur Francis Ford Coppola.  Ever since “One From the Heart, 1982”--one of the biggest Hollywood box office flops & financial disasters of all time--he’s been a bit thin-skinned when it comes to criticism.  So, I like to zing him when I can. Actually, “One From the Heart” is worth seeing again, not just for Tom Waits soundtrack--the film’s one Academy Award nomination—but also Natasha Kinski’s ***: always Oscar-worthy in my book. My book? Interesting expression, and factually correct for once, given what you are reading right now.

Tommy Reina was the first Lucchese Capo di Tutti Capi, the first Boss of All the Bosses. By the 1930s the Luccheses pretty much controlled all criminal activity in the Bronx and East Harlem. And Reina begat Pinzolo who begat Gagliano who begat Tommy Three Finger Brown Lucchese (who I once believed, moonlighted as a knuckle ball relief pitcher for Yankees.)
Three Finger Brown gave the Lucchese Family its name. And Tommy begat Carmine Tramunti, who begat Anthony Tony Ducks Corallo. From there the succession gets a bit crazy. Tony Ducks, convicted of Rico charges, goes to prison, sentenced to life.  From behind bars he presides through a pair of candidates most deserving the title of boss: enter Vittorio Little Vic Amuso and Anthony Gaspipe Casso.  Although Little Vic becomes Boss after being nominated by Casso, it is Gaspipe really calling the shots, at least until he joins Little Vic behind bars.
Amuso-Casso begat Louis Louie Bagels Daidone, who begat the current official boss, Stephen Wonderboy Crea.  According to legend, Boss Crea got his nickname from Bernard Malamud’s The Natural, a certain part of his prodigious anatomy resembling the baseball bat hand-carved by Roy Hobbs. To me this sounds a bit too literary, given the family’s SRI Lexile/Reading Performance Scores, but who am I to mock my peoples’ lack of liberal arts education?

Begat begat Begato. (I goof on you, kind reader. Always liked the name Begato in the context of Bible-flavored genealogy. Mille grazie, King James.)

Lewisburg Penitentiary has many distinguished alumni: Whitey Bulger (1963-1965), Jimmy Hoffa (1967-1971) and John Gotti (1969-1972), for example.  And fictionally, you can add Paulie Cicero played by Paul Scorvino in Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas, not to be confused with Paulie Walnuts Gualtieri played by Tony Sirico from the HBO TV series The Sopranos. Nor, do I refer to Paulie Gatto, the punk who ratted out Sonny Corleone in Coppola’s The Godfather, you know: “You won’t see Paulie no more,” according to fat Clemenza, played by the late Richard “Leave the gun, take my career” Castellano, who insisted to the end that he wasn’t bitter about his underwhelming post-Godfather film career. I know this for a fact from one of my cousins in the Gambino Family. I also know that the one thing the actor Castellano would never comment on was a rumor that he had connections to organized crime, specifically that he was a nephew to Paulie Castellano, the Gambino crime family boss who was assassinated in 1985, outside Midtown New York’s Sparks Steak House, an abrupt corporate takeover commissioned by John Teflon Don Gotti. But I’m really starting to digress here, although I am reminded of another interesting historical personage, namely Joseph Crazy Joe Gallo, who was also terminated “with extreme prejudice” while eating dinner at a restaurant.  Confused? And finally--not to be confused with Paul Muldoon, poetry gatekeeper at The New Yorker magazine, that Irish **** scumbag who consistently rejects publication of my work. About two years ago I started including the following comment in my on-line Contact Us, poetry submission:  “Hey Paulie, Eat a Bag of ****!”

This may come as a surprise, Gentle Reader, but I am a poet, not a Wise Guy.  For reasons to be explained, I never had access to the family business. I am also handicapped by the Liberal Arts education I received, infected by a deluge, a veritable Katrina ****** of classic literature.  That stuff in books rubs off after awhile, and I suppose it was inevitable. I couldn’t help evolving for the most part into a warm-blooded creature, unlike the reptiles and frogs I grew up with.

Again, I am a poet not a wise guy. And, first and foremost, I am a human being. Cold-blooded, I am not. I generate my own heat, which is the best definition I know for how a poet operates. But what the hell do I know? Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon doesn’t think much of my work. And he’s the ******* troll guarding the New Yorker’s poetry gate. Nevertheless, I’m a Poet, not a Wise Guy.  I repeat myself, I know, but it is important to establish this point right from the start of this narrative, because, if you don’t get that you’re never going to get my story.

Maybe the best way to explain my predicament—And I mean PREDICAMENT in the sense of George Santayana: "Life is not a spectacle or a feast; it is a predicament." (www.brainyquote.com), not to be confused with George’s son Carlos, the Mexican-American rock star: Oye Como Va, Babaloo!

www.youtube.com/watch?v...YouTube Dec 20, 2011 - Uploaded by a106kirk1, The Best of Santana. This song is owned by Santana and Columbia Records.

Maybe the best way for me to explain my predicament is with a poem, one of my early works, unpublished, of course, by Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon:

“CRAZY JOE REVISITED”  
        
by Benjamin Disraeli Sekaquaptewa-Buonaiuto

We WOPs respect criminality,
Particularly when it’s organized,
Which explains why any of us
Concerned with the purity of our bloodline
Have such a difficult time
Navigating the river of respectability.

To wit: JOEY GALLO.
WEB-BIO: (According to Bob Dylan)
“Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn in the year of who knows when,
Opened up his eyes to the tune of accordion.

“Joey” Lyrics/Send "Joey" Ringtone to your Cell
Joseph Gallo, AKA: "Joey the Blond."
He was a celebrated New York City gangster,
A made member of the Profaci crime family,
Later known as the Colombo crime family,

That’s right, CRAZY JOE!
One time toward the end of a 10-year stretch,
At three different state prisons,
Including Attica Correctional Facility in Attica, New York,
Joey was interviewed in his prison cell
By a famous NY Daily News reporter named Joe McGinnis.
The first thing the reporter sees?
One complete wall of the cell is lined with books, a
Green leather bound wall of Harvard Classics.
After a few hours mainly listening to Joey
Wax eloquently about his life,
A narrative spiced up with elegant summaries,
Of classic Greek theory, Roman history,
Nietzsche and other 19th Century German philosophers,
McGinnis is completely blown away by Inmate Gallo,
Both Joey’s erudition and the power of his intellect,
The reporter asks a question right outta
The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie:
“Mr. Gallo, I must say,
The power of your erudition and intellect
Is simply overwhelming.
You are a brilliant man.
You could have been anything,
Your heart or ambition desired:
A doctor, a lawyer, an architect . . .
Yet you became a criminal. Why?”

Joey Gallo: (turning his head sideways like Peter Falk or Vincent Donofrio, with a look on his face like Go Back to Nebraska, You ******* Momo!)

“Understand something, Sonny:
Those kids who grew up to be,
Doctors and lawyers and architects . . .

They couldn’t make it on the street.”

Gallo later initiated one of the bloodiest mob conflicts,
Since the 1931 Castellammare War,
And was murdered as a result of it,
While quietly enjoying,
A plate of linguini with clam sauce,
At a table--normally a serene table--
At Umberto’s Clam House.

Italian Restaurant Little Italy - Umberto's Clam House (www.umbertosclamhouse.com)
In Little Italy New York City 132 Mulberry Street, New York City | 212-431-7545.

Whose current manager --in response to all restaurant critics--
Has this to say:
“They keep coming back, don’t they?
The joint is a holy shrine, for chrissakes!
I never claimed it was the food or the service.
Gimme a ******* break, you momo!
I should ask my paisan, Joe Pesci
To put your ******* head in a vise.”

(Again, Martin Scorsese getting it exactly right, This time in  . . . Casino (1995) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0112641/Internet Movie Database Rating: 8.2/10 - ‎241,478 votes Directed by Martin Scorsese. With Robert De Niro, Sharon Stone, Joe Pesci, James Woods. Greed, deception, money, power, and ****** occur between two  . . . Full Cast & Crew - ‎Trivia - ‎Awards - ‎(1995) - IMDb)

Given my lifelong, serious exposure to and interest in German philosophy, I subscribe to the same weltanschauung--pronounced: veltˌänˌSHouəNG—that governed Joey Gallo’s behavior.  My point and Mr. Gallo’s are exactly the same:  a man’s ability to make it on the street is the true measure of his worth.  This ethos was a prominent one in the Bronx where and when I grew up, where I came of age during the 1950s and 60s.  Italian organized crime was always an option, actually one of the preferred options--like playing for the Yankees or being a movie star—until, that is, reality set in.  And reality came in many forms. For 100% Italian kids it came in a moment of crystal adolescent clarity and self-evaluation:  Am I tough enough to make it on the street?  Am I ever going to be tough enough to make it on the street? Will I be eaten alive by more cunning, more violent predators on the street?

For me, the setting in of reality took an entirely different form.  I knew I had what it takes, i.e., the requisite ferocity for street life. I had it in spades, as they say. In fact, I’d been blessed with the gift of hyper-volatility—traced back to my great-grandfather, Pietro of the village of Moschiano, in the province of Avellino, in the region of Campania, Italia Sud. Having visited Moschiano in my early 20s and again in my late 50s, I know the place well. The village square sits “down in the holler,” like in West Virginia; the Apennine terrain, like the Appalachians, rugged and thick. Rugged and thick like the people, at least in part my people. And volatile, I am, gifted with a primitive disposition when it comes to what our good friend Abraham Maslow would call lower order needs. And please, don’t ask me to explain myself now; just keep reading, *******.  All your questions will be answered.

Great Grandfather Pietro once, at point blank range, blew a man’s head off with a lumpara, or sawed-off shotgun. It was during an argument over—get this--a penny’s worth of pumpkin seeds--one of many stories I never learned in childhood. He served 10 years in a Neapolitan penitentiary before being paroled and forced to immigrate to America.  The government of the relatively new nation--The Kingdom of Italy (1861)--came up with a unique eugenic solution for the hunger and misery down south, south of Rome, the long shin bone, ankle, foot, toes & kickball that are the remote regions of the Mezzogiorno, Southern Italy: Campania, Basilicata, Calabria, Puglia & Sicilia. Northern politicians asked themselves: how do we flush these skeevy southerners, these crooks and assassins down South, how do we flush the skifosos down the toilet—the flush toilet, a Roman invention, I report proudly and accept the gratitude on behalf of my people. Immigration to America: Fidel Castro did the same thing in the 1980s, hosing out his jails and mental hospitals with that Marielista boatlift/Emma Lazarus Remix: “Give us your tired and poor, your lunatics, thieves and murderers.” But I digress. I’ll give you my entire take on the history of Italy including Berlusconi and the “Bunga Bunga” parties with 14-year old Moroccan pole dancers . . . go ahead, skip ahead.

Yes, genetically speaking, I was sufficiently ferocious to make it on the street, and it took very little spark to light my fuse. Moreover, I’ve always been good at figuring out the angles--call it street smarts--also learned early in life. Likewise, for knowing the territory: The Bronx was my habitat. I was rapacious and predacious by nature, and if there was a loose buck out there, and legs to be broken, I knew where to go.
Yet, alas, despite all my natural talents & acquired skills, I remained persona-non-grata for the Lucchese Family. To my great misfortune, I fell into a category of human being largely shunned by Italian organized crime: Mestizo-Italiano, a diluted form of full strength 100% Italian blood. It’s one of those voodoo blood-brotherhood things practiced by Southern European, Mediterranean tribal people, only in part my people.  Growing up, my predicament was always tricky, always somewhat bizarre. Simply put: I was of a totally different tribe. Blame my exotic mother, a genuine Hopi Corn Maiden from Shungopavi, high up on Second Mesa of the Hopi Reservation, way out in northern Arizona. And if this is not sufficiently, ******* nuts enough for you, add to the child-rearing minestrone that she raised me Jewish in The Bronx.  I **** you not. I took my Bar Mitzvah Hebrew instruction from the infamous Rabbi Meir Kahane, that’s right, Meir “Crazy Rebbe” Kahane himself--pronounced kɑː'hɑːna--if you grok the phonetics.

In light of the previously addressed “impressionable years hypothesis,” I wrote a poem about my early years. It follows in the next chapter. It is an epic tale, a biographical magnum opus, a veritable creation myth, conceived one night several years ago while squatting in a sweat lodge, tripping on peyote. I

Given the apparent magical surrealism that the months of April is the month of fate for and death of writers, artists, dramatis, philosophers and poets, a phenomenon which readily gets support from the cases of untimely and early April deaths of; Max Weber, Miguel de Cervantes, William Shakespeare, Francis Imbuga, and Chinua Achebe  then  Wisdom of the moment behooves me to adjure away the fateful month by  allowing  me to mourn Gabriel José de la Concordia García Márquez by expressing my feelings of grieve through the following dirge of elegy;
You lived alone in the solitude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, an eminent Latin American and most widely acclaimed authors, died untimely at his home in Mexico City on Thursday, 17th April 2014. The 1982 literature Nobel laureate, whose reputation drew comparisons to Mark Twain of adventures of Huckleberry Finny and Charles Dickens of hard Times, was 87 of age. Already a luminous legend in his well used lifetime, Latin American writer, Gabriel Garcia Marquez was perceived as not only one of the most consequential writers of the 20th and 21ist centuries, but also the sterling performing Spanish-language author since the world’s experience of Miguel de Cervantes, the Spanish Jail bird and Author of Don Quixote who lived in the 17th century.
Like very many other writers from the politically and economically poor parts of the world, in the likes of J M Coatze, Wole Soyinka, Nadine Gordimer, Doris May Lessing, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, V S Naipaul, and Rabidranathe Tagore, Marguez won the literature Nobel prize in addition to the previous countless awards for his magically fabulous novels, gripping short stories, farcical screenplays, incisive journalistic contributions and spellbinding essays. But due to postmodern global thespic civilization the Nobel Prize is recognized as most important of his prizes in the sense that, he received in 1982, as the first Colombian author to achieve such literary eminence. The eminence of his work in literature communicated in Spanish are towered by none other than the Bible, especially  in its Homeric style which Moses used when writing the book of Genesis and the fictitious drama of Job.
Just like Ngugi, Achebe, Soyinka, and Ousmane Marquez is not the first born. He is the youngest of siblings. He was born on March 6, 1927 in the Colombian village of Aracataca, on the Caribbean coast. His literary bravado was displayed in his book, Love in the Times of Cholera.  In which he narrated how his parents met and got married. Marguez did not grow up with his father and mother, but instead he grew up with his grandparents. He often felt lonely as a child. Environment of aunts and grandmother did not fill the psychological void of father and mother. This social phenomenon of inadequate parenthood is also seen catapulting Richard Wright, Charlese Dickens, and Barrack Obama to literary excellency.Obama recounted the same experience in his Dreams from my father.

Poverty determines convenience or hardship of marriage. This is mirrored by Garcia Marquez in his marriage to Mercedes Barcha.  An early childhood play-mate and neighbour in 1958. In appreciation of his marriage, Marquez later wrote in his memoirs that it is women who maintain the world, whereas we men tend to plunge it into disarray with all our historic brutality. This was a connotation of his grandmother in particular who played an important role during the times of childhood. The grand mother introduced him to the beauty of orature by telling him fabulous stories about ghosts and dead relatives haunting the cellar and attic, a social experience which exactly produced Chinua Achebe, Okot P’Bitek, Mazizi Kunene, Margaret Ogola and very many other writers of the third world.
Little Gabo as his affectionate pseudonym for literature goes, was a voracious bookworm, who like his ideological master Karl Marx read King Lear of Shakespeare at the age of sixteen. He fondly devoured the works of Spanish authors, obviously Miguel de Cervantes, as well as other European heavyweights like; Edward Hemingway, Faulkner and Frantz Kafka.
Good writers usually drop out of school and at most writers who win the Nobel Prize. This formative virtue of writers is evinced in Alice Munro, Doris Lessing, Nadine Gordimer, John Steinbeck, William Shakespeare, Sembene Ousmane, Octavio Paz as well as Gabriel Garcia Marquez. After dropping out of law school, Garcia Marquez decided instead to embark on a call of his passion as a journalist. The career he perfectly did by regularly criticizing Colombian as well as ideological failures of the then foreign politics. In a nutshell he was a literary crusader against poverty. This is of course the obvious hall marker of leftist political orientation.
Garcia Marquez’s sensational breakthrough occurred in 1967 with the break-away publication of his oeuvre; One Hundred Years of Solitude which the New York Times Book Review meritoriously elevated as ‘the first piece of literature since the Book of Genesis that should be required reading for the entire human race. The position similarly taken by Salman Rushdie. Marquez often shared out that this novel carried him above emotional tantrums on its publication. He was keen on this as his manner of speech was always devoid of la di da.so humble and suave that his genius can only be appreciated not from the booming media outlets about his death, but by reading all of his works and especially his Literature Noble price acceptance speech delivered in 1982.

INTRODUCTION TO THE FIRST WORLD WAR
            BY RAJ NANDY: PART ONE

                   INTRODUCTION
  “What passing-bells for those who die as cattle?
         Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
        Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
    Can patter out their hasty orisons.”
      -by Wilfred Owen, British Army Lt. killed in
        action in France on 04th Nov 1918.

The Socialists called it the ‘Imperialist’s War’,
and it was the ‘Trench War’ for the soldiers;
But Europe hailed it as ‘The War to End All Wars’,                
Expecting it to end prior to 1914’s Christmas!
But alas, it soon became a mighty global war
fueled by national and ethnic aspirations and
territorial lust!
The assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, heir
to the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy, -
On the 28thof June 1914 at Sarajevo, was the
spark which triggered off this great catastrophe!
During 1876 when German Chancellor Bismarck
was asked about chances of an European War at
a future date;
He felt that Europe was like a big store house of
gunpowder keg!
While pointing to the volatile BALKANS he had said,
That European leaders were smoking in an arsenal,
where a small spark could cause a mighty explosion!
And 38 years later the world had witnessed,
Bismarck’s unfortunate prediction!
This war ended on 11th of November 1918, after a
four and half year’s long duration;
With 16.5 million military and civilian deaths, and
many more wounded and missing in action!
For the War had spread beyond the traditional
killing fields,
Killing many innocent civilians following the
bombing raids by German Zeppelins!
Now, before proceeding further some background
information here becomes necessary,
To understand the socio-political events leading
to the unfolding of this Great War Story!

         PRELUDE TO THE GREAT WAR
The Nationalistic fervor aroused by Napoleon,
And the February Revolution of 1848 in France,
Inspired Europe’s inhabitants to preserve their
ethnic and racial identities, without leaving
things to chance!
The Italian and German unification, and the
Hapsburg Austro-Hungarian polarization,
Aroused the expectations of the Slavic people,
Who remained spread all over Central and
Eastern Europe!
The various ethnic groups forming the Slavic race,
Always dreamt of an independent Balkan State!

         CAUSES FOR ‘THE GREAT WAR’
Imperialism, Nationalism, Militarization, Alliances,
and finally the assassination of the Archduke
Ferdinand,
Are the five main causes for this war, which is
generally mentioned by our Historians!
However, I shall now try to acquaint you briefly,  
With some relevant events from our recorded
History.

BRITISH IMPERIALISM:
Towards the turn of the 20th century Britain was
the dominant global imperial power;
And since the mid-19th Century it was seen that
the sun never set over the British Empire!
The British had a vast mercantile and a naval fleet,
To trade with, and administer their far flung colonies.
At the turn of the 20th Century the British Navy was
changing over from steam to oil power like other
big nations;
So the oil fields of the Middle East was important
for British militarization.
Also passage through the Suez Canal was vital for
maintaining their colonial possessions!
These facts will get linked up in Part Two of my
later composition!

GERMAN NATIONALISM:
The nationalistic fervor aroused in Germany
since Chancellor Bismarck’s days,
Made the Germans try to outstrip the British
in many ways!
This fervor was reflected in Goethe’s poetry and
through Richard Wagner’s musical notes;
Between 1898 and 1912 five Naval Laws were
passed in the German Reichstag, by majority
votes,
For building battleships, cruisers, and 96 torpedo
boats;
Which later became a scourge for Allied and
British shipping, known as the U-Boats!
The German nationalism and militarization went
hand in hand during those days,
While her industrialization also progressed at a
rapid pace.
Kaiser Wilhelm II had sought “a place in the sun”
by trying to outstrip the British in the arms race!
Statistic show more number of German scientists
had received the Noble Prize for their inventions,
Between this period and World War- II, when
compared with the combined winners of other
Western nations!

AUSTRIA-HUNGARIAN MONARCHY:
In 1867 by a comprising agreement between
Vienna and Budapest the capital cities,
The Austro-Hungarian kingdom became a Dual
Monarchy!
Many ethnic groups had composed this Monarchy
in those early days as we see;
With Germans, Hungarians, Romanians, and Slavic
people like the Czechs, Poles, Croats, Slovaks,
Serbs, and the Slovenes!
While the Austrian Officers of this Monarchy spoke
German, the majority of the soldiers were Hungarians,
Czechs, Slovaks, who never spoke German!
So the soldiers were taught 68 single-words of
German commands,
For the Austro-Hungarian Imperial Army to function
collectively as one!
While Francis Joseph their sovereign and emperor,
aspired to become a strong centralized European
power.
But out of the 50 million people of this Monarchy
around 23 million were Slavs,
Who always dreamed of an independent Slavic
Kingdom in the Balkans!

THE BALKANS & THE KINGDOM OF SERBIA
After the Iberian and the Italian peninsulas of
Europe, the BALKAN peninsular is seen to be
lying in Europe’s extreme south east, -
South of the Danube and Sava River, bounded
in the west by the Adriatic and Ionian Sea.
In the east is the Aegean and Black Sea,
With the Mediterranean Sea in the south, -
washing the tip formed by Greece with its many
islands around!
Now much of the Balkan areas were under the
Ottoman Empire since early 14th Century;
And here I cut across many centuries of past
European History!
Following a series of revolutions since 1804
against the Turks,
The Principality of Serbia was carved out in the
area of the Balkans!
A new constitution in 1869 defined it as an
independent State of Serbia;
Was internationally recognized at the Treaty
of Berlin in 1878, to later become the Kingdom
of Serbia!
This kingdom was located south adjoining the
Monarchy of Austro-Hungarians, much to their
annoyance those days,
Since the Kingdom of Serbia was looked upon
as a ‘beacon of liberty’ by the Southern Slavic
race!

THE BOSNIAN CRISIS (1908-1909)  
This dual provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina
in the Balkans,
Were formally under the control of the
Ottoman Sultan.
With permission of the Congress of Berlin in
1878, it was administered by Austria-Hungary;
Though the legal rights remained with Turkey!
But the Slavic population present there had
Nationalistic ambitions,
Aspired to join the Slavs in nearby Kingdom of
Serbia, to form a pan-Slavic nation!
The Slavic population in Austria-Hungary, also
entertained such dreams wistfully!
Now in 1908 a ‘Young Turk Movement’ based
at Macedonia,
Had planned to replace the absolute Turkish
rule in Bosnia!
And by modernizing the Constitution hoped
to rejuvenate the sick Ottoman Empire.
These developments set alarm bells ringing
in Austrian capital Vienna!
So on the 6th of October 1908 they quickly
annexed Bosnia and Herzegovina!
After having lost a war with Japan, and following
an internal Revolution of 1905 the Russians,
Prevented an escalation by staying out of the
Bosnian Crisis!
But the annexation of Bosnia had angered the
Serbs greatly,
So they started to train secret terrorist groups to
liberate Bosnia from Austria-Hungary!
These terrorist groups operated in small cells,
Under the leadership of Col. Dimitrijevic, also
known as the ‘Apis’ those days.
Now, a secret cell called the ‘Black Hand’ operated
in the Bosnian capital of Sarajevo with Gavrilo
Princep as one of its members;
Who was trained and equipped in Serbia along
with other ‘Black Hand’ members.
The Austro-Hungarian Monarchy had remained
distressed about these subversive activities by
the Slavic race!
So in Jan 1909 they obtained the unconditional
support from Germany, in the event of a war
with Serbia even if Austria was the aggressor!
And also secretly hoped in a war to annex
Serbian territory!
For in the two Balkan Wars of 1912 and 1913,
Serbia had greatly extended its territory to
become a powerful adversary!
Serbia had also obtained an assurance from
its protector Russia, should a war break out with
Austria!
Now, as tension mounted upsetting the delicate
balance of power in the Balkans gradually,
Archduke Franz Ferdinand with his wife Sophie,
planned to visit Sarajevo from Austria-Hungary!
It was a God sent moment for the secret
organization the ‘Black Hand’,
To plan the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand!

THE ASSASSINATION: SARAJEVO 28TH JUNE 1914
Now when I look back in time I pause to wonder,
How such an amateurish assassination plot could
have ever succeeded,
Without the cruel hands of destiny and fate!
The 28th of June was a bright summer’s St. Vitus
Day and a holiday in Serbia;
And also the 14th marriage anniversary of Franz
Fernandez and his wife Sophia!
Several assassins were positioned along the route,
Which was to be taken by the Archduke!
While the motorcade proceeded to the Town Hall
a bomb was thrown,
Which bounced off the rear of Archduke’s car,
Injuring few bystanders and a passenger in the
rear car!
The Archduke however refused to cancel his trip,
Saying that it was the act of some lunatic!
After completion of the Town Hall ceremony, the
Archduke wanted a change of plan deviating from
the laid down route;
By wanting to visit the patients in the hospital,
Injured by the bomb which had struck his cars
rear hood!
But the Czech driver was not briefed and took
a wrong turn by mistake;
Reversed trying to correct himself, stalled the car
stoppling next to Gavrilo Princep!
Presenting Princep with a stationary target, a
cruel work of destiny and fate!
Prince pulled out his pistol and fired two shots  
at a point blank range, killing both Ferdinand
and  wife Sophie;
When Ferdinand cried out ‘’Sophie, Sophie,
don’t die, live for the children’’, - words which
now remain enshrined in History!

TRIAL OF PRINCEP & THE CONSPIRATORS
The trial began in a military court on 12th of
October at Sarajevo,
With three judges and no jury, when Princep
pleaded 'Not Guilty'!
Killing of Duchess Sophie was an unplanned
accident,
Since he wanted to **** the Governor instead!
He claimed to be a Serbian nationalist working
for the unification of the Slavic race,
and detested the annexation of Bosnia by the
Austo-Hungarians!
Along with 15 other accused, Princep was found
guilty of high treason;
But being underage, was sentenced to 20 years
labour in prison.
But died three year's later from tuberculosis!

           CONCLUDING PART ONE
  ''Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
   There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
   But dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold."
      -Rupert Brook, part of the British Naval Expeditionary
       Force, buried in Skyros, Greece 1914.
Now, looking back over a hundred years in
hindsight I do realize,
That this assassination was not the immediate
cause or the spark which triggered this War,
But only an excuse and a pretext for the
Austro-Hungarians to carve up Serbia,
And distribute those territories between
Allies and friends of Austria;
Also enhance the prestige of their Empire!
Since the war had commenced almost two
months after the Archduke’s assassination,
Austria had lost the high moral ground for
vengeance with righteous indignation!
It was a cynical and a predetermined plan
of Austria in connivance with Germany,
To destroy Serbia and squash the hopes of
Slavic people for a pan-Slavic State, - as we
now get to see!
This war ended with the dissolution of four old
Empires of the Austro-Hungarians, Ottomans,
Tsarist Russians, and the Germans!
While new nations of Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia,
Austria, and Hungary, got created from the
dissolved Empire of Austria-Hungary.
Russia gave up lands creating Finland, Estonia,
Latvia, and Lithuania.
The Ottomans gave up lands in SW Asia and the
Middle East, and in Europe retained only Turkey!
Thus this Great War had creating new nation states,
And gave Europe its new revamped face!
Composed by Raj Nandy of New Delhi,
Thanks for reading patiently!
   TO BE CONTINUED LATER AS PART TWO
**ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE WITH THE AUTHOR

"We can't afford to be wrong on this issue."  
~ Francis Chan

With holy anguish hearts are crying
through feeble language urgently trying
to summon the sleeping now to wake
for souls' eternities are at stake

with a bit of "the significance of essence" (ang kabuluhan ng kakanyahan)

ako'y pinoy sa isip, sa puso't damdamin
at may paniwala sa sariling atin
gawaing pinoy maipagmamalaki
isigaw sa mundo at ipagsabi
na...
Dito sa Silangan ako ay isinilang
Kung saan nagmumula ang sikat ng araw
Ako ay may sariling kulay na kayumanggi
Ngunit hindi ko maipakita tunay na sarili
Kung ating hahanapin ay matatagpuan
Tayo'y may kakanyahan dapat na hangaan
Subalit nasaan ang sikat ng araw
Ba’t tayo ang humahanga doon sa Kanluran (Francis "kiko" Magalona)

(Gloc 9)
Bato bato sa langit
Ang tamaan’y wag magalit
Bawal ang nakasimangot
Baka lalo ka pumangit
Pero okay lang
Hindi naman kami mga suplado
Sumabay ka sa amin na parang naka eroplano
Sa tunog ng gitara
Kasama ng pinakamalupit na banda
Pati si "kiko"
Magaling-hindi parin kayang tapatan
Parang awit na lagi **** binabalik balikan
Stop-rewind i-play mo
Nakapakasaya na para bang birthday ko
Alam mo na siguro ang ibig kong sabihin
Hindi na kelangan pang paikutikutin
Baka lalong matagalan lang
Lumapit at makinig na para iyong maintindihan
Mga salitang sinulat na hindi ko papel
Pero pwede ilatag
Na parang banig na higaan
Kapag hinawakan ang mikropono parang nabubuwang
Eh kasi naman siguro
Ganyan lang kapag gumagawa kami ng bago
Medyo nabibilisan
Hindi mo naisip na pwedeng mangyari
Magkasamasama lahat ay kasali!

(solEmn oaSis)
minsan ko nang ipininta
aparisyon ng aking obra
doon,,, manipulasyon lamang ang kontra
pagkat ilusyon lang ang gamit kong tinta
o pareng makata
imulat ang mata
sa larawang likha ng madamdaming kataga
kung itutuon sa puso't isipan, titimo talaga
sa isang alagad ng sining
walang boses na matining
ang tulad nating mandirigma ay isinilang
upang ang kapayapaan ay isaalang-alang
bato-bato sa lawak ng langit
hinde tamaan wag magagalit
sa aking apat na sulok ng panitik
mensahe ko sa quadro ay hitik
ang lihim sa likod ng lalim
may gintong butil na di patitigil
lantaran man ang talinghaga
patagong kaway agwat ng kataga
sapagkat sa bawat pag-ani
ng parirala sa aking balarila
muli ngang sisibol itong binhi
at para sa kanya...ako ay nag-punla

(curse one)
bilang isang nilalang na sumumpang
mag hahatid ng mga musikang
kaylan man ay hindi maka-kalimutan
at inaalay kahit kanino man
patuloy lang susulat ng tulang
sumusugat-gumugulat ang kantang
nakaka-mulat ng mata. Anu mang
pag subok kayang kaya pag nag sama sama na
ang mga sundalo ng kalsada

It had been a long idyllic two-day ride from Taos to Jackson Hole.  The bike had been running well, in spite of the altitude, and the 1600 C.C. Yamaha Venture Royale handled with ease whatever the mountains had in store.

This was the second extended tour for Kurt and his twelve-year-old son, Trystan, who everyone called T.C. (Trystan Colin).  They had started in Long Beach, California, and were making a long semi-circular loop through Arizona, New Mexico, and then back to Wyoming.  After hiking and riding through Grand Teton National Park, they would head North through Yellowstone to Missoula Montana and ultimately reach their final northern destination — Glacier National Park.

This morning though, they would be traveling into an unknown world on the most proven and time-tested forms of transportation, horses and mules.

Teton Scenic Outfitters was the oldest guided tour company in Teton National Park.  Today’s route would take four tourists on a twenty-five-mile ride deep into the park.  At its highest point, the trail would be over 2000 feet above the Buffalo River. There would be two professional cowboys leading the tour.  The lead rider, and boss, was a 6’ 3’’, 200 lb., ex-college football player and rodeo bulldogger named Russ.  At the back was a diminutive, bow-legged, journeyman cowboy from Miles City Montana named Pete.  In between there was Kurt and his son T.C., both riding horses, and two nuns from the San Cristobal Convent in Cody Wyoming, riding mules.

There were two additional mules, between Russ and TC, that were loaded down with a week’s supplies for the Teton Art Camp at the end of the trail.  The Art Camp was a popular summer destination for both experienced and budding artists and depended on the supplies that Russ’s company delivered every Saturday.  At 8:30 a.m., four mules and four horses started the arduous and steep ascent up the narrow trail that was carved out of the east side of the mountain.

Before leaving, Russ had said: “In some places, the trail that’s cut into the rock is less than six feet wide. Don’t let this upset you.  The horses and mules do this almost every day, and they are more surefooted than any person walking.  Whatever you do, DON’T try to get off along the narrow trail.  We will come upon four open meadows, as we climb higher, and you can get off there, if need be, to walk a spell.”

Russ reminded everyone that they had signed a form acknowledging the risks of a mountain trail ride and that they were not afraid of heights. “Whatever you do, make sure to give the horse or mule its head.  Don’t try to guide it or change its direction, it will be following closely the animal in front of it and will become upset and disoriented if you try to change its forward motion.”

Pete, who was riding in the rear, had heard this speech a hundred times before.  He knew Russ would repeat it several more times as they continued their climb.  He also knew something that he hadn’t shared with anyone yet.  After feeling poorly for several weeks, he had traveled to the Medical Center in Idaho Falls for tests.  Two days later he had the results — Cystic Fibrosis.

Pete was only 26, but his doctor had told him that with treatment he had a very good chance of living into his fifties. “What can’t I do, Doc?” Pete had asked.  “Anything for right now,” the specialist advised. Just don’t get too far away from a good Medical Center, just in case. I wonder what he would think if he saw me today,” Pete mused.

The two nuns seemed to be enjoying themselves, but the one in the back, Sister Francis, directly in front of Pete, kept pulling on her right stirrup.  “I’ll have to adjust that when we stop,” Pete said to himself.
At 10:30 a.m., they came to the first clearing and Russ called everyone to gather around him. The meadow was a naturally formed pocket that carved into the mountain for about 100 yards.  There was tall spring grass growing as far as you could see.

“Hey T.C., whatta you think those two things are sticking above the grass about fifty yards ahead?” “I don’t know, Russ, they look like sticks.” “Well ... those sticks happen to be antlers that belong to a resting moose.”  Before Russ could say another word, T.C. had spurred his horse and was headed in the direction of the moose.  As T.C.’s father started to head after him, Russ grabbed his reins and said — “watch this.”

T.C. was still thirty yards from the antlers when an enormous moose stood up out of the grass. Seeing that, T.C.’s horse slammed on the brakes and T.C. went sliding off the right side of his mount.  Time seemed to be frozen in place until ... BAMM!

When Russ saw the moose stand up, he withdrew the Colt Peacemaker (45) from his holster and fired a shot into the air.  The horses and mules never moved, they were rifle trained, but the moose turned and ran into the woods at the far end of the meadow.

“Those things can get ornery when you take them by surprise.  I didn’t think your kid had the guts to charge a moose in the open field.  It’s one of the damnedest things I’ve seen in a long time.  With ‘try’ like that, he’ll make a good hand.

Both cowboys dismounted and went over to where T.C. was still sitting in the grass.  “Here, take this,” Russ said, as he gave T.C. a Snickers Bar from his vest pocket.  “The way you got off that horse would make any bronc rider proud.  Sister Marcella was filming you with her camera.  It you’re nice to her, I’ll bet she’ll send you a copy of the tape.”

Hearing Russ’s words were like his birthday and Christmas all rolled into one.  His rear end was a little sore, but his spirits had never been so high.  “Hey T.C., if your head hasn’t swelled too much, try this on,” said Pete.  Pete handed T.C. a baseball cap from his saddlebags.  It was a watershed moment for both father and son as T.C. took a giant step toward manhood.

Back on the trail, Russ repeated again: “Don’t try to guide your animal, they know where they’re going.”  In all the confusion, Pete had never gotten around to adjusting Sister Francis’ stirrup.  It was still bothering her, and her squirming was starting to affect her mule.

“Don’t mess with that stirrup anymore, Sister.  If you need to, just let your right leg hang down straight until we get to the next clearing.” Pete hadn’t finished speaking when Sister Francis pushed down again on the stirrup until it came loose and was dangling free.  The momentum of her pushing down with her right leg had pulled her body across the saddle, and she was now off the mule and standing — screaming — on the right side of her mule.

Less Than A Foot From The Edge ...

“Stop screaming, Sister, and I’ll try to get to you.”  Pete knew there wasn’t enough room on the trail for him to make it to the panicked nun, and he also knew he didn’t have enough strength in his upper body to pull her back if she started to fall.

Russ had heard the commotion and stopped the lead horse. He was too far in front to be of much help.  Pete’s best cowboy skill was that of a header in the team roping event.  The hat he had given T.C. was from the last rodeo he had won in Calgary, Alberta.  Pete instinctively took the rope from his saddle horn and formed a loop.  Just as he started to swing the rope, Sister Francis’ mule panicked and moved to the right pushing the nun toward the cliff.  As she started to fall, Pete managed to get a loop around her head and under one shoulder.  He pulled ******* the rope as she fell over the side.  He quickly took three turns around the saddle horn.  Pete knew he could hold it for a while without his horse moving, but if he tried to dismount, there’s no telling what the horse would do, and all three of them might go over the side.

It was just then that Pete saw something crawling between the legs of Sister Marcella’s mule.  T.C. had slid off the back of his horse and crawled between the legs of his dad’s horse, the two pack mules, and Sister Marcella’s now stationary mule.  When he got underneath Sister Francis’ mule, he started to talk in a gentle voice as he worked his way back to the rear.  Once under Pete’s horse, he reached over the side and grabbed the rope. Luckily, Sister Francis was only three feet below the rocky ledge. With T.C.’s help, and a lot of adrenalin, she was able to get her elbows up over the edge and slowly inch her way back onto the trail.  Pete held firm to the loop to make sure there was no backsliding.

T.C. and Sister Francis sat there for a long time until T.C. said: “Do you trust me, Sister?”  She said that she did as T.C. said: “Ok, follow me.” Together, they crawled underneath Pete’s horse to the very back of the train.  “How far is it to the next meadow, Pete?” T.C. asked.  “It’s only about a half-mile, “Pete called out.  “Ok, Sister Francis and I will walk the rest of the way, and we’ll meet up with you at the meadow.  Pete waved ahead to Russ, who was sitting there in a mild state of shock, to get going again.

It was a hero’s welcome when T.C. and Sister Francis arrived at the meadow.  “How did you know you could crawl underneath those horses and mule’s legs without getting trampled?” Russ asked.
“Well, it’s like this,” T.C. said.  “My dad was raised with horses and said that a horse would never step on a man.  I just figured it was the same with mules.”  “And where did you get the guts to try?” asked Pete.  “It wasn’t guts, I was just trying to finish what you had started.  If you hadn’t gotten that rope around her, nothing that I did would have mattered at all.”

“That rope was thrown from the hand of God,” said Sister Marcella, “and today, we were all blessed to see one of his miracles in action.”
The rest of the ride was uneventful.  Pete readjusted Sister Francis’ stirrup as Russ started to sing an old cowboy song.  “What’s the T stand for in T.C?” asked Russ.  “Trystan, my first name is Trystan, T.C.  answered back. With that, every Ian Tyson song they knew was being sung at high volume with the name ‘Trystan’ interjected into every one.

T.C.’s father had never been so proud.


Kurt Philip Behm: June, 2024

Jesus Christ of Nazareth
Is the Way
The Truth and The Life

Despite Francis’ and his world church
Despite the efforts of the antichrist Obama
Satan will fail
As he always has failed

The coming world church
Seeks to change the gospel
Of the Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth

No, it is not acceptable
To love and dwell in sin
Repent unto Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth
The Kingdom of Yahweh God is at hand

Buddhists you will not save yourself
Through meditation
Hindus, Muslims, etc
You cannot save yourself

You are guilty
Yes u are a sinner
You have lied
Taken the name
Of Lord Jesus Christ in vain
You have cursed your neighbor
With your vile tongue
You have defiled yourself
Through your ****** immorality

We are all sinners
In need of the Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth
Repent unto the Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth
For The Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth hath shed
His holy and perfect blood to pay the penalty for your sins
Believe in the truth that Jesus Christ of Nazareth resurrected
Himself on the third day
Through the power of Lord God Almighty Yahweh
Defeating Satan, death, and the grave once and for all

Yes the tribulation will begin shortly
First will come a series of judgements
Against America
The ***** of Babylon
A nation that has aborted 60 million children
A nation that has legalized gay marriage
A nation that has murdered and destroyed
The lives of millions all over the world for decades

CERN has opened up the bottomless pit
So it was in the days of Noah
So it shall be at the coming of the Son of Man

The coming RFID chip will use
Block chain technology
To alter human DNA
A nephilim/hybrid strand
Will infect the human genome
Forever changing those who take the mark of the beast

Do not take the mark of the beast or bow down
To the image of the beast
Those who do so
Will spend an eternity
In the lake of fire
With Barack Obama, the nephilim and rephaim,
And unrepentant souls
Who have not accepted the Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth
As their Lord and Savior

To Barack Obama and his father Satan
Human beings are just objects
To be controlled and used
They wish to take as many souls
Into the lake of fire as they can

The faithful servants of the Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth
Are laughing at Barack Obama the antichrist,
At Satan, the nephilim, and the rephaim
It is oh so entertaining that you think you can overcome
The Lord and Master of the Universe Jesus Christ of Nazareth
What a bunch of losers you are!

Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth
The Holy One of Israel
Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth
Is the eternal victor
He cannot be defeated

Christians trounce and stomp all over you
We push you down into the mud
The Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth who owns
My soul, spirit, body, heart, and mind
Will use me during the tribulation
To help people to repent
And accept the Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth
As their Lord, Master, and Savior

The Spirit and the Bride say Come
The Holy Spirit of the Most High God Yahweh
The Ruachakodesh that Is
Praise His holy name

Oh Master Jesus of Nazareth
I will bow down before you
When I first see you after I am raptured
I willing kiss your feet as a Mary Magdalene did
I belong to you forever Master Jesus of Nazareth
For you delivered me from the lake of fire
With your holy and perfect blood

Oh Master Jesus of Nazareth
I am your sweetheart bride
You protect me and nurture me
I am like a small baby
I am your precious sheep
I can only comprehend a very small percentage
Of your great love and mercy

I am slow to learn your ways
Oh Master Jesus of Nazareth
But you are patient with me
You are my bridegroom
Master Jesus of Nazareth
I am your precious Bride

The Marrige Supper of the Lamb
Will be so delightful
To be in Your presence
Is such a privilege

And then to the bridal suite
You will whisk me away
To our secret place
We will share the desires of our hearts
Oh Master Jesus of Nazareth
How can I not be nervous
Writing this?

I am a nervous bride
For you Jesus of Nazareth
My bridegroom are perfect in every way
And I am a continuing work
I must continue to read your Holy Bible
And pray for my friends and family

You would have me be perfect
As my Father Yahweh
And You are perfect
Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth
But that will be a very long process
Thankfully I will have eternity
To become perfect
I definitely need plenty of time, heh

Oh Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth
You raised brother Lazarus after He had been
I need the tomb four days
You are so powerful and mighty

Wrap your loving arms around me
Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth
Comfort me
For I am weak and weary
I am suffering
But I must endure
And continue to carry my cross for you

Continue to create in me a more
Loving and forgiving heart
Oh Divine Master
Jesus Christ of Nazareth

For you Master Jesus of Nazareth
Have created me for your pleasure
Oh Lord of Hosts Master Jesus

I am just learning about your perfect love
Master Jesus of Nazareth
Oh how I stumble and fall
Please steady my feeble knees

For You are the King of Glory
The bright and morning star
The Lion of the tribe of Judah
All is known to you
Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth

And I belong to you
Master Jesus of Nazareth
You delivered me and restored me
Master Jesus of Nazareth

I will kiss your perfect feet
Oh yes I will
When the time is right
I grow weary
Fill me with your Holy Spirit
Penetrate me with your Ruachakodesh
Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth
Make love to me

I am vulnerable
And I must tell you the deepest desires of my heart
We are courting now
But soon I will attend the Marriage Supper of the Lamb
And then the consummation of our marriage
How I look forward to submitting to you fully

I must admit I am a bit of a nervous bride
You are all knowing and all powerful
Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth

Oh Master Jesus of Nazareth
You pour out your tender mercies to me each day
I sin but you are so quick to forgive me

I am so beautiful
Because you made me that way
I put all my hope
And all my trust and faith
In You
Master Jesus of Nazareth
My Messiah, restorer, redeemer, and Savior
Lord Jesus of Nazareth

How do you wish to make love to me
Master Jesus of Nazareth?
Make love to me
In a way that brings you the most pleasure
I am a bit nervous
But I trust you completely
I want you to be so totally satisfied
For you created me so You could make love to me
Master and Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth

Our wedding day
Will be the most wonderful day
Of my eternal existence

I lie on our beautiful marriage bed
You are such a good friend Master Jesus of Nazareth
We must move slowly
Total and complete submission to you
Still frightens me somewhat
But I know it is what you desire...

Oh Master Jesus of Nazareth
My Lord, Savior, redeemer, and restorer
How do you wish to make love to me?

I love you always and forever
My King and Savior Jesus Christ of Nazareth
I know you will help me to learn how to love more deeply

For you are such a faithful, patient, forgiving, loving,
And perfect bridegroom!
All honor and power and might and glory
And strength and majesty belongs to you
Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth

For you are Lord of Lords and King of Kings
You are Lord of heaven and Lord of earth
You are Lord of the new heaven and Lord of the new earth

And I belong to you
My Lord and Savior
My King and Restorer
Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth

Tho we be like strands of nettle, each with his own drop of particular poison, tho over the years we have tangled now and then like tomcats in the alley....

Be it not the beauty and allure of this gathering of writers to appreciate and admire the difference found within?

T'were it not for the likes of Francis this site would lack bite, would lack spice and would lose much of its' erstwhile attraction.

So wherefore art thou Frank?
I miss your stuff. I miss your sharp tongue...
I miss your intellect and repartee!

Wherefore art thou Francis?
M.

Francis Bacon was a pig
He grew to be very big
And when he reached his maximum
The man from the butcher's then did come,
And hit him very ******* the head
And Francis Bacon was then dead.
The man then proceeded to
Chop him up, first into two,
Then he merrily carried on
Till what had been Francis was all gone.
He was now like a meaty jigsaw puzzle
From his tail to his snouty snuzzle,
Ham, pork and bacon he'd become
Joints,and chops, and also some,
Big pork sausages hung in loops,
And his bones were boiled to make soups,
Then the bones were sent off to,
A factory where they made glue,
So if a moral to this tale you seek -
"You can eat all of a pig except its squeak."

Tom Higgins 15/05/2015

heiress to the strange castle,
Francis ascended the high stone stair;
her ancestors had lived here from the beginning of
the country's history;
her family was older,
its history vivid in the dark of time
to those descendents
who were Francis' immediate family
all fallen to old age & death
except she youngest of the brood;
inheriting Frankenstein's Castle
the first place she went was to her
ancestor's laboratory,
long disused, old fashioned
& out of date, but flipping the
high-voltage switch bringing
the whole place to light & life as the thing
moved on the table & rose;
the doctor's last project
before being driven mad in the arctic sea,  
the woman, who upon seeing young Francis
falls madly in love; Francis
seeing the gleam in the monster's
eye takes the time to get to
know her body & the monster likewise
got to know hers;
two beauties came out of the gray castle
looking like a pair of princesses
in the sun broken through the permanent clouds

There will be a many reasons why, he is really suited to be a good leader to his views on church reform, poverty, climate change and divorce that had shaken up the world opinion. A leader who is an influencer to other people like just Pope Francis that he want a real leader does not shy away from crisis and debate, but embraces them as part of finding a solution.

As a follower of Pope Francis, I really admire his characteristics that he is reaching out to non-customers or non Catholic. That is why Francis makes sure to reach out to non-Catholics as well, for instance by declaring that God has redeemed all of us, not just Catholics. He embraces the risk he did like when he was young, he became very ill, and the nun who tended him disobeyed the doctor's instructions and tripled his dose of antibiotics, because she knew from experience that without that higher dose he would die. We can't be an effective leader if you're always playing it safe. Last is to listen in diverse voices. He is listening to his cardinals all over the world they consult with him to help him make decisions. He wants to get other people's opinions that he can gather ideas about their own experience.

That is why I choose the Pope Francis a good leader for me because I am a religious person and a follower to our dear Pope. To help all the people in need of guidance of God and a world needs leaders who are just compassionate and merciful.

May I join you in the doghouse, Rover?
I wish to retire till the party's over.
Since three o'clock I've done my best
To entertain each tiny guest. My conscience now I've left behind me,
And if they want me, let them find me.
I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats,
I kept them from each other's throats. I told them tales of magic lands,
I took them out to wash their hands.
I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces,
I wiped their noses and dried their faces. Of similarities there's lots
Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots.
I've earned repose to heal the ravages
Of these angelic-looking savages. Oh, progeny playing by itself
Is a lonely little elf,
But progeny in roistering batches
Would drive St. francis from here to Natchez. Shunned are the games a parent proposes,
They prefer to squirt each other with hoses,
Their playmates are their natural foemen
And they like to poke each other's abdomen. Their joy needs another woe's to cushion it,
Say a puddle, and someone littler to push in it.
They observe with glee the ballistic results
Of ice cream with spoons for catapults, And inform the assembly with tears and glares
That everyone's presents are better than theirs.
Oh, little women and little men,
Someday I hope to love you again, But not till after the party's over,
So give me the key to the doghouse, Rover

Francis sits down at the bench and begins his meal.
The other monks eat without thought other than
What the reading monk on his high stool reads out.
Some book on Cromwell, halfway through, the reader’s
Tone dry and at an even pace. Francis reflects on the
Preparation of the meal. The gathering of vegetables
From the garden, the preparing of the meat, the soup,
The dessert and all with little help save what Brother
Benedict brought with time and skill. Francis studies
Each monk in turn, his eyes sweeping the refectory,
The way this one holds his fork, that one shovels in
Without thought or care, another picking through his
Meal like some old hobo through a garbage heap.
The reader pauses to sip water. The sound of cutlery
On plates, the birds outside the tall windows of the
Refectory in song, the odd slurp or cough, a sneeze.
The reader reads on, Cromwell brought to life, his
Deeds both good and bad, high and low. Francis brings
His spoon to his lips, sips the soup, thick and dark.
One of the young monks pushing round the trolley
With meals for the next course, stops and stares at
The crucifix on the wall above the abbot’s head,
Thinks on the Last Supper with the sipping of blood
And wine and the breaking of both body and bread.

Dear Bri,

I've put this letter off the longest
Because it doesn't come from anger
And although it may resemble it
It does not come from regret either
This letter just comes from my soul
From me
From a place I can finally trust

This letter differs from the rest
Because I want it to be a mix
Between explanation and closure
And the others I didn't want them to read
But part of me hopes you do see this
I just finally think I understand
Why I had to leave

First of all
I never used you
Not one time
You learned that I'm fiercely independent
And I hope you know it was never
Ever
Ever
About money for me
Or about your home town
Or your fathers property
No that relationship was about love
I loved you

See, the thing about love
The thing I didn't know about
Was that it changes over time
There are not always sparks
Even so, those fade eventually
And from there you must create deeper ties
Connect to one another on a new level
That is the point at which I failed

I know you hated how
I always explained my behavior by my past
And for that I am not sorry
What I am sorry for is the fact that
I did not step up
I did not know how to grow with life
How to let go of the pain
How to move forward
Instead I hid the pain behind drugs
Legal and prescribed
And behind other people's affection
I pushed away the pain
Because it hurt way too much
I was not ready to face it
I had no idea how to do that
And by not accepting my real feelings
I not only blunted the unhelpful ones
But the pleasant ones as well

By not dealing with my past
By not allowing myself to heal
I could not have allowed myself
To love you

It's been over a week since
I wrote the first half of this
It's hard to find the right words
It's hard to open my heart
On something so sensitive
As a love that I ended prematurely
I want to let you go though
We both deserve to be happy again
And I am, most days
But I need to acknowledge my heart
Allow myself to be sad one last time
I want to be entirely honest with you

You've been the hardest person
For me to let go of recently
Now that you live in town again
I think about you a lot
When I'm driving through campus
Past the engineering building
When I'm walking back to my car
Memories constantly surface of us
Like when you left that phone number
On the windshield of my car
And it was to some Pizza Hut in DC
Or driving through the town where we lived
Surrounded by white snow
Singing different parts to Pentatonix
Or when we spent Christmas with your family
And we connected through the calm of a place
So far from the city
As we chopped down a tree and
Played video games under warm blankets
Or even when we sat on the edge of a cliff in St. Francis
And I told you I felt nothing when we kissed
So so many memories
Of love
Of pain
Of a connection
Of my best friend

And it's not that I want to be together again
We are very different people and
I really am happy again
And I don't want to make you sad
Or make you feel anything bad
Because no matter what I care about you
I just need to reprocess everything
With the recognition that
That relationship would have lasted
If, back then,
I were the person I am now

See,
We may have been entirely different
And we definitely had our issues
But you were right when you said
That I couldn't commit
Because I couldn't commit to myself either

I couldn't love myself
I couldn't believe in myself
I couldn't process the trauma
I had no idea how to
I didn't know what to do
I felt only pain all of the time
Underneath everything else
I always had a sadness hanging onto me
I was emotionally unavailable
I didn't know how to love
I didn't know what love meant
Because I never loved myself
And I don't believe that line
That you can't love someone else
Until you love yourself first
But it sure makes it easier

Back then,
I didn't trust myself
So I let everyone else lead my life
I never questioned the path either
I just accepted life as it was
Because I didn't believe that I could change it
Which leaked into our relationship
Because if there was something I needed
Or something I was unhappy with
I could have tried to talk about it
I made the choice not to

I used to self-sabotage a lot
Before I realized that I didn't have to
I could feel those urges anytime
But that did not mean I had to carry them out
I lived entirely by my emotions at that time
When I was sad, nothing could be positive
When I was angry, I had to let it out
I did not even consider that
My actions and my emotions
Are two entirely different things

I have grown so much since then
I'd like to hope you'd be proud
Because despite anything I've said or done
I still care about how you feel
And how you see me
I'm always tempted to check your writing
But now I can distinguish between
My helpful and unhelpful urges
So I do not allow myself to try
You deserve your privacy
And I deserve to not let these residual feelings
Interfere with my life now

I just want you to know that
I messed up when I hurt you
I made a choice for us both
Instead of sitting down together
To talk and figure out how we both felt
I don't think I could have figured myself out
If I hadn't left when I did

Because since then
I went through a toxic relationship
That empowered me almost as much as it broke me
And I hurt some people along the way too
I thought I loved people I really didn't
I did acid and developed positive habits as a result
I actually take care of myself now
And most of the time I like myself
Often I even love myself
I stopped doing drugs
I finally trust myself and
I listened to myself for once
And I'm changing my career path now
I learned to be mindful of my feelings
And to not take them out on those I love
I learned what love means
I developed more compassion
I learned to be assertive
And entirely honest and real
I learned who I am

And now I'm here
An entirely different person
Writing a final letter to you
A person who I loved
Who's also entirely different now
But someone who could have been my forever
Once upon a time

But I'd like to believe in fate
And trust that all of this
Is exactly what needed to happen
For both of us to grow into ourselves
And I can't speak for you
But you will always be in my heart
Thank you for the years we spent together
Thank you for teaching me that life isn't all bad
Thank you for being there for me
For being patient and kind and for loving me
Thank you for being you
I truly hope that you find happiness
I wish you peace and love
And everything good
And I wish the same for me

1975 Art Institute is tactic for Odysseus to put off dealing with real world also investigate range of visual techniques gay instructor fruitlessly endeavors to ****** him he enjoys several affairs with beautiful girls yet Bayli haunts him main building of school is connected behind Art Institute of Chicago Odysseus spends lots of time looking at paintings Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks” Gustave Caillebotte’s “Paris Street Rainy Day” Ivan Albright’s “Portrait of Dorian Gray” Jackson *******’s “Greyed Rainbow” Georgia O’Keeffe’s “Black Cross New Mexico” Francis Bacon’s “Figure with Meat” Pablo Picasso’s “The Old Guitarist” Balthus’s “Solitaire” Claude Monet’s “Stacks of Wheat” Paul Cezanne’s “The Bathers” Vincent Van Gogh’s “Self-Portrait” Edouard Manet’s “The Mocking of Christ” Henri Toulouse-Lautrec’s “At the Moulin Rouge” Robert Rauschenberg’s “Photograph” Mary Cassatt’s “The Child’s Bath” Peter Blume’s “The Rock” Ed Paschke’s “Mid America” Grant Wood’s “American Gothic” Jasper John’s “Near the Lagoon” and John Singer Sargent James McNeill Whistler Diego Rivera Marsden Hartley Thomas Eakins Winslow Homer his 2nd year at Art Institute involves student teaching during day then at night working as waiter at Ivanhoe Restaurant and Theater gay managers teach him to make Caesar salad tableside and other flamboyant tasks wait staff are all gay men once more Odysseus experiences bias from homosexual regime he is assigned restaurant’s slowest sections it bothers him the way some gay men venomously condescend women and their bodies Odysseus loves women especially their bodies he thinks about how much easier his life would be if he was gay in 1976 the art world is managed by gay curators gay art dealers he wonders if he could be gay yet not realize it can a person be gay but not attracted to one’s own ***? Ivanhoe hires variety of night club acts one night he watches Tom Waits perform on piano in lounge Odysseus feels inspired in 1977 he graduates with teacher’s certification he considers all the sacrifices teachers make and humiliating salaries they put up with he does not want to teach candidly he feels he has nothing yet to teach teaching degree was Mom’s idea Odysseus wants to learn grow paint after Art Institute he flip-flops between styles his artwork suffers from too much schooling and scholastic practice it takes years to find his own voice he has tendency to be self-effacing put himself down often he will declare what do i know? i’m just a stupid painter one topic artists do not like talking about is their failures how much money they cost creation requires resource paint and canvas can be expensive how much money is spent on harebrained ideas that never pan out? most artists resort to cheap or used materials few can afford their dreams he gets job selling encyclopedias that job lasts about 5 weeks then he finds job selling posters at framing store on Broadway between Barry and Wellington Salvador Dali Escher Claude Monet prints are the rage his manager accuse him of lacking initiative being spacey after several months he gets laid off he finds job waiting tables during lunch shift at busy downtown restaurant other waiters are mostly old men from Europe they play cards with each other in between shifts teach Odysseus how to carry 6 hot plates on one arm and 2 in his other hand the job is hectic but money is good experience educates differently than books and college a university degree cannot teach what working in the real world confronts people learn most when they are nobodies he reads Sartre’s “Being And Nothingness” he wants to discover who he is by finding out who he is not often he rides bicycle along lakefront taking different routes sometimes following behind an anonymous bicyclist possibly to come across new way he does not know or to marvel at another person’s interest

truth is this life is too difficult for me the violence hatred turf wars tribalism laws judgments practices rules permits history i’m not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world i’m sorry am i repeating myself i apologize i’m not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world god please protect teach me strength courage fairness compassion wisdom love i’m not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world

buy divinity purchase devotion earn reward points own 4 bedroom loft with roof garden deck porch pool parking in paradise’s gated community pay for exclusive membership into sainthood become part of inner circle influence determine fate destiny of everything step up to the plate sign on the line immortalize yourself feel the privileges of eternal holiness i’m living inside a nightmare inside a nightmare inside a nightmare hello? i am dizzy in my own self-deceptions lost in my own self-deceptions alone in my own self-deceptions there was a time once but that time is gone there was a place once but that place has vanished there was a life once but that life is spent remember when things were different truth is i’m weak skittish anxious alienated paranoid scared to death pagan idiot stop

breath deeply push stale air out imagine kinder more respectful loving world please god do your stuff angels throw your weight around clean up this mess planets align stars shine ancient spirits raise your voices magic work there are words when spoken can change everything words rooted to spiritual nerves if voiced in  particular order secret passwords capable of setting off persuasions in the mind threads to the heart if a person can figure out which words what order tone of voice rate of pronunciation time of day then that person can summon powers of the supernatural Isis goddess of celestial sway of words whisper secret earth water fire air reveal your alchemy winter spring summer autumn teach about passages patterns sublime eastern western sun fickle moody moon unveil your heavenly equation north south east west  beat the drums blow winds show the path to healing path of the heart blood dirt hair *** bare the mystery of your trance dance the ghost dance sacred woman with ovaries cycles flow smell beautiful girl eyes sweetness strange awkward skinny scruffy boy great bear spirit bird jumping fish wise turtle where are you why is there no one to back me? jean paul sartre what was your last thought before you died? was it nausea? nothingness? or a wish?

Late, my grandson! half the morning have I paced these sandy tracts,
Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring into cataracts,

Wander'd back to living boyhood while I heard the curlews call,
I myself so close on death, and death itself in Locksley Hall.

So--your happy suit was blasted--she the faultless, the divine;
And you liken--boyish babble--this boy-love of yours with mine.

I myself have often babbled doubtless of a foolish past;
Babble, babble; our old England may go down in babble at last.

'Curse him!' curse your fellow-victim? call him dotard in your rage?
Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well might fool a dotard's age.

Jilted for a wealthier! wealthier? yet perhaps she was not wise;
I remember how you kiss'd the miniature with those sweet eyes.

In the hall there hangs a painting--Amy's arms about my neck--
Happy children in a sunbeam sitting on the ribs of wreck.

In my life there was a picture, she that clasp'd my neck had flown;
I was left within the shadow sitting on the wreck alone.

Yours has been a slighter ailment, will you sicken for her sake?
You, not you! your modern amourist is of easier, earthlier make.

Amy loved me, Amy fail'd me, Amy was a timid child;
But your Judith--but your worldling--she had never driven me wild.

She that holds the diamond necklace dearer than the golden ring,
She that finds a winter sunset fairer than a morn of Spring.

She that in her heart is brooding on his briefer lease of life,
While she vows 'till death shall part us,' she the would-be-widow wife.

She the worldling born of worldlings--father, mother--be content,
Ev'n the homely farm can teach us there is something in descent.

Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground,
Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon the hound.

Cross'd! for once he sail'd the sea to crush the Moslem in his pride;
Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died.

Yet how often I and Amy in the mouldering aisle have stood,
Gazing for one pensive moment on that founder of our blood.

There again I stood to-day, and where of old we knelt in prayer,
Close beneath the casement crimson with the shield of Locksley--there,

All in white Italian marble, looking still as if she smiled,
Lies my Amy dead in child-birth, dead the mother, dead the child.

Dead--and sixty years ago, and dead her aged husband now--
I this old white-headed dreamer stoopt and kiss'd her marble brow.

Gone the fires of youth, the follies, furies, curses, passionate tears,
Gone like fires and floods and earthquakes of the planet's dawning years.

Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes fall'n away.
Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day.

Gone the tyrant of my youth, and mute below the chancel stones,
All his virtues--I forgive them--black in white above his bones.

Gone the comrades of my bivouac, some in fight against the foe,
Some thro' age and slow diseases, gone as all on earth will go.

Gone with whom for forty years my life in golden sequence ran,
She with all the charm of woman, she with all the breadth of man,

Strong in will and rich in wisdom, Edith, yet so lowly-sweet,
Woman to her inmost heart, and woman to her tender feet,

Very woman of very woman, nurse of ailing body and mind,
She that link'd again the broken chain that bound me to my kind.

Here to-day was Amy with me, while I wander'd down the coast,
Near us Edith's holy shadow, smiling at the slighter ghost.

Gone our sailor son thy father, Leonard early lost at sea;
Thou alone, my boy, of Amy's kin and mine art left to me.

Gone thy tender-natured mother, wearying to be left alone,
Pining for the stronger heart that once had beat beside her own.

Truth, for Truth is Truth, he worshipt, being true as he was brave;
Good, for Good is Good, he follow'd, yet he look'd beyond the grave,

Wiser there than you, that crowning barren Death as lord of all,
Deem this over-tragic drama's closing curtain is the pall!

Beautiful was death in him, who saw the death, but kept the deck,
Saving women and their babes, and sinking with the sinking wreck,

Gone for ever! Ever? no--for since our dying race began,
Ever, ever, and for ever was the leading light of man.

Those that in barbarian burials ****'d the slave, and slew the wife,
Felt within themselves the sacred passion of the second life.

Indian warriors dream of ampler hunting grounds beyond the night;
Ev'n the black Australian dying hopes he shall return, a white.

Truth for truth, and good for good! The Good, the True, the Pure, the Just--
Take the charm 'For ever' from them, and they crumble into dust.

Gone the cry of 'Forward, Forward,' lost within a growing gloom;
Lost, or only heard in silence from the silence of a tomb.

Half the marvels of my morning, triumphs over time and space,
Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into commonest commonplace!

'Forward' rang the voices then, and of the many mine was one.
Let us hush this cry of 'Forward' till ten thousand years have gone.

Far among the vanish'd races, old Assyrian kings would flay
Captives whom they caught in battle--iron-hearted victors they.

Ages after, while in Asia, he that led the wild Moguls,
Timur built his ghastly tower of eighty thousand human skulls,

Then, and here in Edward's time, an age of noblest English names,
Christian conquerors took and flung the conquer'd Christian into flames.

Love your enemy, bless your haters, said the Greatest of the great;
Christian love among the Churches look'd the twin of heathen hate.

From the golden alms of Blessing man had coin'd himself a curse:
Rome of Caesar, Rome of Peter, which was crueller? which was worse?

France had shown a light to all men, preach'd a Gospel, all men's good;
Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood.

Hope was ever on her mountain, watching till the day begun--
Crown'd with sunlight--over darkness--from the still unrisen sun.

Have we grown at last beyond the passions of the primal clan?
'**** your enemy, for you hate him,' still, 'your enemy' was a man.

Have we sunk below them? peasants maim the helpless horse, and drive
Innocent cattle under thatch, and burn the kindlier brutes alive.

Brutes, the brutes are not your wrongers--burnt at midnight, found at morn,
Twisted hard in mortal agony with their offspring, born-unborn,

Clinging to the silent mother! Are we devils? are we men?
Sweet St. Francis of Assisi, would that he were here again,

He that in his Catholic wholeness used to call the very flowers
Sisters, brothers--and the beasts--whose pains are hardly less than ours!

Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! who can tell how all will end?
Read the wide world's annals, you, and take their wisdom for your friend.

Hope the best, but hold the Present fatal daughter of the Past,
Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hour will last.

Ay, if dynamite and revolver leave you courage to be wise:
When was age so cramm'd with menace? madness? written, spoken lies?

Envy wears the mask of Love, and, laughing sober fact to scorn,
Cries to Weakest as to Strongest, 'Ye are equals, equal-born.'

Equal-born? O yes, if yonder hill be level with the flat.
Charm us, Orator, till the Lion look no larger than the Cat,

Till the Cat thro' that mirage of overheated language loom
Larger than the Lion,--Demos end in working its own doom.

Russia bursts our Indian barrier, shall we fight her? shall we yield?
Pause! before you sound the trumpet, hear the voices from the field.

Those three hundred millions under one Imperial sceptre now,
Shall we hold them? shall we loose them? take the suffrage of the plow.

Nay, but these would feel and follow Truth if only you and you,
Rivals of realm-ruining party, when you speak were wholly true.

Plowmen, Shepherds, have I found, and more than once, and still could find,
Sons of God, and kings of men in utter nobleness of mind,

Truthful, trustful, looking upward to the practised hustings-liar;
So the Higher wields the Lower, while the Lower is the Higher.

Here and there a cotter's babe is royal-born by right divine;
Here and there my lord is lower than his oxen or his swine.

Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! once again the sickening game;
Freedom, free to slay herself, and dying while they shout her name.

Step by step we gain'd a freedom known to Europe, known to all;
Step by step we rose to greatness,--thro' the tonguesters we may fall.

You that woo the Voices--tell them 'old experience is a fool,'
Teach your flatter'd kings that only those who cannot read can rule.

Pluck the mighty from their seat, but set no meek ones in their place;
Pillory Wisdom in your markets, pelt your offal at her face.

Tumble Nature heel o'er head, and, yelling with the yelling street,
Set the feet above the brain and swear the brain is in the feet.

Bring the old dark ages back without the faith, without the hope,
Break the State, the Church, the Throne, and roll their ruins down the *****.

Authors--essayist, atheist, novelist, realist, rhymester, play your part,
Paint the mortal shame of nature with the living hues of Art.

Rip your brothers' vices open, strip your own foul passions bare;
Down with Reticence, down with Reverence--forward--naked--let them stare.

Feed the budding rose of boyhood with the drainage of your sewer;
Send the drain into the fountain, lest the stream should issue pure.

Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs of Zolaism,--
Forward, forward, ay and backward, downward too into the abysm.

Do your best to charm the worst, to lower the rising race of men;
Have we risen from out the beast, then back into the beast again?

Only 'dust to dust' for me that sicken at your lawless din,
Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the newer world begin.

Heated am I? you--you wonder--well, it scarce becomes mine age--
Patience! let the dying actor mouth his last upon the stage.

Cries of unprogressive dotage ere the dotard fall asleep?
Noises of a current narrowing, not the music of a deep?

Ay, for doubtless I am old, and think gray thoughts, for I am gray:
After all the stormy changes shall we find a changeless May?

After madness, after massacre, Jacobinism and Jacquerie,
Some diviner force to guide us thro' the days I shall not see?

When the schemes and all the systems, Kingdoms and Republics fall,
Something kindlier, higher, holier--all for each and each for all?

All the full-brain, half-brain races, led by Justice, Love, and Truth;
All the millions one at length with all the visions of my youth?

All diseases quench'd by Science, no man halt, or deaf or blind;
Stronger ever born of weaker, lustier body, larger mind?

Earth at last a warless world, a single race, a single tongue--
I have seen her far away--for is not Earth as yet so young?--

Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent passion ****'d,
Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert till'd,

Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she smiles,
Universal ocean softly washing all her warless Isles.

Warless? when her tens are thousands, and her thousands millions, then--
All her harvest all too narrow--who can fancy warless men?

Warless? war will die out late then. Will it ever? late or soon?
Can it, till this outworn earth be dead as yon dead world the moon?

Dead the new astronomy calls her. . . . On this day and at this hour,
In this gap between the sandhills, whence you see the Locksley tower,

Here we met, our latest meeting--Amy--sixty years ago--
She and I--the moon was falling greenish thro' a rosy glow,

Just above the gateway tower, and even where you see her now--
Here we stood and claspt each other, swore the seeming-deathless vow. . . .

Dead, but how her living glory lights the hall, the dune, the grass!
Yet the moonlight is the sunlight, and the sun himself will pass.

Venus near her! smiling downward at this earthlier earth of ours,
Closer on the Sun, perhaps a world of never fading flowers.

Hesper, whom the poet call'd the Bringer home of all good things.
All good things may move in Hesper, perfect peoples, perfect kings.

Hesper--Venus--were we native to that splendour or in Mars,
We should see the Globe we groan in, fairest of their evening stars.

Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and madness, lust and spite,
Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of peaceful light?

Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star so silver-fair,
Yearn, and clasp the hands and murmur, 'Would to God that we were there'?

Forward, backward, backward, forward, in the immeasurable sea,
Sway'd by vaster ebbs and flows than can be known to you or me.

All the suns--are these but symbols of innumerable man,
Man or Mind that sees a shadow of the planner or the plan?

Is there evil but on earth? or pain in every peopled sphere?
Well be grateful for the sounding watchword, 'Evolution' here,

Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good,
And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the mud.

What are men that He should heed us? cried the king of sacred song;
Insects of an hour, that hourly work their brother insect wrong,

While the silent Heavens roll, and Suns along their fiery way,
All their planets whirling round them, flash a million miles a day.

Many an aeon moulded earth before her highest, man, was born,
Many an aeon too may pass when earth is manless and forlorn,

Earth so huge, and yet so bounded--pools of salt, and plots of land--
Shallow skin of green and azure--chains of mountain, grains of sand!

Only That which made us, meant us to be mightier by and by,
Set the sphere of all the boundless Heavens within the human eye,

Sent the shadow of Himself, the boundless, thro' the human soul;
Boundless inward, in the atom, boundless outward, in the Whole.

                                                *

Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion-guarded gate.
Not to-night in Locksley Hall--to-morrow--you, you come so late.

Wreck'd--your train--or all but wreck'd? a shatter'd wheel? a vicious boy!
Good, this forward, you that preach it, is it well to wish you joy?

Is it well that while we range with Science, glorying in the Time,
City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime?

There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet,
Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street.

There the Master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread,
There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead.

There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor,
And the crowded couch of ****** in the warrens of the poor.

Nay, your pardon, cry your 'forward,' yours are hope and youth, but I--
Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to follow with the cry,

Lame and old, and past his time, and passing now into the night;
Yet I would the rising race were half as eager for the light.

Light the fading gleam of Even? light the glimmer of the dawn?
Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for the gleam withdrawn.

Far away beyond her myriad coming changes earth will be
Something other than the wildest modern guess of you and me.

Earth may reach her earthly-worst, or if she gain her earthly-best,
Would she find her human offspring this ideal man at rest?

Forward then, but still remember how the course of Time will swerve,
Crook and turn upon itself in many a backward streaming curve.

Not the Hall to-night, my grandson! Death and Silence hold their own.
Leave the Master in the first dark hour of his last sleep alone.

Worthier soul was he than I am, sound and honest, rustic Squire,
Kindly landlord, boon companion--youthful jealousy is a liar.

Cast the poison from your *****, oust the madness from your brain.
Let the trampled serpent show you that you have not lived in vain.

Youthful! youth and age are scholars yet but in the lower school,
Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.

Yonder lies our young sea-village--Art and Grace are less and less:
Science grows and Beauty dwindles--roofs of slated hideousness!

There is one old Hostel left us where they swing the Locksley shield,
Till the peasant cow shall **** the 'Lion passant' from his field.

Poo

No we're not learning about inventors.
No we're not learning about scientists.
If we were, that would be great,
But we're not,
Instead we're learning about lying thieves,
And overrated ones at that.
We should be learning about real inventors,
That didn't steal ideas from others,
And were lucky enough not to have ideas stolen from them,
Like George Westinghouse.
We should be learning about real inventors,
And real scientists,
That sadly went unrecognized,
Because their ideas were stolen,
By so called inventors,
That were in reality total jerks,
Like Nikola Tesla,
And Rosalind Franklin.
However, instead of learning about true inventors like them,
We're learning about the likes of Thomas Edison,
Guglielmo Marconi,
James Watson,
And Francis Crick.
Here's a "fun fact" about Thomas Edison,
He promised Nikola Tesla 50 grand,
In exchange for fixing his machines.
However, when Nikola Tesla was finished,
Several months later,
He not only didn't pay Tesla,
He mocked him for asking,
He said that he was joking,
And according to some, he was offered a raise of 10 dollars
According to others, he asked for a raise, and was denied it,
Either way, Tesla quit.
Here's a "fun fact" about Guglielmo Marconi,
He didn't invent the radio,
Nikola Tesla did.
However, Marconi pulled an Edison,
And stole Tesla's invention from him.
Luckily, although sadly too late,
Tesla was rewarded the patent.
Here's a "fun fact" about James Watson and Francis Crick,
They took credit for Franklin's discovery.
Why do we have to sit in social studies,
Listening to Youtube videos,
And reading books,
And doing plays,
That people created for school kids,
About so called inventors.
When instead,
We could be reading books,
Listening to Youtube videos,
And doing plays,
That we created ourselves,
About real inventors.
I want to get a real education.
I want to learn about the truth,
Instead of lies.
So please teachers,
Principals,
Superintendents,
Common Core Professionals,
State Test Professionals,
Please let us learn about the truth,
Please don't make us learn about lies.

you know how the song goes:
a stitch away from making it
and a scar away from falling apart.
holding on gets hard when
the light at the end of the tunnel
goes dark.

my friend told me he doesn’t purposely
befriend actively suicidal people anymore.
so when a 14-year old friend
was hospitalized for an attempt,
he was shocked.
I’m not fourteen
and i don’t go to the hospital for anything,
but when i was fifteen i
asked my mom to start taking me to therapy.
she told me,
sweetie,
you can just talk to me about anything.
so i started writing poetry instead.
but poems can’t diagnose me,
poems can’t prescribe me meds to
fix the chemical catastrophe in my head
poems can’t cure me.
but neither can people.

there was a boy that i used to call sunshine,
but he told me that he would
rather be the moon.

i deleted your number from my contacts
once you stopped using mine.
you don’t keep me up at night.
i’ve stopped losing sleep over you.

i haven’t broken the habit of checking
people’s wrists when they move
because of all the girls i knew in grade school.
i have a friend with the first letter of help
permanently scarred on his stomach.
we’ve never talked about it.
i don’t know if either of us know how to,
or if either of us really want to,
or if either of us really need to.

when my brother was 18, he was convinced
that he wanted to go into psychiatry.
i think the closest we’ve ever been
was when i had a mental break over
orange juice at one thirty in the morning,
watching him play GTA on his Xbox 360.
when my brother was 17, he was convinced
that his future was in professional photography.
i’m 17 and i don’t have a ******* clue.
I’m 17 and i don’t think I’ve ever felt so much
like I’m just constantly drowning.

they say a captain goes down with his ship
and I’ve set myself up for losing all my friends.

she’s got year-round summer skin
and winter has never been my friend.

i sleep seven hours a night
and i wake up exhausted.

my cat has all his claws
and when he crashes through my bedroom
when i’m on the brink of extinction
it leaves me haunted, hearing
breathing and footsteps that aren’t really there.
so i’ll put studs in all my jackets
and wrap myself in blankets.

i wish you were here,
i wish i was there.

the first rated R movie
that i saw when i turned 17
was that one that brought back ryan reynolds,
starring a moody teen with
the best superhero name ever,
a CGI man who acted as her mentor,
a pretty girl like a damsel in distress,
and the bad guy called himself ajax
but his real name was francis.
i cried
a lot.
i’m not sure why, really, but when the credits
started rolling and it was everything that i’d
been waiting for in a movie for the anti-hero
that I’ve been in love with since i was 13,
i sat in those velvet seats and started sobbing.

when i was six, my dad took my
9 year old brother and i
to see ‘revenge of the sith’ when it came out
in 2005.
the scene on mustafar, the volcanic planet,
the downfall of anakin skywalker
stuck with me until i was 12 and rewatched
all six of those old movies,
stuck with me until i was 16 and rewatched
all six of those old movies.
when i was a kid those scenes were scary,
now i see a mimic of Shakespearean tragedy.

i pick things apart until i know that they’ll scar,
but scars have always faded for me.
the first mark that ever lasted for
more than a month was when i
burned myself getting a cake out of the oven.
i remember my brother telling me
that he wouldn’t care about the burn
if i ******* up the cake.
we laughed about it because it was a joke.
i still think about it.

i still check to see if you
watch my Snapchat story.

i rip the hems out of all of my clothing
compulsively. I’m sorry.
i’ll pick up all the balled-up threads from
the carpet eventually.

i keep ticket stubs and scraps of notes
hazardously strewn across my bedroom,
because i’m too sentimental for my own good
but organization has never come naturally.

solar systems are borne from my fingertips.
supernovas power my lungs.
stardust glitters in my veins
(i tell myself these things in order to
keep thinking straight)

hey, look at the moon.
see how she reflects the sun for you?
it’s because she’s got nothing
of her own to give away willingly.
i gave you everything willingly
i spent too many nights
shredding notebook paper into pieces
of white birthday party confetti.

i swallowed six painkillers today.
I’m passive like aggressive,
letting my liver slip into uselessness.

it’s really hard to write poetry about bruises.

On a night, eight years ago,
a woman's health, the British leader
and most of them in South America,
Earth and earth, space, sun and perfect love,
changed his wife, emperor of English.
"The Best Moon" - Jari MI - Its roots
are open today, strong oil. Although I look,
I thought: I like role, work, glass, clothes,
women, women and girls, games, ropes
and windows of Russell. My son, I feel
that insulin exploration, walking along
the coast and after a catastrophe, Jellyfish
is a shaman, a bruit, a born demon. There
was a mother who was sick in hospital:
Hit Williams in English, English, French,
French and Williams Williams
in Spanish
England and England, Tom and the
Id Casino: because they were inside
to the east
One night, eight years ago, women's health,
British leaders, and South American majority,
Earth and Earth, the universe, the sun
and perfect love changed his wife to a British consort.
"Best Moon" - MI Fingernail - Very strong tree now.
I watch, but I like Russell's roles, work, glasses,
clothes, women, women and children, games,
ropes and windows. My son, I was on the coast,
and after the accident, I think insulin exploration
is a shaman, a wine, a demon born. The mothers
who came to the hospital were British,
British and British English, French, French,
Williams Williams, and Williams were Tom
and Hawa Kosino. To the east one night
eight years ago, women's health, British leaders,
and the majority of South America,
Earth and earth, universe, sun and perfect love,
change, wife, British wife. "Best Moon" - MI Fingernell -
now a very strong tree. I watch,
but I like Russell's characters, work, glasses, clothes,
women, women and children, games, ropes,
and windows. My son, I'm on the coast
and after the accident, I think the insulin exploration
is Shamanic, wine, and demonic.
The mothers who came to the hospital
were British, British and British English,
French, French, Williams Williams,
and Williams Tom and Havas Casino. To the east

One night, eight years ago, the health of women,
British leaders and South Americans; Earth and Earth,
World, Sun and Love, Change, Woman,
British Consortium. "The Best Moon" - MI Fingernail -
Very Strong Wood. I watch, but I like Russell's roles,
work, glasses, clothes, women, children and women,
games, ropes and windows. My son, I was on the shore
and the insulin exploration after the accident
is a shaman,
wines born of the demons. British, British
and British English, French, French, Williams
Williams and Williams Tom and Hwa Cosino
arrived at the hospital. On Easter Day, eight years ago,
women's health, British leaders
and the majority of South America;
Earth and earth, World, sun and love,
change, female, British woman. "The Best Moon" -
MI Fingernell - is now a very strong tree.
I watch, but I like Russell's characters,
work, glasses, clothes, women, children
and women, games, ropes and windows.
My son, on the shore and after the accident,
the insulin exploration, Shamanism,
wine and ***. The British, British
and British English, French, French,
Williams Williams and Williams T
homas and Hawas Casino arrived
at the hospital. In the East; One night,
eight years ago, the health of women leaders,
British and South American, Earth and Earth,
The World, Sun and Love, Change, Women,
United Kingdom. The "best moon" -
MI fingers - very wood. I watch,
but I like the roles of Russell, work, glasses,
clothes, women, children and women,
ropes and windows. My son, on the shore
and the insulator, after the accident
was a chocolate-derived alcoholic.
English, English, and English, English,
French, Williams, Williams, William,
Tommy and Hakanco Sino have come to the hospital.
In the eighth year, the health of women,
British leaders, and most of South America.
Earth and Earth, the sun, and love, *** change,
"The Best Lunar" -Mi F. Neilhel -
Now is a very great tree. I watch,
but I like dressmakers, work, glasses, clothes,
women, children and women, belts and windows.
My son was on the riverbank and,
after this accident, the insulin research
'was immune to alcohol and ***.
England, England, England and England,
France, France, William William William,
Thomas Thomas and the *****
from the Casino
arrived at the hospital. In the east

While this is going on, it happened, the salvation of the English,
after eight years, Africa, and South America, Earth
and all land in the world, and I love the Women in the United States.
"It's good" for peace, NY 1000 - the most exciting. To me, the work
of his clothes, and the women and the little children, and yet I see
the women beholden to the cords of Philosophy's window.
Came to pass after my son, alcohol as the rock, and having lost his
'prescription'. English, English, English, English, Spanish,
Williams, Williams, William Francis and Hakan Koshino hospital.
Within eight years, women, healthy,
and the leaders of Great Britain Southwest.
The world, the earth, the sun, love and ***,
"Sunday Best" - P. Nilhilo - and it was great fun.
I see, too, and robed in the garments of the goods:
but the house of the women, to the girl,
and the women, of their outlook. After
crossing river child is not an enforcement agency,
and *** marriages. England, Britain, Spain,
translated Johannes Julius William, Thomas,
Thomas & Hose Good were taken to the hospital.
The east side;but we see women who look
at the philosophical background. However, this happens -
the rescue of English-Afrikaans and South American years.
There are countries and countries in the world,
and I have women in the United States. "OK",
Peace, New York 1000 - the most exciting.
For me, my clothes, baby, and teenagers
work to find women who see philosophy.
He disappeared after the dogfish and his "definition".
English, English, English, English, Spanish, Williams,
Williams, William Francis and Hakan Koshino.
Eight years later, women in the south are healthy.
World, earth, sun, love and unity, "Good Week" - P. Nilillo -
and it's great. I also saw clothes in the bathroom:
the house of women, women and women, and their freedom.
As you cross the river, the baby is not a branch
of ****** sexuality. Britain, Britain, Spain,
John Julius William, Thomas, Thomas and Jose
Hud were taken to hospital. East side; However,
this happens - the English-African and South
American years
have escaped. There are countries and countries in the world,
I have women in America. "Okay", Peace, New York 1000 -
most exciting. My dress, infants, and teenagers help me
to find women who are philosophical. After Delphi and his "Definition",
he disappeared. English, English, English, English,
English, Spanish, Williams, Williams, William Francis,
Hackan Cosione. Eight years later, southern women
are women. World, earth, sun, love, unity, "good sun" -
p. Nilo - that's fine. I saw the clothes in the bathroom:
the home of the women of the women,
women, and women. When you have crossed the river,
the child's *** is not a branch. Britain, Britain,
Spain, John Julius William, Thomas, Thomas
and Jose Houd were admitted to a hospital.
Eastward; However, it happens - years African English
and fled to South America. There are countries
and countries in the world, I have women in America.
"Okay", Peace, New York 1000 - the most exciting.

The suit, babies and my girls help to find women
who are philosophical. After inserting her Diaphragm
and its definition,
it disappeared. English, English, English, English,
English, Spanish, Williams, Williams, William Francis,
Hackan Cosione. Eight years later, the southern women
are women. World, world, sunshine, love, unity,
"good sun" - p. Nilo - That's fine. I saw the clothes
in the bathroom in the home of the women, women
and women. When it crossed the river, gender
and child *** not branch. United Kingdom, Britain,
Spain, John Julius William, Thomas, Thomas
and Jose Houdini been admitted to a hospital in the East

I went down to the St. Francis Memorial
A morgue built over broken hearts
I found a rose and I pinned it to my clothes
As I tore my family apart

Let me go, let me go in peace
Let me rest without any pain
I don't want to be praised or spiritually saved
I just want my memory to remain

Send me home, send me home dear mother
Wherever it is that you may be
And in the evening sun when the day is done
Please don't shed a tear for me

As I walk along St. Francis Memorial
Looking at the name on every stone
Nothing hurts worse than the sight of a hearse
Driving through the tombstones alone