Odysseus needs a job he calls pima community college art department chairperson sends her his resume she does not respond after a week he catches her on phone she says he lacks proper credentials laughs to himself his whole life never worked lucrative or reputable position gets job working at thrift store wacky group of coworkers customers store frequently smells like public latrine job expires after 7 weeks he gets better paying job working at record exchange Odysseus always loved music everyday he learns new artist or band his coworkers are at least half his age they pester him about being slow on keyboard he never learned to type neither he nor his generation could have foreseen future would revolve around keyboard he plods on register keys people smile politely kids he works with fly fast making many keyboard mistakes November 29 2001 george harrison dies of cancer he is 58 years old Odysseus recognizes he is from past world different era of contrasting standards ‘80’s behavior is totally unbefitting let alone ‘60’s beliefs it is 2002 and one badly chosen word is sure to send someone flying off the handle he watches his language carefully co-workers mostly born in 1980’s grew up in 1990’s they live indifferent to hopelessness he struggles to bear none of them believe in higher power music is their religion he wonders what their visions concerns for humanity are? they seem addicted to consumption as if it is end in itself he questions what is hidden at root of their absorption? loneliness? despair? apathy? absence of vision? where is their rage against social conversion current administration? he warns them about homeland security act privacy infringement increased government secrecy power they shrug their shoulders why aren’t they looking for answers? why don’t they dissent? do they care where world is going? he realizes they will have to learn for themselves few coworkers read literature or know painters philosophy their passions are video games marijuana “star wars” most of them are extremely bright more informed than he often Odysseus needs to ask questions they know answers to right off the bat he is like winsome uncle who puts up with their unremitting teasing “hey you old hippie punk rocker get you fiber in today? stools looking a little loose! peace out old man” in peculiar way he finds enough belonging he so desperately needs they tell him stories about their friends *** addictions eating disorders futile deaths he is bowled over by how young they are to know such stuff job includes health insurance which is something he has not had since Dad was alive having some cash flowing in he buys laptop computer with high-speed connection cell phone trades in toyota for truck opens crate of writings he abandoned in ‘80’s begins to rewrite story sits blurry eyed in front of computer screen his motivation has always been to tell truth as he knows it he wonders what ramifications his labor will bring positive or negative results? he guesses his story will sound like children’s fable in stark brutality of distant future october 2002 3 week ****** spree terrorizes maryland virginia  district of columbia 10 people killed 3 critically wounded police believe white van responsible october 24 man and 17-year-old boy arrested in blue chevy caprice juvenile is shooter assailants linked to string of random murders including unsolved shooting of man at golf course in tucson Odysseus mentions incident at work speaks of prevailing terror madness in america co-workers kid tell him he is crazy “did you see a white van parked outside the store Odys?” they seem desensitized to increasing national atmosphere of anger panic or perhaps they are overwhelmed by weight trauma of modern life lie after lie prevailing  havoc slaughter make for dull numbness in world they know suicide is compelling option december 22nd 2002 joe strummer dies from heart failure at age 50 Odysseus’s eyes wet he adored the clash everything they stood for loved joe strummer and mescaleros he plays “global a go-go” over and over listens sings along with first track “johnny appleseed” march 2003 president bush launches attack against iraq united states seems drunk with “shock and awe” zealous blind patriotism many people politicians countries around globe question unproven line of reasoning saddam hussein possesses “weapons of mass destruction” Odysseus gripes “not another **** vietnam” record company allows employees to check out take home used product Odysseus stopped watching movies in 1980’s he has lots of catching up to do particularly likes “natural born killers” “american history x” “american ******” “fight club” “way of the gun” “******” “king of new york” “basquiat” “frida” “*******” “before night falls” “quills” “requiem for a dream” “vanilla sky” “boys don’t cry” “being john malkovich” “adaptation” “kids” “lost in translation” “25th hour” “28 days later” “monster” “city of god” “gangs of new york” “**** bill” list goes on perfect circle becomes his favorite band followed by tool lacuna coil my morning jacket brian jonestown massacre flaming lips dredg drive-by truckers dropkick murphys flogging mollies nofx stereophonics eels weakerthans centro-matic califone godspeed you black emperor magnetic fields fiery furnaces dresden dolls smog granddaddy calexico howie gelb sufjan stevens warren haynes dax riggs john vanderslice alejandro escovedo sean paul elephant man bjork p. j. harvey ani difranco aimee mann cat power sophie b. hawkins kathleen edwards mia doi todd kimya dawson regina spektor carina round neko case fiona apple nina nastasia beth gibbons mirah rasputina dr. dre talib kweli immortal technique murs slug atmosphere trick daddy eazy-e tricky list goes on october 21 2003 elliott smith commits suicide stabbing 2 wounds into his chest Odysseus thinks about music when jimi hendrix stood up at woodstock deconstructing national anthem on guitar it took courage when punk emerged with ugly screechy sounds attempting to divorce itself from melodious harmonies of 1970s complacent crosby stills nash  the dead kennedys and *** pistol did not pander to conventional commercial success what they performed were desperate gutsy songs trying to reclaim music rock’n’roll is no longer about inventing instead it imitates its glorious past hip-hop and rap come nearest to risking rebellion but are caught in gangsterism infantile self-adulation no longer does music offer vision of what is or could be instead it conjures looping escapism from hopelessness of modern life he continues working at record shop for several years store contains every genre of music cinema he grows weary of retail sales weary of higher-ups constantly changing rules dictating what to do head manager is manipulative drama queen thrives on crisis once in private admits stealing from company Odysseus nods not knowing what to say head manager works Odysseus hard keeps him down atmosphere of conspiracy betrayal hang at start of each day assistant manager routinely taunts berates bullies teases regularly calls Odysseus “dumb-****” or “****-up” other times laughs after goading Odysseus to flinch eventually bully backs off and they become friends retail pushes Odysseus to brink of misanthropy corporation requires all employees to exercise overt courteousness while serving a public of disrespectful gang bangers demanding “show me black market brotha lynch mac dre why ya godda keep dat **** behind da counter? dat’s ****** up hey old man i ain’t got all day” it always amazes him when shoplifter is caught with product stuffed down his pants thief blatantly states “i didn’t do it i don’t know how that got there” thanksgiving through christmas to new years is most swarming stressful he feels like automaton greeting customer scanning product looking at screen to see if price agrees with product typing money amount counting money into drawer counting money out handing change to customer handing customer product receipt next customer cockroach capitalism packs of masses line up in endless stream of needs stupid remarks job also involves trade appraising condition value resale probability of cds dvds video games tapes vhs vinyl news of  iraq war gets dismal mounting civilian casualties suicide bombers hostages beheadings beginning of 2004 reports of torture ****** psychological abuse **** ****** ****** of prisoners at abu ghraib prison guantanamo bay white house cover-ups denials growing insurgency increasing u.s. body count other costs he thinks about men and women who are so much braver than him then comes re-election and lavish republican parties parades cheney rumsfeld tom delay and whole regime smirk portentously on tv none of it makes sense anymore “we the people of the united states” what does it mean? the dreams and aspirations of his generation have long since faded away he is citizen of forgotten past current world is barbaric place he barely recognizes there are real pirates with machetes rocket launchers on the seas big drug corporations hiding harmful findings kidnapped children abandoned children crooked politicians corruption at every level of society horrifying stories daily ******* priests slave markets extreme heinous cruelties abruptly everyone is acknowledging society is worsening life is not the same he does not understand people and certainly does not understand america or the world he remembers when all could be so good modern existence has turned everything into madness what happened to lessons of history? it is as if Odysseus fell asleep and when he woke everything is changed he is mistaken about what he thinks he knows feels pity for people america pity disgust sorrow he misses his dog

Off we go with a loud hurrah
dog and kid and stuff in the car
buckling up and blasting some tunes
singing along like a couple of loons.
Taking a ride on a sunshine highway
stopping off at finnegans wake
we'll poke out our tongues at the world rushing by us
and belly laugh wildly for belly laughs sake.
We'll sing of tattoos and rowdy bar fights
and rats lounging in vats of ale
I'll silence myself as the bagpipes start blowing
and smile as my little guy takes it away
I'm not sure he quite understands what he's singing
nor that he cares as he fist pumps the air
I watch as he blushes at the lyrics with swears in
then sings them quite loudly, as if I'm not there.
This music you sent us, makes us feel alive
and Kiss me I'm ******* is fun when your five
not suitable listening for such tender ears
but his grin is far wider than it's been in years.
So God bless the Murphys and God bless you too
for bringing such joy on our trip to the zoo.

dropkick Murphys.....smoky pubs, height of Irish rough voiced songs, Celtic gifts

Give a shout of love out to Boston. Lost in translation I'll create this poem for a lost daughter or son.
A new war has been waged, well...heh heh. We've already won.
Spun out from a night of drinking wine, I'll type another line.
Killing people over selfish, religious beliefs, destroys happiness by the ton.
Are YOU ******* happy? Are YOU ******* done.
Plans to **** out weak people surely doesn't sound like fun.
Your **** stinks. No pun intended. Words on the internet should never make you offended.
Lend a helping hand for the Earth, or waste away in the dirt.
Beautiful women get slaughtered like cattle, in a dress or a skirt.
We'll have fun and we'll flirt. Still caring for others as they get swallowed by hurt.
Knowledge is power they say, so I'll take off my only shirt.
Give it to someone that needs it, so they may pay it forward to another.
My sister and brother, from another father and mother, read these words carefully, while haters turn into lovers. Hearts and minds full of love, kindness swoops down like a dove. Shove another McDonald's cheeseburger in your face and see your health drain away. Think of the animals that get slaughtered in warehouses each day.
Pray for fertile soil in April AND May. Fool YOURself into a thought that treating animals kindly isn't okay. Roam free in the grass and the hay, while slaughtering axes sweep around, sprays blood and slays. Helping each other day by day IS the new craze.
A daze of happiness turns frowns upside down with a smile and grin.
The Dropkick Murphys knows whats up.
For Boston....for Boston....for BOSTON!

Memories of times long past
Memories that seem to last
One thing I remember, it was special to me
Is the hideout known as The Loose Tooth Tree.

It was in a hedge where many trees did grow
It looked nothing special if you didn’t know
But for me and my pals it was something just ours
where we could escape for hours and hours.

It was completely covered with dark green ivy
Though the roots were loose, making it quite shaky
But once inside you were impossible to see
Ideal for a hideout we named the Loose Tooth Tree.

Though you could see out cross the fields everywhere
If you were quiet no one knew you were there.
Keeping it secret was just half the fun
An oath of secrecy was sworn by everyone.

Bits and bobs from everywhere made it our own
A great place to be, with the gang or alone
Jokes and stories were told, there was great laughter
And yes we discussed girls, and the ones we were after.

We had blackjacks, fruitsalads and bullseyes too
Time bars and curly wurlys that took ages to chew
A place to relax where there was no sense of hurry
We were so young sure we didn’t have a worry

We used it for cowboys and indians, hide and seek
The rare risqué mag there did we peek
Indeed it is where I tried my first smoke
When my pals were convinced I was going to choke.

We ambushed the boys from Clongowes when they came to town
Yes us boys from the Terrace gained some renown
It was all good clean fun, just fisticuffs back then
And didn’t it help us all on our journey from boys to men

We were Smiths and Nevins, Murphys and Callans
Dorans and Behans, Delaneys and Ryans
All from St Brigids and so proud of the fact
“No outsiders allowed” was a part of the pact

We had bags of crisps that cost only two pence
Wore platform shoes so high they didn’t make sense
Flared collars so wide we were in danger of flight
We had hair so long it often interfered with sight.

We listened to the Osmonds, the Monkees and Status Quo
We loved Abba and Gary Glitter (how were we to know)
We loved the Waltons, Top Cat and the Flintstones, yabadabadoo
Little House on the Prairie, Shirley Temple, and the Little Rascals too

Yes The Loose Tooth Tree belonged to St. Brigid’s Terrace
But as more houses went up other kids proved a menace
Two bits of wood and a nail, we all had a sword to fight
and peg guns proved effective if the aim was right.

We decided to make up a language all of our own
What we were saying others had no way of knowing
Not parents nor priests, not teachers or anyone
And we had such mighty craic, it was so much fun.

It was an innocent time, we were all boys growing
Our lives were changing without us really knowing
In the Loose Tooth Tree we were all good friends together
Making memories that would stay with each of us forever

It was during the seventies in my home town of Clane
Upon leaving ‘twas two decades ‘til I saw it again
To my dismay the Loose Tooth Tree was no more
But it will live on in my memory for evermore.

a 2nd reiteration
listening to
dropkick murphys'
song
i'm shipping off to
Boston...

you ******* quasi-paddies
and Iraqi Aladdins
have ****** up "my"...
******* jukebox!

no music video ever came
with a ******* news channel
recommendation!

wankers!
   sprat boilers!
  brat spanking fetishists!

give me my ******* jukebox
back... you *******:
toddler's little pinky
wankers off!

it's not enough that
the blood starts to boil...
my thinking becomes
all scrambled!

i turn into a Danzig hunger-strike
when i don't get
to listen to new music!

wankie ***** wankie *****...
sure...
but when i ******* while
taking a **** and taking a ****...
i don't make a *******
video out of it, do i?!

juggernaut... juggernaut...
juggernaut...
  say it thrice like Beetlejuice...
and... well... shazam!
a rhino appears!

i'm taking prisoners...
the ones attached to the charge,
as they scream...
pretending to... "tag along".

give my jukebox back you
******* invertebrates!

through circumstance once
I ended up at a punk concert
where I saw a middle-aged
man dressed as a greaser
complete with a leather jacket
and spikes
and I felt under dressed for the occasion
and uncomfortable in my skin
until he punched some kid
with a mohawk in the face
and was asked to leave

You could be so pretty
if
your hair was straight
or at least neat 
and not fire engine red

You could look so lovely
If 
you didn't insist on wearing
tatty jeans
Yellow Dr Marten boots
Dropkick Murphys tees
and you weren't covered in tattoos

You could have a better life
If
You hadn't married
that blue eyed
empty pocket
*** smoking
dreamer

You could have more time to clean
If 
you didn't waste it
writing pointless poems
with your head in the clouds
listening to that awful racket

You could be more ladylike
If 
you didn't attend protests
railing against politics
didn't smoke, drink,
swear like a sailor
and stayed away from mosh pits.

You could be better
If 
you were a lot more me
and a hell of a lot less you
After all I've done
You were not what I was expecting..

Well, it was good talking to you
I love you mum
I love you too..
Lets do this again soon!

Like these god dam eruptions
I cant stop doing what I shouldnt.
My brother cant sleep
Because im makin noises
And im condemed for eternity
Unable to wait for the solid blue sleep
Of dreams
Uniterupted by hick ups
Im a fool
Who cant hold my breath long enoupgh
To prevent murphys law from actually happening.
I guess the worst did happen when I died at eighty five
With out a god murmur or impulse
To drink like the stork who cant find
Anyones perfect baby.
Tell him it doesnt matter
Im saying good by to indegestion and lauphter.

i sometimes smoke a cigarette and: chances are...
i might be drinking some red wine...
strange how the palette works...
sometimes the odd aftertaste of strawberries...
tonight of all nights: spring onions...

i don't like to be right about so trivial
matters as the result of a football match...
minor prophetic jargon...
but once the game finished i wanted
to celebrate being right: neutrally...
i just couldn't stomach the euphoria...
i rode for two bottles of the cheapest
red wine into town...
in the heaviest of rain...
i felt baptised...

         a second time: gladly not confirmed
the first time... for that matter:
there was no second time coming...
schtill nacht...
im diese schtill nacht...
it's almost like surfing...
the sensation you get: having made
a prediction... logically...
with all the required scrutiny...
you stand back: you surf...
or you ride a bicycle in the thickness
of night while it's raining frog spit...
the chains have come off...

i couldn't stomach a collective euphoria
of something associated with
a football match...
back "we" go... to our own personal
reality chequers: and checks...
it's nice to see how easily reality bites back
when we're no longer protected
by a collective cul de sac belief mantra:
hope is the envy of lesser creatures...
esp. when magnified into some...
common purpose...

there's a wasp sting in my tongue at the joy
of... seeing so many people resort to having
to comfort themselves...
to... perhaps tease introspection...
i don't think i could stomach a shared
euphoria...
i probably would: but...
collectively i wouldn't be able to pick
out... the solo reasons why someone
might be happy: because a football match was
won...

but because a football match
was lost... i could almost tell why a sadness couldn't
be shared - apologies for making
a Holocaust metaphorical-analogy...
each to his own sadness...
but over such a trivial: peg... of... pride...

it's like those people who complain about...
"having an existence... but not having a life"...
well... money troubles...
they have existence assured...
they don't have "life"... a lifestyle...
spending habits...
that might elevate a simple fact that
was too problematic for Frankenstein
to begin with...
i find myself glad...
to not have the sort of money that might
elevate this most precious fact
into a spending spree amnesia...
amnesia? memento mori amnesia...

the people who can be cited as wanting "life"
outside the stated fact of existence...
i made "life" from my prediction:
over a stupid game of football:
it's not exactly ballet...
i hanged onto the prediction...
i didn't gamble on it... there was no money
involved: i just wanted to be right
from the very beginning of seeing
Italy vs. Turkey... this was the team...
what would "life" offer me...
beside enough money to spend
to have a seat at Wembley...
become deluded by a collective wave of farces...
sing-along songs...
that would be life: life would only disappoint
me...
this "life" that's supposedly a tier above
being given a FACT that's: i: ex-instance:
i out of every instance...
preserve my will to match that of
the tenacity of weeds... or hyper-sexualised
insects...

have a life? hell... be a leaf:
waver with each passing wind...
to doubt is to enjoy as many crushing emotions
as that plethora of them that's love...

i can pledge alliance, otherwise: mostly to the tongue:
that i rather use this acquired tongue:
defend it from this... current... onslaught
of pseudo-communist
pronoun-shimmy-shimmy...
but i can't: just... grow to support a football
team: i can't translate this archaic tribalism
into what i require to be more...
sophisticated: that might tie me to this land:
these people...

ha... to convene yourself:
i don't want to exist... i want a life...
the old saying goes:
which translates into:
i want enough spending options
to have a lifestyle...
that's all there is... well sorry if i'm just...
content with what Frankenstein's monster
found so bothersome:
no airs... not an itch of sense & sensibility:
pomp & circumstance...
i would sooner return to the shadowy
enclaves of naked thought:
away from the Freudian schematic scrutiny
of man's secular trinity
of consciousness: sub- + un-...
unlike Frankenstein's monster...

i should most certainly not have the sort
of money that might allow me to
leverage choices that would
necessarily break me into becoming a silly
colt: reinvented...

patriotism: for the language...
why do i write in English and not in ******?
well... the fiddly bits...
i'm not going to ctrl + c / ctrl + p every time
i need to make an "inquiry": make use
of all the necessary diacritical letters...
i need fluidity... if sometimes i buckle:
i'll buckle on something more than
mere diacritical markers:
i'll buckle on some katakana / hangul...

mm-hmm... i think only Brazil has made it
to conquer the concept of a post-racial
society... it dawned on me...
how about all the african-h'americans
are paid their reparations with...
being given their proper ETHNIC identity back?
by now black is too obvious:
how about they get a chance to tell each
other apart: this "one" is of ivory coast descent...
this one is Nigerian... no?
so it's back to just being... "bleak"?
that's it... now i see it...
racism doesn't originate from ethno-centrism...
or ethno-clarification... does it?

ethnicity is so much more custard
when race is all but water...
after all: a southern fairy is not a northern monkey...
a Yorkshire lad is not a Cockney
give-me-up...

i pledge my allegiance: otherwise...
it won't be through a simulated football match:
it will be purely through the tongue...
expect more: i'll be a fake...
sooner becoming a home-grown Jihadi...
oh... i'm the failure of the supposed
quest for the integrated foreigner...
point taken: point... proved:
not in favour of the native populace...
if i wanted to be spewing automaton
integration bits & bobs like
some winded-up harmonica monkey:
should have asked for a Sikhs' turabn:
stating the ****** obvious: what success!

all the Scots were jumping joy galore
seeing Italy beat England...
i'm pretty sure they were...
mind you... why can you have an British & Irish Lions
Rugby team...
you can have Cardiff City & Swansea
play in the premier league...
with all the English teams...
but you can't have Rangers or Celtic...
competing?
it's team GB at the Olympics:
it's all UK in that chapter of sports...
but when it comes to football...
the united: not so much united...
sport effort...

you can have Welsh teams competing
with the English teams in the same
league...
but you can't have Hibernian being given
a stab at it?
i lived among the Scots for about
3 years...
come to think of it...
i came across more natives "up" there
than i ever came across natives
"down" here...

why do i think England is faking
a multiculturalism... it always faked it...
it begins with an Anglo-Saxon mentality:
we can't allow European foreigners to dilute
the blood of our ******* daughters
with these supposed ******...
feed them black aubergine **** first:
perhaps she''ll become tired of
all that fun... fun... fun...

look at me... i've given up on your future
mother... i went into the avenue of Turkic women...
Romanian women...
i'm not going to die on a hill of her
entitlement...
i'm not even going to **** on it...

i will not join this ******* jump-up piston-whip
galore...
all the allegiance to the tongue:
none to the petty spectacles of
the collectivised: rest in peace...
if Cardiff city be incorporated...
if Swansea can be incorporated into
the premier league...
why can't Rangers or Celtic compete?

i will persist in the Welsh being pacified
by the English: even though
the Welsh have a rarefied version of linguistic pride
that allowed them to retain their Cymru...
while the Scots dropped their Gaelic
in favour of writing: with their accent pronounced...
in ****** graffiti English...

i'm still leveraging my attention for the Welsh
with suspicion... leeches...
two-faced leeches...
those awaiting a nationalistic spontaneity:
they have retained their tongue:
the Scots haven't...
ah... the Scots... it's important to still trill the R...
hark: sing-along in English:
it's hardly important to speak a drop of
Gaelic... hell... even the Irish have forgotten
their lust for their tongue!
poker-faced Welsh... curious *******...
the most famous Welsh people not being
Welsh: Judas Brutus...

the rev. r. s. Thomas...
it's not Welsh is a makeshift of ****** that's
Silesian that heavily borrows on ******
since it doesn't have a hard nut of
Hans Sprech to stand on...
under what: union... Jack?

           comes with the Anglo-Slav territory...
sorry... the sort-of-Saxons
have been left licking their wounds
while their women have been
diluting their "sacred" blood..
**** happens: join the circus:
become a clown: live with with...
it's hardly a welcome resort that
might encompass the post-racism of Brazil...
but "we're" getting "there"...

i'm a racist overlord if i **** a black
girl:
likewise if i don't...
because i think of her skin as:
sandpaper....
conundrum after conundrum...
finally... living on these isles...
there are remnants of the Celts:
if you are readied: will prop their ugly
ginger bearded **** hairs up!
i'd sooner speak some German
than allow myself pacifying then *******
Russian Bolsheviks...
my own: biased scrutiny...

the wooden leg:
dropkick murphys...
if Boston is Irish...
then Chicago is ******...
              because you don't know what:
being... deported feels like...
because you don't know what
being termed "illegal" feels like:
but sure... allow what you currently
allow: because you're all for:
the grand awakening...
self-laceration tryst in the jargon train
of pardon:
now you recede into your...
"grief"...

                    when it's not about being right:
it's not... not right now:
it's about being self-assured...
it's about being: less glassy-eyed and more:
peppering the futures of man made simple
with: guided expectations!
i.e. the peacock verbiage synonym of:
the experience of failure...

of... FAIL...
so many lights became aligned;
i almost forgot to take a snooze with a better
worth of a blink.

first you learn how to brawl with your head, only at the last resort do the hands enter the arithmetic picture: i'm shipping up to boston, by the dropkick murphys - or at least that's what i get from the song.

and then you write something decent,
and you know it's decent,
   you mastered an observational tool -
but then the people know oh so
little - and always settle for the easy
way to pass the time, with a cute "chihuahua"
of a poem, and some dumb stereotype
of a blond; and that's the major source
of a downer... known the **** "chihuahuas"
from the "rottweilers";
i sometimes imagine a poem that
deserves your teeth to be sharpened like
a pygmy, or those zappo zap zigzags;
can't help it.
  but when i know that i've exhausted
a day, i return to the passionate heart
of the kitchen -
on today's menu?
        mmm... moroccan tagine...
with a cumin paprika onion parsley chilli
garlic ginger & turmeric infused couscous...
and on the side a halloumi (grilled) salad:
a bunch of mixed leaves, cherry tomatoes
courgette, garlic infused olive oil...
hey presto!
      a feast to remember, and enough spare
for my dad to take to work for lunch...
with mum visiting her parents for a month
it's becoming very much
   *steptoe & son - strange how the atmosphere
changes between men when there's
no women around...
         i do the cooking & the cleaning:
and pretty much all of the drinking -
which brings me to this idea of gender dysphoria...
there are too many men in non-masculine
jobs that debunk writing verse or
cooking at being very much masculine affairs...
i can't say i've eaten food cooked by a man
that wasn't satisfying...
   then again, i've eaten overcooked spaghetti
and undercooked potatoes cooked by a woman...
and i've read the more satisfying verse
by men, rather than women...
    to an extent, of course: there will always
be exceptions...
    but look at it from the ancient perspective,
poor sappho, among virgil, horace, homer
ovid...
          that's what i mean about
my "gender dysphoria"...
                     believe me when i say that the most
masculine men who work the trades
rarely complain about male poets -
or male chefs -
     after all, some poor sod will have to peel
the potatoes in the army...
there are no dinner ladies in the army -
    feed the cohort the right broth and they'll
follow you like they might follow a caesar;
just like my father, when i started growing
a beard once i passed 25 (when white guys
actually begin to get proper ****** hair),
i asked him if he would too...
     and he did...
       now i look like a young santa claus,
                       and he, as a shadow at 5p.m.

By: Cedric McClester

I’m not gonna kick a man
When he’s down
And yeah, Bill Cosby covered
A lot of ground
See once he was America’s
Favorite clown
But he’s guilty of poor judgement
And that wasn’t sound

We can’t take away
The history that he made
And because of him
The Eddie Murphys got to get paid
See, America’s dad
Was just a role he played
But now he’s incarcerated
For the helpless woman he slayed

Some will even tell ya
That you shouldn’t make fun
Of the disgraced comedian
In light of all that he’s done
But incapacitating women
Has him under the gun
And the best disinfectant
Is the light of the sun

Some have clapped back
Because he proselytized
To the young black men
He often criticized
Acting like a paragon
Or, the all-wise
Turning out to be someone
That we should despise












Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

the **** just happened last night?
oh, right, 1 litre of whiskey,
documented with an emptying bottle
and a clock...
   and the silliest thing a person could
do, was take a "selfie" with
a hat + pompom pulled over his eyes...
but i seem to remember something
else...
   while i was cooking stuffed peppers
today...
what the hell was it?
  ah, right... now i remember...
listening to i'm shipping up to boston
by the dropstick murphys,
and continually punching my face
for about 10 minutes...
while also in the silent movie way of
singing along to the song...
         who does that?! does what?
punch themselves in the face?
well... some people learn a martial art,
i'm a cheapo,
     i practice on myself,
if i can withstand my own punch in
the face, any other poker will have
a harder time to punch me out...
then again, there was the ireland vs. wales
match today, and i was trying
to jinx it, meaning: i wanted the paddies
to win... and win, they did;
  and it would appear i'm more irish
in terms of literary adventure than most,
i've have the james joyce oeuvre
under my belt...
           which is a bit like having finished
that ponce proust...
       i'm actually dreading reading
that book of his, and to be frank,
   i'd probably get off more reading
the small print of some terms & conditions
on a contract,
  or do the rain-man
                 and read a phonebook;
sometimes all you need in hell is a book,
there's no need for hellfire.

p.s. by the way, who made sisyphus roll
the rock up that hill?
was there some sort of guardian
        whipping him to repeat this
futile action? why didn't he sit by the rock
and contemplate it,
   becoming the architect of a cognitive
labyrinth?

.                                                         me?
   apart from friday vinyl
sessions?
i feel i'm being ****** over
by a h. p. lovecraft
                                                 antithesis...

too much time spent
around the immigrant
irish, in england,
with no englishman
in sight...

           well... wouldn't you know:
the titanic sank...
a feeling associated with...
feeding swans toasted bred...

what i'm seeing?
a new god...
the ******* child of the titan
aphrodite...
aphrodite was the daughter
of titans,
she's classed as a titan,
and not a god...
i'm seeing her *******...
son, daughter, it,
whatever:  hermaphroditus...

flower power child...
can basically **** itself
silly...
     people were wondering what
happened to the old norse
gods...
   gave you solipsus:
             attaché of solipsism...
attaché of the sophists...
    attaché of the "ridiculous"...
   where was the answer to
sisyphus: that demigod,
                              son of Atlas?

so now we're living in a time
when the son / daughter
of Aphrodite is running, the, "show"...
               n'est pas?

trust an Eire armed with
a ******* banjo...
         dropkick murphys...
******* paddies...
   get it right, all the ****** time...

so, no, "this" (whatever
in the current theme of "now"
actually implies) isn't "happening"?

no... so we're all protected
under the guidance of the monotheistic
gods? allah will save us,
pater,
      or that variant: y.h.w.h.
will...
   only that... we're not dealing
with gods, akin to those of
the conquering semites,
thor never became a beelzebub...
odin never became a moloch,
nor hades, nor zeus...

      paganism and a clearly
structured categorical
   insemination of an ideology...
a base focus bias of categories
congregating
   into a motion,
spread beyond a single generational
gap,
   no... monotheistic
congregational focus...
no: workings of a movement
from the bottom up...
instead of a top to bottom
   "democratic" safeguard
                       of "sharing"...

why is it that the jewish god
couldn't, somehow,
integrate the gods of europe,
into a submission status
of fallen angels,
akin to moloch, or beelzebub?
so, why is it expected
that the gods of europe
will not find themselve
immune...
   when allah comes around?

i cradle the jewish god,
because i find his existence,
appealing,
in a purely phonetic sense...
he fits a square hole
like a cube...

          monkey logic...
allah?              no... not really...
still... in the reign
of hermaphroditus...
that ******* child of
aphrodite...
              no, there's no point
even wanting to explain
everything in a monotheistic
binary of: 1: god,
                            0: no god...
1 0 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 0 1 1 0...

            i'm coming back
to the old continent as if i ever
left it, once, two weeks in kenya...
spent a good deal of the two weeks
looking for cognac and a shade...
admiring the milk
of moonlight on ivory beauty's skin...
crying while falling asleep
looking at the sea nibble on the coast...
and then doing
the casual yoga of a tomorrow:
**** me, 'ere we go: repeat, repeat.

grammatical rigour of a german
philosopher,
but coupled with
the languid nonchalance of
a french humanist / psychologist...
that's what: english seems
to me; right about, now.

see...
     you can clearly reason with
modern day journalism,
that... constipated variation of history...
as long as you begin
the day to day explanation
with some mythology...

   **** me...
sisyphus, demigod,
son of Atlas?!
    within the confines of
the current journalist insomnia?

hermaphroditus,
the ******* song
of aphrodite?!
   within the confines of
the current transgender movement?

yeah: pulled both ideas
out of my ***...
    seeing how both the greek,
the plagiarism of the greek (i.e. roman)
and the norse pantheons
became immune
     to what yahweh
         gobbled down,
   eating up the semitic gods
akin to moloch
    and beelzebub...

              oddly enough:
or rather, "oddly engough"...
why should allah be given
the same monotheistic status
fixture to: overcome...
  
   it's not like the hindus will ever
allow their pantheon to be
desecrated...
          
                    hanging on a cross,
a long hanging fruit...
         i guess the time is ripe,
to insult what the jews insulted
to begin with...
         and later discovered:
the war against the mind,
is of equal measure
as the war against the body...

      but with the unearthed
nag hammadi library...
            eh...
                     i'm shuffling my feet...
like hell, i will not find
the slavic pantheon...
         except,
if i walk into the forest,
and start counting pine trees
like matchsticks...
   in an imaginary box,
     in a less imaginary mind...
in the concretes of the brain...

                 transcendence,
by only desecrating,
    once more,
something akin to the library of
Alexandria;
which implies,
each day, and every day,
subsequently,
    from what is garbage,
on part of journalism.