There was a house fire on my street last night …well… not exactly my street, but on a little, sketchy, dead-end strip of asphalt, sidewalks, weeds, and garbage that juts into my block two houses down. It was on that street. Rosewood Court, population: 12, adjusted population: 11, characterized by anonymity and boarded windows, peppered with the swift movements of fat street rats. I’ve never been that close to a real, high-energy, make-sure-to-spray-down-your-roof-with-a-hose-so-it-doesn’t-catch­ fire before. It was the least of my expectations for the evening, though I didn’t expect a crate of Peruvian bananas to fall off a cargo plane either, punching through the ceiling, littering the parking lot with damaged fruit and shingles, tearing paintings and shelves and studs from the third floor walls, and crashing into our kitchen, shattering dishes and cabinets and appliances. Since that never happened, and since neither the former nor the latter situation even crossed my mind, I’ll stick with “least of my expectations,” and bundle up with it inside that inadequate phrase whatever else may have happened that I wouldn’t have expected.



I had been reading in my living room, absently petting the long calico fur of my roommate’s cat Dory. She’s in heat, and does her best to make sure everyone knows it, parading around, *** in the air, an opera of low trilling and loud meows and deep purring. As a consequence of a steady tide of feline hormones, she’s been excessively good humored, showering me with affection, instead of her usual indifference, punctuated by occasional, self-serving shin rubs when she’s hungry. I saw the lights before I heard the trucks or the shouts of firemen or the panicked wail of sirens, spitting their warning into the night in A or A minor, but probably neither, I’m no musician. Besides, Congratulations was playing loud, flowing through the speakers in the corners of the room, connected to the record player via the receiver with the broken volume control, travelling as excited electrons down stretches of wire that are, realistically, too short, and always pull out. The song was filling the space between the speakers and the space between my ears with musings on Brian Eno, so the auditory signal that should have informed me of the trouble that was afoot was blocked out. I saw the lights, the alternating reds and whites that filled my living room, drawing shifting patterns on my walls, ceiling, floor, furniture, and shelves of books, dragging me towards the door leading outside, through the cluttered bike room, past the sleeping, black lump of oblivious fur that is usually my boisterous male kitten, and out into the bedlam I  had previously been ignorant to. I could see the smoke, it was white then gray then white, all the while lending an acrid taste to the air, but I couldn’t see where it was issuing from. The wind was blowing the smoke toward my apartment, away from Empire Mills. I tried to count the firetrucks, but there were so many. I counted six on Wilmarth Ave, one of which was the awkward-looking, heavy-duty special hazards truck. In my part of the city, the post-industrial third-wave ***** river valley, you never know if the grease fire that started with homefries in a frying pan in an old woman’s kitchen will escalate into a full-blown mill fire, the century-old wood floors so saturated with oil and kerosene and ****** and manufacturing chemicals and ghosts and god knows what other flammable **** that it lights up like a fifth of July leftover sparkler, burning and melting the hand of the community that fed it for so many decades, leaving scars that are displayed on the local news for a week and are forgotten in a few years’ time.



The night was windy, and the day had been dry, so precautions were abundant, and I counted two more trucks on Fones Ave. One had the biggest ladder I’ve ever seen. It was parked on the corner of Fones and Wilmarth, directly across from the entrance into the forgotten dead-end where the forgotten house was burning, and the ladder was lifting into the air. By now my two roommates had come outside too, to stand on our rickety, wooden staircase, and Jeff said he could see flames in the windows of one of the three abandoned houses on Rosewood, through the third floor holes where windows once were, where boards of plywood were deemed unnecessary.



“Ay! Daddy!”



My neighbor John called up to us. He serves as the eyes and ears and certainly the mouth of our block, always in everyone’s business, without being too intrusive, always aware of what’s going down and who’s involved. He proceeded to tell us the lowdown on the blaze as far as he knew it, that there were two more firetrucks and an ambulance down Rosewood, that the front and back doors to the house were blocked by something from inside, that those somethings were very heavy, that someone was screaming inside, that the fire was growing.



Val had gone inside to get his jacket, because despite the floodlights from the trucks imitating sunlight, the wind and the low temperature and the thought of a person burning alive made the night chilly. Val thought we should go around the block, to see if we could get a better view, to satisfy our congenital need to witness disaster, to see the passenger car flip over the Jersey barrier, to watch the videos of Jihadist beheadings, to stand in line to look at painted corpses in velvet, underlit parlors, and sit in silence while their family members cry. We walked down the stairs, into full floodlight, and there were first responders and police and fully equipped firefighters moving in all directions. We watched two firemen attempting to open an old, rusty fire hydrant, and it could’ve been inexperience, the stress of the situation, the condition of the hydrant, or just poor luck, but rather than opening as it was supposed to the hydrant burst open, sending the cap flying into the side of a firetruck, the water crashing into the younger of the two men’s face and torso, knocking him back on his ***. While he coughed out surprised air and water and a flood of expletives, his partner got the situation under control and got the hose attached. We turned and walked away from the fire, and as we approached the turn we’d take to cut through the rundown parking lot that would bring us to the other side of the block, two firemen hurried past, one leading the other, carrying between them a stretcher full of machines for monitoring and a shitload of wires and tubing. It was the stiff board-like kind, with handles on each end, the kind of stretcher you might expect to see circus clowns carry out, when it’s time to save their fallen, pie-faced cohort. I wondered why they were using this archaic form of patient transportation, and not one of the padded, electrical ones on wheels. We pushed past the crowd that had begun forming, walked past the Laundromat, the 7Eleven, the carwash, and took a left onto the street on the other side of the parking lot, parallel to Wilmarth. There were several older men standing on the sidewalk, facing the fire, hands either in pockets or bringing a cigarette to and from a frowning mouth. They were standing in the ideal place to witness the action, with an unobstructed view of the top two floors of the burning house, its upper windows glowing orange with internal light and vomiting putrid smoke.  We could taste the burning wires, the rugs, the insulation, the asbestos, the black mold, the trash, and the smell was so strong I had to cover my mouth with my shirt, though it provided little relief. We said hello, they grunted the same, and we all stood, watching, thinking about what we were seeing, not wanting to see what we were thinking.

Two firefighters were on the roof by this point, they were yelling to each other and to the others on the ground, but we couldn’t hear what they were saying because of the sirens from all the emergency vehicles that were arriving.  It seemed to me they sent every firetruck in the city, as well as more than a dozen police cars and a slew of ambulances, all of them arriving from every direction. I guess they expected the fire to get really out of hand, but we could already see the orange glow withdrawing into the dark of the house, steam and smoke rippling out of the stretched, wooden mouths of the rotted window frames. In a gruff, habitual smoker’s voice, we heard

                                      “Chopper called the fire depahtment

We was over at the vet’s home

                He says he saw flames in the windas

                                                                                                                                                We all thought he was shittin’ us

We couldn’t see nothin’.”

A man between fifty-five to sixty-five years old was speaking, no hair on his shiny, tanned head, old tattoos etched in bluish gray on his hands, arms, and neck, menthol smoke rising from between timeworn fingers. He brought the cigarette to his lips, drew a hearty chest full of smoke, and as he let it out he repeated

                                                “Yea, chopper called em’

Says he saw flames.”

The men on the roof were just silhouettes, backlit by the dazzling brightness of the lights on the other side.  The figure to the left of the roof pulled something large up into view, and we knew instantly by the cord pull and the sound that it was a chainsaw. He began cutting directly into the roof. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, wondered if he was scared of falling into the fire, assumed he probably was, but had at least done this before, tried to figure out if he was doing it to gain entry or release pressure or whatever. The man to the right was hacking away at the roof with an axe. It was surreal to watch, to see two men transformed from public servants into fingers of destruction, the pinkie and ring finger fighting the powerful thumb of the controlled chemical reaction eating the air below them, to watch the dark figures shrouded in ethereal light and smoke and sawdust and what must’ve been unbearable heat from below, to be viewing everything with my own home, my belongings, still visible, to know it could easily have gone up in flames as well.

I should’ve brought my jacket. I remember complaining about it, about how the wind was passing through my skin like a window screen, chilling my blood, in sharp contrast to the heat that was morphing and rippling the air above the house as it disappeared as smoke and gas up into the atmosphere from the inside out.

Ten minutes later, or maybe five, or maybe one, the men on the roof were still working diligently cutting and chopping, but we could no longer see any signs of flames, and there were figures moving around in the house, visible in the windows of the upper floors, despite the smoke. Figuring the action must be reaching its end, we decided to walk back to our apartment. We saw Ken’s brown pickup truck parked next to the Laundromat, unable to reach our parking lot due to all the emergency vehicles and people clogging our street. We came around the corner and saw the other two members of the Infamous Summers standing next to our building with the rest of the crowd that had gathered. Dosin told us the fire was out, and that they had pulled someone from inside the gutted house, but no ambulance had left yet, and his normally smiling face was flat and somber, and the beaten guitar case slung over his shoulder, and his messed up hair, and the red in his cheeks from the cold air, and the way he was moving rocks around with the toe of his shoe made him look like a lost child, chasing a dream far from home but finding a nightmare in its place, instead of the professional who never loses his cool or his direction.

The crowd all began talking at once, so I turned around, towards the dead end and the group of firefighters and EMTs that were emerging. Their faces were stoic, not a single expression on all but one of those faces, a young EMT, probably a Basic, or a Cardiac, or neither, but no older than twenty, who was silently weeping, the tears cutting tracks through the soot on his cheeks, his eyes empty of emotion, his lips drawn tight and still. Four of them were each holding a corner of the maroon stretcher that took two to carry when I first saw it, full of equipment. They did not rush, they did not appear to be tending to a person barely holding onto life, they were just carrying the weight. As they got close gasps and cries of horror or disgust or both issued from the crowd, some turned away, some expressions didn’t change, some eyes closed and others stayed fixed on what they came to see. One woman vomited, right there on the sidewalk, splashing the shoes of those near her with the partially digested remains of her EBT dinner. I felt my own stomach start to turn, but I didn’t look away. I couldn’t.

                                                                                It was like I was seven again,

                                in the alleyway running along the side of the junior high school I lived near and would eventually attend,

looking in silent horror at what three eighth graders from my neighborhood were doing.

It was about eight in the evening of a rainy,

late summer day,

and I was walking home with my older brother,

cutting through the alley like we always did.

The three older boys were standing over a small dog,

a terrier of some sort.

They had duct taped its mouth shut and its legs together,

but we could still hear its terrified whines through its clenched teeth.

One of the boys had cut off the dog’s tail.

He had it in one hand,

and was still holding the pocket knife in the other.

None of them were smiling,

or talking,

nor did they take notice of Andrew and I.

There was a garden bag standing up next to them that looked pretty full,

and there was a small pile of leaves on the ground next to it.

In slow motion I watched,

horrified,

as one of the boys,

Brian Jones-Hartlett,

picked up the shaking animal,

put it in the bag,

covered it with the leaves from the ground,

and with wide,

shining eyes,

set the bag

on fire

with a long-necked

candle

lighter.

It was too much for me then. I couldn’t control my nausea. I threw up and sat down while my head swam.

I couldn’t understand. I forgot my brother and the fact that he was older, that he should stop this,

Stop them,

There’s a dog in there,

You’re older, I’m sick,

Why can’t I stop them?

It was like

I met him on the Amtrak line to Central Jersey. His name was Walker, and his surname Norris. I thought there was a certain charm to that. He was a Texas man, and he fell right into my image of what a Texas man should look like. Walker was tall, about 6’4”, with wide shoulders and blue eyes. He had semi-long hair, tied into a weak ponytail that hung down from the wide brim hat he wore on his head. As for the hat, you could tell it had seen better days, and the brim was starting to droop slightly from excessive wear. Walker had on a childish smile that he seemed to wear perpetually, as if he were entirely unmoved by the negative experiences of his own life. I have often thought back to this smile, and wondered if I would trade places with him, knowing that I could be so unaffected by my suffering. I always end up choosing despair, though, because I am a writer, and so despair to me is but a reservoir of creativity. Still, there is a certain romance to the way Walker braved the world’s slings and arrows, almost oblivious to the cruel intentions with which they were sent at him.
“I never think people are out to get me.” I remember him saying, in the thick, rich, southern drawl with which he spoke, “Some people just get confused sometimes. Ma’ momma always used to tell me, ‘There ain’t nothing wrong with trustin’ everyone, but soon as you don’t trust someone trustworthy, then you’ve got another problem on your hands.’”—He was full of little gems like that.
As it turns out, Walker had traveled all the way from his hometown in Texas, in pursuit of his runaway girlfriend, who in a fit of frenzy, had run off with his car…and his heart. The town that he lived in was a small rinky-**** miner’s village that had been abandoned for years and had recently begun to repopulate. It had no train station and no bus stop, and so when Walker’s girlfriend decided to leave with his car, he was left struggling for transportation. This did not phase Walker however, who set out to look for his runaway lover in the only place he thought she might go to—her mother’s house.
So Walker started walking, and with only a few prized possessions, he set out for the East Coast, where he knew his girlfriend’s family lived. On his back, Walker carried a canvas bag with a few clothes, some soap, water and his knife in it. In his pocket, he carried $300, or everything he had that Lisa (his girlfriend) hadn’t stolen. The first leg of Walker’s odyssey he described as “the easy part.” He set out on U.S. 87, the highway closest to his village, and started walking, looking for a ride. He walked about 40 or 50 miles south, without crossing a single car, and stopping only once to get some water. It was hot and dry, and the Texas sun beat down on Walker’s pale white skin, but he kept walking, without once complaining. After hours of trekking on U.S. 87, Walker reached the passage to Interstate 20, where he was picked up by a man in a rust-red pickup truck. The man was headed towards Dallas, and agreed o take Walker that far, an offer that Walker graciously accepted.
“We rode for **** near five and a half hours on the highway to Dallas,” Walker would later tell me. “We didn’t stop for food, or drink or nuthin’. At one point the driver had to stop for a pisscall, that is, to use the bathroom, or at least that’s why I reckon we stopped; he didn’t speak but maybe three words the whole ride. He just stopped at this roadside gas station, went in for a few minutes and then back into the car and back on the road we went again. Real funny character the driver was, big bearded fellow with a mean look on his brow, but I never would have made it to Dallas if not for him, so I guess he can’t have been all that mean, huh?”
Walker finally arrived in Dallas as the nighttime reached the peak of its darkness. The driver of the pickup truck dropped him off without a word, at a corner bus stop in the middle of the city. Walker had no place to stay, nobody to call, and worst of all, no idea where he was at all. He walked from the corner bus stop to a run-down inn on the side of the road, and got himself a room for the night for $5. The beds were hard and the sheets were *****, and the room itself had no bathroom, but it served its purpose and it kept Walker out of the streets for the night.
The next morning, Texas Walker Norris woke up to a growl. It was his stomach, and suddenly, Walker remembered that he hadn’t eaten in almost two days. He checked out of the inn he had slept in, and stepped into the streets of Dallas, wearing the same clothes as he wore the day before, and carrying the same canvas bag with the soap and the knife in it. After about an hour or so of walking around the city, Walker came up to a small ***** restaurant that served food within his price range. He ordered Chicken Fried Steak with a side of home fries, and devoured them in seconds flat. After that, Walker took a stroll around the city, so as to take in the sights before he left. Eventually, he found his way to the city bus station, where he boarded a Greyhound bus to Tallahassee. It took him 26 hours to get there, and at the end of everything he vowed to never take a bus like that again.
“See I’m from Texas, and in Texas, everything is real big and free and stuff. So I ain’t used to being cooped up in nothin’ for a stended period of time. I tell you, I came off that bus shaking, sweating, you name it. The poor woman sitting next to me thought I was gunna have a heart attack.” Walker laughed.
When Walker laughed, you understood why Texans are so proud of where they live. His was a low, rumbling bellow that built up into a thunderous, booming laugh, finally fizzling into the raspy chuckle of a man who had spent his whole life smoking, yet in perfect health. When Walker laughed, you felt something inside you shake and vibrate, both in fear and utter admiration of the giant Texan man in front of you. If men were measured by their laughs, Walker would certainly be hailed as king amongst men; but he wasn’t. No, he was just another man, a lowly man with a perpetual childish grin, despite the godliness of his bellowing laughter.
“When I finally got to Tallahassee I didn’t know what to do. I sure as hell didn’t have my wits about me, so I just stumbled all around the city like a chick without its head on. I swear, people must a thought I was a madman with the way I was walkin’, all wide-eyed and frazzled and stuff. One guy even tried to mug me, ‘till he saw I didn’t have no money on me. Well that and I got my knife out of my bag right on time.” Another laugh. “You know I knew one thing though, which was I needed to find a place to stay the night.”
So Walker found himself a little pub in Tallahassee, where he ordered one beer and a shot of tequila. To go with that, he got himself a burger, which he remembered as being one of the better burgers he’d ever had. Of course, this could have just been due to the fact that he hadn’t eaten a real meal in so long. At some point during this meal, Walker turned to the bartender, an Irish man with short red hair and muttonchops, and asked him if he knew where someone could find a place to spend the night in town.
“Well there are a few hotels in the downtown area but ah wouldn’t recommend stayin’ in them. That is unless ye got enough money to jus’ throw away like that, which ah know ye don’t because ah jus’ saw ye take yer money out to pay for the burger. That an’ the beer an’ shot. Anyway, ye could always stay in one of the cheap motels or inns in Tallahassee. That’ll only cost ye a few dollars for the night, but ye might end up with bug bites or worse. Frankly, I don’t see many an option for ye, less you wanna stay here for the night, which’ll only cost ye’, oh, about nine-dollars-whattaya-say?”
Walker was stunned by the quickness of the Irishman’s speech. He had never heard such a quick tongue in Texas, and everyone knew Texas was auction-ville. He didn’t know whether to trust the Irishman or not, but he didn’t have the energy or patience to do otherwise, and so Walker Norris paid nine dollars to spend the night in the back room of a Tallahassee pub.
As it turns out, the Irishman’s name was Jeremy O’Neill, and he had just come to America about a year and a half ago. He had left his hometown in Dublin, where he owned a bar very similar to the one he owned now, in search of a girl he had met that said she lived in Florida. As it turns out, Florida was a great deal larger than Jeremy had expected, and so he spent the better part of that first year working odd jobs and drinking his pay away. He had worked in over 25 different cities in Florida, and on well over 55 different jobs, before giving up his search and moving to Tallahassee. Jeremy wrote home to his brother, who had been manning his bar in Dublin the whole time Jeremy was away, and asked for some money to help start himself off. His brother sent him the money, and after working a while longer as a painter for a local construction company, he raised enough money to buy a small run down bar in central Tallahassee, the bar he now ran and operated. Unfortunately, the purchase had left him in terrible debt, and so Jeremy had set up a bed in the back room, where he often housed overly drunk customers for a price. This way, he could make back the money to pay for the rest of the bar.
Walker sympathized with the Irishman’s story. In Jeremy, he saw a bit of himself; the tired, broken traveler, in search of a runaway love. Jeremy’s story depressed Walker though, who was truly convinced his own would end differently. He knew, he felt, that he would find Lisa in the end.
Walker hardly slept that night, despite having paid nine dollars for a comfortable bed. Instead, he got drunk with Jeremy, as the two of them downed a bottle of whisky together, while sitting on the floor of the pub, talking. They talked about love, and life, and the existence of God. They discussed their childhoods and their respective journeys away from their homes. They laughed as they spoke of the women they loved and they cried as they listened to each other’s stories. By the time Walker had sobered up, it was already morning, and time for a brand new start. Jeremy gave Walker a free bottle of whiskey, which after serious protest, Walker put in his bag, next to his knife and the soap. In exchange, Walker tried to give Jeremy some money, but Jeremy stubbornly refused, like any Irishman would, instead telling Walker to go **** himself, and to send him a postcard when he got to New York. Walker thanked Jeremy for his hospitality, and left the bar, wishing deeply that he had slept, but not regretting a minute of the night.
Little time was spent in Tallahassee that day. As soon as Walker got out on the streets, he asked around to find out where the closest highway was. A kind old woman with a cane and bonnet told him where to go, and Walker made it out to the city limits in no time. He didn’t even stop to look around a single time.
Once at the city limits, Walker went into a small roadside gas station, where he had a microwavable burrito and a large 50-cent slushy for breakfast. He stocked up on chips and peanuts, knowing full well that this may have been his last meal that day, and set out once again, after filling up his water supply. Walker had no idea where to go from Tallahassee, but he knew that if he wanted to reach his girlfriend’s mother’s house, he had to go north. So Walker started walking north, on a road the gas station attendant called FL-61, or Thomasville Road. He walked for something like seven or eight miles, before a group of college kids driving a camper pulled up next to him. They were students at the University of Georgia and were heading back to Athens from a road trip they had taken to New Orleans. The students offered to take Walker that far, and Walker, knowing only that this took him north, agreed.
The students drove a large camper with a mini-bar built into it, which they had made themselves, and stacked with beer and water. They had been down in New Orleans for the Mardi Gras season, and were now returning, thought the party had hardly stopped for them. As they told Walker, they picked a new designated driver every day, and he was appointed the job of driving until he got bored, while all the others downed their beers in the back of the camper. Because their system relied on the driver’s patience, they had almost doubled the time they should have made on their trip, often stopping at roadside motels so that the driver could get his drink on too. These were their “pit-stops”, where they often made the decision to either eat or court some of the local girls drunkenly.
This leg of the trip Walker seemed to glaze over quickly. He didn’t talk much about the ride, the conversation, or the people, but from what I gathered, from his smile and the way his eyes wandered, I could tell it was a fun one. Basically, the college kids, of which I figure there were about five or six, got Walker drunk and drove him all the way to Athens, Georgia, where they took him to their campus and introduced him to all of their friends. The leader of the group, a tall, athletic boy with long brown hair and dimples, let him sleep in his dorm for the night, and set him up with a ride to the train station the next morning. There, Walker bought himself a ticket to Atlanta, and said his goodbyes. Apparently, the whole group of students followed him to the station, where they gave him some food and said goodbye to him. One student gave Walker his parent’s number, telling him to call them when he got to Atlanta, if he needed a place to sleep. Then, from one minute to the next, Walker was on the train and gone.
When Walker got to Atlanta, he did not call his friend’s family right away. Instead, he went to the first place he saw with food, which happened to be a small, rundown place that sold corndogs and coke for a dollar per item. Walker bought himself three corndogs and a coke, and strolled over to a nearby park, where, he sat down on a bench and ate. As Walker sat, dipping his corndogs into a paper plate covered in ketchup, an old woman took the seat directly next to him, and started writing in a paper notepad. He looked over at her, and tried to see what she was writing, but she covered up her pad and his efforts were wasted. Still, Walker kept trying, and eventually the woman got annoyed and mentioned it.
“Sir, I don’t mind if you are curious, but it is terribly, terribly rude to read over another person’s shoulder as they write.” The woman’s voice was rough and beautiful, changed by time, but bettered, like fine wine.
“I’m sorry ma’am, it’s just that I’ve been on the road for a while now, and I reckon I haven’t really read anything in, ****, probably longer than that. See I’m lookin’ to find my girlfriend up north, on account of she took my car and ran away from home and all.”
“Well that is certainly a shame, but I don’t see why that should rid you of your manners.” The woman scolded Walker.
“Yes ma’am, I’m sorry. What I meant to convey was that, I mean, I kind of just forgot I guess. I haven’t had too much time to exercise my manners and all, but I know my mother would have educated me better, so I apologize but I just wanted to read something, because I think that’s something important, you know? I’ll stop though, because I don’t want to annoy you, so sorry.”
The woman seemed amused by Walker, much as a parent finds amusement in the cuteness of another’s children. His childish, simple smile bore through her like a sword, and suddenly, her own smile softened, and she opened up to him.
“Oh, don’t be silly. All you had to do was ask, and not be so unnervingly discreet about it.” She replied, as she handed her pad over to Walker, so that he could read it. “I’m a poet, see, or rather, I like to write poetry, on my own time. It relaxes me, and makes me feel good about myself. Take a look.”
Walker took the pad from the woman’s hands. They were pale and wrinkly, but were held steady as a rock, almost as if the age displayed had not affected them at all. He opened the pad to a random page, and started reading one of the woman’s poems. I asked Walker to recite it for me, but he said he couldn’t remember it. He did, however, say that it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever read, a lyrical, flowing, ode to t

Sometimes you feel like a flower in a glass vase
decorating the center of a booth in a rundown diner
surrounded by coffee cup stains and burger grease
and accompanied by a hundred wearied faces
that come and pass, blurs in the middle of the night,
the fluorescent light of a single bulb that slowly burns out
the only shining source, mucky water your one food supply,
alone, carefully shriveling away forgotten, but other times
you're the diner, the trusty booth, a shimmering light
on a otherwise cavernous, empty road
in the middle of nowhere, a guardian,
always there waiting to help the exhausted
on their journey, wherever that may be.

My Perfect Stranger,

I have a proposal of sorts; I want to start writing a story, in which you are my partner in crime. The crime being – living without one another. Not being sure to know if we’ll ever be apart of one another’s lives again.
Scratch that – the crime, the crime would be a lie because in truth I want to begin a story to where you are my partner in crime, yes; but you’d be my partner in crime for life. We’d commit no crimes, speak no lies, confess all truths with the bluntest honesty that could spring forth from our hearts. Enjoy every possible moment spent together, for they have become few and far apart.
This is not just a start of any typical story, but it will be the start of our story. The real story – It can’t be written, it can’t be spoken by anyone other then you and I. We’re the only ones who know how our story begins, though we’ll never truly know how it’ll end. This is a second chance, if not the first chance.

“A kiss is what tells the beginning to every story… It’s up to you where that story will lead.” –me.

The past may be the past, but we lived in that past, and the past that once was will become recognized, if it has not already. It will not be viewed harshly as it should be. Every possible thing that occurs in life does so for a reason which only fate, or as some people come to say destiny, can tell. We live to forgive and forget, though nothing is truly forgotten. We are here to make mistakes then to learn from those mistakes; if one was to never make a mistake then they’re not truly living a life well lived.

“Welcome the future with open arms; embrace it like an old friend. Learn to forgive and forget the painful memories; keep your tears at bay; have faith in yourself and others. And mostly, remember that love and trust will always be your guiding light into the darkness.” –me.

“Everything happens for a reason; don’t underestimate those reasons… You live to forgive and forget and to move along with the life you’re leading. Therefore, with that said, don’t waste time with melodrama or pity arguments. Don’t put up with people who attempt to drag you down with them. Because I can guarantee that those people; the ones who try to play you like a cheesy board game are never worth a single breath escaping your lips. Those are the ones who will never find happiness, true happiness, bliss, No, they’ll forever be lonely. Keep moving forward, look onto brighter horizons. Love the ones you hold close to your heart. Cherish your children. Lead your own life, not someone else’s, nor let any other being lead yours. Smile. Kiss. Love. Trust. Be honest with yourself and with others. It’s all worth it in the end.” –me.

Maybe our largest mistake together was making stupid decisions when we met. We made the choice to fall in love, to date, to live together and try to be happy all within a mere week of meeting. In doing so, hearts wound up broken; smashed into stardust. Trust was ripped away and friends were lost.
This time, this time will be different. I, in this beginning, will tell you of me. I will tell you everything which has occurred throughout my life, it may be the past, but my past tells a lot of who I was which has made me, well, me. I will be bluntly honest with you. I will answer every question you could possibly fathom to ask me. It’s just, I don’t know where to begin…

“The past will never cease to constantly be snipping at your heels with every step you take; it’ll always be there to remind you who you are and what paths you’ve chosen to lead you to where you are. Don’t break promises, don’t break hearts, because it’s happened before; your sometimes overwhelming past can come toppling down on you at any given moment; so be careful. There’s no one who wants to slip, fall face first, losing all consciousness into what once was.” –me.

“People change… I’ve seen friendships fall apart and relationships destroyed. It happens. Truth hurts. People lie. People cheat. Everyone destroys someone else in some way, it’s an ever going cycle of life. Live your life. Even when something unexpected comes alone, enjoy it, love it. It’s all worth it in the end. I can promise you that.” –me.

“Not everyone can read me like a story book or a torn out page of your favorite fairy tale. There’s more to me then just that. My life, better yet, my story is more complicated then most may think.
I used to be the girl that you would see walking alone down the street at night, cigarette in hand, bag in the other, all the while letting the world completely pass me by. I was the girl with the electric green nail polish and nearly enough eyeliner on my eyes to last most girls the entire year. Though all I am to most is just another pretty face.
There’s always new lives forming, coming alive, seeing this rundown movie for the very first time. Then there are also lives ending, running away from a failing life. Praying that the next world is better then the one they left in their very wake.” –me.

Let’s begin like this; I am complicated, spontaneous, gullible, unnaturally trusting of others and a big ball of confusion at times. I care too much for others, even when they’ve chewed me up, spit me out and kicked me around in the dirt, I still care. I hand out second chances like a stranger hands children candy from his van. One would assume I would have learned my lesson of doing such nonsense, but nonetheless I continue to forgive too easily. My heart throbs when I am upset and feels as if it is going to burst wide open so all of the world can see. I have the unfortunate tendency to bottle up how I feel because my thoughts process too quickly and I become speechless because the words I am trying to speak just refuse to form into speech.

“Trust; it’s a highly important factor in ones life. I have very little for those I have met here, all except for one in which I trust completely with my life, my heart, my child… Yes, I may be very trusting, but that trust only lasts until you’ve broken it… Everyone of you thus far, besides that one person has broken my trust. So therefore those of you who broke my trust can go **** yourselves and relinquish yourselves from my life; it’ll be much better without you. And you know exactly who I’m referring to.” –me.

I fall in love too easily and too quickly; as you have first handily witnessed. I do intend for that to change, which, with my most recent excuse of a relationship I came to realize that it has changed. I never fell in love with him, I never had a true attachment, just annoyance. There is no excuse to why the relationship was even formed to begin with, let alone why it lasted more then a few short days. That relationship is over now, and that relationship will never get a second chance like others have.
I have changed; I’m no longer the person I once was. I still care and I still love, but I’m no longer the me I used to be. After our first run around, something switched off, or maybe even on inside me. I don’t fight, I may argue my point but it has no intentions to cause any harm. I began to communicate my feelings more, even though it seems to do no good.
I believe that everyone deserves to be happy, and I look for the good in everyone, that’s why I constantly push and try so hard, to bring out the better and happier person in those I am trying to help. And it seems to be the people I end up dating are those I subconsciously am looking to help; I am drawn to those who are in dire need of change without ever realizing so. It’s like a test I’m giving, and so far everyone has failed. I feel as if I’m here to help others, to make their lives better even though sometimes it may not seem like I’m trying to help at all; but I really am.

“People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave. A soul mates purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master.” – Elizabeth Gilbert

I have had many bad run-ins in this short life I have lived thus far. I became pregnant at seventeen and I was far from ready to have a child of my own; I was still a child who needed to experience more of life before bringing another life into this cruel world. In result my child was removed from my care because I fell into the hands of disastrous acts. I met the wrong people whom only drug me down farther along with them. I fought and I fought to get her back in my arms, and after a year I finally did. Though now, I look at her and I feel as if she belongs to someone else. I don’t have the bond which I should have with my daughter and no matter what I try it just won’t spark. This is a terrible confession, but it is of the truth. I catch myself more and more looking at my baby and asking myself if this is really real. Asking myself where has time gone? I missed so much of her growing up that it’s tearing me to pieces now, years later. Nothing seems to be real anymore. I need that bond between me and my child more then I need anything else, because she is my shining light in this world.

“I can’t find reality; my reality has just become a non-stop ride through hell and back. Send someone to shine a light as bright as a shooting star so I can find my way back to what my reality should be realistically.” –me.

I, myself am indeed an open book, mostly unwritten. All you ever need to do is ask me questions… Tell me of yourself – open up to me completely; because if you can tell me everything and if you can tell me everything that has been hidden, I can do the same. Be adventurous with me, be spontaneous; do things you never thought you would fathom of doing. Live with an open mind to the future; because our future could be blindingly beautiful, and then again it could also be terribly tragic. Though we will never know until we try; that’s how life works, as you’re well aware.

Though I am afraid that the beginning is coming to a slow halt; so I am asking this of you – please consider being my partner in crime, to help me continue writing our story, our fairytale. It may be the most adventurous challenge we’ll ever come across in our lifetime.
I do hope I provided a well spoken beginning, telling of some, let’s say “important” points of me and my past. Just remember, I want to find what once was lost; I want it to be found properly from both parties involved. Maybe we’ll be some of the lucky ones who’ll, one day find true blissfulness; just maybe.


Your Perfect Stranger

“Defying Adam and Dancing Among Lilith”


Fighting tooth and nail,

Knowing I can never prevail,

Scared of being hammered,

Yet yearning to be smacked once more,

Praying for your finger nails to rundown,

Sinking into the small of my back,

As your hands trail lower,

All the way down to my backside.

For I am nothing but a tool,

An object for him to utilize,

Tossing me to the curb when he’s finished,

Craving for the one piece of the puzzle,

He shall never bestow upon me.

Attempting to obtain a sense of fulfillment,

As his tongue explores vast canals,

And valleys of skin,

Filling up the vessel with a force,

Of immense ecstasy,

Until he reaches sweet release,

Planting his seed in my Garden of Eden.

Yet I am not submissive Eve,

For God’s Adam to control,

As He exerts his dominance,

Superiority as king of all kings,

Who claims to possess the daughters of Eve.

Envious of her natural affinity to nurture,

To give birth to a new generation of existence,

In this cruel, wondrous world;

Her ability to adapt and expand,

And her right to proudly display her beautiful body,

With hips that sway with each stroll,

Conveying the body belonging to her,

And her only.

Instead the sons of Adam state,

The daughters of Eve presented them,

With an open invitation,

That you, the sons of Adam,

May ever so kindly indulge upon whenever,

They may feel ever so free to do so,

Over and over until satisfaction,

Is proudly obtained.

Mother Earth is never meant to morph,

Into a world dominated,

By the charming and dashing Adam;

One can only imagine Gaia and Isis rolling,

Their eyes in the way only a woman can,

Depicting her disgust,

Frustration and irritation.

Rebellion bemuses those individuals,

Foolishly content in a failing system,

Crumbling into a downward spiral,

Meant to rule,

But unfortunately never manages,

To achieve such a triumph,

Admonishing the warriors who truly deserve,

Such a glorious title.

These fierce stilettos under long legs,

Follow the path of Lilith,

Refusing to submit to Adam,

Simply because I’m told to do so.

Call me a demon if you wish,

Or perhaps a harlot among the Harpies;

The damage is already done,

Now that one aligns my identity,

To consuming children,

Yet you, the sons of Adam, are the ones,

Devouring upon the forbidden fruits,

Of this exotic deity.

Through your eyes, my sons of Adam,

I am beheld,

As this seductive and tantalizing temptress,

Who renders all of you to befall,

Such a fate of being nothing,

More than powerless victims;

How ironic since the daughters of Eve and I inhabit,

The world of the all-powerful Adam!

Should you not relish in such splendor,

At your noble deeds?!

Anxiously, I shall a wait for you,

The sons of Adam,

To reprieve the bleeding wrist and ankles,

From the chains placed upon many,

In such an ever so wicked manner.

The ever so fortunate ones include:

The daughters of Lilith,

The daughters of Eve,

Children of the rainbow,

And the beautifully alluring creatures,

Who dare to defy the reign,

Of Adam and his creator.

Your patriarchal world stifles the vividness,

Enthralling talents of Maidens,

Gentlemen and children,

Those who belong to both,

Those who are neither,

The ones of all different shades,

Those who fall in love with the same,

Who bleed crimson liquid,

Cry brackish tears,

Become hungry without nourishment,

And seek companionship just like all of you.

How dare you to deny freedoms,

To those lovely dears,

Who certainly possess the title,

Of being addressed as human beings,

As much, if not more than you,

My darling sons of Adam.

As I walked through the apartment door,

I did not expect anything more but comic books and video games

Scattered on the floor.

I felt like I was at a comic book store back down south.

Batman, Superman and the green guy too.

Posted on the walls for all who entered to view.

But I had no idea who the hell they were.

All I knew was that they had powers,

Till Brett gave me the rundown for about an hour.

Batman is a super-rich guy, with a fly ride.

His parents were murdered by an evil guy.

So Batman goes around knocking bad guys out.

For he won’t **** you because of how his parents went out.

Then we have Superman over to my left,

A very fast man, with an “S” on his chest.

He gets dressed in phone booths, then fly’s to save the day.

He’s got x-ray vision, yep right through your shirt.

If you turn around then it’s your skirt.

Then we have my favorite one of them all,

Green lantern with his ring of power.

Making fists and gripping things.

Anything is possible when he’s wearing that ring.

So this is all I got out of my superhero lesson,

They are all really good guys with their own little blessing.

I loved with a passion in my soul,
The kind of love you find
Coming from an alcoholic with a fine bottle of brandy.

It was toxic.

They say I was out of control,
I say blame it on love.

After all this time
I’m still holding onto rundown excuses.

Trying to chase away the blues,
With a baseball bat,
Engraved with the words.

Go Away

I’ve found myself wandering down every empty street
Hoping one of them would lead me back to myself.

Then before realizing you can’t find yourself
Within a pothole stricken road
Without catching a cold.

I caught a cold.

And the cold I caught was wretched.

Only cured by a carton of Ben and Jerrys
And a long night

That night was the longest.

It was one of the nights were it felt
Like a hand with arthritis was clutching your heart.

I found myself downing any bottle of anything,
And finding nothing.

Then I found myself questioning
The nothing I was finding.

I found myself second guessing,
Every breath I took.

Like my lungs were the problem.

But honestly,
I’m gonna blame love,
And I’m gonna be blaming it hard.

And I’ll use every rundown excuse in the book,
If it helps me find something.

Something to hold onto
Just so I get through the night.

I will use every rundown excuse in the book,
To find substance in the nothing I’ve been finding.

Because within this nothing,
There must be something.

Because nothing is something,
And something is not nothing.

So here's to me and my rundown excuses
The excuses I use when I need something.

But can’t find anything.

“every man wants to be a tyrant when he fornicates"— marquis de sade (philosophy in the boudoir)
in murky region of my mind flickers shanty town of wickedness and all who burn betray me are tortured murdered buried on outskirts of this moot province not entirely devoted to revenge shadows dart lascivious exchanges shadow economy back alley shenanigans soundproof rooms filled with hunger for beautiful women sole source of my arousal female lust japanese silk braided ropes bowls hoses drop-clothes vibrating toys anticipating mischievous acts town’s folk love esteem me applaud my fiercest turpitude fathers offer their daughters mothers perfume girls with wild flowers in their hair whispering accommodating instructions ultimately i decline their generous offerings opting instead for steadfast soul confidante accomplice closer in age she knows how to mommy my genitals get me off and i the same for her churning simmering caldron of desires dazzling aromas through center of town runs sacred blue river constantly replenishing innocence upon dust filth criminality also many enchanting bridges connecting dark side to bright side in elegant rundown art museum hang several of my paintings next to jackson ******* ad reinhardt anselm kiefer gerhard richter albert pinkham ryder francisco goya susan rothenberg and public library shelves brim with volumes of my writings next to james joyce william faulkner sophocles sylvia plath rainer maria rilke milan kundera franz kafka gabriel garcia marquez thomas bernhard patrick suskind  pablo neruda oriana fallaci annie proulx lydia davis during mornings everyone busies themselves making things practicing yoga swimming cooking friends gather for lunch munch comically gossip about previous night’s dramas in afternoon go back to their interests at sunset all citizenry come together look to west watch fiery orange globe sink beyond purple mountains wonder reflect sniff their fingers as night falls on little village each goes about deciding what to wear then meet for cocktails in local taverns and commotion begins

The Bishops bathe in Babylon
while Princes, prancing on the lawn,
watch Queen deflowered, pale and wan.
            The King dares not defend her.

The Horsemen, holding broken reins
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
sigh “it’s no use, it’s all in vain,
            the Saints will soon surrender”.

They wonder why they ever came,
they have No One whom they can blame,
they have no face, they have no name,
            and even less, a gender.


The empty-handed Vagabonds
smoke stale cigars, stroke faded Blondes
while waiting at the walls beyond,
            but kneel as Chaos enters.

They’re gazing through the window panes
in hopes that distant Hurricanes
will twist and break their iron chains
            defying life’s tormentors.

The Fantom of the Opera frowns
as feeble minded Cleric-clowns
mouth hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds
           when blessing doomed dissenters.


The Pirate wields a wooden leg,
with pupils dull and visage vague,
and if by chance he spreads the plague,
            it really doesn’t matter.

His Princess, pale, no longer feigns,
foresees instead (down ancient lanes)
the coming of the Hurricanes -
            the Stones stir, staring at her.

And Jackals scrape the river bed
as Savants soothe the underfed
and Crows, collecting scattered bread,
            adorn, with crumbs, the platter.


The Jokers Wild and One Eyed Janes
weep, winding up in rundown trains
mid whispers of the Hurricanes,
            and Priests refuse to christen.

They’re fleeing from the Leprechauns,
the cuckoo birds, the dying swans;
while pitching pennies into ponds
            their eyes opaquely glisten.

The spectral Clocks with spindled spokes
remind the Mimes to tell the  Folks
the time of day and other jokes,
            yet No One looks to listen.


The Hunchbacks with contorted canes
galumph before the Hurricanes,
in melted sleet, in frozen rains,
            in bruised and battered sandals.

Their Groans engulf the land of gulls,
the land of stones, the land of nulls,
and lurk between the blackened lulls,
            for Nighttime brooks no candles.

Their prayers to Dogs and Nuns and Dukes,
(and other long forgotten Spooks)
are more than random crazed rebukes,
            though taunting to the Vandals.


The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
            of dreams where death redoubles.

They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
            and faces, full of rubble.

But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
           evaporate in bubbles.


The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
            while pacing in the Palace.

Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
            and lips of painted callus.

And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
            will fill her empty chalice.


The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
            the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)

is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
            of moments lost or stolen.

They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
            with trundling eyes patrollin’.


The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
            with plastic flame that sputters.

They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
            behind the bolted shutters.

They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
            and overflow the gutters.

I have come humble to seek your knowledge
With exhausted feet and weighing burden, I bear my heart
I have travelled far to arrive at the world's edge
Ready to receive what wisdom you will impart

I'll set myself cross-legged on the opposite of you
I see you peering, examining my physical entirety
With one good eye, you gaze right through
Makes me uncomfortable, if I may... But I'll hold steady

I notice you muttering but no words could be heard
Your hands hovering over a glassy globe with an ominous glow
You turn to the left, as if conversing with an invisible third
Whispering secrets that I will never learn to know

Shifting your gaze now into the crystal orb
What do you see, Wise One, in that ball of yours
You shudder upon it's touch as though it's power you absorb
Tell me, Soothsayer... What lies for me in this course?

You swiftly pull your hands behind your back
I flinch with a start at your sudden display
You bring back your hands revealing cards out of a stack
You tremble in spasms, dropping the rest leaving one for play

The card you place face down, right in front of me
You motion for me to pick it up and flip it round
I see the card bore inscriptions and ancient runes, quizzically
You ****** the card and begin chanting in odd sounds

Reciting your incantations, in a tongue I do not understand
They sound like curses rather than the answers I seek
It all ends almost as soon as it started... I can't comprehend
You then place your warm palms gently touching my cheeks

Your features softened as you stared into my sullen eyes
A connection like eternity trapped within seconds never going astray
Then you turn away to fetch a bundle roped in knots and ties
You hand it to me hastily before ushering me on my way

I am now perplexed much... What does it show?
What did you see, what does my future hold?
Please enlighten me what you've come to know
From all of that, what could you have foretold?

Bundle in hand I turn to leave your rundown shanty
As I leave, you speak in your voice, different from before
Soft yet raspy you say, "Do not open till the end of journey"
"Open only when in house, behind closed door"

Moon is up illuminating, as I make my way up north
Armed in hand a strange, scented, ******* bundle
Leaving with the same questions with no answers, I amble forth
Wondering if in the bundle I may find the missing pieces of the puzzle...

Checkin on my stew,
its stewin.
Checkin my casio watch,
its tickin.
Only acouple horas to go,
my excitement will burst and billow like snoww
because nights like tonight don't happen often.
Once a week.
Its Thursday eve *******.

dith Baker, was born in Athens ancient greece the middle of Spring and her parents
were Tom and Elizabeth Baker and they had 2 naughty brothers
named Ned and Jonithan who teased, and they looked like 2
big tough boys with heaps of muscle in their legs, and they told Edith she was a puny little girl, and a big wimp, and the boys said
they have more power than you loser girls, So Edith let us boys win
young edith let us boys win, and Edith ran to her parents crying and
they said, don’t worry about those boys, they can be tamed, and
Edith went to her room and said, i will find a way to tame those
naughty boys, yeah i will chop them up, from their juicy legs, and
have them for dinner, you can’t catch us ya girl, and the boys went
out , and the keep it secret who they actually were.
then the boys were attacked by a nasty witch and they were kept
in the witch’s back garden shed, with the fire on high, and the boys
yell out HELP HELP, PLEASE SAVE US FROM THIS MEAN LADY
we are only young we aren’t ready to die, please let us go, you see
Athena, put her power into Edith to defeat these boys, Athena made edtih grow into an adult to scare these boys out her, cause
she is the more powerful, than anyone on earth, and Edtih was
really suffering, and then Edith/Athena brought Ned and Jonithan
down to her dungeon, where she will keep these naughty boys till
they learn that teasing Edith baker was the worst mistake of their
lives, Edith was having a great time with Athena’s power giving these boys complete hell, and Jonithan said to Edith we are just
having fun with you, ok, i don’t want to change the world this way,
and Athena said to Edith, start with fattening up Jonithan, you see
he is expressing himself, he must be Cronus, cause he is the only
one that knows how to express himself, and jonithan said, Edith
don’t **** me, you are not going to pass go if you **** me, heh, and
Athena, fed Jonithan delicious treats, and after 3 weeks, he became a nice juicy fatty boy, and Edith with Athena’s help, cooked
Jonithan up and his bones were the only thing left, and Cronus was
discovered, as a religious god of Ancient greece, and Athena let Ned go home,and got out of Edith’s head and they lived happily ever after missing Jonithan but still lived happily ever after,

and on the following christmas two twins, Hansel who is Cronus, and his twin sister Gretel came into the world and lived  on a very rundown farm, which way back somewhere used to be the city of eternity, but Wanda Gray, who is the wicked witch, who used witch craft to destroy eternity and force the whole of mother earth to be destroyed and
humans will die, and Hansel and Gretel”s parents who lived a normal life in eternity by just normal family duties, and Hansel was
a great Rugby Union player, and he was a pick of all his friends,
and he was also a bit of a joker, making fun of Gretel every day,
making their parents very stressed out, mainly because Gretel was
a lazy girl ya know, never did anything constructive, and when Gretel said leave me alone, Hansel refused to listen to her, saying he was too tough for this mamby pamby girl, she just wants to play
with dolls and do all whimsy girlie things, and when Wanda Gray’s
plan to destroy eternity worked, every human was destroyed except for Hansel and Gretels family, and the father sent Hansel and Gretel off to find peace, and they walked in the destroyed debree of what was eternity, they came up to this old house,and Hansel recognised this place as the Rugby Union football club that Hansel
was a part of, so they came up to the front door,and hansel was
hoping to see his coach, cause he was too young to understand that they were the only civilised people on earth, and they knocked
on the door and then Wanda Gray who was the wicked witch, and
she put her mouth around Hansel and Gretel and brought them down to the dungeon, and Hansel and Gretel were screaming, saying HELP HELP LET US F..N GO WE ARE STUCK IN HERE FOREVER, after a few days, Gretel became very scared, as the only human she can see is her twin brother Hansel, they spent two
years down there, and Gretel was too shy to stay strong and was
getting weaker and Hansel was still trying even with out food, he
tried to keep the mascular part of the role of the male.
then Wanda Gray came back and said hi gretel, you are weak little girl aren’t you and then said, why aren’t you like that, you see Hansel had this plan, he just managed to weaken the chain, so
when the witch came he got free from the chain, and kicked Wanda Gray in the shins and it knocked her over, but Hansel couldn’t save
Gretel, so he just ran off, and then the witch got up and then stabbed Gretel in the stomach and after 2 hours she was dead, and
Hansel was nearly 12, and ran outside and then got a few old branches and push them against the door of the witch’s den, and then ran off into the fields, and then Hansel was puzzled, he was running in a direction, that his home was, and he couldn’t find it anywhere, so he ran back to the witch’s den, and he couldn’t find it either, and Hansel was scared, it looked like that Hansel was the only kid on earth, and started to run around the fields, and he was enjoying himself, and there was a big rainstorm that came into the
fields, and Hansel was picked up and went sliding down the hill and
fell asleep for 3 hours, and then Hansel woke up, and there was this giant Tyrannosaurus rex, and he looked mighty hungry, and then it started to chase Hansel through the woods, and Hansel was
sweating from the run and the fear that this dinosaur was going to eat him, and then Hansel slipped over and the tyrannosaurus rex
suddenly got out of the picture and then a deinanychus suddenly
came into site and fixed his eyes on Hansel, and Hansel found himself cornered by the tyrannosaurus rex and the deinanysaurus
and then a Megalosaurus came down and pushed Hansel down
into the ground and Hansel thought straight away he was going to
die, but he fell down on a patch of leaves laid down in a way like a
bed and this was the work of Athena saving Cronus, who was Hansel, and Hansel slept for 23 years, and woke up, and he looked like a new man, and he had Athena and Gretel, trying to rid evil out
of Wanda Gray, trying to send her to her next life, as Jesus Christ,
and Athena said to Hansel, that for eternity to come back again, we
all must, have these new names, Gretel you will be Mary, and now
with the power of Athena, i will send you to Joseph, after this reincarnation is completed and Hansel you are Cronus, as i told you and when i give you the warning you are going out there with a combination of mine and your power, to keep the dinosaurs away from Mary and Joseph, and Cronus did exactly that, and went out
to Bethlehem and got all the kings horses and all the kings men, all together to form a wall from one side of Isreal to the other, and
they find a home in Bethlehem, and the story they tell children is a
bit happy, don’t want to scare them off, but as donkey with pregnant
Mary on top, and Joseph walking , the tyrannosaurus rex and allosaurus and the stegosaurus were trying to get to the other side of Jereasulem and as they arrived the kings men got their guns out and said ready aim fire and every man fired at every dinosaur, and
the Anklylosaurus was the only the kings men couldn’t beat, so they chased him right around the country, and Cronus while that was going on was around making sure that Mary and Joseph can get to
the Inn in Bethlehem without any problems, and then this Anklylosaurus was nowhere to be found, and the kings men, decided to track down a source, to rid the dinosaurs forever and save this world from those terrible animals, so the source they found was killing the dinosaurs eggs from the tree they were carefully put,and the kings men fired their guns 5000 times into the
ground and after 4 days of doing this, they finally are achieving their
goal about making dinosaurs and then the kings men travelled through the fields and the Ankylosaurus, was running aroung having a wow of a time, and then they fired and fired and then just as they were losing bullets, the lizard was dead, and then Cronus
got Mary and Joseph to the inn, on August 23rd and she was nursed there till december 12 where Jesus was born officially, and
this was time to celebrate for everyone, they played, silent night
and when a child is born and away in a manger and jingle bells and
a very good version of It came upon a midnight clear, that as soon
as christmas eve was finished at midnight, the start of christmas day, Jesus was christened, the saviour of God,or buddha, or mohammed, anyway Cronus did a chant to start the ceremony, saying, ummmmm ummmmm um diddly dumb  dumb ummmm
welcome Jesus Christ to this land, every girl and boy and woman and man, um diddly dumb, umm diddly dum dum you see everyone is here to see, the kings men, killed each dinosaur to bring us peace, ummm diddly dum, and Cronus, then sat down and buddha
got up to also christen Cronus, for all his great work on bringing Jesus here, said you are now ST Nicholas, and then St Nicholas had to mend the feud between david and Goliath, and this was going to be hard, but St Nicholas, said, how about this Friday night,
New Years Eve, we will see the New Year in with a great fight, first
i will fight david and after that i will fight golliath, and then, david and gollath both had a duel to end the night and they still wanted to
**** each other, you see david beat St nicholas and gollath lost to St Nicholas, and then the last duel looked like david was doomed as
Gollath had him about to fall down a twenty storey medieveil building, and St Nicholas, went up there, and, used his powerful sword to bring david and gollath to safety, but then, well, they all went down to the party, and at midnight they screamed out 10, 9
8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2 ,1, HAPPY NEW YEAR, and then they sang auld
leng zine and also St Nicholas welcomed a tiger to be trained to
protect the village from stowaways and then St Nicholas was walking around and met up with John the Baptist, and they were both having a chinwag, and Moses and Jesus who are known to be
very wise, said, to John the baptist and St Nicholas, you know the best thing that you 2 must do, is have a debate about your visions
for the future, and we will ask everyone to vote for whose views are
greater, and then, we’ll tell you who wins, and John the baptist and
ST Nicholas went away thinking about what they will say, but Athena wasn’t at all amused, because she hates competitive games, and ST nicholas said, competition is a great way to bring peace to this land, and with competitions, we can have fun stuff all
through each generations, and Athena said, ok very well, and then
after 4 months of deciding what to say in their debates, the debate was just about to start, and here it is

ST NICHOLAS

heaps of fun for children
enjoying new generation music
inventing ways to have real fun
not wanting to ****
but would **** to prove a point
keep the death cycle fun with great
stories about reincarnation, from buddha
untill eternity is reached i want all my lives to
start from scratch
and to enjoy parties in any shape or form

John the baptist

inventing the holy bible to stop people suffering
start up a building for people to feel at ease about
losing loved ones
keeping generations safe from death, cause it can
create problems
killing Jesus at age 33, on the third day of the third month
for our sins
and attempt to stop war by inventing the word religion

and then each member of the town had their chance to vote and
after 4 months of counting the votes, Moses and Jesus, announced the winner was John the baptist, apparently St Nicholas’s views were a little unrealistic, and then St Nicholas got out his sword and threaten to **** an innocent bystander, cause John the baptist was
planning to **** one of the jesus christ, he said, he is going to **** you
Jesus Christ and Jesus said, the townsfolk thought John the baptist was more right in the money, and then St Nicholas killed this 23 year old man, and then said, live in your own town without me, i quit this crazy life, and then ST Nicholas went to the ocean near by, and
threw rocks into the ocean, trying to play skidding games to see how far he can throw, and a boat of 323 armed bandits, put a blanket over st nicholas’s head and locked him in the dungeon and
started to sail toward Antarctica, and then they threw St Nicholas
into the ocean, and St Nicholas was starting swim and arrived on
Antarctica, and then walked for 3 days and then noticed this little
village, and it was great, it had great little houses and candy cane
fountains and a great stream going from one side of the village to the other, and in August of that year, St Nicholas started to dress up the place a bit, with his backyard he had the largest work centre on the island, where he got into making toys for the kids of the island and handy things for the adults on the island, you see, St Nicholas
did this all himself, no there weren’t really magic elves, no that is to
make christmas fun again, st nick did all this himself, and also made his stage coach out of fence palings and chopped up a pumpkin into very thin slices, and made that the floor of the trailer and where he sat and used Butch the brumby from the local farm as his guider, and every year till he was 323 years old, delivered
presents to every house and he will even drop in to speak to the
kind folk as they offered them biscuits to go with his nice cold beer
and on Christmas eve on St Nicholas’s 323rd birthday, Athena used her powers to bring upon the people of Antarctica a very big blizzard, which wiped out the entire village, and when the blizzard was at it’s worst, St Nicholas was given a gold beer mug, with the
words St Nick forever and ever in our hearts, but as St Nick was leaving they were snowed under, and there was no way of getting out, and all the people parished, and St Nick, was no more, just an
image, to be captured in future lives, you see Cronus took over to
rule Ancient Greece, and Cronus lived with Athena in ancient greece for 100 years, as brother and sister, never to be stopped
and i am St Nick, Cronus, Hansel and Jonithan,

© 2014 writer joe

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writer joe
Canberra, ACT, Australia

About
you see i have a mental illness and i express myself through imaginary poems and stories and my stories are in depth, but art is like that, i would like my writing to be good enough for television.. more..

Writing
<noimaget.jpg> THE PARTY THAT ROCKED LA
A Story by writer joe
<noimaget.jpg> my concert on jupiter moo..
A Story by writer joe
<noimaget.jpg> chrmical in the brain
A Poem by writer joe
[more writing]









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B

Soft and silky you cross round my neck
You smell like tinted ***
your color makes me worried
for I cannot run
You encircle
hold me down
Yet your warmth is
so confound
you bring color from my cheeks
a tribe of specks and fleets
your spindled gentle down
easily sets me down
As I slowly die
Tears rundown and fly
for the scarlet brings me to defeat
my throat scattered with ribbons
as a Red Scarf flows down

Maybe these wonders

that float by the bed

of the wandering traveler

will ever find peace

to the rivers it washed

on the shore of tomorrow

but the train has departed

time itself frozen

in ice-trays for scalding

hot yesterdays

lollipop remnants

askew in the hallway

of this rundown shack

rewind the

disk so as to portray

all the shame felt

by this day

we say Hello..

hands waved to the sky

as rainbows descend

heaven above like wings

white as the

snow, but pure like

nothing seen before

we dance...

mixtures of speech

blend like smoothies

of strawberry finess

every stripe, every spot make

the gold seams of the dress

stars wear. year

after year it grows

to burst with

confetti they float and

we stare...

blankly each moment

is blurred

muddy images pierce the walls

drip do they fall like rain

on the ground covered in

petals and petals of flowers

so red but yellow

we hug...

THE TRUE STORY OF THE EASTER BUNNY



you see, way back in the 1300s, there was this man who bred rabbits, and he was dedicated to his job, so much in fact,

he would go about starting to dress up as a colourful bunny around April every year, around the full moon, and on the

evening of easter Saturday, this man, would take off in his rundown jet plane to deliver hand painted eggs, painted by himself

to all the boys and girls of this land, and if each kid was very good, he will give the one of the kids a very rare chocolate bunny

which was very hard to find in these times, every kid pushed each other over to be the chosen one for this delicious bunny, and

the man dresses all the rabbits of the land, in colourful clothes and a easter bell around their necks, to warn the foxes that

can lurk about, you see on this man’s route were 345 houses to deliver each egg to, and some of the kids were still up, and he was

nice to them, giving them 3 eggs instead of 2, you see he always over-packs, because each kid wanted to stay up for the

arrival of the easter bunny-man, as he arrived at their houses, and maybe, that is the reason why it was a nightmare to get

the kids to go to bed now, well they do go to bed, but the easter bunny-man made the kids so happy, the kids went to bed

when he left, after that he dropped in at various inns around the town to deliver the painted eggs to each patron drinking in the inns

and mind you, he had a lot of great stories to tell each patron in the inn, about his wonderful adventures.     then he drove off toward

the two farms of the town, and in the 1300s, the farms housed mostly poor people, ya know people doing it tough, so to speak, and

he dropped his easter eggs to the farmers and their kids and performed a few songs for the farmers like “candyman” and a rhyme which was

easter easter what’ll we do

give an egg to me and i will give one rot you

you see i am happy to really make you

the happiest farmer this easter will produce

you see these are painted eggs, i like them yeah

the colours are beautiful, really, i swear

come on kiddies try and grab more

easter easter how are you

and he played many many more easter related songs and rhymes, and the farmers liked to call him the rabbit *******, and he had a great night

as he did this every easter saturday, and at 5 am on easter Sunday morning, he finished his route and and spent easter sunday with his family,

and whether you believe this story or not, this is how easter started in my eyes

HAPPY EASTER FELLAS

To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming

She often times scared away her nightly slumber  
Her thoughts grew louder and more chaotic with every tick of the clock
She let her past mistakes consume her
Rummaged internally for answers to her actions that led her here
Lying on a mattress which sat on the carpet of a rundown apartment
Alone

To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming

She kept eyes open all night looking and thinking and drinking
A lot of drinking to seize the thoughts that drowned her
She traveled back in her dormant state to find events she wished had happened differently Dreamt up memories where she never walked away
Or where she refrained from saying something in an outburst of anger
She was haunted by
Everything

To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming

Her thoughts had begun to agitate her being Transforming her mind into a whirlwind of anger and helplessness
She sat up at the edge of her mattress with the palms pressed tightly against her eyes, shaking her head in a frenzy
Her hands migrated to her hair, gathering a hand full and pulling
Eyes stung with the tears that began to surface  She took hasty steps toward her counter in search of a bottle to console her for the night
The only thing that put an end to the chaos was
Alcohol

To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming

A half-breed is what I am
Its a term that I use loosely
Proud to be described as such
The product of my parents who are
Of opposite backgrounds
I have been exposed to the best,
And worst, of both their worlds
I use this exposure to my advantage
My knowledge allows me to adapt

The Mandells taught me manners
With little white gloves
And a matching hat
Salad fork and dinner fork
Napkin on my lap
Eating shrimp and sipping milk
Baked brisket and baked goods
Spanish Cream and Charlotte Rousse
are variations of the same food

Peanut butter and jelly?
Ill have lamb chops, dad would say
Live-in maid and manicured lawn
Apple trees out back
Playing Cowboy with play guns
Country Club and Boy Scout Camp
Silver service, crystal glasses,
Matching furnishings
Copenhagen figurines
Everythings antique
Draw the drapes in the evening
Mandell & Dreyfus Clothing Store
Located right downtown
He was well fed and well clothed
Under a beautiful roof
Lacking only a sense of real family

The Sisneros taught me family
It was all they could afford
Hillbillies raised in a rural place
Ranching and rodeos and rundown rock houses
Ten of them in a two-room house,
No running water, with dirt floors,
Ceiling plastered with catalog pages with
Flower water used for paste
Playing Sears Catalog paper dolls
Grandma had too many mouths to feed
To worry about how good it tastes
She cooked a mass
She made it fast, a little burnt
Tortillas, Chile, and beans
Typical New Mexican cuisine
Chicken Necks,
Baked small intestine
Wound around left over fat,
Bull Testicles, Blood, Liver,
Dead flies trapped in scrambled eggs
Grandpa stabbing pies
Nothing wasted

Music, singing, and dance
Thats how they passed the time
Spending evenings entertaining
Grandpa singing, guitar playing
Classic Spanish and
Country songs from that time

And these two who spawned me
For I am their offspring
Came together when they were
Not much younger than me
And have been ever since

Their races and classes
Are what set them apart
As opposite as morning and afternoon
When I once thought I should choose
Which ethnicity and which religion
I should be relating to
They allowed me to form my own ideas
My own sense of spirituality
Who I am
Feeling what I feel
Believing what I please
These two people
They just let me be

I am just your average sinner,
sly glances say, I am second chance, time around .
I spin mediocre wildest-dreams
in rundown hope hotels
I am just a pretty sinner with a
dusty trail of lust
like green pollen in my wake.
A vehicle of possibility
to all the places we can drive our devils,
with cocktails and vague musician
who lean back on wooden chairs, against walls of fading paint.
with tables for sins
to be laid out like Thanksgiving.
My sins are neon signs in yellowed rooms,
My sins are rusted cans kicked in old beach towns.
My sins are hot pavement under cracked rubber tires rumbling above.
My back arched in a prayer to the sky.
The rise of my hipbones like majestic mountains.
My sins leak from my eyes. First one, then another.
Down, Down they fall
I fall to my knees.
They fall and I curse them for leaving me too.
I fall to my knees like the traveler who has journeyed too long,
On my knees and  I kiss the dirt of home.
I am humbled and groveling...within my sinning.
And I pray a much louder prayer. I am a much humbler servant, with much to forgive.
I wear my sins like a raincoat to keep me dry from all the
good intention and 'well-deserved!' that might be coming my way.
I twist my sin into a paper flower and wear it in my sinful hair next to my sinful eyes by my sinful mind.
I am just your average sinner
Dreaming of living a better life someday.
Praying to be a better me, someday.
Someday is a funny place to live
With towering hopes
and skyscraping desires scratching at its sterile walls.
No, not for me.
I am just your average sinner...
with extraordinary sins.

The ups
The D
       o
      w
       n
       s
The  median, all the ******* same.
I can't seem to grasp the Ups as actual ups,
nothing completes me or makes me whole.
Why is everything so dull to me?

Days turn into weeks
weeks into months
time really fly's when you're depressed.

ha

Pardon me for laughing,
I've learned its the only thing that can keep me from going insane.
So, make me laugh. Please, keep me sane.
For I am longing for the happiness,
in you, in us, in love.


Today is grey, yesterday the same.
it has been for months it seems.
Come open the blinds, brighten my dark life please.
I need some inspiration to keep going,
Keep me from doing what my mind tells me to do every night i'm alone.
I'm prepared to waste away, leave everything i've known,
& I believe i'd be better off away from anyone anyway.
I hurt everyone who cares about me,
i'm never doing the right thing it seems.
I don't want to live in darkness,
it seems to follow my every move though.


I need you to be my sunshine.
Please, just brighten my day, someone.

A man who cannot dream
is a man without a woman,
like someone thinking of a tractor,
the loss of a limb, the bequest
of a brass bed, a rundown plantation,
a large white house with a black
dinner bell but no supper,
a wayfarer going nowhere,
a vanished explorer
sometimes lost in his own room.

I’ve had this red heart shaped locket

for 12 years now.

I got it as a gumball prize

at a rundown Chinese restaurant

(maybe in Germantown?)

A lot of the paint has chipped off

and the tiny keys to it are long gone.

What shows beneath the paint

is shinny tin.

When I was a tacky teen

I would wear it clasped around my

neck imitating Sid but not

knowing it.

I always wanted someone to give me

something like this

but I impatiently jumped the gun and

cranked the dial of the machine

myself,

and the tiny Valentine rolled out.

(SINCERELY, YOURS TRULY)

No sentiment to share.

Now I’m nearly 30

and it hangs on my key chain,

a teenaged 50 cent memory

amongst adult responsibility.

If you see me standing crossed arm at a show,

and spy my red locket,

know that I’m an advocate of

living in the past,

and harboring silly passions.

Sometimes you might find me,
in a back alley, throwing up my guts,
in explosions, of green and orange.

Sometimes you might find me,
in a rundown apartment, with a ceiling fan
that arcs crookedly, hitting the ceiling in
explosions of drywall and poverty

Sometimes you might find me,
in a sunny park, scribbling lines in a
worn, tattered notebook,
in explosions, of ink and passion

Sometimes you might find me,
outlined in chalk, battered, bruised, ******
in explosions of red and abuse.

Sometimes you might find me,
standing beside you, walking with
and guiding you in explosions of
anger
and
I told you so's.

Up and down,
I've been letdown.
Will I drown,
In this horrid nightgown?
For I am only a clown,
Fallen face down.
They tell me to slowdown,
For I am the talk of the town.
I've achieved great renown,
My name has gone around,
My name a common noun.
Upon my head sits a crown,
In my voice a funny lown.
The earth has turned to a deep mud brown,
The grass has gone from my hometown.
I can't help but frown,
I begin to countdown.
Lost in this wedding gown,
My body so rundown.
I want to leave this small devastating ghost town.

captured in the psych ward, new year special




it’s new years eve and ron bought along his punch bowl and a few sushi dishes

as well as party sandwiches, to make the people in the psych ward have a good atmosphere

for the new year, and this year charlie chaplin man was going to read all of his poems as the

entertainment and the nurses did a lot of work so the patients feel calm enough to enjoy

charlie’s show, so medication time was before the show and even charlie, because he was worried

he would yell very loudly if he didn’t and then it started

ron said, ok guys we are going to have a mini new years eve concert run by this man charlie chaplin

charlie said, welcome and happy new year and my first song is   The schitzophrenic


You see I am sitting at the mall
I am having dillusions of people teasing me, and I wish this will all stop, oh please, just leave me the f..k alone
And then I hear voices that aren't really being said o hear Jon killed my best friend named Fred, the thing is I have no best friend, oh year
1 2 3 4 do the schitzophrenic
From the first diagnosis till the day you reach 45, you see if i take medication it can be controlled yeah oh yeah
I am schitzophrenic
Then I went to see my psychiatrist and he told me, to try and get a life, I told him I was blackbeard and John F Kennedy, he just threw a smart *** comment my way, I thought that comment was rude and ******, yes it is hard to be liked when you do
1 2 3 4 do the schitzophrenic
Yes it's easy to do, just let me hang out
You see with my medication it can be controlled, ooooh
I am schitzophrenic
You see I get paranoid when I see people around and right wing governments want us locked up
It mighty hard to have this illness and I cab say this
1 2 3 4 do the schitzophrenic
Do it once and you get all hooked and after that you feel like a geek, cause your a schitzophrenic, and also with medication it can be controlled
Oooooh I'm a schitzophrenic
Yes, that's true

charlie said, that was a great song and it’ll get you started ya know, the next song is maybe later


maybe later, i will get what i want

maybe later, i will rediscover the beauty

of being alive in this great world

it’s just a long-awaited journey

from beginning to end

and i will try and enjoy the moment

in the psych ward spotlight

i say, please slow down, your moving too fast

please almighty one, let me live long enough to give

a poor old soul a home

they don’t want a bench and they don’t want an old burnt out hall

it’s not fun for me

to look at these big buildings

with hot shot business types, when your not one

it’s enough to drive you mad

please make me except it could be later




the next song charlie sang was standing on the inside looking out, a song that explains what we are going through


standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

in the psych ward trying to get better

you see i was visioning i was in glenelg bay

but instead you get doctors saying how are you enjoying your day

i wished i was well and enjoying my life

instead of being in here wasting away

then i called out to almighty god

and the best i can get is a man who claims he is jesus christ

i said, no, were you nailed to the cross

and he said yeah after i rode in on my horse

and i said wasn’t it a donkey you ran in on and i was

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

in the psych ward trying to get better

i was getting bored, so i asked the nurse

to give me a pass out to the cafe

because i was starting to lose my mind

and when they said no i let out a little wine

i said please please please, mate, this place is driving me mad

the inmates here, smell really really bad

so the nurse made me a banana smoothie and i said thanks

and took it away to my bed, walking past every room before mine

i even tripped over a piece of fishing line

then i sat down in my glenelg bay apartment sipping my smoothie saying

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

in the psych ward trying to get better

dinner time came and i had fish and chips

it was ever so discusting, ya know like hospital food

i opened my orange juice and gave it one almighty sip

and i ate my chocolate mousse, yeah it is as tasty as

when dinner was over i went to the TV room

to watch the news and home and away

then some dude came into watch it with me

and he said, did you know i was GOD, i said, no

as i sat there thinking i was

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

in the psych ward trying to get better

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

standing on the inside looking out

in the psych ward in the psych ward

in the psych ward trying to get bet-ter


charlie chaplin after that song was over sang his small poem titled a smile has nothing on us, here goes


whether you let out a big smile or not

you could add it to your melting ***

what you need is a great big melting ***

big enough to take the world and all it’s got

every thing that you can eat

my rundown car is really neat

the coffee urn is piping hot

boiling whether you like it or not

but your smile comes through and through

like a fresh flower, blooming every day for me and you

i try to smile all the time

cause  it’s very fun to do

i like smiling, cause it’s fun



charlie then announced his next song saying spare me, because when your poor you always say spare me. here goes


spare me some money for the bus

spare me some money for the bus

spare me some money

so i don’t look like such a dummy

spare me some money for the bus

spare me some cutlets for my tea

spare me some cutlets for my tea

spare me some cutlets

and some vegetables

thank you very muchlets

spare me some cutlets for my tea

spare me some wine to go with that

spare me some wine to go with that

spare me some wine

so i can feel so divine

spare me some wine to go with that

spare me some chocolate for after that

spare me some chocolate for after that

spare me some chocolate

so i can have what you have

spare me some chocolate for after that


charlie then said, my next song is every day is a day of disappointment because being here really *****


Every day is a day of dissapountment

One day as I was walking down a busy street, saying g'day to everyone who u walk past, then I went back through the park and I saw so many walks of life, from the beggars asking for money and the rich refusing to give it to them, and it all sounds so crazy as I walk through doing nothing like that, after that I felt a bit peckish, so I went to the take-away to buy myself an hamburger with egg and bacon and there was this weird looking fella standing at the door, greeting each customer with a smile, he didn't really work there, but he will never be told to leave, cause he ain't a threat, oh no, then after that I went to the grocery store to buy enough supplies to last me for a week, or maybe more, I could hardly know, then after that, all that shopping made me a bit thirsty, so I went to the sports club and drown my day away, with a ice cold fosters lager or a ice cold can of VB, after that I will get so drunk o could hardly stand up and my friends drove me home and they also walked me inside, just to make sure, I don't collapse on the front lawn, you see, your day seems to go from good to bad, if you make the wrong choices and that makes every day, a day of dissapointment, after that horrible night on the *****, I got up and had a hangover cure, consisting of two raw eggs and worcestershire sauce, yes that sounds so very tasty, yes I love it and live by it, it really makes me feel like I can have a party in my mouth and everyone is invited to spend about a year or so, at the local sports club doing one thing every single day, and then after that you won't seem like every day is a day of disappintment for everyone on this earth



charlie then decided to pretend he had a best mate named albert waldron and back then albert gave him lyrics to a song, here it goes



Alfred Waldron looking back, oh yeah



You see I was a great footballer, man
Yes, I was so ace, but it was a long long time ago
About close to 1 hundred years
You see I payed in South Australa
And I played footy very well, and after the match
I would go to my car, and get my BBQ an start cooking the snags
Yes, I loved that, it was really really cool
Everyone thought I was an average cook
And they all came over for some meat
Yes, I even had some nice cold beers
Yes, I think thats so very cool
As I cooked the meat, the other players were saying
Come on mate, cook us some nice beautiful Aussie snags
I also played cricket, for South Australia as well
And I even took my BBQ to the cricket for after match food
The only way you can do that now, is if you just stayed local
And some days, like at the footy and the cricket
Every player got very vocal
I was a real Australian guy, who loved to play, footy or cricket
And I loved the BBQ at the end, yes it was so esquized
Yes I had the muscles, and I have lots of those
Everyone enjoy eating a snag a sausage
And then an egg and bacon roll
Since that footy life ended i felt cool


ron said to charlie just one more song because people are yelling and we can’t control them, but charlie we will have the midnights fireworks for you, ok



charlie said he has got his fresh old legs going wild here it goes


they will dance

they will run

into the midday sun

they will race

warm embrace

be a bit lazy

head to the pub

go to the shop

to buy some clothes

angels coming down

worshipping the town

playing football

driving cars

around the good old town

having drinks with the guys

fresh flowers for sale at the shop at SHOPRITE

SHOPRITE SUPERMARKET

CUTTING ALL THE FOOD BILLS YEAH

spiders coming through the window

to destroy all mankind

makin g lamb for dinner

nicest you’ve ever seen

i said i will stay home and watch my mate, mr bean

yeah, your fresh legs go wild

when they do all these things

and before the end, charlie got the entire staff and patients to sing auld lent zine at 10.00 pm

because everyone was getting tired and cranky
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ lang syne!

Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne!

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu’d the gowans fine,
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot
Sin’ auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl’t in the burn
Frae morning sun till dine,
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin’ auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie’s a hand o’ thine,
And we’ll tak a right guid willie-waught
For auld lang syne!

And surely ye’ll be your pint’ stoup,
And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne!




ron and charlie were helping each other clean up while the other patiens were being injected with ******

from yelling too much and after the cleanup was done, charlie went to the TV room to watch the fireworks

that were on at midnight on the TV, meanwhile, ron clocked off and went to the pizza hut and went home to

watch the fireworks on the TV thinking, today, ron made charlie a happy man, by letting him do his concert

it wasn’t till midnight but they can’t do that in the HDU.

There’s a boarding  house off the main road

Right by the park

It’s called The Roach Motel
And that’s where we had quite a number of our infamous get togethers

When it was occupied with Latin dance music and the stomping of feet, it was like a pulsating tumor on that side of town

The Roach Motel
Because you could drink till you blacked out and then spend the night on the floor as a guest with various multiple legged pests

Silverfish on the walls
***** dishes stacked well in the sink
Day old Chinese food in the table
And of course roaches weaving in and out of the crevices of the kitchen

Yet people always came back knowing of such dishevelment

Maybe it was the fully stocked refrigerator of at least four different kinds of ice cold beer

Or the vast array of liquors that were always present
Gin
Whiskey
***
Whiskey
Tequila
And the sodas and juices to mix them with or use as chasers

It may very well be the delicious, calming tobacco that was stuffed into the alluring green hookah with two hoses
One red
One blue

I believe it’s simply the vibe of it all

When you’re at The Roach Motel you feel free, you feel like all your worries are gone
And there’s always a drink in your hand and you’re always among friends even in strange company

Whatever it was we always found ourselves going back

The Roach Motel was owned by Venezuelan mother of six children who allowed these festivities to commence

And when word got out that there would be a party soon to come everyone spread that word all over like a pat of Land O’ Lakes on a warm English muffin

Kids from Bergenfeild
From Dumont
From New Milford, Palisades and Garfield

Drinking the night away with bugs and good friends

The mangy scruffy rat looking dog running around the whole party avoiding being stepped on
Unidentifiable arthropods crawling out the sink

Laughing uncontrollably
Conversing incoherently
Then passing out and waking up with a horrible hangover

I remember the time four of our friend puked their guts out there

One in the toilet
One in the bath tub
On in the bedroom
And one on the living room floor…there was corn in it

Two hours of comforting and clean up

I remember our 420 party
Where the legendary Quincy Valero ate his very first bud brownie and went on a trip he still to this day cannot replicate

I recall setting off fireworks off in the back of The Roach Motel and in my drunken buffoonery knocking over a lit mortar and nearly blasting the neighbor’s fence down but it was averted thanks to Quincy’s rare swiftness

This place is a backdrop of so many hook ups, so many good times and of course insect infestation

Although a great party pad it was filthy and you would feel itchy whenever you thought about how gross it was
I would never sit on a couch or on a bed
I had the fear of picking up bed begs and bringing them home

But despite that The Roach Motel was our own little slice of Dionysian Utopian freedom

It mirror all our rundown rugged ***** souls that just needed a place to unwind and fall apart and float down the bourbon river and just lose it

With a joint or an electric cigarette being passed around
And electronic music being blasted
It was always another night full of future stories to tell
The Roach Motel

I grew up in here,
been here my whole life,
nothing better
really...
just isn't, the air’s...
just a tad sweeter than anywhere else.
It’s the water, or the hills... But who am I,
I haven’t seem far beyond my window,
I wish I could roam endless alone
In the forests, then, I’d capture
each ounce of daylight
like fireflies
in a bottle.

But now it seems,
here in this rundown castle,
Night is the only thing I treasure.
When the castle quiets I can hear the hills speak,
I feel
the ground breathing. I know not to listen to nobody about nothing anymore,
Cause
the earth and the trees, they’ve been here the longest,
we stand around,
thinking...
good...
cause we know something, but if theres one thing I know,
its that knowing ain't nothing.

I can’t wait for England, to see the world,
I feel like learning
though it hasn’t helped yet,
anyway,
I’m alone in this mind, this world is me, and I know nothing of it.

I travel trough the heavy rain
I sit lonesome on a lonely train
I play blues
These days are grey,  these nights  are blue
my mind keeps coming back to you
I play the blues

I travel with desire
Past houses lit on fire
I play jazz
Windows lit by sundown
My train-seat old and rundown
I play jazz

Rainbow roads in colored blurr
Pretty little towns I'm sure
I play swing
Past mirror waves and open sky
My stomach tingles, wonder why I
Play swing

***** feet on ***** train
Skin so white I see my veins
I play punk
Impatient taps and flickering lights
Soon the day will turn to night
I play punk

Head in the clouds, mind at ease
Longing for the morning breeze
I play Pink Floyd
Memories hanging from branches
Passengers sharing brief glances
I play Pink Floyd

I'm coming home, I'm on my way, but I travel still...
I travel not by force... yet not by will
Music of choise as soundtrack to the silent film
beyond the windowsill

i wonder
what it feels like
to eat
without feeling guilty
or spending hours online
looking at beautiful girls

i wonder
what it feels like
to breathe
without feeling heavy
or seeing flawed disaster
where a temple should stand

s.s

I played on a swing set today. It had to be the first time since I was twelve.  I didn’t even mean to, by that I mean it was an accidental event. Well, I mean I don’t want to say it was fate or something, it just sort of happened. Like when you hear a story of how two high-school sweet hearts meeting for the first time except it’s doubtful that you can achieve the same level of satisfaction from a pair of cold metal chains connected to a polyurethane seat. Well maybe, but you most likely would have to be sick in the head or something. I’m getting off track.

I was waiting for my friends in the park. They were running late so I had about a half an hour to ****. I noticed the old rusty rundown swing set, and I wanted somewhere to sit for a second. I was listening to some music, something by Modest Mouse I think, and I noticed, and I mean really noticed, I was on a swing set. It was nothing special by swing standards. It was old, that was a fact. It only had two swings left: one made for kids younger than three and the other for everyone else. Unfortunately I’m twenty.

Things started off slowly. A slow, steady rocking then I was swinging about a foot back and forth. I couldn’t help but wonder when was the last time I swung. So I thought, what the hell, I’m not doing anything too pressing. I kicked off and started pumping my swing.  I don’t often experience a sort of tangible nostalgia but I sure love it when I do. I was splashed in the face with times throughout my childhood, if you could call what I had that, when we would try to swing as high as we could. Of course we didn’t know about the limits of gravity and universal laws yet, we hadn’t quite hit that brick wall just yet. But that’s what made it so much fun; our ignorance of what governs our physical world made it that much better. Had we known what was to come back then, we just might have told Newton where he could stick that apple.

So using my previous knowledge of kindergarten physics, I was swinging like a pro in no time. It was exhilarating. I closed my eyes and lived in motion. Each swing was like the ****** of a rollercoaster. Colours streamed across the dark sky under my eyelids. I saw blues and purples like Day-Glo brush strokes. Sometimes they exploded with brilliant oranges and yellows. I removed my ability to see for just a moment and saw my own personal firework display.

I remember when I first learned how to swing. It was during recess one day at kindergarten. Everyone knew how but me. Imagine how that plays with an ego. I’m not sure how I exactly learned either. I just sat on the swing set on the playground and just swung. Kind of like how a duckling has the intrinsic knowledge of swimming. I swung for the rest of recess. I felt like a god. I was the master.

I stopped moving and rode the pendulum out. When it all stopped I opened my eyes and welcomed myself back to reality. Back to gravity. Back to responsibility. Back to life. It’s funny, for just a second, I stepped out of my life and truly lived. But back here, with my feet planted in the sand, I still remember my first swing. I remember the feeling, the achievement. It’s for that feeling we fight in this world.

We all are just learning how to swing.

Puffing profoundly on an old bone pipe.sat the old woman on rickety stool. A white tendril seeking altitude from schorching embers.
A wafting spirit casting errant admonishment.

Dusty footpath of a million footfalls all on missions of redemption lovelorn weeping allotments of anguish,pain and hope.FULLSTOP.
At sunbeaten,rainbleached risers three in number.
Splitpea fragrance wafting to greet.
Maybe collards too.

"What can I do for ?" But having asked,she already.knew.
To.walk.out to.the.shack.was.a.profound procession.
Made by many,owned by.few
Seeking solace from.the.witches brew.
"You need.a.poultace ?
Cast a spell for.you. ?

Fix it so.she.never leave you ?

Aint nothin.much.that.I.cant do.
Gonna fix.it.for.you.

Ramshackle rundown house of dreams,nightmares and stalking horses.
Beads and potions.come back lotions. Love notions out the window.like startled ratbats.

The little shack of sorrows.
Old time mystic.sitting on a stool.
Jingle pennies in pockets.

Yonder comes nother fool

The last drops have been swallowed,
And the last vestiges
Of post-wage labor
Libationary sorrow
Swagger slowly off
Into the night
Across cracked pavement
Like slugs after rain.
I pick up the chemtrail
Left by my father
And follow it to
A makeshift master suite
Wedged between a
Rundown groundskeeper
Shed and the unkempt
Wilderness beside the
Desolate bike path
In rural Seekonk.
The rest of this comatose
Town in this overdosed
Commonwealth
Are separated
By enough trees
And undergrowth
And small
Night creatures
Calling to each other
In the dark
That they can't hear
The nightly
Rattle of .38
Rounds my father
Sends flying into the trees.
The pistol was my
Grandfather's,
Brought over from France
In 1947.
My father cries
As he pulls the trigger
Over and over
Sporatically,
Like a Sung Tong,
His eyes wild,
Darting side to side
In milky blue trails
Back and forth
And up and down
Across the dark
Chasms of his
Eye sockets.
When the chambers
Of his firearm
Run dry he fills them
From the box
He took from my basement,
In his old house,
Where he stockpiled
Ammunition for
Twenty two years.
I've learned to stand east
Of my father when
I make the visits
Expected of children
When their parents
Are old and trapped
In the recesses of
Their insanity
Or nursing home
Or empty nest,
Because he always
Aims west.
I wait for tonight's
Box to be empty,
Then slowly walk
To where my father
Is huddled,
Clutching the pistol
Like a teddy bear.
He is breathing heavy,
And has **** himself.
He hears me coming,
Turns, and smiles
Upon recognition.
"I got em good mikey,
Got good, not taking
My land from ME
Mickey, never going
Blow south,
See it?"
I pull the pistol I've
Brought from my waistband,
The one my father,
Gregory Bishop,
Gave me on my
Eighteenth birthday.
The weight in my hand
Is deafening,
The illegal ivory
Is seamless
And cold against
My palm.
I raise my arm,
Aim,
And pull the trigger.