Curwen loved that machine. For that is all the VLT was, just a machine. What he didn't realize or probably didn't care about , was the fact that the VLT was linked to a master computer in Saskatoon. The payoff for the machine was miserably low for a game of chance. The fact was the machine took in much more than it ever paid out. The odds of winning were such that it was not, nor ever would be, a paying proposition.
However, Curwen's attitude was that he loved his machine. He even gave the VLT a female name. He called it Margie after one of his lost loves.
Every dollar of his Social Services stipen went to feed Margie. He would panhandle or borrow and run to Margie and spend some time with her. She had a certain excitement for him. The very times, gambling his last dollar, the VLT would take all his money.
In the month of December Curwen got his Social Services cheque, cashed it and went to spend some time gambling. The anticipation of spending some time, a good time, a long time with Margie obsessed him. He would take the rent money, the food money, and his family's Christmas presents and give it to Margie and see what she would give him in return. Maybe he could buy his family some expensive Christmas presents for a change. The VLT scorned him, mocked him, and took all of his money. December 1 at 4:30 he was broke. He had gambled his whole cheque. My God, what had he done? What had she done?
He went back to his apartment feeling numb. What could he do? He phoned several friends to borrow money.  Everyone knew Curwen had a gambling problem. They were either too poor or had heard the same sob story several times before. So Curwen was broke and nobody would help him.
Moments later, there was a knock at his door. It was the landlord. He wanted the rent. At Curwen's sob story the landlord told him he would be evicted. Curwen was homeless, no food, and no Christmas Presents for his loved ones.
He would seek revenge. He would fix Margie once and for all for giving him such misery. He would not let her ruin another life.
After a sleepless night, the next morning he walked into the hotel bar where the VLT was, with a hammer hid under his coat. She was unoccupied, her screen beckoned alluringly. Curwen stood in front of her and took out the hammer. "You *****!" he screamed smashing the screen again and again.
The crowd looked up from their drinks as if they knew this was going to happen someday.
The hotel bouncer came running and grabbed the hammer. Curwen was subdued with his face pressed into the filthy rug of the hotel bar room floor.
Curwen was charged with destroying hotel and government property. At his trial Curwen said, "I'm glad I did it. I killed her before she actually killed someone else."
Curwen spent Christmas in jail. For what - justifiable homicide - two years less a day.

A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto
as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology
smashing to fragments: demonic astrology
(more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true though).
Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance
Concupiscent consequence: lust’s bitter fruit –
ah the thought… changing Sin into mere inconvenience.

Margaret sang her seductive refrain
about weeding the garden and progress and light.
Her sisters should view her with scornful disdain
but instead have adopted her murderous rite.
With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics
(as if she had never herself been a fetus),
condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics
while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us.

Suppressing the lives that she flushed down the drain
she would liberate Death – and resistance was vain.
As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side)
Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy
singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide
calling the shots for the coming sick century.
Planning, quite calmly, to “cleanse” certain races
her zeal was empowered by murderous graces.
She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction:
“dilation and curettage”, “women’s autonomy”
“viable fetus”, “procedure”, a “suction”
Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy;
words that turn Life into mere reproduction.

She enters the realms of the ****** and the motherless
roundly condemned by her feminine otherness.
Man’s first protection: the God-given womb
which no infant should have to regard as their tomb.

Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her
as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her.
Long may she burn with the medical cynics
this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics.
Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen
and the profits swell big with each nubile teen…
yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen.

I send her this song as a funeral wreath
and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there:
“To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death
from the souls of the infants you slew on the earth.
May your torment increase with the children you bear.”

Re-written today... dusted off and delivered, to our beautiful friends, the Chambers...

Ron, Nathan, Ian, Jill...

We know... you can't see us... but you are not forgotten!!  The Reimers remember... we are here... with you in this room, now... as is your Margie!!  

___________

remember her with us, as you read and hear these words.  it is good to remember... to never forgot... a cycle of life, brought full circle, best in remembrance.  and this makes remembering perhaps the most important facet that defines, sets us apart as humans, best captured in this thought, "in forgetting the past we cease to be and bring hope forward for the future. and so we remember... for we must never forget!” this is why we line our shelves, our walls with them, and visit inscribed stones behind fences.   you are not forgotten, Margie Chambers!

~

posted first in the Christmas season of 2014,  the original post script remains and speaks of my original motivation in writing this, but events this year prompt my re-post, if nothing but as a reminder to all of us to look beneath the surface with intentionality and to see the pain that many walk in daily.  though they will shield it from uncaring eyes, they are likely to let in those who show they truly care.  and is not this, the truest, the finest, the greatest of Christmas gifts we could give such a one?

~

it is a storm approaching,
not the tempestuous kind;
of driving rain or whirling wind,
but a storm all the same;
a mingling of sorts,
a marriage that blends,
my joy with my tears;
my hopes and my fears,
of life and of death,
of all that has come,
with what has not yet;
where photos and albums,
and letters and cards;
are all we can touch,
of what has gone by.
 
yet there's a tree to light,
there are gifts to wrap,
there are cards to send
to loved ones dear;
while the hug that we wish,
the one we most want,
it's the one we can't give,
caught... in its grip;
this our loss has us,
ties us in knots.
for memories and laughter,
their kindest words,
and shouts of joy;
these are fading away,
and yet... are all that remain.
uninvited to the table,
these call in the park,
at Sunday Mass
and the post office,
but especially the back porch,
when it is quiet after dark.
these join us at parties,
where thoughts of our missing,
join the gay, happy greetings;
and on Christmas morn,
when gifts lie unopened;
their chair empty still,
at dinner... a space,
no one ever will fill;
in their place is a candle,
a scent we know well,
a light we'll not crush;
it's the closest we'll get,
to their presence we so miss.

the storm on the inside,
one that no one else sees;
as they stroll down the street,
as they shop merrily;
our hearts beat... quietly,
inside we are breaking,
this storm threatens to drown;
but no one will save us,
because no one's around;
who ever would notice,
or  knows how to care?
its the cry of our heart
that no one can hear.
our tears brushed aside,
hoping no one can see;
this storm it is raging,
raging wildly in me.

i looked for a card,
my thoughts to express,
but the cards in the store
say nothing like this,
no words such as "weeping",
or "anguish" are found;
no topics like "lonely" or "angry",
in the Christmas card aisle.
so just how to reconcile,
my juxtaposition?
how can I quell,
this sense of foreboding
that i know all too well?
truth is...  i cannot!
i must go through
with this marriage.
and pray that some day,
soon... i can hope,
that i will awaken,
to see sunshine again;
and consider these memories,
not nightmares, but friends.

~

post script.
"blessed are those who morn, for they shall be comforted"  Matthew 5:4

*these are so many among us who mourn, in particular at what are otherwise joyous occasions.  for these ones, Christmas only adds to the acuteness of their pain.  for them, Christmas is a storm they know is coming, a time when they must prepare for, battening down the hatches of their soul, so they are assured their grief does not leak out on the joy of everyone around.  my advice for us all- know who walks near you well enough to reach out to them, give them a shoulder to weep on, share your tears with theirs. assure them you have not forgotten.  repeat the name of their loved one, a name they long to hear others speak.  for most of us, this name is one you cannot say too often. speak in the present tense of their loved one for they are not lost, they are still present and very much a part of the grieving one's life.  as just one of many examples, remember... a mother who has lost her only child is still a mother.  it is a title that she still bears, coming with all the burden, yet without any future benefit, these having been stripped away. love her, hold her, be shelter for her heart in the coming Christmas storm.

I don't dream of you either. Not at night. The occasional daydream occurs. You crawl into my mind in sentimental coffee shop conversations we never shared, love made in hotels we never went to, picking up naked dolls with frayed blonde hair that the daughter we'll never have left out. Sometimes it's lovely not to question the reality.

Usually the night drives keep me in Oklahoma. I don't know how many times I've stopped in Kingfisher to look at that terrible statue of Sam Walton. But he reminds me that no matter how successful a man becomes, in the end his legacy is depicted by his leftovers. There's a sadness in that. But also a freedom.

Wednesday's drive took me to Ulysses, Kansas. Light pollution gave up just outside of Woodward. Guiding me like a weary wise man who forgot his frankincense, stars beamed and made for suitable company. I love passing through small towns at night. I become a ghost. I'm above them. I'm not exactly there. Brief haunt. Then on my way again.

I parked about 100 feet from my grandmother's old house. Judging by the minivan, some young family's new house. They were in the process of adding to the east side. I wanted to tear at every fresh board. Instead I picked up a couple pieces of my grandmother's gravel. Put them in my pocket. Touched her old mailbox, and drove to the cemetery.

When I got to the headstone, which read Merle and Virgil Mawhirter, I thought back to the last thing my grandmother said to Karen and myself. We visited her in the hospital right before she found herself in the pangs of a ventilator and scattershot science. It was her birthday. I bought her a book she never read.

As Karen and I left, she stopped us. "Don't forget to bring me some ice cream. Good to see you, Floyd and Margie." Not sure who they were. Ice cream. Even at the end, she laughed in the face of diabetes.

Do you think Tim will be the name beside yours on your headstone?

I lied down by my grandparents' graves. Dim moonlight seeped through small breaks in the amethyst clouds. Dead leaves feathered to the ground beside me. I wanted to say some words of encouragement to her. For her, but mostly for myself.

All I said though -- My name is Joshua, Grandma.

1
Susan visits May
and May gasps,
looking out the window:
Hey! Oh no –  that’s my husband
walking here with my lover!

Oh my God, exclaims Susan
that’s exactly what I’m thinking!



2
Little Tommy is outside
crying in the street
and Old Margie walks by
and she says to the crying boy:
Hey, why the tears?
And little Tommy says:
My parents are inside the house
and they are fighting.

Old Margie scratches her head
looks close
and asks: Who’s your Dad?

Oh, says Little Tommy,
*that’s what they are fighting about

love what about love ? many people in the world try to find the real love thing every day ,and maybe they will waste the time by searching about something that not exist, my grandmother tell me once that the love is Margie but in the same time my grand father tell me that love is Patience and
sincerity , i agree with them and love doesn't change by time love still love what ever time change and people change . Who among us has not feel the love once maybe in the childhood we feel our heart beats by up-normal way and in the moment when we grow up we felt like we are running after  Mirage .. i tell you my story about love but in the begging I want to tell you a little secret about love, love drives all our feelings of  happiness and laughter sadness, anger, jealousy, longing and cry and regret and loss and emptiness and loneliness ،،And all that we grow  up everything changed our ideas about true love. what ever lets get in the story ،،There was a boy at the age of 18 years old and it was calculated that he knows what love and has sufficient experience. which was very lucky because it is the first time enter into a relationship and found love, the girl was aged 17 years،and it  was very beautiful in her laugh her ​​words her character. and in his eyes she was so perfect .At first he was very happy and thank God for what he gave him because she was angel ،The relationship lasted for 3 years  and they was talk to each other all the day long ، shearing something spacial،،They were dreaming a lot and they didn't know that the Destiny was hiding for them something very bad,,Although they can not live without each other Did not know that they will someday remember this love and passing in front of each other  as if they were strangers As if that love was in another life،،          to be contained ..

Night raids on Salt End
were legendary… It were a
giant chemical works with ship docks,
silos, storage tanks, fuel dumps,
an ideal 'drop off point' for Gerry…

But Salt End plant’s night raids
on Hedon Road
weren’t gonna daunt our lot,
they lived a mile or so down the lane to Preston
and seemed unafraid of gerri’n shot.

But they built a shelter across’t main road
in a field… On the outside It were a haystack
within the walls, six foot thick… proper beds
on hay bails to the front and back... cosy.

Down the middle was a ‘lounge’ with chairs,
lights, a radio - electric run from’t big ‘ouse
It’s better than being at’ome our Charlie used to say
For the eldest (and the architect) he’d not much nowse.

Me mam (then 19) told me she bussed it into Hull
“****** the Doodlebugs” She needed Jitterbugs…
and they still danced at City Hall.
******* to Gerry and his mates.
Margie & her pal René,
dauntless, they had a right ball!

Last Bus to ‘Withernsea’ from town
dropped her off at the junction
by the Speedway on Hedon Road.
Just as her way was lit by fire bombs - all about
when Gerry dropped his final unaimed load
Maybe ack-ack’d sort him out.

She was 2 miles from home… every few seconds another blast.
Scuttling …dodging whistling incendiaries,
running fast, whippet like…
any second could’ve been her last
anything too close she’d have to jump in't ****.

She couldn’t mek it t’t shelter or house so picked
the coal shed - instead… threw herself down
on coals…noise lifted - silence dawned… all clear
heavy breathing - not hers -  she wan’t alone
What if it’s one of them - a downed ***** airman.

Nervous, terrified more like she let out a little shudder
a gentle cough… to test her nerve
“Is that you Margie?… You daft ******!”
It were brother Tom… He’d been t’t Nags Head
and he’d run the opposite way from the village instead.

Bill loaded the truck with hard red winter wheat
One night so as to beat the scales at morning light.

Before sun up, he kissed Margie on the cheek
And roared out of the yard,
Overload springs sagging,
Engine fierce, but groaning,
Toward the town.

Two miles out,
The scale light said "Open,"
Giving Bill a momentary chill.

Shifting down, he exited
Before arriving Scale Hill.
A gravel detour waited
To take him on the long way 'round
And bring him back the other side of town.

Most situations similar
Go from bad to worse.
The truck eased down into a swale.

Beneath the surface gravel,
A bed of soggy clay
****** down the wheels
And stopped the farmer's way.

The creaking truck began to settle,
Testing Bill and
Leaving him chagrined
As the Transportation Deputy
Drove up to see the mess.

"Looks like you need a pull!"

What could Bill say?

And so he took the offer,
Then followed flashing lights
Back to the scale, and paid
A hefty fee to compensate
For being cheap too early
And learning much too late.

The road to the funeral home
was plagued by
brown Cadillacs stretched
out on overgrown lawns,
and cats lounging lazily
on splintered planks.

Eleven people sat scattered
around dozens of expectant
chairs laid out in long rows,
hairlines moistened by a
lackluster air unit wheezing
in the one window.

The Reverend approached
the pew and began his
assault of sentences--
they spewed from
his lips like careless
bullets, and they stung.

He shook his hands at us and
promised that she had
been delivered to God…

I wonder if he meant
delivered like her
neighborcare packages
containing the familiar numbing
glory of ****** that got her
through cancer after cancer,
limbs and eyesight failing,
decades old and stewing
in her stomach.

He sputtered out syllables
like bouts of fumes-
they filled the air and I
swear I could smell them,
the stench
of stale cologne
and stale culture.

I could taste the
disgust coming up from
my esophagus,
that bitterness the brain
dispenses when anger
can only be expressed in
a tapping foot and sourly
sagging lips.

I sat there, silent, as that
ancient man
with his West Virginia
draw clumsily
stumbled over a list of
relatives “Marge” would
meet in heaven.

He forgot my father,
skipped his name and
my heart began to pump
faster, my cheeks burning.

He did not know that she
was Margie and we would
remember her soft yellow curls
and infinite knowledge of
antique dolls,
hundreds of pristine replicas
beaming in glass cases.

He did not know that
her lips were electric;
she shocked our cheeks
with each hello
and goodbye.

I wish he knew her like I did,
the young woman who sat
stiffly in this plastic chair,
her little girl all grown up.

I wish I could have pushed
him off the stage and
made up for the seven years
I missed of kisses and
old stories and support.

But I sat there, silent
and stared at the cracked ceiling
tiles and fake flowers
on the front folding table,
yearning for the pounding in my
temples to stop.

These life of shadows
Up against the wall
These church bells
Never stop ringing
When did you become
So ******* brave?

Listen to the voice
In your heart.
They were there with you
From the start.
Nothing is too loud.
Nothing is too short.
Pass me the bottle
I don't care
If it's the ******* port

Where did all the money go
Dear Margie Maggie May?
I'm up against the wall this time
And I'm all out of my rhymes
The seams are twitching
The dog is barking too
The knife sharpener is crying
Telling me he's planning
To run me the hell through

It's ok
If I end up alone
There is nothing
But the inevitable
Clicking drone
Of man escaping bone

And though the boughs
Of the ship are splintered,
Tattered and ripped to shreds,
I could see solitude
Being a better route for
The work.

Ah...
The work.

The *******,
Holy moly,
Angels in flight,
God sneezed and let out
A ****

Work.

There is nothing but the accident
Of birth
And the inevitability
Of death.
Everything in the middle
Is a matter of choice
And dealing with the cards
One was dealt.

Everything is the singing
Bell of lady luck upchucking
Her own glory, given to her
By peoples need to believe

The ease of the word
Confounds the sparrow.
What do you need
But something to hope for?
The light
At the end of the tunnel
Bounces in sight
Like a drunken kangaroo.
We drive around like
Mad worms searching for the
Darkest hole with the richest dirt.
A grand home in a walled off
Community where no hell
Could ever get in, even if it tried.

We probably should
have died that day.
The way the wind took
Through the trees like
Albany albacores in the wintery
Sheen of stars.
It didn't matter how many shoes
Were along the rafters.
No thought was where it had
Been lately.
A hug was worth 2 cents
Until I found her.

It's too bad
Nothing ever
Lasts.
Instead of silence
Instead of words
There is just noise and
Distractions.
I can take a beating
Like anybody else
Let the body bleed
A little bit.
Nobody wins
All we're seeking
Is a moment of levity
Before the
Break
Of the Big Wave.

As long as
The Ride
Is the way
You want it -
Let it ride.

Even

Th
e le
av
es

Gr
ow tir
ed

O

f

Falling

Daddy got drunk
and wet in the well
Oh, poor daddy
Daddy got drunk
and wet in the well
Oh, poor daddy
  
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
  
Daddy got drunk
and wet in the well
Oh, poor daddy
He told little Margie
Not to tell
Oh, poor daddy
  
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
  
Daddy had Edie
on his knee
Oh, poor Edie
What he did to her
When she was three
Oh, poor Edie
  
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor Edie
Oh, poor daddy
  
Daddy got drunk
and wet in the well
Oh, poor daddy
Mama bit her lip
and got beat to hell
Oh, poor daddy
  
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy

Riding the waves upon the
sun beams of yesterday,
the star's are colliding
as our systems are failing.

Justice lost its mind
alongside its followers.

The storm has just begun,
the winds are blowing,
rivers are flooding,
ocean's are rising,
COVID is invading.

Will we ever win?

Will we ever become
our dream selves,

Is this life a fleeting explosion
of none scene?

Is it worth the frustration and anxiety?

Who's to stand up for our communities?

Who's responsible for the damages and abuse?

Where's the government?

When people are abusing our screens with uneducated foolish delusional dreams?

Why is no one punishing the
criminals like Margie Greene,
Donald Trump and his supporters?

What happened to the American dream?

Freedom, opportunities and growth
all garbage because of the broken
ideas of broken minds.

America is divided by lies and truth.

Donald Trump never loved you,
he loves nothing but abuse.

©️ 2021 By Amanda Shelton

Nothing about Margie was coy.
She was an older inner city girl who made men out of young boys.
She was a little wild and always on the prowl.
Some of the boys will remember her for eternity.
Because she was the one who took their virginity.