If the heart guards love and purity,
And the brain controls intellect,
What doth, I ask of you, reside within the kidney?

Not rhyme, nor reason, asketh thee,
('Tis true, I must confess) but why
Deny its place to the kidney?

Power embodied in the arms, you'd see
Within a man, immediately,
But it seems, unfortunately,
That none respect the kidney!

For wherein doth cleanliness stay?
Surely in the mind somewhere, shorely lock'd away
And what of pride and greed, if I may,
Inquire where they rest today?

They lie in the foul'd heart, entombed for eternity.
So what attribute, dear reader, can attribute
A shrine within the kidney?

I am in a room made of glass, sorry,
let me clarify,
the walls and doors are glass,
the carpet is woven by a machine where the workers are limited to toilet breaks,

the plants are plastic in pots of gravel

but the walls are glass and everyone can see in and I can see out.

The table is shaped like a kidney, don't ask me why, it just is, manufactured by a factory making furniture shaped like human organs.

That's the shape of the table, I can't change that,

and the chairs are moulded from one piece of plastic, in bright colours and people look in through glass walls.

I look out and I am really not there.

Look in the mirror. Let us both look.
Here is my naked body.
Apparently you like it,
I have no reason to.
Who bound us, me and my body?
Why must I die
together with it?
I have the right to know where the borderline  
between us is drawn.
Where am I, I, I myself.

Belly, am I in the belly? In the intestines?  
In the hollow of the ***? In a toe?
Apparently in the brain. I do not see it.
Take my brain out of my skull. I have the right  
to see myself. Don’t laugh.
That’s macabre, you say.

It’s not me who made
my body.
I wear the used rags of my family,  
an alien brain, fruit of chance, hair  
after my grandmother, the nose
glued together from a few dead noses.  
What do I have in common with all that?  
What do I have in common with you, who like  
my knee, what is my knee to me?

Surely
I would have chosen a different model.

I will leave both of you here,
my knee and you.
Don’t make a wry face, I will leave you all my body  
to play with.
And I will go.
There is no place for me here,
in this blind darkness waiting for
corruption.
I will run out, I will race
away from myself.
I will look for myself  
running
like crazy
till my last breath.

One must hurry
before death comes. For by then  
like a dog ****** by its chain
I will have to return
into this stridently suffering body.  
To go through the last
most strident ceremony of the body.

Defeated by the body,
slowly annihilated because of the body

I will become kidney failure
or the gangrene of the large intestine.  
And I will expire in shame.

And the universe will expire with me,  
reduced as it is
to a kidney failure
and the gangrene of the large intestine.

You were born five years before the Spanish Civil War that would see your father exiled.
Language came later to you than your little brother Manuel. And you stuttered for a time.
Unlike those who speak incessantly with nothing to say, you were quiet and reserved.
Your mother mistook shyness for dimness, a tragic mistake that scarred you for life.

When your brother Manuel died at the age of three from meningitis, you heard your mom
Exclaim: “God took my bright boy and left me the dull one.” You were four or five.
You never forgot those words. How could you? Yet you loved your mom with all your heart.
But you also withdrew further into a shell, solitude your companion and best friend.

You were, in fact, an exceptional child. Stuttering went away at five or so never to return,
And by the time you were in middle school, your teacher called your mom in for a rare
Conference and told her that yours was a gifted mind, and that you should be prepared
For university study in the sciences, particularly engineering.

She wrote your father exiled in Argentina to tell him the good news, that your teachers
Believed you would easily gain entrance to the (then and now) highly selective public university
Where seats were few, prized and very difficult to attain based on merit-based competitive
Exams. Your father’s response? “Buy him a couple of oxen and let him plow the fields.”

That reply from a highly respected man who was a big fish in a tiny pond in his native Oleiros
Of the time is beyond comprehension. He had apparently opted to preserve his own self-
Interest in having his son continue his family business and also work the family lands in his
Absence. That scar too was added to those that would never heal in your pure, huge heart.

Left with no support for living expenses for college (all it would have required), you moved on,
Disappointed and hurt, but not angry or bitter; you would simply find another way.
You took the competitive exams for the two local military training schools that would provide
An excellent vocational education and pay you a small salary in exchange for military service.

Of hundreds of applicants for the prized few seats in each of the two institutions, you
Scored first for the toughest of the two and thirteenth for the second. You had your pick.
You chose Fabrica de Armas, the lesser of the two, so that a classmate who had scored just
Below the cut-off at the better school could be admitted. That was you. Always and forever.

At the military school, you were finally in your element. You were to become a world-class
Machinist there—a profession that would have gotten you well paid work anywhere on earth
For as long as you wanted it. You were truly a mechanical genius who years later would add
Electronics, auto mechanics and specialized welding to his toolkit through formal training.

Given a well-stocked machine shop, you could reverse engineer every machine without
Blueprints and build a duplicate machine shop. You became a gifted master mechanic
And worked in line and supervisory positions at a handful of companies throughout your life in
Argentina and in the U.S., including Westinghouse, Warner-Lambert, and Pepsi Co.

You loved learning, especially in your fields (electronics, mechanics, welding) and expected
Perfection in everything you did. Every difficult job at work was given to you everywhere you
Worked. You would not sleep at night when a problem needed solving. You’d sketch
And calculate and re-sketch solutions and worked even in your dreams with singular passion.

You were more than a match for the academic and physical rigors of military school,
But life was difficult for you in the Franco era when some instructors would
Deprecatingly refer to you as “Roxo”—Galician for “red”-- reflecting your father’s
Support for the failed Republic. Eventually, the abuse was too much for you to bear.

Once while standing at attention in a corridor with the other cadets waiting for
Roll call, you were repeatedly poked in the back surreptitiously. Moving would cause
Demerits and demerits could cause loss of points on your final grade and arrest for
Successive weekends. You took it awhile, then lost your temper.

You turned to the cadet behind you and in a fluid motion grabbed him by his buttoned jacket
And one-handedly hung him up on a hook above a window where you were standing in line.
He thrashed about, hanging by the back of his jacket, until he was brought down by irate Military instructors.
You got weekend arrest for many weeks and a 10% final grade reduction.

A similar fate befell a co-worker a few years later in Buenos Aires who called you a
*******. You lifted him one handed by his throat and held him there until
Your co-workers intervened, forcibly persuading you to put him down.
That lesson was learned by all in no uncertain terms: Leave Felipe’s mom alone.

You were incredibly strong, especially in your youth—no doubt in part because of rigorous farm
Work, military school training and competitive sports. As a teenager, you once unwisely bent
Down to pick something up in view of a ram, presenting the animal an irresistible target.
It butted you and sent you flying into a haystack. It, too, quickly learned its lesson.

You dusted yourself off, charged the ram, grabbed it by the horns and twirled it around once,
Throwing it atop the same haystack as it had you. The animal was unhurt, but learned to
Give you a wide berth from that day forward. Overall, you were very slow to anger absent
Head-butting, repeated pokings, or disrespectful references to your mom by anyone.    

I seldom saw you angry and it was mom, not you, who was the disciplinarian, slipper in hand.
There were very few slaps from you for me. Mom would smack my behind with a slipper often
When I was little, mostly because I could be a real pain, wanting to know/try/do everything
Completely oblivious to the meaning of the word “no” or of my own limitations.

Mom would sometimes insist you give me a proper beating. On one such occasion for a
Forgotten transgression when I was nine, you  took me to your bedroom, took off your belt, sat
Me next to you and whipped your own arm and hand a few times, whispering to me “cry”,
Which I was happy to do unbidden. “Don’t tell mom.” I did not. No doubt she knew.

The prospect of serving in a military that considered you a traitor by blood became harder and
Harder to bear, and in the third year of school, one year prior to graduation, you left to join
Your exiled father in Argentina, to start a new life. You left behind a mother and two sisters you
Dearly loved to try your fortune in a new land. Your dog thereafter refused food, dying of grief.

You arrived in Buenos Aires to see a father you had not seen for ten years at the age of 17.
You were too young to work legally, but looked older than your years (a shared trait),
So you lied about your age and immediately found work as a Machinist/Mechanic first grade.
That was unheard of and brought you some jealousy and complaints in the union shop.

The union complained to the general manager about your top-salary and rank. He answered,
“I’ll give the same rank and salary to anyone in the company who can do what Felipe can do.”
No doubt the jealousy and grumblings continued by some for a time. But there were no takers.
And you soon won the group over, becoming their protected “baby-brother” mascot.

Your dad left for Spain within a year or so of your arrival when Franco issued a general pardon
To all dissidents who had not spilt blood (e.g., non combatants). He wanted you to return to
Help him reclaim the family business taken over by your mom in his absence with your help.
But you refused to give up the high salary, respect and independence denied you at home.

You were perhaps 18 and alone, living in a single room by a schoolhouse you had shared with Your dad.
But you had also found a new loving family in your uncle José, one of your father’s Brothers, and his family. José, and one of his daughters, Nieves and her
Husband, Emilio, and
Their children, Susana, Oscar (Ruben Gordé), and Osvaldo, became your new nuclear family.

You married mom in 1955 and had two failed business ventures in the quickly fading
Post-WW II Argentina of the late 1950s and early 1960s.The first, a machine shop, left
You with a small fortune in unpaid government contract work.  The second, a grocery store,
Also failed due to hyperinflation and credit extended too easily to needy customers.

Throughout this, you continued earning an exceptionally good salary. But in the mid 1960’s,
Nearly all of it went to pay back creditors of the failed grocery store. We had some really hard
Times. Someday I’ll write about that in some detail. Mom went to work as a maid, including for
Wealthy friends, and you left home at 4:00 a.m. to return long after dark to pay the bills.

 
The only luxury you and mom retained was my Catholic school tuition. There was no other
Extravagance. Not paying bills was never an option for you or mom. It never entered your
Minds. It was not a matter of law or pride, but a matter of honor. There were at least three very
Lean years where you and mom worked hard, earned well but we were truly poor.

You and mom took great pains to hide this from me—and suffered great privations to insulate
Me as best you could from the fallout of a shattered economy and your refusal to cut your loses
Had done to your life savings and to our once-comfortable middle-class life.
We came to the U.S. in the late 1960s after waiting for more than three years for visas—to a new land of hope.

Your sister and brother-in-law, Marisa and Manuel, made their own sacrifices to help bring us
Here. You had about $1,000 from the down payment on our tiny down-sized house, And
Mom’s pawned jewelry. (Hyperinflation and expenses ate up the remaining mortgage payments
Due). Other prized possessions were left in a trunk until you could reclaim them. You never did.

Even the airline tickets were paid for by Marisa and Manuel. You insisted upon arriving on
Written terms for repayment including interest. You were hired on the spot on your first
Interview as a mechanic, First Grade, despite not speaking a word of English. Two months later,
The debt was repaid, mom was working too and we moved into our first apartment.

You worked long hours, including Saturdays and daily overtime, to remake a nest egg.
Declining health forced you to retire at 63 and shortly thereafter you and mom moved out of
Queens into Orange County. You bought a townhouse two hours from my permanent residence
Upstate NY and for the next decade were happy, traveling with friends and visiting us often.

Then things started to change. Heart issues (two pacemakers), colon cancer, melanoma,
Liver and kidney disease caused by your many medications, high blood pressure, gout,
Gall bladder surgery, diabetes . . . . And still you moved forward, like the Energizer Bunny,
Patched up, battered, scarred, bruised but unstoppable and unflappable.

Then mom started to show signs of memory loss along with her other health issues. She was
Good at hiding her own ailments, and we noticed much later than we should have that there
Was a serious problem. Two years ago, her dementia worsening but still functional, she had
Gall bladder surgery with complications that required four separate surgeries in three months.

She never recovered and had to be placed in a nursing home. Several, in fact, as at first she
Refused food and you and I refused to simply let her waste away, which might have been
Kinder, but for the fact that “mientras hay vida, hay esperanza” as Spaniards say.
(While there is Life there is hope.) There is nothing beyond the power of God. Miracles do happen.
 
For two years you lived alone, refusing outside help, engendering numerous arguments about
Having someone go by a few times a week to help clean, cook, do chores. You were nothing if
Not stubborn (yet another shared trait). The last argument on the subject about two weeks ago
Ended in your crying. You’d accept no outside help until mom returned home. Period.

You were in great pain because of bulging discs in your spine and walked with one of those
Rolling seats with handlebars that mom and I picked out for you some years ago. You’d sit
As needed when the pain was too much, then continue with very little by way of complaints.
Ten days ago you finally agreed that you needed to get to the hospital to drain abdominal fluid.

Your failing liver produced it and it swelled your abdomen and lower extremities to the point
Where putting on shoes or clothing was very difficult, as was breathing. You called me from a
Local store crying that you could not find pants that would fit you. We talked, long distance,
And I calmed you down, as always, not allowing you to wallow in self pity but trying to help.

You went home and found a new pair of stretch pants Alice and I had bought you and you were
Happy. You had two changes of clothes that still fit to take to the hospital. No sweat, all was
Well. The procedure was not dangerous and you’d undergone it several times in recent years.
It would require a couple of days at the hospital and I’d see you again on the weekend.

I could not be with you on Monday, February 22 when you had to go to the hospital, as I nearly
Always had, because of work. You were supposed to be admitted the previous Friday, but
Doctors have days off too, and yours could not see you until Monday when I could not get off
Work. But you were not concerned; this was just routine. You’d be fine. I’d see you in just days.

We’d go see mom Friday, when you’d be much lighter and feel much better. Perhaps we’d go
Shopping for clothes if the procedure still left you too bloated for your usual clothes.
You drove to your doctor and then transported by ambulette. I was concerned, but not too Worried.
You called me sometime between five or six p.m. to tell me you were fine, resting.

“Don’t worry. I’m safe here and well cared for.” We talked for a little while about the usual
Things, with my assuring you I’d see you Friday or Saturday. You were tired and wanted to sleep
And I told you to call me if you woke up later that night or I’d speak to you the following day.
Around 10:00 p.m. I got a call from your cell and answered in the usual upbeat manner.

“Hey, Papi.” On the other side was a nurse telling me my dad had fallen. I assured her she was
Mistaken, as my dad was there for a routine procedure to drain abdominal fluid. “You don’t
Understand. He fell from his bed and struck his head on a nightstand or something
And his heart has stopped. We’re working on him for 20 minutes and it does not look good.”

“Can you get here?” I could not. I had had two or three glasses of wine shortly before the call
With dinner. I could not drive the three hours to Middletown. I cried. I prayed.
Fifteen minutes Later I got the call that you were gone. Lost in grief, not knowing what to do, I called my wife.
Shortly thereafter came a call from the coroner. An autopsy was required. I could not see you.

Four days later your body was finally released to the funeral director I had selected for his
Experience with the process of interment in Spain. I saw you for the last time to identify
Your body. I kissed my fingers and touched your mangled brow. I could not even have the
Comfort of an open casket viewing. You wanted cremation. You body awaits it as I write this.

You were alone, even in death alone. In the hospital as strangers worked on you. In the medical
Examiner’s office as you awaited the autopsy. In the autopsy table as they poked and prodded
And further rent your flesh looking for irrelevant clues that would change nothing and benefit
No one, least of all you. I could not be with you for days, and then only for a painful moment.

We will have a memorial service next Friday with your ashes and a mass on Saturday. I will
Never again see you in this life. Alice and I will take you home to your home town, to the
Cemetery in Oleiros, La Coruña, Spain this summer. There you will await the love of your life.
Who will join you in the fullness of time. She could not understand my tears or your passing.

There is one blessing to dementia. She asks for her mom, and says she is worried because she
Has not come to visit in some time. She is coming, she assures me whenever I see her.
You visited her every day except when health absolutely prevented it. You spent this February 10
Apart, your 61st wedding anniversary, too sick to visit her. Nor was I there. First time.

I hope you did not realize you were apart on the 10th but doubt it to be the case. I
Did not mention it, hoping you’d forgotten, and neither did you. You were my link to mom.
She cannot dial or answer a phone, so you would put your cell phone to her ear whenever I
Was not in class or meetings and could speak to her. She always recognized me by phone.

I am three hours from her. I could visit at most once or twice a month. Now even that phone
Lifeline is severed. Mom is completely alone, afraid, confused, and I cannot in the short term at
Least do much about that. You were not supposed to die first. It was my greatest fear, and
Yours, but as with so many things that we cannot change I put it in the back of my mind.

It kept me up many nights, but, like you, I still believed—and believe—in miracles.
I would speak every night with my you, often for an hour, on the way home from work late at
Night during my hour-long commute, or from home on days I worked from home as I cooked
Dinner. I mostly let you talk, trying to give you what comfort and social outlet I could.

You were lonely, sad, stuck in an endless cycle of emotional and physical pain.
Lately you were especially reticent to get off the phone. When mom was home and still
Relatively well, I’d call every day too but usually spoke to you only a few minutes and you’d
Transfer the phone to mom, with whom I usually chatted much longer.

For months, you’d had difficulty hanging up. I knew you did not want to go back to the couch,
To a meaningless TV program, or to writing more bills. You’d say good-bye, or “enough for
Today” and immediately begin a new thread, then repeat the cycle, sometimes five or six times.
You even told me, at least once crying recently, “Just hang up on me or I’ll just keep talking.”

I loved you, dad, with all my heart. We argued, and I’d often scream at you in frustration,
Knowing you would never take it to heart and would usually just ignore me and do as
You pleased. I knew how desperately you needed me, and I tried to be as patient as I could.
But there were days when I was just too tired, too frustrated, too full of other problems.

There were days when I got frustrated with you just staying on the phone for an hour when I
Needed to call Alice, to eat my cold dinner, or even to watch a favorite program. I felt guilty
And very seldom cut a conversation short, but I was frustrated nonetheless even knowing
How much you needed me and also how much I needed you, and how little you asked of me.  

How I would love to hear your voice again, even if you wanted to complain about the same old
Things or tell me in minutest detail some unimportant aspect of your day. I thought I would
Have you at least a little longer. A year? Two? God only knew, and I could hope. There would be
Time. I had so much more to share with you, so much more to learn when life eased up a bit.

You taught me to fish (it did not take) and to hunt (that took even less) and much of what I
Know about mechanics, and electronics. We worked on our cars together for years—from brake
Jobs, to mufflers, to real tune-ups in the days when points, condensers, and timing lights had Meaning, to rebuilding carburetors and fixing rust and dents, and power windows and more.

We were friends, good friends, who went on Sunday drives to favorite restaurants or shopping
For tools when I was single and lived at home. You taught me everything in life that I need to
Know about all the things that matter. The rest is meaningless paper and window dressing.
I knew all your few faults and your many colossal strengths and knew you to be the better man.

Not even close. I could never do what you did. I could never excel in my fields as you did in
Yours.  You were the real deal in every way, from every angle, throughout your life. I did not
Always treat you that way. But I loved you very deeply as anyone who knew us knows.
More importantly, you knew it. I told you often, unembarrassed in the telling. I love you, Dad.

The world was enriched by your journey. You do not leave behind wealth, or a body or work to
Outlive you. You never had your fifteen minutes in the sun. But you mattered. God knows your
Virtue, your absolute integrity, and the purity of your heart. I will never know a better man.
I will love you and miss you and carry you in my heart every day of my life. God bless you, dad.

I'm not sick
but I'm bleeding just the same
I'm not forgotten
but I can't remember my name
I carry a bag of stones
taken from my kidney in claim
I look down on my feet
no feet but guns and they take aim

I look up at the sky
no sky but tree crowns so dense
in front of me, as far as eyes can see
are waves and they build a fence
Faces from within look at me confused
muffled voices tell me I shall be reduced
Just me, my guns and my kidney stones
but I refused

I fell into a pit that looked like my face
They made me swallow my stones
Waking up inside a maze
I think these are my bones

Am I dead
or just insane
my guns are wet
is it all in vain
I regurgitate the stones they fed
spit out blood, the taste got plain

The maze of bones stands aflame
I dry in the heat
I hear a click, my feet to blame
I look down and pang!, I smell burning meat
I open my eyes, push through the frame
only a dream, I'm on the edge of my seat
Looking in the mirror, I fear this isn't the end of this game
I see the bag of stones and my reflection says "repeat".

My mother should be an author
She carves her soul into millions of pieces
Leaving it behind all of the family photos
When I see my mother
I see a woman
Who wants to hide her soul in a needle
Just so the screaming can stop in her mind,
These bottles are rattling in the living room
You see they have put shackles on her heart,
She can't love anymore
Without having ***** in her water bottle.

Where is she hiding her beer?
I feel like my mother is giving me a scavenger hunt
From the shards of glass that were left on the baseball fields
My mother used to take me to.

You know she always wasn't like this
She was strong minded and had a big heart
Tonight I will tell you the story of a woman
Who lost her soul to the Keystones to the Miller Lites
To the ****** Mary’s.
Let's rewind time
See ******* the soul in ten years

10- I look into my mother's eyes and I start to cry
Because I'm looking at a woman who I don't know anymore

9- I refused to bail her out of jail again
Because I'm afraid her kidney will fail if she drinks again

8- My mother staggered into the theater and disrupted the whole play,
My cast mates turned to me and asked, isn't that your mother?

7- I had to hold my mothers hand
Because she was throwing up the cocktail of drugs and alcohol

6- Daddy had to get mom out of jail she was drinking again

5- My mother throws the bottle across the room
And told me the reason why she drinks is because I'm Autistic

4- My mother overslept for my piano recital,
I didn't think it was a big deal
But I remember she spent the whole night crying
With a wine glass in her hand.

3- Mommy I didn't know your prescription came in a needle

2- Mommy the prescription say 2 pills a day
why are you taking 6?

1- My mother went to the doctor
Found out that she has Rheumatoid Arthritis
I don't know what that means,
But I know she will still be strong right?

0- She took me to a Dodger game for my birthday.
I remember Sammy Sosa hitting a home run that game
She told me that the only person that can **** your soul is yourself

I am hungry
and it is reflected
in the contours
of every inch
                  of skin
every cell a-flutter
tiny wings and heartbeats
activated within
right down to
the ribosomes and
kidney-shaped
mitochondria
right up through epidermis
woven as threads
of softness penetrating
your inner hard, dark parts
causing them
to melt into
                my light
I am craving
to feel your
absolute heart's
raging core
my aching flesh burning,
my heart, wrapped in
a love
              so pure
My need to be
devoured surfaces
in smoothness,
at a glance
You feel it acutely,
no room for doubt
or subtle chance
               I am ravenous
for muscle-worked arms
(arms that could easily
try to break)
to be supremely
gentle as you part
my thighs like the ocean
and sacredly partake
the slickness of your tongue
in my feminine grace
the stains of my love
drenching
                your noble face
your eyes on mine
as I sharply breathe
         need to hold your
head stroke your
           hair know that for me              
the king takes off that
garland of gold
breaking free of
all symbols of status
the only real treasure
the queen who
gives to him,
and who he now pleasures
     and I let myself be consumed
with the reverence
of a psalm
my love pouring into you
healing your hurts,
               like a balm
in this private landscape
we are the most
ferocious of tender
estuaries
in an eternal vista
in this hour of somewhere,
the sea hauls us in
like ancient creatures,
     bringing the fossils
back to life
in lustrous foam
as they
         inch their way
into the spirals
    that we
feel we could
call
     home‎

Book One


Prelude:

As Romans before them, they built the city upward—
layer ‘pon layer as the polar caps receded
layer by layer—preserving what they could, if someday
the waters may recede back into the former polar
ice caps; restoring the long inundated coastlines.


Home:

A man sat upon a tall pub stool stroking
his ginger beard while grasping a pint loosely
in his other hand. An elderly gent stood
next to him. The older gentleman noticed
that the ginger bearded man’s pint sat almost
quite near the bottom of its tulip glass.

A woman with eyes of amber and hair
as chestnut strolled through a vineyard amongst
the ripening grapes full of juice to soon
become wine. She clutched a notebook—behind (10)
thick black covers lay ideas and sketches
to bring the world to a more natural
state—balancing the wonders and the merits
of technology apace with the allure ‘n’
sanctity borne to the natural world.

When the ginger bearded man finished the
final drops of his stout, another appeared
heretofore him—courtesy owed to the elder
gentleman. “Notice dat ye got d’ mark
o’ a man accustom amid the seas,” (20)
he inferred; gesturing the black and blue
compass rose inscribed inside a ship’s wheel,
imbedded into the back of the ginger
bearded man’s weathered right hand.
                 “I have crewed
and skippered a many fine vessel, but I
am renouncing my life at sea—one final
voyage I have left inside of me:
one single terminal Irish-Atlantic
voyage t’ward home.” (30)
“Aye d’ sea can beh cold
‘nd harsh, but she enchants me heart. Ta where
are ye headed fer d’ place ye call home,
d’ere sonny boy?”
     “’tis not simply a where,
‘tis a who. Certain events have led me
to be separate from my wife. For five
eternal years I have been traveling—
waiting to be in her embrace. The force
of the Sea, she, is a cruel one. For (40)
it seams: at every tack or gybe the farther
off I am thrown from my homeward direction
to stranger and stranger lands… I have gone
to the graveyard of hell and the pearly gates
of (the so called) heaven; I have engaged
in foolhardy deals—made bets only a
gambling addict would place. All to just be
with Zara. I am homesick—Zara is my
home—it doesn’t matter where (physically)
we are located, my home is with Zara. I (50)
was advised to draw nigh the clove of Cork
and wait; wait for a man, but I was barely
given a clue as to who this man is,
only I must return him this:” the ginger
bearded man held out a dull silver pocket watch
with a frigate cut into the front cover
and two roses sharing a single stem
swirling upon themselves cut into
the back.
   “Can it be? ‘Tis meh watch dat meh (60)
fat’er gave t’ meh right before he died…
I lost it at sea many a year ago.
It left meh heartbroken—fer it was meh only
lasting mem’ry of him… Come to t’ink I
was told by a beggar in the street—I
do not remember how long ago—dat
I would happen across a man wit’ somet’ing
dear t’ meh, and I’d accomp’ny dis man
on a journey, and dis man would have upon
‘im d’ mark of a true sailor…” (70)
    “Dear elder man,
my name is Abraham; the mark you see
represents the control that I have on my
direction—thought it appears the Sea retains
some ascendancy… Yet now, it appears,
the Sea is upholding her bargain—though
a bit late... Do you, by chance, own a vessel
that can fair to Colorado?—all across
this mist’d island no skipper ‘ll uptake
my plea; they fear the sharp wrath of the Sea (80)
or (if they have no fear) simply claim my home
‘is not on their routes…’ i’tis a line I’ve
heard too often. I would’ve purchased a vessel,
but the Sea, she, has deprived me completely
of my identity and equity.”

Zara, with her rich chestnut hair sat upon
a fountain in a piazza—her half empty
heart longing to savor the hallow presence
of Abraham, and stroke his ginger beard…
Everyday she would look out at the sea (90)
whence he left…
     All encouraged her to: “forgo
further pursuit”; “he is likely deceased
by now”—his vessel (what left) scuttled amidst
the rocks of Cape Horn, yet Zara could feel
deep-seated inside her soul he is alive;
Alive (somewhere) fighting to return home.
Never would Zara leave; never would she
abandon post; she made that promise five
years ago as Abraham, ‘n’ his crew,
set out on their final voyage; and she (100)
would be ****** ere she broke her promise—a promise
of the heart—a promise of love. Abraham
said: “You are my lighthouse; your love, it, will guide
me home—keep me from danger—as long as you
remain my lighthouse, I’ll forever be
set to return home—return home to you.”

Out from Crosshaven did the old man take
steadfast Abraham en route to his home.
Grey Irish skies turned blue as they made their
way out on the Irish Sea, southwest, toward (110)
the southern end of the Appalachian Island.
The gentle biting spray of the waves breaking
over the bow and beam moistened the ginger
bearded face of Abraham; his tattooed
hands grasped the helm—his resolute stare kept him
and the old man acutely on course.
A shame,
it struck the old man, this would be the final
voyage of Abraham… he: the best crew
that the old man had ever came across; (120)
uncertain if simply the character
of Abraham or his pers’nal desire
to return home in the wake of five long
salty-cold years—a vassal to the Sea
and her changing whim. Never had the old
man seen his ship sail as fast as he did when
Abraham accorded its deck—each sail
set without flaw: easing and trimming sheets
fractions of an inch—purely to obtain
the slightest gain in speed; the display warmed (130)
the heart of the old man.
        And thus the elder
gent mused as he lightly puffed on his pipe
while sitting on the stern pulpit regarding
at Abraham’s passion to return home
(as he calls her):—maybe dis is d’ reason
d’ Sea has fought so hard, and lied, t’ keep
Abraham from returning home… Could not
bear t’ lose such fine a sailor from her
expanses—she is known t’ be quite a jealous (140)
mistress…
      But for all Abraham’s will and passion,
the old man insisted for the fellow
to rest; otherwise lack of sleep would cause
the REM fiddler to reap his debt—replace
clarity of mind with opacity.
Reluctantly stalwart Abraham gave
in and retire below deck—yet the old
man doubted the amount of rest that he
acquired in those moments out of his sight. (150)

For the days, then weeks, in the wake of their
departure from the port-island Crosshaven,
the seas were calm as open water can:
gentle azure rolling swells oscillated
and helped impel the vessel forward. The southern
craggy cape of the Appalachian
Island pierced the horizon. Like a threshold
it stood for Abraham—a major landmark;
the closest to home he had been in five
salty long years—his limbo was beginning                               (160)
to fade, his heart slowly—for the first time since
he left port in eastern Colorado—
started to feel replete again. The Great
Plains Sea—his final sea—he would not miss
the gleam of his lighthouse stalwart on shore.




Book Two

Oracle:**

Upon a beach, Abraham found himself alone—gasping
in gulps of moist air like that of a new born baby first (10)
experiencing the breathe of life; he felt as if he
would never become dry again… the salt burning his skin
as it crusted over when the water evap’rated
into the air; Abraham took the first night to rest, the
next day he set to make shelter and wait for a rescue
crew; out he stared at the crashing waves hoping for a plane
or faint form of a ship upon the horizon…days and
nights spun into an alternating display of day then
night: light then dark—light, dark, light, dark, grey, grey, grey…

Abraham (20)
gave up marking the days—realized the searches are done—
given up after looking in the wrong places (even
he did not know where he was…) the cold waves and currents took
him to a safe shore away from his ship and crew, in a
limp unconscious float…
From the trees, and what he could find on
the small  island, Abraham occupied himself with the
task of building a catamaran to rid himself of
the grey-waiting.
Out he cast his meager vessel into (30)
the battering surf; waves broke over his bows and centre
platform—each foot forward, the waves threatened to push him back
twofold… Abraham struck-beat the water with the oars he
fashioned; rising and falling with the energy of the
waves; Abraham stole brief looks back with hopes of a van’shing
shoreline—coast refused to vanish… his drenched arms grew tired;
yet he pushed on knowing he would soon be out passed the
breaking waves; then could relax and hoist sail; yet the waves grew
taller—broke with greater power… Abraham struck-beat the
water with his oars—anger welled—leading to splashes of (40)
ivory sea-froth instead of the desired progress
forward; eventually, his arms fell limp beyond the
force of will… waves tumbled him back to shore as he did the
first night upon the island…
Dejected Abraham lay
in the surf that night—the gentle ebb of the sea added
to insult, but hid the tears formed in the corner of his eyes—
salt water to salt water… the next day Abraham took
inventory of damage: the mast snapped in multiple
places, the rudders askew—the hulls and centre structure (50)
remained intact; the oars lost (or at least Abraham cared
not to search); over the next weeks he set to improve
the design and efficiency of his vessel—the first
had been hurried and that of a man desperate to leave;
the bare minimum that would suffice—he set to create
a vessel to ensure his departure from the des’late
accrue of sand and vegetation; Abraham laboured
to strengthen his body—pushing his arms further passed the
point his mind believed they could go—consuming the hearty,
protein-rich, mollusks, and small shellfish he could find inside (60)
tide pools or shallows—if lucky, larger fish that dared the
nearby reefs.
Patiently, Abraham observed the tides and
breaking water; he wanted to determine the correct
time to set off to ensure success—when the waves would not
toss him back to the beach; the day: a calm clear day—only
within few metres of soft beach did there exist any
breaking waves, and those that broke were barely a metre high;
loading provisions upon the vessel, Abraham bid
farewell to the island (out of wont for the sustenance (70)
it gave not for nostalgia) grasping his oars, he set forth
to find open sea—where the waves do not break and set you
gingerly on foreign shore(s); Abraham paddled passed the
first few breaking waves, his heart pounding with hope—he stifled
the thoughts (celebrate when the island is but a subtle
blue curve upon the horizon); as the island began
to shrink in his vision, the sky to his back grew darker…
the waves started to swell—moguls grew to hills—Abraham
stroked up and rode down; the cursèd Island refused to shrink…
if not begin to grow wider… stroke by stroke Abraham (80)
grew frustrated—stroke by stroke frustration advanced into
anger—stroke by stroke anger augmented into fiery
beating of the water!—Abraham struck and struck at the
Sea—eyes closed—white knuckles—trashing!—unsure which direction
he paddled…sky pitch-black, wind blowing on-shore Abraham
bellowed out to the Sea in inarticulate roars of:
hatefrustrationpitydesperationheartache!
Towards
Abraham’s in-linguistic roar, the sky let out a crack
of authority! a wave swept the flailing Abraham (90)
into the ocean—cool water only heated the rage
in Abraham’s mind—his half empty heart only wanted:
to sail home, become whole  again—sit under and olive
tree and stroke the chestnut hair of Zara as she drifted
off to sleep on his chest while he would whisper sweet verses
into her ear… Abraham’s rage, beyond reason, forgot
the boat and all clarity, he tried to swim away from
the cursèd island—scrambling up waves only to tumble
back with their breaking peaks—salt, the only taste in his mouth;
churning his stomach to *****; his kidney’s praying he (100)
would  not swallow anymore… his gasps stifled any curse
Abraham’s head wished to expel onto the Sea—yet she
swore she heard one final curse escape his lips! at that the
Sea tossed Abraham (head first) into his ghost-helmed vessel—
all went dark for hostile Abraham…

Contemplating back
at his rage—knowing the barbarian it makes of him,
Abraham peered into the band inscribed into his
ring-finger and saw the knot tying him to Zara—shame
at his arrogant-uncontrolled-fury sent Abraham (110)
into a meditative exile inside of his mind
(within the exile of the island…) in his mental
exile Abraham spun into deeper despair at his
two failures—even more at the prospect of failing the
vow he professed onto Zara: return home—home from this
final voyage, grow old with her on solid ground, never
to die apart and cause the pain of losing a loved one
without the closure of truly knowing the death is real,
to die by her side white, white with the purity of age…
Abraham’s destitution turned inward—his fury, the (120)
lack of control, the demon he becomes when rage surges
through his muscles; equiping him with untamed strength without
direction or self-possession—so much potential, yet
no productive way to use it… Abraham’s half-full-heart
burned, ached with passion and anguish—all desire
focused on home, his return, but the mind’s despondency
and insistent ‘what-ifs’ kept poor Abraham prostrate in
his mental cave—all his wishing for anger and vi’lence
to force his will, it did more to retain him upon the
cursèd island than bring his heart closer to fulfillment: (130)
his long awaited home…
Out of his mental exile did
Abraham’s irises dilate and contract with blinding
illumination—self-pity is not what make things happen—
it would only serve to anger Zara—nothing other
than I can be to blame for my continued absence; I
am stronger than that!—looking at the tattoo in his hand,
he remembered the reasons for the perennial brand—
the eight-spoke ship’s helm: the eight-fold-path—I must cut off my
desire for anger to be the solution and focus (140)
on the one path to Zara—the mind can push the body
further than the body believes is possible—the star:
the compass to guide me via celestial bodies
to where my heart can see the guiding beam of my lighthouse!

STOP HURTING YOU $@*-@%-#-&^!%#!!!!!!!

I've been focused on nutrition
sense before recognition
of a requirement of nutrients
for my life.

I eat for nutrition
I shunned the processed
chemical ick
a lifetime ago it seems
no longer remembering the taste
of chemically created
food stuffs.

though I know if I were to get a taste
it would satisfy my buds
they were made with my buds
in mind
hijacked my senses
lied and lied and lied
told my body it didn't need
nutrition
that is could live off of
intuition
and stuff in boxes
and bags
and cans

I've become my own food processor
now
I have mouths to feed
now I know what to feed
and where they make feed from
so we stick to the grass-fed

I'll teach them how to eat
even before how to read
its just how I see it
once that sugar laden
red
chemical construction
touches their lips
they will instantly desire more
Twain and Fitzgerald
will take them longer to digest.
so these are my priorities
now.
I am a nutrition seeker
a truth seeker
and I believe I come from
a line of healers
all who knew nutrition
is the key to life,
here.
the basic building blocks,
the amino acids
of life,
here.
when you're nourished
it all makes more sense
but stay out of those center aisles
their chemical composition
is too dense
my kidney could no longer clean
the code of food stuffs.

My strong little kidney
I'm so proud of it for
releasing its grip on its twin.
it wasn't for us anyways

i find the 2nd generation migrants to
be the most racist
they may well treat a 1st generation
child with equal measure to
an adult, they'll be olive skinned
and act like far right white mate
of a ship when all the rats sung
in dive unison: find the next shore!
they 'ave a motto: british, born and bread...
they also think that social criticism
needs censoring but suicidal vests don't....
what would you rather have, harmless
social criticism or an insurgent suicide vest
in the depth of shooing i.r.a. (shaira)?
i guess neither.
but the bright smug of 2nd generation
migrants tried to defeat a 1st generation migrant,
i still write whole english sentences for my father,
he only writes pen tapped against the neck of me
getting anger out of poems...
2nd generation migrants are the filth i need to wash
off my skin... they think all 1st generations
are readied for only hammer and the manual skill...
high and mighty dwarfs... lawyers and terrible
doctors... the 2nd generation are... dwarf filth
the 2nd generation are... unable to speak a mother tongue...
dwarf filth! get this maggoty and sweaty ***** sack
out of my face... get it out of my face!*

i dare say... i understood orthodox dissection,
everything was automaton inanimate,
cardiologist heard the constant heartbeat,
the neurologist the constant electric current,
dissection like that makes sense,
automation of a thing to a near inanimate
consistency of animate makes us clever enough
to study it...
but this psychological dissection?
suddenly Oedipus turned into Ego,
and both complex:
one ******* his mother, the other simply thinking,
but upon dissection, so many non-existent
limbs created... subconscious and unconscious etc....
it's dissection as you go along, cut open the arm
hinduism's deity arms spawn into a threefold ratio...
psychology dissected but at the same time created...
and how can you dissect a creative process that
is a multiple that keeps on adding?
if you started dissecting and only kept adding,
how will the ego ever manoeuvre a thinking kidney,
a thinking liver... all these organs, defined by thinking
as governable by thinking only provide pathology:
liver (alcoholism), kidney (dialysis) -
the collective unconscious of pathogens;
i don't understand why psychology decided to
make incisions into animate thing, when an inanimate
thing under sedation carefully laboured by a medical
butcher took to cut and scalpel opening...
when such incisions only showed constant change...
it's hard to replace the ego with oedipus and allow
both a similitude of thinking, leaving the former
with no analogy and the latter with too much analogy
to only create false analogues?

Mustard Joe told Pendulum Pam that Creepy Ray Ray was

purchasing a human kidney, illegally, on the black market.  We

didn't even know Creepy Ray Ray was sick.  Sick in the head

maybe, but physically sick? We had no idea.

   You may think that it' not right that I should call Creepy Ray

Ray sick in the head but I think you'll agree with me when I tell

you what happened.  Creepy Ray Ray told Mustard Joe who told

Pendulum Pam that he wasn't sick. Good we all said.  We heard

you were buying a human kidney, thank goodness your not. "Oh

I'm buying a human kidney", said Creepy Ray Ray. " I'm buying

it to eat it"!

Mother always called me the devil child
She said I was  loud, destructive and wild

Parents told sister I was bad and she didn't ever have to play with me
Much time alone was no fun, however for some friends I did make a plea

I'd beg for my mothers attention, she'd run off to her room crying,
Yelled for my dad to come get me, because to her I was very trying

I heard my mother double dog dare my father to hit me
Mother would refer to me as a **** in front of the family

When I was very young mother once said “I will ****** you in cold blood”
Today mother said “you’re crazy, I’d never say that to a child, you are crud”

Nothing I did would ever please my mother
Gifts I bought her were tossed in the gutter

All my cousins were smart, while I was failing all my classes in school
Got into many fights with bullies and teachers who were always cruel

My family would all make fun of me, call names bully and teased
I was the loser that anyone could do or say what they pleased

None of my cousins was I ever allowed with to play
Was always much of the time alone every and all day

I lived in a strange way my dad was very to the T religious
And my mother was always drunk and of course blameless

She’d drink when home from work, on the weekends or holidays
And could always hide it from all her friends and the relatives

No one believed me when I told them that she had been drinking
They acted like I was crazy by then I knew what they were thinking

Mother took me out Friday's to eat and buy what I wanted, after work
Last stop, the liquor store for drink and smoke, was left in car like a ****

Mother would always drive with me while she was drunk
I knew she'd been drinking because she smelled like a skunk

Bought games that took two to play, parents never had any intention  
Of spending time with me, I was a bad child needing intervention

If I didn’t act a certain way when opening all my very expensive Christmas gifts
She’d pout, leave, and I’d have to open my gifts alone because I’d created a rift

Wasn't  perfect I admit;  ran off when 16 regret parents sent me away,
Came for counseling I complained about moms drinking, she felt angry

Said drinking not my problem, she’d return when I could face the truth
Never could admit wrongdoing, everything was because I was a youth

Home from school one day mom was passed out on  floor drunk
Called 911 her Dr blamed me and said no visit,  he called me a punk

My dad arrived home, find she was throwing up while passed out in bed
He'd take bowls put them near her mouth to catch it,  something I'd dread

He’d walk to the bathroom, empty the bowl and go back to get the next one to do the very same
And replace the unfilled one repeat the process.  I was told by her doctor that I was the blame

Sometimes mom would run down the hall to the toilet bowl throw up then my heart would race
Because I always knew mom would do this and then she’d come to room to scare rant and pace

Since I was a badly spoiled child who had parents with money, nice house cars and good jobs
And I was not willing to help out or be responsible, was told I made the family look like slobs

My sister let her boyfriend talk her into letting him take me to dentist, instead, he molested me
No one believed me because in the past I had lied about things, and the truth no one would see

I was different all the cousins, my aunts and uncle could blame me when things went missing
Or went wrong I was then and still am now the perfect scapegoat yes about it I’m still babbling

My father ran out the back door when he heard me wake up and come out of my room
So he didn't have to  bother with me, I wanted to spend time with him he’d assume

Somehow I managed to graduate from high school and I then would move
To a different city, I felt I might have better luck and my life would improve.

Married two very bad guys both who drank, beat me and verbally abused
Divorced them both and had one child and how I’d raise this child alone I was confused.

Moved into an apartment I still today about it rave
Mother always referred to it as a little dark damp cave

Things I wanted my mother to do with me she would say no
But wouldn't turn down a chance with other family to go

But this home where I've written articles, poetry that's been published
Most of the things I've written, mother has said they are mostly *******

Tried to work and go to school never was competent enough to follow through
Each time I would start either I did not have the ability to complete anything new

My daughter grew up, became ill with a repeating debilitating disease
I dedicated myself to getting her well, and nothing about it was a breeze

Had to take her in pain for doctor visits many times she’d cry and wished she were dead
This broke my heart with no family help, just her and I to face things in the years ahead

Unable to attend school for years, the doctor signed permission to stay home
School system assigned a teacher who was mean nothing about her was tome

School Social workers interfered
And my name they smeared

She finally one day went into remission
And now the Nephrotic kidney condition

Seems, for now, to have forever gone for good away
For years it’s been don’t want others to downplay

For a while, I home schooled her and the first semester back in the public school
She was on the honor roll things seemed to be looking up and I felt like I was the rule

Then one day she lost interest in classes, homework, and attending
And the principal of the high school was calling and threatening

Took her out of school and put her in to get her GED
Then  she was soon graduated within month of three

A year before she was supposed to graduate
I knew by then that I was doing things right

Enrolled me and her in community college we made the Dean’s list and no student loan debt
Last May she and I graduated have a new life now I don’t feel things in my life are a threat

Alone I’ve raised a good child, published a book and kept things together
I’ve published some poetry and stories in that will be on web pages forever

Even though my parents have helped me out once in a while financially
I feel lack of respect since they helped family who treated me crummy

I’m still feeling and have most of the hopeless thoughts when I was young
I still try to steer my daughter to be different from me and hold my tongue

Sister divorced husband for molesting children told kids I was bad
Lives in my town and over 20 years never talked, by her, I've been had

I think it's because my parents never would face reality or admit
To any wrong doing of years of abuse, something I couldn't forget

Mother has disowned me going to court to remove my name
Because she said I've caused her embarrassment and shame

I'm damaged goods, only go to doctor and for groceries to shop
I hide inside and on computer, write stories and poems till I drop

Why am I talking about this after all these years still?
Because I think that it may just possibly help me to heal

Looking back I find so many things have not been my fault
But I still feel many days like I'm the only one under assault.

Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved

an apparition in our grade one classroom door
obscured save for the halo around your head
. . . must've been the sunlight

playing with the curves of your curls
you said I wrote sentences
that would've made your grade threes weep . . .
and I was someone I didn't know existed before

someone who could write more than curved lines and straight lines
someone who played with words at break
while the other children ate protein-packed sandwiches

between chalkboard dust-clouds and sweeping up pencil shavings
I stayed in for athletics, looked through the classroom window,
searched the oak tree outside for a vision of the painted elf
I un-tacked from a perpetual race on the circular classroom weather board

see, I couldn't run with only one healthy kidney
when I just came out of hospital
where doctors cleaned their instruments in kidney-shaped dishes
my friend, June, still slept in the next hospital bed --
I hoped she wouldn't die the way Maria did --
while I read Jack and the Beanstalk

Mrs Louw asked how I had learnt to read English
I couldn't tell her -- it was something that just happened
the same way I discovered I despised steak and kidney pies
because I couldn't eat my own sickness

En l’an trentiesme do mon aage
    Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues…


Pipit sate upright in her chair
     Some distance from where I was sitting;
Views of the Oxford Colleges
     Lay on the table, with the knitting.

Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
     Her grandfather and great great aunts,
Supported on the mantelpiece
     An Invitation to the Dance.

     . . . . .

I shall not want Honour in Heaven
     For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
And have talk with Coriolanus
     And other heroes of that kidney.

I shall not want Capital in Heaven
     For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond.
We two shall lie together, lapt
     In a five per cent. Exchequer Bond.

I shall not want Society in Heaven,
     Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
Her anecdotes will be more amusing
     Than Pipit’s experience could provide.

I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
     Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
In the Seven Sacred Trances;
     Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.

     . . . . .

But where is the penny world I bought
     To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
     From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;

Where are the eagles and the trumpets?

     Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
Over buttered scones and crumpets
     Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.B.C.’s

if you can find c. g. jung writing an answer to the biblical Hiob, i can be found writing this... or as the Lad Bible states: be your superficial you... so when she's not her superficial self... you can just play the awkward monotone speaking caveman that you weren't before she played you that superficial card of hers to tone down your interests.

you know why i'm fascinated with schizophrenics?
primarily because they are concerned with
an inorganic medical condition,
there are, absolutely, no reasons to suggests they
are organically prone to premature degeneracy,
they are what the Alzheimer old man calls an angel,
and what the "angel" experiences from time to time...
to cite a non-typical schizoid experience -
a splinter in the mind?
when i wrote my previous poem, i was listening
to the song *the parting glass throughout,
on and on and on... the rhythm took over...
and when the "poem" was finished i retracted myself
into my room and first played auld lang syne
(with lyrics and English translation)...
                           and then... the pure instrumental
of knee-deep-bagpie... bagpipes, sure, horrid,
screeching drowning-lungs of magpie
cackling cut short into a carbonated highland water...
     oh don't worry, what this comes down to
is personal experience, such negations of ease
are not like the black plague, or a.i.d.s.,
they don't come into contact with purely-riddle
human incompetence... it takes more than that...
certain conditions are not viral...
you can't interpreted them as political malevolence
akin to a political movement... primarily because
the numbers don't add up...
                    the complexity of thought is
the complexity of regarding the mind as an abstract
of the brain, given the brain has no accuracies
concerning abstraction when stated against being automated
to a pair of kidneys... i too wish for a La La Land sometimes...
but that's not the reason people allow ***** donations...
     but you know, it really gripped me,
i wrote that poem, listening to the parting glass,
and felt nothing, nothing... because i was so
formulated to write what i wrote...
  i wrote the last bit, walked into my room,
and played the second version of auld lang syne...
the royal scots dragoon guards pure instrumental...
   and you get to weep these cold tears
after an insomniac cold shivers getting warmer with whiskey...
              and whimper and bite your bottom lips...
because you're hardly a woman fainting
and the drama isn't in you...
               and it's actual tears...
people laugh and cry saharan tears, meaning: it never
rains over it...   i see Sahara as the ancient version
of the Himalayan mountain range, suddenly reduced
because god is fickle and well, aren't we all?
           if any of us are alive to read or speak such
encodings... there will be a desert made from
the Himalayas that will be called the Himalaya -
but that's really being optimistic.
       there used to be mountains, mountains in
north Africa, Gandalf! but they crumbled in deserts!
where once a mountain range, subsequently a desert...
where now a desert, once a mountain range.
can i please get a taxi to leave this current
history and Darwinistic revisionism of it as telling
us ape Adam had more psychology about him than
Charles XIV? i want to hear the geological version
of Darwinism! but am i hearing any of it? n'ah ah.
       so yes, upon hearing the scotch dragoon guards
pipe a full whiskey sodden breath into the
         bagpi - i heard the word counter to my scrambled
narrative... king... king?!
                   which is what's bewildering about
a medical term deemed premature dementia...
   it's an organic impossibility...
but given society is an inorganic organism
and all our socio-political mechanisms aren't exactly
organic, there might be some sense in this piquant
dabble in an auditory hallucinogenic experience -
which, evidently, people find frightening,
since they occupy defining their thinking with
hearing so much, and when seeing a homeless man
think so little...
                     logic? a particular arrangement of words
that does not provide kind rubrics for the testimony of
the many...
                    i can hallucinate this auditory "addition"
and competently go on my daily business,
or my nightly business finishing a bottle of scottish amber...
some people cannot...
                 what i see it western society predicating
their poor knowledge of Alzheimer's as if searching
for some genius to explain what happens to the abstract
functions of what the brain represents
                 in terms of how the brain and abstraction
can't be cleanly separated, i.e. to treat the degeneracy
of the brain as succumbed to, but not succumbing to
the elaborated foundations of the "brain"
within the trans-physical functions of the "brain"
within a framework of memory, vocabulary, memory.
people first attribute the brain with too much
           concern for abstraction when in fast the driving
force for abstraction is the now-vogue zeitgeist
"psyche does not exist" -
                            and when the brain degenerates like
a heart or a kidney can... people start to freak
out propping out a Frankenstein revival that brain
cannot in-act upon...
                                 they told us the brain is fat...
          then they tell us only 0%, or fat-free yoghurts are
good... isn't the case for the epidemic of dementia
due to the fact that we're censoring fat?
what feeds the brain? fat! what are we censoring from
our diets? fat! fat free ******* yoghurt!
                             where does the modern epidemic
stem from? censoring fat! you anorexic ******* morons!
  you know why i put extra fat in the way i cook
meals, you know what orthodox cooks tend to
like a sizzle of a lump of lard? brain food...
     and yes, some call it eating a lot of nuts...
well then... fry me a ribs-eye steak on a handful of
cashew nuts you crazy *******!
            this is what drives me crazy concerning
auditory hallucinogenic experiences...
there are no drugs that you could ever sell that people
would buy to experience an auditory hallucination...
primarily because people made thought
   an auditory experience...
                  that's the norm, i'm not talking Walt Disney
here... and people enjoy music because it feeds the heart
in a way averse to images that feed the libido
or dreaming...
    the point being, my "hallucinatory" experience lasted
for less than a second... some ***** on l.s.d. trips
for half a day because he finds modern movies boring
and finally gets to appreciate cubist contortion
mechanisations... i can do more damage with a second's
worth of "auditory" hallucination than that little
hippy can do away with 12 hours, and only end up
writing a haiku thinking he can suddenly conjure up
spirits of Shinto like some Gilgamesh *** Bruce Springsteen;
then he shaves his hair and travels to Mongolia
to learn the index against the lips motorboating
harmonica... and i end up saying: thank you;
cos it wouldn't be twangy without that kind of a tranquiliser
to stabilise excitement beyond encoding sounds.
          i can tell you how ******-up my internal
narrative has become, so i'm defeatist,
here's how it looks like when i get agitated...
               writing on a white flag...
      oh look: wavy! wavy! i'm waving it...
going boats full of nuts and bananas!
             you ever hear the story of a psychiatrist
jumping on a table and barking when a conscription
  cadet tried to fake being mad?
      she did what i just wrote and asked H. Clinton
to reiterate on the campaign trail.
                    inauguration 2017:
   i solemnly swear, that H. Clinton barked like a ruffian
poodle on the campaign trail.
  beside the point though, schizophrenia is an inorganic
manifestation of an actual organic degeneracy -
it's a negation-of-ease for dangerous people...
     people who probably have a music taste outside
the top 40 best selling albums (let alone singles)...
                   and they're quick to pick up on this grey area
concerning premature depression...
                it's trendy these days... people who are melancholic
are people who are like Homer, wrote the Odyssey
went blind from making too much heroism from
      the cannibalism at the gates of Troy and couldn't
handle telling a single lie after having written such an epic...
   or as Virgil convened: Paris didn't escape,
Aeneid did... no one knows what happened to Paris,
       probably choked on a raisin or something:
it's ancient history, if you're not going to talk about it
in a callous manner, then be prepared for careless mannerisms:
pout, **** *** cheek, shelfie!
               what i am seeing is this quote:
a butterfly on the Galapagos Islands... a Tornado in
Colorado... the poetics of quantum physics,
or misplaced potentials of counter-quantifiable
simultaneous counter-interpretations...
    the butterfly effect? under the umbrella corporate
otherwise known, from ancient times: a metaphor.
hey, we started reading into hydrocarbons,
there's no way to talk easy for us...
                           for all my love for one inspiration,
i lost my love for him when he said that not tying your
shoelaces (i.e. spelling) was because he thought it was
indoctrination... you know who i mean: Mr. Chow Chewski...
   spelling? that's like tying your shoelaces!
         question is... who would ingest a hallucinogenic
drug that didn't utilise the multi-coloured world to
an excessive amount to be prescribed, say, an U.V.
phosphorescent spectrum of seeing... when, given all
that... sound occupies this realm of b & w?
               who could create an auditory hallucinogenic?
can you imagine it?
                             most people with a weakened cognitive
membrane would go nuts... as the case has been proven
many a times...
        but given the fact that no such hallucinogenic exists,
or that "auditory" / cognitive hallucinations are
disregarded even though Descartes stressed this
   notion of a substance / thought, and an extension /
       sensual disparities with regards to cohesive uniformity,
i.e. regarding over-stressing a particular sense
      and never reaching a former cohesion...
           can only mean a circumstance later described
by Kant within the framework of the noumenon -
    i.e. perhaps you've seen too much, but heard too little...
perhaps you've tasted too much, but had barely a sniff of
                  more...
        the original thought when exposed to a cohesion
of uniformed senses, experiencing a discohesion of
             a presupposed sensual "uniformity",
returns back into a form of thought, i.e. an extension...
                only because the thing in question is a
presupposition, not a supposition that can be countered
with a proposition, i.e. since we all made mistakes
presupposing, we have become prone to propositions to
suppose otherwise... in terse terms: invent politics.
so what i termed "auditory" and "hallucination"
and conflated them in a prefix of cognitive-, in consolidation
i meant to say that: once all presuppositions (thoughts)
disappear by the miraculous ape that man either is
or wishes himself to still be... and we deem to say:
   reality...                 we only have suppositions (extensions)
               that appear...
                         by the miraculous ape that man never
was and wishes himself to nonetheless be:
  in that consolidatory ref. to the last trinity of Cartesian
thought: substance - in the former the formation
of will... in the latter the complete lack of it -
                              to the simpler scenarios,
we already have knowledge of prisons and asylums...
            because internalising such possible scenarios
never leaves the many to be grafting such possibilities
with enough calm as to persevere for the sole purpose
of understanding, as what point can a noumenon-unit
enter the argument if not from a reflex
                       as this continued narration explains...
none of this was reflected upon...
reflection in such circumstances usually means weaving
a machete at your neighbour...
                                  the noumenon-unit
the ping-pong factor in all of this is a reflex action...
         not a reflective action...
               i am no king no more than i am a pauper...
   now imagine if i tripped for 12 hours on l.s.d.,
having extracted so much, from an "auditory" "hallucination",
that, in the realm of the mind, is neither a minute,
nor a second, nor a nanosecond...
               it's unitary equivalent is simply that of: a word.

.i left an excess of a B somewhere in here... within the confines of a word giblet... i probably thought: bigger... bouncier... gibblet looked better... and so very far removed from goblet... i'm not going to look for it.

i haven't done much today -
and i don't suppose i will finish this day of
with some grand poo'em...
but one can almost be proud
to have perfected a chicken breast roulade...
the rest of the chicken missing
the butterfly? well... bound to a very
decent soup... clear and not atypical
western cream-soup...
but the roulade! the roulade!
no... you don't beat the butterfly *******
like you might turn to: "sadistically"
for a schnitzel...
you do beat the meat,
but you more or less... press down the mallet
onto the meat, until you reach
the right equilibrium of pressure and
there's that squish-sound / feel of the *******
expanding...

if it was a whole roast chicken:
of course i'd stuff the space between
the skin and the ******* with some thyme
infused butter... to capture the richness...
but this is a roulade...
the stuffing? goats cheese... toasted almonds...
fesh dates... thyme...
i might have just over-balanced
the equation with the dates...
but as i explained to the fussy-eater:
what are you implying that we do not
serve poultry with a sweet attache?
cranberry sauce and turkey?
and as i've learned...

it's best buying potatoes from a turkish
outlet by the 25kg bulk...
from a warehouse where the buyers
walk with bundles of money and do not
use debit card "finger" prints...
the free passing of money is still retained
in some tiers of society...
but the idea, regarding the potatoes is
to poach them from a bath of cold water...
once they start boiling leave them for
five minutes, then turn the heat off
and wait for the bubbling water to stop...
drain them... then leave them on
the already turned-off stove to get rid
of any excess water...
drizzle some chilly infused olive oil
onto the baking tray, place each potato individually...
then drizzle some olive oil onto them...
shove them in the oven when the roulade
is finished...
my first most pristine roulade...
of course you have to pan-fry it to get some
colour... the filling is kept intact given that:
goats' cheese is no mozarella...

it doesn't melt and subsequently ooze out...
and the whole lot should be be done within
the hour... the roulade can be pressured
to go for 25 minutes...
depending on the colour of the tatties...
i still had to take it out and "glitter" it with
a 1:1 ratio of honey and lemon juice...
the remains of this juice i designated on al dente
cooked greens... there was no need
for a dressing...
left-over red cabbage coleslaw...
that helps... sweet chilli sauce with some mayo
and crem fraiche...
it even looks the prettier picture:
leftover but it still works...
***** of a ******* butterfly *******!
of course it was going to spit oil back at me,
i was frying the skin... the fat from the skin
was melting the skin was getting crisp
and mingling with the olive oil fat...
also... it's a myth that the temp. should
read: 165°F... that's really just a circa...
mine read 156°F... and given the time i let
it rest...

oh right... this is not a food blog...
perhaps the moon is just too beautiful tonight
to have to attach words to it?
perhaps my love is better left alone and unused
and it doesn't demand sleeper idealism
for it to be celebrated?
it's cooking food... it's not a hip-replacement
surgery...
when cooking was married to chemistry:
i sometimes miss the laboratory
and the cooking up of esters...
my new found calling is in cooking...
and something i... wouldn't exactly want to earn
money for...

and what is surgery if not elevated butcher's ******>antics? oh no, it's needed...
but the meat is supposed to be raw
from beginning to end...
and if i was only given the chance to recycle
a recipe for a stake tartar...
or sushi... well... it wouldn't be much...
esp. when i come into my own
and cook an indian **** of spices...
but then again... the indians butcher their meat
in their curries...
i've come to some serious realisation...
the indians butcher the meat with their curry sauce...
it comes down to baking the meat...
in order for the meat to still retain its
original juices...
i quiet enjoy that little detail of cook...
in that: i don't remember the last time i was
in a restaurant...

i can't imagine eating while having to talk...
conversation over food is no better
than sitting in field of grazing cows
and their leech clouds of flies all bothersome...
with regards to the quality of the meat....
there is always some excess of meat from
the butterfly ******* before you start moulding
them into a shape that will satisfy it being
rolled...
it's a supreme joy working with a whole
chicken... i sometimes wish i was also the man
who could see the whole procedure of:
and be involved in the slaughterhouse...

oh god... the brute village beheading is
rather uncompromising... one chicken is caught
and beheaded on a stump of wood...
the head still moves with its last remaining
short-circuit tongue extending out of the beak
and the eyes roll... and then all the other chickens
congregate and perform a Kuru ritual of pecking
the blood... sipping it...
that's how killing a chicken in a village
looks like... i can't imagine an industrial scale
precision... but i would't mind...

every time i hear of veganism: the ethical argument
i start conjuring up an antithesis of
cannibalism... which is not exactly edgy given
my catholic background (i haven't been
confirmed, personal choice):
this is my body, this is my blood...
i hear a vegan talk i make a fetish of
imagining cannibalism...
believe me... these limbs look akward...
to begin with... where can you find a *******
drumstick of poultry on it?!
nowhere!

only a few days shy off today i made a most
delightful broth of chicken hearts...
i can't explain how the sight of washing...
oh... around 30 pultry hearts feels like...
given that they're hearts and not the entire chicken...
but as ever... the internal organs are a delight...
pork or poultry liver...
poultry hearts...
poultry stomachs...
cow intestines...

come to think of it... you never really cook meat...
you... curate it... it become a fine art specialist...
for those who turn to veganism or the vegetarian
"alternative": perhaps they never curated meat,
perhaps they simply butchered it?
the chicken roulade of butterfly poultry *******
always came out dry-*****?

after all, wasn't ol' Adoolph the one to say:
'hello mr. carrot, hellooo jew no. 1269230 of
auschwitz'... that's the puberty of my distrust
for vegans... they were never able to
cook meat properly... they probably ate
a decent piece of it served in a restaurant...
but when it came to cooking it themselves...
they would have probably butchered
a pasta and never reached the quality: al dente...
either...
and i'm worried that they can't cook
vegetables al dente either...
so it's back to the gulag of roots overcooked
and turned into mush...

oh i believe that meat is butchered...
but it's from the actual butchery...
it's from a lack of respect in how it's finally
"cooked"... well... curated...
are vegans the sort of people that never
ate a stake tartar... or found the most
arisotractic flavours in the giblet?
oh my god... if you can eat a drumstick
of chicken clean to the bone...
and, like me... sometimes bite off
the budding pulp of the bone for the marrow
gnash?
perhaps that's why i own cats...
delicate courtesans of the table...
a dog would go hungry at this table...
sharpnel of bones and some lurking marrow
in the "shins"... and that's about it...

you can never truly be a vegan...
not unless you repudiate the fact you've only
tasted muscle tissue...
what about the giblets and the cartilege?

every time i would perform oral ***
on a woman i could only conjure up one distate...
this is not a steak done rare...
this is not an oyster...
this is not a steak tartar...
there are "things" pulverising this meat...
there's an unexpected pocket of heat
in this... "thing"...
this is a sensation that lends itself
to the pastry section of my diet...
a warm apple pie... a custard drizzle
over some chocolate sponge...
oh qui qui... the marvels of a bilingual mouth...

if the meat is of good quality....
as the chicken roulade i made today...
and there were leftover snippets...
which i fed to the cats...
and the meat was eaten... in totality...
i was eating good chicken...
cats regarding meat are like...
those ancient jobs equivalent to...
Halotus...
god! give me a chance to own a cat!
i'll name him: Halotus!
he'll be my meat taster...
he'll tell me if i'm eating bad meat...
i'm not a Claudius but...
this cat could very well be the next Halotus!
dogs eat leftovers...

beside this one instance of catching
a female mosquito by the leg
and feeding it to a cat...
the most pleasure i ever received was
when i was preparing a rainbow trout
for grilling...
the head couldn't be used since:
i wasn't planning to cook a base fish stock...
so i plucked those pearly eyes from the head...
and my... what a delight they were...
not me... the cat...
i'm guessing that's the equivalent
of me gulping down an oyster...

female maine **** fascination with dairy
products...
any cream will do... even cheap-oh cheese...
dairylee spreadable...
but all manner of cream whipped...
i've heard of cats being fond of red wine...
i once owned one that was fond
of... olive brine...

again: what's with this need for people to cook
your food? what sort of decency of conversation
can one have when presented with food?
i don't like restaurants simply because:
well i can't exactly cook roadkill...
and shooting at birds is not my kind of thing...
so if i can't catch it and **** it...
i can at least: cook it...
i distrust what i eat that i haven't prepared
myself... notably the hygiene dilemma...

it really is on my head whether i'll catch
salmonella when i sometimes drink a coffee
with a guilty pleasure of mine:
whisked egg-yoke and sugar... on top of the coffee...
that's my problem...
but eating is never a synonym with conversation...
and it's never necessary to loiter and wait
for someone to shove pretenses above
the food in the first instance of: the waiting staff...

i blame the rise in veganism surrounding
the people who never allowed themselves to appreciate
the animal: in total...
there's no fun just sticking to ingesting muscle
protein... first you have to cook it properly...
this chicken roulade didn't have to reach
the internal temp. of 165°F - that's a circa proposition...
at 156°F and allowed to rest is just as good...
because it's an art-form to cook meat...
then again: what's cooking and what's about
to be curated?

the people who turn to veganism are also the people
who never bothered with gibblets...
the liver, the heart, the stomach,
in some cases the intestines...
hence my critique of Islams critique of ol' porky Bella...
this most unique animal...
which you can eat in total...
tenga deep fried pigs ears...
again: the cartilege...
ethics my *** if all you know about a pig is a bore
chop or a **** or... you never get into
the knitty-gritty details of the interior of
an animal... lamb is a stinking meat...
it's hell-rot when the male is slaughtered...

oh right! right! how could i forget the star
pinnacle... poached giblet supreme...
the neck... if you know how to eat a drumstick
down to the bone...
poached poultry neck...
the teeth and tongue wandering around
the crevices of this elongated spine...
i can imagine monkey's extended coccyx
tastes as tender... but only among
the macaques...
otherwise: when what's about to be eaten...
can be elevated to a status of ****** fetishes...
gimps in leather...
when rummaging among so many
boyscouts & aenemic vegans...

i'm yet to taste this, one specific, delicacy...
flaki (flački) is not new to me...
i need to marry a girl from ******* Masovia...
somewhere in the vicinity of Płock...
for i can eat some černina...
duck blood and clear broth soup...
as long as most of the animal is used...
the dogs can have the rest
and so can the vegan ethics society...

but of course this is no an anathema...
or some curated vendetta...
all the roots in the vicinity...
even the fungus... can vegans eat fungus?
are you sure?
what about those "thinking" magic mushrooms
that... if you looked into 1960s:
quick-n-easy philosophy courses...
the fungus is the botanical hitchhiker
that strapped itself to the humanoid brain
and... broadened our horizons and what not...
can you eat the godhead 'shroom?
it might just very well be...
that i'm picking a half-brain half-mushroom
entity in some alcohol to allow myself
to ease a tongue out from
its standard formality of the mollusk...
and waggle waggle waggle brute...

but yes... one is most certainly butchering
a piece of meat when one cooks
a broth... or a curry... unless its a gibblet
of sorts...
to "curate" muscular meat in a broth of a curry...
poaching it to death and worse than death:
dry...
it's about allowing the meat to retain its
natural juices...
how else to enjoy a poultry butterfly breast
roulade - with the natural juices still intact?

- i stopped paying attention to these *******
moralists...
if you have ever figured your way around
cutting off the butterfly of ******* for a roulade...
and you know what it feels like
when you stuff the space between
the meat and the skin of them
with some butter and fresh thyme...
and you're still not circumcised...
well... that's what skin feels like...

how else to reiterate? Ava Lauren is probably
the best example of a brothel beauty...
mandible beauty... something that contorts
and appeals to a perspective of cubism...
wretched beauty of the squashed square
into a pseudo-rhombus contort...
at least doing it from time to time leaves me
without a single buoyancy of thought regarding:
am i having enough, am i not having enough:
and if i'm not having enough -
what are the chances of me contracting some
s.t.d.?

bad beef...
again... juxtaposing a reiteration...
there's something worse than visit a brothel...
there's the... visiting a resturant..
i can't stop thinking about alien,
unwashed hands, preparing my food...
it's already one kick-in-the-***** not having
hunted the food... but to be left ******-over
twice by not having cooked it?!

at least if you know what flesh feels like
between the two crucibles of
death's kiss and man's tongue tease...
you will know when...
you will at least know when...
death comes with its kiss...
and its breath... the meat will turn all
yucky... as if a mollusk decided to prance
upon it in an imitation zigzag...

hence? i have no respect for islam because
islam has no respect for Miss Porky Bella!
seeing how most of the lamb -
except for the kidney in a steak pie
is not wasted...
the pig could feed two african villages...
if done properly...
while a lamb would only serve a pittance
for a poor man of yemen harem...

again: the pig is the enemy...
while not making crab meat a haram is not?
vulture meat... scavenger meat...
that's a: o.k. but the sophisticated nature
of the pig: sophisticated in that:
almost all of it can be eaten...
that so much of it can be you would probably
burp out an oink...
done properly...
the giblets in tow...
pity that such a desert god would never
appreciate the pig becoming a dog on
its truffle hog days...

beside all the arguments...
imagine how the "one true god" goes down
on a platter of those ignorant Beijing folk...
Warsaw testing! Warsaw testing!

pristine my *** when all they ever do
is eat the muscles and never appreciate the detials...
no wonder they become aenemic vegans!
at least butchering a vegetable is less of a concern...
you can almost get away with butchering a root...
it is... oh most certainly it is a shame...
when you can't cook meat properly...

but at least i never feel ever as bad going to a brothel
seeing the sort of people who venture into
restaurants...
i don't like being cooked for, i don't like being
"waited" for...
i don't like this modern orthodoxy affair
of a restaurant... i wish these people
learned something about how meat is: never cooked...
and how... it's always most certainly most necessarily:
curated...

pedantic? perhaps... you should have seen
me in that athenian strip-club with two-clingy *******
either side of me... starwberries in their *****
and we are all fine and giggling...
stealing kisses from prostitutes is: truffle hog
"learning" parabolla...

a date and a "promise" of *** is always
a limp **** affair...
i always want to know whether what i'll be eating
still entertain the existence of salt...
or whether i'll have to find alternatives
of: extracting the juices and finding the right
bites...
because love is long over-due and i'm not going
to butcher it further with whimsical hopes...
my love is a dead love is no ideal...
my love is donning a ball and chain of memory:
i have left the better parts of myself
in the wrong sort of people...
they're hardly coming back...
the people or the pieces of me...

but at least i can attest that:
oral *** and the cool crisp gulp of an oyster
passing the Charon of my tongue...
oysters are only fascinating to eat...
because you always want to concentrate
on the fact that: you're eating something that's still
alive... not even a steak tartar or a sushi slice
gives you that hope and thrill...
unless... you're hoping for some tapeworm
embryo being lodged in the flesh...
which how man can almost arrive
at the conception of foetus and womanhood...
i can't be impregnated: exclusively...
i can't be... pregnant: exclusively...
but i can allow a parasitical tapeworm
to become my new-born-*******-out-abortion...

inclusively... how else?!
i'm also tired of being left immoral by the act
of *******...
not unless you know what not being circumcised
feels like... and what chicken skin feels like...
the people at the restaurants...
a palette disgruntled by minor changes of heat...
and... there's always a very precise detail
when it comes to the temp. of a piece of meat
being cooked... and when it's allowed to epilogue
when resting to ****** with all its juices
left intact...

over-sexed society, are we?
at least doing the one-eyed-bandit's favor
doesn't allow me to ferment...
to pickle such repressive thinking...
itself pitched against: in itself...
and these this Radeztsky March forward...
over-sexed also can imply:
not exactly culinarily-savvy...
these are always twins walking side by side...
and they are always siamese problems...
over-sexed implies...
not cuninarily-savvy...
the better part of this critique is already wide open...
why all these cooking channels,
all these cooking programs?
and all this ****?

can't **** can't cook? broomstick! and to sabbath
with you!
i can't no better comparison...
over-sexed and also: terrible at *******...
******* is terrible to begin with...
you can't exactly quip yourself with
having done some lessons in tango or salsa...
the chances are that the *** turns out to
be a laughable take on tango and
you're going to step on a day-dreaming
dancing partner...
it's exactly what's it's supposed to be:
a gamble at best...
but when you throw in bad cooking?
recipe for disaster... bad dates that begin
in a restaurant and arrive at a black-out
bedroom with cockoon *** under
the bedsheets with you gasping for air!

'god let me out! let me out!'

do you know what it's like to have a pit in your heart? i can feel it right now i can hear gymnopiede playing in the back ground filling me with a sanity but not enough remember what Rupi said " it was when i stopped searching for home within others and lifted the foundations of home within myself i found there are no roots more intimate than those between a mind and body that have decided to be whole" but instead i fall in love w the little things that i mold into big things to make myself feel important. when people see that i'm stressed and deprived of sleep and love i feel significant to their daily lives.
i want to be the rose in the garden that everyone wants to tend so they can revive the gold medal for the best green thumb. i want to be the bookmark of every bibliophile on the planet but little do they know that rose wants to die that's rose has thorns inside poking her every hope. rose hopes for love but not just any love. rose hopes that a dandelion will come who will be intelligent enough to pull the thorns out and so beautiful she will gasp for another breath just to see their petals. on weekends rose absorbs enough sunlight to get up for work. she tends to the clothing at the retail stop at the local mall and as she folds the endless piles of destroyed denim she admires the many flowers that tend to one another.she can smell the scent of the flickering candles upstairs and she makes her way up to the candle shop on her break she never sets foot inside, she worries the flicker of the flame will catch her petals. rose doesn't want to be alone when it happens she wants a dandelion to come and save her from the flame she wants dandelion to roar as loud as he can and blow the flame out. and be there ready to sweep rose off her stem. rose wants everyone to be happy she try's her hardest to make sure her garden has enough light and water and that everyone's petals aren't frowning. rose has tried too hard she ends up being the loneliness one her garden. she returns to her shop after break she goes back to folding the same endless pile of denim and she admires the buttercup walking with the california poppy looking at the lights hanging from the ceiling. the dutch iris and the crocus intertwining their petals. honesty and honeysuckle are pursing the petals together under the mistletoe. rose gathers her tools and makes her way to her wheel barrow parked by the restrauants she passes the children frolicking in the lot and she catches the heart beat of excitement of the little girl who's eyes are glued to the ipad that is playing alice and wonderland and rose can hear the garden scene and she cringes and feels like she's been swallowed by a world who doesn't know what passion is. rose wonders where the little girls mother is and she catches her mother sitting on the lap of the magnolia and she longs to be a mother but a mother who watches alice in wonderland with her child and frolics with her kids in the parking lot but pays attention to the cars coming just in case her motherly instincts have to kick in.
rose returns to her garden and flips thru the channels hoping to find a romance movie on. rose does this to her self. she absorbs her self into all the love she can get because deep downside she fears she will never find her dandelion. rose finds her self drowning in an ocean of tears. she crys out to the garden are my petals not light enough? is my stem to thick?. rose wants to dig herself a grave and burry herself there with the fake petals of a dandelion so that one day when the walkers in the cemetery hear the clanking of her stem crying out for love they will dig her up and see how much she coveted the love of a dandelion and they will find the real petals and place them next to her.  rose will tear honey because that's the sweetest thing she knows she will wipe her tears and lick the honey off of her petals. rose doesn't want to hide in her sunken city of petals she wants to tell you who she is. hello i am rose.
i've been trying to get rid of the file cabinets in my brain that i have been organized alphabetically. A- aster i love you and i promise your prayers for a new kidney will be granted. B- bleeding heart i want you to know i will drive you in wheel barrow to the hospital so you
can be sewed up. C- carnation please don't fret the world loves you and im so sorry you have a price tag that will eventually be ripped off when the children at the elementary school down the street buy you on february 14th just know that you're so much more to me than a valentine's day gift. D- daffodil you're too precious to feel unwanted your lover will come soon.i can hear the crys of them but please go back to the bed and sleep. i'm able to open my pedals up and hear the weeping of a dandelion "thank you for being there for them and just know i've been hear all along, rose. you're tired i can tell by the wrinkles of your palms please promise me rose that you will baptize yourself into the ocean of love that you keep drowning in. " rose pulls the dead roots that are pinning her down in her grave and gasps for another breath to see dandelion before the roots come back from under and tug her back down she is able to string her broken english together and whisper " dandelion i already have"

4 harmful foods that benefit us too
Maintaining a healthy diet isn't easy as one has to be careful of every morsel of food or sip of drink that they consume. So when research reveals a positive angle to some harmful dietary habits, what should one do?

A recent study in London showed that those who increased their coffee intake by more than a cup a day were less prone to have Type 2 Diabetes. On the other hand, caffeine is known to increase blood pressure and isn't good for the body in the long run. Here is a list of food items that are considered harmful, but benefit us in some ways as well...

WHITE BREAD

Why it's bad: For a while now, white bread has been pushed to the back seat due to the growing notion that it leads to increased blood sugar and can ultimately cause obesity. The grains are processed in such a way that it strips the bread off all nutrients. Scientists at Tufts University in Boston also found that eating white bread increases your waistline, when compared to brown bread. Fitness expert Wanitha Ashok adds, "Eating white bread makes you hungry in an hour or so. When it comes to nutrition, it doesn't get the top slot."

Why it's good: Eating white bread isn't necessarily a bad thing as long as you eat the enriched variety that contains nutrients, especially those that are topped with oats and nuts. Research done by the Irish University Nutrition Alliance showed that white bread contributed as much iron and fibre to an Irish diet as meat or fish. Nutritionist Ryan Fernando says, "The only time we recommend white bread to anyone is after a good workout. Sports athletes, especially, eat white bread as it helps replenish glucose faster and it's beneficial for the muscles."

FROZEN VEGETABLES

Why they're bad: It is believed that fresh vegetables are better than frozen ones because of all the processing that takes place to freeze them and keep them fresh. A study done by the Department of Nutrition and Dietetics in Turkey concluded that thawing frozen veggies before cooking them led to the loss of Vitamin C. "This is just convenience food. Anything you store for a long time begins to lose nutritional value. Also, in India, there are so many electricity fluctuations, so it's better to keep fresh vegetables," says Wanitha Ashok.

Why they're good: Lately, a lot of reports say that frozen veggies are better than the fresh variety because they are picked when they are most ripe and frozen so none of the vitamins are lost.Also,a study done at the University of Chester shows that there was a decline in the nutritional value of fresh veggies when refrigerated com - pared to frozen ones.

EGG YOLK

Why it's bad: It's known to increase cholesterol, which is why people with heart conditions avoid egg yolk. It also contains a lot of fat,which isn't good for people who gain weight easily. A Canadian study says that regularly consuming egg yolks can lead to plaque build-up in blood vessels. Why it's good: "Egg yolk has essential nutrients and vitamins, especially when compared to egg whites, which don't have as much. One or two eggs yolk a day are recommended for children, whereas adults should have one to get their intake of necessary nutrients," says Ryan Fernando. The cholesterol in the yolk is needed for elders and children who have adrenal issues.

CHOCOLATE

Why it's bad: Not only does consumption of chocolate gradually increase one's weight,but people tend to cut down on it because of its caffeine and fat content. "Children get addicted to chocolate when their consumption is not moderated. It's harmful for diabetic people and the sweeteners in it are bad for the teeth," says Nainatara S, a consultant nutritionist. The high oxalates in chocolate are known to cause kidney stones. A study by the American Society of Clinical Nutrition showed that the higher the consumption of chocolate by elders, the more likely they were to be affected by bone disease.

Why it's good: Nutritionist Murali Subramanian says one benefit of eating chocolate is its antioxidant content. A study in the University of Illinois showed that consuming dark chocolate helped lower cholesterol and blood pressure. The antioxidants in the chocolate also help reduce chances of obesity and Type 2 Diabetes.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015 | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide

"29 October 1888 -- this letter was sent to Dr. Openshaw, who performed the medical examination on the portion of kidney received by George Lusk in conjunction with the From Hell letter."
_____

Old boss
you was rite
it was the left kidny
i was goin to hoperate agin
close to you ospitle
just as i was going to
dror mi nife along of er bloomin throte
them cusses of coppers spoilt the game
but i guess i wil be on the jobn soon
and will send you another
bit of innerds

Jack the Ripper

O have you seen the devle with his mikerscope and scalpul a-lookin at a kidney with a slide cocked up.
_____
The letters of Jack The Ripper set to poetic formation. Part the 5th
__
With appreciation to Casebook: Jack The Ripper, the largest public repository of Ripper-related information.
http://www.casebook.org/

Authors and actors and artists and such
Never know nothing, and never know much.
Sculptors and singers and those of their kidney
Tell their affairs from Seattle to Sydney.
Playwrights and poets and such horses' necks
Start off from anywhere, end up at ***.
Diarists, critics, and similar roe
Never say nothing, and never say no.
People Who Do Things exceed my endurance;
God, for a man that solicits insurance!

humans for sale*
you can lick their body
you can trade their kidney
you ignore them, and pretend you can't see.

Ignorance is the key to their death
Poverty is their destiny
Hunger is their enemy
Darkness is their only escape.

And you want to take them
getting all the benefits
selling their soul
exploiting their body.

How do you see these black children?
How do you see these poor people?
Robots? Slaves? For sale?
For ***? For money? For power?

Well, I see them as human
they cry, they love, they laugh.
I see you as the Demon,
you know nothing but evil.

I was a ***** slushie flannel senior the first time I saw him,
an undid a button of morning regrets.
He was a nicotine stained midnight kiss I don't really remember,
A salt water perception of perfection labeled in a sly smile and small print,
he left bruises of lust on my wind pipes and I left my ear ring in the back seat of his Mazda.
He became my taxi driver,
my room full of people,
my absent fathers approval.
I took on my role of his unable to vote baby with librarian eyes.
And then one night he suggested an experiment to see if no other girl loves like the way my eyes beg him to stay.
He smiled down at me as if I should feel like I was in his gratitude,
he told me I should thank him for paper shredding me so I could learn to tape myself back together piece by piece,
so I could decipher my ripped description and learn to write again.
"Let me give you the most detailed inspiration, let me break you", he whispered, "so we can be equal".
Darling Slam the door on our hazy summer nights and remember me in disgust,
"Trust me", he said you need someone to look after you and only the smartest man can put a puzzle like your eyes together and only an artist will like the picture of your battle scares when you pick up the white flag.
I was naive that he thrived off a fight.
He claimed that the most intoxicating evening with me would be to be with me whether I liked it or not,
problem is I loved it.
He said he'd find ecstasy when I needed him less so he could crave me more,
and after way to many blue moon beer funnels mixed with the salt water of his absence he got what he wanted.
He took me to the doctor he used to claim to be yet I never once told him it was the frequency of his presents of not being present at all that made me bleed so deeply.
God I'm bandaging his self inflicted wounds for my own scabs wish list,
and now My fingers shake on how much I need his hands on my waist,
or how I'd do anything for those bruises out of love.
See all that's been on my mind is our ice cream melting pushed against the car first sober kiss and how he said he'd wanted to snap for me until I was oozing tears of joy cause all that he lectured about was learning to use a pen for myself again.
I prayed for inspiration,
I prayed for him to be my metaphorical daydream.
See this boy smiled religiously,
obviously aware that I didn't know a thing about happily ever after, he wanted to listen. Gripping my bible white sheets with his palms whispering,
Tell me when, where and I'll be there.
I believed him.
So for you my bipolar baby It's here, it's now and were finally equal.

This will be short and sweet like the honey when the Bible character was famished it’s hard to identify
With arid hostile lands an know desperate hunger it wouldn’t be if you looked in a spiritual mirror there
Isn’t such a thing yes there is it is the bible you wouldn’t like what you see staring back at you all
Natural impediments and illusion that material life creates a density a perfect cloak sins chains are
Hidden the future obscure or if it shouts out the dire straits you’re in it is immediately destroyed by
The precious but deadly sentiment God is love yes that was qualified by a disfigured suffering savoir who
Didn’t just say I love you he showed it to the Father in Heaven then to all ages of lost men and women
You will not pass his agony and suffering while you participate in evil that does nothing but undermine
Your very life robbing you of blessings that goes to the center of your being not the quick thrills then you
Regret your shameful actions the church is the great first aid station for spiritual wounds and sorrows
A support group that is in the know and is equipped by heaven to rescue any hurting person that
Played the devil’s game and now lies in a maggot infested cell in excrement obviously they hear
When love goes to their extreme situation and what a transformation from rags and scabs and delirium
To a sound mind a life that flows by silver cool streams and the path leading away to your recued life is
Not you alone but He is your guide just a personnel word to let you know I’m not just talking this is what
He did as my guide I was running two hundred points on blood pressure edema with pitting other words
Open holes six total with the leg on fire and then the sharp biting pain that the strongest pain pill didn’t
Faze E.K.G. in depth blood work kidney ultrasound heart ultra sound the last a trip to emergency for the
Leg all of this disabled no insurance oh yes the biggest one in two weeks go to a kidney specialist there
Was going be whole lot a chinging going on that alone would have surpassed everything else but this is
Where He steps in I used the scripture that says come and let us reason together I just said if this goes
Through I won’t be able to support St Jude’s, Boys Town, The church and a missionary so when I went
For blood pressure test down from 200 hundred to 144 ER didn’t admit me I m still paying nine hundred
From the last visit to the ER for blood pressure mostly I set there for three hours you would have to go
To Vegas to blow money that fast but we have a Father that will intervene change the course that would
Put us in debt and every other harmful thing and then you have the father of this world he knows every
Weakness he knows all of your failures and he mines it for all its worth and by the way you are the slave
That does the work well I wrote like this last time and then Hell grabbed my leg and it’s still burning with
Hellish pain but I accepted a challenge to step up my efforts to rescue the perishing but I am a liar I said
This was going to be short and sweet and it is neither but I get lost while writing and the pain subsides
These words don’t mean much but before any of us want to were going to go to judgment then tears of
Anguish and joy will say thank you for caring and showing me truth that saves

"On October 16th George Lusk, the president of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, received a three-inch-square cardboard box in his mail. Inside was half a human kidney preserved in wine, along with the following letter. Medical reports carried out by Dr. Openshaw found the kidney to be very similar to the one removed from Catherine Eddowes, though his findings were inconclusive either way. The letter read as follows:"

From hell.
Mr Lusk,
Sor
I send you half the Kidne
I took from one woman
and prasarved it for you
tother piece
I fried and ate
it was very nise.

I may send you
the ****** knif
that took it out
if you only wate a whil longer

signed
Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk
_______
View the actual document here: http://www.casebook.org/images/lusksmall.jpg
The letters of Jack The Ripper set to poetic formation. Part the 3rd
________
With appreciation to Casebook: Jack The Ripper, the largest public repository of Ripper-related information.
http://www.casebook.org/index.html

My head is spinning
My vision is blurring
My neck is paining
My whole body is aching
My fingers are numbing
My arteries are clogging
My fate... I am hating
My life is shattering
My suffering is neverending...
Am I dying?
My kidney is teasing...
My blood is aggressively pumping
My glucose is cynically laughing
My heart is still beating...
Death... am I cheating?
Tick.. Tock... Tick... Tock...
Am Still breathing...