CHAPTER ONE: THE DEMISE OF A YOUNG GIRL SEPTEMBER 1975


I had not seen my father in over two years when he showed up at my mom and step dad's condo. He had a slick knack of disappearing when laws were broken and he was wanted for questioning. He had an even better ability to re-enter when the heat was off.

My father owned three nightclubs in Oklahoma City. His first was the Silver Sword, and then he opened The Red Slipper. After he met his second wife, they together, opened the Jade Club.

All were successful, but the Red Slipper had a reputation. On a rare occasion, my dad would take me with him to open up the place. At first, it scared me. It was so dark in there. But as the lights came on behind the bar, I fell in love with the atmosphere.

Bobby Orr’s hockey stick hung on the wall, along with an endearing note from F. Lee Bailey. At six years old, all I knew was that they were the objects that made my dad beam.

I learned to play pool by standing on a phone book. I watched the colorful smacking ***** bounce around the most beautiful color of green I had ever seen. Chalking the stick was a chore, but after nearly poking my eye out once, I soon caught on.

It was a struggle to climb up on a barstool, but it was worth the effort. I sat at the bar and had lunch: popcorn, pretzels, peanuts and Pepsi.

As I grew older, I saw less and less of him, until he became a stranger, drifting in every once in awhile.  Every few weeks or so, I would come home from school, and see his car in the driveway.

This always shot fear and excitement through me. The air of unpredictability always made me want to ***. Unfortunately, most of the time, we were locked out of the house for a few hours, so I would have to *** in the back yard or at the neighbors. We waited on the stairs for the front door to open. And it always did, by my mom. She usually looked satisfied and serene but other times, I saw dread and sadness on her face.

Ever since I could remember, my dad had been a string of disappointments for me with a few indescribable moments of pure enjoyment mixed in between He could be kind, funny and like a real dad sometimes, that was the dad I missed. I tried to hold onto those experiences, even though he was such a mean ******* most of the time. But mostly, I just didn't know him.

Their divorce became final around the summer of 1972, but that didn't stop my mom from loving him. I don't know why, but she chased him frequently, going out to bars with her friends, trying to get a glimpse of him, and maybe more.

The last time I’d seen my father had not been pleasant. When I was thirteen, he broke down the door to our apartment and went straight to my mother’s bedroom. The noises were terrifying. The screaming, and punching sounds were followed by my mother’s whimpering, begging, groveling.

"How dare you do this to me, Patsy!? And behind my back! You could have at least told me!"

My dad had bailed himself out of jail that night. She promised him she would never seek alimony or child support again. Her lawyer was wrong. It wasn’t worth getting killed over.  

Shortly after, he had to leave the state. It had something to do with a low-level mob deal involving an insurance fraud. Too bad, it involved burning a building with someone in it. My dad became nothing but a memory, which faded away over time.

**

Alcohol and tobacco were constants in my family, so when my older brother, Tim, started smoking at ten years old, I don't remember much protest from anyone. I was seven and when my sister Abby, turned ten the next year, she also started smoking.  All the older kids were smoking cigarettes. I wanted to be cool, so I puked and coughed as I practiced. By the time I was ten, I too, was inhaling properly.  Around that time, I was introduced to *** by my sister's boyfriend. It did help my mood, somewhat, but it wasn't enough.

By 1974, I was using drugs from my sister’s boyfriend. John was a true drugstore cowboy. At first, he committed burglaries, which were easy at the time. There were no sophisticated electronics to stop someone from cutting a hole in the roof of a pharmacy. It took only minutes to pry open the safe that contained the narcotics. Then it took maybe another minute to fill a pillowcase full of every variety of amphetamines, barbiturates, valiums, etc.

It wasn’t long before I graduated to using morphine, ******* and then overdosed on Demerol. My stepfather sent me to a treatment facility in Tulsa Oklahoma, about one hundred miles away from Oklahoma City. The Dillon treatment center didn’t accept clients under age of sixteen but made an exception with me. I was a walking-talking disastrous miracle...or a miraculously saved disaster.

They figured that since I was fourteen, the sooner the better to start my road to recovery. Apparently, they didn’t condone sneaking *** and valiums in to the facility. I was kicked out of Dillon after about a month.

I came back home and laid low. I went back to Hefner Jr. High and enrolled back into the ninth grade. I quietly picked up where I left off, going back into business with John. My job was to sell the safe stuff; valiums, seconols, white bennies, ***, etc.


Summer came; I turned fifteen and had developed a tendency to over test my wares. I overdosed and nearly died in the hospital several times, which had led to my current predicament. Nobody knew what to do with me.

In August, I entered the tenth grade...for two weeks. I was expelled, (you guessed it) for dealing drugs. I was on homebound teaching twice a week with little supervision. My mother worked, my step-dad, **** ,worked, and I was home all day. However, I was not just sitting idly around. I was into enterprise.

**

In September, I overdosed again. I was quickly killing myself and my mother didn’t know what to do to stop it. That is why what happened was not my mother’s fault. But it wasn’t my fault either.

I never figured out how he knew where we lived. My mother moved over at least fourteen times in between the time I was six and twelve years old. Yet, here he was, at our front door, with his undeniable ‘ah shucks’ charm. His modesty was convincing. His timing was incredible. My mother stood frozen, her mouth agape. **** took the lead. He placed himself between my mother and father.

“You must be Gary Don, my name is ****; I’m Patsy’s husband." **** had never met my dad, but he'd heard enough about him to surmise who was standing at the door.

"Um, yeah, I'm Gary Don, it's nice to meet you ****", he said; as he offered a friendly hand shake to ****.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you, I was just in Duncan with my parents and they suggested I stop by and talk with you before heading back west. It's about Susie....

"Yes, Patsy said you called yesterday. We weren't expecting you this soon, but it's no problem. Why don't you come in and tell us what your plans are? Patsy, honey, would you mind putting on a *** of coffee?”

This unfroze my mother and she scurried to the kitchen. I was still in shock at seeing my dad’s face. I retreated to the staircase, but poked my head around and caught him glance at me. I flew up to the landing. I could easily escape up the rest of the stairs to my bedroom.
I was small enough to remain hidden on the landing, and heard the conversation between my mother, my dad and ****. **** was the classiest, most even-tempered adult I had ever encountered. I wished I could stop hurting him and my mother.  

My mother sat down two cups of coffee on the dining room table where my dad and **** sat. As she retreated a few steps back into the kitchen, **** politely probed my dad. My dad had the right answer for every question.

He swore he was a completely different person. He had changed. He had no hard feelings, instead he was back to help. He was remorseful for being an absent father and he wanted to make things right. He was back for a reason. He had heard that I was in trouble with drugs and school and he felt guilty for that. He had the answer to my problems. He was so convincing, so….humble, almost shy.

As I listened, I began freaking out with fear and excitement. I always wanted my dad. The last time I tried to live with him, it didn’t work out; he sent me back to my mother’s after a month. Now my dad wanted me! He wanted to save me, take care of me!

He lived by himself now. He was the manager of The Palace Restaurant/Hotel in the little town of Raton, New Mexico. It was a refurbished hotel, built over a century ago The ground floor was an elegant bar and restaurant. He was making very good money, he paid no rent and he had an extra room for me.

With a population of 6000, it was not a place to continue a lucrative drug business. Also, he would enroll me into the little high school and I could get my diploma. I could work in the restaurant in the evenings where he would keep his eye on me. Then, there was the horse. He would buy me a horse. And on and on and on.

The logic and sincerity of his argument was convincing. So there it was. An hour later, my bags were packed. I was going to live with my father in New Mexico.

That’s how in September 1975, my father whisked me away from my home in Oklahoma City, under the guise of saving me from my own demise. I was stolen and held captive in Raton, New Mexico for what seemed like forever.

My dog, Baron was coming with me, I refused to go anywhere without him. He was a tiny black and tan Dachshund. I got him free when I was fourteen, when I got back from Tulsa. To me, he was priceless. He was my best friend. He couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds, but his heart was huge.

I talked to him about everything and he consoled me by nodding, and licking me on the cheek non-stop…or he would admonish me through his expressions and demeanor. I had lived with Dachshunds since I was seven, so understood their language pretty well. Baron understood humans better. We developed a rare communication that worked well for both of us.
Herman, our older dachshund had greeted my dad cordially. Baron couldn’t figure this out, he expressed his apprehension. He looked at me and conveyed,

“Well, if Herman isn’t worried, I guess it’ll be Okay, right? Right, Susan?”

I was sorry I didn’t have an honest answer. I did my best to settle him.

“Sure, this’ll be fun, a whole new adventure!”

As we drove West, toward the Texas panhandle, Baron kept the conversation going by his curious interest expressed by wide eyes and attentive ears. My dad amazed him with his knowledge of history, geography, geology, astronomy, world geo-politics, weather, music on the radio, literature, mechanics, religion and countless other topics. I knew he was faking his fascination with my dad. He knew he was doing me a favor.

There was not a dead moment in the air. An occasional “really?” expressed by me was enough to keep my dad’s mouth running. I was thankful for that. It kept my attention away from my jangle of emotions. As we drove through the night, I was conflicted, scared, excited, happy and worried. I didn’t know where I was going, or who was driving me there.

My dad’s jovial demeanor comforted me. He made The Palace sound like the perfect place for his little princess.

When we arrived, it was late, after 10pm., Baron was exhausted. I stood on the corner and looked up. I gulped. The three-story building was like an old gothic castle. It was a huge rectangle with the front corner cut back with a fifth wall about ten feet wide. This provided the entrance with two giant oak doors. Baron was less than enthused by its foreboding appearance. I had to agree.

Dad ignored my hesitation. “Come on, you’re going to love this place!”

He pulled open one of the oak doors, which had to weigh at least five hundred pounds. I was hesitant, but thirsty. Baron’s squirming had started to annoy me. I went forward filled with adrenalin.

The initial entrance was a small round foyer with a domed ceiling of cut glass. It was about six feet round. As I stared up at the beautiful little pieces of color, I heard my dad chuckle.

“See? I told you, there’s no place like this!”

Then I saw the true entry to the bar, a set of small bat winged doors that swung back and forth. He pulled one of the doors back, beckoning me forward. He looked down at me with a tender expression.

“Welcome home, honey, this is home now.”

As we entered the bar, I was dumbstruck. Baron was not. I stepped back in time, to 1896, into The Palace Hotel.

The bar took up half of the first floor of the hotel. It was the most captivating centerpiece of the establishment. The mirror behind the bar was the longest continuous piece of reflection glass in all the states, the brochure proclaimed. A brass foot rail extended the length of the long cherry oak bar A few feet behind was a waist high railing just like the saloons in old John Wayne movies.

The carpet was a deep royal red interlaced with black swirly patterns. Bright golden paper covered the walls. It was smooth and shiny with raised curly designs made out of felt or maybe even velour. God, I just wanted to reach over and run my fingers across it!  

The wall opposite the bar had windows that were quizzically narrow and impossibly tall. Lush maroon velvet drapes adorned them, parted in the center to provide a view of the quaint town just beyond the sidewalk.

I looked up at the ornate ceiling, which seemed a mile above me. It was covered with tiles of little angels that all looked the same, yet different. The angels danced across the entire ceiling until it curved and met the wall. I got dizzy looking at them.

“You can’t find ceiling tiles like that anywhere! My dad grinned. “They’re covered in pure gold leaf!”

I didn’t know what pure gold leaf was, but the word ‘gold’ impressed me very much.

He introduced me to the staff. I l blushed when he said; “This is Susie, my favorite little girl!” I had never heard that before. The whole crew greeted me warmly, all smiles and friendliness.  

I always paid attention when Baron got nervous but I chose to ignore him. I jostled him in my arms. My stern look at him stopped his squiggling, but his look back conveyed that I was clueless.

I, however thought, Okay, I have died and gone to Heaven! I was enchanted. My fascination with this magical setting made me feel happy; I was in the neatest place I had ever seen. I’m going to love it here!

On the first night, my dad led me around the ground floor. The restaurant was as elegant as the bar. To the rear of the restaurant, there was a large commercial kitchen. Off the rear of the kitchen, he showed, me a short hallway to the back exit. To the right, a huge staircase led to the two upper floors of dilapidated hotel rooms. A manager’s apartment had been converted from several hotel rooms connected together on the second floor, just above the entrance to the hotel.

We ended up back in the bar and sat at a table for two. Crystal, the head bartender stayed on for a little while longer after the rest of the staff were allowed to go home.

Sitting at the table, he ordered Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry. I had never had Cream Sherry before, but it tasted like candy with nuts and I had no problem going through numerous rounds in a very short time. I was hungry but I was too nervous to eat.

Baron, however, was ravenous. My dad fed him little pieces filet mignon and French bread with real butter. He played cute for my dad, sitting up and begging. He jumped up, putting his paws on my dad’s leg, wagging his tail like crazy.

I was a little befuddled until I caught his sideways glance that said, “I do not like this guy, but I gotta eat, I’m starving. You’re the one falling into his into his trap, not me.”

Ouch. “Baron, sometimes I wish you would shut the hell up.”

After having his fill, he settled into a wary sleep on top of my feet. I never worried about losing Baron. Where I went, he went, period.

I wasn’t aware when the bartender left. The bottle was on the table before I knew it; he kept my glass full. I was five feet tall and weighed 106 pounds. I had a lethal level of alcohol pulsing threw my entire body…and I had my daddy.

I was in a haze. Actually, it was more of a daze than a haze. My vision was

I touch you, you cry
I kiss you, you whine
You glare, you stare
You bite me,
And neglect me
I don’t see you as much anymore,
But kitty, we got history and I’m never gonna stop loving you.
(meow)

“Pepsi employee killed in Hawkins car crash.”
“Maine Vice Mayor Deaver killed in car accident in Castle Rock.”
“Woman ‘dead’ after car crash found alive in morgue.”

The news reports on radio echoed through her whole car as she indulged her third bottle of Russian Standard. Weird, she thought; she has been hearing news about road collisions all day. She was sure that the alcohol wasn’t intoxicating her mind to hear different things, she knew she was still sober. Everybody knew she always had low alcohol tolerance, even herself knew that; now she couldn’t even taste the bitterness of the liquor, she feels it inside of her. Drinking was the thing her mother told her to never do, perhaps because it turns her father into a monster with a closed fist as a weapon.

She looked at her rear-view mirror and realised she was travelling alone on an empty road. People had told her before to never travel alone in Derry Road or else something might happen. She wasn’t travelling; she was running away. It fits her, she thought, she and the road were the same; they were both empty.

She heard an unfamiliar noise, like the sound of a steel colliding with another steel. She had realized that her car engine died while she was driving. “Seriously?” she said to herself, “Is everything I own dead now? Like me?”

She stepped outside of her car and walked to find any gasoline stations or houses that could help her. There is no luck for any signs of functioning establishments on an empty road like this, she thought. However, a place filled with buried muscle cars, abandoned pickup trucks, and old bulldozers caught her attention. It’s an empty road. How is there supposed to be a car junkyard? She thought to herself. What’s even stranger is, she didn’t see it while she was driving.

“Well this day couldn’t get any weirder,” she said. First she couldn’t get drunk after drinking three bottles, then she kept on hearing news about car crashes, and now she suddenly saw a car junkyard out of the blue? She opened her hood and a massive smoke appeared, causing her to inhale it. She was coughing while staring at the oils leaking. She didn’t know what to do. She had no choice but to look for people who could help her with her car. She didn’t know anything about it, she didn’t even know what the problem of her car was. She glanced at the sky and saw the sun was slowly setting as well as her hope in what’s happening. She thought to herself, maybe this creepy car junkyard could actually help her.

She walked towards the old car junkyard and the sight of it surprised her. Her eyes widened when she saw people hanging out, beer bottles everywhere, and some couples having the time of their lives.

“May I help you?” A long haired guy who was wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt appeared by her side. She was having second thoughts in answering him back, but she really needed help, especially if she reeks of alcohol on an empty road.

“Yes, actually I was driving and then my car suddenly stopped. I don’t know what’s wrong with it, but a smoke appeared and the oils were leaking. I figured you can help me.”

“You think we know everything about cars just because we’re hanging out in a car junkyard?” He asked while laughing. Her embarrassment was overflowing at that moment which caused her to look down, she was still hearing the guy’s chuckles.

“I just guessed. I think.” She said this while looking at the ground since she was too humiliated to look at him. Much to her surprise, his laughter was no longer heard. “Thank God.” She whispered to herself.

“We’ll see what we can do. At the moment, why won’t you just join us?” Join them? Like hang out with people who are in this creepy junk yard? She stood still while ruminating on what she should do. She was feeling a little scared that maybe these people are actually killers or ghosts but there wasn’t really anything to lose for her. This is the place she'd rather be than her house where her mistakes and failures are always included in their dinner conversations.

She walked towards people who were about her age. Girls with vibrant hair colours looked at her from head to toe, some of them smiled at her that caused her to smile too.

“Your car died?” asked a short haired girl holding a beer bottle.

“Yes. This day couldn’t get any worse. Life couldn’t get any worse, from losing everything you have to people you trusted betraying you. My life is as worthless as my rotten car.” she uttered. One problem she has always had was the inability to control her mouth. People tried to cut her tongue before, unbeknownst to them it’s a far more dangerous weapon than their sharp objects.

“If that ain’t the truth.” said the short haired girl while taking a sip of her beer. Seeing people drink their beer bottles triggered her, she was fighting the urge to go back to her car and finish the remaining bottles of her Russian Standard.

“You want one?” the short haired girl asked while giving her the beer bottle. She just shrugged and shook her head, she was never a fan of beers.

The people in the car junk yard continued to hang out and drink their beers. They talked to her and even told some stories, she was enjoying their company. Epiphany suddenly hit her when this one thought crossed her mind; people there talked to her and asked her questions, but they never asked for her name. She never knew even a single name. Abandoned cars, unusual but enthusiastic people, and a junkyard in the middle of an empty road. She was starting to think she visited the labyrinth of lost people with broken cars.

“I hope you guys don’t mind me asking but, who are you and what do you do here?” curiosity was evident in her voice. For the first time, she was starting to care about things.

“We live here.” A husky and deep voice replied, which sent shivers up and down her spine.

“You live here? Like you sleep inside the cars?” Her voice was filled with wonder and a little bit of fear. She has never heard of a lifestyle like this. What about their food? Their money? Their family? These questions surrounded the confused mind of hers.

“Yeah, you can say that.”

“I’m sorry if I ask too many questions but how did you guys meet? Like, were you all friends before or did you just meet here?”

“We all met because of one thing, our cars suddenly died. Actually, two things; our cars mysteriously stopped and we all had the desire to walk away from life.”

She immediately felt tiny little bumps over her skin. She thought this was actually a nonexistent place but she was right all along. She was feeling a combination of terror and nonchalance, like a person who is on the verge of death but has already accepted the fate that the heavens had stored for her. People already had their eyes closed while some are still staring at the constellations in the sky, wondering why their lives didn’t shine as bright in the dark as them. She’d rather sleep than look at the stars, for she knows her life would be much better with her eyes closed.

“Are you sure with your decision?” a soft but eager whisper awakened her from her thoughts. She saw the long haired guy staring at her, waiting for her answer.

“What decision?”

“Are you sure you want to walk away from everything already?”

She looked at the guy with annoyance mixed with sarcasm. “What? I’m just sleeping. When my car miraculously work again, I’ll leave immediately.”

“You’re enjoying here, aren’t you?” She didn’t try to utter some words, she knew inside of her that he already knows the answer.

“I was like that too, you know? I thought this was the place where I can finally be free. I finally walked away from my problems, I don’t have to deal with never ending problems and challenges anymore.” He paused, which caused her to look at him and wait for his reply. “But that’s only what I thought.” He said this with a broken voice that she was sure she would never forget.

“But isn’t this junkyard truly for us? For people who failed, for people whose lives don’t deserve to continue anymore. Maybe our cars stopped for a reason, maybe our engines were never meant to be fixed. Maybe we were never meant to be fixed.” She felt tears slowly streaming down her face. She remembered the sight of her lover with the person she trusted the most, she remembered the bathroom floor filled with her own blood, she remembered the bruises on her face after the night her father got drunk.

“At first it was. It felt good. Until I realised that walking away from everything isn’t the solution. It doesn’t make things right, it actually makes them worse. The fact that you didn’t even try to fight is the worst thing.” She felt it. She felt his pain. She didn’t even know who this person was but one thing is for sure, she felt everything this guy had been through.

“But I tried, you know? I tried everything and life still gives me the same, eternal problems that I will never find solutions to.”

She could see his hazelnut eyes travel around her. Her blue eyes that were filled with tears looked at the boy who told her more meaningful words than her own father ever could. “I was like that. I was dumb to think life will always be easy, that I can surround myself with happiness and positivity. But life isn’t like that. Your life will not always be like the rising sun because most of the time it’s a thunderstorm. But I was more dumb to think that the best decision was to run away. I heard all about this place ever since before. I drove all the way from my place to here, thinking I could escape it all. That’s not the right decision. There isn’t a day here when I don’t think of my mother crying while I was in the hospital bed, wondering what she did wrong. I gave up on life when the people in it didn’t give up on me. I was stupid for thinking that I could reach my destination immediately without having a journey. I was stupid to think that I can just drive for 1 kilometre and be at the place I want. It doesn’t work that way, life doesn’t work like that. There will always be a journey, a journey where your car’s engine will be dead in the middle of an empty road, but you will find a way to fix it and drive again.”

“So did you regret your decision?”

“Let’s just say I was too late.” She couldn’t find the right words, she didn’t know what to say. She lets him do all the talking for she knows he can never say these words again.

“Look, I don’t want to be the one who decides for you. Maybe you’re so fed up of everything, I get it. But I’m just asking you to think about it, before everything is too late. And piece of advice, if you decide to leave here, please, don’t ever look back.” Blue meets hazelnut, in that one occurrence, they knew their car engines aren’t the only ones they have in common.

She knew that if she walked away, she was never going to see him again. It seemed impossible that he would tell her his name, but she still took the risk and ask him for it. “Before I go, can I please know your name?”

“My name’s Kevin. Kevin Parks.” His face was filled with regret and sadness. Maybe saying his own name was a struggle for him, he knew he would never hear his loved ones say it again.

She nodded and smiled at him, it’s been too long since she put a smile on her face.

“I’m Rosa.” She said. He smiled, knowing she still has the chance to let the world know her name.

“Tell my mom I’m sorry.” And just like that, he disappeared. She was left alone with the chaotic mind of hers. This was everything she wanted, to finally walk away from everything.

She looked around all the abandoned cars and abandoned souls, this is the place she’s supposed to walk away from. The darkness, the surrendering, the giving up. The people disappeared and the smell of beer and cigarettes were no longer there. Silence was her only companion, and it was the most riveting thing she has ever stumbled upon.

She went inside the rotten car of hers and inserted her key in the ignition when her engine miraculously turned on. Hearing her father’s drunken shouts, covering her scars with bracelets, and seeing people who shattered her are the things she knew she will experience again; this reality lead to Rosa’s hesitance in leaving the car junk yard. However, she thought that maybe she could visit Kevin’s mother and talk about him when he was still not aware of this place. This place, this car junkyard filled with abandoned cars and souls unexpectedly shed a light to the road towards whatever destination she was meant for. For the first time in many years, the sun finally set in her direction again. The rear-view mirror was very tempting to look at, yet she gathered all her courage to put her foot on the gas.

i just thought you should know
i love you
every facet of you
i love you when you're stressed
and it feels like you're not even present
and i love you
when you're so vibrant
i have to hide my eyes
and i bet you're wondering how
i can even call this
poetry
but you don't see
the way you look
at me
and that
my darling
is the song i've been singing
since the moment we met.

So u've found a secret passageway.
Round the downtown underground walkway.
But how did u get there?  

So u've multicoloured my monochrome thoughts. Coincidentally grasping the brick ground.
But can't you see that I'm running around in circles?  

So you were the one who triggered the bullet.
Up above the luminous sky, so high.
But will it ever fall back down?  

And so, you've met a thrilling fate.
That cut and sliced all the threads of life.
Rallying all my fully loaded dreams, and fragments of nightmares.

(the city had fought the fortnight before)
fire burned through the little skirts
and plastic lunch boxes
carrying the nourishment of our future
doctors and worldshakers—

                                 Future
tax paying Americans
And beacon of the nation.

Wide awake, in the thoughts of a light bulb,
(Where sidewalk stairs politic with the devil,)
A raindrop fell and whispered to the asphalt,
“Tell me what you know about happiness…”
And somewhere, in the middle of a pineapple parade,
A Pepsi can smiled and danced the night away with Nyquil labels.

if you're walking in puddles to soak up the rain
you gotta look cool to mitigate the pain
skaters and ravers alike will agree
Judge None Choose One and buy JNCO jeans!

briano alliano performing on saturn


hi dudes and welcome to my show, today i am performing a few numbers for you

the first number is saying that i perform these songs so i can spread the word

that death is uplifting, i show you how much i live my life

the first song is coke is nice


coke is nice and redrafted my body

and made my tongue a bowl full of jelly

you see athena says coke is a medicine

and takes the stress out of my body

you seas i was walking down the road

the stress of what doctors tell me was making me dwell

you see i do believe in coke to cure you

and i also believe it can make you happy

because in this life you will die anyway

so what is the problem in dying happy drinking coca cola

medicine of the gods

you see i want the stress to stop, oh dear

and i want it to completely disappear

because dudes, ya see i am so low stressed

you see, i will never get the job i eant,

because they only want the young

you see i believe in happiness

and not feeling very sad

so please leave me alone, ya dead old hag

coca cola is the best medicine, dudes


that was a great number, and now dudes, here is the second song

called 16 pounds


16 pounds to buy a car with

it is a very cheap car if it costs that much

ya see a dollar bill can buy a car mat

it really protects your car floor from looking really bad

the australian cent isn’t around anymore

cause you can’t buy much with it, so i chuck it away,, my friend

a japanese coin is a wonderful coin

i notice there is a hole in the centre

so you can stick your finger in

$16 is a lot ya see

you could buy an expensive tub

of honey from the bee

so if you spend all this money now

just remember the old tune from yello in the 80s with oh yeah bow bow



thanks dudes, and now this next song saying, i am a family person

i am a family person and pretty **** cool

and i am too nice to break any golden rule

ya see i love life and i never stray, yeah i am a family person, dude, anyway

you see with me, i never get stressed cause i am a positive person

i believe in loving life almost every day

nothing can stand in my way

i believe in buddhism because i respect my friends and family

and that makes me alright, i guess

if i see anyone treating me like a hooligan you should freaking get a life, dude

cause i am a family person who loves life every single day of the year

ok dudes as we are partying up here on saturn, here is the spider milkshake


spider milkshake is good enough for me

spider milkshake is such a tasty treat

just catch a spider in your bug catcher oh yeah

add some milk and vanilla and have a party

at the mall i am sitting here having a nice vanilla slice

and suddenly it hit me, i need a nice cold drink

i cloud choose pepsi or coca cola man

but the only drink i can drink

is a spider milkshake yeah

spider milkshake is good enough for me

spider milkshake is such a tasty treat

just catch a spider in a bug catcher tray

add some milk and vanilla and have a party

you see this weekend i am going to live it up is sydney

i am going to darling harbour and manly and circular quay

you see i will head to the coffee shop to buy myself a gift

and that is a spider milkshake very tasty heaven forbid

spider milkshake is good enough for me

spider milkshake is such a tasty treat

just catch a spider in a bug catcher yeah

add some milk and vanilla and have a party

you see as we sit here and eat some nice humble pie

and one kid said i will never tell a lie

and as the time came for after school he said

please give me a delicious spider milkshake, oh yeah

spider milkshake is good enough for for me

spider milkshake is such a tasty treat

add some milk and vanilla and say to each other hey

this is the time that we really party

that was a great number, how many of you dudes want your earth bodies to drink a spider milkshake

and here is our next number for you


oh dear what can the matter be

oh dear what can the matter be

oh dear what can the matter be

i haven’t got much money to share

you see i go on holidays across all  the highways and byways

i wish i could have money oh yeah

i have been lost at the fair

i cheered for sydney at the SCG

as they won the big match oh yeah

oh dear what can the matter be

using all of your grey matter be

the devil is upon the bad people yeah

johnny is long at the fair

i went to the park

to play catch with a dog

the name of the dog was little fog, ya see

he was a very adorable dog

oh what a wonderful dog

oh dear what can the matter be

oh dear what can the matter be

i wish i was about 7.3

so i can go off to the fair

i called the police on my mobile

because this ******* was annoying me

i wish they would leave me fucken be

i want to be left in peace

oh dear what can the matter be

i think he thought i was someone else ya see

because i don’t want to have voices that are crazy

i am so long at the fair


hi dudes, that was my new numbers and i will see you in the cosmos next time, catch ya later, dudes

I’m recording this
From the future
Ten years ahead
To warn you that
Growing up is proven
To be a trap.

Inevitable as it is
Here are five advice
That you should keep in mind
And follow right after
Reading this message
To live long and prosper.

Foremost, please try your best
Not to make a hobby
Of talking to yourself
For it will haunt you
Even while you shower
Or as you take a sip on your coffee.

Start adopting a cat
Not for you to cuddle
But as a guard to your home
Aliens have used dogs to invade us
And without a feline, their only weakness
You will not be safe this April 11, 2016.

Double your dose
Of caffeine intake
I regret to have started
When I was already twenty five
The sooner the better
It’s the secret elixir of youth.

Do not believe in commercials
All the likes have been banned
In the year 2020
For they have been shown
To be made up of 80% lies
Which caused a second industrial revolution.

Coke is good, if not the greatest
But try drinking Pepsi more often
For a Pepsi fanatic will dominate the world
And he will release a proclamation
Sentencing to death any Pepsizen
Who cannot reach the required daily intake.

And a post script
Just to let you know
If you can hear the loud noises
At the background of this tape
It’s a horde of zombies
Dancing to the sound of Justin Bieber’s Baby.

Cashing A Check
by johnmac

I just saw this wonderful line
in a column in a motorcycle
magazine:
"The mind writes checks that
the body can't cash".

The vision that many from the
old neighborhood have of me is
short and thin with a Pepsi in
one hand and a cigarette
in the other

Others will remember me as
taller and thin, hitting a jumper
from the corner or throwing
a "no-look pass" to a cutter.

Others will picture me at the
end of the bar in the Broadstone
with an open pack of Pall Malls and
a half-finished beer on the bar;
Don Gibson's "I Can't Stop Loving You"
on the jukebox.
"Pat, one more when you get a chance"

Age has taken the jumper
Diabetes has taken the Pepsi
Common Sense has taken the
cigarette and *****.

I am older and wiser and
hopefully more tolerant
I am satisfied with my life

but

to just be able to once more
fake the man guarding me and
go up with a jumper and
get nothing but net

To be able to, once more,
"cash that check"

”Milestones” by Robert Rasor, American Motorcyclist; March 2006
Copyright 2006 John F. McMullen

Shorts
T-shirt
Flip flops or barefoot
Pepsi
Virginia Slim
Three Musketeer
Long thick hair
Blue eyes
And a beautiful soul

Seven months had gone by
About 214 days
175 sick
The rest not to bad
Chemo took it's toll
Ran her down
Had her drained
Never wondered why me
Always kept a smile
Even when the battle was for her life
She been through so much
It's no surprise she never gave up
None of us knew
This was new to us
We took remission as a win
Fight over
No rematch
Mom raise your hands
A proven champion

Back to life
How it use to be
All smiles making plans
Had a follow up late November
Still remember her deep cleaning the day before
Not a spot untouched  
No ***** clothes
Dinner cooked for two nights
Never one to have a purse so I remember thinking
Why is she carrying a bag
I never asked but I think she knew
The beast came back to life
Showing no  mercy
Ran rapid through her body
Before I could ask
Her look gave me my answer

Chemo wasn't a option
Neither was praying to a God
Natural medicine and marijuana were useless
We all stood around confused and just as useless
She made it back home early December
Took a week but made her list
First year she didn't go so we went searching
Seen the hurt when she couldn't get out of bed on Christmas
Held on to see the year 2k
Ninety six hours later she closed her eyes one last time
My hasn't been dry since

Shorts
T-shirt
Flip flops or barefoot...
I love you mom

I arrived at the church at 5:30.
It took me a bit to find the place

  there were only a couple half-inflated baloons
  to mark the occasion.
  Those, and a small sign with an arrow, which led
  
      down some stairs and into a cafeteria.  An
      older lady greeted me.  She had a calm smile
      on her face.  The kind that comes with age, that
      says that you've been there, done that.

"Are you here to give?"

           Of course.  Why else would I be here?

  "Yeah"

She leads me to a table that has a number of tall dividers
set up on it to prevent people from peeking at someone
else's personal life.  Like I care if you've had syphilis in
the last year...well I might if it weren't all men in here.

I start filling out the form.
No, I don't have an STD
No, I haven't spent a time totaling more than 5 years in the UK before 1996
No, I don't use drugs
No, I haven't had a fever in the last 24 hours
No
  No
    No
  No
No

I do admit that I have been out of the country recently.

I hand my sheet to another lady.  "Where did you travel to?"

    "Japan, mostly Tokyo and a few places just outside"

    "Carol, could you check Japan on the list?"

She turns to me.  "I'm almost certain that's OK, but I have to check".  Another contented smile.

I sit down to be interviewed, we go over the questions once more.

    "Alright, I just need a small sample before we begin"

She takes the sample with a small contraption that
fits over my finger and jabs a small hole.  She runs
a quick test with the blood, letting a droplet fall
in a test tube filled with a blue liquid.  

The droplet sinks to the bottom.  She checks a box.

Apparently we're good to go.

  I'm given an empty blood bag and a number of rubber-banded vials
and pointed towards a circle of beds in the middle of the room.

I walk up and a portly gentleman takes my bag and asks me
which arm I'd like it in.

"Right"

I pause.  

I want to be able to check my phone while I'm doing this.

"Actually, let's do left"

He gives a grin.  "Here, hold both your arms out"

I comply.  I immediately notice that my right arm
has a very accessible vein.  We're doing the right arm.

Oh well.

   "Let's go with the Right"

I smile and sit on the plastic seat

He swabs my arm with that wonderful orange/yellow dye
and gives me a stress-ball to squeeze, to help the process go
quicker.  He comes back with the needle.

I look away as I feel the uncomfortable breach of my skin.
It's a small pinch followed by a dull sensation, my body
telling me "That isn't supposed to be there, get it out".

         I hate needles.

I feel a light sweat break and my breathing quickens
ever so slightly.  It's ok because the hard part is over
I squeeze the stress ball every few seconds and I chat
with the man.

His name is Nick, and he's been doing this for a few years.  
He used to work in a restaurant, and then he worked for a
flooring company.  
He remarks
    on the fake grouting that the floor in this room has.  

You  can tell that he loves his job, that he's satisfied with life.

He comments on the t-shirt that I will receive for doing this

(because who would do it if they didn't get a t-shirt, right?)

He says it looks like a blueberry snowcone and tells me a
rather entertaining story from his youth about blueberry
snowcones.  

I pipe in with my memories of the Tropical Sno  shop we had
when I was a kid.  

The bag is filled, the needle is removed.  A bandaid is placed,
and then my arm is wrapped with a smily-face bandage.

I give him a left-hand shake and go sit at the refreshments table

I drink a Pepsi.  I hate trail mix.

After about 10min or so, I get in my car and drive home.
I put on the blueberry snow-cone colored t-shirt and sit
down to read a book.  I think about the people working
at the blood drive, and I think about how happy they
seemed.

I wonder to myself what the difference is between someone
who gives blood and someone who gives time.  I have friends
that travel the world for the Peace Corps, living in third world
countries with no running water, no niceties.  I think of friends
who could sit in blistering heat, helping to build a house for
someone they don't even know.  I think of myself, who thinks
that donating money to the Leukemia foundation and donating
blood to the Red Cross is somehow equivalent to donating sweat
and an able body.

I should really do more
maybe then I'll earn that smile
that those folks wear so proudly

Her life can’t be denied
First to vent then try to understand then accept death of innocence first seething anger only more enflamed by people trying to
Politicize and lessen the loss of innocent American lives especially little one, long before face book there was basebook evil’s network
This country has rings of evil a year after the bombing in Oklahoma I flew back here and then drove a car back home I stopped and
Videoed the bomb site and then many miles later and much video of this great country I pulled up behind a pickup in Kingman Arizona
Still videoing I was surprised and angered when he had a bumper sticker up on his back window over from his lariat and high powered
Rifle that said something to the effect you haven’t got all of the explosives this wasn’t the only comment there were other signs of a
Gun culture what made it so offensive was it was well known McVeigh and Terry Moore had used Kingman as a base of operations
Arguably this was just a bunch of jerks not real disturbed people like the one in Tucson I understand because while running production
In a chemical plant we had a big government contract which involved a lot of piecemeal work we hired in thirty temps and one was a
Carbon copy of the shooter in Tucson we already had two deadly chemicals everyone knows cyanide but phenol is liquid poison it has
A couple of tricks it freezes at eighty degrees and it absorbs through the skin and when it gets to the blood your dead one guy
Unloading a tanker the line froze he breaks the hose but when he does the chunk of ice flows out hitting him with a load he was dead
before he hit the ground I got a face full of it deluded to fifteen percent when the electric pump transferring to another drum caused the
Plastic hose to jump out the force of the pump shot the deluded phenol against the rim across from me I saw it coming all I could do
Was close my eyes as tight as I could get them instantly ten thousand bees were stinging my face I staggered around until one of the
Guys led me to the emergency shower that was there for this very reason I was taken to the hospital my wife walked in and stated
Crying my brother in law said I looked like Anthony Quinn in the film requiem for a prize fighter they told me as they continued to
Steadily bathe my face with water if the phenol got to the blood there was nothing they could do I survived but then one of the temps
Named randy was a skin head so now we had three deadly poisons it was the hardest thing to interact even simple conservation was
Really impossible like the scene with two polar bears it followed their lives from cubs to three years old and they were being shipped
To another zoo how cute but something triggered the one he became pure bear instant raw aggression at a level that was unnerving
Even from watching it from Television it was like it was crazed just like Randy in an instant he was back in his room with his swastikas
Barely coherent and defiantly not cogent being around him was like getting high on some of our bad fumes I’m interested in helping
People the most powerful drugs couldn’t get you in line with his thinking delusional twisted into a knot of hate and violence he had a
Another thing he liked to brag and had a habit of drinking weird stuff he poured our H B Fuller industrial strength glue into a Pepsi can
And drank it we never seen him again although we watched with keen interest all the entry points to the building for the next two
Weeks incase Randy was paying us a visit with his AK forty seven rifle that is the only reason I have any concern for the shooter in
Arizona again all the warning signs were evident he is disturbed others must protect him plus others he would harm but they still
Wait until yet again as a nation we bleed with profound sorrow from innocence lost.
Madness slays a princess, love of country brought her to the place it would be so harshly violated
In her face America shines with what it should be perfected in innocence raised with all the colors of our vibrancy as a nation then the
Dark foreboding it steals light and life at only nine but she was far ahead of that measurement of earthen time she was endowed with
Power that lives in highest possibilities that are only possible in true unaffected innocence her country was the true country not this
Unrecognizable one that every manner of evil is allowed to flourish and then when openly shown its true depths of departure from
Its true excellence we fail to take the reigns as men and women of character we let drugs alcohol and *** rule without raising the least
Bit of a challenge our enemies spit and scoff at our claims of being a moral ceat for the rest of the world we seek only rewards never
Stopping to be sacrificial givers I know our troops and there are a select few that are this noble but the scale is tipped in evils favor
We are weighed divine justice and peace withdraws behind our ways that are filled with greed and failure at every turn measures taken
From our history shows such gaps of even the smallest vestures of righteous endeavor is tossed as backward living out of tune with the
Times Tucson is the product of the new standard of thought that guides us as a people you can’t wallow in filth and then go out to
Be a force and an advocacy for truth you are breaking down all moral restraints and wonder why we are in a flood of insanity you sow
To the wind then you reap a whirlwind each step each day distances us from divine defenses we invite only trouble as long as we
Pursue the course we are on all who is weak in our nation bare the blunt of this misguided thinking the world has never been this
Close to the brink it’s beyond human control that which is to be played out get in line or see more innocence perish right before our
Eyes this tide can be turned but it takes us all not a grand few that are ignored and steam rolled as a new advantage is gobbled up
For a short temporary season our founding fathers talked of posterity we talk of prosperity and everyone else be dammed.

Heroes Desconocidos: Parte V: Felipe 1931 - 2016  
© 2016, 2019 Victor D. López

Naciste cinco años antes del comienzo de la Guerra Civil Española que vería a tu padre exiliado.
El lenguaje llegó más tarde a ti que a tu hermano pequeño Manuel, y tartamudeaste por un
Tiempo, a diferencia de aquellos que hablan incesantemente sin nada que decir. Tu madre
Confundió la timidez con la falta de lucidez un trágico error que te marcó por vida.

Cuando tu hermano Manuel murió a los tres años de la meningitis, oíste a tu madre exclamar:
"Dios me llevó el listo y me dejó el tonto." Tenías apenas cinco años. Nunca olvidaste esas
Palabras. ¿Como podrías hacerlo? Sin embargo, amaste a tu madre con todo tu corazón.
Pero también te retiraste más en ti mismo, la soledad tu compañera y mejor amiga.

De hecho, eras un niño excepcional. La tartamudez se alejó después de los cinco años para no
Volver jamás, y cuando estaba en la escuela secundaria, tu maestra llamó a tu madre para una
Rara conferencia y le dijo que la tuya era una mente dotada, y que deberías ingresar a la
Universidad para estudiar ciencia, matemáticas o ingeniería.

Ella escribió a tu padre exiliado en Argentina para decirle la buena noticia, que tus profesores
Creían que fácilmente ganarías la entrada a la (entonces y ahora) altamente selectiva universidad Pública donde los asientos eran pocos, y muy difíciles de alcanzar basado en exámenes Competitivos ¿La respuesta de tu padre? Comprale un par de bueyes para arar las tierras.

Esa respuesta de un hombre muy respetado, un pez grande en un pequeño estanque en su nativo Olearos en ese tiempo está más allá de la comprensión. Había optado por preservar su interés
Propio en que continuaras su negocio familiar y trabajara sus tierras en su ausencia. Esa cicatriz También fue añadida a aquellas que nunca sanarían en tu enorme y poro corazón.

Sin la ayuda para los gastos de vida universitarios (todo lo que habrías requerido), quedaste
Decepcionado y dolido, pero no enfadado; Simplemente encontrarías otra opción. Tomaste los Exámenes competitivos para las dos escuelas de entrenamiento militar que proporcionarían una Educación vocacional excelente y un pequeño sueldo a cambio del servicio militar.

De los cientos de aspirantes a los pocos puestos premiados en cada una de las dos instituciones,
Marcaste primero para el más competitiva de las dos (El Parque) y decimotercero para la Segundo, La Fábrica de Armas. Escogiste la inferior para dejarle el puesto a un compañero de
Clase que había quedado eliminado por pocos puntos. Ese eras tú, siempre y para siempre.

En la escuela militar, finalmente estuviste en tu elemento. Te convertiría en una mecánico /
Maquinista de clase mundial, una profesión que te brindaría trabajo bien pagado en cualquier
Parte de la tierra de por vida. Fuiste verdaderamente un genio mecánico quien años más tarde
Añadiría electrónica, mecánica de automóviles y soldadura especializada a tus capacidades.

Dado un taller de máquinas bien montado, podrías con ingeniería inversa duplicar cada maquina
Y montar uno idéntico sin referencia a planes ni instrucciones. Te convertiste en un mecánico
Maestro dotado, y trabajaste en posiciones de línea y de supervisión en un puñado de empresas
En Argentina y en los Estados Unidos, incluyendo a Westinghouse, Warner-Lambert y Pepsi Co.

Te encantó aprender, especialmente en tus campos (electrónica, mecánica, soldadura), buscando
La perfección en todo lo que hiciste. Cada tarea difícil en el trabajo se te dio a ti toda tu vida.
No dormías por la noche cuando un problema necesitaba solución. Hacías cálculos,
Dibujos, planes y trabajabas incluso literalmente en tus sueños con pasión singular.

Estabas en tu elemento enfrentando los rigores académicos y físicos de la escuela militar,
Pero la vida era difícil para ti en la época de Franco cuando algunos instructores
Te llamaban "Roxo" - "rojo" en gallego - que se refería a la política de tu padre en
Apoyo a la República fallida. Finalmente, el abuso fue demasiado para soportar.

 
Una vez mientras estabas de pie en la atención en un pasillo con los otros cadetes esperando
Dar lista, fuiste repetidamente empujado en la espalda subrepticiamente. Moverte provocaría
Deméritos, y deméritos podrían causar la pérdida de puntos en tu grado final y arresto por
Los fines de semana sucesivos. Lo aguantaste un rato hasta perder la paciencia.

Volteaste hacia el cadete detrás tuyo y en un movimiento fluido lo cogiste por la chaqueta y con
Una mano lo colgaste en un gancho por encima de una ventana donde estaban Parados. Se
Arremolinó, hasta que fue rescatado por dos instructores militares furiosos.
Tuviste detención de Fin de semana durante meses, y una reducción del 10% en el grado final.

Un destino similar le ocurrió un compañero de trabajo unos años más tarde en Buenos Aires que
Te llamó hijo de puta. Lo levantaste en una mano por la garganta y lo mantuviste allí hasta que
Tus compañeros de trabajo intervinieron, rescatándolo al por la fuerza. La lección fue aprendida
Por todos en términos inconfundibles: Dejar a la mamá de Felipe en paz.

Eras increíblemente fuerte, especialmente en tu juventud, sin duda en parte debido a un trabajo
Agrícola riguroso, tu entrenamiento militar y participación en deportes competitivos. A los quince
Años, una vez te doblaste para recoger algo en vista de un carnero, presentando al animal un
Objetivo irresistible. Te cabeceo encima de un pajar. También aprendió rápidamente su lección.

Te sacudiste el polvo, y corriste hacia el pobre carnero, agarrándolo por los cuernos, girándolo
Alrededor varias vueltas, y lanzándolo encima del mismo pajar. El animal no resultó herido, pero Aprendió a mantener su distancia a partir de ese día. En general, fuiste muy lentos en enfadar
Ausente cabeceos, empujones repetidos o referencias irrespetuosas a tu madre.

Rara vez te vi enfadado; y era mamá, no tú, la disciplinaria, con zapatilla en la mano. Recibí
Muy pocas bofetadas tuyas. Mamá me golpeaba con una zapatilla a menudo cuando yo era
Pequeño, sobre todo porque podía ser un verdadero dolor de cabeza, queriendo Saber / intentar / Hacerlo todo, completamente ajeno al significado de la palabra "no" o de mis limitaciones.

Mamá a veces insistía en que me dieras una buena paliza. En una de esas ocasiones por una Transgresión olvidada cuando yo tenía nueve años, me llevaste a tu habitación, quitaste el
Cinturón, te sentaste a mi lado y te pegaste varias veces a tu propio brazo y mano susurrándome
"Llora", lo cual hice fácilmente. "No se lo digas a mamá." No lo hice. Sin duda lo sabía.

La perspectiva de servir en un ejército que te consideraba un traidor por la sangre se te hizo
Difícil de soportar, y en el tercer año de escuela, un año antes de la graduación, te fuiste a unirte
A tu padre exiliado en Argentina, a comenzar una nueva vida. Dejaste atrás a tu amada madre y a
Dos hermanas para comenzar de nuevo en una nueva tierra. Tu querido perro murió de pena.

Llegaste a Buenos Aires para ver a un padre que no recordabas a los 17 años. Eras demasiado
Joven para trabajar legalmente, pero parecías más viejo que tus años (un rasgo compartido).
Mentiste acerca de tu edad e inmediatamente encontraste trabajo como maquinista / mecánico de
Primer grado. Eso fue inaudito y te trajo algunos celos y quejas en el taller sindical.

El sindicato se quejó con el gerente general sobre tu sueldo y rango. Él respondió, "Daré el
Mismo rango y salario a cualquier persona en la compañía que pueda hacer lo que Felipe hace."
Sin duda, los celos y los gruñidos continuaron durante un tiempo. Pero no había compradores.
Y pronto ganaste el grupo, convirtiéndote en su mascota protegida como "hermano pequeño".

Tu padre partió hacia España dentro de un año de tu llegada cuando Franco emitió un perdón
General a todos los disidentes que no habían derramado sangre. Quería que volvieras a
Reanudar el negocio familiar asumido por tu madre en su ausencia con tu ayuda. Pero te negaste a Renunciar tu alto salario, el respeto y la independencia que se te negaban en su casa.

Tendrías escasamente 18 años, viviendo en una habitación que habías compartido con tu padre al
Lado de una escuela. Pero también habías encontrado una nueva querida familia en tu tío José,
Uno de los hermanos de tu padre, y su familia. su hija, Nieves con su esposo, Emilio, y
Sus hijos, Susana, Oscar (Rubén Gordé) y Osvaldo, se convirtieron en tu nueva familia nuclear.

Te casaste con mamá en 1955 y tuviste dos negocios fallidos en el rápido desvanecimiento en la
Argentina a finales de los años 1950 y comienzos de los años 1960. El primero fue un taller
Con una pequeña fortuna de contratos de gobierno no pagados. El segundo, una tienda de
Comestibles, también falló debido a la hiperinflación y el crédito extendió a clientes necesitados.

A lo largo de todo esto, seguiste ganando un salario excepcionalmente bueno. Pero a mediados
De los años 60, casi todo fue a pagar a los acreedores de la tienda de comestibles fallada.
Tuvimos años muy difíciles. Algún día escribiré sobre eso. Mamá trabajo de sirvienta, incluso
Para amigos ricos. Tu salías de casa a las 4:00 a.m. volviendo de noche para pagar las facturas.

El único lujo que tú y mamá retuvieron fue mi colegio católico. No había otra extravagancia. No
Pagar las facturas nunca fue una opción para ustedes. Nunca entró en sus mentes. No era una
Cuestión de ley u orgullo, sino una cuestión de honor. Pasamos por lo menos tres años muy
Dolorosos con tu y mamá trabajando muy duro, ganando bien pero éramos realmente pobres.

Tú y mamá se cuidaron mucho de esconder esto de mí y sufrieron grandes privaciones para
Aislarme lo mejor que pudieron de las consecuencias de una economía destrozada y su efecto a
Sus ahorros de vida y a nuestra cómoda vida. Llegamos a Estados Unidos a finales de los años 60 Después de esperar más de tres años por visas, a una nueva tierra de esperanza.

Tu hermana y cuñado, Marisa y Manuel, hicieron sus propios sacrificios para traernos aquí.
Traíamos unos $ 1, 000 del pago inicial por nuestra diminuta casa, y las joyas empeñadas de Mamá.
(La hiperinflación y los gastos comieron los pagos restantes). Otras posesiones preciadas
Fueron dejadas en un baúl hasta que pudieran reclamarlas. Nunca lo hicieron.

Incluso los billetes de avión fueron pagados por Marisa y Manuel. Insististe al llegar en términos
Escritos para el reembolso con intereses. Fuiste contratado en tu primera entrevista como un
Mecánico de primer grado a pesar de no hablar una palabra de inglés. Dos meses más tarde, la
Deuda fue saldada, mamá también trabajaba, y nos mudamos a nuestro primer apartamento.

Trabajaste largas horas, incluyendo sábados y horas extras diarias. La salud en declive te obligó
A retirarte a los 63 años y poco después, tú y mamá se mudaron de Queens al Condado de Orange. Compraron una casa a dos horas de nuestra residencia permanente en el Condado de Otsego, y, en la Próxima década, fueron felices, viajando con amigos y visitándonos a menudo.

Entonces las cosas empezaron a cambiar. Problemas cardíacos (dos marcapasos), cáncer de
Colon, Melanoma, enfermedad de hígado y renal causada por sus medicamentos, presión arterial
Alta, la gota, Cirugía de la vejiga biliar, diabetes.... Y aún seguiste hacia adelante, como el
Conejito “Energizer”, remendado, golpeado, magullado pero imparable e imperturbable.

Luego mamá comenzó a mostrar señas de pérdida de memoria junto con sus otros problemas de
Salud. Ella oculto bien sus propias dolencias, y nos dimos cuenta mucho más tarde que había un Problema grave. Hace dos años, su demencia empeoraba pero seguía funcionando hasta que
Complicaciones de cirugía de la vesícula biliar requirieron cuatro cirugías en tres meses.

Ella nunca se recuperó y tuvo que ser colocada en un asilo de ancianos con cuido intensivo.
Varios, de hecho, ya que Rechazó la comida y tú y yo nos negamos a simplemente dejarla ir, lo que Pudiera haber sido más noble. Pero "mientras hay vida, hay esperanza" como dicen los españoles.
No hay nada más allá del poder de Dios. Los milagros suceden.

Durante dos años tu viviste solo, rechazando ayuda externa, engendrando numerosos argumentos Acerca de tener a alguien unos días a la semana para ayudar a limpiar, cocinar, y hacer las tareas.
Tu no eras nada sino terco (otro rasgo compartido). El último argumento sobre el tema hace unas
Dos semanas terminó en tu llanto. No aceptarías ayuda externa hasta que mamá regresara a casa.

Sufriste un gran dolor debido a los discos abultados en la columna vertebral y caminabas con uno
De esos asientos ambulatorios con manillares que mamá y yo te elegimos hace años. Te
Sentabas cuando el dolor era demasiado, y luego seguías adelante con pocas quejas. Hace diez
Días, finalmente acordaste que necesitabas ir al hospital para drenar el líquido abdominal.
Tu hígado y riñones enfermos lo producían y se te hinchó el abdomen y las piernas hasta el punto
Que ponerte los zapatos o la ropa era muy difícil, como lo era la respiración. Me llamaste de una
Tienda local llorando que no podías encontrar pantalones que te cupieran. Hablamos, un rato y te
Calmé, como siempre, no permitiendo que te ahogaras en la lástima propia.

Fuiste a casa y encontraste unos pantalones nuevos extensibles que Alice y yo te habíamos
Comprado y quedaste feliz. Ya tenías dos cambios de ropa que aún te cabían para llevar al
Hospital. Listo, ya todo estaba bien. El procedimiento no era peligroso y lo había ya pasado
Varias veces.  Sería necesario un par de días en el hospital y te vería de nuevo el fin de semana.

No pude estar contigo el lunes 22 de febrero cuando tuviste que ir al hospital, como casi siempre
Lo había hecho, por el trabajo. Se suponía que debías ser admitido el viernes anterior, para yo Acompañarte, pero los médicos también tienen días libres y cambiaron la cita. No pude faltar al
Trabajo. Pero no estabas preocupado; Esto era sólo rutina. Estarías bien. Te vería en unos días.

Iríamos a ver a mamá el viernes, cuando estarías mucho más ligero y te sentirías mucho mejor.
Tal vez podríamos ir a comprate más ropa si la hinchazón no disminuía lo suficiente. Condujiste
Al médico y luego te transportaron por ambulancia al hospital. Yo estaba preocupado, pero no Demasiado. Me llamaste sobre las cinco de la tarde para decirme que estabas bien, descansando.

“No te preocupes. Estoy seguro aquí y bien cuidado." Hablamos un poco sobre lo usual, y te
Asegure que te vería el viernes o el sábado. Estabas cansado y querías dormir. Te pedí que me Llamaras si despertabas más tarde esa noche o te hablaría yo al día siguiente. Alrededor de
Las 10:00 p.m. recibí una llamada de tu celular y respondí de la manera habitual optimista.

“Hola, Papi.” En el otro lado había una enfermera que me decía que mi padre había caído.
Le aseguré que estaba equivocada, ya que mi padre estaba allí para drenar el líquido abdominal.
"No entiendes. Se cayó de su cama y se golpeó la cabeza en una mesita de noche o algo,
Y su corazón se ha detenido. Estamos trabajando en él durante 20 minutos y no se ve bien ".

"¿Puedes llegar aquí?" No pude. Había bebido dos o tres vasos de vino poco antes de la llamada
Con la cena. No pude conducir las tres horas a Middletown. Lloré. Oré. Quince minutos después
Recibí la llamada de que te habías ido. Perdido en el dolor, sin saber qué hacer, llamé a mi
Esposa. Poco después vino una llamada del forense. Se requirió una autopsia. No pudría verte.

Cuatro días después tu cuerpo fue finalmente entregado al director de funeraria que había
Seleccionado por su experiencia con el proceso de entierro en España. Te vi por última vez para Identificar tu cuerpo. Besé mis dedos y toqué tu frente mutilada. Ni siquiera podrías tener la
Dignidad de un ataúd abierto. Querías cremación. Tu cuerpo lo espera mientras escribo esto.

Estabas solo, incluso en la muerte. Solo. En el hospital, mientras desconocidos trabajaron en ti. En la Oficina del médico forense mientras esperabas la autopsia. En la mesa de la autopsia
Mientras pinchaban, empujaban, y cortaban tu cuerpo buscando indicios irrelevantes que no
Cambiarían nada ni beneficiarían a nadie, y menos que a nadie a ti.

Tendremos un servicio conmemorativo el próximo viernes con tus cenizas y una misa el sábado.
Nunca más te veré en esta vida. Alice y yo te llevaremos a casa, a tu pueblo natal, al
Cementerio de Olearos, La Coruña, España este verano. Allí esperarás el amor de tu vida.
Quién se unirá contigo en la plenitud del tiempo. Ella no comprendió mis lágrimas ni tu muerte.

Hay una bendición en la demencia. Ella pregunta por su madre, y dice que está preocupada
Porque no ha venido a visitarla en algún tiempo. “Ella viene”, me asegura siempre que la veo.
Tú la visitabas todos los días, excepto cuando la salud lo impedía. Pasaste este 10 de febrero aparte,
El aniversario 61 de bodas, demasiado enfermo para visitarla. Tampoco yo pude ir. Primera vez.

Espero que no te hayas dado cuenta de que estabais aparte el 10, pero dudo que sea el caso.
No te lo mencioné, esperando que lo hubieras olvidado, y tú tampoco. Eras mi conexión con Mamá.
No puede marcar o contestar un teléfono. Tu le ponías el teléfono celular al oído cuando
Yo no estaba en clase o en reuniones y podía hablar con ella. Ella siempre me reconoció.
Estoy a tres horas de ella. Los visitaba una o dos veces al mes. Ahora incluso esa línea de
Vida está cortada. Mamá está completamente sola, asustada, confundida, y no puedo en el corto
Plazo al menos hacer mucho sobre eso. No habías de morir primero. Fue mi mayor temor, y el
Tuyo, pero como con tantas cosas que no podemos cambiar, lo puse en el fondo de mi mente.

Me mantuvo en pie muchas noches, pero, como tú, todavía creía --y creo-- en milagros.
Yo te hablaba todas las noches, a menudo durante una hora o más, en el camino a casa del trabajo Tarde por la noche durante mi hora de viaje, o desde casa mientras cocinaba mi cena.
La mayoría del tiempo te dejaba hablar, tratando de darte apoyo y aliento.

Estabas solo, triste, atrapado en un ciclo sin fin de dolor emocional y físico. Últimamente eras Especialmente reticente a colgar el teléfono. Cuando mamá estaba en casa y todavía estaba
Relativamente bien, yo llamaba todos los días también, pero por lo general hablaba contigo sólo
Unos minutos y le dabas el teléfono a mamá, con quien conversaba por mucho más tiempo.

Durante meses tuviste dificultades para colgar el teléfono. Sabía que no querías volver al sofá,
Para ver un programa de televisión sin sentido, o para pagar más facturas. Me decías adiós, o
"Ya basta para hoy", y comenzar inmediatamente un nuevo hilo, repitiendo el ciclo, a veces cinco o seis Veces. Me dijiste una vez llorando recientemente, "Cuélgame o seguiré hablando".

Te quería, papá, con todo mi corazón. Discutimos, y yo a menudo te gritaba con frustración,
Sabiendo que nunca lo tomarías a pecho y que por lo general solo me ignorarías y harías lo que querías. Sabía lo desesperadamente que me necesitabas, y traté de ser tan paciente como pude.
Pero había días en los que estaba demasiado cansado, frustrado, y lleno de otros problemas.

Había días en los que me sentía frustrado cuando te quedabas en el teléfono durante una hora
Cuando necesitaba llamar a Alice, comer mi cena fría o incluso mirar un programa favorito.
Muy rara vez te corté una conversación por lo larga que fuese, pero si estuve frustrado a veces,
Incluso sabiendo bien cuánto me necesitabas y yo a ti, y cuán poco me pediste.

¿Cómo me gustaría oír tu voz de nuevo, incluso si fuera quejándote de las mismas cosas, o
Para contarme en detalle más minucioso algún aspecto sin importancia de tu día. Pensé que te haría
Tener al menos un poco más de tiempo. ¿Un año? ¿Dos? Sólo Dios sabía. Habría tiempo. Tenía
Mucho más que compartir contigo, mucho más de aprender cuando la vida se relajara un poco.

Tú me enseñaste a pescar (no tomó) y a cazar (que tomó aún menos) y mucho de lo que sé sobre
La mecánica y la electrónica. Trabajamos en nuestros coches juntos durante años--cambios de
Frenos, silenciadores, “tuneas” en los días en que los puntos, condensadores y luces de
Cronometraje tenían significado. Reconstruimos carburadores, ventanas eléctricas, y chapistería.

Éramos amigos, bunos amigos. Fuimos los domingos en coche a restaurantes favoritos o a
Comprar herramientas cuando yo era soltero y vivía en casa. Me enseñaste todo lo que necesito
Saber en la vida sobre todas las cosas que importan. El resto es papel sin sentido y vestidor.
Conocí tus pocas faltas y tus colosales virtudes y te conocí ser el mejor hombre de los dos.

Ni punto de comparación. Nunca podría hacer lo que hiciste. Nunca podría sobresalir en mis
Campos como lo hiciste en los tuyos. Eras hecho y derecho en todos los sentidos, visto desde
Todos los ángulos, a lo largo de tu vida. No te traté siempre así, pero te amé siempre
Profundamente, como lo sabe cualquiera que nos conoce. Te lo he dicho a menudo, sin vergüenza.

El mundo se ha enriquecido con tu viaje sobre él. No dejas atrás gran riqueza, ni obras que te Sobrevivan. Nunca tuviste tus quince minutos al sol. Pero importaste. Dios conoce tu virtud, tu
Integridad absoluta y la pureza de tu corazón. Nunca conoceré a un hombre mejor. Te amaré, te Extrañaré y te llevaré en mi corazón todos los días de mi vida. Que Dios te bendiga, papá.

  Si desean oír mi lectura de la versión original de este poema en inglés, pueden hacerlo aquí:
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCRUiSZr1_rWDEObcWJELP7w

coupon for Granny's Original 32% All Natural Oatmeal®
cart-to-cart down aisle 48 and this man's an affront to khakis
and this woman's brain runs off a child's complaints
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy 80 pounds of rock salt
from The Home Depot®, more saving. more doing.™
more rock salt. more doing
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy two-weeks-worth of tuna,
a pallet of Pepsi Max®, and four loaves of Baker Good's NeverMold Bread®
all for $21.99 with your Sam's Club® Rewards Card
BLIZZARD 2013
cart-to-cart down aisle 62 where once there was soda, now an I.O.U.
and I read on the internet that the preservatives in diet cola will keep
my body from decomposing and I read on the internet that these
dented, discount tuna cans will give me botulism
BLIZZARD 2013
one jug of water from a spring in Mountain View, Arkansas
one jug of water from a spring in New Iberia, Louisiana
picking between Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana
the pitter-patter on the warehouse roof reassures
time for eenie meenie miney mo
BLIZZARD 2013
and the intercom desperate for a cart wrangler
customer service now open for checkout
don't leave your toddlers alone in shopping carts
they're choking on free samples
with an echo, raindrops strike parking lot pools
just past the intersection an ambulance grumbles
BLIZZARD 2013
in a room with a view wishing the windowpane weatherized
beers bought by volume, candles forgotten, six months of
licorice, EverFluff® popcorn, and hand warmers of chemical kind
remembered
BLIZZARD 2013
will not be landing in the city, watch out for that rain though
if the temperatures drop below 32 degrees it could ice over
and if the temperatures don't, well, it won't

News 7's coverage of Blizzard 2013 brought to you by
The Home Depot®, more saving. More doing.™
and Sam's Club®, savings made simple.™

“…the grandfather’s camera with the last pictures of the youngest Colorado theatre shooting victim was stolen and the family’s sorrow has compounded…”*

Veronica, why did you love Anne Hathaway
And why did you not go refill the popcorn,
Veronica? You ate it all during the previews
Though I warned your stomach would hurt.

Sweet Veronica, how did you know to hate Bane
And why did you not go to the bathroom,
My dear. The hand-dryer’s scream is loud
But it dries, unlike your wetting, red screech.

Veronica, why did you insist that you were old enough
For this fate? And how could I have agreed,
Cold Veronica. Pigtails were meant to be springy,
Not limp with blood, Pepsi, and regret.

The Bullets.
The Cape.
The damning shot
Would have slapped
Even Batman
Dead.

Young Veronica, why is the memory of you
And your innocent flesh fading fast,
To red Veronica? Wet too young and too alive
For the four-foot long coffin we buried.

Yesterday.
Cop lights.
My camera with
The last shots of you
“Stolen, sir.”

Wail, Veronica from the camera screen
In the hands of this thief, oh, convince him,
Stab, Veronica, with your pixilated smile
Until the guilt brings your smile home, to my eyes.

whatever i wrote, found below... sorry, enjoying my *** and ms. pepsi... i know that even when i sober up, it won't make any sense to me, because it only made sense to me in drunken trance; as in? ah man, i'm here for a good movie, even a "******" movie, and definitely some pop songs when i'm trying not to give some sort of intellectual critique when easing back, and glug-glug-glug some fire-water down; all these arguments? maybe tomorrow, maybe next-week, maybe (please god!) never; honestly, listening to these arguments, actually made me want to break my "ramadam" of not jerking off... i simply hard to ******* after the threshold was breached: too few feminine vowels in the argument, after all, consonants are *******, prompt, *****... never really bubbles of pleasure, but sure as ****, logical, brick on brick, and a mile high... still, gets to the point of being tiresome that you have to move the tongues into a down-south manoeuvre; and i can, i am excluded from the biblical onan quest, since i haven't been m.g.m'ed.

so hold on,
               atheists think about god,
and later talk about god          as a void?

wait wait, too much ***...

and theists don't think
about god,
  and later turn into automaton
kneeling pawns?

****, this is confusing,
i thought that *** would
clarify...
      evidently, it hasn't...

what's confusing is the anti-theist
movement,
what's the anti-atheist movement
look like?

   ******* alice, walking through
a mirror glass...
   tricks of sophistry -
   you really can't even wish
for a fishing-hook
   to rein that word in...

oh god i'm trying...

  so:

   an atheist is someone who think
about* god,
      but states that there is no god -
well, the +? at least he's not
in a coma, or brain-dead,
  or a vegetable,
   or someone seeking a comfy couch
after the sunday services.

and a theist? is that someone who
"thinks" about god,
but states that there is no "god"
(i.e. thought) to be concerned with
the argument, beginning with:
my purpose is to gain a mercedes-benz
and turn flashy before the congregation?

no, wait, this is turning into a spiral
i can't control...
    can someone get me in touch
with mid-west tornado hunters?
   i'd love to spend a life watching
those things...
     i'm literally a convert
    after watching the film tornado
starring
oh **** me, what a great ******* to movie,
with the late philip seymour hoffman,
ever imitate the oiled-up *******
while pulling your cheek skin from
your jaw?
     sounds about the same as
chewing a beef steak...

oh right, right, these people are serious
atheists,
         but can't fathom the basic
solipsistic delusion
  that we're not living in alaska,
on our own, hunting, gathering, whatever...
that's atheism for you,
  in a society: solipsism lite...
    sure, it's a great talking ground
compared to the ritual of prayer
and the act of kneeling and singing
hymns,
    but the one thing atheism or anti-theism
(whatever the **** that means)
       will not be, is? solipsism...
  
            i can't fake either a belief
or a disbelief in a god - but i can empirically
state that i'm sitting in a room, by myself
and writing on a blank piece of
pixel "paper"...
                     that's the nearest i get to
grasping a "solipsistic" attitude in terms
of a self-sufficient self-dependence...
    who the **** will take my trash away
with regards to pencil-sharpening
the atheistic argument?

    atheism shouldn't exactly lead toward
anti-theism, that's anti-poetry, and i can't stand
by that... if only atheism leads toward
solipsism, i could understand you,
you pseudo adams...
          women will never exactly succumb to
a form of atheism that men seem to try to
make pop...
      this atheism has no potency for
the kind of pop that music can provide people
with...

wait wait... i'm still confusing terms, aren't i?
seagull 1 says the same as seagull 100...
        that's going to be hard to formulate,
given that we don't know who
the first atheist was...
       buddha? buddha thought he was
a levitating head of a god attached to
a body of a human being...
  who was the first atheist?
                        so this is seagull 100 talking
with seagull 200, with seagull 1003...
     now... now i lost the plot...
   who's seagull 1?
               ah! seagull 0!
  there's no seagull to begin with...
           so why are we talking in seagull 1's
talk?
        
so atheists "think" about "god"
          while "theists" think "about" god...
the former translates as talk,
while the latter translates as worship...
       **** me, the "theists" invoking
   the "about" is a mind-****** -
  where is he? mecca?!
            yes, about as in coordinating...
    funny though, how atheists manage
to talk more "about" god,
   than theists get to pray "to a" god...
atheists can indulge in their activity
24 / 7... theists get to only do it for 1 hour,
every 7 days... what a scary comparison...
             and when i remember going to
church, i remember the comfort of
being able to yawn during the service...
whenever an atheist speaks,
   my ears turn into agitated antennas...
        can i cite a one word quote and end this?
*losers!

"I love food too much to be anorexic.
Thats the thing,
Anorexics love food.
But with anorexia,
Food is no longer,
Texture,
Smell,
Warmth,
Energy,
Taste.
Food becomes numbers,
Calories,
1000.
800.
600.
200.
Until Calories,
Become chemicals.
Sugar Free Jelly,
Pepsi Max,
Low fat ice-cream.
...
NOTHING.

Anorexia is not about a love,
It is about a hate.
An over-whelming hatred.
For your body,
For your faults,
For yourself.

Starving is merely a symptom.
Too many work out sessions is merely a symptom.
Your thoughts are a poison.
Not your acts."

My name is Athena Grace and I have battle anorexia for 4 years.
I am 16 years old.
At the age of 12 years old my idea of beauty was constructed into something toxic.

On my 12th birthday I was 5'2 and a beautiful 134 pounds.
On my 13th birthday I was 5'3 1/2 and a sliming 112 pounds.
On my 14th birthday I was 5'5 and a stick thin 100 pounds.
On my 15th birthday I was in the hospital. I was 5'5 1/2 and 89 pounds.
On my 16th birthday I was 5'6 and 118 pounds.
I am halfway to my 17th birthday and I am 5'7 feet tall and 105 pounds.
I was getting bad again.
I refuse to get bad again.
I am my own savior, and that is what I have learned.
I will recover.
I will never look at food like you do, but that is okay.

Hoy me di cuenta de que todos somos un horrible cliché. Que más que interactuar y aplicar papeles y máscaras con el mundo que nos rodea, sobreactuamos, somos farsantes. Ya nadie nos cree. Ni nosotros mismos ni nuestros mejores amigos. Estamos solos y exageramos. Nos convertimos en bufones de los otros y ellos de nosotros. Que lento, que estúpido, que patéticos.

Hoy me di cuenta de que aquellos que parecían gentiles, amables y chamanes se han perdido, se han ido. Se han convertido en malabarismo de onomatopeyas, en cacofonías de libertad artificial. Hoy me di cuenta de que perdí el respeto por lo que creía superior a mí y que tal vez en mi ego, en mi megalomanía, he superado al maestro.

Me han aburrido los grandes sabios del mundo. Todo aquel jurando que la verdad está en sus palabras y en un video bonito. En la prepotencia de la única razón, ortodoxa falsificación de poder. ¿Cuánto tiempo no preví esta charlatanería? Y los idiotas, al final han tenido la razón, la que no quisimos ver. Años pasaron desde mi encuentro con los falsos trogloditas borgianos; ahora me arrepiento de no haber prestado más atención.

Siempre uno cerca de la muerte aprende y recuerda algo. Epifanías de cincuenta centavos y hierbas toqueteadas por el kitsch y el sinsabor viejo de un hierbero, de una calabaza de mate sin un cebador profesional. ¿Cuántos años, siglos, nos hemos tardado en psicologizar a los perros? El epítome del ser humano: sanar el ánima animal.

Pretendemos que lo que hacemos es original y pretendemos crear rupturas en la conciencia pública. Nosotros no somos Hakim Bey y mucho menos agentes del caos. Somos pretensiones de unicidad que cansan al hablar. Somos odio e indiferencia entre protagonistas de cada película hedonista. Nadie será trastornado por una belleza brutal más que tu falsa autoestima.

He prometido a la virgen, exvoto tras milagros que creo sentir. Mater dolorosa, he visto tanto mal… He hecho tanto mal. ¡Que ignorancia la tolerancia! Sentirse humilde ante falsos profetas ha sido el peor de mis pecados, jamás miré de donde aparecía la paloma blanca. Caí muy bajo y al parecer es tarde para rectificar. ¿Será este el punto donde vi o veré la luz? ¿Habrá más allá después del inicio de semana? ¿Habrá amor? ¿Habrá algo más que esta triste apuesta con convicción de orador?

Pretensiones de Gingsberg y actores sobrevalorados por bellas sonrisas. Interpretaciones de aquello que se cree pretender, ni siquiera ser. Pero siempre, el bueno de la película. Yo prefiero a las locas y las putas que la doble moral del cínico con cara de ángel cocainómano. Yo prefiero aquella de la infección vaginal y la tristeza embarrada en el cuello. Yo prefiero al homosexual de closet que ama con pasión, y las lesbianas cristianas que se rasuran las axilas para encajar socialmente en la bella estética de portería, de revista “Teen Sport”, Sport Spice, Pepsi y futbol. Latinismos a la Salma Hayek y relojería armamentista.

Prefiero movimientos involuntarios y errores. Perder la conciencia para saber que se ha perdido todo, que solo quedan las buenas noticias debajo de la bata de un hospital, con el culo al aire y los tubos controlando tu cuerpo. Viajar no me sirve de nada si no huyo de los fantasmas, si revivo miradas de comadrejas y camaradas que piensan que el arte, la poesía y el comunismo salvarán de alguna manera y desde su liderazgo al mundo; y sobre todo, que todo debe ser como ellos crean que sea.

****: se dice “natzi” no “nasi”. Los alemanes y franceses son sensuales al hablar español. Pronunciando la “r” como un bello gargajo. Escupitajo en retretes de ideología escatológica. Jedis con obesidad exógena frenan el movimiento cerebral. Cefaleas de obscuridad y lipotimias que me recuerdan rasguños antiguos. Cicatrices de épocas salvajes.

Marchas de vaginas violentadas, liberadas y repletas de castigos divinos. Y tú, tú apenas eres un recuerdo forzoso. Una brisa con leve olor a meados. A triste esperanza de poeta maldito, que los reblogs de una página le recuerdan el pesar. Diálogos žižekianos preparados para impresionar hipsters. Lo posmoderno de un Manchester tercermundista y la bicicleta como justificación, como disfraz del ñoño, de aquel que sabe pero que igual es un loco con miedo y visiones conspiranoicas; con tanta incapacidad, con tanta tristeza y miedo a morir como cualquier otro animal.

Goffman se quedó corto, jamás miró Marimar; jamás tuvo perfil en Facebook, blog, ni presentó a Lady Gaga en los MTV. Vestidos de carne, así se describe el género humano: todos somos un artista pop. Preguntas perfectas para congresos de embaucadores, de gitanos sociales. De adivinos de tres pesos con beca del FONCA.

¿Enserio a los 30 años y dándote cuenta de la doble moral mexicana, renegando con cicatrices en las muñecas? ¿Cómo no me di cuenta antes de que lo que buscaba no estaba en este teatro? Cuanta pérdida de tiempo, cuánto desperdicié con sofistas y feministas que reúnen redes pro-ana en la clandestinidad de la diarrea polifacética y políticamente correcta.

Una de esas florecitas que creía solo crecían en mi pueblo, me cansas pequeña. Prefiero las sonrisas tachadas y los ojos cansados del escritor que juega billar. Poco tiene sentido y poco hay que hacer. He perdido el deseo de convivir con esta sociedad más no las ganas de estar vivo.

for all it's worth, this "clear" distinction between subjectivity, and objectivity, well... it has no place in america... america doesn't understand that its "free" speech bias is too ingrained in subjectivity... in emotion... america doesn't know dialectics, simply because it always cites there being a distinction in debate: americans! come on! they're hot-headed cowboys, and not old & senile socrates types! all he really said was: i'm on my way out, why not? you say too much, you end up saying nothing... then again: you say nothing: but then give a look, and ****! a tolstoy novel drops from a frank sinatra song: as carelessly, as a penny.

don't know about you, but this is how i feel,
most of the the time,
having digested a few minutes of
a youtube video...
    might as well **** on me, kick me
a few times, then pour petrol on me,
then **** me with a wine bottle -
while holding a gun to my head,
threatening me: you ****** don't moan:
i'll pull the trigger...
    literally? i find looking at ***** more appealing
than hearing this *******,
i'd rather spend the night with the essex
foxes laughing into the night, all the night
through... or dogs barking...
why? well... i swear to god i'm in
a *thesaurus prison; esp. coming from h'america;
i'm bored, this verbal diarrhoea is
******* me off: can you please shut up?!
can you please shut up: 'cos i'm trying to think!
i know, i know it's an unfamiliar concept
to you *******, but some of us:
actually do, enjoying this faculty,
   the "non-sense";
i don't see the point of arguing for free speech,
it just end up a thesaurus debate,
wait, better: a thesaurus prison -
  out goes the dictionary -
and yes, the "art" of rhetoric / sophism =
hates the dictionary -
  in all honesty, i'd love for someone to
make the "schoolboy error"
  of asking for a meaning of some obscure word...
i'd love to see it taking place...
    but my prime beef? the spin,
the thesaurus prison of free speech law making:
can't you be content with the freedom to
think, that you have to throw a banana tongue
into the broth?
        i'm a man, so yeah: i sometimes
sound incoherent, perhaps grunting to say
yes, or shrugging my shoulders to say no...
but i don't like this thesaurus prison
of the american dedication to the freedom to speak...
it really does come down to a game of a thesaurus...
look at it as this:
   all this glorification of individualism...
that's celebrated, right?
     the concept of individualism is sat on
a peddle-stool, and glorified...
    the first icon, bowed before, sacrificed for...
but enter this "freedom of speech" *******...
and yes, the thesaurus prison
  of what "free speech" invokes...
  the shittest, most boring game ever allowed
to run the "upper" tier of civilisation:
i'd prefer the freedom to **** in congested
public places...
    you know, it's more painful to have to restrain
a **** on a crowded train than
it is: saying some ******* non-dialectical
prompt?
    the freedom to speak whatever you want,
well, sometimes it doesn't attract dialectics -
and that's crucial...
   if you're not a ****'s worth of a "maxim",
and you don't attract the bothersome
cloud of flies that's dialectics: who, the, ****,
gives a **** what you have to say?
  there's no point in having a freedom
of speech: if it sometimes, only sometimes,
attracts dialectics...
  and who can guarantee that happening
every, single, time?
  +, all this talk of individualism?
   hence the thesaurus prison and a complete
mind-**** to add...
  some american called solipsism
a mental illness...
        oh, right? you sure?
  don't you think the concept of synonyms works?
individual : solo -
           ism : ism -
      not akin?
             if solipsism ≠ individualism:
i'll shave my head, tattoo my *** in hieroglyphs,
and put on a transgender persona
asking people around me to call me
sandy; ****, the bothersome ***** just
became double the bothersome,
and turned into gnats.
   and yes, the only "voice" i like to hear:
is the one that downs a ***** ms. pepsi
sharpshooter...
          what's the point of "free" speech:
you have no dialectical interest in the speech?
might as well wish for
a helium breath rather than a carbon dioxide
breath, and blow up enough balloons
for a girl's birthday, filling up an entire
room with them: to surprise her.

There is a Man down the street with a funny eye
He sits in front of his shop, hoping that I’ll walk by and buy
a diet pepsi
a bottled water
a bag of freaking chips
anything.

But I don’t buy from the Man with the funny eye
I don’t know why I don’t just stop in and
settle.
Thank God Sammy has his store just a little closer
just across the street
but it opens later
and
Thank God that the corner store is available
at all hours
but to get to it I need to walk by
the shop
His shop.

He doesn’t say anything
He just
Stares.
Or he doesn’t.
Sometimes he sits outside the shop
sipping coffee or smoking a cigarette
I hear He likes to break up fights, but He never starts them
He wants to teach me Arabic
and
I want to learn
but I avoid his shop all the same.

Sometimes I cut a zig-zag pattern across the street
from sidewalk to sidewalk
just to maneuver myself around the shop
of the Man with the funny eye
so that I can get to the corner store without walking by.
But I know He still sees me
at least some of the time
at least once.

I just know I’ve hurt Him
at least once.
I’ll walk into His shop
and
sit down and have a chat
buy a diet pepsi
a coffee
and a pack of cigarettes

Protest it.
Unless you employed by the government.
Rules are totally different.

If officers violate the laws they serving to protect us.
Stand up for your rights to protest.

We in America not one of that dictatorship country.

Why?
Do people feel athletes can't protest?
They go on strike for various things not right to them.

Not one stated the protesting the anthem.
Not one.
They protesting injustice.
And rightly so.

So fans are mad than many probably never saw the youth that protested in the sixties against a war.
Whether you agree or don't.


Always stand up for your rights.

So a so-called billionaire never paid taxes and won't reveal his income tax forms using idle threats.
The only one filling the role of kiss-up is the owners.

Without comprehending, if there is a sporting showdown the most likely won't win.

Most likely to be the losers when Coke, Pepsi, Nike, Papa John and host of others clients profits fall.
A business suffers highly when there no solution solved.

Most fans that go to a sporting event are a great majority of whites and be the ones crying the louder.

If ever done wrong and need attention to get people on board.
You protest, you stand up and stand out.
A small church pastor rose to be great by taking on a segregated system.

The only one mad about tearing segregation is who?
The race need not be mention for a majority hardly stand up for anything.
Well, unless it's the NRA.

Even with violence in school from high powered weapons.
There they go defending the NRA.

And the weapons they protesting against isn't truly needed unless you at war.
But they standing up for their rights.
So players, stand up for your rights.

For CBS/ESPN/ABC/NBC stands to lose too.
If a majority of players stand strong against wrong.

there's this common consensus among the irish
in england that they're the big fish,
the shark migrants, the ones who say
do to other migrants, rather than be, among us;
for example? they take poles to be (holy) fools;
oddly enough irish arithmetic doesn't really
spawn in other ethnicities too well,
unless of course it's an arithmetic for the
number of pints of Guinness you drink;
funny to reduce a civilisation to a pint of beer
as the civilisation's biggest input for the world
to see; walk into an irish pub donning a little
german flag on your arm and you're immediately
courted with a sing-along-song with the words:
i can't serve you: i've never seen a people
so adamantly proud to have been colonised
when uprooting others who were not:
a shamrock of honour no doubt.

christianity was adopted by the roman
empire, for the jews and the romans
shared an aquiline physiognomy,
in rude terms it's also called the Gaul Nose.

let's see... what else? ah, there's this problem
about the criticism of communism,
after all, western europe (inc. sweden...
huh? sweden?! sweden was neutral!)
was given the marshall plan bail out,
e.r.p. monopoly money...
eastern europe wasn't given that option,
it was given communism, a higher
bidder took offer, the jew said of the slav:
make him proud; of the german? not
so much proud but in a chicken house
of glass and cubicle, offices of paper lifting
mächtigmensch: in fifty years time,
having lost momentum of the industrial
revolution, exported everything to china
(unlike american national capitalism
china's national capitalism is subtler,
just a little tag on a shirt: MADE IN CHINA,
but... designed in caulifornia, the white brain
state), they'll be left with a recurring mid-life
crisis having to brand each life, sell it,
exhaust any chance of entering dialectics,
spewing out opinion after opinion after
even more opinion, basically taking out
a mortgage on an interesting life, and that'll
be the end of it... the advertising boys and girls,
by-products of a New Age Iconoclasm,
not with images, like St. Jerome hunched
or St. Francis of Assisi begging for birdsong
translations of the dove's descent
onto the head of John the Baptist...
New Age Iconoclasm, you see it everywhere:
usually with a trade-mark and a copyright...
New Age Iconoclasm examples?
Coca-Cola... Pepsi... MTv... Levis... Apple...
TM TM... COPYRIGHT FM....
the only damnable thing not ready for nostalgia
concerning former communist states...
well there was poland under the martial law...
a satellite state gearing up to either civil war
or the empire of the warsaw pact (z.s.s.r.)
1981 - 1983... terrible times... but not communist time...
now everyone wants socialism...
food banks in england, migrants in shanty towns
in france... germans being very courteous (hmm),
greeks throwing falafel into turkey,
spain the gem of south america frozen...
all in all, every european frightened of federalism
that cripples u.s.a., no european wants federalism,
no european wants to be bleached into speaking
*klar englisch, centuries of differences done in
conglomerating over the course of a few decades?
madness! no one wants to be like the scots
or the irish or the welsh... who simply say...
aye, buts wee 'ave an accent...
indeed, all you have is a historic insinuation
to what your tongue used to speak,
before the great kabbalistic anatomists
told you to always speak with your eyes open,
rather than sometimes closing them, and speaking
using the kabbalah to see the mouth's anatomy
of the 20 and above organs, including the main one,
the tongue, the brain of the mouth.

p.s. there's only one aspect of kabbalah that
seems dumb from the start,
akin to being pulverised by too many
maxims from philosophy,
and thoughtlessness of the oriental aversion
to think anything that might create
a self in transit...
it's numerology... i've never understood
a point of it, from such a methodological
investigation of phonetics with the
scalpel that is the tetragrammaton,
in order that alpha bravo charlie dumb-dumb
could not exist to stress clarity of
pronunciation / so that bravado would
not be investigated using linguistic cryptology,
as noted via: bruh-vah-doh / brəˈvɑːdəʊ
to saying: a = 1, b = 2, c = 3...
and the words kept me going were represented
by 11 + 5 + 16 + 20, 13 + 5, 7 + 15 + 9 + 14 + 7
actually meant anything.

ah... what a day! what a day! i've been through so much
******* in my 20s i once thought about hanging myself
from a branch... i tried it... lucky for me the branch
broke...

of course the gods turn those who they want to destroy
mad... look at what happened to Hercules...
they drove the poor chap mad... he never recovered...
me? one of the gods sent unto me a choir of singing
beings in a church: i never figured out
whether it was a god descending...
or the devil ascending...
after all: i imagine all the fallen angels were once
part of the choir...
that's why i kept my mouth shut during the experience
and as the great wind dispersed the choir
into silence i phoned my then girlfriend having ran
out of the church imploring her:
i'm at the Camden post office depot...
i've been walking around London smoking
marijuana and meditating on hunger:
i asked her to: i implored her to come and save me:
to bring me water and bread...

she didn't come... *****... that was back in 2007...
very funny events have happened since 2007...
the 2008 crash... the civil war in Syria...
the great migrant crisis of 2016: i see those "banana boaat"
guys lately... speaking ancient African and H'arabic...
they're now the deliveroo guys on scooters...
i could, never, ask, someone, to, bring me, something:
i'd cycle to the shop for myself...
what lazy ***** am i living among?
anyways... that was then... since 2007 i feel
i'm driving in a car that's supposed to have 4 wheels:
we're making it on 3: we? sorry... i am making it on two...
but... it's like that quote from the poem
by w. b. yeats: the centre cannot hold...
i fear that once i die all hell will be let loose!

because i don't know whether it was the devil
ascending for a confrontation with god:
hey! stop treating me like a mushroom! humanity's
brain fungus... they already discovered lysergic acid...
sure... i sometimes think...
jellyfish and mushrooms... you cant exactly ingest
a jellyfish... but you can eat a magic mushrooms...
mushrooms clouds over Hiroshima and Nagasaki:
the big mushroom counterfeit:
we've been hiding in your brains: ha ha...
no look... mushrooms driving the mammalian species
of the highest kind: and... eh...
some of us received genes from the people who
first invested magic mushrooms...
the rest? what humanity would look like:
incrementally backwards... bitter... sane... normal...
easily manipulated but also easily loved...

now i'm sitting having this celebratory
whiskey-pepsi sharpshooter self-congratulatory drink:
on my own: i learned that drinking alone does
me more good than drinking with people...
i used to drink with "friends": until they started
to bore me... i find myself my own company...
and i keep it...
              well: it must have been some special marijuana
to have conjured up such a potent AUDITORY
"hallucination"... which is good:
all the Beatniks never found any auditory hallucinations
on marijuana: they just talked bad poetry
over mediocre jazz... and felt: goo good...
then they started tripping on acid and: fan + **** =
****** fan... don't (i know, it's supposed be doesn't)
spin...

a whiskey / pepsi sharpshooter? the proportions
are inverted... if a normal mixer is 3 to 1 pepsi to whiskey...
then a sharpshooter is a 1 to 3 pepsi to whiskey...
but i'm having one...

why? i'm self-congratulating myself...
on a whim i was made a supervisor today...
i badly wanted to land this one...
eh... supervisor at Wembley: also on a whim is one thing...
but the London Stadium? West Ham?
that's different... as a steward and a breaker
i already built up a rapport with the crowd...
i get the per usual hug from about five people
i befriended for? sitting in the rain and smiling...
sitting in the ******* rain: soaked: and simply smiling...

i must have a devilish smile, ergo...
but i'm done with hating myself or being unsure with
myself...
point being... there's this guy in the company...
mein gott! zero... ZERO self-awareness!
he lives by some weird script...
even the guy with cerebral palsy has more respect:
i actually like Martin... he walks like he's drunk
but at least he's aware that he has cerebral palsy...
he knows he has it... he knows it inhibits his full
potential... he knows it... he's self-aware...
and that's why no one minds it...
everyone overlooks his disability with an air of
conscience and dignity: since?
he can make self-deprecating humour...
and overcome his disability...
but this guy? the one who i am about to mention?

he's ****** up as well... but ****** up physically
with an added twist on the mental side...
people already started quoting him because he
quotes himself...
  1. in my twelve year's experience as a steward...
2. in my career as a steward...
one manager throws a box of new bibs
on the floor and tells him to open it...
   calling him all sorts of things while he struggle
to open the ****** box...
looks at me and: with a face that hides a smile...
big boy... bigger than me bearded: like me...
it's such a baby face... i just give off the most genuine giggle
because there's no punch-line there are
only insinuations of a joke...

i like Daniel: whenever he's trying to make a point...
in England there's this ugly practice of shortening names:
Matthew becomes Matt
Anthony becomes Tony
Daniels becomes Dan
Alexander becomes Alex... i hate it...
i once called Dan Daniel and overheard someone
call a Matt Matthew and both reacted in the same
way... my mother calls my Daniel, my mother calls me Matthew...
ha ha... this sharpshooter is really working...

not even Bukowski had this much fun writing
about the "drudgery of work":
spend your 20s outside of the workplace mingling
with people: spend at least 10 years in solitude:
**** those 7 years in Tibet alongside Heinrich Harrer...
just spend 10+ years in England...
isolated... schizoid-probed... medicated for
imaginary conditions: become fat from
anti-psychotic medication... then! ah! like a phoenix!
spend those years in England:
i guarantee you... they will break you...
then? relieve you... release you...
i remember the last words i told my 4th or 5th
psychiatrists when she asked me
what book i was reading:
   i was more into talking to her as to why i was
drinking more as to why my mother was undergoing
spinal surgery: KANT! critique of pure reason!
and when i get out of here: i don't know what i'm going
to do!

to hell with being misdiagnosed as a schizophrenic
when you've had my experiences...
i already told one psychiatrist after another:
i cured my "schizophrenia" by bilingual...
i hardly think schizophrenia is a smart-disease:
it's a contradiction of symptoms...
to be able to hallucinate in two languages
i've "tested" it: no! i've proven it!
you can't hallucinate in two languages!
which side of me hallucinated? the acquired English
part of me? the ****** born with it side?
nope... i'm still to get a postcard from Tartarus...

it's so much fun being love by people...
this supervisor came down from the upper levels
to say hello to me, shook my hand and we hugged:
i was his breaker at the Red Hot Chilli Pepper gigs...
but the simple words he uttered:
i just had to say hello...

               it makes all the difference some people like
Bukowski sociopaths aspire to in terms of milking fame...
those words: i want to become famous regardless
of the people in my vicinity:
i want to died with a: rest in peace...
to hell with mortal fame: sure...
fame postmortem? i'm fine with that...
but when i'm dead... not when i'm alive...

this girl Harini who i disclosed to: the third eye
of Shiva? yeah, i know about it... i used to smoke marijuana
and practice: res vanus, i.e. nothing thinking
in the park: i wanted my internal monologue
to die... i wanted the "audibility" of my thinking:
my internal monologue to die...
and? hell... it died... but she was so giddy about:
Matthew is my supervisor!

but this guy... let's call him Mark Leg-It...
bro... issues...
12 years of experience as a steward and he can't
stomach the idea that someone who started
this "career": it's a ******* job... once i'm one year in
and i'm rewriting my curriculum vitae and
moving into teaching: this job: not a career is
only rewarding once you advance...
staying put is a bit like sitting in a car pretending
you're driving... **** that...
i need more intellectual stimulation:
i don't think i need to teach chemistry per se...
to teenagers... i think i need to teach
the generalisations of ontology to primary school
children: find my Abraham's ***** vortex...
drop my heart that's the size of a pebble
into a lake of feelings of dawning hearts of children...

i like shaking hands... perhaps that's my approach...
but this guy is so bitter...
he has this nervous tick of swinging his head
back to the side: Dan remarked once:
he probably wishes he had long hair
and could flick it...
but the guy with cerebral palsy is likeable:
because he's self-aware... this guy?
he takes himself too serious!
people in "the company" scold him... i just play
it best... ignore him... let him cool
off his pickling heart...

there's always one...
i had 13 stewards under me and 3 breakers...
man... we worked like magic... everyone had a break...
i used more body language than language itself...
constant reminders to the younglings:
take care of the crowd: keep looking up...
i envisioned a tongue of finger pointing
and hand rotating whenever they were paying more
attention to the game (west ham vs. manchester united)
than the crowd:
personally? Jack Grealish is still the ******* son
of David Beckham... sorry... he just is...

people of little or no authority: when given any?
behave like tyrants...
i tried the approach of: there's a stick
and there are three carrots...
body language translations stimulate more than
verbal "reprimands... it's also always good
to giggle... this once instance i told a guy:
up up up! indicating my pinky ring middle index...
as i was walking back into position
i saw him standing up... ha ha... ha ha...
i walked back to him...
i didn't mean get up! i meant: look up!
so he sat down...

mein gott! even with Gerry: i became an advocate...
she told me she was a heavy drinker...
she told me: i had an "AURA"...
that i was likeable... i had a way with language...
i told her: i came to England when
i was 8... no prior knowledge of the language...
i used to spend afternoons crying in the toilets
of a primary school:
the exact words: thrown into the deep end:
no?! ******! swim!
that's how i learned English...
then one day... i was "born" with it...
she's Irish i'm ****** we compared the good
relations before the altar of hip-joined Catholics...
how ****** girls marry Irish boys...
each time she sees me she just hugs me...

i hate authoritarians principles...
sure... i was given some authority... but, did i abuse it?
ha ha... petty power for petty people...
it's the perfect cauldron of events that shouldn't take place...
danke gott...
the milk of the son was squirting all over us
today...
poor Gerry's concerns came to fruition...
an old woman was looking queasy to say the least:
turned out she was having a heart aneurysm...
for the first time i called in CONTROL with
a confidant voice... PAPA 2.3 - i need medical support...
lucky for the woman she was taking into
the shade of the stadium and was given treatment:
all the extra water i brought her didn't help...

then in alley of the stadium some guy hollered up
to me? we're baking up here!
water fountains all around the fountain...
but it's an East London mentality?
what did i do? throw a bottle up to him...
lucky throw: lucky catch...
i remember this one instance in the school playground:
i hated this guy for how puny he was...
me, Peter Richardson, Samuel Richards...
we used to watch WWF... drink cider under-age...
Kieran O'Mahoney... run into car parks
and spit on people from the roofs...
i was the only one who managed to land
a proper pigeon's **** of phlegm on one guy...
when Ilford was primarily Irish laden...
i men and throwing...
this bottle throw sort of reminded me of this
one instance in the playground...
as boys do in school: they huddle in groups...
i said to the guys: watch this...

oh man! i lobbed this tangerine straight at the head
of the guy i didn't like... it was: PIN-POINT...
it was a needle "metaphor"...
Peter just cracked up breaking his stomach...
i then ran up to the guy hit by a tangerine
in the head and told him outright: you report this...
we're "talking" after school...
i got into more trouble trying to push
pictures of Pamela Anderson in primary school...
jumping onto rail track in secondary school
and also selling dangerously explosive petards
in secondary school... ha ha...                doo n00b...

but that throw of the water bottle felt like
throwing that tangerine at that guy i didn't like at school....
Dave... oh **** me... i can't remember his surname...
he's still recovering on social media
trying to compensate his... "life"?
with pictures of the car he owns...
and the insurance he owns on his car...
and whatever the hell is implied by owning
a car and living in the vicinity of London...
i own a bicycle and a pair of strong legs:
i'm happy... that's the thing...

i'm finding myself more and more in this state...
it's hard to describe: it's... it's: happy-sad...
there's melancholic intellectualism very much akin
to Michel de Montaigne...
but there's also a happy-sadness that's...
it's infatuating: it's the sort of happy-sad that makes
you enjoy the company of prostitutes beyond
belief... it's... it's... the equivalent of
the hyper-inflation that happened in Weimar Germany?

what has truly helped? apart from listen
to some relevant modern music: Red Hot Chilli Peppers...
i don't understand the "flavour" surrounding
the constant celebration of the Beatles or the Rolling Stones...
why Beethoven is "being" unruly over
the glamour of Handel... i don't have a "favourite"
music... there's either music: or there's no music...
there's just... the wind...
or there's metal grinding metal grinding
metal between Liverpool St. and Bank of the winding
Dune worm of London of the tube...

i like seeing people happy...
i like when the shift ends and some random girl
walks up to you:
her prior supervisor:
a mega-super-***-boss-*****-little-******-in-disguise
has issues:
i tell the same girl: just work with me...
i can't promise you eating lotus fruits or
ambrosia... but just work with me:
as she does... and at the end of the shift
i hear the words: it has been a pleasure:
working with you... JOB DONE...

treat animals: at least the ones you pet:
i don't animals readied for slaughter
as a tier above yourself: then translate
that dynamic onto other human beings...
what spatious geometries without
geometric constraints you can create...
the 16 of us worked like clockwork...
mind you... the English traffic system?
perhaps illogical to the rest of the world...
but? when you come to a roundabout?
what's clockwise? driving on the left side
of the road, or driving on the right side
of the road?
the LEFT! the LEFT!
how do the hands of the clock move?
from "left" to "right"... no?
the rest of the world makes no sense...
i have such spiritual kinship with
the anglo-saxons that's hard to believe i have
any to begin with:

you come to the roundabout
"thinking" about a clock... how do the hands move?
"right" to "left", or "left" to "right"?
obviously the latter!
even as a cyclist i know that the route
of traffic: the impetus for GIVE WAY comes from
the right...
what saved me? neo-folk neo-pagan Scandinavian
and Germanic songs...
i don't listen to modern pop music...
i'm sort of deaf to it...
                if Frank Zappa liked Bulgarian tunes...
i'm honing onto a listening project myself..

i love working... there's a detrimental to
not working... or, rather: not making oneself available...
how much is worth learning from
the Protestant work ethos...
                  i wouldn't want to work the work
of investment banking:
as much as i learned from the work associated
with: working by paid work by work done...
by the Xlnm of tarring and carpeting the "skies"
(roofs) with felt from roofing...
as much as paid productivity allowed:
i like the longer hours...

Barnacles crunch like fast food under your sneakers,
my gnawed-on boots.

We pass over cat-eyed shards of glass
still spicy with beer bubbles
and still fizzy with teen rebellion;

It molds like an infection here.
In a town nicknamed "Little Norway." ~

This place hoards candy-colored suburbia in its pockets.

Houses like skittles weigh down its pants
and it belches out tourist traps weaker than expired pepsi,

yet it still manages these moments
where I can trot by your gazelle legs
and blast Julie Andrew's confidence.

And I want to heap myself on the oyster shells, say
STOP
Put this moment in a snowglobe,
sigh into it before we move on,
do anything before the wind whips it away.

Etch it into your hand if you have to.

But breeze dimples the water like a golf ball
and rips at the seams of the shore.



Please don't forget me when you leave.

I ate some
I ate way to much,
met the president
and the vice.
5 eggs, 2 bagels, 2 cups of joe
and 10 pieces of bacon.
Cherry pepsi and diet pepsi
a suicide Seriously,
with much more taste
than that.  
a final at 3:30.
pm, central standard.
The anatomy type,
I hoped that here
was some hope on the cover
I put it there.
a salted education plans
from a liberal democrat  
A democrat
North Carolina
can not keep
a shut mouth,
it is too deep.  
Havard is squeling about
science and privatization of
remarks.  Well, George
is the William and Mary.  
I spent the morning
trying to loose
a super lady.  
In my praise.  
I am not sure
how this is going
to work out.  
Time to study.
Is it really
worthless to get through it.  
Is it Ok, if I
am the ghost.
Of the pentagon.  

thanks for reading.  exercise or conflict resolution?

when one can simply peel off poetic-prose like...
so... like... scratching one's head...
or clipping toenails...

    now that washing your hands: perdiodically
and with: fingerprinting technology details...
well: i suggest all that soap bottled and
riddled by a diluted composite of:
mainly water and sodium chloride with
some perfumes...

              when one can simply peel off poetic-prose
like... that sort of a ripe banana...
not much good for raw eating with the chimps
making congregation over
arthur's later edward the confessors
round-table... no... no ape-politico!
not with darwin ideologues and those
neurosurgeons who would never meet up
with the horror-flick: almost a B-movie...
crank-me-up... doctor channard...

     but there's this... waking up to...
no... it's not the radio...
and not... a violent reaction...
      or panic in babylon...
   the brian jonestown massacre...
            #... #iwasnevercrazyaboutvivaldi-
                                    -violinsimitatingsparrows-
   -oranyotherbirdofspring...

well... checking the temp. my prayers have
been met... the pepsi... or cola...
whichever... i expect there came some
coca-cola contraband when gaining
the ingredients for the pepsi max...
i can't tell the difference these days...
between a coke zero or a pepsi max...
but sure as **** pepsi max came first...
so... contraband between corporations...

some mishter jamesh bon'        double-oh:
yep 00 does look like...
what isn't a double-U of a... W...

i mean... where could i get such words...
if not in a victorian work of chicken-scratches
and archeological scribbles...

they should defame Shakespeare... but not quiet...
only because... of that:
thane of Glamis! thane of Caledonia...
         but i should have met Dickens...
before having met... Charlotte Brontë...
hell: thank god i didn't meet Jane Austen...
and i can thank a monster for hooking me up
with Mary Shelley...

                but what's a Dickens with a fishing
rod... with no desire to entertain
a panorama of... 5am... river... pitch-black...
or thereby... and fingers counting fingers when
pinching a sound-bite of a wriggling rot-tooth
of a maggot...

       misnomer: or just the appropriate sounds?
mind you... what's that i heared about rhyme?
it looks well caged... zoological even...
given that i have been given assurances...
they would rhyme... those poems...
well... apart from the greek narrative epics...
or the latin... narrative mundane bouquets...
teasing at maxims and: fare-ye-well...
me... tarzan... jane... dr falstaff:    yummy garden
greens!
rhyme... well if rhyme it is...
you won't be needing a piece of paper on stage...
rhyming as a way to remember lines...
imagine being an actor...
for that "concern" a poet too...
and... no rhyme was involved...
i guess by rhyme you hear the bouncing ball...
and the suffixes are tabulated...
  when and thus: all this forgotten...
better in song when there are couplets
of sentences and they... end with -ed:

   i head!
to which... wink wink...
  my head of... a sunken ship's worth...
an anchor! sleeping cerberus ahoy!
we will surely pass!
into this belly of the most fantastic beast
that's Hades himself...
digesting shadow creamed with ash...
topped with a dash of hope: that's soul...
and hey presto! we'll have ourselves...
a feast: al fresco... although...
6-feet beneath the ground...
which is... aeons from sunlight...
     and... 6ft short of a flower's tip...
hardly gagging for the heights of an oak...
am i?

but that's quiet an affair...
everything, is, in, its, right... place...
i was thinking: amnesia and vanilla sky...
but then there's the curse of tom cruise
not winning best actor for:
born on the 4th of july...

it's a make-over...
the original movie is also an opening
quote from vanilla sky:
amphetamines on dylan
and cognac's worth of monet...
                
   open your eyes...
      again... in spanish...
abre los ojos
     abre: open...   los ojos (hush hush)...
   los: i knew it...
even the spaniards have it...
los = the...
      if the spanish have a definite article
before the eyes...
while the english have a determiner: your...
which is... by extension of the pronoun: you...
which i will use...
you(я) - chewbacca-otter round of applause!
you-i... or you-you... yoyo... W!

eh... some languages don't even
bother with a definite article or a determiner:

they just cut it down to... bypassing
grammatical shrapnel... and how can you have
gender neutral pronouns...
when the nouns themselves: are gendered?
i just heard the hyper-woke crowd
of grammatical geniuses are lying low...
worrying about spaghetti and toilet paper...
i figured: leech on!

              otwórz oczy
well... i guess the point of )open(
   is implied... that word just gobbles down
any determiner...
a verb within a verb...
to be open: ****... pronouns!
otwarty: to be open (masculine)
otwarta: to be open (feminine)...
otwartość... to be open (as a quality)...

    but i thought that we could bypass the natives
and treat english like the medieval world
treated french: lingua franca style...
i.e. the language of tourists and clown-world
intellectuals: ahem... "intellectuals"...
the lingua inglese (l'inglese)...

    open your eyes...
    could make sense if it was only an english
****** translation:
   otwórz (twoje) oczy....
but it's already an intimate statement of wants...
who's who is beside the point
when someone says: open... and eyes...
so who needs: your's to be included as my
demand for your shut eyes?

and then... the spanish definite article...
open the eyez...
abre los ojos... it might as well be german...
rhien german: not vienna prone german...
öffnen ihre! das augen!

     a translation of german, as a joke...
never tires... from spanish to english or...
the saxons on these isles really softened and turned
themselves into oysters...
mingling with the welsh the picts and the irish...
but... that's "life"...

   it's all in a pud... or a pug...
or an 'pple pi'...           or a spud...
                  or the red herring...
                        attempting to tell a joke in german...
i guess the only jokes they do tell...
are when drinking and as SS-*****-heichschtig-herr-meisters
in some concen-trato-kampisch...
  uber... uber... cosmo-ZEX... trans-...
                                               6s & 7s... of a 69'ers roulette...
the pink-bollocking ladies of the agony aunts
of the tabloid press... what's that?
oh... right! METRO-ZEXXIES! or the usuals...

joint-stock company of fish & flattery...
**** me... that's a scalping...
i wasn't expecting that to hit me...
i the bird that passes a stone to another bird...
not in a rubric of shakespeare of a cascade...
you're sort of expecting it to latch-on to you...
but not... when it's wwwwwwwwwwwinding
                                                                          o
                                                                          w              l
                                                                          n    and then
                                                                                            f
                                "ƨbɿɒwʞɔɒd" bnoγɘd bnɒ Ɉʇɘl ɘʜɈ oɈ

and then back into a paragraph of cuddling
to a pillow... unexpecting... a near-miss of genius...
****-*******? Dickens' a worth a lot
more than ****-*******...
more like catching a ****... beheading it...
plucking it... gutting it...
poaching it a while...
before even feigning to attempt to roast it!

as is waking up to: everything is in (its / the) right place...
its by definition is not: it's...
and the... well... its can be a determine of yours...
but now we have at least three languages
to juggle...
and you're still the one sending me postcard
from Dover...
when i should hear the sound of:
piedlibre / piedsrelâché dans Calais...
so no... no postcard from kevin bacon
made homeless by Bruges or Strasbourg...
because... because of the ******* architecture!

i'll watch one commentary video...
after i have sampled some Dickens...
           and that's with an intro of some sip sip...
and afterwards... it's onto the maincourse
of music... and... counting the number
of bones in my hands... the ones that wouldn't
make me a professional snooker player...

would i even care to call radiohead a group...
passe? sooner or later pink void and floyd
the barber will be... dinosaur music...
                    and at least... this electric sunrise...
of... a movie i never starred in...
but somehow borrowed... because i didn't
want to be rudely awakened by the bbc radio 1
breakfast show... but wake up to a movie-cliche...
does it matter?
      
something subtle... perhaps it should have been
the....
                         DAS BOOOOOT theme...
or         teenzeitalterRANDALIEREN of sonic youth...
diese ist nicht vesternberlinerbranddeburaegean...
schimmenschimmen... izm:siemensiemen...

i swear... either me... or the "boomer"
monty python quack and prance choke.... joke.

OBDURATE...
it's either shooting up junk or drinking and acquiring
a purse of victorian vocab wealth...
never heard of it...
              as any word... with the onslaught of slang...
"out of fashion"...
hardened...                      he had an obdurate resolve...
er war verstockt! he was stubborn...

at a time when english still clinched to:
veriloquium ex latine -
origins of truth from latin...
or at least... the meaning of words...
apart... of course... from the odd greek -suffix
or prefix- "loan" worth of scalpel...
for technicality's sake ol' chap!

                         oh things could have been...
much much worse...
i could have been the drunk and the dunce!
         lucky for me... i found... conversations...
outside of writing... a... theatre with too many...
uncertain... chess-games of...
                        origins of poker... via... physiognomy...
and... at that point...
anything by the gnostics... would suffice...
sprinkle in a little bit of kabbalah...
  hell...                        those wise wise people:
who started to know all about the misgivings
of life... the same ones...
who never held a book at a leisure...
   nor later: as a variation of their work...
that work... which offered them but one relief...
to escape boredom...
and to later find further escape...
   in being... entertained...
                             my shadow already does that
for me.

.oh, i almost forgot, a post-scriptum as a pre-scriptum... what's the difference between Nero and Caligula? why does the bible defame Nero, and ignore Caligula? Caligula was a psychopathic ***-addict in comparison to Nero... Nero, a troubled soul, an emperor-artist... i could never lay my hands on a critique of Nero... Caligula was much worse, yet the bible doesn't cite him as a spawn of... wasn't Agrippina... who i think she was? Caligula, teased as a child for a nickname with regards to the legionnaire boot... could be worse, could be ****** made fun of his surname... as i was when i was younger, and then much older... but Nero, the fragile soul of a poet... mad, sure... but at least overcome with all, if any, emotional response... aren't those guys at Linux autistic? you know, the ones rebelling against a code of conduct? oh... i see... time to pick on the autistic kids then? fair enough!

oh come on man...
the internet used to be so much fun
a couple of years back...
these alternative journalists
are becoming... droll...
  same ****, different cover,
i'm almost happy i'm not asking
people for money or selling
stuff to viewers...
   i don't like soap opera,
never did, never will,
esp. English soap opera...
****'s so fresh it hit the fan
and the fan is spinning and
the **** is getting coverage by
exfoliating its supposed,
perfumery into the air...
that's done...
    i just like my westerns from
the 1960s...
my sudoku...
  my Jack n Charlie
  (enough of caffeine in pepsi
to leave you riddled),
my Julian Windig -
the moon, the stars,
and all the space, visceral,
but somehow un- breathable
in the gloomy thickness of
the night...
      but... given this whole
charade of the cloak of anonymity...
i can give you my home address...
and i know a decent part
of a reduced forest made into
a park...
  we'll have a few sly slugs
of whiskey downers...
  then we'll face off
burning cigarette stubs on our knuckles
till we reach the soft pouches
of our flesh, and wait for a month
for the skin to grow back...
and we'll talk...
   i'm currently reading
about the Ellie Soutter tragedy...
suicide, aged 18...
prettiest girl in the whole wild world..
snowboarder...
          i'm serious:
you want certain aspects of a DOX?
but my rules...
we go into a forest and
have a drink...
and then we put out the cigarettes
we're smoking on our knuckles...
hell: what's fun if the fun
doesn't invoke a pain?
****'s still stuck to the fan...
i'm getting whiffs of: strawberries,
and Coco Chanel...
   maybe both...
   but then again...
i guess i'm the one with the *****
to propose this meat-ing...
      such a pretty girl:
devoured by the world...
  shame, really...
   and all these girls who cut...
****... you want a tattoo and self-harm
at the same time?
putting out cigarettes onto
your body is the way forward!
am i attempting to inspire
the practice? NO STUPID!
    but i guess we men always
were more willing to... EXPLORE,
variant avenues...
    i can't believe the internet
was fooled by focusing on an introversion
of its content creators...
   but, hell...
i'll post you the address,
then the coordinates to the spot
in the woods i like to frequent
when winter comes...
  a few whiskey slugs and a few
cigarettes later...
  and we'll be... CHUMS...
hé hé!
    Michael Jackson style of that variant:
he said, she said...
  but from what i've seen...
no chance in hell, some mutt,
will take the offer...
                     i only hide:
behind a mirror,
   and with that:
that's hardly hiding to begin with;
but no, i don't like urbanized areas...
throw me into the thickening
darkness of
               a deforested wood
made into a mark...
  and tell me to walk blind...
   it's as if...
                   my pupils dilate outside
of the iris, and consume the sclera.

“that’s a Simpson’s sky,” you say,
pointing to the fluff strewn across the highway sky,
I smile and nod, concentrating on the music

we’re driving to Cornwall in the curb lane,
pointedly avoiding what’s uppermost,
halfway there from Toronto

“driving makes me think,” I think to myself
and turn up the volume on Buddha Bar III
and talking fades into the rearview mirror

black Firebird, racing stripes, eager to pass me
I hold steady – he should know how to use the passing lane!
he bobs and weaves and nips at my fender

it washes in waves over you so palpably
I feel it crash on my shoulder -
your father passed away yesterday

rolling the window down slightly, you light a cigarette
I roll down mine and light up, too
our ritual – one feeding off the other

we’re driving to Cornwall, to family,
to mother, alone now among children
“what will you say to her?” I ask you silently

we’re driving to Cornwall
towards loss, towards hope
with a black Firebird close behind

I move the wheel slightly
to avoid a can of Pepsi rolling in the lane
the rear-view mirror catches the firebird

deliberately swerve to hit it and exlode
its contents in a little puff of vapour -
highway music



bonaventure saptel

I
Am
An american
I take too much.  
I take everything for granted.
I have more than enough food to feed a family of ten,
Why not waste a meal or two,
who am I really hurting?
I don’t see the scars I’ve dug down deep in the skin of others.
I don’t know the pain I’ve caused.  
The wounds are oozing over but,
I don’t have to worry because
Momma says “shh, baby, it’s okay”
If only she knew that I’ve sent a 6 year old boy in a grown mens battlefield,
land mines and bullets surround him,
I’m corned by MTV re-runs and empty Pepsi cans.
I’ve never had to deal with the pain of watching my mother be beaten in front of my eyes
Just to instill my loyalty
I’ve never watch everything I love burn down to the ground,
I’m too busy chatting up the latest blockbuster movie.  
The money won’t pay for the 9 kids walking the streets,
It’s not much of a game when theres actual lives on the line.
They’ve been bashed and bruised,
Claiming their okay,
Even they know Mona Lisa has a fake smile.
I wish I could show the demons I’ve sent out in the world
They’ve been torturing the souls of the weak and hopeless
I’m hopeful I’ll catch the next Jersey shore episode.
How can you expect me to understand my devastation
when I’m told it isn’t even my fault.  
I’ll never be able to tell you all of the wrongs that I’ve done, because I don’t even know what they are.
They’ve been melted and creamed in a blender
Take a sip from the cup of destruction
Genghis Kong
would be proud.
I guess I’ve taken too many steps in the wrong direction,
make an exception
because the expectation, is that
I can’t be the one to blame.  
My pride is set before the fall of ours,
I’ll never get to see where they land.
Maybe they can find their way to a place where they can hurt people freely.
They’ll take too much.
Take everything for granted.
They’ll waste a meal or two
But,
Who aren’t they really hurting?

Fitz
Fritz
Fido
Sandy
Spencer
Chaplain
Bernard
Jesse
Snoopy
Charlie
Charles
Fred
Freddy
Bones
Remmy
Ren­a
Reno
Tony
Julian
Julie
Frisco
Meghan
Addison
Robby
Buddy
Rudy
F­riedrich
Fredrick
Bernie
Rudolph
Adolf
Ferdinand
Rose
Cassie
Cassidy
Lee
Balto
Little *****
Allen
Alvin
Jake
Demi
Randy
Alex
Richard
Alexis
Kenneth
Ken­ny
Chris
Jose
Josey
Rodger
Moe
Joe
Emilio
Walt
Emily
Emma
Maddie
­Anna
Jafar
Aladin
Jasmine
Genie
******
Amber
Gracie
Ramen
Gordy
G­ordon
Jordie
James
Bucky
Huff
Manny
Sam
Samantha
Mary
Marie
Tila
­Rita
Cathy
Tammy
Mickey
Cam
Amelia
Rene
Jeb
Dan
Bagel
Tommy
Donut­
Bubbles
Blossom
Buttercup
Mark
Cody
Andy
Cristo
Andrea
Whiskers
­Mike
Bill
Billy
George
Geo
Joy
Mitch
Trigger
Tigger
Stephen
Archi­medes
Anya
Duncan
Nitro
Crash
Bub
Crystal
Egor
Bernadette
Cammy
T­immy
Antonio
Natasha
Natalia
Ivan
Abbey
Abdul
Carly
Aaron
Omega
F­inn
Nina
Debby
Tomato
Tabby
Artie
Archie
Noah
Kyle
Alfie
Alfred
Conrad
Conner
******
G­unner
Fry
Fries
*******
Constance
Connie
Frank
Fran
Candice
D­andy
Lucy
Lou
Louis
Quincy
Doogle
Dubie
Dakota
Ace
Casey
Barry
Te­rry
Trenton
Gabe
Laurie
Cornelius
Kabob
Sky
Skylar
Rufus
Louie
Ba­rton
Kimmy
Angel
Capri
Basil
Cy
Ruby
Emerald
Eleanea
Elenor
Barth­olomew
Jazz
Dreamer
Thunder
Topaz
Amethyst
Salsa
Meril
Dodo
Toto
­Eric
Barbera
Hannah
Katie
Zoey
Ben
Pinto
Squanto
Columbus
Columbo
Porgy
Bess
Clark
Savannah
Ken­dra
Marco
Leise
Toby
Trevor
Tresten
Treven
Adrienne
Caleb
Carlyn
­Ricky
Gibby
Donny
Han
Solo
Hans
Gabby
Dirk
Spot
Sebastian
Dee
Sco­oby Doo
Shaggy
Polly
Reginald
Burger
Steak Sauce
Ethan
Bradberry
Lucky
Fergie
Cheese
Boxer
Napoleon
Snowball­
Gerald
Jeremy
Benji
Gemma
Pal
Mal
Preston
Jack
Jackson
Molly
Mac­kenzie
Alexie
Alicia
Dora
Olivia
Salvador
Beast
Beauty
Oliver
Dal­e
Rim
Marley
Diego
*****
Bobby
Ralston
Zeke
Rooney
Plato
Cole
Nep­tune
Sailor
Frida
Rico
Dali
Veronica
Victor
Copeland
Swift
Riley
­Tubs
Lassie
Yo-yo
Harvey
Lemonade
Coke
Pepsi
Tanya
Camille
Token
­Laser
Beam
Seamus
Dorthy
Ian
Moby

Yesterday I was thinking about you
& it terrified me that I could no longer
Remember what you looked like,
Or who you even were
Before cancer started to erode
All of your loveliness
I knew you didn’t want me to
Remember how you looked without hair
Or how your body became so weak
So I searched the depths of my mind
To find old memories of you
I can remember you coming to
My birthday parties and music recitals
But honestly I couldn’t remember
What you looked like then
And as my heart was breaking
That I had lost all of you
A flicker of a moment flashed in my mind
There you were sitting
At your dining room table
With your auburn curls and
Right before you took a sip
Of your diet Pepsi
You smiled
Then, along with the fleeting moment
You were gone
I wanted to cry
I had remembered you,
The real you

If you'd care to help
I'm saving up cans
With the brilliant idea
To build an aluminum can friend

One that shines bright
That never will rust
In whom I share secrets
One I can trust

He'll have Coca-Cola arms
And Dr. Pepper legs
Non-caffine Sprite
I'll use for his head

Don't want my aluminum can friend
To have jitters all day
Restless at night
Staying up late

I'll give him Pepsi hands
That are willing to please
So when I do chores
He can help me

For my friend on the go
I'll give Mountain Dew feet
A couple Red Bull
If I decide to do wings

And an idea that is good
Would be a Fanta heart
For a colorful beat
With all the flavors there are

So if you'd like to help
I'm saving up cans
With the brilliant idea
To build an aluminum can friend

There is no whiskey in his room tonight...

Instead,
There is a half-empty glass of-
Rock shandy, Pepsi-cola, Dr.Pepper,
Or something black.
Something minuscule,
even though he has not sipped from it.
He has not looked at it- his tongue
Was only dry for two minutes before he
Locked the door.
For the only presence that made it hard for him to swallow
Was in the form of something that he was still trying to release...
at 2AM.
Release at 2AM.
There is a typewriter in front of him and he is feeling as permeable as
The glass that is sitting next to it.
'as permeable if it had a closed lid made up out of carbon' he thinks.
'Closed lid', 'Carbon',
'Closed lid'
He does not know what to type.
As distance diminished it's existence throughout the years,
He began to realize that Letters were starting to transform themselves
Into Diary-Entries and vice-versa.
The art of belittling seclusion through the method of fictionalizing himself
Was turning more into a hobby than an art and
he did not know what to do except to accept it as a tragedy
That nobody else needed to know about.
"Tragedy:" he types.
"I don't know how to forget about you."
'And etcetera,' he thinks.
In his minds eye he sees a girl in a school far away.
She's holding a camera and a textbook and a picture of a boy
That isn't him.
She's walking into her new life and one day she will go a week without
Thinking about how it feels to know interest and feel it shared
from someone who thought it never existed.
One day she will go a week without thinking about the boy who stared at empty pages
And wrote letters about bitter meals that his tongue thought could never be tasted.
One day she will go a week with just the thought of how glamorous a life spent alone is...
Before she meets someone there...
Who will make her taste something that is less bitter than him himself.
'I hope that's where my story ends.' He thinks.
And then imagines himself embedded into
Dark bitter things.
(Tobacco, caffeine, dark chocolate.)
He sighs and stares at the words he has already typed.
He can imagine these bitter things spilling into his glass and changing its taste with each
little drop.
"You were dead to me before you even walked out of the door..." He decides,
And puts it onto the paper.
He lifts the glass and takes a sip and then puts it back down again.
'One day she will go a week without thinking about me..."  He thinks.
Release at 2AM.