The south was dark and dangerous in. 1954
The **** called in the darkness
as fear hung from the night like spiders webs.

In the woodland by kitty Gains farm
alongside the perfume of corn and wheat
and the staccato chirping of hot august cicadas
stood the hemlock tree scared and black at its base
where its bark would never refresh its color
the hanging tree became the burning tree.

Molly Evans and her husband Abel arrived first.
The ten year old Chevy truck
pulled into the clearing
she held a basket
covered by a clean laundered tea towel.

Abel spread the old wool blanket
as she served his dinner fried chicken and corn.
With two cups of homemade lemonade.
The sun was low and the sky had a fire in it
as if by duty the mosquitos started to bite.

Abel slapped his arm
leaving a crushed insect and a patch of blood.
****** hitch he shouted
as Molly chastised him
language she churns God is listening.

Soon the field was full of vehicles a caddy a ford woody
trucks cars as big as football fields
nothing newer than 8 years old.
Men were drinking beer
ladies chatted of knitting and quilting
and harvest dancing socials.

It was then that jubels old beat up truck arrived.
In the back a ******* man
his hands tied behind his back
kneeling in the truck bed.
one eye closed and bruised
his face beaten ******.

The crowd fell to silence
yet an excitement filled the air it was palatable.
You could taste the bloodlust
as good as the fried chicken.

the ******* man had arms with muscles
. Like a football
he could carry huge sacks of produce all day never tiring.
But no more they would show
what happens to uppity blacks
that lust after white women.

He was accused by Lilly Taylor
of trying to **** her.
it was untrue he spurned her advances
he was married to Lisa his wife
and never ever did anything to her.
It was well known Lilly's husband
Seth drank moonshine until he could not walk
never mind fill his husbandry duties at home.

But lily was white and he was black in 1954
They watched as the truck parked
under the tall stout branches of the hemlock.
The rope hung down
and was measured his toes would tantalizingly
touch the ground as he choked on the noose.
it would keep him alive for minutes

****** don't get mercy here
they would know what to expect in this county.
The man who put the noose
Over his head was Marty Shue
the local bar owner
and his two assistants
were the the barber and the feed company owner.

Even the pillow cases they wore over their heads
with eye holes burned in them
could not hide their identities.
The barber poured a can of gasoline
over the black man
he begged don't burn my oh god no.

He had given up the hope of life
he was just  terrified of being burnt.
The begging went unheard
as the truck moved away slowly
the man fell from its bed
and dangled in the air
his toes dancing on the floor
gasping and choking for five minute.

then using his lighter
the feed company owner
Lit the black man.
He screeched an unholy sound
as the flames burnt him to death.

Across the hill in the shanty town
where the blacks lived.
the old lady looked at the lighted sky
in the trees

in her eyes a small boy
could see the flaming man
hanging burning dying.

Its your daddy son
he's at peace now let him be.
But the flames burned a memory
in his eyes.
and his mouth was dry tasting of death
and a new taste
that he had never felt before revenge.

1968
The boy was 24
a big man now
his arms strong muscular he stood 6ft 5
And 220 pounds

next to him in the old car
sat another black man slight and almost pretty
he has gay written all over him.
His relationship with Virgil was unknown.
just they were close
they were friends.

They arrived at Marty's bar
in the late afternoon
it was still a filthy relic of the postwar south.
The no ******* served sign
still hung faded and in defiance
to the new laws.

The light colored slight man
rattled the sticking door of the bar.
The three men were watching a wrestling match
on a beat up tv
Drinking beer.

He said to Marty I would like a beer please
You don't Get one in here boy
there's a black bar down the road a ways.
But I want one here he saId softly

Marty short of his usual millimeter of patience
picked up his huge louisville slugger bat
and said when I say go boy you ******* well go.
Hear me.

The feed store owner had a gun
hidden in his coat
the barber a long hunting knife in his belt.
The bat raised above his head
as Marty lurched forward

he tried to stop when he saw the glock
in the black man's hand.
it basted his kneecaps to pieces.
as Marty screeched as he hit the floor.

The feed company owner took the chance
to pull out his weapon a 45
he had had since a boy.
It never reached waist high
as the bullets blow his manhood away
and he cradled writhing on the floor

the barber tried to run for the door
but bullets blasted his feet
as the foot bones crumbled

Virgill came in he had a can of gasoline
drenching the men with it
they screamed don't burn us
why you doin this to us we are good men.

Do you remember August 28 1954
They went quiet
The ****** you hung and burned

Yes I am sorry Marty wept
I was young and stupid.

It was my daddy
said Virgil softly I see him every day.
He talked of the thin membrane that.
Separated the living and the dead

of the places where it was so thin
you could hear the demands of the dead
for forgiveness and love
and the loudest of all for justice.

I hear my daddy in my sleep
in my dreams in my soul.
The gas can was empty.

As he grew a cigarette on Marty
his body ablaze in the whoosh of the fire
then the other two .
The place was engulfed in screams and flames.

They drove slowly
within all speed limits
passing the state lines one by one.

They never found out
who murdered three men in Marty's bar.
They had no underworld connections
and all three were fine upstanding
members of the local church
and well respected
members of the community.
it was a mystery.

The end

first step

when he looks at a woman he searches for qualities that attract him because he wants to desire her yet this tendency creates an imbalance or disadvantage he is rendered weak to a woman’s beauty or whatever traits he idealizes self-realizing this propensity he looks away from women years of disappointment neglect change him he becomes afraid of women gynophobic

2

when she looks at a man she searches for qualities she is critical of because she wants to be impervious to his power she is suspicious of all men their upper body strength penchant to be in control misperception of women as property misogyny emotional immaturity neediness to be mommyed selfishness insensitivity or over-sensitivity depending she wants to be treated with equal respect a loving nurturing relationship she is suspicious of all people their alternate realities passive aggressive behavior co-dependence craziness

3

he sees her then looks away she suspiciously notices nothing happens they go back to their separate homes alone always home alone grown calm in resignation yet disbelieving of this destiny saddened by this fate both worry about future she looks at her face naked body in mirror her stomach churns feels sad sickening remembers time when she was more carefree he puts one foot in front of other then walks tries to remember who taught him to walk how many times did he fall who taught him to laugh where did his sense of humor go

4

he sees her thinks she is lovely resists the urge to turn away he smiles says hello she notices nervously smiles her shaky voice articulates louder than a whisper hi

Tucson 2-step

they are standing in line at a café on 4th avenue he is directly behind her she is lanky wearing white background faded colors patterned summer dress thin straps over bare shoulders long brown hair few gray strands small unfinished tattoo on left calf leather slip-ons 1 inch heals he is at a complete loss for words thinks to make remark about the weather decides not to overhead fan stirs hot humid July air barista girl asks what she would like her eyes scan blackboard menu behind counter she hesitates remarks help him i need an extra moment to decide he steps up to counter money in hand orders small to go Arnold Palmer half black current lays $3 on counter mentions change goes in tip jar thank you barista girl moves fast he lifts cup from counter glances at woman still deciding then at barista girl says have a wonderful day turns walks out door dawns on him woman grows hair under her arms his 2nd most compelling female physique adornment fetish oh god he thinks to himself should i wait for her to make up her mind then approach try to craft conversation at least find out her name no i’m too weak in this moment she is so lovely let her go

2

she orders double Americana in small cup to go room for soy milk thinks to herself he did greet her perhaps their paths will cross on street why did he run off so fast she glances toward front of café notices window seat changes her mind instructs barista ******* 2nd thought make it for here digs through purse realizes she left wallet in truck explains to barista girl she needs to run out to her vehicle to retrieve wallet forgotten under front seat the air on the street is heavy dense she smells her own perspiration looks north then south does not see him walks to truck feels exhausted appetiteless almost nauseous wishes she did not order a drink thinks to get behind wheel drive home go to sleep

Tucson 3-step tango

she feels disappointment by her recent writings as if she is reaching a more sophisticated audience and setting a higher standard for her work yet she is not living up to her ambitions her recent writings smell of her past writings too emotional the damaged woman wounded child she wants to write more introspectively with detached humor that only comes from keener intelligence she slams her laptop shut decides to go to Club Congress for a ****** mary or margarita but Club Congress is haunted with small town cretins losers wannabes she considers Maynard’s decides Maynard’s is too safe suburban yuppyish finally gives in to thought of glass of pinot noir at Plush next comes what to wear jeans in mid-July desert heat is unacceptable perhaps loose fitting thin cotton white summer dress thin leather belt ankle high indian moccasins hair in ponytail no pigtail braids no ponytail no makeup maybe little ylang ylang oil no she thinks about her recent writings

2

i am one breath away from crying in every moment one breath away from flying m.i.a. in every moment one breath away from destroying everything there is beauty in ugliness beauty in decrepitude disease beauty in harm hurt suffering beauty in greed injustice betrayal beauty in corruption contamination pollution beauty in hate cruelty ignorance beauty in death we spend our whole lives searching for a good death we spend our whole lives searching for eternal love this modern world is too much for me over my head the horrors of this place are beyond words unspeakable voice inside maybe mom yells quit your whining or dad hollers stop complaining i am trying to smile through tears one breath away from giving in one breath away from becoming stranger to myself winter spring winter spring there is beauty in nothingness we spend our whole lives searching for ourselves learning who we are not finding grasping secrets from dark paths light trails winter spring winter spring i am one breath away

3

she sits alone at bar at Plush glass of pinot noir glass of ice water in front of her 2 bearded older men eye her from other end of bar she ignores them glances at her wristwatch tries to look like she is waiting for someone music from speakers antiquated rock standard it is early friday hours from dusk moderate middle aged crowd mingle wait for local jazz trio to begin she thinks about her recent writings wonders is it too late for love considers lesbian affair from 5 different perspectives 5 woman’s voices each describing same lesbian affair in 5 opposing accounts hmmm she sips dark red wine from glass chases it with ice water she considers a story about a gang of female bikers who ride south to Mexico

4

the Americans came through here last night crossing border illegally climbing over our fences digging tunnels beneath our barrier walls littering along their trail they travel in packs of every skin color carry guns knives explosives wear leather boots some are shirtless tattoos dyed hair mischievously smiling conceitedly stealing when in question murdering they rob our homes slaughter our chickens ransack gardens loot our harvest you can still smell the stink of their fast food breaths

5

she swallows the last dark red wine from glass chases it with ice water local jazz trio begins to play as bar fills with more people she decides to walk home one foot in front of other wonders who taught her how to walk how many times did she fall she laughs to herself

Tucson square dance

TPD 10-18 unconfirmed data report

7 post-University of Arizona female graduates go to Cactus Moon for several drinks and dancing then drive to Bashful Bandit for more drinks and dancing 2 women get into scuffle victim Brittany Garner female 23 years of age race #5 (Native American, Eskimo, Middle -Eastern, Other) 5’ 2” long black hair cut-off blue jean shorts clingy light blue top falls hits head on side of bar dies of fatal blow to skull forensics report crushed occipital lobe assailant Stacy Won female 31 years of age race #4 (Asian) 5’6” black jeans black leather jacket red helmet Honda motorcycle still at large

witness accounts

Jess Delaney female 33 years of age race #2 (White) 6’ tight black pencil skirt white sleeveless undershirt no bra 3” heels blond ponytail “that squirting little **** deserves everything she got she lied told Stacy i’m a ***** i never cheated on Brittany i don’t understand we were all having a good time getting buzzed and dancing we should never have left Cactus Moon **** Kerrie thought some biker dude might be hanging around the Bandit hell maybe the Bandit was a biker bar once but now it’s just a college sink hole full of drunken frat boys when Monique flashed a little *** they went crazy cheering and buying us shots it just got out of hand never should have happened the way it happened Stacy didn’t mean to **** Brittany it’s ****** up i want to go home please let me go home”

Sabrina Starn female 29 years of age race #2 (White) 5’8” trendy corporate gray suit black pumps red shoulder length hair “i have to be at work at 8 AM Stacy was drunk out of control she gets crazy when she drinks Brittany was trash talking pushing all Stacy’s buttons then Stacy accused Brittany of sleeping with Monique and all hell broke loose i didn’t see what happened i was in the powder room it’s a terrible tragedy unfortunate accident can i please be released i need to sleep this is madness”

Kerrie Angeles female 27 years of age race #1 (Hispanic) 5’ 6” black pants white shirt black hair cut stylishly short silver crucifix around neck red fingernails “when we got to the Bashful Bandit i was ***** soaking between my legs thinking about a cowgirl at Cactus Moon ready to **** anyone i saw fantasized pulling a train with those frat boys Monique had been kind of quiet at Cactus Moon but when we got to the Bashful Bandit she lit up dancing wild unbuttoning her top jacket Sabrina went to the ladies room to snort coke with biker dude Kerrie wanted but he wasn’t into her then Brittany started saying crazy stuff accusing Stacy of stealing Monique from Jess Jessie goes through women heartlessly she doesn’t give a **** about Monique Jessie knows if she wants Monique back she can simply fiddle a finger my guess is Stacy is half way to Argentina she never meant to **** Brittany i’m going to miss her real bad she was a good kid”

Ann Skyler female 28 years of age race  #2 (White) 4’ 11’’ green white red Mexican peasant skirt black t-shirt black high-tops hair in messy bun “i’m confused i saw them dancing laughing grinding up against each other Rage Against the Machine came on then Nine Inch Nails the room felt quaking dizzy claustrophobic then they were pushing each other shoving yelling frat boys cheering the next thing i knew Brittany was supine on the floor blood pouring out maybe she just slipped hit her head i don’t know what to think i feel real sad confused sick to my stomach scared”

Monique Smithson female 24 years of age race # 3 (Black) 5’ 9” blue jeans jean jacket cowboy boots nose ring braided pigtails “Stacy had it in for Brittany from the start i saw it in her eyes at Cactus Moon she made several clever toxic remarks they snapped at each other i never thought it would escalate to ****** poor sweet Brittany was always so susceptible i was looking down adjusting my jeans over my boots when it happened i heard felt a big thump glanced up Brittany was lying there lifeless blood spilling everywhere Stacy ran out fast i heard her bike engine take off in a hurry”

Rodeo Drive Tucson

matt’s hats tom’s tools & tobacco lou’s liquors fred’s beds frank’s planks bill’s drills jane’s drains & panes chuck’s check cashing cheryl’s barrels hank’s tanks tina’s trucks & tractors walt’s asphalt sean’s pawn rick’s rifles mom’s guns terry’s tires charlie’s harleys rhonda’s hondas jim’s rims art’s parts gus’s gasoline mike’s bikes frank’s feed gwen’s pens ann’s cans nancy’s nursery joes‘s clothes jess’s dresses bert’s skirts steve’s sleeves paul’s shawls michelle’s shells & bells al’s pails & snails sam’s hams & jams patty’s pancakes phil’s chili don’s donuts betty’s spaghetti bob’s burgers alycia’s quiches jean’s beans jerry’s berries anna’s bananas andy’s candies cathy’s taffies tony’s ponies roy’s toys kim’s whims marty’s parties jill’s pills rick’s tricks alice’s palace debbie’s disposal dave’s graves

Quinta Waltz de Tucson

she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts she dreams aches to create deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration instead she writes paperback television trash stupid inadequate answers to solemn questions she wonders if she is too scratched dented to find love her ******* are definitely changing she is deeply disturbed not ready for menopause too young for menopause she wants to remain a fertile woman with smooth skin wet ******

2

her neighbor Leslie awoke to horrible morning Leslie’s 6 chickens were assaulted overnight precious Mabel dragged off feathers everywhere trail down the street other hens cowering slumped together with wilted necks 3 of them with puncture wounds Leslie carried them one by one inside washed their wounds hugged them cried who did this terrible act a neglected abusive neighborhood cat or some desert predator why didn’t Leslie wake to sounds of savage marauding now this creature knows hen’s whereabouts when will it return for more massacre what modifications need to be enforced to ensure their coup before nightfall

3

she wants to remain a hen keep producing eggs does not want is not ready to enter the next **** stage of this **** existence it was fun being pretty for men inspiring them to say do whacky things she wants to remain a hen she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary attempts “Tucson square dance” (self-referential) ****** bit about Americans came through here last night in “Tucson 3-step” ****** "Rodeo Drive" tepid perhaps the pinot noir lowered her standards everything is becoming nothing she cannot sleep tosses turns thrashes sheets in humid heat of her lonesome bed is she is too scratched dented to find love she worries for Leslie

4

tomorrow is another day they say the rain will come last year’s monsoon never came the baking sun smothered her garden died one by one sleepless she will miss tomorrow’s pilates class the infrequent delightful chatty breakfast afterwards she dreams aches of deeper discourse higher insight with detached humor that only comes from keener intelligence more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration she crossed the line tonight her ******* are definitely changing

Tucson 666

he decides to shave eighth to quarter inch length salt and pepper beard a.k.a. unshaven look he has worn for years and grow full mustache the whiskers on his upper lip are darker with sparse gray at first no one notices after weeks the mustache gradually fills evoking many contrasting remarks several women loath it several men admire it girl at grocery store suggests he grow Fu Manchu so she can tug on it shopgirl says he looks like Charlie Chaplin downstairs neighbor from Turkey explains most Turkish men traditionally wear mustaches he read mustaches masculinize and empower men especially men in authoritative positions he thinks back to the 1960’s when many hippie males grew mustaches then in the 70’s gay men fashioned mustaches then in the 80’s cops adopted mustaches he wonders why a swatch of hair beneath nose is so provoking examines his visage in mirror discerns the mustache confers a Pepé le Pew quality or European accent to his appearance he remembers when he was young hippie with many amorous episodes how his mustache preserved the scent of a woman but there are no women in his life for many years do post-menopausal women possess scent? he feels indecisive whether to retain it or be rid of it

2

she observes her figure in mirror thinks to herself maybe her ******* are not changing perhaps it’s all in her head she inspects the little lines forming near her eyelids studies her features for signs of aging hardly any silver strands in long brown hair she examines neck ******* arms elbows fingers tummy hips pelvic region thighs knees shins calves ankles feet detects subtle changes thinks to herself my ******* are possibly slightly changing turned 40 in March married briefly in late teens no children a 15 year old dog beginning to suffer veterinarian promises to warn her when the time comes she wonders why it is so difficult finding fitting mate men sleep with her several times then move on maybe she is not such a great lover perhaps she would be better if one of them stuck around perhaps she is a lesbian the whole ide

Marty the Mellow Mushroom
Far out in left field
Growing ever strong and tall
With cow manure his favorite meal

Everyday he contemplates
Life under the sun
That is until the fateful day
The hippies all showed up

They took Marty out to party
Now the only part of Marty left
Are the trippy little colors
Inside the happy hippies heads

Forty Days

A Season of Grief, a Season of Rejoicing

November 9-December 20, 2014

For Barbara Beach Alter 
It is Christmas morning in Saco, Maine, where today Bett, Aaron, Emily, Thomasin and our beloved cousin Marie find ourselves gathered to celebrate our first Christmas without dadima (our name for Barbara Beach Alter).  Brother Tom writes that already in India he and Carol with Jamie, Meha and Cayden (the only of her seven greatgrandchildren Barry never held) have celebrated.  Today Marty and Lincoln join us in Maine.

This gathering of documents—notes, drafts of memorial services, poems, homilies—is my christmas present to each of you.  It is a record, certainly subjective, of grief and rejoicing.

John Copley Alter
1:14 a.m.
Saco, Maine 
November 9

Loved ones,
Barbara Beach Alter died peacefully at 2:55 Sunday morning (today).  Bett and I had the good fortune to be there for the final beating of her good strong heart.  She murmured charcoal.  The nurse who was bathing her afterwards noted how few wrinkles there were, and it is true.
For those of you nearby you may if you want visit Mom in her room at hospice this morning (until noon).  Visit? Darshan? Paying respects?
Bett and I plan to be there around 11:00.
Much love to all. A blessed occasion.
John

 
November 10

Matthew 5:13-19
Jesus said, "You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.
"You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.
"Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven."

yesterday in the early hours my mother died her saltiness
restored all that had through the months of her old
age and convalescence obscured the lens of her life cleaned
away so that for us now more and more clearly
as we hear about her through the memory and love
of so many people her good works shine forth in
their glory but it is to the days of her
convalescence the days of her dementia I would turn our
minds those of us who spent time with her at
Wingate long-term care facility remember that Barbara Beach Alter became
at times fierce in her commanding us that ‘not one
letter, not one stroke of a letter’ of the commandments
should be altered do you remember that those of you
and us who were given the work and gift of
spending time with Barry in those days in that condition

remember for instance how fussy she became about the sequence
of food on her tray how impatient with us for
our trespasses and violations how adamant that we look forward
for instance and not back at her how she would
say stop holding my hand and saying you love me
you have work to do o she was almost impossible
and certainly incoherent and demented in her obsession with law
and procedure fussy impatient imperious I do not forget being
scolded reamed out put in my place for having somehow
failed to do what the ‘law and the prophets’ demand

Barbara beach alter in the days before hospice in the
nursing home and hospital and even if we are honest
in the final years of her life found herself caught
up in the rigidity of her anxious desire to be
faithful to the laws and commandments of her life and
that made her at times extremely demanding to be with

amen and the epistemological confusion of course the clash between
her reality and ours it was all an ordeal for
her and for those of us who kept her company

and yet and yet through it all and now as
that ordeal for her is no longer paramount as she
dances in heaven all the wrinkles and discomfort of her
life removed and forgiven Barbara Beach Alter kept the faith
living in the midst such that those who cared for
her most intimately the strangers all professed your mother blessed
us


Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
7 Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
8 Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
9 Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
10 Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
11 Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.
12 Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.



So, brother and sister, here are my thoughts about the memorial service(s).
Let’s find a time when we three can be present; that’s the most important thing.  My life is currently the least constrained by agenda and schedule.  And then the grandchildren, recognizing that Jamie may not be able to come.  So, our work is to find our when our kids are able to come. Bett and I are exploring that with our three, each of whom has some constraint: Emily, the cost; Thomasin, the piebaking demands, Aaron school.  But we are flexible.

Much love.

John



Walking in my mother’s wake today some trees
a gentle breeze some dogs a little boy
the neighborhood and I took joy from interaction

we are at best a fraction in love’s
calculation after all heaven I realize is not
above or below cannot be taught comes naturally

as death does walking in my mother’s wake
I found new allies learned yet again not
to take myself too seriously to be caught

off guard as a matter of principle and
not to insist that I understand but live
in the midst of forgiveness


in my mother’s wake I am reading these books for
some way to continue to knock on her door Wendell
Berry he can tell me some things and William Blake
he can take me closer and I remember she described
me once as an unused Jewish liberal so I am
reading about protestant liberalism but ham that I am also
reading Carl Hiassen’s Bad Monkey and Quo Vadimus that my
daughter left behind and mythologically Reflections from yale divinity school
no fooling Denise Levertov David Sobel Galway Kinnell’s translation of
Rilke some wake
 
November 11

Matthew 25:1-13
Jesus said, "Then the kingdom of heaven will be like this. Ten bridesmaids took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps. As the bridegroom was delayed, all of them became drowsy and slept. But at midnight there was a shout, 'Look! Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.' Then all those bridesmaids got up and trimmed their lamps. The foolish said to the wise, 'Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.' But the wise replied, 'No! there will not be enough for you and for us; you had better go to the dealers and buy some for yourselves.' And while they went to buy it, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went with him into the wedding banquet; and the door was shut. Later the other bridesmaids came also, saying, 'Lord, lord, open to us.' But he replied, 'Truly I tell you, I do not know you.' Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour."

this morning in the wee hours my mother died one
of the wise bridesmaids whose lamp to the end was
full she carried always the flask of oil that is
joy that is the love of the kingdom of heaven
and of the bridegroom a flask always replenished by prayer
by devotion by a humble courageous living in the midst

she expected every day the bridegroom to come in other
words and she was also one who would never refuse
to share even the last drop with somebody in need

and at the end it is so clear the door
into the banquet hall was not closed to her as
it is not closed to any one of us foolishness
is to believe otherwise to believe that the bridegroom will
not come today in the early morning in the wee
hours that is when he comes in the midst of
other plans is when he comes even when we are
doing what we assume to be good work when we
are doing what gives us pleasure our duty joy comes
then unsummoned unpredictable random even according to all our best
laid plans my mother loved so many things her pleasure
included dancing late in her life terminally unsteady she invented
what we loved to urge her to do namely the
sitting jig and we grew up with images of her
Isadora Duncan dancing with white scarves in an enchanted forest

Barbara Beach Alter aka Barry aka dadima bari nani aunt
and daughter wife missionary is now I know dancing a
rollicking boisterous jig on the shores of a lake that
is as her grandson once confided to her god in
liquid form spilly Beach of course also dyslexic executive function
compromised she was but one who loved to be always
in the midst surrounded by loved ones some of them
absolute strangers she shared her oil because for her it
came welling up from an inexhaustible source a deep eternal
well of such illumination and laughter such giddy divine chuckles

for her there was to be no exclusion she would
not find the awful idea of being one of the
foolish applicable to anybody but happily she welcomed into her
midst so many it is hard to imagine how many

so there she is now a bridesmaid dancing for joy
in such elegant clothing with such perpetual brightness

amen hallelujah rejoice


sometimes I think she pulled us all out of the
magic hat sometimes I think she knit us all into
one of her theologically impossible sweaters and then with a
wink she passes through the eye of the needle and
is gone and we are left to play in her
honor endless hands of solitaire sometimes I think we are
no more than the hermeneutics of her life the epistemology
artless she was not her heart like one of those
magical meals for her then a doxology praise then praise
she knows salvation

what is a life’s work it is like a landscape
dotted with oases and gardens for the thirsty and the
lost it is like scraping through dry barren ground and
finding there suddenly not only the theology of paradise but
such seeds your hands ache to begin the planting what
is a life’s work what has been shut for too
long opens what has been shut for too long opens

a life’s work renews itself then with death the kernel
of hope that dies in springtime sprouting is what a
life’s work becomes
 
November 12

John 21:15-17
When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my lambs." A second time he said to him, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Tend my sheep." He said to him the third time, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, "Do you love me?" And he said to him, "Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my sheep.

I know my mother very much enjoyed having breakfast with
god and that the meals of her nursing home drove
her nearly crazy and that when at last she found
hospice o she again could imagine the feast of heaven
at which Jesus breaks bread with us and speaks with
such clarity do you love me more than these I
know it was questions as simple and overwhelming as this
that dominated her final days do you love me love
being  one of the last five words she attempted to
speak do you love me she wrestled in her last
months with epistemology and psychology and theology and all had
to do with whether she could answer unequivocally you know
that I love you and that she could say of
her life that she had broken bread with god we
all remember in her life those moments when there was
a great gladness an innocent acceptance of what lay immediately
in her presence now those months in the nursing home
tormented her in precisely this fashion that it was hard
to accept to be in the midst of such mediocrity
and woe to be innocent and accepting but now praise
god there she is a happy guest at the great
feast and we left behind bereft can acknowledge that she
loved god in her own fashion as best she possibly
could and do you remember being with her there in
hospital or nursing home and she commanding us to move
beyond holding her hand and saying we loved her and
to feed the sheep to do that work which will
make of this earth this here and now an outstation
of heaven Barbara Beach Alter loved god in her own
fashion as best she possibly could we remember that and
that memory is today like a great network a web
of love and inspiration o we would gladly one more
time hold her hand and say I love you but
we know also clearly I think today what the work
is to love our neighbor as ourselves to work for
peace and justice I think of my sister with her
colleagues in WEIGO and how her sisters have understood her
grief  let us break our fast together then glad for
the worldwide web that in these days is reading the
gospel of the life of Barbara Beach Alter praise god


feed
tend
feed
in exchange for his three denials Peter is given three imperative verbs
feed
tend
feed
this is the commission Jesus after breakfast on the shore of the sea of Galilee gives to Peter
twice he says feed
in the commonwealth of Massachusetts 700,000 people are hungry
1 in 6 americans are hungry
living in uncertainty about their daily bread
more than 18,000,000 in Africa
842,000,000 around the world go to bed hungry


Marty and Tom
The thinking about the memorial service is taking this slow and cautious turn, namely that we have three services (at least), one in Sudbury, one in New Haven (allowing Stan and Chuck and others to come) at First Presbyterian (with Blair Moffett we hope), and of course one in India.
The date frame appears to be somewhere between December 17 and 20, unless you have other thoughts.
The actual cremation happens tomorrow.  Lincoln, Bett, Alexis and I will attend, and then of course there is In the Midst on Friday.
Love you more than tongue can tell.
John


the thing with a life well lived is that many
people have partaken the way let’s say a river moves
down through any number of different lives all the time
sedulously seeking the shortest path to the sea to steal
a line from somebody or other meandering a watershed within
which so many of us find a way to live
our own lives nourished and for each of us the
river distinct and different white water the slow fertile meander
the delta and we say to each other this is
the composite river


sometimes I feel like a sleepwalker trying to run a
marathon sometimes I feel like a speedbump in a blizzard

an arrow in a wind tunnel sometimes I feel like

a hazard sign in an old age home sometimes I
feel like a tyrannosaurus rex trying to ride a tricycle

and sometimes those are the good days when identity is
strong like an icicle in a heat wave is strong

I try to read wisdom literature at happy hour scotch
and Solomon can’t go wrong I think and sometimes I

feel like crying
 
November 13

four days ago we were left alone there with your
body after your breathing ceased and the proud stubborn beating
of your heart and in those four days beloved mother
so much I would love to say to you and
share the antics of the squirrel late leaves on the
neighborhood trees music Orion the network the atlas of love
your life has left behind and all the words we
are the gospel of today and I would sit with
you there then in silence as I sit now four
days later vigilant insomniac aware that the kingdom of heaven
is not more complicated than singing than love than dancing

we are all dancing the dance lord siva teaches and
the s

The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway… man that’s one long bridge
I drive it every day for my pay - here’s what I see along the way

Here comes:
Corvette Kary, setting pace, he thinks he’s in a race
When Kary’s not waxing his ride, for your safety you'd best pull aside

Petrified Patty, she’s over water and has never learned how to swim
She’s driving a white Lexus, so scared she has no reflexus

Miata Mike, chasing Kary's Vette, not gonna get too far
Trying to convince himself, he didn’t buy a girly car

Watch out for:

Makeup Mary, on cruise-control, wow she’s one of the worst
She loves her new Camry, but her next car might just be a hearse

Yes, that Causeway, can be a long and boring ride
And if you get a flat… there’s no place to pull aside
Oh but that Causeway has its points, take time to see
24 miles of entertainment, and the Northbound way is free

Here comes:

Road Rage Randy, always ****** and he doesn't know why
Today he’s running late, but finds time to escalate

Doughnut Danny, rolling breakfast and a tea
Such mechanized efficiency, has a newspaper on his knee

Wackin Wayne, you're kidding me, you thought I couldn't see?  Vibrating Virginia close behind, now we have equality

We've got:

Maypop Marty, thinks tires last forever
Does he even check the air?.... never

Mark The Spark needs a muffler shop, something heavy about to drop.  Comes Innocent Mike on his motorbike too bad he just couldn't stop.

Headphone Harry and his Pandora, he's here but also... he's not.  He likes his music best, you see, after a few long tokes of his ***.

Fugitive Fred on the go, at 65 point ooo.  Not a mile to fast or to slow, got to blend in on this bridge don't you know.

Yes that old Causeway, can be a long and boring ride
And if you get a flat… there’s no place to pull aside
Oh but that Causeway, has its points, take time to see
The mechanized circus on parade, our hilarious humanity

Don’t forget:

Frozen Frita, every rainstorm stops her dead in her track
Then here comes Ramin’ Ron, goin 60, aint too good for her back

No Tie-down Tim, **** flyin’ out of his truck
For everyone behind him, Tim doesn’t give a ****

NPR Nancy, she must be in a “Driveway Moment”
Only problem is, she’s on a god-**** bridge

Texting Theresa, I’ve saved the best for last
The last thing in life she did see, was an idiotic emoji

Lookin’ Lee, that’s me, pretty sad that I’m just as bad
Come join us nuts on the Causeway, might be the most fun you ever had

August is One of Countless Chapters of the Past. Everything Else is just,
 
A Reverie

 
   It was as startling to me as it was to Mikayla. We had not seen each other since August when she had dragged me across the coals, twice, after it came to her attention, I was showing pictures of her at our local bar. No, not nudes... nor anything remotely suggesting foul play in my mind. They were just selfies that she herself took. On my phone.

   Nadya seemed to still be learning the many customs of America since moving here from Moscow. That and possibly all too embracing of how to live more like an American which is why she didn't notice how thick the air got when she was introducing me to Mikayla,

   “Mikayla, this is Ahnd-REY. He's whom I've been telling you about this whole time.”

    Nadya’s accent made me weak in the beginning. I remember when we started dating every now and then a halfway confused look came across her face during conversations. She expected an American man would never let her get a word in but found it rightfully so as frustrating as could be to get me to talk. I wanted nothing more than to sit and listen to her voice, her stories, and her thoughts. She carried herself so unlike almost every other girl I’ve met.

   There was what I would describe a deftness in her stride. Over time I got the impression it may have been due to where she grew up in Moscow. Not the worst part of the city, but it wasn’t the greatest either. It wasn’t that she was timid by any stretch when she walked by me the first time. She just wasn’t going to put up with anyone’s crass remarks or actions. Her sure-footed steps came to an abrupt stop just passed me realizing I had stopped walking gawking at what was walking by me. She was ready to give me a verbal, possibly physical, lashing as soon as I tried anything to provoke her. But I didn’t.  I just stood there with these ‘poor orphaned puppy dog eyes’ as Nadya put it. Like I was behind a big window, paws pressed against the glass, and no wag in my tail.

   The hardness in her eyes dissipated as mine maintained a child-like awe. This Russian beauty, not sure what to do next, just asked me if I was lost. I couldn’t remember my answer, but whatever I said made her smile. She had what I think of as that calloused mind having dealt with undesirable interactions from her home country growing up.

   Right now, I was weak for another reason. Mikayla. I was hoping I could easily avoid running into her for the rest of my life after she shamed the absolute hell out of me the last time I was here. My eyes focused on Nadya while she kept introducing me, and I could see from my periphery Mikayla’s eyes, the size of silver dollars, staring boldly at me. Her mouth just managed to gape enough for me to notice.
With a less than heartfelt tone Mikayla politely greeted me
after Nadya finished talking.

   “Hello Drew. I haven't seen you here in a while.”

   Nadya was too excited for me to reach for any words of my own. Thank the Moon.

   “Oh! So, you know each other already! That's good to know. Also, you'll have to excuse me if I keep calling him by his Russian name. It fits him so much better!” Nadya continued.

   From what I could gather after that first minute of shock had worn off it seems Nadya just befriended the first girl she found who didn't look like she was an avid fan of fireball. God, I couldn't stand the taste of that cheap ****. I told Nadya fireball was a drink of choice for far too many ****** southern girls to be considered a drink worth any consideration.
  
   Mikayla was dressed as I remember her doing so, very beautifully. This time it was a fun black dress that reached to her knees. Her dark brown hair was hung down and she was wearing shiny black heels. That must mean she hasn't been out drinking for too long then. Somewhere in her car were most likely a pair of wedges she keeps when she has had enough attention and wanted to feel comfortable.

   Nadya was working on a Russian Mule. A drink she was so
elated to find out I knew how to make and not just simply heard of it. Mikayla had what looked like a Long Island iced tea. Her glass was about to spill over in her hand until she noticed me noticing it. A little bit of pink started to flood her cheeks immediately. As Nadya continued her conversation before I arrived Natalie, the bartender, rushed up to me,

    “Drewww! Where have you been, man? It's been ages!”

   I greeted Natalie warmly with a big enough smile I could put on and handed her some silly excuse for my absence,

   “Chasing that paper, if that's still a saying anymore.”

   “I feel you. Want something to drink?”

   Once I returned my attention back to the girls Nadya mouthed the word 'paper’ with clear confusion. I chuckled and wrapped my arm around her to bring her close. Even though I was churning on the inside seeing Mikayla again it wasn't going to overshadow how adorably out of place Nadya could be. I tenderly kissed the front of Nadya’s head after explaining I meant money and tried to ignore the little rain cloud that started to grow above Mikayla's head.
  
 

.....Last August....
 
   I don't want to make it seem as if alcohol was to blame for what happened, but I had drunk more than my usual amount. A friend offered me some shot that smelled too much like one of those ****** cakes you find in gas station bathrooms, but it tasted very much like Hawaiian Punch. The blue kind. It didn't help I hit the ground running enjoying a high gravity beer by some obscure brewery. That was a gift, and a curse, being such good friends with the bartenders. They would always have something for me to try, and refused to charge me the full price of my tab. I was always conscientious of never having more than three, possibly four, beers when drinking though.

   That night there was a real turn out of fresh faces, and girls. Marty, a beer-bellied bar acquaintance of mine, was standing next to me while we carried on light conversion -while we both were glancing back and forth at the girls playing pool. It became painfully clear one of the girls wasn't wearing a bra under her boyish size tank top as she leaned in for her shot.  

   “Lordy, there's some pretty ones here tonight. Isn't there?” He declared.

   I couldn't hold back the smirk stretching across my face.
   “Oh yeah.” was all I needed to say.
          
   “Gonna talk to any of them?”

   Marty must have been wondering who I fancied. Very
respectable guy. Probably didn't want us to have a conflict of interest in the same girl. Lucky for him.

   “Honestly Marty my interests have been taken by one girl in
particular tonight. Unfortunately, I can't really talk to her.”

   His face, as expected, showed me he was more than interested in what I had next to say. I spent a minute going over these feelings I had over time developed for Mikayla, and how I eventually broke the cardinal rule by telling her how I felt. Eventually pulling out my phone showing him the selfies that told me she was interested in me as much as I was in her.

   The month before at the bar I was having small talk with Mikayla as a band was playing loudly across the room. Given that it was hard to hear each other I thought why not use my phones note app and talk that way? So, for a small window of time that was how we carried our small talk. I had no expectations that Mikayla would take it as the opportune time to snap pictures of herself with my phone with various faces. I was included in some of these pictures. It was such a surprise and I hate to say it, but I coveted such a moment with her.
 
   Marty's reaction was that of amusement and awe it seemed. His only words of comment were,

   “Give it some time. Eventually she will find her way to you.”
   At least that is the gist of what he said. Now one of two possibilities had occurred immediately after we spoke. Marty may have gone directly to Jared, Mikayla’s boyfriend, and unloaded everything he had just heard from me. If that were true, I don't blame him. He was simply looking after his friend. I get it, and I harbor no ill will towards the guy. I do believe, however, that someone else must have walked by and heard or saw what I had hoped to keep between me and Marty. That seems more plausible.

   I felt so ashamed when it came to a head that August night.
Mikayla sat down next to me while I was in the middle of Mario Kart, and I was halfway waiting for something interesting to be said by her. I remember my heart was already climbing a ladder to my throat when she walked my way. 
          
   “What's going on?” Was all she said in a very forward manner without looking at me.
  Hands in her lap with eyes looking down at them.
 
   “...Sorry?”
   It was more than curiosity that devoted my attention to her when she sat down. Didn't even notice the solemnness in her face.
       
   “You need to delete those pictures you have of me on your phone.”

   ...And without protest, or questioning anything, I straightaway pulled my phone out and proceeded to carry out her command. Looking back, it still seems odd over the degree of compliance I carried her command out with. Seemed as though the galaxy was struck by that blue shell covered in spikes from the game and my whole world was thrown upside down.

   “This is not funny. This is not a joke…”
   Her tone stung while I was deleting the photos not just from a photo album but from my trash to make it permanent. Those butterflies you get when your excited about something? Well, they were lit on fire and falling into an ever-bottomless pit which came to be inside of me. I started having trouble hearing by then.

   “Deleted.” was my only word to her.

   The voice dripping out of my mouth didn't sound like me at all. As soon as Mikayla heard my response she promptly disappeared out of my view. I tried to resume playing Mario Kart. Not a few seconds passed by and I was looking at my boots with some unfathomable guilt hanging around my neck. I decided to walk away into a corner of the bar and find a happy place, believe it or not. There was what felt like eyes looking at me from everywhere. I felt much too vulnerable out in the open.

   Strangely enough, and what relief it was, I found solace in the form of a new email from my pen pal. Haven’t heard from them in some time so I was happy to read their message. Mikayla must not have liked the smile genuinely smacked across my face. Because she re-a-*******-ppeared in front of me.

   “Why are you trying to ruin my life?” She asked coldly.

   Aaand that happy place of mine just vanished into thin air.
 
   ... ****... I was suddenly so confused and internally screaming to be invisible.

   “-I'm not trying anything Mikayla!”

   My throat felt like it was drying up as the verbal wasp nest was being pushed into my face. I tore my eyes from her gaze momentarily as I desperately forced a swallow against my dry throat. Mikayla was at least open to talking for what little moment there was. It's hard to remember all the details when that fight or flight **** kicks in. I do remember her eyes were too intense for me to keep looking at as she told me,

   “Word travels fast in a small town like this, and now because of you running your mouth, I'm made out to be the town *****.”

   Devastated was an understatement as to what kind of emotion tsumani’d the **** out of me when I heard her. I thought I was speaking in confidence to Marty earlier, but my drinking for the night must have betrayed me. It wasn't long before Mikayla snapped me out of my near stupor,

   “Don't you dare start crying.”

   I could feel it coming, and I must have floundered at keeping the tears from pushing through.

   “If you start crying then I'll start crying.”

   I honestly wasn't expecting that and couldn't have been anymore perplexed for the night. Mikayla continued,

   “You are a nice guy Drew, and if things weren't the way they are I would date you… But I share a house and a dog with Jared, and I can't have **** like this happening. We can be cordial and say hello whenever we see each other, but that's it. From here on out I need you to stop talking about me. No more 'if the stars were aligned differently' *******. I don't ever want to catch my name coming out of your mouth again. Understand?”

   How much of my conversation made it her way?



..... Back to the Present....
  
   I came back to the present when Nadya declared,
   “Oh, we must get together sometime, Mikayla! I have no one to talk to when I go to the nail salon. And as much as I enjoy Andrei shopping with me, he has a difficult time not imagining every outfit I try on laying at the foot of his bed.”

   Mikayla smiled too politely but cleared her throat and said of course she would. But something was amiss and Nadya noticed. She wasn't sure if she was insulting with her halfway worried glance back at me. Her feeling was firmly planted seeing my eyes were directed to the ground briefly before meeting hers.

   Natalie broke the air in the conversation by serving me a
cold beer and chatted briefly with the girls. I took a sharp swig and welcomed the citrus hops biting at my tongue. Think it will be the only drink for the night. Before Natalie could hurry off, I discreetly asked her for Nadya's tab and mine. Nadya, refusing to let the conversation fizzle changed gears hoping to salvage the conversation… but it was for the worst,

   “Andrei, I'm so happy you finally decided to show me your friends bar. It's full of friendly faces.” Smiling right at Mikayla she continued, “He says he hasn't been back here since October-”

   “-August.” ****, did I really just correct Nadya? In front of them both? Am I autistic? Mikayla's eyes were quickly returning to the state they were in that same **** August night.
   “August?” Inquired Mikayla.

   “Oh, that's right.” Nadya continued, “Andrei hasn't said much about it. All he would tell me was some horrible ***** ‘dragged him across the coals.’ Isn’t that what you said darling?”

   The last word was closely followed by her hand tenderly caressing my face as if there were a smarting wound that hadn’t healed this whole time. Raw heat erupted deep down within me for two very different reasons.

   “He says it's his fault and he deserved it, but I know that’s not true. He won't tell me anything else.” Nadya resumed.

   I need to get some air. The room was starting to feel like a vacuum. My voice entered the conversation,

   “I never said she was anything, Nadya.” One pair of eyes looked curiously at me, and another was piercing into my skull. If I so much as crossed my sight in Mikayla’s direction, I felt certain I’d turn to stone, or be slapped very hard across the face.
  
   “She was nothing but sweet to me, and unfortunately I made a poor choice in expressing my interests to her from the start. Her hands were tied and to this day I feel so terrible for jeopardizing someone else’s relationship.”
           
   Not sure if Nadya was entirely satisfied with my explanation, however, the snakes writhing around Mikayla’s head were clearly retreating from whence they can. I hope what she heard was enough because I really want to take Nadya away from here before all those puzzle pieces fell into place.

   The bartender Natalie answered my unspoken prayer and handed me the bill. Nadya looked like she was purring at the sight of her date taking care of the bill even when she didn’t
ask of it. Her first few dates on American soil were seemingly haphazard at best, and I still manage to catch her off guard over random small nothings. Like simply holding the door for her; something she missed about Russian dates.

   Nadya was enjoying the fact she found herself an American gentleman who didn’t drink his meals and expected her to pay for herself. Though she quickly held protest upon realizing I was ready to leave, but obliged when the worry started to creep forth from my eyes,

   “Mikayla it was so very nice to meet you. Maybe we can all go on a double date soon.” Then Nadya gave her an unexpected hug.

   Nadya’s back was to me as she went in for a hug. Wasn’t sure if I saw a snake flicking its tongue from behind Mikayla’s head or not. I just stared off into nothingness for a few seconds. Reality quickly resumed when Nadya crooned,

   “Ready Darling?”

   Just breathe... We’re walking out now.

   “It was nice to see you again Drew. Take care.”

   Mikayla’s voice made my body stiffen just slightly. It was the calmest it had been the entire night, but it didn’t mask the anguish that lingered. It must have looked like smiling back at her was painful for me as I held the door open for Nadya.
Because Nadya didn’t walk through.

   As if she was watching a sunrise for the first time, she looked at me with her head tilted, then at Mikayla, … at me, and Mikayla again. And it dawned on her.

   Time must have forgot it never takes a break... for those few seconds dragged on for far too long. Only after she tenderly took me by the hand and we were out the door did Nadya conclude,

   “We need to find a new place to share a drink, my love.”

Our friend Marty well what can I say
we're all saddened on this day.
you where one of the good ones a real good friend
a helping hand that you'll always lend.
but certain things we can not mend
so with heavy heart this message I send.
when we was in trouble you would be there
now there are things beyond repair.
you where always there when we needed you
I don't know somehow you knew what to do.
so Marty my friend I will say this
its your good heart and kindness that we shall miss.
you'll be remembered you wont really die
no matter how hard that we may try.
so it will never truly be goodbye
with songs from the riders in the sky.
when we last saw you we didn't know
that it wasn't long for you to go.
and your where worn your final flight
so rest now Marty god bless and good night

The station wagon bounced down a dusty road toward the farm house, and Phoebe, who had just turned fifteen  felt the pit of her stomach coil, and tighten with dread. Gazing out the window she locked eyes on a bored looking cow slowly chewing a mangled knot of grass. Phoebe wondered in that moment if even the cows were more depressed in Bismarck.

Her step-father, “The Glenner”, had been too cheap to fly her back home to Oregon from a summer camp in Minnesota, and had arranged for their local minister, Cru Hayward, to pick her up along with his daughter, Lizzie. Phoebe’s sun burned skin ached as she pealed it off the sticky back seat. The air conditioner had broken down in Fargo, and the eight of them were all squeezed in like a pack of cranky sardines.  

Phoebe was going to be spending the rest of her hellish summer with complete strangers in Bismarck, North Dakota on a wheat farm complete with cows, chickens, and one grey mare along with Lizzie’s six cousins.

The car door swung open, and a large man wearing blood stained overalls with extremely bushy eye brows lunged toward them, “Why I wrecken’ it’s been goin’ on five years, Cru! Bout’ time you come home with the kids to work the farm.” He took an oily handkerchief out of his back pocket, and wiped the dripping sweat from his brows; appearing out of breath at the same time. Phoebe took note of how “Bushy Brows” had replaced the word “work” instead of “visit”, and suddenly felt as though a chicken feather was caught in the back of her throat. Cru Hayward looked stiff, and managed to put out his hand to shake Vern’s, but instead was pulled in tightly, and given a bear hug smudging the wet chicken blood on Vern’s overalls directly onto his brothers white Oxford shirt.

As Phoebe entered the farm-house a variety of scents wafted through the steamy air. Lizzie’s Aunt Doodie was nervously leaning over the kitchen sink peeling a large stack of potatoes so high they were beginning to topple off the counter one after another. An extremely obese cat  sat by her feet pushing them across the floor with as little energy possible.  Standing on a small foot stool in front of an old-fashioned *** belly stove stood, Trina, a small child around the age of five who was busy feeding a dog the size of a small pony. She appeared to be in her own unsupervised world; busily shoving strips of steaming barbecued  chicken from a platter into its wet slobbery mouth, and then licking her fingers.

Phoebe glanced into the nearby living room, and noticed the walls were decorated with handmade plaques quoting scriptures from the Bible along with various cheap prints of Jesus; like the kind you’d buy at a church fair. Small miniature figurines decorated the home throughout. An open bible lay on the arm chair of a tattered recliner.  Feeling self-conscious, and out of place, Phoebe tried to hide in one corner as she watched Lizzie hugging her Aunt Doodie’s belly wearing  a hand-made sweat shirt with “Elvis” on the front. Gospel music was playing loudly from the living room. Phoebe mumbled under her breath,  "Where's the donation jar?” Aunt Doodie’s eyes narrowed when she looked at Phoebe, “Did you say something, Dear? What’s your name?” Phoebe managed to croak out her name, and say she was just talking to herself.” Aunt Doodie gave her a wry smile, “Why you’ll have plenty of time to talk to yourself tomorrow in the wheat fields when we get you up to work at 4 a.m., Missy.” Her snarled lips faded, and she continued talking to Lizzie smiling big, “Now where were we, Lizzie darling?”

Phoebe already hated it there. It had been less than five minutes since she arrived. She began to think if she had a money left in her suit cases to take a bus home. She frantically dug in her front jeans pocket, and pulled out a piece of lint, and a dime.  

Lizzie’s cousin’s all stumbled into the kitchen wearing clothing that looked as though it had passed through several millenniums of “Goodwill Store’s” in the 1970’s. Their straw hats hung low over their  eyes, and  Lizzie could tell they were ******.  Lizzie’s cousins had all been stamped out by the same cookie cutter mold like twins. Their ages ranged from seventeen to thirteen, to age five. Trina the youngest being no doubt an accident.  Marty, the oldest at seventeen, wearing a ripped Metallica shirt was the first to speak, “Lizzie look at you! Why you all but growed up on us. I bet you’s the most popular girl in school with that pretty face of yours”. Marty was handsome in a Emelio Estevez actor kind of  way. Phoebe couldn’t help but lick his beautifully sculpted arms, and chest with her eyes; but when he caught her staring she quickly looked down at her shoes. She felt her face burning with embarrassment.

Aunt Doodie turned around swiftly on her bare heal with a large milk pail in her hands. "I'll be back girls. I'm out to the barn to milk the cow for supper. Don't break anything."
  
Twila was sixteen with black eye liner under her eyes, and red lipstick. She suddenly leapt onto Lizzie from behind, and covered her eyes while wrapping her large chicken fried steak fed legs around her. Her hair was curly, and extremely frizzy like it had not seen a comb in it for several years.  Twila whispered, “Hey Lizzie, who’s your dweebie friend? Don’t look like she can smile much. Maybe our cat got her tongue. She looks like one of those uptight city girls!” Lizzie couldn’t hold onto Twila any longer, and tried to drop her down gently. A loud “thud” bounced the floors as she fell. The inside of a nearby china closet rattled as she hit the floor forcing a glass plate to fall, and break. “Ahh  ****! That’s mama’s favorite platter.” Twila looked straight into Phoebe’s eyes, “We’ll just have to blame it on you, Phoebe. You just keep your mouth shut about it!” Ignoring that Twila had just accused her of breaking a platter Phoebe heard Lizzie mumble, “Oh, this here is my friend from home. We both went to summer camp in Minnesota together, and we’re her ride back home to Oregon.” Phoebe at this point was already imagining a large pig shaped nose on Twila's face; and not the kind that was cute. Twila glared, “Looks like you in lots of trouble now city girl”, and walked away with her cousins leaving her to stand alone in the decorated gospel room near the kitchen.

Phoebe wondered if she landed in some kind of Twilight Zone episode that had not been written yet. She decided to go for a walk all alone on the wheat farm until someone called after her for supper. Phoebe was lonely but she was lonely at home with her mom, and step-father too. They always left her to fend for herself, and her mother rarely spoke to her.  Phoebe felt as though it was like living with two ghosts you can hear; but can't see.  Besides, she had decided that this summer would be spent working on her writing. She had always wanted to be an author, after all, she had always noticed everything.
Her thought was broken when she heard someone say, “That sister Twila of mine is mean as a snake. Don’t pay no attention to her. To this day I feel like I must have been adopted. Hi, my name’s Shawna.” Shawna had a beautiful face, and was tall for her age. She stood about 5’8 with long blond hair making her look almost like a mermaid with her fair complexion. “My twin sister, Shaylynn, went into town to rent a movie for us all to watch tonight. We ain’t got internet. I think she said “Back To The Future” was finally available, or maybe it was “Jurassic Park”. Have you met Joel yet? He’s about your age. He’s always hanging around the bowling alley with them local boys. Don't know what they even have to say to one n' other. It's not like anything ever happens in this town.” Shawna seemed like the nicest out of all of Lizzie’s cousins as she reached out to give her a hug. Phoebe smiled politely saying, "If you don't mind I think I'm going to go for a walk. I think I need some air" while waving a quick goodbye.

When she returned from her walk she opened her journal to page one, and this is when it all began to get very interesting.

My Summer In Bismarck & Other Quirky Observations

by, Phoebe Snow

August 7th, 2015

The horizon seems to encircle this entire small farm as if someone drew with an orange crayon around it like a child would on paper, or perhaps with white chalk on the sidewalk. Everywhere I look it seems flat; and at night the moon hangs so low in the sky with the brightest stars next to it than I think I've ever seen in my fifteen years of life. Lizzie's Aunt, and Uncle, and all her cousins talk funny too. It's like they stretch out their "o's" when they speak. Kind of like hearing a bike tire that's going flat with a pin hole in it. It seems forever for it to finally run out of air; and sometimes you just want it over with as fast as possible. That's how they talk. I'm always finishing their sentences in my head ten minutes ago. These people seem so foreign, and yet I know them like a story.

Journal entry: August 16th, 2015

Marty has come into my room. He is standing in the doorway with  his chest pushed out. He is seventeen, and I am fifteen. I know what he wants by the gleam in his eyes. I won't give it to him.

I got up from my bed, and closed the door on his feet. Silently. I left the scent of coconut oil on my body drift toward him. An invitation; but not yet.

This is for the soul searchers
This is for the song writer who feels like who he is doesn’t fill the space

of who he was meant to be. This is for the depressed cigarette smoking chain smokers.
This is for the poet who writes a thousand lines and keeps them all to
herself, because nobody else deserves to hear them.
This is to fight the starless sky of every midnight wanderer who looks up
wondering, cause if there were more like you the night time streets wouldn’t be so empty.
This is for the traveler who never got a chance and lies below a rock with
his name.
I don’t even know if I’m old enough to say it, but it’s for the generations
of baby boomers of old women and men whose ideas and values are shushed by an obnoxious generation.
This is for the wedding planners whose weddings never seem to come.
This is for the beautiful girls that somebody told otherwise.
This is for the 15 year old gang member who can’t leave.
This is for the second place finishers and the C students.
This is for the guitar strings never threaded and the scripts never
written and the thrill voices that never cried hallelujah because they didn’t believe they could.
This is for the incapable,
Because you and me both are incapable.
This is so you can look at me differently like I was an amputee.
And what I’ve had cut away was my expectations.
I was supposed to be huge—
I was supposed to be the first rose ever planted in the desert—
I was supposed to be the first paint on the ceiling in the Sistine chapel—
I was supposed to be either Axel Rose or Frodo Baggins, and whether
you’re cool or not you understand that line.
I was supposed to be the first pope with a full body tattoo—
I was supposed to be Neil Armstrong—
I was supposed to be the first life on another planet—
I was supposed to be bleeding iron and nails—
If you saw me as I was supposed to be the contrast between me and the
rest of the world would be unbearable, but I’m incapable.
‘Cause nobody ever pushed me,
Nobody ever pushed me,
Nobody ever pushed me and said:
Be something bigger,
Be something bigger,
Be something!

Nobody ever told me I had the power to leave a hole when I withdraw
my hand from water or move a crowd with mere words or play notes on a piano like bullets to your eardrums.
And in all of this, I wonder if the big things know how important they
are, because I’m a mustard seed and nobody expects me to move a mountain,
Or even cover its slopes in yellow.
But I still feel vastly important, so what then?
So this is my push, my push that you may never get from another person, ever. So, listen carefully:

I EXPECT A LOT OUT OF YOU.

Don’t be discouraged when you can’t cross one line, ‘cause you’ll pass a
hundred others learning you can’t go over one.
This is a dare: go to your fridge and get out all your eggs and put them in
one basket and tell me if you’re still incapable.
And if you are, go back to your fridge and get all your egg based
products, ‘cause you missed them, you missed them and you need them and the neighbors not lending any ingredients.
And when you get there, wherever it is that I pushed you to, don’t worry
about telling me—
Cause I
Will notice
And most of all remember that if you’ve been pushed, if you’ve really
been pushed, you’ll be dearly missed when you’re gone.

                                                         -Marty Schoenleber III

I'm a schizophrenic hypocrite
thankfully not in a medical way
i don't have to pop pills everyday
to keep an essence of danger under control
and to stop my head doing backward flips and forward rolls
to curtail bad thoughts and contain OCD
wake up and think "what's happening to me?"
but sometimes i'm full of mazey bomb blasts
and crazy contrasts,
I'm a schizophrenic hypocrite
I say work i'm not even gonna give 50% percent never mind double
but i'll stay just below the warning threshold so i don't really get in trouble,
i do see my sick days as extra days of annual leave
but my bums on my seat most of the year and at least one Eve.
I'm always ducking and diving, i hide and they seek,
but i hit my targets every week.
They can say put down your pens,
strip your pencils of lead,
you can't stop me writing in my head
But you'll sometimes dictate what time i go to bed.
I'm a schizophrenic hypocrite
Nearly every road i walk down i've got a ***** cat friend
there meowing never drives me round the bend
but if me owing then just a letter i'll send.
I’ll rescue  spiders from the bath, without any exception,
But I’ll clean their webs and evict them when I have a house inspection.
Giving up pork, on a parity with pigges at last
But then i broke my faste with bacon for breakfast
Watching lambs a gamboling there frolicking is fab,
but i'll see you on a plate later if i'm craving a kebab.
I'm a schizophrenic hypocrite.
Money and the capitalist structure baffles, no thanks, no ta
but before i go out a quick sub off Ma and Pa.
I'll pay for a taxi, i don't care about the amount,
while checking fervently the statement from my bank account.
Cash cannot be eaten it just gets you into Eton
but i'll rifle through my pockets for pennies to get an eat on
i don't adore you, i'll say your the means to an end
but then i spend some more and ask for a lend.
I'm a schizophrenic hypocrite.
I'll say anarchy  is everywhere, petition and abstain
then  read in the late edition who i think should take the reins.  
I scream smash the system without any regrets
but then start stubbing out where they deem no cigarettes.
I'll say **** big business they are always looting tons
while cutting out Asda coupons to get the soup with croutons.
i'll say **** materialism, to that i am adverse,
"ohh if you want to get me some trainers Mum can you make em Converse? "
I'm a schizophrenic hypocrite
One Saturday i found it hard to move
crying out for water, more than needing food,
stomach emptier than the packets in my pockets
Early winter scribble
spoiled by the ripple of rain,
deadened and dull
on a precious day,
the time I crave
passes through a husk
full of caves.
Each inhabitant curses
and burns
the stagnant soil under their feet,
I want something to eat.
I need to drink.
The cold slab of sink
lures flesh to rest,
unsatisfied
with retched offerings
flung from a scorched earth
so next Friday, a few beers and l I’ll hit the hay
Ten beers later, where’s the MDMA?
And my staunch resolutions go up my nose
Chatting through the night, striking a pose,
Music accentuated, stars sparkling hard
World’s discussed in magic back yards,
Focused and fraught in tumultuous thought
Ten cigs in an hour
An hours too short,
As the morning comes, I start feeling a mess
It slowly disintegrates the treasure in my chest,
Feelings of strength crumble to a feeble frame,
Spears in my head, WHOOPS I’VE DONE IT AGAIN.
You’ll stop this time, I curse and lecture,
Two bottles down next Friday etc etc,
I’m a schizophrenic hypocrite
I remember an uneventful Tuesday when i wasn't working
belly full of rice
and i saw you twice,
two times a day,
on a day in lieu,
time stood still,
smiling at you
i thought i'm gonna have to write about you,
so i park myself in a bar after a joint in Netto carpark
and start using words to build an arc
and if you you do wanna walk in two by two,
can i walk in with you?
Is it this green ride that's getting me high
or the regret i seen in the gleam of your eye
that as soon as we said hi we said bye,
as disappointed as the catcher when he dropped the rye.
If i may be so bold,
if you were cold
i wouldn't hail these stones
i'd pummel Jack Frost until he knows he's lost,
i'll leave all the lights on to hasten global warming
make Obama declare winter a season of mourning,
If you met an iceberg of Titanic  proportions
i'd cut through it quicker than the Ripper does back street abortions.
If you were in prism
i'd try to unrangle the science of triangles
so i could build you a pyramid with all the right angles,
my stomachs in knots;
the most tranquil of tangles.
Then i saw you get out of the lift
and i wanted to play you a rift
until you exposed your midriff
because you set me adrift from chains and shackles
my mind goes crazy and fills with cackles,
i crackle with lightning, my energy heightens
my heart tightens
and not cos of cholesterol
cos i think you're special
and celestial!
I got dreams from naught, my head feels taught,
i prised a lesson from your eyes,
love is the greatest prize.
But now that's gone, all things
pass evolution in transience
faces that were everything lost to balance
blue it merge
but seldom a residual surge
and your bark today was worst than your bite
it said something softly,
i sow the seeds for the sycamore trees
we can carve our names on next summer.
Under an endless stretching sky
you wrote you
and i wrote i,
the lights in our eyes don't lie
they are gateways to the suns inside,
our hearts couldn't hide from this brightening tide.
I'm a Schizophrenic hypocrite
I remember this guy from work, cooed to me
look at the **** on this page 3
he drooled over Nuts magazine like he belonged in a zoo
i bet he frequented strippers too.
He said seen this clip, it's ******* great,
it ad turn a couple of queers straight
it was these two twins with rouge lips being rude,
the way she chomped on her like food
and they defo loved it,there is  no doubt
it's just just ***** Eskimo ******* kissing snouts
and sharing with her sister the joy of getting licked out.
Wonder how they looked in the family car?
giggling about some exciting destination,
like all kids displaying a lack of patience,
“are we there yet” chorused with glee and duality,
dressed in the same clothes to ensure parity.
Ice cream for tea.
Maybe they might be way into drugs
or addled with addiction
lacking hugs
and sore from the friction.
Not liking the glare
feeling scared.
maybe?
He said nar they love it up them baby.
But then,
i have it
about 3 or 4 times a week
after the 5th time of hitting snooze,
or a heavy night on the *****,
or sometimes no beer,
even after a sonnet of Shakespeare
a sudden urge comes over me,
GET THE LAPTOP!
GET THE *******!
Then it's
Japanese teen lesbians spitting,
finger ******* wearing mittens,
****'s ******* Britions,
oap creampies
***** covered eyes
***** flicking,
extreme suction,
**** destruction,
Captain Birds Eye gobbing
Batman ******* Robin,
A ten inch plumber ******* in a kitchen sink drama
Robert de Niro unpeeling Bananarama
Marty doing the Doc
a gimped up Kirk whipping Spoc
Rita  ******* Norris
Gail licking Fizz
Sally doing Dev
and Kevin doing ki.............Kevin, get out of the room.
Back to
a **** doing a ******
a pre op pleasuring granny
two ***** one *****,
then i chuck my muck all over my tunic
flip over and continue reading The Female ******,
I'm a Schizophrenic Hypocrite,
i've gotta split.

It's Friday evening from life's cares we'll have a brief leave taking
And lets go to the Basy Pub for hour of merry making
In confines of the Settlers Bar the voice of mirth is ringing
And Pete Atkinson from Dublin Town an Irish song is singing.

The Mckelvey men father and son are talking of horse racing
They know the horses inside out from form and race card tracing
Has Vo rogue gone over the hill, can Horlicks race to glory
Can Almaarad come bouncing back and go down in history?

Phil Cronin go back down the years he flick back through life pages
To friends he knew in Millstreet Town he has not seen for ages
Big Jerry Shea and Mister O, James Manley hale and hearty
And Johnny Sing from Millview Lane the life of every party.

Brave Harry the brave English man the one as tough as leather
You'll only see that man in shorts no matter what the weather
A man of elephantine strength yet gentle and kind hearted
And he has taken life's hardest blow since his son this world departed.

Big **** Kissane the Kerry man he doesn't like Maggie Thatcher
And he feels that for Union bashing that few in history could match her
Still he won't go back to Kenmare to weather wet and hazy
He'd much prefer Mt Evelyn it's nearer to the Baysy.

**** Kelleher and Phil Schofield well into greyhound breeding
They talk of how greyhounds should be schooled and for them proper feeding
Two greyhound trainers and of late their reputations growing
And Millstreet Town keep racing on when others dogs are slowing.

Vin Schofield a Manchester Man he does love Man United
And every time United win he feel proud and delighted
But United not doing well of late of late they're not impressing
And this too much for him to take he find it all depressing.

Galway's Matt Duggan and Westmeath's Sean Fay the hurling game debating
On the first sunday of September who will be celebrating
Can Westmeath make the big break through or will Galway flags be waving
Or will Tipperary still be champs their reputation saving?

And Marty Kerins from Mayo a good and happy fellow
I've never met him in bad mood I've always found him mellow
He love the Bayswater Hotel he say there is none better
And to be kept from Settlers Bar he'd have to be in fetter.

And **** O Shea from Dublin his friends are in the many
And he doesn't have one enemy and he doesn't deserve any
He's given homes to Homeless souls and he's easily moved to pity
And good a man as ever came to live in this great City.

The amazing J D Ellis his name and fame keep spreading
And he has bounced back from the floor and for the top he's heading
Still he is easily stirred up and Garry Carter does the stirring
And el tigre he begins to growl the cat's no longer purring.

It's friday evening from life's cares we'll have a brief leave taking
And where better than the Basy Pub for hour of merry making
In Confines of the Settlers Bar the voice of mirth is ringing
And Pete Atkinson from Dublin Town an Irish song is singing.

The smell of grandma's porch was wonderful
but not in the clothes on the line or fresh apple pie on the windowsill kind of way.

Grandma's porch smelled of old paint
of winter even in the summer and of
damp wicker, an ancient outdoor rug, oxidized aluminum siding
and dust from the cars on First Avenue speeding to,
or from,
the Post Office on Main Street at the bottom of her street

These were not necessarily "good" smells
We'd wash them off of our hands before we ate lunch in front of
the TV with grandpa, watching Jeopardy
but the old one not the one with the Canadian guy

But they were good smells to us because
they reminded us of a grandma who allowed her grandchildren to build massive forts
from blankets
and every chair and sofa cushion in the house
TV tables too
As long as they were dismantled before Noon when Jeopardy came on
and grandpa would want his lunch
and the vapor rising from his bowl of Campbell's chicken noodle soup
would wash away the smell of grandmas porch from our noses.

Here’s a common story in the world of would-be writers.
There’s not a thing about this tale that…sadly…isn’t true.
Your manuscript is finally done, you’ve proofed it several times, and, after waiting several months, your editor is through.

You try to represent yourself to publishers you feel
are sure to love your work - based on their advertising claims -
Only to discover that they’ll only take submissions
from writers who have agents…or already famous names!

The mem’ry this evokes in me is terribly parallel.
So clearly I still see the fleeting figure that I chased
That Sunday afternoon we gathered, as we often did,
to play our favorite football game: “Two-hands-below-the-waist.”

Only nine showed up that day (we almost played with eight),
but brother, Marty, called a friend, and so, we had our ten.
We became concerned when Marty pointed at the end zone
and told the guy, “If we can get the ball to there…we win,

“But…if somebody touches you - two-hands-below-the-waist -
you have to stop…the ‘play’ is done…and then you start again.
In 4 attempts we need to move the ball down - 2 white lines -
to get another 4 attempts…it’s called a ‘first and ten.’ ”

Everybody realized this guy had never played,
but Marty’s team would get him…after all…he’d called the guy.
They could only hope he’d do the things they told him to,
and probably felt that…if they lost…he’d be the reason why.

I remember, vividly, quite early in the game
(it couldn’t have been ten minutes since the playing had begun),
They sent him down the field about ten yards to catch a pass.
He actually caught it pretty clean…and then began to run.

We’d fin’ly lost possession only ten yards from their end zone,
so…consequently… Marty’s guy had ninety yards to go.                  
I thought I had him cornered when I went to make the tag,
and how he got away from me - I swear I’ll never know!

But “get away” he did…so there I was, in hot pursuit.
And, as it was expected, I was quickly closing ground.
After all…my room at home had trophies wall to wall,
and most of them for track...I was the fastest guy around.

But as I tried my best to close the gap on Marty’s buddy
(and I was running very hard - I thought my lungs would bust),
Just as I was getting close…he shifted into high…
and even at my strongest pace…he left me in the dust!

A very average looking chap…he didn’t seem the type…
yet, there he was…the fastest guy that we had ever seen.
The makings of a super star, yet no one knew his name
before the day he blew our minds…and that is what I mean

When I proclaim the foolishness of closing ears and eyes
to anyone because you simply…do not know their name.
Those you’ve never heard of might contribute something special, and I assert - it’s often wise to…let them in the game.

Out in the West Texas town of El Paso I fell in love with a Mexican girl. Night-time would find me in Rosa's cantina Music would play and Felina would whirl.

Blacker than night were the eyes of Felina Wicked and evil while casting a spell. My love was deep for this Mexican maiden I was in love but in vain, I could tell.

One night a wild young cowboy came in Wild as the West Texas wind. Dashing and daring A drink he was sharing with wicked Felina The girl that I loved.

So in anger I Challenged his right for the love of this maiden down went his hand for the gun that he wore. My challenge was answered in less than a heart-beat, the handsome young stranger lay dead on the floor.

Just for a moment I stood there in silence, shocked by the foul evil deed I had done. Many thoughts raced through my mind as I stood there I had but one chance and that was to run.

Out through the back door of Rosa's I ran Out where the horses were tied. I caught a good one It looked like it could run Up on its back And away I did ride just as fast as I Could from the West Texas town of El Paso Out to the bad-lands of New Mexico.

Back in El Paso my life would be worthless Everything's gone in life, nothing is left. It's been so long since I've seen the young maiden My love is stronger than my fear of death.

I saddled up and away I did go Riding alone in the dark. Maybe tomorrow A bullet may find me Tonight nothing's worse than this Pain in my heart. And at last here I Am on the hill overlooking El Paso I can see Rosa's cantina below My love is strong and it pushes me onward Down off the hill to Felina I go.

Off to my right I see five mounted cowboys, off to my left ride a dozen or more. Shouting and shooting I can't let them catch me, I have to make it to Rosa's back door.

Something is dreadfully wrong for I feel A deep burning pain in my side. Though I am trying To stay in the saddle I'm getting weary Unable to ride

But my love for Felina is strong and I rise where I've fallen Though I am weary I can't stop to rest I see the white puff of smoke from the rifle I feel the bullet go deep in my chest

From out of nowhere Felina has found me Kissing my cheek as she kneels by my side Cradled by two loving arms that I'll die for One little kiss and Felina, good-bye

Tricks, treats, taffy, tutus, timber, and trees.
Night time arrives, and the children come out.
Ghosts, ghouls, witches, and even bumblebees.
Readily running round, rugged, rough route.
Mandy and Randy get lots of candy.
Meanwhile, mom and dad are at a party.
Playing charades and sipping on brandy.
By the way, whatever happened to Marty?
Mandy says she lost her in the graveyard.
Scared, spooked, shivering, she slowly saunters.
Marty makes her way to the boulevard.
With red bite marks on her neck, she falters.
If Marty’s parents had not been toking,
They could see it was Jared just joking.

Little boy blue,
Didn’t know what to do.
His life was a mess,
And getting worse as he grew.

His problems got bolder,
As he began to get older.
Until one day he thought,
He could take not much longer.

He tried hard to plot,
A new life where he got,
Anything he wanted but
But ahead he got not.

One day after work, as he was walking home
His mind was in despair and not able to roam.
He tried to imagined happy place to be
Completely ignoring the black clouds of a storm.

Soon enough it struck, loud lightning and rain,
Almost to amplify the poor man's great pain.
He looked around for refuge,
And saw an abandoned old train.

He rushed inside,
To a roaring sight,
Of the homeless celebrating,
As their future was bright.

He told them all of what he thought of their party,
But they all looked and laughed saying "he was no smarty"
The man stood confused and enraged at the mob,
Then a frail old man came with the name of Marty.

Marty told the man of his miserable life story,
But he also told him a way to gain "self glory".
"the key to it all is to be happy, he said.
The man said in sorrow "psht, not my life, its gory!"

Marty smiled and said without sounding insane,
"Everyone wants happiness, no one wants pain,
But you can't make a rainbow,
Without a little rain"

Blokes in the bar sure do say some weird stuff
Like "love to **** her ******* and eat her ****"
Seem to have animals on their mind all the while
"I'd like to see her ***** or do her *******"

What does all that mean? I'd really love to know
And how does a woman have a nice *******?
If a woman comes close and she's a real **** one
One of them may say "I'd like to give the ferret a run"

A bloke went to the toilet seemed quite annoyed
Said he was gonna shake hands with the unemployed
"You mean syphon the python" asked one of the men
"Not really, just shake hands with the wives best friend"

He said he wanted a ***** to his wife late last night
"Gee mate you shoulda seen it, I had a mongrel alright"  
Apparently she said "no" and he threatened to leave her
Said he wasn't hanging around if he didn't get any ******

Fred said his wife was gorgeous and he had always adored
But lately she was off ***, didn't want any more pork sword
Frank's wife was the same and she hardly left the cottage
Would never let Frank touch her or play hide the sausage

Max, reckoned he'd nearly had more than a man could take
Couldn't get near the missus with his one eyed trouser snake
As for Gerard, He said "think my wife's taking me for a sucker"
"Told me to keep away with the blue veined custard chucker"

A **** dark woman walked past, Marty said "I'd give her a ride"
The barman just laughed and mumbled "they are all pink inside"
Jack joined in saying "leave it alone Marty or you'll get blisters"
"Besides, if you turn them upside down they're definitely sisters"

In the bar I heard a bloke say "I'd give her the old Wham Bam"
"Sure would like to get the old love muscle up her  bearded clam"
As the bar closed Jerry joked " If the flags are up at my place"
"I'll put my ***** between her *****, give her a pearl necklace"

All these men laugh and joke as the barman says to the group
"You buggers won't get any because you'll have brewers droop"
As I finish my wine and leave someone says "on ya bike ya miser"
Do you know what they are on about? because I'm none the wiser

i was directed to this place by Marty Feldman, and he said i should say this password to gain entry: float like a chapati, sting like a vindaloo.

i' not good at making passes at someone's death,
just yesterday i was thinking
while a quiz show took place with haiku clues
regarding famous people, so i wondered
aloud: would it still be the correct answer if
you said: cassius clay? what a cool name,
colossus of clay - what the hell does Muhammad
and Ali have to do with african rooting
when you hardly speak Swahili? a bit pointless,
but a name like cassius clay... unstoppable -
already mythological, rather than a family
feud between Ali and the Caliphs after Muhammad's
death - maybe he should have confirmed his
baptism as Muhammad Ali with a confirmation
akin to catholic practice and added a surname, like
Khadijah, well... if Mozart is turning in his coffin
for his music being turned into a muzak
or a Porcupine Tree tree song, then the first wife of
Muhammad is turning in hers... a wise women
of sound economic acumen could be compared
by secular standards to Gabriel's voice, women tell lies,
just today i saw plain Jane turn into a stunner,
she was gagging to go on a date with a guy of her dreams,
by media standards a subsequent loser in Morocco,
at a photo shoot of practising flirtation a half-and-half
love affair between the Gothic island of the Caribbean
that's England and the Bahamas flirted with olive skin,
blue eyes and pecks, and an ego shaped like a woodpecker...
or an u.z.i., poor guy, got to make a show,
but the ***** is out! she noticed her eyes!
what further shahada of scheherazade?
just one more night, just one more night, one more, night.
demigods and men, traces of narcissus in man resides
in his eyes, nowhere else, man and woman fall in love
with their eyes, rather than narcissus and the complete
visage, but as i once said: imagine narcissus looking
into the sea - he might as well have fallen in love with
the stillness of the lake rather than the image represented
by it - across the seven seas he roamed, across the seven
zeniths, until he came across the Lake of Echo,
and heard the echo of footsteps beside him, to have seen
the natural mirror by moonlight, and settled to lie,
disguising himself as a flower worth recycling:
each god in polytheism his own individual, reigning ideal
in the pantheon of gods: solipsism - with man's intervention
a notably study of, himself.
although i'd love to chat thoroughly about this,
i'm not so sure i want to - hear the words:
you're a good man... you're a good man in a brothel?
you think a ******* would forget saying that
and continue? *persona incognito grata -
a golden crown on her tooth that i peered into with her
Ukrainian accent speaking polish, i lost my virginity
to a French girl without any connection - proceeding
from the way she decided a child learning a new language
aged 8 could not be considered a native speaker
for a psychology experiment - i gave her a silent lesson
in history concerning Napoleon and the last heroic act
of warfare, after that, civilians were utilised like bombs
or rifles, the many guilts after all the killing seized.
anyway, today i decided to cook two knock-outs...
the first was intended as a kolhapuri chicken curry,
the latter was chicken do'h pyaaza, with the later
the title, indeed the fenugreek incident, fenugreek
being a concentrated version of kasoori methi,
if the Turks invented hot & sour with a pickled chilli,
the blue Indians invented a whole palette of sour and hot
with this dish, and the crucial ingredient that's
fenugreek - although the crystalline form of this spice
is more potent - the recipe asked for one tablespoon
of the raw products, the leaves (kasoori methi) -
i added a teaspoon of the concentrated stuff -
what a disaster! i asked for two tasters to tell me that i
wasn't tasting bitterness in the gravy as if i added some
English ale revenge against continental beers...
because the excess of the component of intended sourness
of the fenugreek turned into an ale-like bitterness -
hence the notion that sour isn't an antonym of sweet,
but bitter is - hence sweet & sour rather than
sweet & bitter - you can have a turkish pickled chilli
and still have a compliment on the palette of hot & sour,
but imagine tasting bitterness - excess of concentrated
kasoori methi does the trick - and since Faust doesn't
have an Igor like Dr. Frankenstein, he turned himself
into a hunchback, and started picking out most of the
fenugreek crystals from the gravy, one by one, ony by one,
hunched over the sauces - until the bitterness disappeared
and the intended sourness came through -
it took a while, but Faust as his own assistant kept on
saying: stop lying, stop lying! i want to eat this sauce too!
that's the thing with chemistry and cooking,
i received a present not too long ago, an arsenal
of spices, which means i can punch-bag you a Peshwari
naan with raisin and almond stuffing (a bit of sugar too),
and i can add the raw ingredients - i'm richer with
spices than with drugs or gold: turmeric is also known
as saffron - although saffron is more potent,
turmeric does the same job... coriander powder, cumin
power (also seeds), mint the prime garnish for
do'h pyazza curry... garam masala made from scratch,
meaning i have: cardamom pods, cloves, black cardamom,
mace... and i can make you a kohlapur masala...
honestly... in this great culinary babylon of english society,
from pizzas to chinese to Kentucky to New York
street vendors... i'd give up the cuisine i was born in
and convert to India's palette... i don't need to convert
anything else... religion can remain with those who
barely read, or who read and cite only one book...
let them have it... i don't care...
i already converted to a non-religious fascination with
mystical Judaism (sorry Allah, couldn't do anything
with your name, it didn't fit the Latin revision of thinking
about it), and as such, converted to a dreamy everyday
of India's culinary prowess - Kama Sutra is nothing
compared to the recipes from Kashmir or anywhere
where the blue bloods fascinated the merchants rather than
scalped them in berserker rage among the puritan
envoys.

matt’s hats tom’s tools & tobacco lou’s liquors fred’s beds dale's doors frank’s planks bill’s drills jane’s drains & panes chuck’s check cashing cheryl’s barrels hank’s tanks tina’s trucks & tractors walt’s asphalt sean’s pawn rick’s rifles mom’s guns terry’s tires charlie’s harleys rhonda’s hondas jim’s rims art’s parts gus’s gas mike’s bikes frank’s feed gwen’s pens ann’s cans nancy’s nursery joes‘s clothes jess’s dresses bert’s skirts steve’s sleeves paul’s shawls michelle’s shells & bells al’s pails & snails sam’s hams & jams patty’s pancakes phil’s chili don’s donuts betty’s spaghetti bob’s burgers alycia’s quiches jean’s beans jerry’s berries anna’s bananas andy’s candies cathy’s taffies tony’s ponies roy’s toys ron’s batons kim’s whims marty’s parties jill’s pills rick’s tricks alice’s palace debbie’s disposal dave’s graves

A tendency to attach
To something
Unable, that is to attract
Yet mending
A reversed revelation
Formed from
Your ***** linens
Tossed away
With good riddance
Then to learn
To appreciate non sense
Until bail-bonds send
To free the despicable  
And put away
The clean dishes
In a sink full of ****
***** water
Don't sip some
Feels confusing
Like an early starting night
Is sun losing

Listening to George Jones.
Or Mel Tillis.
Or Maybe Mickey Gilley.
I'm just a country boy listening to a country song.

Good loving.
Or a good feeling.
I'm just a country boy listening to a country song.

Listening to the original Statler Brothers.
Singing Flowers on the Wall.
Or Marty Robbins singing My Woman, My Woman, My Wife.

There's nothing greater then a good country song.

Whether it's by Johnny Cash.
Or Johnny Paycheck.
Or Roger Miller singing Dang It.

There's just nothing like a good country song.

Sure they reminds you of the blues.
Or the blues reminds you of country.
Either way the message is cleared.
There's nothing like a good country love song.

Throw in some Tammy Wynette.
Or Loretta Lynn.
Or play you some Dolly.
And you'll see the story happening.

Cause there's nothing like a good country song.

hi
I don't know what 2 say
Im marty and I am a man
I live in plymouth
and I drive a mini van
my fav things are
pizza friends music and my dog tracy
I play games online alone
and I am a paperboy
and my family lives overseas
dating is not my thing
so I am on this site.
and I want to fall in love.
and my fav movies are
**** bill jaws jurasic park and **** bill 2
I don't know what 2 say

maybe you liked my profile 
so send me a msg or
cyber-roses or a digital chocolate box
or click the flirt button
I like to talk sometimes
when I get lonesome.

Here you have gone and hit your head.
The heart beating like a clock makes the rivers run red.
Eating makes you grow fonder.
Drinking makes sink much further.
I can only imagine what garden awaits your grand design.
Seeing it out to the end makes it very fine.
Here you are again.
You are seeking out your friends.
Who awaits you at this party?
Your grandma, uncle, and your cousin Marty.
As you can see;
“No party of your own” they plea.
Maybe meet someone down at the beach.
“Ignorance is bliss” is the only bliss they teach.
Now here you are in king’s court.
“I am the queen” they snort.
Here you are again now with your blood roses.
What you did right as rain; they know you did, and you know this.
So let us take a walk through the forest.
This is the only place no one is trusted.
What you want to see catches your eye.
Nothing about the chain smoker and the other guy.
Because now you are seeing yourself look back.
The kind of quality some people lack.
Now as the beast draws near.
You wake up; it was playing on your fear.

corporation against company,
train rider against commuter,
the animal's instinct is to destroy
and somewhere between a beer and 2 hotdogs,
cigar smoke and chatter,
joe got hit,
his legs bent,
and his *** hit the canvas.
...and somehow through the roar of a 1000 voices
I can see and hear
the ref
counting
chanting into joe's wondrous brown eyes
"1,2,3...
"oh ****," joe laughs a bit bemused
perched on top his vertebrae of stairs,
"oh ****,"
and the he climbs back down those bones
into a quiet night...
there is distance were a building once stood
and the field that was the farm
that made way for a factory
is a field again
where no wheat will grow.

I kick the ground trying to unearth
the ashes of joe's fire
but the angry earth just bleeds dust...

...and down at marty's grill
the shadows lean forward
and with one quick stare
drink up the dreamer and his dream...

when I leave
I watch a boy with a baseball bat
beat a dog.

I guess its just one of those things
Where I'm wrong but i'll never admit it
Trying to swallow my pride but the taste is sour so I just spit it
Like listerine in the sink
Or tequila chased by a lime for a drink
You would always say I need to stop talking before I think
And that if I build a ship out of my promises it would do nothing but sink
So it seems  
You must of made this desicion based off a vision in a dream
To R.I.P these connections so effortlessly at the seams
To walk away for the fifth time because this time you have had enough
Yelling "If you would of acted right I would have stayed"
But sorry to say I'm no Shia Labeouf
And even that ******* has demons too
Yeah he rich and famous but he could still catch a flu
Sorry but not Sorry because its true
I Just like the way I use to feel about you
But thats all in the Books
And there shouldn't have been a first
So there is no chance in hell for any second looks
Not even a Delorean can take us back now
Not even if Doc came back to 2016 for his TLC plates
And became an Uber somehow
But don't feel special
He just needs the money for Marty who ****** up his brain
After those daily trips to the 80's for the hookers and *******
Even though you can get better service and stronger stuff
For around half the price these days
Ironic
Time traveling to the past to escape the present pain  
But I understand
The kid just wanted to hold on to that nostalgic feel
Having *** to some Marvin Gaye
While taking a bump the horizontal way was probably what made it all real
So real it made Marty believe he could fly
7th floor dismount where McFly almost died  
Wow that was a dark type of Cheese
But **** it I said it
I said a lot things and did a lot of things that I regretted
But back to the topic
This isn't no gimmick
This is my true Image
My hair is really Black
My skin is really brown
I may change shades depending on the lighting if you move me around
But that's it
You try to change my whole being into something more profound
You swam my minds uncharted waters and expected not to drown
But Its all good under the hood
Like a k20 with only 20 miles on the dash
And a clean carfax showing an accident free past
I'll be lying if I said I was not going to miss your ignorant ***
But just that *** because I never did like your mental
And I can do with out your dentals
A smile so fake Colgate would ask for credientals
Thats probably why we could never really mix
Like I was water and you were oil
You wanted more and I wanted ...
Still don't know what I wanted or what Im gaining from all this
Imma just stop rhyming and tell you the truth
I might say Hi when I see you but don't get confused
I never thought I could hate so much
until you gave me the reasons to hate you
And yea I lied about the stop rhyming stuff
Just like you did all these years when it came to everything pretty much
You were a smooth talking assassin
A no pulse having quadruple agent
Similar to bond but without the Aston and the accent
But please believe me when I say that I wish on a comet
That nothing but good comes your way
Im being very Honest
And that I hope to be there when it doesn't
Because that would be nice too
To see you on the receiving end would be a refreshing point of view