Peeing: to ***; to urinate; to release the body of its liquid toxins; to pass or discharge *****; characteristically yellow- the strength of the color depending on the body’s hydration.
People have strange habits when peeing; urinating; releasing the body of their liquid toxins. Some people procrastinate it to the last minute and rush to the bathroom, barely yanking their pants down in time and shuddering in relief. They are those who habitually whip in and out, even when they don’t really need to. There’s the common usage of an escape from boredom in classes or meetings. Perhaps it even causes a slight blushing in the cheeks of painfully shy woman at hearing rushed tinkling so close by. And of course, they are also the people who love to leave surprises for the next person who uses the bathroom.
All in all, peeing seems to mean not much to people – a small part of life; but a very, very necessary part.  

                                 *                 *                    * .

The rain poured furiously outside the window as Emily sat, straining her brown eyes against the whiteboard flashing images of trigonometry from Mr. Well’s laptop, trying hard to concentrate. She was sitting in her usual seat in class, and also her favorite. It was a solitary table with a chair, away from the clusters of tables and the chattering children, and the only chair by the window. She liked to look out the window, even if it distracted her from Mr. Well’s loud explanations. The booming of “SOHCAHTOA” in her ears became distant as the wind’s movement caught her eye. She gazed out on sheets of rain flapping across the sky like giant teary spirits and pressed her fingertips on the glass. Cold.
Absent-mindedly, she pressed her cheek against the coolness and felt it absorb her body warmth. Her imagination kicked in and the glass became a panel of energy, ******* a little life from all those who touched it, vibrating with a strange purple light until it was so filled with energy the particles of the glass would explode and she would be the first to die from the sharp shatters that would spray across the room, causing droplets of blood to-
Ahem.
Mr. Well coughed meaningfully at her dreamy face. The class exploded into laughter and the bell rang. A skinny girl smiled at her but she was so lost in her own world, she forgot to smile back as she slung her bag on her shoulder and ran out. Maybe that’s why she didn’t have too many friends.
The dark skies were pouring furiously as only Bangkok in Monsoon weather can.
A walk home or a motorbike ride? A motorbike ride would be a little dangerous in this flooding… and with that reasoning she waved up a motorbike. The seat was soaked and so was the driver, whose brown leathered feet struggled to keep red flip-flops on as they sloshed through the flooded Sois.
Fat water bullets pelted her skin and the wind blew them ferociously into her face till her eyes stung. The motorbike swerved in and out of the cars stuck in traffic (slightly floating), the bottoms of their wheels immersed in ***** water.
The pockets of her school shorts were hastily rummaged through and she pulled out a soggy green twenty-baht note bank before running into the shelter of the lobby, dripping over the marble floor and completely drenched. The building-maid widened her eyes, and watched her horrified; knowing it meant extra work mopping and drying up the lobby floor as soon as Emily vanished into the elevator.
The plastic button with the circular metal piece glowed orange. It was strange how she was shivering with cold but her touch was still warm enough to light up the elevator buttons.
The usual itchy, impulsive, restlessness was building up inside her from the wet motorbike ride. Thunder roared and crackled through the lobby’s swinging glass doors and they vibrated slightly. Another flashing image of splintering glass splashed across her mind and in the split-second, she saw the diamond shards pierce the eye of the lobby’s guard and splinter across the floor-
She shook her head. This was what happened when she had too much pent-up energy. She had to do something- something reckless and fast and dangerous… now! A bolt of lightning went through her as a familiar wide open space came into her mind… the rooftop of her thirty-five floored building.
The elevator ride up was slow, much too slow for the fast pacing of her heart and she hit the metal doors with wet fists. Tearing out of the doors when it finally jolted to a stop, she climbed up to the top, running up the stairs two steps at a time and caught her breath. It was flooded up to her ankles and violent gusts of wind made her steady herself.
Emily’s Dad often told her stories of when he was child. “The winds in my home during Monsoon season were so strong we could lean into it with our fully body weight and we wouldn’t fall. It was almost as good as flying.”
Her lids squinted shut and the sensitive skin was immediately exposed to the pebbles of the rain and whipping wind; and in almost dream-like state, she leaned into the howling wind.
There was a comically slow fall and her bony knees hit the concrete flooring with a dull thud. She burst into tears of laughter in her own stupidity at thinking the wind could hold up against her gigantic frame and rubbed her ***** knees sorely. Reaching up to wipe her tears with muddy fingers, she laughed to herself again. There was no point in wiping away tears. They were so trivial in comparison to the current weeping of the skies.
Against the thick opaqueness of the wind, she could see how the view towered over a jungle of buildings as far as the eyes could see, with snaking concrete roads and skinny black canals. Slums scattered around nearby swanky hotels of the rich. The buildings faded into small dark shapes in the distance. Bangkok.
No matter how tall and industrial it tried to become, everyone ran for cover under this blinding rain.
Up here, completely a victim to nature’s power, she felt exposed; naked; real. The animalistic instincts inside her swelled up. Humans weren’t meant to wear these annoying pieces of material or shoved inside skinny architectural designs. With aggressive tearing motions, a pile of soggy clothes half lay, half floated on the flooded floor beside her and she stood there bare… and completely naked. Laughter spilled out from the depths of her naked chest with the two tiny hints of possible womanhood; it was louder than thunder. Screaming, laughing and gasping she stumbled around – climbing over objects and feeling the beautiful dizziness: a sweet, sweet dizzy. She stood up on a random block a meter high; spread her arms wide as her wet body shone with raindrops. The rain threatened to push her over, her soaked hair twitching heavily on her neck.
She ****** in her breath, ready to yell so that the heavens could hear but instead, the voice that came out was controlled with a shaky undertone of joy,
“I need to ***.”
And then she did.

                                                *         *            *.

His eyes are brown. Dark chocolate brown – a simple, solid color. Simple and solid like him.
Because he was so simple, people enjoyed his companionship. Though he was simple, he was not boring. Rather he was sharp-mouthed, quick on his feet, witty and observant speaking bald truths about people that either provoked them to scandalized laughter or humiliated fury.
What some people forgot to recognize was that he didn’t really love anyone. Plenty called him a close friend, but so absorbed were they in their own world; they seldom realized the fact that most of his thoughts were concealed. Kept in a little box of surprises in the back of his mind, and hidden so well nobody knew they existed.
He could spend months with a friend traveling in a different country, and return back home with no feelings of attachment. He could care for a friend while they were here and not really miss them while they were gone.
Most of the time his eyes were neutral and observing and they would sparkle amusedly when he had provoked someone with his words. This was how remained to almost everyone; everyone but one person. The one person that could turn his normally calm face even more still, the dark brows would rise slightly and a quick flash of fire would shoot through his eyes- and for a long while, they would burn slowly like two twin coals; the one person who could cloud his eyes dreamily; the one person who could make them glint wetly.  
He reached over and grabbed her hand. Emily turned smiling eyes at him.
A group of teenagers were strolling down the closed roads, armed with water guns, pasted in thick white powder, thoroughly drenched in the hot, dry weather and skipping over puddles (except for Emily who splashed into them).
Songkran in Bangkok: celebrated in the middle of April where temperatures reach forty-degrees Celsius, Thailand’s New Year and a time to pay respect to the elders in the family, but as most traditions, they became really just an excuse to enjoy oneself and in this case, one-year-olds to eighty-year-olds roamed the ***** streets splashing ice-cold water from hoses and water guns and smeared each other with chalk in buckets.
The street they were being shoved along was crowded with slick, drunk bodies. The heat of the afternoon sun shone down on their backs. The sign that introduced excited people in was sprayed by a passing pick-up truck filled with screaming locals. “WELCOME TO SOI COWBOY” printed the red letters.
Red-faced fat foreigners held in each arm a tiny ******* with their bright lace bras showing through the wet see-through shirt and their black eye shadow playing havoc with their cheeks.  Country-side Thai music blared in its jumpy, quirky manner with the over done sound effects. Those nasal voices of dark skinned women with their skins covered with make-up to an ashy white whined out of the stereos. A man with the head of a buffalo mask sauntered past. It was a mark of how wild things got at Songkran that eyes merely flickered over the shirtless buffalo briefly with a quick laugh. Transsexuals clad in diamond-studded flip-flops, wet white tank tops and mini jeans shorts the size of underwear danced to the blasting music from the open pubs down either side of the road. Their surgically-made ******* were all-too visible in the white shirts, their dark ******* poking out as they grabbed the crotches of good-looking men and boys that passed by, squealing and rubbing their bodies against white men especially. Most of these white foreigners had a look of bewildered pleased ness... for only a few realized that underneath that squeaky voice was a very deep rumble, and underneath those lacy thongs lay a very big surprise indeed.
One of the better-looking boys in the group, his green eyes and pointed chin drawing the fancy of many hookers, was pulled off by four pairs of wet skinny arms touching him and yelling in broken English, “Oh so handsome! You so handsome! I love you! What your name! You tell me your name, handsome boy!”
The handsome boy proceeded to manage some sort of scream for help while laughing until his stomach ached. It was Songkran; it was a merry time, and he knew he was good-looking. Kat, who held a secret crush on him laughed amusedly at his yelping.
Emily stumbled after him with Kat and parted through the crowd of ladies in time to see a tiny little ****** trip on her squeaking flip-flops and fall beside a sprawled figure, face down in the ***** road with a massive bag of ice on top of him.
“Hey! Are you alright?” Emily cried, half-amused and half-concerned, lifting the heavy ice bag off his shoulders.
Kat rushed forward, laughing but compromising her concern with furrowed brows and helped him up. “You okay Tom?”
He whimpered in pain and put a hand on his neck, rubbing it sorely. “That ice bag was ******* heavy.” The girls decided to make no note of his skinny arms.
They walked back to their group of friends who turned around and saw a limping green-eyed boy and roared with laughter. The noise caught the attention of predators searching for a good target and they were hosed down with water pipes.
Suddenly Emily felt a huge body lift her up and swing her around while hands plastered her with wet chalk.
“Emily!”
She felt safe hands grab her and looked up into the pair of dark chocolate eyes. They were a little annoyed as they flickered over the fat drunk man who released her heavily but it was Songkran, and he managed to laugh at her bewildered expression.
Just then they passed a horde of prostitutes and she felt him being ripped from her. “I like this one!” screeched a passing market lady who rushed in to jump on him. “I like this one! Let’s keep this one!” They dunk his head in a bucket of white goo.
She screeched with laughter and even at something that silly, felt protective of him. “Brad!”
He was too busy being attacked. “Brad!” she tried to reach in and he opened his mouth to call out to her. That was a big mistake, he realized, as he received a handful of powder in his mouth. Spitting, coughing, and trying to breathe through nostrils blocked with powder he managed to wipe his stinging eyes clean. The prostitutes released him but not before a huge ******* screamed with glee at his straight nose and thin red lips, and reached forward giving his crotch a good grab. He screeched in genuine disgust and fear, had a moments feeling of guilt in case he had offended the ******* which was immediately wept away as he, no she, no it, yelped joyfully and massaged his **** before trotting off to his, no her, no its next victim.
Where was Emily? With his height, he managed to see a brown head that stuck above the other dark-haired and light-haired heads being jostled out of the street by the moving crowd. He ran to catch up and grabbed Emily’s hand as the group of teenagers tripped out of “Soi Cowboy”.  
They stood for a moment catching their breath. Zoey, a tiny little girl with a chest that threatened to put her out of balance, pushed her brown curls out of her face. A red glow was starting to spread over her cheeks.
Kat laughed scornfully, her wide smile spreading generously over her face. “Sunburn?! You white girl!”  
They had all been out around the streets since early morning and it was late in the afternoon now. Rose’s cheeks were flushed and the tip of Kat’s nose was a little pink herself. The rest of them, with their darker skin, had tanned slightly but unnoticeably. They laughed at Zoey for a short while. It was an interesting group of friends: all of them of mixed heritages from around the world with different backgrounds that became common in the world of International schools. It was alright to tease Emily’s honey skin; it was funny to crack jokes about Stefan’s hairiness; it was hilarious when Zoey tried to tan.
Emily shot a picture of everyone laughing: their clothes wet, their faces scrunched up, eyeliner smudged (Kat and Rose had lined their eyes with water proof kohl that of course wasn’t really waterproof), their cheeks and chin caked a crumbly white.
Kat and Zoey clambered over her shoulders, peering at the little digital screen of the water proof camera. “Ew! Gross!” yelled Kat who was only used to pictures of her lips rosy from lipstick, camera at a flattering angle with a bright flash from her professional equipment that made her black-lined green eyes sparkle like emeralds.
“Delete! I look sick!”
Even Zoey, who admired Kat’s photogenic ness to a great extent, could find no words of solace except to say, “Me too! I look gross! Delete! Now!”
Emily just laughed and said, “No you don’t.” Of course it wasn’t a type of picture they’d profile on Facebook, but all the same it was beautiful with their wild-looking and uninhibited faces and un-posing body shapes, curled up in laughter.
Zoey snatched the camera from her and they fiddled with the buttons till the picture was deleted. It was regretful, annoying, but not unexpected.
Emily rubbed her sore knees and noticed how Tom was still rubbing his neck sorrowfully with Stefan laughing at him, shaking his head wearily. Brad was holding onto her arm a little tiredly, Kat and Zoey had their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulder for leaning support and Rose and Emily’s younger brother, Jason, were standing together, staring absen

My baby moves in jumps and flutters inside me,
like the barn swallows that make nests
of dirt and twigs outside the restaurant.
Yesterday they disappeared
and I learned that a maintenance man came and hosed them down.  
Tragic, he said.
But necessary.  
Too much bird ****.  
When I got pregnant
it felt like waking up at the top of a roller coaster.
And then an engagement.  
Somehow
this is how my life is going
and somehow it does not feel like cliche.
Ask as many what-ifs as you want
but there is just a single trajectory.
Even though you have to fall asleep one day
before waking in the next.
Moving through concentric circles and trying to find the center.
Biology is happening
in a part of me that I am still getting to know.  
Kaleidoscoping.
She was once the size of a grape
but now I read she can blink her eyelids.
She is also not like the barn swallows.

I'm Bailey.
I sometimes forget to recycle.
I'm from singing camels and trigonometry.
From soap bubbles and yellow scarves, Irish hymns and Zucchini the ferret,
piano keys, bluebonnet seeds, and DO NOT ENTER signs.
From salt.
I'm the color of hosed off sidewalk chalk.
I'm all summer in a day.
I'm a conglomeration of artistic thoughts that make me look more profound than I actually am.
I'm your infinite playlist.
I'm from elephant necklaces and rosemary bushes
from high-heeled taps and Camelot
threadless socks, shopping carts, and impromptu salons.
I'm the fifth ninja turtle.
I live where you laugh so hard you cry.
I'm from carrots and ranch.
I'm a happy cow from California, a fortune cookie with your enchilada, a drill team skirt over marching uniforms.
I'm from unfinished crossword puzzles and forgotten dead languages
from pixie dust and snapcracklepop
from actually-it's-pronounced's, because-i-said-so's, and that's-not-my-name's.
I am Nancy Drew with a Peter Pan complex.
I come from honeysuckle candles and sunroofs of pickup trucks
broken-down fences and peach salsa
the second you step onstage.
I'm from in between.
I'm Bailey.
I don't drive the speed limit.
And I'm from you.

Every year it was brought down from the garage rafters.  Green metal frame and
springs, green canvas with white fringe and a little green pillow.  It was laid out, hosed
off and erected.  Grandpa couldn't have done it without us grand kids.  He said so.  It
was placed in a spot of honor.  Just a couple of feet from the picnic table and in a spot
that was always in the afternoon shade.  A folding T.V. tray was placed next to it to
hold cold drinks and snacks.  Within a few days, the grass under the frame would be
brown and dead.  The grass at the sides of the hammock would just be plain gone.  
Scuffed away by feet, as we kids sat on the edge and swayed side to side.

After mowing the lawn, washing the car, or doing any other chores needed, Grandpa
would go inside and put on his "Hammock clothes".  This consisted of a pair of Bermuda
shorts and a ribbed tank style Tee.  White socks and brown sandals completed the
outfit.  Once dressed appropriately, he would head for the hammock.  The first "sit" of
the summer season was always a bit touchy.  One had to get use to the hang of it.

There he would stand, next to the hammock.  Cold drink in his one hand, the T.V. tray
forgotten.  His slightly bald head and stick thin legs already slightly sun burned.  Slowly,
he would start to lower himself.  Reaching back with his free hand to grab the edge of
the hammock.

Note**  of course us kids, grandma and mom would all be spying out of the corner of
our eyes to watch this ritual.

Then came the "Grandpa Sit".  Grandpa would rock slightly forward and back on his
feet.  1-2-3 and ....SIT!  A few wobbles.  A couple sloshes of his lemonade.  All of us
yelling  "Whooooaaaaaa".  He would sit there on the edge of the hammock, holding
himself steady with one hand on the edge.  His feet firmly planted on the grass and his
other hand holding his cold drink high aloft.

Now, the sandals needed to be taken off.  One of us grand kids would run over and
help take them off.  Tickling his feet as we did so.

So far, no damage to life or limb.

Ah, but he was not yet fully on the hammock yet.

Now came the "Swing and lie down" move.

Slowly, grandpa would reach behind himself and grasp the far edge of the canvas.  
drink in his other hand still held aloft.  O.K.....1-2-3...SWING the legs up and quickly lie
back.  Let the hammock come to a stop.

Where's Grandpa?

On the ground on the other side of the hammock soaked in lemonade.

Summer was officially started!

OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
HOW BIG WE'VE SEEN YOU GROWN
YOUR BUILDINGS MADE BY ELLIS-DON
YOUR SKYLINE BY CAMPEAU,
THE MAYOR HAS KEPT EXPANDING
IT' TOO HARD TO BELIEVE
IF LONDON GETS MUCH LARGER THEN,
I KNOW WE'LL HAVE TO LEAVE.
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
YOU'VE GROWN UP REALLY FAST
YOU SHOW NO SIGNS OF SLOWING DOWN
HOW LONG WILL THIS ALL LAST ?
YOUR ROADS ARE ALWAYS RIPPED UP
IT'S REALLY SAD TO SEE
TO FIND THE ROUTE THAT LEADS TO WORK
WE CALL THE P.U.C.
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
WE DON'T KNOW YOU NO MORE
YOU'VE GROWN SO BIG WE DON'T KNOW HOW
TO FIND THE CORNER STORE
WE THING YOUR PARKS ARE LOVELY
THE BEST WE'VE EVER SEEN
THE ONLY PROBLEM THAT WE SEE
IS THAT THEY'RE FEW AND FAR BETWEEN.
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
YOU'RE NOT MANAGED TOO WELL
'CAUSE EVERYTIME IT SEEMS TO SNOW
YOUR BUDGET'S SHOT TO HELL
YOU NEVER HAVE THE MONEY
TO KEEP THE STREETS SO CLEAR
YOU'RE BUSIER AT LABATT'S PARK
DECIDING TO SELL BEER.
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
WE KNOW YOU MUST EXPAND
THE PROBLEM THAT WE HAVE WITH THIS
WE'RE LOSING OUR FARM LAND
TO SHOW THE KIDDIES CATTLE
WE TAKE THEM TO THE ZOO
AND WHEN OUR KIDS ASKE WHY THEY'RE HERE
THEY MOVE WHEN LONDON GREW.
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
YOU'VE ******* UP ONCE AGAIN
YOUR FOOTBALL FIELD HAS GOT NO LIGHTS
AND THAT'S TICKED OF TSN
IN ORDER TO PLAY NIGHT GAMES
YOU HAVE TO SPEND A LOAD
OF OUR FIRST FIFTEEN GAMES AT HOME
WE PLAYED SIX ON THE ROAD.
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
YOU'TRE PEPPERED WITH STRIP MALLS
WE'VE MORE OF THESE IN THIS FAIR TOWN
THAN SPALDING HAS BASEBALLS
INSTEAD OF SPENDING MONEY
ON PLAZAS SUCH AS THESE
WHEY DON'T YOU HELP THE HOMELESS
SO THESE POOR FOLKS DON'T FREEZE
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
GETS BIGGER EVERY DAY
THE PROBLEM THAT I HAVE WITH THIS
IS WE'RE THE ONE'S WHO PAY
EACH TIME A NEW FIRM COMES HERE
I FEEL WE'RE GETTING HOSED
FOR EVERY ONE THAT COMES TO TOWN
THERE TWO MORE THAT HAVE CLOSED
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
YOU MUST THINK I'M A FOOL
YOU WANT TO RAISE MY TAXES UP
TO PAY FOR YOUR NEW POOL
AN AQUATIC CENTER
IS SURE A GOOD IDEA
TOO BAD THE **** THING COSTS SO MUCH
SO, WE DON'T NEED IT HERE
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
IT CHANGES BY THE DAY
YOU'VE ANNEXED UP WESTMINISTER
AND WE'RE THE ONE'S WHO PAY
YOU DO NOT WANT TO HIT THEM
WITH TAX HIKES REALLY QUICK
SO WE MAKE UP THE DEFECIT
IT REALLY MAKES ME SICK
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
WITH WHITE ELEPHANTS GALORE
YOUR CONVENTION CENTRE'S LOSING BUCKS
THIS CAN'T GO ON NO MORE
YOU SHOULD HAVE LEARNED YOUR LESSON
BESIDE CENTENNIAL HALL
YOU'VE GOT AN EMPLY PLAZA THERE
NOW YOU'VE AN EMPTY MALL
OUT LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
IS REALLY LIKE T.O
IT'S NOT AS LARGE IN SIZE JUST YET
BUT, GIVE IT TIME TO GROW
THE DOWNTOWN IS MORE DANGEROUS
WITH FOLKS SCARED FOR THEIR LIVES
JUST TELL ME NOW WHERE DO THESE KIDS
GET ALL THESE GUNS AND KNIVES?
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
PLEASE THINK ON THIS REAL WELL
'CAUSE IF WE STAY ON THIS SAME COURSE
WE'RE HEADING STRAIGHT TO HELL
YOU'RE ALWAYS TRYING NEW THINGS
THAT TURN IN TO A JOKE
REMBEMBER THIS NEXT TIME YOU TRY
DON'T FIX WHAT ISN'T BROKE!
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
TWENTY YEARS HAVE PASSED
SINCE I FIRST WROTE THIS EPIC POEM
NOW THIS VERSE IS THE LAST
REGARDLESS WHERE I TRAVEL
NO MATTER WHERE I ROAM
I'LL THINK OF LITTLE LONDON TOWN
THE PLACE IT IS MY HOME.

Since fifty-eight
the jaycees come
rounding up rattlers
in Sweetwater, folk from all over
for a weekend in March
when snakes leave the hibernaculum
and slide back up
into west Texas and the wind.

Mr. Herrera knew his Luis and I
rode the seven-thirty bus,
had cokes and potato chip sandwiches
with Mitchell and Thomas
after Sunday school,
shot jackrabbits that ate alfalfa
in the dairy pastures.

Dad said he reckoned,
so I took Mr. Herrera’s apron
and offer and brought my knife
that Luis sharpened to a razor
and shaved his forearm hairs with.  
Frank tried that once,
sliced himself like a tomato
when he slipped.

Snake shop’s a butchery,
down the main street
past the dairy mart
and primary school,
in the yellow open scrub.  
If buzzards had noses like dogs
they’d flock, smell that
snake blood from Mexico.

Rattlesnake skinning
is all stringy guts, soft skin,
pulled teeth and poison
squeezed out of gum sockets
like milk from an old cow’s ****.  
Fancy skins with eyeholes
and lips cost ten,
specialty of Mr. Herrera.
Headless strip plus rattle
just two dollars the foot.
Cut the belly lengthwise
and rip,
easy near the backbone
where it catches.  

Out-of-towners buy anything.
Wallets, boots, belts with snakeskin
sewed or tacked on,
lucky rattles, picture frames
for proof of their longest catch.  
God-fearing jaycees doing good
for our communities will eat
deep-fried snake meat,
like tough old chicken,
but good with black-eyed peas
and sweet tea on the side.  

The women even come
once the round-up is done,
the church women, the Jesus women
with belief
and pistachio pudding
with marshmallows,
like Mrs. Howard
who shrieked “Boyd!”
and lectured about hygiene
when she saw me in my apron
and ****** to my elbows,
menacing the street.  

The biggest round-up days
we worked late, past midnight.
Past the dairy mart hours,
so once the skins
were all peeled and stretched
and the sticky linoleum
hosed down some,
Luis and I walked back through town,
deserted, dark





except lights from Roscoe and Roby
and even big Abilene
miles away, shining
across the flat nothing,
coyotes yip yip yipping
somewhere near the lake farther north.

Luis showed me how to eat peanuts
shells and all
and let me try on his brother’s
high school letter jacket.  
Late night in Sweetwater is a nothing.  
The wind never stops blowing,
and there’s nobody else
on the ******* planet.

Us living as we do upside down. 
And the new word to have is revolution. 
People don't even want to hear the preacher 
spill or spiel because God's whole card has been thoroughly piqued. 
And America is now blood and tears instead of milk and honey. 
The youngsters who were programmed to continue 
******* up woke up one night digging 
Paul Revere and Nat Turner as the good guys. 
America stripped for bed and we had not all yet closed our eyes.
The signs of Truth were tattooed across our open ended ******. 
We learned to our amazement untold tale of scandal. 
Two long centuries buried in the musty vault, 
hosed down daily with a gagging perfume. 
America was a ******* the illegitimate daughter of the mother country 
whose legs were then spread around the world 
and a ****** known as freedom, free doom. 
Democracy, liberty, and justice were revolutionary code names 
that preceded the bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling 
in the mother country's crotch
What does Webster say about soul?
All I want is a good home and a wife
and a children and some food to feed them every night.
After all is said and done build a new route to China if they'll have you.
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?

Dangerous times nearing midnight. Every day opens with fresh blood or ink drying down our throats, "...and I Must Scream.", Harlan Ellison [1967]

Honeycombs of humanity sink into themselves and form a thick syrup they claim will cure our ailments, but still tastes like Third *****™ nationalism.  They burn our shelters and chant, "Home."

Resistance looks strange. People aren't choking on gag orders, they're going around the wall, but hundreds are behind bars for protest, or still getting killed on the streets, or getting hosed down in the cold for advocating clean water. They're putting bounties on antifascists.

We beat that ***** Richard Spencer, but we're yet to strike the one in the White House.

Rattlesnakes under our heels, we've grown into something fiercer.
Something deadlier.

Looking out from the launch
Swans were gliding on by
There were boats on the water
And more birds in the sky
Kids were down by the boatramp
Sailing boats  of all kinds
they were captains and pirates
At least in their minds
The small lake was covered
With vessels galore
And up past the boat ramp
You could rent out some more
Paddle boats sat *******
Waiting till late in the day
When the weather was better
And the swans were away
Further on up the shore
Sat an old french fry stand
The fries were just perfect
But, their burgers were bland
Cotton Candy as well
Made their menu  a treat
And the old carny posters
Made the building complete
When the park was first christened
seventy years or so back
The fry stand was opened
They just sold "******* Jack"
As time passed it added
More items to buy
Like their bland old hamburgers
And their fantastic fries
The posters were left
From an old carny show
They had amazing old pictures
Of the geeks, so you'd go
To attract some attention
They stuck some on the side
Like "Phillip" the lizard
And his hairy faced bride
Away just a bit,
Were some rides all closed down
There were bumper cars, zipper
and a train back to town
They were all closed and shuttered
And weren't used any more
And the train had stopped running
Not long after the war
By the boat dock, a building
Full of lockers to use
There was just enough room
For your clothes and some shoes
A quarter would rent one
If you wanted to store
Your valuable items
While you went by the shore
In the afternoon sun
When the kids came from school
You could buy some balloons
And get face painting too
Clarence, just Clarence
made balloons every day
He made whatever you wanted
And took whatever you'd pay
He'd paint up their faces
Make them scary or sweet
And he did it each day
with clown shoes on his feet
Clarence, just Clarence
was there every day
He showed up around lunchtime
In the heat of the day
No one knew Clarence
By any more than
Clarence, just Clarence
The smiling old man
For thirty odd years
He'd come down to the park
Showing up around noon-ish
And not leaving till dark
He took what you'd pay
For his air filled  creations
Making creatures galore
From his imagination
He'd buy fries for his lunch
And a coke to wash down
The bland hamburgers
That were just flavored...brown
He created more smiles
Than anyone by the lake
Painting faces for children
He never made a mistake
His wasn't a fortune
But at the end of the day
He'd made money and smiles
And they were worth more than pay
When the boats were all stored
And the fry stand was closed
All the boats were locked up
And the sidewalks were hosed
Clarence, just Clarence
took two quarters in hand
And he went to the lockers
Behind the boat rental stand
Inside, there were showers
And a bench just to sit
And he'd open two lockers
And he'd think for a bit
He'd wash off his face paint
Change his clothes of the day
Then he'd switch them for others
He had lockered away
See, Clarence..just Clarence
spent his life in the park
Making smiles in daylight
And he slept here when dark
He locked his persona
In locker nineteen
And he took a small pack out
All camoflauge green
he left the small building
And went down by a light
There he spread out the contents
Of his pack, for the night
A blanket, one pillow
Just the size for his head
Then on the hard bench
He'd lie down...go to bed
He'd be gone the next morning
Before the park saw the sun
He would gather his pack up
And he'd be off on the run
As the weather got colder
He'd find a tropical place
To find one more park
Where he could paint one more face
He'd leave here each winter
But be back in the spring
His life was a circle
You know...that has a nice ring.
So, Clarence, just Clarence
made balloons and made smiles
And he lived in two parks
Spread over miles and miles
No one knew Clarence
Or just where he came from
but Clarence, just Clarence
will be missed when he's gone.

[Justin Vernon - Bon Iver: Sample From "Woods"]
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time
I‘m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time

[Hook 1 x2]
I’m lost in the world, I’m down on my mind
I’m new in the city, and I’m down for the night
Down for the night
Said she’s down for the night

[Kanye West - Verse 1]
You're my devil, you're my angel
You're my heaven, you're my hell
You're my now, you're my forever
You're my freedom, you're my jail
You're my lies, you're my truth
You're my war, you're my truce
You're my questions, you're my proof
You're my stress and you're my masseuse
Mamasaymamasamamakusa
Lost in this plastic life
Let's break out of this fake *** party
Turn this in to a classic night
If we die in each others arms we still get laid in our afterlife
If we die in each others arms we still get laid, yeah

[Hook 2]
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
(Run from the lights, run from the night)
I’m building a still to slow down the time
(Run for your life, Down for the night...)
I’m lost in the world, I’m down on my mind
I’m new in the city, and I’m down for the night
Down for the night
Said she’s down for the night
(Run from the lights, run from the night)

[Bridge]
Who will survive in America
Who will survive in America
Who will survive in America

[Hook]

[Gil-Scott Heron]
Us living as we do upside down. And the new word to have is revolution
People don’t even want to hear the preacher spill or spiel
Because God’s whole card has been thoroughly piqued
And America is now blood and tears Instead of milk and honey
The youngsters who were programmed To continue ******* up
Woke up one night digging Paul Revere and Nat Turner as the good guys
America stripped for bed and we had not all yet closed our eyes
The signs of Truth were tattooed across our often entered ******
We learned to our amazement untold tale of scandal. Two long centuries buried In the musty vault, hosed down daily with a gagging perfume
America was a ******* the illegitimate daughter of the mother country
Whose legs were then spread around the world and a ****** known as freedom, free doom. Democracy, liberty, and justice
Were revolutionary code names that preceded the bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling in the mother country’s crotch
What does Webster say about soul?
All I want is a good home and a wife
And a children and some food to feed them every night
After all is said and done build a new route to China if they’ll have you

Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?

I've been given a challenge
A duel of sorts you'll see
Not over the love of a women
But over the love of poetry

Both starting off standing back to back
Walking twenty paces like gentlemen
I slowly turn, only to learn
The true power of Carl's pen

As I lay on the ground, poetic heart bleeding
It all flashes before my eyes
That is when it is I see
I've lead a typically boring life

From childhood to adulthood
Flashing by at supersonic speed
No need to slow down the reel
Not much to see that interesting

But then it all starts to sputter
Slowing to a normal pace
Stopping at the best day of my life
Which just happens to be yesterday

I woke up just like every other morning
Hosed off out front like I always do
Of course all my neighbors were out there watching
They can't seem to get enough of me in the ****

I got the paper from off of the driveway
(Still in the **** mind you)
I was already out in the sun with my moon a shinning
What else was I supposed to do

On the front page I saw the winning numbers
My treasure staring back at me
Whooping and hollering through the neighborhood
I'd just won the lottery! Maybe I should throw on some jeans...

I went straight to Tallahassee
To pick up my multi million dollar check
Spend it like there's no tomorrow
Till there is none of it left

I bought boats and planes and automobiles
Had a babe on all four arms (I even bought extra arms)
Then flash forward to today
Where it is I bought the farm

So alas my life's movie stops
To where it is I am now
Having taken up this challenge
Laying on the cold damp ground

Yes, I finally had the chance
To put my typically boring life behind
Snuffed out by the Master's pen
Left with no rhyme and dying
Thanks Carl...

I've always been nervous
not loud enough to say how I really
feel about this or that. OCD about strange
things like sugar packets and cups on the table
and gradients of tea. I could stand up for other
people but never for me. Always been quiet about
the things that matter and the things tattooed on
my heart like that bird on your arm.  The things that
speak to me in the middle of the night like knocks on a
door, Knock, Knock.  Wake up at three am because God
is yelling at me, but I can't tell any of YOU that because
of the bitterness locked in your chest and there's bitterness
locked in mine. For all this anxiety that I feel up in front of
this crowd, You all make me want to not say things out loud
Because as much as any one of you say you accept all things
you have never once accepted me. And I'm slapping pavement
with bare hands in the middle of the night, red callouses from
holding on too tight, begging for a way in when I'm only ever
gonna be left out because you've water-hosed me from your bathroom
tile like old chunks of grout. I've always been too nervous to say how
I really feel, because my God scares people away.

So here I am too afraid to look off this piece of paper because my voice has never been
above a whisper, and I'm too afraid to see any of you up close and personal,
a shake that no public speaking class could ever fix, because these tremors
are more like heart quakes, and all your demons are hitting my st-stutter
buttons, who ever said you weren't terrifying was a freaking liar

you
are.

They found themselves in that part of the city by accident. Arguments and resentment can cause that sort of aimless wandering, but it's always strange when the two are too stubborn to pull away and wander as individuals. The smells and the sounds shook them out of their thoughts, nutmeg and incense, rhythm and laughter of an unfamiliar hue. In front of them was the source of the music and motion, dimly lit in a recess of the street, but with the unmistakable scent of life pouring out of it. Drawn forward, as if by some invisible force, they entered that bar we resident ex-pats call L'Serpent Rougue.

Cushions and carpets and hookah smoke, dim lamps and cinnamon and coffee, above all the beat of the drums. Drums of all shapes and sizes, Darbouka's most numerous, played by toothless old men and bare chested youths, pounding out sound that got into the blood and burned the heart. They had no words for it, this throbbing in the chest. Barely through the door and already they felt the urge to loosen clothes, remove shoes, partake of unknown sensations. They were seated in a corner towards the back by a middle-aged man who gave them that appraising look purveyors of delights save for those they recognize as novices. Hossam didn't ask their order, immediately brought strong Turkish coffee and a double hosed brass hookah. He also guessed, correctly, that both of them drank whiskey. They sat back in their cushions, closer than they had been for weeks, and drank of that place as they would have of a complex wine or the work of a master painter.

Faces gazed unclothed out of lamplight, shorn of the daytime business-as-usual mask, bidding the couple to do likewise and share in this freedom. This sheer, abject celebration of humanity was something they had never seen or truly comprehended, something more in the way of an abstract idea like physics or the Trinity. But to have it here, now, ****** upon them in such a place was such a shock that perhaps they may yet have shied from it and fled, but it was at that moment that the music changed to a new tempo. Hossam excused himself from the bar and, picking up the Oud propped in a corner, took his place among the musicians.

Simoom was said to be the most beautiful woman in the city, and to have seen her that night, anyone would have believed it. Eyes not quite midnight, but the kind of dark blue that comes just before the sun hints at it's rise. Skin that rich olive color which moves all people deep inside, reminding them in a round about way of the days when the abundant harvest was a reason for rejoicing. The very ideal of grace as she took her own sacred place within the circle of the drummers.

Hossam began a melody, so worn with time and use that one could see the years fall from his body, could see through time to the passion that had always driven his music. And the drummers, young and old alike, followed slowly, almost hesitantly in his wake, as if unsure that they should try and accompany the wellspring flowing from his fingertips. But Simoom, she knew this song, this timeless outflowing, and matched every undulation, every direction Hossam poured out of his instrument and his heart. He played like some Sufi dervish caught up in ecstasy, flames of music which she danced through as a Jinn of the Hejaz.

All of this, the two almost estranged lovers became a part of. In one of those mysterious and unquantifiable facets of human experience, their finite lives became something else. This warmth they had never known suddenly reached out its arms and embraced them. In the midst of that dark place they had found their love descending into, by some chance or will or what have you, they arrived at what some might call a...what's the term...oh yes, "Den of Iniquity". This is the miracle: the differences and petty quarrels, resentments hidden for months, the weight of mundane life, all of the pinpricks upon the heart that lovers unknowingly bestow upon each other fell away, just as the passion of the Oud shed years from Hossam.

They left L'Serpent Rougue with his arm around her waist and her hand in his back pocket, smiling and open to the world. The walk home was itself a new adventure. They danced arm in arm in the middle of the street to a homeless man who played the fiddle, sang the words to their favorite '90s songs as they climbed up the apartment stairs.

Who cares what the landlord says anyway?

She had one of those Chinese calligraphy sets, and she had practiced with it in the years since it was given to her. Practiced that art almost as if it was the only thing that truly belonged to her. As if her entire identity was composed of beliefs ****** upon her by some outside force save for this. Little did she know that this conviction about being an almost carbon copy of ideas not truly his own was a feeling also held by her lover.

That night at the bar and in the street, he saw something in her that he had never witnessed before. The moment when after they got home he took off his shirt and asked her to get the brush and ink was close to forcing him to recede back into a shell. The memories of a person he used to be, fallen far away. But then she smiled and pushed him back upon that rickety bed. She took that brush and ink, painted her soul onto his secret places, and he did the same in turn to her.

A man died outside the bank
His death shattered windows
And stripped leaves from trees

After his blood and meat
Were hosed off the street
The pink froth went down a grate

Look stranger.
I have been through more **** than an elephant's stable boy.
My **** stinks up rooms sometimes, and so many are polite to ignore the smell.
I appreciate that.
One time I ate the wrong stuff, and my **** got fired across a crowd, ruining everyone's night.
They hosed me down with diarrhoea, which I carry around too.
They had the right though. I don't blame them.
I went back to that place a year a later, and the **** smell came off me. They were really polite.
I appreciated that.
So stranger.
Please tell me if the **** I've been through gets spat on your plate.
Tell me if I'm making you uncomfortable with the smell.
And thank you for being polite.

I don’t want to live in a universe where cats are considered liquids— They’re bad enough as they are.

So some idiot decided that cats fit the definition of a liquid—
“a substance that flows freely but is of constant volume”.

Obviously the dictionary is wrong, wrong, WRONG.
I shall spend the rest of my dotage developing a definition that will not accept cats as liquids.

Perhaps “A freely flowing substance of constant volume that doesn’t meow.”— Perhaps not.

But wait,  cats don’t fit the definition after all. They don’t stay the same size, especially when frightened or wet.

I bet that idiot spends all his time watching cat videos and has never hosed down fighting cats in his backyard.

Dotage saved for more important stuff :
Continue study of Schrodinger’s aversion to cats, look for hidden messages in Emily Dickenson poems recited backwards, master fake outrage.

The day breaks and the morning comes alive
The down and outs leave their luxurious trappings
The shop doorways are hosed down
The rush hour rushes by
Shop girls display tomorrow's must haves
Perfume lingers over the first hit of coffee
Gossip travels at high speed
Numb minding work begins
Old lady fidgets with new generation card
The war was easier she sighs
Kids try to sell you tomorrows version of yesterday's wheel
No catch up it seems in the technological world
Only the race to the bottom
Traders popping uppers invent the ten day week
Live for today, dollar tomorrow
Gold and sharp suits can’t hide the body crumbling
Clinics battery charge the fading hopefuls
New lease of life, the temporary meltdown
One born every minute
Evening drinks ***** the day from hell
Home time sets tomorrow's doom alarm
The night people emerge
Shop doorway heaters blowing, provide luxury
Last weeks paper catches his eye
He immediately goes to stocks and shares
Things are looking great
Just as he predicted
The twenty four year old drifts off to sleep, smiling thoughts of yesteryear
Those were the days
Those were the days.

Naysayers gonna nay say, vacayers gonna vacate.
I like that I don't have to use hate;
so strong of a word to perpetrate,
this simple feeling of discord brought up on ones own accord.
Throw your hands in the ayer
if your a straight player
of the blame game,
taking in all the shame
like a flame that maimes
consuming and fuming

Get on some level
not on my level,
its reserved for those
dare devils
who can't care
or share
but want to.

cut that can't
or won't
*******.
just don't.
its a moot point and
It ain't fair
but to be real
its about the pair
that the universe designed
and that was meant for you
to complete.
you're a night
to some ones day.
youre standing in the spotlight for some one standing back stage.  
a yin to their Yang.
the turmoil
for some ones ecstasy.
or even being alive
while your other half dies.
you never know, but that's the way the world spins.
now
Steadily peel your skin, thin, kin like.
let's not succumb to the vast misunderstanding of human aesthetics.
one just can't belong to someone that needs anything.
to truly love someone or something you must first truly love yourself.
could you love me in this skin alone, walking around unbound by blood and bones and consistency and veins.
because I could,
would
and have done.
to believe you are a shell of yourself is like being your own exoskeleton.
having an out of body experience; lying there looking up at yourself wondering why you are here at this exact moment.
and why
did all events in my life culminate to this one moment of pure universal ebbing and flowing.
now read up on shedding,
that layer you just grew out of,
is unvieling this new glove.
rise above,
this is it.
feeling fit, feeling right.
3 am. weekday night.
widen your peripheral sight
its alright,
your slight change of might
may evolutionize this transition over night.
so its time to revolutionize our position for the right.

Enveloping this
eloping of collective consciousness, knowledge and intuition,
is the slow mellow bass of the  monks on mountain tops or in monasteries;
chanting as well as enchanting beautiful sweet moments of life and strife alive in our NOW.
carrying monotonously and steadily with mellow vibrating chords this unknown marriage of the cerebral bonding of these simple words.
for they are the key to your light and might and tight nit click.
get it?

I'll slow my roll for the roll call of my souls haul and ma's tall story of how worried she was  for her curry eating potato favorite
with some bone marrow on the down low.
she may be sad; however she will be had when the cab arrives.
its funny that he thrives off her drives and my strives for money.
I hope this makes sense, but if not get some intense metaphorical pretenses
up in that co centric dome
let this be known, and let the flowers of a new era be grown upon the previously sown, drones
of past scone munching, baby punching, number crunching, people at luncheons.
who needs that mess
we've got free press
and I'll address
what I think needs said.
so go with it, go against it, either way your thinking about it.

and when the truth is spoken
you will always have your token person,
who thinks their outspoken opinion has never been a
'not to mention'
and needs to be mentioned
but the tension isn't right
because they lost most of their night contemplating their own contribution rather than
what was the plight of the group as a whole.
they may elude the **** and bareness of the truth
but when truth is exposed
all doors are closed.
one can see the hosed, declothed and opposed inmate
for what she really is.

lady liberty and me, we're a lot a like as is, but to be on some other plane **** she ain't on some plain ****.
justice is her forte and the order of the court is death by a journey to sanity and back.
we have continuously for decades been doing the same things over and over again with the same results.
by choice...
this is the opposite of the definition of insanity which is only expecting different results. we have thrown ourselves into a will full suspension of disbelief and it will be our downfall.
who was the deciding factor in this big meeting where they decided how humans would lay out their lives according to a 'normal'.
but wait, justify that.
who can, just sayin, cause she nor me can but blame on any man, woman, can can dancer or politician that has the freedoms of any human being. yeah there are morals and ethics;
but what about those reefs of coral
and jungles full of antibiotics that laugh in the face of illness. who will stand for them?  
Ahem.
we can't say one thing and do another, oh wait.
that's the human resolve to almost anything really.
we don't recall its involvement in our lives, however we let it govern this encampment we have pioneered along the edges of our souls.
Oregon trail for minds veiled seems to fail and impale the true nature of the creature ruled by outside elements all the while toiling and searching for the yearning that it may quench with only the comfort of another being.

any situation, reveals that
there is unlimited potential in this gradual change we are experiencing.
a change for the bettering of humankind.
its provocative and emotive and natural and easy and thought provoking and beauty evoking.
but I'm smoking here and its bad for me but that doesn't stop me from poking my free will into this
while I sit here and am continuously choking on my own words I can't get out in the sequence I desire.
while making what few pointless decisions I get to make in the scheme of things.

why do I get to do that?

why must there be anything else. after all, if all that we are is not spiritual but physical, physics.
then wouldn't my purpose be to completely oppose another force within this environment equally and with as much force as it exerts on me.
something like an equal and opposite reaction.
or
a completion of a pair.
I'm out to find, define, refine, get in line, make mine, and waste time with my equal and opposite reaction.
please take action,
in any case, situation, point, or debate you come to find yourself placed in at the moment.
if you don't
then don't.
I can only dream and hope for a better world for the moment.
at least until I can get into this one deeper than I am already.
those of you who don't understand this I feel for you and hope that you come across some sort of super explanatory device because I'm never going to get it out right on paper in complete thoughts all nice

The sound of open water

Driven evil in your mind,

Backward of reasons

Given to Children and wildfowl,

Explaining Pacific Theatre

And its lack of stage direction,

Hosed down Holy Cities

In buckets of **** and Holy Water,

Made Holy Hell and Holy Romans

Wholly Unacceptable.

At the break of dawn
the curtains are drawn
The doors are closed
The sidewalks hosed
The sun breaks the clouds
The music is loud
And the clowns wake up again

Put on their masks
to join the masquerade
Their pain begins to fade
When they hide
And quietly slide,
through the day

The jokers fallen
from the deck
The angels have fallen again
This world is never perfect
Not even in the end

She walks through the noisy street
every day of the hot summer months.
She sees colorful kites flying overhead,
over the tops of roofs, coconut trees,
over the clotheslines, garbed in undergarments,
tattered shirts and poorly-sewn trousers.
She waits for playmates to come and
ask her to play tag, to waddle in the canals,
***** and smelly. The scent sticks even after
a week of being scrubbed and hosed down.

She climbs mango trees, steals the fruits and
with a mischievous smile, throws them
to her favorite playmate, waiting under the tree.
She loves long talks with her favorite playmate.
Sometimes, they would go to the park,
loiter around and walk hand in hand, just talking.
And sometimes, they like to play tag until dusk.
She adores this special playmate and considers him
her best friend in the whole, wide world.
She always looks forward to just sitting around
with him while he shows her cool card tricks,
holds her close, makes her feel like a princess--
his special, beloved and worshiped princess
Her world slows down; her mind falls silent;
her heart calms in his presence as he
shows her the universe, the simple things
city life denied her, the comforting silence
her buzzing soul is just coming to know.

She admires her beloved playmate, who, for her,
is the wisest, the cleverest spirit on the planet,
who shows her that it's possible to remain
a child forever, to keep the heart
of a young soul for all eternity, to see
the world in verses and poems, in stories and songs.
She weaves wonderful tales with her precious playmate,
stories full of fantasy and love, brimming with glory
and success, abound with heroism and dreams.

They will always be together, she and her playmate,
she vows. through summers and storms, through months
and years, through pain and pleasure, they will be together.
The summer later vanishes; the skyscrapers have become
too tall for kites to reach, the host of cars too noisy
to hear her playmates call. The world is just too fast
to remain a child forever. But there is one special
part of summer, one call she would always hear
above the din of cars and the loud ticking of clocks.
Her favorite playmate calls from the depths of her soul,
reminding her that she could always choose to be
a child forever, a child in her mind, in her spirit, in her heart.

I'll write. All the time.

In notebooks.

Remember those?

But POETRY is tough.  

Guess I prefer prose.

And yet, here I am,
waiting to be hosed.
Just like that bunny, I followed my nose.

AND HE RACED AND HE TRIED
AND HE WON BY GOD!!!

But the cereal market aint so easily awed.

The big wigs decided that
"Trix are for kids"

And relinquished the trophy from the bunny rabbit.

A child I was, it was so long ago.

BUT EVEN THEN I HAD THE SENSE TO KNOW
that the person (or rabbit) who had worked through and through was
entitled the prize, a world anew...

entitled the prize, just as foretold...

But *******, Trix Rabbit,
YOU DESERVED THE GOLD.

You worked, you trained, you made yourself speedy!
You were poor,  You were needy.

ONE DAY it will pass to a daughter so strong
while the brook runs deep and the dark vines wind long.

Another chance! It's what is deserved!
The players were cheaters, the judges absurd.

Injustice for all,
absorbed into my tiny child's brain
when the rabbit lost the race
and I felt his pain.

This happened to Malcolm

My sister Hadley hosed green stuff off the ***.

When she squirted my ear I ****** the neck rope. Her skin was hurt so

The horse folded back her lips and bit my thigh with brown yellow teeth.

I was thirteen. I locked myself in the bathroom.

I felt ***** as a smug prayer for running. Mom said,

“Come back out. Don’t get left behind.” My dad had run away.

I splashed my face cold and put on my jeans. I hustled out. Not for my mother.

Scottie was a Brock University girl from PEI who cut and doctored hooves and skin

And shod horses and filed their teeth. You could smell teeth filings and Stockholm tar

And when I went back to the head she held my face

A long time in her hands and said I knew you were a straight arrow.

That might have scared my mom.

That was the first time I ever did it with anyone.




Paul Anthony Hutchinson

Brother my brother you are deceived
Love cannot come out of hate
The underground movement you speak of is worthless for God's sake, if you don't fight with love.
We are in a battle not of white or black for the attack you see is spiritual.
Hatred is sin, distrust has no color. Love is the solution my brother. Reexamine your facts and come back to me with a different book to sale. Actually never mind. I already bought the one I need. I heed the words that were written in the story.
It talks about people once enslaved, yes ****** and gory.
But in the sands of Egypt, a leader was saved by the want to be killers daughter in the wading water. What a juxtaposition.
Has your position changed?
The leader of the movement was saved by the person you would hate. The movement was birthed by love. And that only comes from above
So I love you my brother but I can't buy your book. It costs too much to come this far. The water hosed walkers vs. street rioters. I can't buy your book. Not for five dollars or three
But please listen to me. Love is the solution. And it was not free.

Pitch black nights , conniving 'Beast of Imagination' inch forward
with each lightning strike
The splatter of a thunderous shower takes command
over every sound in the house , all it's occupants
roused from midnight dreams , war rages overhead ,
the dog and cat jump under the bed
Our driveway is hosed and the roof scrubbed clean ,
the Peach trees are wind dusted and the pig pen made tidy and neat
The tomatoes are fertilized , the Squash brought back to life ,
our porch thermometer is thankfully on the downward spiral and the
Cicadas joyfully return on the hour with the Canary moonlight* ....

Brake lights , running a red light , pair of white lights , the reflection in Gods eyes , beaming across the blacktop , shattered glass fell from a crepuscular blue morning sky , now covering the parkway , North and South ! Critical victims lie beside the deceased in makeshift triage , birds fly in at treetop level , gather en masse ! Sirens wail , blue , red , yellow flashing lights send them on their way ! Blackbirds gather at behest of Satan , monitor heavenly host walking amongst them ! The certain sign of Angels in our presence , blessing the wounded , gathering the chosen ! Morning fog burns from West to East , sunbeam reflects off of a hosed down street . Glass , metal , plastic and rubber now burnt offerings upon a mechanical pyre , a monument to inattentive diving , speed in battle with common sense . Reason , atonement in a car crash , chalk outlines , photographs . Yaw marks , brake lights and eye witnesses , security cameras from nearby shops that pan across the intersection ? A twenty second piece on the evening news !

Listen as they howl
With the sirens
And at the sky

Screeching
Bleeding
Yearning
And burning
All for the blood red moon
Like a prayer to God
Like a cry for mama

Listen as they weep
And pine
And ache in relentless agony
All for hope
For some kind of sign
A chill in the night
Or a smile from a star

Watch as they turn themselves
Inside out
In grief and shame
Dirtiness so deep
Even their souls must be hosed down

Watch as they crumble
And become so small
That they are now the earth
A patch of dirt for us to walk over
And smush down with our feet
Like they were never there at all

The souls of the ******
The sleepless coyotes
And the hounds of hell
Wail for me
And beg to take me down
Past the river banks
And deeper than the sea
To a no man’s land
And the place which carries no name.

Don't look at what this arrow is pointing to ------> I told you not to look
Or this one ---------------------------------------> You have disobeyed a doctah
Or this one ---------------------------------> You're supposed to do what I say
Or this one ----------> Now you shall die from a disease on a random day
Look at what this arrow is pointing to -----------> I'm smarterer than you
But not this one --------> To save your own life, you must now (gunshot)
Or this one ---------> Follow my Hello Poetry account and like this poem
Look at what this one is pointing to --> Don't worry about that gunshot
And this one -----------------------------------> I'll be fine, 'cause I'm a doctah

If this poem confuses you, good. You have obeyed the doctah and shall live a long, happy life. If this poem makes sense to you, you have disobeyed a doctah, and you're hosed (unless you're a doctah yourself).

I play in the mud beneath the window sill
Eat corn on the cob at a plastic child’s table
Mother takes pictures for posterity, smiles until

The child I was is dead, may he rot well
Too naïve to live, too weak to survive this hell

The backyard latch is opened with a rake
And I escape into the desert wilderness
To find castles, dragons, and a princess

Through the haze of rage I know to be as lethal as I would need to be
To **** the guilty would instead guarantee innocent casualties
But I’m looking into your eyes as you watch my brothers die

After the man’s blood and meat were hosed off the street
The pink froth went down a grate

You, my love
Have lied to me
Denied to me
My mercenary consolation prize
And legally stole my home

Pain comes in waves of light
Brightly colored from the left
Strips words of meaning, leaves only

Blood on feet…what a beautiful color
I’m ******

Loved to tell a joke ,  loved his Winston's , a pack always visible in a white dress shirt , cigarette in the corner of his mouth . Right eye quivered left eye open ,. seen him drunk once , alcohol on his breath every day ,  morning and afternoon ,. medals and commendations , not worth a cheeseburger at McDonalds , delivered the living , hauled back the dead , hosed chariot , back again , Purple Hearts and Silver Stars , another day at the office and Saigon bars ..A defeated man , No , a product of the sixties , American warrior with all its ambiguity , loved his comrades but cursed the ' system ' , face would palsy , voice growing deeper then silent , physically residing in Conley , emotionally in battle , at ease Major Jobe !

I went home today, straight after work
Because your curtains were closed
And although I didn't struggle with the quirk
Of thinking "But maybe..." (not really), hosed
Down with sobriety, I wondered at the darkness,
The loneliness, the determination (nose to grindstone,
Nose to grindstone), and with less than sharpness
I went home, nearly straight after work, and left you alone
And I left memories of another girl somewhere -
Possibly in your curtains - but you wouldn't care
To know that I no longer think, "I couldn't look him in the face" -
I now ask if I will be able to look at myself, in no one's place.

Garden Avenue Driveway*

They pulled up at 7:00 with spades, trowels and hoses
      and a spinning truck full of concrete soup.

Then as precisely as an olympic fencing team
      six men with well toughened and tanned biceps

drove the liquid rock down the chute
      and into the the “two by” forms.

Then with rhythm as fluid as a *corps de ballet
      they poured, smoothed, spread and coaxed the mix

in to a concrete lake as smooth as glass.
      and the morning’s deed was finished.

They hosed down the chute and walks,
      packed their tools and vanished by 9:00

leaving their concrete sheet cake
      to bake in the hot Illinois sun.