No more komakazee crows
No more angry nehibors and
Their apple guns.
No more slow winks.
No more toilet bowls
And no more ham.
No more wet hair after a shower.
No more drooling on my face.

Remember that **** dog.
Remember you and him kissed like eskimos.
Remember sleeping in my train tunnel.
I wish I still played with trains.
I wish I still played euphonium.
I wish we never lost our house.

My old friend, is it time for me to go away.
You were the last.
The last pet mom ever will own.
She told us no more animals.
She cried tonite,
She said im so sorry soxy.

A longntime ago
A longtime 6 hours in school felt.
A long strected out cat
Waited for us on the steps.
I rubbed my face in his glossy chest.
I rubbed my third grade nose up and down
His body hoping for a play bite.
His tongue licked my ears three times,
Three times until he took a bite.
My hands resembled the bird,
The bird he never killed.
He turned me into a contortinist.
He made  my leggs cramp.
He made my matress his middle ground.
His middle my yoga sleep.

After showers he hunted my head.
He layed on my face.
He licked my dripping buzz cutt.
He licked the milk off of my first mustache.
He ruined the left over ham.
He made my favorite sandwhich
A challenge.
He could smell me open the can and mix the
Mayonase with pickles.
He left me a dead mouse on my train tracks.
He had white drops of paint on his paws.  
White furry paint,
Mom told us he had sox on his feet,
He was born with the name we gave him
Sox not socks,
Not the socks you get tired of wearing.
Not the socks you get mixed up durrning laundry.
Our sox kept us on our toes.
Our sox.
The **** cat
That really owned our house.
Hell always be sox,
The **** cat,
The **** voice my brother made up.
The **** drool I let rub against my face
Will never go away.  

Ill kiss him like an eskimo.
Ill biuld him a eskimo fire
And hope he chooses to
rub noses with My dog J.C again
I hope he goes gently into the nite (Dylan Thomas).

I still have flashbacks, horrifying and spectral: of conference meetings, projectors and efficiency meetings...corporate metrics, acronymic value cards that read like a Masonic Temple's pledge.. ...honesty, commitment, sacrifice, the dutiful worship of mercury and saltpeter; also customer satisfaction.
           Those flashbacks frequent my mind alot--especially when I am ramming my co-workers into the trash compactor with the blades of the fork truck. They say " ooooh" and " ahhhhh" as if they are getting a massage. They dull my blades with their dull heads.
          I have to ram them with the blades of the fork-trucks, or they will scramble out. They still say things like, " make sure that has a tag,".....and " wear your safety goggles," making chills run down my spine. I haven't put all the workers from the " Do-Wee depot" in the compactor only corporate cadavers and not zombies.
          But I have to forewarn, the zombies are not a threat, it is a few cadavers and the "consumers" that pose a threat to me and what I have built. The zombies are producers, even only if it is moans and putrefaction, but they are good sports, and my only friends.
         Some co-workers, who I was friends with before, I have spared from the compactor--owing mostly to that the part of their brain that was corporate, either fell out on the floor, or was gnawed on by a fellow zombie rendering them good sports and not cadavers.
        I use the building material section to chain them to their previous aisles. Jose, was my best friend, he was shaped like a slug, with a huge lower lip, and slicked back greasy hair, he always cheered me up, how busy it was and how slow he remained. Him and I worked together in the ' outside-lawn-and-garden' section. Even his zombie self has kept his lisp.
          I chain him to the outside lawn and garden section, where he likes to water the flowers. He lunges at me sometimes, but the chain is thick, and Jose is still a cool zombie.
Angry Joe is out there too. He is chained to the 'reach' truck. He is always mumbling about overtime.....or " Im not staying late."
         I have disabled the riding engine, so he just stands on it and runs the fork blades all the way up then all the way down, beeping the horn the whole while. He is the only one I kept, that has some vestige of corporacy in his brain, for the reason that he watches the back gate. The consumers are constantly probing this outside metal fence gate, and Joe has eaten all of them. Don't get me wrong, Joe can be a good sport, when he is not drooling about 'overtime' or ' I havn't took a lunch yet.' He can be quite funny.
          He banters with Ryan from inside 'lawn-and-garden' all the time. Ryan is alot younger, alittle younger than me. He has a mullet(what I call a mullet and he say's a hockey cut) and verily is--before he become a zombie-- the laziest person ever, and now that he is a zombie, well let's just say, I don't have to chain him anywhere, I know where to find him.....at the back gate smoking a ciqerette backwards with his mullet on fire or in the break room. He had the most squeeky voice when he was a human, but now odd fully enough, he sounds like Tom Jones.
         " You ate my cosumer Ryan," drools Angry Joe, " No I didn't Joe, you ate your own consumer," Ryan rejoins in his acapella voice ( I like hearing Ryan's deep zombie voice).
There are others, in the various departments of the Do-Wee Store, but this journal is to relate the first most pressing concern, two cadavers have escaped the compactor.
             The store manager Joyce and her minion(the assistant manager Damien) have escaped. They were ******* humans, and remained so in corporate cadaver form. They hide from me, as I plow through the aisles with the inside forklift. I have used wire from the fencing aisle to reinforce my forklifts. Sometimes a cadaver co-worker will jump out with a price gun, drooling " where is your spootterrrr...."( a safety regulation in the store).....I run them over with great gladness, but then wishing I heeded their advice of safety glasses."Splat."
            I have my theories, on how everyone turned to zombies. It started with over-ocurring routine, which my a.d.d could have been impervious to. But I couldn't have been the only one in the store with a.d.d? But that seems the case. The first day when I showed up to ' outside-lawn-and-garden' it took me six hours before I noticed everyone was zombies. I didn't notice they were zombies until I noticed them in good spirits.
               But the first day of the zombies, was concurrent with the rise of the consumers--ever more dangerous, greedy, and audacious are the consumers. They consume everything in their path, they consume good conversation, good manners, and replace with their mark, which is this....your life with the current moment is to be sacrificed to get them what they need to continue resuming their lives. They do not enjoy shopping, but enjoy holding you in place, consuming you and your values into their value, which has no value at all, since their mind has consigned the present moment that has you and not them, to a number that always has too much value, and they will bring you and it down while you are subject to time and they are not.  
             They turned my friends into prisoners of arbitrary time; and like putting a rabbit in a dank dark basement, with plenty of food and treats and space, it will slowly get diarrhea and die.  Everyday I marked the sunrise, and I would always pay thanks to it, no matter if I was on break or not.  The nine hour day could not ruin me, but my friends being ruined, that started to ruin me.
                       And that is what I believed started all this, nature has no room for two kingdoms of Consumers. So the producers(zombies) were created from the routine of being divested of life, and from nothing they came to produce: producing gases, vile ****** smiles, human  cannibalism, hearty conversation, practical jokes, moaning questions to the infinite sky.... they were created human again, given value, and most of all, I have my friends back, and they are happy again. But, the corporate cadavers that escaped the compactor , put my creation in risk, they look to let in the consumers again, they are up to something...
             But presently with the corporate cadavers gone, and the consumers held at bay, I have my Depot of Eden, I can grow anything, make anything, and soon will be able to ferment everything, especially fuel.   Now monday morning conferences that threaten you to pick it up because there are alot of people out there that want your job( iterated by the frizzy headed gangly Joyce) are replaced with 'zombie dance parties'.  
            " Zombies, what is the first rule of zombie dance party," they reply to me, " dohmp talk bout damp party," then we make a music video.  I let loose a couple of cat's in the break room, and presto, an agile cat make's flesh eating zombies look like Micheal Jackson.  Even I get busy with them, I feel so comfortable with them; dancing to Juvenile "back that *** up,".the best dancer gets to eat the cat...sure beat's listening Joyce's depressing morning pep talks about quotas while I am watching a bird outside the front glass trying to eat a dragonfly, " Keith you paying attention."  I just want to say, " No I am not you frizzy headed gangly walking skeleton key(she is skinnier than the gang of keys jingling on her belt)."    I will find her and put a roofing nail in her temple and her plans.
                The sound of zombies walking in here is music to my ears, like gypsys walking barefoot on a strawberry patch.  I don't know what that has to do with anything, but I like it, and don't care who knows.

            I fortified the outside of the store with everything within the store. I grew a garden, with all the fertilizers, and acids and alkilines of outside garden. I also use the garden chemicals to sprinkle on the brains of my co-worker zombies to change their acidity(almost like a hyrdrangea shrub). The purpose to get them somewhat coherent to play poker and darts in the breakroom. I figured out how to make explosives, with the nitrogen fertilizer and pool cleaning acid, well actually HeyZues did, he always eats both, and one day he moaned really loud  " BLOOOONDEEE " ( his nickname for me from The Good The Bad And The Ugly) and  gestured his expanding stomach, he blew up and gave me my first wound, he destroyed my dart board.   I took his head and posted it on the back loading dock, I know there are consumers trying to infiltrate when he sounds off with " BLOOONDEEEE..."  resounding through the whole store (almost like when he was a human).   I created another dartboard, I can create anything here, sometimes I think, that feeling is what........
                But the point of this journal is the two who escaped the trash compactor, Joyce and Damien. They haunted me before and haunt me still. When I leave to venture outside for gasoline for the generators(the only thing I need, not for long hopefully) they run amok. I will see new ' sale signs' in zombie penmanship, and I can see that they have hidden co-workers to have cadaver meetings, where they talk about ' customer satisfaction.'  I can sometimes hear keys jangle, it has to be Joyce, for the sound is to the cadence of her John Wayne walk, like she has been on horseback her whole life.
            Outside is very dangerous. There are many consumers out there.
                 I was outisde in the parking lot, where consumers still wallow around when a consumer asked "which product is better." I had to drop a cinder block pallet on him with the forklift; they are more adacious then my zombie co-workers. Even after a pallet of concrete is forklifted on them, they wave fliers with sale advertisments from underneath.
            Well, this particular trip, I returned inside and was startled by the loudspeaker, it was Damien's voice, the same as before, paging the hardware department. I jumped on the fast slim forklift to hunt for him. There are phone terminals everywhere, and he could be in the upper level offices. I saw Joyce's shape through the window once.
          They are up to something.
Everytime I ventured outside, the store became altered. I even saw a consumer waiting in line with the cashier machine now on. I sent the consumer to Angry Joe, who was due for a lunch break.
          There is a gap in my wire somewhere, I know it.
            I was at the gas station, getting propane and gas, when a consumer was scowling " where is the gas attendant, is everyone stupid or what?" while he was trying to figure out how to pump gas. I disabled the safety pumps, they do not shut off, and do not coincide with numbers, you hold the handle it pumps out as much as you need.
              He was pacing around like a little kid denied recess and suffering from sounds of frolic and kickball--dragging his feet due to the fact he had to pump his own gas, I heard a scraping metallic clicking noise. My eyes were caught by a bright glare on his shoe tread, I gripped my nail gun..... then he dropped the hose and walked back to his car with gasoline gushing as his wake. I saw what it was on his tread, I had no time to flee....it was a push button grill ignitor with the orange tint of a " Do-Wee" label on it......" ****."
              The last thing I registered was the consumer saying " ahhh don't touch me," apparently talking to flames. I woke up in a ditch, the big fork truck and my gas station destroyed.
I limped back to the " Do-Wee" store, and utter horror greeted my singed and surprised eyebrows.
              " Grand Re-Opening, 50% off everything." I squeezed the trigger of the nail gun, the nail harmlessly echoed off the parking pavement at which it was aimed. "They set me up at the gas station. "
               They had to do better than that to separate me from my zombies.

             I entered through the store in a nun-plussed state. I woke out of my unbelieving stupor with the sound of Jose's voice. " Welcome to Doooooo-Weeee....can I eat your...."
            "Jose it's me, who chained you to the entrance?"
         " Dammian, Keeeeeth, they are waiiiting....here's a newsletter...." --he smacked me across the face with the newsletter.
        " I don't want that ****.....' as I clutched the newspaper the loudspeaker went off in Dammians annoyingly over-polite and late-night-voice.
       " Attention shoooppers. all prices are feeeefty percent off, ask our associate Keeeeeth for a 80% discount, he is the skinny deleeecious looking kid with spicy skin, and a boston red sox hat on."
Hundreds of consumers pivoted their heads to my direction. " Hey, that kid has a Boston Yankees hat on."
         " Run Keeeth," zombie-lisped Jose.
           Fifty million imbecilic questions assailed me at once......" can I return this sprinkler for a jacuzzi.....can I get 120% off.....can you come to my house and fix my television for free"-- it was unabashed audacity, survial of the most annoying and repetitious; and the corporate cadavers have let this consuming flood in on me and my poor zombies.
           I needed to find my steed, my inside forklift. It was not where I left it near the entrance.            
        Surely they have sabotaged it. " the riding mowers," the thought uplifted my fading resolve. I darted past wallowing consumers before they could get my scent. I heard a consumer, " you obviously don't know what Im talking about," talking to zombie George, who was munching roofing nails.
         The consumer grabbed me, and said "here he is, this is Keith, he is wearing a Phoenix red sox cap"--panic bit into my brain, this consumers grip was implaccable. The grip that holds the steering wheel tightly driving nowhere fast, with anything in that interstice of commuting, not worthy of manners and the least of which being a friendly wave to 'go ahead.'
           They formed a wall of uttering stupidity, escape was cut off. They scratched at me, hissed, tore at my flesh and screamed demonistically in my ears. I caved and and called the hoard m'am and sir, they choked me, and loosened their grip only so I could tell them " Im sorry, sorry for your inconvenience, take my life and personality as tribute, take my imagination rendered prostrate by these sceptic corporate words that this mouth emits, betraying my personal form, the human element to this lifeless purposeless machine....destroy me, for finding the infinity between letters of corporate law and none between nature's laws......"
        I was almost unconscious, giving a speech to imagined hooded phantoms......" destroy me, for valuing friendship and imagination, and seeing infinity, in the shadow of a letter, eternity in the numeral of a number, and for defying the order to see things as others do....."...." destroy me, for seeing that people are unhappy and trying to uplift people for the sake of seeing them smile....destroy me, destroy my smirk, and add a lifeless smile to my corpse."
              I heard a horn, the riding floor mopper/buffer, it was Ryan, he commandeered the machine with precision-like drunkenness. He knocked down the consumers like twenty pin bowling. " What's up ***** cat," he possibly said, and I climbed to my feet.
         I walked to the riding mowers, and turned the key on the floor model. I sped the main aisle, with caresses of consumers that would be deep clawings at a slower speed. I dodged stupid question, and swerved from unabashed frugality. I turned up the tool aisle, grabbed a battery nail gun.
              " It says batteries are included, but are they included?" I answered with a 12 gauge nail, and resumed my course to the upper offices, that for too long looked down on me and my friends. I climbed the stairs and entered. The office was abuzz in corporate banalities. " Hello, this is Damian how may I help you.....oh helloooooo keeeeeth, one minute.......sir hold one second thaaaanx."
                I aimed the nail gun muzzle at his ugly overly polite mug." I finally found you, I will get the store back in shape Damian...."
          He cut me off, " no yoou woonn't, they are pouring in, we will meet our quota for the year...."
        " Me and my friends

DelBear 3030, this ink abuse is for you
A silent guardian of my sanity that's got my baseball team on you too
You don't judge, you simply abide when I'm talking to myself in my room lost in Depression or feeling especially despised

Del, the Funky Sox Bear you're a friend who's seen me laugh, cry, write, create And destroy
You've seen me through almost all phases, you're more than a toy
A silent fuzzy diary, I couldn't ask for a better friend,
Del The Funky Sox Bear And Nero, White Sox until the end

Dear God, The Boston  Red Sox Win The World Series?

My congratulations to themselves from Bahstom,
I am sure you will wear your crown with classy
NY Yankee Pride and not riot in the streets
As has been known to happen in Beantown.

But I though I would let you know,
Having spoken to god on Yom Kippur,
He confessed it was a typing mistake.
He meant for the Chicago White Sox
To be resurrected and to win,
Not noticing he was auto-incorrected,
Reassuring me that he was
Installing IOS7, so it won't happen again.

Pride goeth before the fall of 2014.

YA FREAK YA FREAK


WHAT IS A FREAK, IS IT SOMEONE WHO IS DIFFERENT CAUSE THE WORLD IS SO WRONG

IS IT A PERSON WHO LOVES LIFE, BUT DOESN’T TELL ANYONE

I AM NO FREAK, I AM A COOL PERSON, I SIT AND DO MY TAPESTRY

LIKE THE ARTIST YOU CAN SEE IN ME

MY VERSION OF A FREAK IS SOMEONE WHO HATES HEAVY METAL, CAUSE HEAVY METAL IS RADICAL, DUDE

I LIKE AC/DC, AND MOTLEY CRUE AND I ESPECIALLY LOVE MOTORHEAD

THAT IS WHY I LIKED MY FRIEND PATRICK, CAUSE HE LIUKED OR APPEARED TO LIKE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, I AM NO FREAK

AND IF YA CALL ME A FREAK, I WILL BE UPSET, CAUSE, DUDES

I LOVE JUDAS PRIEST, I LOVE JIMMY BARNES, AND THE ONLY REASON WHY I LIKE COMPUTERS

IS SO I CAN KEEP IN CONTACT WITH THE WORLD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH THAT, DOESN’T MAKE ME A FREAK THOUGH

IT MAKES ME A COOL PERSON WHO LOVES HEAVY METAL MUSIC

I WANT TO TAKE THE GEEK OUT OF COMPUTERS, CAUSE GEEKS CALL PEOPLE LIKE ME A FREAK

I LIKE TO PARTY IN CLUBS, AND I LIKE TO GO TO THE FOOTY, AND MUCK WITH THE FOOTY FANS

I HATE BEING TREATED LIKE A FREAK, BUT WHAT IS A FREAK

I TELL YA WHAT IS A FREAK, I AM NO FREAK, I LOVE THE COOL PEOPLE WHO GO TO HEAVY METAL CONCERTS

SURE I AM NICE TO MY MUM, BUT THAT DOESN’T MAKE ME A FREAK THOUGH

I JUST AM A VERY NICE PERSON, PEOPLE WHO CALL ME A FREAK ARE THE ONLY FREAKS

COMPUTERS ARE FUN, NONE OF THIS DOS ****, THAT IS FOR THE FREAKS

I LIKE COMPUTERS TO SHARE MY WRITING AND MY ART, AND TO ENTERTAIN

I DON’T WANT TO BE THOSE QUEER PEOPLE WHO ARE TOTALLY GENTLE, I DON’T DO GENTLE

I DO COOL, AND I AM COOL, I’M COOL MAN, COOL YOU, YEAH COOL ME, I AM A BOY ANYWAY

I KNOW YOUR A BOY BRIAN MMMMMMMMMMM YOUR A BOY MMMMMMMM I AM A COMPUTER **** KID, I AM NO GEEK OR NERD MY MATE

GEEKS OR FREAKS ARE PEOPLE WHO HATE COMPUTERS, CAUSE THEY CAN’T GET PAST THE ADULT

I AM NO FREAK, I AM NO GEEK I LIKE COMPUTERS FOR CREATIVITY YA SEE

I WANT THE HEAVY METAL FANS TO LIKE ME, CAUSE YOUTUBE IS THE PLACE YOU CAN WATCH HEAVY METAL FOR FREE

ANY BAND IS COOL, HEAVY METAL MUSIC IS THE BEST MUSIC OF ALL, TO GET YA SOX OFF AND REALL PARTY HARDY WON’T STARTY

I AM NOT A FREAK, I AM A YOUTUBE ******, AN INTERNET ******, I HATE PEOPLE TREATING ME L;ILE A FREAK CAUSE THEY ARE JEALOUS

I DON’T WANT TO GET KILLED OR KIDNAPPED, OR ANYTHING, BUT I AM NOT SHY TO L.OVE COMPUTERS

I WISH THE WORLD WOULD STOP TREATING ME LIKE A FREAK, MY COMPUTER LIKES ARE

HEAVY METAL CONCERTS

LEARNING ABOUT THE WORLD

PUTTING MY ART ONLINE THROUGH ART COLONY

FINDING THE PERFECT PARTY SO I CAN SHARE IT WITH THE WORLD THROUGH YOUTUBE

TO FIND WRITING GROUPS LIKE FOCUS ON FICTION

OLD TV SHOWS I USED TO LOVE LIKE BECKER AND CHARLES IN CHARGE, ETC ETC

I WATCH A LOT OF TED DANSON’S BECKER, YA COULD SAY, I AM A BECKER MANIAC

THERE ARE MANY MORE, I ALSO HAVE SHOWS SHOWING THAT I CAN STICK AT DOING TAPESTRIES, BY INSPIRING PEOP,LE TO BE CREATIVITY

I HATE PEOPLE SAYING I AM TOO WOOSEY TO, TO GOOD ART, BUT OPEOPLE WHO SAY THAT, ARE THE BIGGEST FREAKS AROUND

IF PAT HATES HEAVY METAL,HE IS A FREAK, CAUSE HE HAD A FUNNY WAY OF SHOWING IT, WHEN HE MUCKED AROUND WITH ME

HE GOT ME INTO LOVING HEAVY METAL, AND STOP WORRYING WHAT PEOPLE THINK, I DON’T CARE WHAT PEOPLE THINK

I AM AN ARTIST, I AIN’T NO FREAK, I AM A WRITER I AIN’T NO FREAK I AM A YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER AND INSPIRER I AIN’T NO FREAK

I DO MY TAPESTRY ON YOUTUBE TO SHOW MY STAYING POWER, AND I HAVE STAYING POWER, REAL STAYING POWER

I THOUGHT DAD WAS TREATING ME LIKE A WRITER WHEN HE SAID I WAS LIKE OS, SO TO SPEAK

I AM NOT A FREAK, I AM STILL A LITTLE YOUNG DUDE, WHO IS FINE WITH HIS VIRGINITY

I DON’T CALL ME A FREAK, CAUSE I HAVEN’T HAD ***, I CXALL FREAKS, PEOPLE WHO SAY THEY ARE YOUNG WITH NO SOCIAL MEDIA

I AM ON FACE BOOK AND YOUTUBE, AND I HAVE A STRONG QUOTA ON THE INTERNET, I ASM NO FREAK, I AM NO GEEK

I AM THE COOLEST DUDE IN CANBERRA, AND THERE IS NO DOUBT ABOUT IT

I THINK MY OLD MATES ARE LIVING IN THE PAST WITH ME, EVERYBODY MAKES MISTAKES, EVERYONE HAS THOSEC DAYS

COME ON DUDES, GIVE ME A BREAK, I AM A LITTLE YOUNG DUDE WHO LOVES TO PARTY WITH HEAVY METAL MUSIC LIKE ACCCA DACCA

AND MOTLEY CRUE, AND I WATCH THE CONCERT ON YOUTUBE, DUDES, ALL THE BLASTED DAY LONG

DON’T CALL ME A FREAK, YOUR A FREAK, ESPECIALLY IF YA THINK I HATE PARTYING, I LOVE PARTYING, IT’S COOL FOR ME

I can't escape the thought of you lately it seems
I hear Thrice, Icon for Hire, Avenged Sevenfold, 7eventh Time Down,
       Sent By Ravens, hear them everywhere
See your brother in the store
See your mom at church
See a guitar
See the color red, the color green
Think of Christmas and what you meant to me
       Someone who waited for me to reach comfort
       Someone who left me too soon
       You accepted every piece of me
       You played the game, where we let the world laugh
The thought of skipping
When I dance, the salsa, anything
Watching the Sox game
Walking past you're old spot
       Remembering everyday that seemed to last forever and end
      too quickly
Every time I write the letter 'X,' your favorite
Think of green eyes, and how we said yours secretly were
Think Taylor Swift and the joke that you two were destined
My birthday comes and how you were the only one who
         remembered that year
Each time I still wear the perfume you bought me
Whenever I think of movies and how you drove out to be with me
See a bicycle or think long walks
Hear music in a language I don't understand
Get frustrated at Ecclesiastical Latin, because you do understand
Hide from the violence, because you grew up with it too

Think of leaving
Think of silence
Think of lies
Think of empty promises
Think of "I'll come back for you"

Think of calculus
And how you are such a nerd
And I stare at my paper
At these nonsensical equations
Of calculus
Of us

I am up so late
the Yankees fans next door
screaming through the cinder blocks.
Infected all over. I am
exhausted and done with this.
I would  like to go shoe shopping,
but there is 5.00 to my name.
I spent it all on medicine
for this sad little heart.

The hands of the clock were reaching high
In an old midtown hotel;
I name no name, but its sordid fame
Is table talk in hell.
I name no name, but hell's own flame
Illumes the lobby garish,
A gilded snare just off Times Square
For the maidens of the parish.

The revolving door swept the grimy floor
Like a crinoline grotesque,
And a lowly *** from an ancient slum
Crept furtively past the desk.
His footsteps sift into the lift
As a knife in the sheath is slipped,
Stealthy and swift into the lift
As a vampire into a crypt.

Old Maxie, the elevator boy,
Was reading an ode by Shelley,
But he dropped the ode as it were a toad
When the gun jammed into his belly.
There came a whisper as soft as mud
In the bed of an old canal:
"Take me up to the suite of Pinball Pete,
The rat who betrayed my gal."

The lift doth rise with groans and sighs
Like a duchess for the waltz,
Then in middle shaft, like a duchess daft,
It changes its mind and halts.
The *** bites lip as the landlocked ship
Doth neither fall nor rise,
But Maxie the elevator boy
Regards him with burning eyes.
"First, to explore the thirteenth floor,"
Says Maxie, "would be wise."

Quoth the ***, "There is moss on your double cross,
I have been this way before,
I have cased the joint at every point,
And there is no thirteenth floor.
The architect he skipped direct
From twelve unto fourteen,
There is twelve below and fourteen above,
And nothing in between,
For the vermin who dwell in this hotel
Could never abide thirteen."

Said Max, "Thirteen, that floor obscene,
Is hidden from human sight;
But once a year it doth appear,
On this Walpurgis Night.
Ere you peril your soul in murderer's role,
Heed those who sinned of yore;
The path they trod led away from God,
And onto the thirteenth floor,
Where those they slew, a grisly crew,
Reproach them forevermore.

"We are higher than twelve and below fourteen,"
Said Maxie to the ***,
"And the sickening draft that taints the shaft
Is a whiff of kingdom come.
The sickening draft that taints the shaft
Blows through the devil's door!"
And he squashed the latch like a fungus patch,
And revealed the thirteenth floor.

It was cheap cigars like lurid scars
That glowed in the rancid gloom,
The murk was a-boil with fusel oil
And the reek of stale perfume.
And round and round there dragged and wound
A loathsome conga chain,
The square and the hep in slow lock step,
The slayer and the slain.
(For the souls of the victims ascend on high,
But their bodies below remain.)

The clean souls fly to their home in the sky,
But their bodies remain below
To pursue the Cain who each has slain
And harry him to and fro.
When life is extinct each corpse is linked
To its gibbering murderer,
As a chicken is bound with wire around
The neck of a killer cur.

Handcuffed to Hate come Doctor Waite
(He tastes the poison now),
And Ruth and Judd and a head of blood
With horns upon its brow.
Up sashays Nan with her feathery fan
From Floradora bright;
She never hung for Caesar Young
But she's dancing with him tonight.

Here's the bulging hip and the foam-flecked lip
Of the mad dog, Vincent Coll,
And over there that ill-met pair,
Becker and Rosenthal,
Here's Legs and Dutch and a dozen such
Of braggart bullies and brutes,
And each one bends 'neath the weight of friends
Who are wearing concrete suits.

Now the ****** make way for the double-******
Who emerge with shuffling pace
From the nightmare zone of persons unknown,
With neither name nor face.
And poor Dot King to one doth cling,
Joined in a ghastly jig,
While Elwell doth jape at a goblin shape
And tickle it with his wig.

See Rothstein pass like breath on a glass,
The original Black Sox kid;
He riffles the pack, riding piggyback
On the killer whose name he hid.
And smeared like brine on a slavering swine,
Starr Faithful, once so fair,
Drawn from the sea to her debauchee,
With the salt sand in her hair.

And still they come, and from the ***
The icy sweat doth spray;
His white lips scream as in a dream,
"For God's sake, let's away!
If ever I meet with Pinball Pete
I will not seek his gore,
Lest a treadmill grim I must trudge with him
On the hideous thirteenth floor."

"For you I rejoice," said Maxie's voice,
"And I bid you go in peace,
But I am late for a dancing date
That nevermore will cease.
So remember, friend, as your way you wend,
That it would have happened to you,
But I turned the heat on Pinball Pete;
You see - I had a daughter, too!"

The *** reached out and he tried to shout,
But the door in his face was slammed,
And silent as stone he rode down alone
From the floor of the double-******.

I never saw Teddy,
Rudy York was just a coach,
But Fenway was my Mecca
Back when Boston was a
Sad sack team.
I have to laugh,
I traded Yogi,
Traded him,
And Roger Maris
Too,
Traded them for
Tracy Stallard!
What New Englander
Would want a Yank?
Yes Fenway folks
Were not the brightest,
Back before the Sox
Were good.
Now Red Sox nation's
Nation wide,
The Sox are always
In the mix,
After all,
To love a winner,
Isn't strenuous,
I guess.

But,
There was a time,
A half century,
Or so,
Ago,
When,
That legendary jewel,
It didn't seem so small,
At all,
To me,
A kid,
Of only ten.
She was a great,
And green colossus,
Astride Van Ness,
And Brookline Ave.
To get inside,
You'd need your Dad,
And once inside,
She was a mighty
Castle of concrete
And steel,
With boxes for the
Jimmy fund,
Everywhere the eye
Could see,
She was a dark
And dingy cavern,
***** too,
Not much to see,
But when you  walked
Into the sunshine,
There was magic
Everywhere.
The famous sign
In center field,
"Hey Bosox, sock one here,"
And just the color of the grass,
That field was perfect,
Everywhere.
Back then
You could get a ticket,
Any time you wanted,
Just drive right up,
What section,
Please?
But now,
She's a celebrity,
She's all sold out,
The whole year through,
But those of us,
With memories,
Don't need a
Reservation,
For we all recall
The ghosts of Fenway Park.

The oceans’ froth betrothed to lunatic scoff
The sublunary elegance of a subdued earthen cough
Infectious pulchritude conjures snow-globe turpitude
Defiant humility professes to know the rudeness of the crude
Distilled casually in a leery trance
Terpsichorean choreography of a hallowed prance
Callow scowls affix the hebetude of anger to the sauciness of banter
Gallant cavalries court the cult of she and enamor and enchant her
Foretold calamities proceed like clockwork from God’s destructive jaundice
Death deployed as a sententious homily of wraiths that taunt us
At every turn fatidic inspirations work to cement a known outcome
Averted gaze away from rampant gays and fire-and-brimstone bunkum
We cherish a world where the stodgy and outmoded monopolize choice considerations
Where hedonism abreast of asceticism are internecine intimidations
Suffer like Christ and buffer like tenacious poverty sustained by rice
Dare to glower with menacing insistence at the known outcome of errant dice
Soothsayers soothe prayers but cataclysm still dares
To pulverize innocent insouciance and become the cynosure of trepidation and stares
Heaven blares a deafening “obey” while hell stays silent to lure the prey
Hobnob with hobgoblins and expect opprobrium to park and stay
Gentility and class-divisions orchestrate a frozen system of tenacious prisons
Stalking the lifeblood of mainlined ecstasies and surgical incisions
Minority Report within the grasp of the majority uproar
Dalliance with a self-fulfilling time means there will always be a bout between Bush and Gore
Lecherous eyes prize a hedged bush and irascible lies seek copious gore
But because the bush ensconces the ****** in bed with China the twin towers imploded for common core
Mondegreens serenade a mistaken flirtation with a time traversed and mastered
Swelling tides hearken the moon to make a hypothetical bonanza out of disaster
Enumerated infinity within esoteric grasp and pandered sequester
Bedazzled of foreknowledge  it charters the uncharted exploitation faster and faster
Burgeoning funds entertain a mind cloistered by infamy and oppressed by indecency
Burbling puns ecstatic about the perpetuity of guns hector the province of a token leniency
Squander the day and indulge the night by knowing exactly the demise of every shooting star
Knowing the origin and legacy of every single scar
Knowing the path creates the path known
Every single stock you know you should with alacrity own
Prosperous kinship and insubordinate brinksmanship win the prejudiced award
Fencing with lethal intent the specter of death devolves into irenic accord
Envy the impregnable corporate machine and its unassailable pipe dream
Hunt the Wolfs of Wall Street until panic evolves into cacophony of screams
Democratization of prophecy will cue the most titanic robbery
Shills looking for upstart thrills will pretend an unwarranted snobbery
Paradox is impossible because every moment elapsed is indelible and irrevocable
Every frisson of love is fertile and impregnable
So rejoice that the masters of the clock invest in select stocks
And hope that parcels of secrecy tumble from the 1919 White Sox
Emerald Street knows When the Music ‘s Over
Brandished crumbs adorned with sportive panache clothed in a lucky clover
Deprived of snide tithes and the confessions of millions protest a catholic cabal of universalism draped in quaint overalls
Mock the hegemony of the sailing class and their brisk and copious squalls
Opulent scions vouch for the failsafe prerogatives of Zion
Sleeping awake we indulge the oneiromancies of Orion
Cinematic wonders regale glorified eavesdropped blunders
Until the secrecy of the machine is so conspicuously in sight it tears the elected pantheon asunder
A master race of an intelligent nepotism in denial of its own disgrace
Exploits the argosy of secrets of the flying-disked race
But one day a challenger like a rooster will orient the demotic vogue towards the treasure trove
And pirates will prosper in burgeoning droves
Myths foisted will debunk themselves as eternity preens its chosen wealth
Even the most furtive endeavors will have to equip even more stealth
That day will prompt an arms race and a worms race
To burrow beneath the chasms of malcontent and adopt and insular embrace
They billow now with toxicity and malignancy
Even death will have alternative contingencies
The resplendent future will capture the common heart
For the accumulated wisdom of words will make us infinitely more smart

Yankees, Reds and Red Sox
Royals, Rockies, Braves
Mariners and White Sox
Cardinals, Blue Jays
Angels, Orioles, Diamondbacks
Nationals and Twins
Tigers, Brewers, Pirates
Astros, Indians
Dodgers, Rangers, Mets and Cubs
Phillies and Padres
Giants, Marlins and the A's
Let's not forget those Devil Rays

Tighten your braces with yellows,
UV lights in police cars,
your high socks and new crewnecks,
steep all your worries in the cellar air.
The kitchen crew necks you,
steps over your extra vertebrae on the floor.
Exchange Red Sox caps and collaged cards for
iron oxides and spare joints,
an apology gift for the knees of a Titan.

Gilt neckties and stockings
hard hits over first base,
infrared silhouettes waving goodbye
slip on the steep porch stairs.
Your personal marching bands
sleep in shopping carts.
Your postcards lost in the Andes
written in purple pen --
everything’s smells like guilt.

Harts stagger behind
stags that hope to tiptoe around your toes,
scouting the suites in South America.
Back roads hastily swept under dining room chairs.
Necklaces of burned out light bulbs,
players sock the suited callers.
My bird house is empty.
Your world map is crumpled,
stuffed into the left ventricle of my heart.

Knaps of your wrist bones
fill the endnotes of my biography.
Bottlenecked bus loops and
windsocks left deflated in broom closets.
Your left hand in my kitchen sink,
catches my pressed shirts,
your clothesline melts into the sidewalk like lightning.
Bracelets on marble sculptures.
After you, I need a nap.

Littoral instructions spelled out in sand dollars.
Purple sunflower seeds caught in my turtleneck,
ghosts of eyelashes begin
to whisper wishes,
sockets for wrenches and ankles.
Blue hair braces for the midnight smiles,
the low tide of flowers,
the daily newspaper full of ocean currents,
your lips were too literal.

Lumbar dimples and goose bumps,
the rubbernecking waiter waited for the lights
rubbing his eyes.
Your playful dialogue
makes my plate shake.
Your safety is never on,
eyebrows marking my fifth disappointment.
I usually hate piano solos,
your voice is unstable, charred lumber.

Mince the pages of the dictionary
to make kindling for your irises.
Necklines defined as jade stamps
at the bottoms of the Chinese paintings
above last year’s birthday card.
Connect the dots to see the ruins of Rome,
your arms after the final battle,
crude stitches on undone sweaters.
Your pockets still full of dinner mints.

Canvass the imprint on the inside of
your leg from where the stitching folds over,
your jeans, unwashed in my laundry hamper.
Still overflows from knee socks and potted plants.
Microwaves compressed into my glass of water
the high tide seashells in your pantry facing
your ego in mason jars on shelves.
You’re tired of white board marker promises,
your skin a poorly cleaned canvas.

peanut butter peanut butter

is good for your ma and good for ya papa

you see i put peanut butter on bread

abour 23 times, i buy 2 loaves of bread

and i make 23 peanut butter sandwiches

i enjoy it, as the peanut butter sticks to the bread

and my mouth, i love peanut butter sandwiches

they are very nice for me to eat

but it’s high in fat and eating too many peanut butter sandwiches

can be fatal, you see i look like a little young dude

walking aroung with white sox and a tracksuit

eating my peanut butter sandwiches

you see i vision young women or men put

peanut butter all over their legs

to make a pornographic movie

i visioned a young mate mark ward legs

sticky like peanut butter

peanut butter peanut butter very sticky as you bite

get your mouth sticking together

i remember those days of going to the kitchen up and back up and back

making peanut butter sandwiches i still want that

but if had it now, i would get up to 170 kilos

so if you eat peanut butter peanut butter

it is great to enjoy a spread of peanut butter

to enjoy every day and night

The earth eclipsed the moon tonight
and turned that orb blood red.
The Sox just swept the Cardinals
and Bambino's curse lies dead.

Old Da had rooted Eighty years
but never saw them win.
Of Buckner, back in Eighty Six,
he never spoke again.

So first I went and bought us beers,
I got Sam Adams best.
Then I crept into the graveyard
where old Da takes his rest.

I poured his drink upon the grave
and raised my bottle high.
We beat the hated Yankees,Da!
Next year our banner flies!

All around me here and there
were Red Sox fans, my peers-
All celebrating with their Dads
and wiping back the tears.

War paint I always found unnecessary:
Gloss for manicured lipstick commercial princesses
Not of my kind.

And though I walk with shield, I am without armour:
Ramparts mere cheekbones,
Bare skin impressionable as snow.

Boot-print,
The mark I hated. My characters:
Frail tree rings, exposed to the chill night air.

Gold inlay frozen solid.
The fairly bound dream factory
Lies purple with melancholy.



It’s the world’s bruise. It colours sudden,
Shadowing the other side of the room
Where it paused, rare moth

Lighted upon my dark reflection,
A Mona Lisa dressed in black
And reminiscent of bobby sox.

Beauty without fanfare.
Stuff of woods: we do not glitter.
We don’t call out.

Our tongues are both dumbstruck bells.
Shy rabbits, we fold within ourselves
And sequester our secret pulp.

Section 25, Lot 1115…Gate of Heaven Cemetery….Hawthorne New York
Number 3 in your program, number 1 in your hearts.

Gramps would tell me all the stories and what a big deal they made when he walked up to bat.
Number 3..3..3, Babe..babe…babe…, Ruth..ruth..ruth!  Followed by the roar of loving fans!

Today Babe, I’m leaving you a Sabretts hotdog & a fifth of Scotch.
I know you’re out there cooling off under a shade tree with a cabbage leaf on your head.

1-2-3 who are rooting for? Well it ain’t those lousy Red Sox's!
It’s the Babe doing the walk up to “Ain’t She Sweet, See her walking down the street."

The cathedral of baseball, the Bronx Zoo,
The House that Ruth built right there at 161st and River.

You just can't beat the person who never gives up!

I saw you withering
before me, like I felt the air in my diaphragm build up slow
then fall out shakily.

I saw my grandmother wince
put her hand to her mouth,
side-ways gripping this tiny Chaplain
who’s name I’d forgotten, the moment I heard it.

I saw my cousin staring deep into empty space, his nervousness illuminated
under harsh hospital light. My uncle’s red tie screaming in this room of too tired eyes,
wearing reddened faces from crying.

The fear of this reality bit at our ankles. We shifted in place, we talked about the Sox game. We dared each other to keep on pretending to carry on.

Through this blur,
I saw you underneath piles of tubes.
Lain upon the bed a shattered man
shoulder blades peeking upward and out in what was poised to be
an eternal shrug
head hung, eyes fluttering, only held up in increments of straining. Straining to be part of this conversation about nothing.
About your impending death.

Rounds of tears and silence
rounds of nurses coming
and going,
rounds of knowing
then suddenly,
not knowing.

Propped up by a tank of air, a bag of liquid, a ton of pillows and the slow-burning will to live.

I'm looking for terrorists
In jeans, clean-shaven,
But with a bulging mid-riff.
Will he have a back-pack,
Carry a brown paper lunch
With a portmanteau.
I just gave the valet my keys,
And I didn't check his shoes
And certainly not his under-armour.
I live ten thousand miles away,
Just down the street;
So why hurt me.
We cheer for the Bo-Sox
Side by side,
He's familiar to my eyes.
I believe he was changing my oil
When I saw the sideways glance,
But I can't be sure,
When I don't know
What to look for.

THE LADY in red, she in the chile con carne red,
Brilliant as the shine of a pepper crimson in the summer sun,
She behind a false-face, the much sought-after dancer, the most sought-after dancer of all in this masquerade,
The lady in red sox and red hat, ankles of willow, crimson arrow amidst the Spanish clashes of music,
  
        I sit in a corner
        watching her dance first with one man
        and then another.

IT'S a lean car ... a long-legged dog of a car ... a gray-ghost eagle car.
The feet of it eat the dirt of a road ... the wings of it eat the hills.
Danny the driver dreams of it when he sees women in red skirts and red sox in his sleep.
It is in Danny's life and runs in the blood of him ... a lean gray-ghost car.

looking around me, 19 second stop at a red light and already the large, bearded man with the scar on his cheekbone is grumbling, scratching at his bushy mustache and drooping Yankees hat, so faded it could almost be a B for the red sox

there's a young woman, ***** blonde hair cascading down her back, almost gracefully; seemingly too small for the rumbling white pickup truck she sat in, scratched and almost a tint of blue from this angle; one hand at the wheel, one tickling the feet of a giggling newborn at her side, for a second i wondered who the father was-

and over there, a skinny Hispanic boy by the side of the road, walking with threadbare sandals flapping against the hard cement, there's a hopeless look in his eyes-

an old man with a 5-inch long grey beard, almost touching the steering wheel; he's either Asian or he's squinting into the sun, can't really tell from here- wrinkles lining his worn face

a strong-***** Japanese woman, hair in a tight bun driving a Ferrari

a red-haired bespectacled boy, pale as chalk, his face covered with freckles (or was it acne?); couldn't have been older than 17; he looked like a Robert or a Charles, definitely not a Samuel

in front of me, a red Chevy truck with a license plate LUVANN, i wonder if Ann is still with him- i crane my head upwards trying to see the man, all i can glimpse is a blue-and-white bandana-

i wonder who all these people are,
what are their hopes and dreams, do they like ******* jacks? banana splits?
where are they going?
who will miss them when they're gone, or will anyone-

then the light turns green and in a puff of smoke,
like a blur-

they're gone.

I spent some time writing a response to a poem that someone had written on commitment-- then lost it on this wonky site.
I'm learning to copy and save all my longer responses.  This one was worthwhile, I think.  Here it is with no apology for its content or its being prose.
____

The Other Woman

In so much of this thinking, I disagree with you.  Love involves so much more than  commitment.  My parents were married almost 60 years.  They were not in love for a long time toward the end though they were committed and attached. I was around to watch the steady loss with only the family loves and interests held in their surroundings-- to keep them sane?  

I watched the woman who came to my father's wake alone, weeping quietly by his casket.  I knew there was a deep love between them even though they were both "committed" to another.  My mother, as always, distracted by the "social," the appearance of it.  My father's honors were her claim to any personal worth-- His well-known name, his courage and heroics, his whole-hearted service to others, his children his wealth...these were the things she wanted from her commitment to him.  Too busy with her dementia at the end and all the attention lavished on her, my mother seemed to have lost my father years before.  I do not blame her.  I think we live too long for most of our “commitments.”

Truth be told, my father had several women  latch on to him in their loneliness and need to have their cars fixed and stuff a woman has no knowledge of, a widow and a divorcee, one unhappily married.  I know they loved him too--and in a sense, he them.  Not sure if there was anything physical between them. I would not have blamed them though.  But commitment-- certainly, yes. They were often at the house, devoted in their care of him in the worst crisis of his life, caring for us, supporting my mother through it too.  One knitted sweaters for us, gave me her family's violin; the other left us everything she owned.  My mother accepted this, unquestioning.  We used to joke about my father's "other wives."

This last woman-- was the smile of his old age, his Red Sox and drinking buddy, the one with whom he shared affection, knowing looks; the porch, their yards, the lawn chairs, coarse jokes-- a drunken wheelbarrow ride home, and all their troubles, aches and pains. My mother's church and chatter, puttering, annoyed him. This last woman kept him company.  Their love--so deep, so entire....  I could see it in their eyes when they were together despite their 30-year difference in age.

Now by his casket, propriety could not allow her grief its full  expression.  Only family ordered flowers, met after-- for "the dinner,” unrolled the pall over his body, paid the last tributes by his grave."  She was treated with loving appreciation as a faithful, loving neighbor.  My sisters hugged her, whispered grief.  When my turn came, I hope she heard me, felt me--as I hugged her, repeating,  “J_, I know, I know...."

I know I've gone on here too long, and I'm sorry.  I write all this to say that whatever commitment is, I don't think we understand the half of it.... Relationships, faithfulness, expectations, decorum-- fall apart in the face of true love-- which never needs to explain itself.

doopth..doopth..doopth..
the intonation of a gavel
upon a felted block

order, orrrder,

i now call to order this
washday gathering
of the
metaphysical
analytical
socks
drawer # 1793

all rise and come to toetip
for the grand entry of
the great thrice darned heel

kazoos squeak  the intro
to the ode to joy
an old grey golf sock is
ushered in to sit slouched
on the top of the washer/dryer.
he observes the following proceedings.

now to business

the agenda for the day

1. groove and the toe socks
table their report on the
systematic eradication of toejam.

2.the tradditionalists continue
the open discussion on,
wool versus synthetic,
for winterwear.

3.we have a vote scheduled
on the referedum matter:
do we allow sandals and thongs
guest status in this drawer.

4.the metaphysicists update
us on the age old conundrum;
"where do the odd socks go?"
at present they are devling
into the posibilities of
superposition of states,
as presented by
the schrodinger's cat theory.

5. the analytical group are meanwhile, surveying the remaining
evenless socks;
to obtain data on the pairless state of being

6. and finally, we welcome a deposition from the natralists;
with regard to use of bamboo
and hemp to allow for the wicking
of footwater, for a longer lasting
freshness of the base arch construction.

please feel free to attend one or
more of these discussions, contributions and /or questions
will be taken after the presentations.

i am also asked to inform you, that
the metatarsals group has a table of goods for sale, at the leftside of the wash basket.
items include:
new elastics and darning equipment.
books on special this meet are;
the ever popular
"how not to become a sock puppet"
and the tragic
"my life as a duster"
then there is the new offering of
"sox and jox:
the art of underwear
diplomacy."
and one last item of note:
a reminder that membership fees,
(of one clean toe clipping) are due
before next months gathering
go now,
enjoy the gathering.

and may the foot be with you

We all know the impending, ominous, zombie apocalypse is ever present, here are some  guidelines I suggest we all follow, at all times:

1) Know you friends and enemies. Who can you trust? When the moment strikes, know who you will want by your side and who is expendable.

2) Assess your surroundings.
      a. Know your exits and any strategy involved.
      b. Be aware of any weapons that can be made available and remember their location.
      c. Make note of any abundant water sources/food/supplies, etc.

3) Cell phones be ******! ALWAYS carry with you these things:  pocket knife, lighter (more than one is never frowned upon, FIRE is essential!), matches, extra clothing esp. sox, underwear, long sleeves, etc.

4) Always have a means of fire. Quite possibly the most important thing.

5) Own a gun. Even if you think guns are bad. Get one anyway. When the **** hits the fan you'll be happy you have one, trust me.  Oh yeah, and plenty of ammo.

6) Be a mechanic. Learn how to hot-wire a vehicle. Learn how engines work and how to maintain one. Any handyman skill you can acquire will be well used I assure you.

7) Find a good place to grow produce. Any sort of green house your can Jerry Rig or acreage with rich topsoil you can find will come quite handy! ... when you're starving...

8) Generally, "safety in numbers" is a good rule to follow. However, in a zombie apocalypse, anything can happen. In my opinion, you're better off with a fewer number of people. That way you have less of a chance of exposure :)

9) Find armor. Anything you can use to avoid a bite to the neck, arm, leg, etc...

10) If someone is bitten, especially a loved one, **** THEM IMMEDIATELY!!

11) Don't seek out an island for solace. You'll only become trapped.

12) Don't seek high ground. You'll only become trapped.

13) Don't seek sewers. You'll only become trapped.

14) Stick and move. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.

15) Know that NO ONE wants to become a zombie and that means they will go to extreme lengths the avoid zombification. Ergo, NO ONE can be trusted.

16) Establish a bunker or Safehouse of some kind. Keep it stocked with water, food, weapons and ammunition. You can use coals from a fire to filter any ***** water. Plus, obviously, with fire, food can be cooked.

17) At all times, be prepared to evacuate the bunker or Safehouse if necessary. Keep all valuable items close at hand and easily obtainable.

18)  Have a secondary, less obvious bunker or Safehouse that you can flee to, at any time. Also well stocked.

19) Please, if you have children, make sure they're aware of the situation.
                  a. Don't lie to them about the fact that there are humans coming back to life to eat you.
                  b. Teach them how to use a weapon to defend themselves.
                  c. Just because there are zombies about doesn't mean they can't read or educate themselves.

20) Don't be a fool. We've all seen that boarding up windows and doors doesn't work for the hero. Don't bother, get the **** outa there!

21) Blend in. If you can do a good zombie impression, like those guys from "Shaun of the Dead" then I think you're golden!  OR, You could cover yourself in human guts and blood like in "Walking Dead". Either way, blending into the zombie environment is crucial.

22) Be hypersensitive to other peoples' feelings. Everyone will crack at a certain stress point. Some sooner than others. It will be those individuals that crack that will mean life or death.

My Dad built a whoopee room in the basement of our house, that's what we called it back in the fifties, basically it was a free barroom; he worked tirelessly, tiled the floor, knotty-pined the walls, built a Formica-topped bar, with foot rail, and a pool table center stage.

At one end, he pasted and framed with the utmost care, a life-like mural, a bucolic scene of mountains, pines trees, some guy canoeing across a deep blue lake, right underneath an eight foot, padded bench to sit, toss a beer, gab Red Sox, Pats, Bruins, Celts.

The guy could make anything, fix anything in his neat as a pin workshop, totally in control, competent, a rack of tools, his innate ability to figure out, you name it, he’d fix it, in hands-on kingdom this man did it right, measured twice, cut once.

In the Mr. Fix-it realm my father welcomed me, drew me in, shared his man in the know ways, I fetched his tools a quick study daughter, I observed knew ahead of time, like an operating room nurse ready to assist the famous surgeon at his work.

But then without prior notice he’d grow silent, retreat, drink copious whiskey shots, get mean, angry, tried to outrun the never good enough farm boy he once was, this love starved kid would engulf my honest, hardworking, overly sensitive, insecure father, then we all suffered his childhood trauma all over again.