.via ghana: i iz welcome the haiku poetic extractionz of the maxim: full-on potentiality of - few words maximum effortz! one wishes to almost die from feng shui minimalism! chinese geomancy and european chiromancy (reading balzac et al.) - but the sigh poetic of pepsi max effort iz wot iz the breaking of the camel bonk and backß... last time i heard from a kenyan bartender... all the timber comes from ghana... as does the wheat from ukraine and the salt from poland... coal is always "elsewhere"... or no coal... wind... the wind comes from: far far away... beyond the language of the seven vowels...

it took much of an effort to have to overcome
a reading of Stendhal...
esp. when you find him in your teens..
almost impossible...

it's enough to visit a brothel:
once a year... perhaps skipping a year...
and there's enough body,
and skin, and warmth...
to contrast... what i'm yet to read about...
otherwise have read, i.e.:

2010s through the 2020 summary...
lucy holden now 29...
sexting, dating apps, bisexual flings
flatmates with benefits...
millenial serial dater...

all the details are already known...
mine? that strip-clup in athens on a whim
with two strippers either arm
burrowing my face solving the mole
in their cleavage...
the goodmayes borthel with the romanians
that said a very bulgarian word, once...

and who can ever forget
the south african cocoon ****-accusation
of: not unde the bed-sheets and please
oil up rather than dry-******* me...
or the thai surprise picked up
in a park and that a little bit of heavyweight
beer and some jazz and a garden shed will allow...
the number of times i've had ***...
well... what are fingers for?

the black girl with a coccyx like an iron maiden
attempting to tattoo itself onto my pelvis...
2nd time round?
i heard she had a child and his daddy
would be bringing him home the morning to come...
and this other black woman,
oh i mean: full detail - woman...
two children sleeping on the bed...
get dragged off...
thrown to the bed...
and i'm there to **** an imitation ******
of... a tight fold of legs...

it's not exactly **** but even with that:
i'm not a best fitter...
so tell her: it's not going to happen...
we pretend to sleep or at least i do...
when this afro-fur-ball with a plucking sound
of a smooch is standing at the end of the bird...
he's naked i'm naked everyone's naked
i pick him up like i pick up maine *****
and lay him on my chest...
i can't allow a river of fingers through
his afro tangles... so i pat them down...
and he falls asleep...

***... oh no ***** word about it monsieur!
just this *******...
oh but i'm glad that some girl nearing
her 30s has made up her mind up...
only recently i've heard that my mother was
attempting to woo a married man
who was part of the Solidary movement
and probably waiting for a greencard...
i heard this... from my grandmother...

i'm still pampering on the sly for
a Mary Antoinette...
Ilona was wrong... i wouldn't become
a child strapped to a hellhole of a teenager's bedroom...
i'd become a leech hybrid...
as along as i have enough excuses
to return for "the word"... and never rap it...
i'm fine fine... best be on my optimal behaviour...
to never find myself in a baptists' church choir...

- there's also a quick fix procedure...
the match of the day is watched
with the mascots on screen...
the ben-hur's not making it to
prophetic status... yes the bread...
yes the circus... and all those cul de sac...
soap operas of parking scenes...

and there's always language...
best expressed when drunk...
never sober because is what delves into
the formality of: dear sir / madam,
kind regards...

the day when i stopped combing my fair
and peered at the beard...
uncombed hair: almost reminds
me of donning a pineapple on it...
an ancient buddhist balancing act...
like performing the act of gravity...
without copernican mathematics...
as simple as finding the CENTER on
a bicycle... or like finding
buoyancy in a swimming pool...
perhaps i am more water than flesh...
but i'm also a fraction of fat...

i can float on water if i can find
the balance... i don't need to play
the drunkard treading water surviving
to stay afloat.... i... relax...
then i float.... or bob-on-the-surface
teasing an unexpected shark-bite-attack...
although: swimming in a sea
is not my thing...
i very much appreciate seeing
the bottom i can dive down toward
and touch... the chernobyl stink of chlorine...
is almost a parisian perfumery...

heat breeds diseases it breeds...
insects...
i abhor the heat...
the zenith of winter is yet,
is yet to arrive... and for the help of god:
i can't arrive at... writing sober...
should "poo'etry" ever be written sober
to begin with?
i mind: that i don't mind...

i can find 8pm and 9pm quite:
which implores you to not quit - curb colt...
i was making a sponge apple stuffing
roulade...
after having made some biscuit
with brown sugar and diadems of hazelnuts...
and prior to some sausage rolls...
three fillings...
cranberries with some peppers and
chillies...
fennel seeds with apple...
and the third... the third...
i don't quiet remember...

my head was exploding with a brain being
towed and all was:
i am yet to grieve a passing,
a tax of death...
i am yet to be left half imbecile and half
of any other texas hold-up poker game...
i'm wishing for...
that quarter of a million of a bet
i placed on:
one team wins...
but both have to score...
ergo... catching a mosquito by the testciles
donning boxing gloves chance...
2 - 1 etc. victories...

i don't want to blame women...
the last one i was serious about...
she's on her 3rd marriage or whatever...
and i'm still in woad: in deep blue
coinciding with...
god's roulette...

as a testiment of man...
there's the ambition to find: the void...
to find nothing...
and from that... find the thinking thing...
res vanus: the emptiness
that can be fathomed with more or less
thinking, than a yawn's presence...
because...
descartes doesn't really exact ontological,
whatever...
i can't be and be:
when i churn out a day-dream and
a day-dream is all that is...

thankfuly i have nothing to "work"
with... most women only have boredom to begin
with....
at exactly 20 minutes to 1am...
i'm not so sure...
a mother can say: you stink...
then you go and buy something from
a convenience store...
and the cashier stresses how fresh you smell...
that's quiet something...
a woman likes the way to smell to her...
in between doing these *******
tribunals of sweating over
apple roulades...

and Stendhal... it's only my mother...
i just have to gnash my teeth
and apply the burden of sober...
this canvas... no other...
i drink for the 1 hour pleasure
of disorientation...
a shot in the head in some Ukranian
prison...
stiched to the next to be executed...
chikatilo...
i'm not exactly fond of the company...
but i'm pretty sure...
kurt cobain... and his shotgun antics...

and how the prolonged death appeal
of Christine Chubbuck lasted much longer...
Kafka said it right:
a stab at the heart...
**** colt and boyo... don't aim for the head!
that's how Ukranian convicts die...
shot in the back of the head...
in a cell... never in the open...
it's not like the brain delves into
the automated unconscious of the pump
that's the heart... how do you think
the urban myth of the cockroach that lived
for 2 weeks more was born?
the head didn't have a mouth to ingest
food with...

shot in the back of the head is an execution
that, done in an Ukranian prison cell...
is pretty much all of Dante not visiting
either heaven or a hell...
but two weeks with... in the presence
of death... the body starving...
that magic finger-pointing exercise
of seeing death in movies?

well thank god they did a movie about
Christine Chubbuck's (rage against the machine):
bullet in the 'ed!
i was lied to, no matter...
i'm here to hush and sweep the leftovers...
because why would you march
a man into a prison cell...
shoot him in the head and close the door
and wait... because no: in the open...
with a chance for rabid dogs to feast on...
in the darkened night just shy of Kiev
would ever matter...

Christine Chubbuck was left dying on
life-support machines after her half-high Kiev
attempt to pop the balloon...
psych- myth of the brain as source
of the sigma soul...
my left toe has more soul than this
rubric forever explained as forever to be explored
goose-fat sponge...
come to think of it...
after a haemorrhage that no one believes
beside me, some neurologist and a dementia
riddled grandfather who easily forgot...

what's this brain this brain this nought?!
**** it... kamikaze cockroach!
as ever oh but always so much when
someone has to mention...
has to mention: with no exacting details
of fancy...

also called the drought period when pakistani
gangs are up in Leeds and i'm strapped
to the outlier Loon'don culture:
as ever playing the obedient schizoid...
because that's, just fair game...
centuries behind what the youth
of Denmark have to offer...
the mutterzunge and the l'inglese of:
any future of tourism with Jack's flag...

heavy influences stemming from
st. andrew and all the worth of wordworth
with a tinge of punk...
but never a baron of lexicon coming from
just shy of 4 hours away from
the lisp of masovian warsaw...

what could possibly be wrong?
how about... stemming it down to the root
of... sober people and the lacklustre of
when writing: under no influence at all...
apparently "now" the high moral ground!
the sobers usher in the words
that we are abide by when the football hooligans
their casual Tuesday mundane,
their casual Tuesday mundane custard
splodge of oats in regurgitation...

i can almost but not quiet...
imagine myself being the cameo in this dear diary
of these "free" women of the western world...
give me a feral black woman pulling
two kids from her bed in order
to imitate a ****** by folding her legs to
pretend...

it's still a bullet in the back of the head
for some, minor or major
andrei "cain" chikatilo -
no... with a full crop of cranium of hair...
and a grandmother that says...
well... how busy your chin hairs are...
that you are able to lodge a pencil in there
and it doesn't fall out...
hair here and all other hair elsewhere...
chest and... where the antioch identifier
of achilles ought to be of a six in sixes
packaged...

since who is buddha... or a christ when...
an thích quang duc "oops" happens...
the people will never leave their unison...
their get-together "happening"...
but what's to be celebrated should...
the crucifix be turned into that "other"
torture ordeal of being: piked...
crucifixion the tsunami wave of history...
when one can expect the fate
of being piked by the more imaginative
sorts?
if only the antichrist was gay
and was sentenced to levitate on a pike...
passion and ecstasy via
the Walhalla doing ****... again:
sorry if the pike missed the **** baptism
of ecstasy... and instead aimed
at ripping apart the flesh and bone at:
whatever pivot was made available
to work from reverse ingestion:
beginning with the pelvis...

i'm just tired and cooking and shooing
shadows for the past month and i know that it's
just an exaggerate lounge period...
and all i want is an added arm...
and the serenity leg to take the step to return to...
footsteps... with a bulging echo to command...

it needs to be stressed that these women were black...
i call them ivory beauties of chocolate come
quicksilver moon glistening...
i can't remember... no... "you're" right...
i never managed to **** anything
of an ethno-centric "perspective"...
i'd be arrested for that...
as if starting a hitlerjungen movement or
some other random "****"...

i'd package myself with a mexican strapped into
alcatraz...
the Louis of the Aztecs and some
long lost St. Juan of the Mayans...
leash me... Russian or Prussian or...
what's that third otherwise power of influence
that this body was allowed to morph into?

perhaps i once was allowed to control these words...
but that's how drinking goes...
it's a homocodie when you **** someone
when under the influence of alcohol when driving
a car...
this is a sort of homocide...
i trully gave my hands away to the devil...
and the brain: oh forget that old fabble of a pickle...
what's in brine was always supposed
to be in brine and pickled...

- and what were the chances of me becoming
a sentimental drunk... listening to some
crowded house - weather with you?
the la's - the la's... no... not merely the 1990s
epitome of h'american tourism lodged in london
of myth... as any ******... that myth translated
itself into paris... there she goes...
i mean the whole album...

whale! whale! a beached whale!
Grindadráp...
and some want to go on the Hajj...
and die in a human stampede at the Mecca...
but... well... some want to...
of all of Europe...
Venice, Paris, Rome, Athens,
Amsterdam, perhaps Edinburgh
(wink-wink nudge-nudge)...
Barcelona...
or... Grindadráp of the Faroe Islands...

capture a polyphony in language that is hardly
ever going to be much more
than a chance to... to do that...
shove three fingers into your gob...
expect an elevated volume of sounds...
call the hounds! a mile away!
i was never allowed to learn that
whistling "trick"...
perhaps that's why i never managed
to play the trombone or the clarinet...
the ****-poor leftover guitar...
which is as much as having to read
braille!

reality: i live in england but i'm a ******...
i haven't ****** an english girl...
or a ****** girl...
i was close! a ****** girl licked my face
like a cow, once...
chin, lips, nose and forehead...
i was actually waiting for e.t. when that
happened...
the pakistanis have all the english girls...
sorry... it's sad...
but... the australia...
the fwench... the russian...
it's a decent rubric...
crude... nuanced...
so is buying fwesh meat at the butchers...
the perfect crime is less severe...
fiddling with a tombstone...
then towing it for 2 miles...
to bury the remains of your cat...
after your neighbour "accidently" killed him
when you were away...
and of course they deny it...

after all... i live in a society...
innocent until proven guilty...
said jimmy saville...
it's not the old... european "misunderstanding"..
of guilty until proven innocent...
if not a real story of Tomasz Komenda...
there's the Shawshank Redemption...
or there's... the Count de Monte Cristo...

if all are innocent until proven guilty...
what's that? the genesis story never happens...
it's hardly a moral deterent...
isn't it? people will do as any aleister crowley
would command them to do:
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law;
this is a naive presupposition of
fudge-packed jurisprudence...
what should have been egg-whites..
it merely some sugar dissolved in water...

statistical counts aside...
i would be more inclined to... fear...
being held guilty... to then be allowed "innocence"...
that to being held innocent...
to then be forced as a doubly-culprit!
how does the double jeopardy paradox arise...
from the high pillar of: innocent until
proven guilty?!
law is at one's own leisure...
should all be bound to an innocence...
revisions of the biblical metaphor...

if we can all be innocent...
wouldn't we at least all fathom an innocent
attempt to break some law?
for a matter of: testing the waters?
even if innocent until proven guilty is true...
there's no narrative of redemption...
why is it that the shawshank redemption
is such a popular movie?
since it adopts the continental motiff of:
guilty... until proven innocent...
it offers... redemption...
it's a popular movie because it's unfair
for the basis of a single individual...
not some amassing of victims of a jimmy saville
recount... that have... none... zilch...
no redemption!
their redemption: ist tod!

because if i were to be found guilty...
with no chance of defence...
i would exercise a double-think in relation to this...
rather than exercise this leisure into
grieving the orwellian zeitgeist monstrosity of
but the one novel...

i'm not convinced of the english model...
this... innocent until proven guilty...
this pontius pilate argument...
i'm not for it! this sinking to the core of my heart
and hopefuly, prevents me from a heartbeat...
perhaps so fewer examples of
the #metoo would come to the fore...
if... one were not so easily allowed
a ststus of innocence...
perhaps... guilty until proven innocent...
doesn't allow...
so readily accessed accusations...
perhaps this modern, english model of
jurisprudence...
is missing a medieval lisp?

as law abiding as would suggest...
i would be much more deterred from inacting
a grievance should i be found guilty...
without a benefit of a doubt of a jury...
than if i were to be given the a priori: innocent
status...

i don't like this: england and greenwich in tow
is the bellybutton of the world
demand of... all else is less than we...
no... did i come from Algiers?!
what has Algiers to do with it and Leeds
shouldn't?!

at least that's how a man sobers up...
while still drinking...
he might focus on sober demands...
of topics that only drunks should speak of...
and since neither of the two meet...

because i have stood as a witness
in a court...
and i was given a photograph to...
"compare" having identified him in a mugshot...
the photograph i was shown still
had a date imprinted on it...
and this was the ******* argument...
the photograph was years old...
i identified the culprit in the police mugshot...
but the case was "won"... for no apparent reason...
the witness said: i...
this photograph is years old...
i can grow a beard and hippy attire in a year's time...
of course i was the witness that said:
note down the registration plate
of the car this camel-jockey jumped out of
and grabbed m'ah fwends mobile...

i've seen how: innocent until proven guilty works...
i'm not conviced...
i can't be... there's something instinctual preventing
me from adhering to this english...
jurisprudent sensbility...
it's hardly a ******* charles dickens novel...
if it were... and i greatly underestimated
charles dickens... no... really...
i shouldn't have read any of dostoyevsky...
i should have read charlie ****'oh'ends...
believe me when i say that is hould have...
since... heidegger's ponderings VII - XI
will retain their shelf-status as... the book most
probably unread...

such is the sobering process...
am i, in no way, allowed to sacrifice my 'ed
on the premise that: innocent until
proven guilty is the right categorial imperstive
to buckle on... since...
the anglophonic world buckles on it...
like a spectacular breakdance feat of
a penguin on steroids...
doing the diving header tsunami
of chore: the crowd goes wild!
it's no operatic applause and being
"superficially" reminded as to how...
find your proper seat...
before the castrato peacock does his
singing bit...
apparently finding one's seat
when it's never going to be a maggot-pit
at a slipknot concert is all that's
about to happen...

come by the butcher's and let's attempt
in finding you some oysters
among the volume of red boisterous...
to replica your genital parts
and sordid caviar letfovers...

perhaps i could be angry...
but la ilah illa blah'lah...
i am... halway bound between
being simulation circumcised
and being castrated...
i never which is which...
notably, given...
circumcised men are not allowed
the impetus of taking up
web-cam Susan on promise of...
also pleasing themselves
without wanting to earn some money...

it's a real problem though:
innocent until proven guilty versus
guilty until proven innocent...
relish...
the english indiosyncratic
wishing they were scandinavian iceland...
no... honey too sweet tooth bear...
this is not how the GMP affair that exends
with its genesis in the jimmy saville affair
looks like...
this quest for: apparently "superior"
is not going to work on me...
kin of a kind-of luvvie dubby...
bon voyage!

the entire continent is listening...
individualistic rights...
innocent until proven guilty...
the more i reiterate these words...
the more i sober up...
because i can't see how...
i am: a thief...
until i am proved to be... a thief...
by having performed the act
of thieving...
or not even an "after"...

sorry... please expose your divine
rational intelligence and tell me
via a reiteration that 2 + 2 = 4...

i am not a thief,
but i am a thief...
only if the act of stealing is proved...
and if "the" act of stealing is not proved...
i'm way more than a thief...
i'm a thief with a baby driver!
this anglican logic *****...
if innocent until proven guilty...
is to sustain the individual flourishing...
i'd rather make theatre of the original,
biblical deterrent...
a queen of this sort of popish claims
and her duaghters of yorkshire because...
the pawns of justitia...

conventionality of continetal thinking...
there's not even a "what if" or
"it would be better" should... allow,
extended into:
guilty until proven innocent...
rather than... innocent until proven guilty...

i sometimes find myself chattering...
in the cold...
but i'm not chewing anything...
i'm pretending to pivot the piano on a ghost...
being played as some per se magician's
excavation of: whatever time...
thus it was spent...

i call it chattering chopin...
bite marks available... like the multitude
of signature most willing to be...
allocated a collection foreseeable...

the would the artichokes of arabia...
or the fennel roasted roots of Italy...
there's something to be had of a woman
sporting the "cherokee" leopard-skin prints
on something that's...
90% cotton and 10% lycra?!

and the reason why i visited a brothel
in the past ten years was because?
if i want to play poker...
i'll play poker...
easy ***? it's not so easy in the act
and you want to find a kiss and...
she tells you: it's against the laws
of this sort of nunnery...
but you still manage to slurp a lip or two
of a shy pluck of the tulips of the sea...
or however this thing that
language is works...
if it's not going to be a hammer and nail...
forever... this "excuse" to allow nothing
more than YA novels...
metaphors and... pedantry of elswhere
from punctuation?

herioglyphic assumptions of :) emoji?
wink barrel baron! oi!
non-responsive...
black also implies: ivory beauty...
i started to admire their teeth...
since mine were always going to be
custard yellow death grin...
like bone to the rot...

no... i'm pretty sure tonight ends
here; now;
the prodigy - destroy...
given how... keith flint...
and that horse... and it was never a tale
of the stormy badger...
and how the fox is my aid and will
never make it to...
transcend the red coat hunting parties...
because... just because.

I spend hours trying to understand
why you still care
when I should address why I do, instead
I don't think bout you often anymore
But when I do, I think bout how i hope you can't get my smile out of your head, that you wonder how I am

But most days, I wish that you hit every red light on the way to class
that you forget your phone charger at home and your iphone dies halway through your three hour lecture,
on a Monday,
at 9 am

Some days, I hope that the left bud of your headphones break
that all your lays chips are crushed, even though the bag is all air and no potato

I rarely think of you, but when I do, I hope that you lose your last guitar pick
and your brother leaves your aux cord at home,
again

I hope that all of your mac and cheese is just a little to watery and that you lose all of your left socks

On the days I think of you, I wish you uneven laces
and rain on your birthday

I wish you a hole in the crotch your favorite pants and
the parking spot furthest from the entrance

I hope only radio commercials for tampons
and a brain freeze

I wish you forget the last page of your paper in the printer
I wish you forget me

I wish you lose my number
and hope you lose the desire to text me, again

cause maybe if you forget it will be easier for me too
and I won't have to wish you ****** noses and a really big hang nail anymore

to break her heart you'll need more than a needle of course
a knife sharpened minutes ago can cut cleanly-
is that what you intend to make, a clean break?
it will hurt far more if you go halway
and stop
heartstrings taut, reminding onlookers of a harp
created by a blade trimmed keenly and sharp
to break her heart you must damage it but not
beyond repair
or else, you see, she'd simply get another one
this way it's stuck in her chest, unright,
mending each fibre until the ache is only
a phantom hurt
it will merely be a vague pang, eventually
you may sharpen your knife now

-c.j.

hard not to begin aspiring
aspiring to redeem oneself for a day's
worth of suicide
just by lying in bed
and pickling the body
and subsequently the mind
by extension an abstract
of the brain
of what is material that being
the left hemisphere
which was fused with a nail
to the ear: the word money

while the right hemisphere
is strangely scratched
and i don't mean the head
i mean the vinyl mind scratched
with little microcosms of
**** and alcohol
use

the day began at 9:30
                        today
and i really just had
to knock three out on the toilet
before taking
a shower
at least i can justify knocking
three out -
purges almost bulimic and i
know what
bulimic purging looks like
in the Roman ancient disgust
with eating food

it must have been this disgust
of eating food
from time to time
i wonder did the Celestial
*** Couch'Surfer of Nazareth
stayed in the Tax Collector's
house for the time
being
since also active in the city
as the countryside
so not exactly alien to the concept
of money

what displeased people
most was probably that
and the wisdom contained within money

Ἀπόδοτε οὖν τὰ Καίσαρος
Καίσαρι καὶ τὰ τοῦ Θεοῦ τῷ Θεῷ

render unto Caesar what is Caesar's
and unto God what is God's

  i can meet this faith halway
and render it likewise
away from the time of Caesar
and even a God of Nations
this Global God
i mean:
did yhwh really evolve to a global god
from the god of the individual
of Abraham
say
to then the god of the people
as revealed unto Moses
since Moses
is the keeper of the god of Abraham
and the god of Israel
but a god of the entire world
would be... perhaps too "ambitious"...
how unlikely that
such a burden would be conjured
up by man...
and not a god
since nowhere could it be cited
that yhwh would want to become
the god of the universe
given that he was yet to find foundation
in Greek
in Greek alone there would have had
to appear a manifestation of the Hebrew
rather than in the time of the Roman Empire
and in a place like Palestine -
jeez...

              then so man took up himself
to manifest the tortures
and stand above the god of a people
to become the god of all peoples
and as such i can only return to this man
as a man
and say
that i will consider

his 7 sayings

mt 6:24
L 12:32-34
mk 10:24b-25
mt 13:18-23
L 12:13-15
                L 16:10-11
mk 12:41-44

but already i stand out saying
and i only skimmed the others
so i don't want to space
out as much
as then ask Muhammad
about his take on
ahmed-bahmed-mammon-head

so can be asking really
basic tenets of faith
say if
   i say if
as if

         Azif i say a demon helper
because i'm asking
not metaphysical questions
i'm asking how these two
camel and donkey jockeys
lived

and the reality is pretty basic
the Muhammad was a merchant
and married an older woman
who didn't give him children
but gave him knowledge
and ****** experience
which means yes later could sustain
wives
but he was old by then and prior
to an Arab colt
and i wonder if so illiterate then who
wrote down the ****
book and i'm guessing it was
none other than his first wife

Khadīja **** Khuwaylid - died 619
ha! 610!
            well for a second there
i thought i might be wrong
               should she have died after
just the basic life worn
knitty gritty

   perhaps like that mutter under the breath
of the bicycle shop repair guy
for want a refund on job
not done
personal belonging "confiscated"
and then the ordering of a spoke
one ******* spoke
almost 2 weeks
i say what service
sooner i ******* watch a youtube
video
buy the spoke key
and some spokes
and do the ******* thing myself
why mutter little boy
at me
i wonder aren't you working in
a bicycle shop
are you too lazy to see the potential
perhaps i work lazily looking
at people
but it's still the same mantra:
security, safety & service
along all long yards of wage labouring
if not actually laboring with
the body
all jobs alike outside the realm
of construction and moving **** about
industry of trucks and skips
but come on...
"engineer": the "engineer" took
a holiday and i was misled that
this wouldn't take two *******
weeks for one ******* spoke

let's get real this is not a nuclear
war tension of a disgruntled
customer not throwing tantrums
but asking in advance
before showing the arrears receipt
i.e.

     ooh - new guy, none of those
passive aggressive Steppenwolf not so's
(maybe, almost but that's
rather moi)

                  'so, in your opinion,
how long should a spoke replacement
take, roughly 2 or 3?'
'well... given that our engineer is
on annual leave
and should be back on Thursday
once we order the parts...'

   'that's fine... see i've been waiting
two weeks
and nothing so here is my receipt
and could i please get a refund
and my wheel back, please, thank you...'

i cut him off before he could
try to have a lie-around
a way to excuse the service of this
corporate cycle repair shop
next thing
i'm going to do is travel
to Whitechapel to see my China-man
because he only has an ice-cream
van sort of space in a hole
in the wall next to the Mosque
and i'm wondering how to enter
the mosque once more
and just sit there
perhaps just to treat it as a safe space
perhaps just ask:
can i come in?
can i sit down and meditate?

i remember when i was in Russia
that was near impossible
you couldn't sit in the church
because it was some disrespect
but then all the tourists
around while the locals
had to deal with it
while a mass was taken place
and the priest stood face to altar
with the people behind him
and the people all standing
because unlike in catholic churches
there were no benches
for you to sit on
there were no three positions of
stand, kneel, sit...

Muslims just stand
kneel then bend...

perhaps it's a more comfortable prayer
position
perhaps the dynamic of 15min max
5x a day
well...
i am of the "first"
but not the first
and is it really a day for a bbq on the sly
i mean the Aussie
way of just maybe cooking
outside
not bbq like it's a party
but like al fresco
but not really not in England
so just cooking al fresco
that's nice...
i think that's a sort of rich boy saying
middle of the way
to be able to cook outside
and not in a kitchen
with the birds chirping
and i'm pretty sure Buddha has nothing
to add on the subject of money
and of work...
i wonder what is considered work
then...

if this camel and donkey jockeys
had to say something about money
then what did they say about work?

maybe... 1 Thessalonians 4:11
but that's no longer Jesus
but Christianity...
                                otherwise everything
seems rather vague
and yet work we must
and work we adhere to
and no venture beyond it
in some madness of
a suntan and the surf
or perhaps
something less troublesome
as time unspent
               yet lived such lived
as to decree
O what is truly necessary
now that not loving
is worth more than loving
and how loving
was so claustrophobic
and so ego-unresponsive
and i know
that i mentioned
an ego-destruction
but that's o.k.
in a crowd but when one
returns to one's
own bedroom
and one's own head
and the person who was loved
isn't there
then surely she should
expect to have a relationship
with a "bad boy"
in prison much closer to home
because the fact that i'm
writing from London
and she's reading from Kauai
last night i sent her 7 half drunken
messages
and then deleted them
since i was also half sober
so there you go
there you go...
there you are...
                          easy enough?
so, eyes turned all foggy
and i was relaxing with the wrong
sort of music and
who's this apology even to?
now come to think of it:

there was a change of 'what's for dinner'
since it's raining on off on off
and i don't want to be the local
shaman to conjure up sunshine
and parting clouds
i kinda like this luster of damp
and moisture
and thinking about insects like
spiders: notably spiders
and how i giggle at my sometime
arachnophobia
  (phew! almost thought i'd misspell it!
and yes... honing in on 3pm
and changing plans
from a bbq to a curry)

       ... interlude... interlude... interlude (no ****)...

nostalgia nostalgia
that year not so long ago
when the sun was just a sun
and below
London Stadium
and Red Hot Chili Peppers
and i was still so inexperienced
and only a pawn
in traffic cone

         and so careless almost devoid
of love's interest...

steward of the household
steward of the household
in the old days
who is to say that men belong
in the fields
and that women belong
in the houses
and who stays long enough
to board the safe havens
of a 'otel - no dare to wonder
what role is this
somehow emasculating
because i find joy in cooking
and ironing shirts
and looking presentable
and what is to say that woman
does that
perhaps like could look
Victorian
just whenever i ride the shallow
worms of London
notably the Distrct
Circle Hammersmith & City
and the metropolitan lines

oh i could write a poem about
the London underground
perhaps that's another project
ride each line from one end to another
do these little weekend trips during
the week
and be less of a bother
to the occupied space
i hear Ruslip is pretty and i've walked
to Epping
so i can say that much about so little

oh perhaps even now
this can be seen as less an emasculating
work title: unpaid
who said all work was paid
let's assume that there are works
in this world that
cannot invoke the relation to Caesar
let us just say
that there are certain things that have
to be done not
metaphysics usurped or whatever
but little deeds that are governed
by silent applause
from a canned laughter crowd
i mean rewarded without due
but rather duty
from want
rather than expectation
from a faceless man
to a facing faceless man man
i.e. with face
and that negation of grace that comes
when loving expectations are
not met
loved as in catered to and for...
in some respects of...
from the perspective of the essentials of life...

              Eumolpus
   Attica
                Thrace
         Eumolpidae: the family...
O once was the richness of the abode
of families
that the life we now owe
succumbed to that family of Judea
and how we are punished for adhering to
it so...
what jovial pasts were once
and now no longer are

Halway through my research I made the decision to write about this group, for a couple of reasons. First, they receive no recognition or press, yet rumors about them spawn folklore and traditions that constitute the UFO narrative.  Second, frankly, this was  the group whose work and members I became best acquainted with, and whose stories I found most fascinating. I had to muster courage to write about this group because its members are anonymous, and what I observed of their work places me in the odd position of almost confirming a myth.

                      - Diana Walsh Pasulka
American Cosmic: UFOs, Religion, Technology

We free for mint tea
Strolling along San Francisco
His son and my sons
Enter the Exploratorium

Decades before
We delivered the Sacramento Bee
By bicycle

Basketball days gone by
Probably quite a bit more
Than halway done
Until our setting sun

Twilight by the Bay

                      Californ - I - A!