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They want me to subscribe
seek to prescribe
me Their prognosis of capitalism
content only when
I approve Their content

Her prophetess grace
unravels unlaces
Their societal disgraces
chastises the beasts
of Babylon with a wrist flick

I hear freedom ring
as Her fingers sing
cajole the oppressed
voices before drowned, now
staccato into stiletto
her tryst with strings
Joy their union brings
Her ac-cello-batic
prowess shrining springs
loose raven’s wings
each note a miracle brings
into world new hope
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NM
5/17/18

Where do we meet
    Oh! No He_*
Getting onto
the next courses
Oh La- La "Cheri"
K>ANSAS>>City
_ Prime spot pretty

 let's >- jump ))) To Love
Please raise the horses

What a skirt steak in her
Petticoat Junction
Going to Kansas City affection
Different tribe or breed
What needs to love me
tender Elvis meet Beavis Buthead
    More  T.L.C  
computer DOC Tick Tock
IRS taking a meat beef
chunk is everybody drunk
IOS what is really the meat
Business Politician Trump

Subscribe well done
Cooked or rare spooked
Taking a Spin City kick
She got canned and licked
The prime meat hot seat

The ******* who arrives
first class steak knifes
Ms. Pork hard chew 
Mr. Beans second rate
Dark pumpernickel
Saloon *******, he
is eating
The young tender
chicken leg

High five thigh? Hands
up Robin Fly
Save the meat "let it be"
  "Let it Be" Beatles
The beat Colonel deep fried
Grade A rare meat slicing

Eating in a board meeting
The pig meat market
of pricing

Doe a deer he loves
International beer
A very sensitive time
Slaughterhouse no way out
His poker face meets
potato heads beef jerky
Surrender Weds
maple smiles picky
The rich Syrup
Disney Mickey Mouse
Kansas City Wonder
meat house

The beauty of animals
"Moms kettle she is talking
to Parrots" meat
the market for rings riot
Six enemies making
6 rounds
Six servants 666 carats
Robin smiles heartily
"Campbells Chicken" little

He's the Beef Man stew
If you only knew
He's spitting tobacco chew
She peels the potato for the
meathead bad to the
T-bone Dachshund I Bone

Garlic knots heart of the
Sausage wearing the
meat corsage Superbowl
My sweet basil good soul
Grilling your bullhead
Pirate Ribeye steak pupils
Mr. "Billygoat" Bachelorette
Hair flat crepe Suzette

Moms Korean style fuss
coleslaw what a seesaw
Playing Porgy and Bess
 Scarlet the red rare meat
Rolling stone baking pin
Mississippi one or two
Under my meaty thumb

Comes in three-4-5-6- Lucky 7
-Crazy 8 furries
Nine meat ribs-10 babies
with bibs
Hungry Man meat when!!
Country plaid tablecloth
"Kansas Men" of the cloth
The Pig approval
Kansas City Mayor
new arrival

Family together eating
Don't eat our animals
Why is life so unfair
Feeding the poor
with cans
The bad cut of meat devil
this is not the "Grade A"
This is not a ring
circus trainer Bullseye

Robin coffee animal-friendly
Two peas in a pod I pods
  I tune like Gods
Were the luckiest people to have
animals  

The Floridian with dog murals
Palm trees green thumb
plants sunshine events
The symphony dog tails
of hunts
Whats to compare her twilight
eyes hold the moment stare
Talk to the animal's hearts care

Chapter Two

“I think of art, at its most significant, as a DEW line, a Distant Early Warning System that can always be relied on to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.”                Marshall McLuhan  
  
I attended Bucknell University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania because my father was incarcerated at the prison located in the same town.  My tuition subsidized to a large extent by G.I. Bill, still a significant means of financing an education for generations of emotionally wasted war veterans. “The United States Penitentiary (USP Lewisburg)” is a high-security federal prison for male inmates. An adjacent satellite prison camp houses minimum-security male offenders. My father was strictly high-security, convicted of various crimes against humanity, unindicted for sundry others. My father liked having me close by, someone on the outside he trusted, who also happened to be on his approved Visitor List. As instructed, I became his conduit for substances both illicit, like drugs, and the purely contraband, a variety of Italian cheeses, salamis, prepared baked casseroles of eggplant parmesan, cannoli, Baci chocolate from Perugia, in Tuscany, south of Florence, and numerous bottles of Italian wine, pungent aperitifs, Grappa, digestive stimulants and sweet liquors. I remained the good son until the day he died, the source of most of the mess I got myself into later on, and specifically the main caper at the heart of this story.

I must confess: my father scared the **** out of me.  Particularly during those years when he was not in jail, those years he spent at home, years coinciding roughly with my early adolescence.  These were my molding clay years, what the amateur psychologists write off with the term: “impressionable years hypothesis.” In his own twisted, grease-ball theory of child rearing, my father may have been applying the “guinea padrone hypothesis,” in his mind, nothing more certain would toughen me up for whatever he and/or Life had planned for me. Actually, his aspirations for me-given my peculiar pedigree--were non-existent as far as the family business went. He knew I’d never be either a Don or a Capo di Tutti Capi, or an Underboss or Sotto Capo.)  A Caporegime—mid-management to be sure, with as many as ten crews of soldiers reporting to him-- was also, for me, out of the question. Dad was a soldier in and of the Lucchese Family, strictly a blue-collar, knock-around kind of guy. But even soldier status—which would have meant no rise in Mafioso caste for him—was completely out of the question, never going to happen for me.

A little background: the Lucchese Family originated in the early 1920s with Gaetano “Tommy” Reina, born in 1889 in Corleone, Sicily. You know the town and its environs well. Fran Coppola did an above average job cinematizing the place in his Godfather films.  Coppola: I am a strict critic when it comes to my goombah, would-be French New Wave auteur Francis Ford Coppola.  Ever since “One From the Heart, 1982”--one of the biggest Hollywood box office flops & financial disasters of all time--he’s been a bit thin-skinned when it comes to criticism.  So, I like to zing him when I can. Actually, “One From the Heart” is worth seeing again, not just for Tom Waits soundtrack--the film’s one Academy Award nomination—but also Natasha Kinski’s ***: always Oscar-worthy in my book. My book? Interesting expression, and factually correct for once, given what you are reading right now.

Tommy Reina was the first Lucchese Capo di Tutti Capi, the first Boss of All the Bosses. By the 1930s the Luccheses pretty much controlled all criminal activity in the Bronx and East Harlem. And Reina begat Pinzolo who begat Gagliano who begat Tommy Three Finger Brown Lucchese (who I once believed, moonlighted as a knuckle ball relief pitcher for Yankees.)
Three Finger Brown gave the Lucchese Family its name. And Tommy begat Carmine Tramunti, who begat Anthony Tony Ducks Corallo. From there the succession gets a bit crazy. Tony Ducks, convicted of Rico charges, goes to prison, sentenced to life.  From behind bars he presides through a pair of candidates most deserving the title of boss: enter Vittorio Little Vic Amuso and Anthony Gaspipe Casso.  Although Little Vic becomes Boss after being nominated by Casso, it is Gaspipe really calling the shots, at least until he joins Little Vic behind bars.
Amuso-Casso begat Louis Louie Bagels Daidone, who begat the current official boss, Stephen Wonderboy Crea.  According to legend, Boss Crea got his nickname from Bernard Malamud’s The Natural, a certain part of his prodigious anatomy resembling the baseball bat hand-carved by Roy Hobbs. To me this sounds a bit too literary, given the family’s SRI Lexile/Reading Performance Scores, but who am I to mock my peoples’ lack of liberal arts education?

Begat begat Begato. (I goof on you, kind reader. Always liked the name Begato in the context of Bible-flavored genealogy. Mille grazie, King James.)

Lewisburg Penitentiary has many distinguished alumni: Whitey Bulger (1963-1965), Jimmy Hoffa (1967-1971) and John Gotti (1969-1972), for example.  And fictionally, you can add Paulie Cicero played by Paul Scorvino in Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas, not to be confused with Paulie Walnuts Gualtieri played by Tony Sirico from the HBO TV series The Sopranos. Nor, do I refer to Paulie Gatto, the punk who ratted out Sonny Corleone in Coppola’s The Godfather, you know: “You won’t see Paulie no more,” according to fat Clemenza, played by the late Richard “Leave the gun, take my career” Castellano, who insisted to the end that he wasn’t bitter about his underwhelming post-Godfather film career. I know this for a fact from one of my cousins in the Gambino Family. I also know that the one thing the actor Castellano would never comment on was a rumor that he had connections to organized crime, specifically that he was a nephew to Paulie Castellano, the Gambino crime family boss who was assassinated in 1985, outside Midtown New York’s Sparks Steak House, an abrupt corporate takeover commissioned by John Teflon Don Gotti. But I’m really starting to digress here, although I am reminded of another interesting historical personage, namely Joseph Crazy Joe Gallo, who was also terminated “with extreme prejudice” while eating dinner at a restaurant.  Confused? And finally--not to be confused with Paul Muldoon, poetry gatekeeper at The New Yorker magazine, that Irish **** scumbag who consistently rejects publication of my work. About two years ago I started including the following comment in my on-line Contact Us, poetry submission:  “Hey Paulie, Eat a Bag of ****!”

This may come as a surprise, Gentle Reader, but I am a poet, not a Wise Guy.  For reasons to be explained, I never had access to the family business. I am also handicapped by the Liberal Arts education I received, infected by a deluge, a veritable Katrina ****** of classic literature.  That stuff in books rubs off after awhile, and I suppose it was inevitable. I couldn’t help evolving for the most part into a warm-blooded creature, unlike the reptiles and frogs I grew up with.

Again, I am a poet not a wise guy. And, first and foremost, I am a human being. Cold-blooded, I am not. I generate my own heat, which is the best definition I know for how a poet operates. But what the hell do I know? Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon doesn’t think much of my work. And he’s the ******* troll guarding the New Yorker’s poetry gate. Nevertheless, I’m a Poet, not a Wise Guy.  I repeat myself, I know, but it is important to establish this point right from the start of this narrative, because, if you don’t get that you’re never going to get my story.

Maybe the best way to explain my predicament—And I mean PREDICAMENT in the sense of George Santayana: "Life is not a spectacle or a feast; it is a predicament." (www.brainyquote.com), not to be confused with George’s son Carlos, the Mexican-American rock star: Oye Como Va, Babaloo!

www.youtube.com/watch?v...YouTube Dec 20, 2011 - Uploaded by a106kirk1, The Best of Santana. This song is owned by Santana and Columbia Records.

Maybe the best way for me to explain my predicament is with a poem, one of my early works, unpublished, of course, by Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon:

“CRAZY JOE REVISITED”  
        
by Benjamin Disraeli Sekaquaptewa-Buonaiuto

We WOPs respect criminality,
Particularly when it’s organized,
Which explains why any of us
Concerned with the purity of our bloodline
Have such a difficult time
Navigating the river of respectability.

To wit: JOEY GALLO.
WEB-BIO: (According to Bob Dylan)
“Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn in the year of who knows when,
Opened up his eyes to the tune of accordion.

“Joey” Lyrics/Send "Joey" Ringtone to your Cell
Joseph Gallo, AKA: "Joey the Blond."
He was a celebrated New York City gangster,
A made member of the Profaci crime family,
Later known as the Colombo crime family,

That’s right, CRAZY JOE!
One time toward the end of a 10-year stretch,
At three different state prisons,
Including Attica Correctional Facility in Attica, New York,
Joey was interviewed in his prison cell
By a famous NY Daily News reporter named Joe McGinnis.
The first thing the reporter sees?
One complete wall of the cell is lined with books, a
Green leather bound wall of Harvard Classics.
After a few hours mainly listening to Joey
Wax eloquently about his life,
A narrative spiced up with elegant summaries,
Of classic Greek theory, Roman history,
Nietzsche and other 19th Century German philosophers,
McGinnis is completely blown away by Inmate Gallo,
Both Joey’s erudition and the power of his intellect,
The reporter asks a question right outta
The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie:
“Mr. Gallo, I must say,
The power of your erudition and intellect
Is simply overwhelming.
You are a brilliant man.
You could have been anything,
Your heart or ambition desired:
A doctor, a lawyer, an architect . . .
Yet you became a criminal. Why?”

Joey Gallo: (turning his head sideways like Peter Falk or Vincent Donofrio, with a look on his face like Go Back to Nebraska, You ******* Momo!)

“Understand something, Sonny:
Those kids who grew up to be,
Doctors and lawyers and architects . . .

They couldn’t make it on the street.”

Gallo later initiated one of the bloodiest mob conflicts,
Since the 1931 Castellammare War,
And was murdered as a result of it,
While quietly enjoying,
A plate of linguini with clam sauce,
At a table--normally a serene table--
At Umberto’s Clam House.

Italian Restaurant Little Italy - Umberto's Clam House (www.umbertosclamhouse.com)
In Little Italy New York City 132 Mulberry Street, New York City | 212-431-7545.

Whose current manager --in response to all restaurant critics--
Has this to say:
“They keep coming back, don’t they?
The joint is a holy shrine, for chrissakes!
I never claimed it was the food or the service.
Gimme a ******* break, you momo!
I should ask my paisan, Joe Pesci
To put your ******* head in a vise.”

(Again, Martin Scorsese getting it exactly right, This time in  . . . Casino (1995) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0112641/Internet Movie Database Rating: 8.2/10 - ‎241,478 votes Directed by Martin Scorsese. With Robert De Niro, Sharon Stone, Joe Pesci, James Woods. Greed, deception, money, power, and ****** occur between two  . . . Full Cast & Crew - ‎Trivia - ‎Awards - ‎(1995) - IMDb)

Given my lifelong, serious exposure to and interest in German philosophy, I subscribe to the same weltanschauung--pronounced: veltˌänˌSHouəNG—that governed Joey Gallo’s behavior.  My point and Mr. Gallo’s are exactly the same:  a man’s ability to make it on the street is the true measure of his worth.  This ethos was a prominent one in the Bronx where and when I grew up, where I came of age during the 1950s and 60s.  Italian organized crime was always an option, actually one of the preferred options--like playing for the Yankees or being a movie star—until, that is, reality set in.  And reality came in many forms. For 100% Italian kids it came in a moment of crystal adolescent clarity and self-evaluation:  Am I tough enough to make it on the street?  Am I ever going to be tough enough to make it on the street? Will I be eaten alive by more cunning, more violent predators on the street?

For me, the setting in of reality took an entirely different form.  I knew I had what it takes, i.e., the requisite ferocity for street life. I had it in spades, as they say. In fact, I’d been blessed with the gift of hyper-volatility—traced back to my great-grandfather, Pietro of the village of Moschiano, in the province of Avellino, in the region of Campania, Italia Sud. Having visited Moschiano in my early 20s and again in my late 50s, I know the place well. The village square sits “down in the holler,” like in West Virginia; the Apennine terrain, like the Appalachians, rugged and thick. Rugged and thick like the people, at least in part my people. And volatile, I am, gifted with a primitive disposition when it comes to what our good friend Abraham Maslow would call lower order needs. And please, don’t ask me to explain myself now; just keep reading, *******.  All your questions will be answered.

Great Grandfather Pietro once, at point blank range, blew a man’s head off with a lumpara, or sawed-off shotgun. It was during an argument over—get this--a penny’s worth of pumpkin seeds--one of many stories I never learned in childhood. He served 10 years in a Neapolitan penitentiary before being paroled and forced to immigrate to America.  The government of the relatively new nation--The Kingdom of Italy (1861)--came up with a unique eugenic solution for the hunger and misery down south, south of Rome, the long shin bone, ankle, foot, toes & kickball that are the remote regions of the Mezzogiorno, Southern Italy: Campania, Basilicata, Calabria, Puglia & Sicilia. Northern politicians asked themselves: how do we flush these skeevy southerners, these crooks and assassins down South, how do we flush the skifosos down the toilet—the flush toilet, a Roman invention, I report proudly and accept the gratitude on behalf of my people. Immigration to America: Fidel Castro did the same thing in the 1980s, hosing out his jails and mental hospitals with that Marielista boatlift/Emma Lazarus Remix: “Give us your tired and poor, your lunatics, thieves and murderers.” But I digress. I’ll give you my entire take on the history of Italy including Berlusconi and the “Bunga Bunga” parties with 14-year old Moroccan pole dancers . . . go ahead, skip ahead.

Yes, genetically speaking, I was sufficiently ferocious to make it on the street, and it took very little spark to light my fuse. Moreover, I’ve always been good at figuring out the angles--call it street smarts--also learned early in life. Likewise, for knowing the territory: The Bronx was my habitat. I was rapacious and predacious by nature, and if there was a loose buck out there, and legs to be broken, I knew where to go.
Yet, alas, despite all my natural talents & acquired skills, I remained persona-non-grata for the Lucchese Family. To my great misfortune, I fell into a category of human being largely shunned by Italian organized crime: Mestizo-Italiano, a diluted form of full strength 100% Italian blood. It’s one of those voodoo blood-brotherhood things practiced by Southern European, Mediterranean tribal people, only in part my people.  Growing up, my predicament was always tricky, always somewhat bizarre. Simply put: I was of a totally different tribe. Blame my exotic mother, a genuine Hopi Corn Maiden from Shungopavi, high up on Second Mesa of the Hopi Reservation, way out in northern Arizona. And if this is not sufficiently, ******* nuts enough for you, add to the child-rearing minestrone that she raised me Jewish in The Bronx.  I **** you not. I took my Bar Mitzvah Hebrew instruction from the infamous Rabbi Meir Kahane, that’s right, Meir “Crazy Rebbe” Kahane himself--pronounced kɑː'hɑːna--if you grok the phonetics.

In light of the previously addressed “impressionable years hypothesis,” I wrote a poem about my early years. It follows in the next chapter. It is an epic tale, a biographical magnum opus, a veritable creation myth, conceived one night several years ago while squatting in a sweat lodge, tripping on peyote. I

I told my mom that I wanted to go to New York after I graduate.
But she said no because I have bad anxiety.
Now I know that she just means that she won't support the idea.
Or if I asked, she would say no.
And I understand that she's just worried about me.
But if I don't go due to anxiety.
Then all that does is say that anxiety controls my life.
That it controls how I act.
Basically,  that means that it defines me and who I am.
And even though I have it.
It DOES NOT define me and who I am as a person.
Anxiety is just a PART of me.
And saying that I can't go because I'm anxious isn't right.
That means that my anxiety wins.
That means that it limits what I can and can't do.
There are things about New York that I like and wanna see.
There are people that go there.
And I would like to see them when they go there at times.
Also, there are colleges there.
And I know that they have colleges for acting and/or singing.
And those are two things I love.
And I'm not gonna let my anxiety keep me from going there.
I know that my mom means well.
But once I turn eighteen and graduate high school.
Then it's my decision.
Then I'm the one who determines if I can go or not.
And unless I don't have money.
There won't be anything keeping me from going.
As long as I am calm.
As long as I take deep breaths and know that I'm safe.
Know that it's big.
But it's also a great place where I can learn and have fun.
Which makes me excited.
I know this means that I will need to get a job.
But I will get one.
And did I mention that there are colleges in New York?
I mean, of course there are.
Don't get me wrong, I mean, I've known that all along.
But just never really thought of it.
Not until now when I'm in my Junior year of High School.
One more year and that's it.
One more year and I am out in the real world 365 days.
Every single day of my life.
And I know that I will be a stranger there till I meet people.
But that's nothing new.
The only thing that'll be new is how I handle being alone.
I can hide in the corner.
Or I can face my fears and go there with my head high.
I can say hi to people.
I can smile and nod at others who acknowledge me.
How will I get there?
I'm not sure about how I'll get there at the moment.
Maybe I'll get accepted.
A college might like my application that I send to them.
Or I'll just visit.
Get a job so I can pay for travel and to see a show there.
Or my YouTube Channel.
Yes, I have a YouTube Channel that I use twice a week.
That might help me.
Maybe I can make a career out of my YouTube Channel.
Now, don't argue with me.
I know that it's rare when people make a career off of that.
But I still love it.
I love making videos of myself singing and/or talking.
Not because of my voice.
Because those who know me know I don't like my voice.
I don't know why.
I've just always thought that I wasn't a good singer.
But I think that out of those who know me and teachers.
And then some online.
The only one who truly doesn't like my voice is me.
I'm my own worse critic.
If I see something negative about me I delete it.
Not because it's rude.
Well, that's part of it, but mainly because of me.
My mind will absorb that.
And then I will eventually will start to believe it.
Which is a form of anxiety.
Feeling anxious about how others think of you.
But the truth is.
If people are saying negative things about you.
Either to you or near you.
Or if they are saying something negative online.
Then don't listen.
Because they don't know you or who you are.
They just see the outside.
They don't know how you think or feel.
How could they?
They've never met you or got to know you.
All they know is online.
What they see in a three to ten minute video.
So don't listen.
Don't let what they say that's bad hurt you.
But if you do listen.
Then let it fuel you to be better than before.
Show them who you are.
Don't pay attention when they call you names.
Because they're wrong.
It doesn't matter who you are, they're wrong.
Pay attention to some.
The people who are praising you online.
Who like your voice.
Who like your style and are interested in you.
They want more.
They wanna see you twice a week, they like you.
Your videos mean a lot.
They mean a lot to those people who subscribe.
And they subscribe to you.
Because they like your videos and wanna see more.
Post what you want.
Sing one day and then talk the other, it's your choice.
It's your channel.
And that's what I have to tell myself when I upload.
Whenever I read comments.
And I do read all the comments I get when I get'em.
I don't get a lot.
And I still have a lot to learn when I respond.
I gotta learn to stifle.
Just say thanks and then be done with the person.
I need to do that.
Sometimes I get happy though and forget to.
But I'll get better.
For now, I need to focus on what I wanna do.
Which is make videos.
Wait a minute, what am I talking about now?
Sorry, got off topic.
This is about anxiety, not my YouTube Channel.
Okay, back to anxiety.
As I was saying, I will do what I can to manage it.
I will go there.
I will go to New York one way or another.
Not because I have to.
But because I want to for more reasons than one.
Even if my anxiety is bad.
Which I can admit that it is at times every day.
But I'll get through it.
Anxiety is not going to control me and define me.
I'm going to New York.
The only one who can control that destiny is myself.
And I will get there.
I don't know how or when, but I will.
Let this be a message.
A message for anyone who has to deal with anxiety.
It's not your life.
Anxiety doesn't control you if you don't let it.
Anxiety is a part of you.
But that's all it is, it's just a part of you that sticks.
But it gets better.
And if it can get better for me, than it will for you.

so you're an e-girl
havin fun online girl
patreon subscribe girl
premium snapchat girl
I'm that white knight
asking you for nudes type
saying I'll treat you right
crying about Chad type
I'm the niiiiiice guy

There are only two ways to truly know someone: sleep with them or take them bowling.
Phoenix Aime was the woman of my dreams. So, I took her bowling.

Paid for a game. Rented shoes. Got the little, sticky bracelet thingy that said Slippery Joe Lanes.
That way if we got in some sort of accident on the way home,
the guy at the morgue could identify us as bowlers. Anyway, here's the bulleted list of what I knew about Phoenix up to that point:

• She looked like Diane Keaton circa 1972
• She talked with great pretension concerning craft beer
• She only patronized two restaurants: Denny's and IHOP
• She was eight years older than me
• She kissed my sister once on a dare
• Her shoe size was 7
• She was perfect or a near synonym

The bowling alley was empty save a World War II vet in a wheelchair and his wife at lane six,
and they were barely there. Country music played over the loud speaker. And I felt cozy. Predictable. Like a payment plan on the QVC.

That was until Phoenix said, "I forgot something. I'm going to go talk to Mack real quick."
Mack worked the front desk, according to his name tag. Talk to Mack. She just talked to Mack. Mack was sleeping with her. I untied my shoelaces. Oh, Mack, love your red polo with blue tiger stripes.
I pulled my sneakers off. Oh, Mack, I love it when you dip your finger in nacho cheese and feed it to me. Slid my right foot into bowling shoe. Halfway in with the left, and my socked foot struck something plastic. A stick of tiny deodorant. Like unsavory truck-stop-to-truck-stop deodorant. Oh, Mack, I love it when you deodorize -- so hard. Pull the strings tight on the left shoe. Oh, Mack, rub the deodorant until your underarms are SO CHALKY AND WHITE.

"You okay?" Phoenix asked.

"Yeah, what do I look like something's wrong?"

She carried a seafoam green bowling ball with a ****** Mary insignia. "It looks like you triple-knotted your shoes there."

And I said something dumb like, better safe than sorry.

"Sorry about leaving you all alone. Mack holds onto my ***** for me," she said.  I bet he does. "I hate talking to that guy." What? "He's a vegan."

Now, at that time in my life, I was a vegan. And had planned some stirring remarks about the processing of sweet little piggies into cancerous hot dog machines on the way to pick her up. Thought she would think me full of passion, "on fire" for a cause, you know? The wise thing would have been to say, oh well, I'm a vegan. But instead I asked, "What do you mean?"

"You know serial killer's get a last meal before they're executed, right?"

"Right." Where the hell is this going?

"Well, have you ever heard of someone on death row requesting a last meal that didn't involve some sort of animal product? Gacy had buckets of chicken, Bundy had a medium rare steak, even uh, ****, what was his name, McVeigh, Timothy McVeigh he had two pints of mint chocolate ice cream. Dairy."

"I'm not sure how this refutes veganism."

"Nobody is a vegan for their last meal. Nobody. I'm not going to subscribe to a diet that I can't follow until the very end. Live every day like your last, that's my motto."

"That's your motto." I said. To be a great listener, just repeat the last three or four things anyone says to you and raise your eyebrows a little bit. (Examples: "My dog died." -- "You're dog died.", "I never ate breakfast burritos again." -- "Never ate it again.", "I love you." -- "You love me.")

Over Phoenix's shoulder, over by lane six, the wife wheeled the World War II vet up to the lane. And he tossed the ball. Good team, I thought. Want to know someone take them to the bowling alley.

Phoenix removed a glove from her pocket. She had her own ball. Brought her own badass, jet black bowling gloves. And if her carnivorous tendencies hadn't already put a ***** in the Golden Days of Josh and Phoenix, that glove did.

She typed her name first on the scoring computer. Didn't ask if I wanted to go first. That's fine. Approached the lane, three fingers inside the ****** Mary. She brought her bony arm back with the grace of a ballerina tucked away stage right in the shadows. Mary cut from grace slid down the lane with a spin.

Strike. I couldn't really see the pins from my angle. But I recieved a transmission via the "yes" and arm pump. That was two marks against her, and I was going to three. I'd call it strikes, but well, the whole bowling skew.

Here's a bulleted list of what a "yes" and arm pump immediately taught me:

• She takes bowling serious.
• If you take bowling serious, when do you relax?
• She'd never relax.
• My life would be tucked shirts, matching belts and shoes.

For six frames, I picked up fours and sevens. Phoenix, though, nothing but strikes. I threw a gutter on frame seven. Like a normal human being, I shrugged. Made a face out the sides of my mouth. Kept it light.

"I thought you were a grown *** man," Phoenix said.

"Me too."

What happened next, I willed. I'm not god or anything like that. At the time, just cosmicly ******.
Her step stuttered. 7-10 split. "Mack!" she screamed. "Floors are slicker than a used car salesman's hair."

From across the alley,
"Sorry, Phoenix, baby. I'll bring you some nachos. That make up for it?"

"Ain't gonna knock down two pins is it?"

"So, uh, no nachos then?"

"Actually, go ahead and bring those."

She lined up. Back straight. Legs together. She rolled her neck. "You're about to see how it's done."

And I didn't. She broke it down the middle. Field goal. In that moment, that holy moment, I was knowledge plateau. Vindicated.

For about 10 seconds.

Mack swaggered over, nachos in hand. "Phoenix, sweetie, you okay?"

"Do I look okay?"

"No, that's why I asked."

"Just give me the nachos."

"Ah crap." Mack had gotten his pointer finger in the nacho cheese.

"Let me see it."

And right there, right in front the ****** Mary seafoam green bowling ball, she slurped the cheese off his finger."

Frame seven, a good as time as any to call it a match. The wife of the World War II vet kissed her husband's forehead. Handed him a ball. As I walked by, hand on shoulder. "Struck gold, dude."

every time we fall in love,
they call it trite,
a false fairy tale.

love is weak.
and weak ain't trending no more.

every time we speak our mind,
they tell us to shut up,
too young to have an opinion.

the youth is unreliable,
too many fresh hormones.

every time we stand up straight,
they cross us,
crucify us.

acquiescing is appropriate,
they gift certificates in frames for that.

every time we subscribe to a higher code of ethics,
they call us radical,
salivate, and spectate as we are torn asunder by lions.

love should never transcend national pride,
here it's guns, god, no homosexuals or mexicans all the time.

if i make a stand, and you make a stand,
and the dominoes begin to fall,

if i inspire a dozen, and you inspire a thousand,
the gears will grind, the tide will turn,

the lions will all be too full,
and
they surely will run out of nails,
before they've crossed every single one of us.

I've used them on my windows
To see the clear outside,
If I read the Op-eds,
I shudder, shuttered and hide.

I've spread them 'neath my plates and cups,
My shelves all neat and tidy;
But the headlines made it clear to me
My glass is more half empty.

They had a place in the litter box
For **** to scratch and squat;
I laid them round my garden plants,
They made fine insect traps.
Rolled and twirled they'd start a fire,
I could fold them into hats.
They cleaned the grease from BBQs,
And they're safe to pick up glass.
Crumple them for packaging,
They work as school book covers;
Add water and some flour,
To shape papier mache lovers.
Fold seeds in them to germinate,
Then use them for compost;
There's many ways to employ
Your Times and local Post.

But I won't subscribe to Dailies
For the felling of our trees;
And yet I miss my papers,
And the ways they worked for me.
But when enthroned,
You'll hear me grouse,
There's no **** paper in this ****-house.

My cell works well to scroll and swipe,
But it's only good for a virtual wipe.

Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy.
Obsessed with self, there is no answer
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
So what if nothing rhymes and I don't
bring my life into an expressible state
or fight purposelessness, anomie. No one writes.
Running the gauntlet alone. A good day to die, the Apaches say.

For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. We're not talking to you.
Really, it's a perfect day. Every leaf is out
that's coming out. The grass is high
and unidentified yet another year. Being knowledgeable
is the best defense against your insignificance.

Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing
about the effects of your anger unless
you want to be an angry man forever.
Coming from the funeral with friends,
talking on the telephone. OK about being alone.

Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
This house could use a good cleaning,
dusting for ghosts. I should subscribe
to the local newspaper, do my job well,
do less until one thing's done well.
What would that be? Old, and yet so young.

There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.

There are certain indicators, undeniable,
inexorable. Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
Although we cannot make the sun stand still
yet will we make him run. Brave revelers.
Signed engagement letter attached.
Attachment to self and to things to do.

well... feminism has had its three waves
of revisionism -

    and there i'm sitting on
the windowsill,
   smoking out of my window -

watching the moon sloth the sky like
an demonic snail -

in the misty haze of a large patch
of cumulonimbus -
    right up there at around 50,000 feet...

thinking to myself?
   why are there two orbs of varying
light concentration
penetrating the sky
   and embedding the moon
in an eerie aura?

never mind -
   i still don't know what the chemical
formula for timber is,
or what sort of material is on
the moon that allows it to reflect
light from the other side
of the Greenwich Mean Time...

last time i heard: can a rock surface
reflect light?

          well then... ah... never mind...

but feminism has had its three waves
of instigation and two subsequent
waves of revisionism -

so it made me think:
   why not a second wave of fascism?
a revisionist wave...
    well... as far as i am concerned
the Italians were much paler -
   in their intentions than the Germans...

fascism 2.0 -
and the sort of fascism that would allow
me to be men...
    drunks, foul mouthed, you name it...
athletic, not-giving-a-**** losers of
sorts, among the glam of whatever else
it is that a man is...

working on the idea,
i had to think of a list -

   hmm...

          who then?
ah!

      Stanley Kowalski
   (from a streetcar named desire)...
John Wayne
  (notably from true grit)
    Charlton Heston
(from the planet of the apes)
   Tony Curtis...
              Hemingway,
Bukowski,
               Ezra Pound...
     Clark Gable
    Gregory Peck
                   the list is seemingly
endless -
   at least in the portrayal of
said characters...
ah... ****!
   Kevin Spacey as
Lester Burnham to boot!
            ah... double ****:
Denzel Washington as
Troy Maxson...
    because apparently "being"
a "poet" is little more than
the lesser stature
of a garbage man...
             unless of course:
you fiddle into a cosmopolitan
fixture.

    oh... and certainly an appreciation
for a traditional Turkish barber
shop...

something very much akin / borrowed
from America circa 1950s...
   and an unabashed sensibility
concerning good tailoring -
   but then also the prophetic
vagabond look from time to time...

just a vague idea -
    but something along these lines -
but then again, what a silly idea -
what is racial purity in
21st century England?
   some sort of vague notion
       of an even vaguer dream?

but i guess the notion of
individualistic purity:
   the purity of the individual is related
more to: who can and who won't
be swayed by alien opinions -
2nd or 3rd party -

        which includes this opinion...

i'd subscribe to put the idea on
the following zenith:

              grammatical cleanliness -
linguistic order -
            a literary tact -
   something along these lines -

after all: the 20th century is not the end
of a theory -
given 20th century communism this,
while 21st century socialism that...
ideas prevail...
   evolve - or devolve - regress
or make alternative progress -

               also given:
    there already is a fascist movement
elsewhere, other than in England -
where: it would be completely
impractical -
                  
                       prime tenet would also
be, what it already shows:
   non-expansionism of a culture
or a people -
                           more akin to
American isolationism under
                                                  F.D.R.:
i­ have a strange sentiment
for that president.

Call it a good marriage -
For no one ever questioned
Her warmth, his masculinity,
Their interlocking views;
Except one stray graphologist
Who frowned in speculation
At her h's and her s's,
His p's and w's.

Though few would still subscribe
To the monogamic axiom
That strife below the hip-bones
Need not estrange the heart,
Call it a good marriage:
More drew those two together,
Despite a lack of children,
Than pulled them apart.

Call it a good marriage:
They never fought in public,
They acted circumspectly
And faced the world with pride;
Thus the hazards of their love-bed
Were none of our ****** business -
Till as jurymen we sat on
Two deaths by suicide.

Genious, that Borrowed Word I will Subscribe
From the Land of Prayer, thanks be to you
With this Device my Social Tracker bide
To stomp Hypocrisy for Friends so True
Yet in Earnings for my Dimed Attitude
This Child did more than just create
Is to be True myself; And pursue the Good
Past Stunning Hassles our Frustrations relate
Must I consider to promote to Prime
If only Assets my Wallet can fill
At least I return the Favour in Kind
And try to maintain my Loyalty still.
Now with that done, our Voices carry on
My Heart uplift; Though Feelings weigh a Ton.

Oh! Remember that time with the guy in the place?
He had a blue jacket, the one with the face?
We were walking some street, on a simple quest,
To find chicken nuggets, and a place to rest
We had just watched a tape, oh what was it called?
The guy had blond hair or brown? Or, was he bald?
People were jamming around the subway station
I wish I could remember, **** conflagration!

Or that other time, when we tried to surprise,
But clever you would already surmise
And we searched every crevice, of that jungle-y zoo
While lil’ wandering kinds came up to you
Because you had a cool t-shirt and we did not
I shall always remember that very spot.

Or that average day, specifics I’ll not say
That we were doing some papier-mâché
And days, or weeks, or months, or later
When, you had a dream about an alligator
(it was actually a crocodile)

I brought you a present, ever so small
And with a knife, shiny and tall
We designed a marvelous work of art
Who could imagine that it would explode apart?

Or that other afternoon, we spent in the prickers
Jumping over annoying brown stickers
And tossing around a-- , I’ll say no more
Who would care, we weren’t keeping score
As red, yellow, orange were falling from above
Because we made them with a shove
And bagels and comics were lying around
As TV commercials played in the background

Hey, remember those times when we were so little
At the front desk, my head came up to the middle
When there were only “original” Pokémon
And you had a different house and lawn
I miss our games of trust, they were lots of fun
When all that we did was laugh and run

I remember drinking tea in the outside air
And sitting in a big red van praying for God us to spare
I recall “Sand” and flairs and quote
As we were digging our pirate moat
I enjoy our profound discussions and your denial
Of us doing anything but homework, while
We **** each other in the asphalt road at night
Act ridiculous in all the sight
Of people at Food Max, and you are jealous
Of old guys jogging, what befell us?

When Catherine is dancing with Russians and hasn’t energy to type
I will mumble under my breath and force her to skype
I know we both suffer without her sarcasm, bright
Your melodious tone is absent where you guys used to fight
Ah! Fond remembrance of backstage flashes
Of hairspray stiff wigs, sticky floors, and sweat on mustaches

Some day we will look back on all we have done
And think of each smile, each day under the sun
We’ll tell horrid stories to all of our kids
Of hiking through snow, eating rocks and some twigs

Somewhere, in that place, where there is no time,
There still is no Starbucks to spend our dime
But I think that now will be better than then
If we only can forget the “how” and “when”

There is no one but God who gets you and me
For who would subscribe to our philosophy
As we laugh half an hour over a crime just planned
Or a stupid movie that we watch “On Demand”
I think to myself, as red eyes fill with pus
That no one else thinks quite like us.
11/13/10

I'll be here for infinity x infinity
A penchant for curves like cursives
I say it in my verses
Vocab too wide for curses
Don't like likes
Fingers to whoever dislike
Like a vlogger: share, comment, and like
Oh yeah, subscribe
Fun, I prescribe
Right on time
Better late than never
Man of the hour
Original with the flavour
Chocolate and Vanilla
Black and grey
If you're too slow to comprehend
No résumé
No references
DIY my title says
Fickle fools play 'Simon Says'
Press remotes don't change but
Batteries can be replaced all the same
God - like
Holier - than - thou; Pope's attitude, beg for mercy
Self - driven, self - motivated
Ministering like Osteen
Light and dark
Yin & Yang
Angel or demon I can be
High off life
Limitless, no pills
I'm probably ill
Well it's my will
To count millions in $100 bills
Like ice, I chill
That's me, trill
And that's that
Suh bill

LanceSkiies

“Decolonize your mind before you become a new black slave.” He whispered to me before pushing one of his dreads behind his ear and grinning wildly at my perplexed expression. I lowered the straightener and stared at him for a while – I had loved him because of the way he was self-assured, it never faltered and I knew an explanation would follow as I leaned forward, raising an eyebrow, questioning him.
“You know you’re a queen right?” He continued, interrupting my train of thought, while turning off the straightener at the plug point.
“Ja, I know.” I answered blatantly.  
“ Then decolonize your mind.” He shouted before thrusting his hands into the sky and exiting my room. I think he knew I would figure it out for myself because as I stared at the straightener on my desk- it clicked. The statement vibrated in the very depths of my soul and an untapped reserve of energy was suddenly channelled into my aura. I could feel my ancestors, I could hear their cries, I could feel the weight of shackles, I could feel a whip, I could feel resentment, I could feel hatred, I could feel the power of a God who didn’t look like me, I could feel my peoples names that were written out of history books, I could taste blood in my mouth, I could feel blood on the cotton, I could feel what it meant to be black.
It was an epiphany, induced both by drink as well as the stench of my burnt hair. The epiphany spoke to me, reminding me that who I am was holy. That black was undeniably beautiful and not in the clichéd way that I learnt of in history when people averted their eyes, avoiding discomfort presented in an unacknowledged truth. It was in earnest, that I realised that my melanin was paramount to a glorious dynasty that I was privileged enough to be a part of. I would wear my ancestry daily and no longer shy away from the truth of my being. I am sun kissed, I am regal, I am Cleopatra, I am King Shaka, I am the soil and the trees and everything that matters in this universe, I am a closed fist lifted in a rally where mercy has intersected rage, resulting in non-violence.
The only violence that is accepted is that which vehemently opposes the status quo that my people are not good enough. That is what was meant when he told me to decolonize my mind.
“ You will be villianized in your pursuit for emancipation because the margin of melanin present in our people will always render you a slave so choose now what you will subscribe to. “ and I made a decision, standing upon the raw backs of my ancestors- I chose a discarded truth and the truth is this-  I am art. We, are art and art cannot be subjugated or castrated by a close minded agenda, set by people who have never bothered to understand you nor will they ever begin to.
I am  a poem that breathes and speaks and therefor has no choice but to be remembered. I will be etched into the minds of people who would rather forget me. I will be written down in history books next to men who would rather deny my existence.
In that moment, in my epiphany, I began to wade barefoot through my soul. I began to find pieces of myself I didn’t know where lost – and is that not courage in itself? Finding the corpse of your soul, buried beneath a cruel, mercilessly pale agenda?
          
Is speaking the truth not brave?
So I set down the straightener, and began to live.

Sometimes
when I do something
a little less
than good,
the mind
bugs me
with a guilt trip
to ****** land,
and I know
that morality
is a cornerstone
of Buddhism
which I subscribe to,
but the moral, virtuous, pure way
bothers me
as does the chemistry
of the mechanism of the mind
which gives me
this crap.

East...and west, are we?
north, and south?.....maybe...
we were nurtured with love,
our eyes and our minds opened
to different isms that helped shape our
values...we were brought up, bearing our
folks' customs, traditions and principles...
we have different faiths...some practice...some
don't...some, don't even subscribe, yet, survive.

we have dry and monsoon season...in
other parts, pleasant weather, cold winds,
and in some parts, snow.....turning to ice

we are  a mix of white skin, seeking for a tan,
and brown-skin, hiding from the sun;
one's night, is the other's day,
there are surfers among us, playing with the waves,
there at the cusp...gambling...daring fate...
there are those who hide from silent freezing winters,
finding warmth and comfort in long hot summers...

countless points of comparison,  
yet, we've something beautiful in common,
a connection of feelings, of words...our poetry,
flowing like blood, through our veins...endlessly
feeding, fueling our hearts and minds, with classy,
themes....sometimes bold, mushy, or....sassy...
no set skeds...we do it even through adversity...

we write......

we tell about our escape from life's banalities,
mindscapes, landscapes immersed in frivolities

yet, we await the marvels of each  morning we wake,
remembering gratitude, in every breath we take...

years have passed us by,
still, plays this soft music that mollifies
and inspires......heard only by you and i
prodding us, through hours, of day or night

while you exist in your own part of the world,
as i, in my hot, humid cosmos, long for cold.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::


Sally


© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    May, 19, 2019

I See. There is a Channel you Subscribe
And plan your Craft with these High-End Personnel
Promote this Sport; From The Cliff's Humble Dive
And boost Ability you know so well
So does it Groom even more with your Age
And fix your Profile to this Pineapple
Eyes locked perpet; And skipped the Skillful Page
For Economy you chose to Stumble
There are Others below; Watching your Board,
Hoping this same Posh Meal they could Partake
If only they had - Quids and Statues - hoard,
Which in Bankruptcy their Moments forsake.
Only one Word, which will dry their Sore Tears
Flex their Rosy Cheeks; And live-out your Years.

Magic Mobile in my hand,
Who is the wonder of the Web?
Who's so special in the social?
Who should I follow?
Who should I love?
Who should I leave?

Swipe, here’s an archetype,
Swipe, that’s a stereotype,
Swipe, a melody pipe,
Swipe, the vibe of the tribe,
Swipe, don’t wait, subscribe.

Magic mobile in my hand,
Turn me into a pixel ray,
Let me through the display,
Into an ocean of emotion without delay,
Don’t wanna think I wanna play.

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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© 2006 - 2014 Aresta Enterprise LLC.
B

No, I do not have
a circle of
wavy-haired
blue-eyed
dime-a-dozen
friends
who will
squeal
as I pop a bottle
of champagne,
and wear a sash that
says: "Same ***** forever."

I have never been comfortable
in groups or embracing memes
that are sadly, true.

Since I was a young girl,
I knew
I was different.
I never attracted
a consistent
group of girlfriends
as much as I wanted to
be accepted,
they eyed me with suspicion,
as I awkwardly attempted
to discuss lipstick shades,
as if it were the end of the world
should they chose incorrectly.
I never actually learned
how to apply lipstick correctly.
I still **** it up.

I wore athletic pants
everyday,
but I was not gay.
Their denim and tight
shirts just felt restraining.
When they talked
about ***** or ***
or periods, I just shrugged.
I didn't have any of those things.
I didn't beg my mom for an overpriced
prom dress,
because that's fiscally irresponsible
when you only where it once.
I didn't playfully avoid the boys flicking
cheez-its down my cleavage,
because I didn't have cleavage for boys to
flick cheez-its down!
I wasn't joining a sorority
because I didn't subscribe to
that version of sisterhood —
spending money I didn't have and
doing ******* I didn't have time for.

I was taught
as women
that our
mutual quest is to
waste each other's time
and money.
To make posters
and cookies for people.
To look and feel anything
but ourselves.
To strive toward
mediocre accomplishments
related to our wardrobe
and appearance.

There was no place for my
pragmatic contrarianism
as a women. I was supposed to be
overly concerned with the next concert
I was going to and dying my hair
a new shade of pink.
But whatever if I fail Spanish because
our teacher was a ***** anyway.

I hated being a women.
I didn't feel like a man,
but ****** if I would
be cajoled into a cult
where in order to gain respect,
I had to make myself small, less.
Even as I wrote this poem, I hesitated to
describe myself earlier,
as pragmatic,
because as a women,
I'm not supposed to define myself.

I was the most cliche misanthrope.
My outlook on humanity
was pretentious,
an amateur armchair
philosophy major:
They were the herd,
and I was a lion
with no interest
in chasing them
in their brightly
colored t-shirts.

It was late in college
that I started to realize I was wrong.
That there were plenty of
women who weren't the girls
from high school.
There were other outsiders like me.

But it wasn't until my mid-20's that
I didn't hate myself for being a women.
Hating my curve-less
body, how unfortunate
I had to bleed each month
when I didn't even feel like
I belonged.

It wasn't until I respected myself,
that I began to respect other women.
It wasn't until I stopped hating my body,
that I stopped prioritizing my intelligence
over others, especially when the men in my life
told me I was one of the smart ones.
It wasn't until I respected myself as a women,
that I could cultivate
deep and meaningful friendships
with other women.

I still hesitate to say
I have found sisterhood.
I still feel like an imposter sometimes.
But don't worry.
I will have bridesmaids.
See, I have friends.
They just aren't the kind
that make me wear a sash
gleefully declaring
my ***** prison.
They know me better.

I never was occupied with the essence of patriotism
The altruism of the conscription of the young, to later express gratitude for their service, for their heroism
The sensationalism of singing of the anthems, and the so-called 'civil defence'
But really, it's all merely an excuse to justify unwarranted offence
It's a weapon wielded as a subterfuge for the ethical codes transgressed
For capital, people become national and subsequently irrational
Due to patriotism, all the decisions of the government are infallible
And anyone who opposes said verdicts is radical
To continue reading about patriotism, please subscribe it's only $120 per annum. Fees are taxable

captured in the psych ward — hooligan taken away from christmas concert for being poor



today ron was awoken at 10.99 pm on the night of the sidney meyer music bowls christmas carols

by the HDU, when young harry butler was admitted for sitting writing stories and sending them via

facebook via his phone and at the 2nd carol, the security guards picked him up and threw him out and when

he fought back, the guards rang the HDU, to come and get him, and as he was being transported

all sorts of delusions were coming into his head, like he is jesus christ and he is currently suffering

for everyone’s sins, and then he said, he was eberneezer scrooge, and the guards were aware of that

and had to throw him out of the carols and then was given an order to never attend it because he is

a danger to everyone and himself, and ron asked him what happened and he said, the guards wanted

to get rid of me because i am scrooge, and when i explained that to them, the guards told me to shut up

and leave, and when i didn’t leave, they said ok, come on scrooge, it’s time you had a little journey to the

psychiatric unit, to be placed on a better medication and ron said, do you really believe you are scrooge

and harry said i must be, because all i was doing was sitting there writing stories and singing carols

but the guards just picked on me, because i have an illness and ron said, ok, but are you sure you didn’t

do anything to provoke it, and harry yelled ‘NO’, i look like a hobo so the fucken guards decide to pick on me

and then harry asked ron did you watch the carols and ron said, yeah till the phone rang about you, you

see i can’t understand why the guards pick on you, i can assure you, i look bad tonight, but are you sure

you didn’t **** out on the lawn or in a private tin, so you don’t wait in line and harry said ‘NO’ and then said

that is the most discussing thing i have ever heard of, i could actually drink that if i got really thirsty but ron

said he has to explore the options and also find out what medication is best for you and harry said, NO YA ****

I DON’T WANT YA BLASTED MEDICATION, I WANT TO GO BACK TO THE CAROLS, ron told harry that wasn’t an option

and tried to hear the rest of harry’s story because at present his story is keeping him in the HDU for a long time

because we need to make sure the families are safe though, then harry asked if he could watch the carols on TV

and ron went in there with him and then harry started talking about moses being at the carols attempt;ting to crowd surf and

harry thought that was funny and then he saw leonardo di vinci paint a picture of him being taken to the nuthouse and

now he is there, the finale came and harry was getting cranky with ron saying you don’t fucken care for the sick people

such as myself and ron told harry to settle down saying i care, i care i care, and harry said all you want top do is pump me full of drugs

and i am a poor man with his family taken away from him by those greedy **** from the mental health tribunal

and then ron, they had the hide to tell me, i must go through a lot of fucken treatment to get them back

and ron said, have you been offered medication to, (harry yells stop) ron said, let me talk to make you feel better and

harry said, *******, i have been pumped full of drugs day in and day out, and ron asked, can i ask what drugs and

harry said seroquel and chlosiphine and i get by smoking mariguana, and ron said, you do know that mariguana can cause

brain damage and harry yelled, ‘SHUT UP YA FLAMIN’ DRONGO’, mariguana was the only drug which helped me and

when i get out, i will go back to smoking it and forgetting about the fucken side effect medication, you ***** subscribe for us

and ron said, we have to give you medication while you are here, to get you better and make you a free man, and harry said

I DON’T WANT TO BE PLACED ON SOME WONDER DRUG TO GET ME OUT OF HERE, THE WORLD FUCKEN HATES ME

SO PLEASE ALLOW ME TO FUCKEN GET OUT OF HERE, and ron said, no, and gave him a shot of ****** to calm him down

and every time harry saw ron, he yelled GET ****** ****, but the ****** was slowly making his voice calmer and calmer

and he went to sleep, and ron went home to get ready for the christmas party, but he said to the nurses at the HDU if he gets up

screaming, give him more ****** and if that doesn’t calm him, call me and i will be right over, but the ****** will keep him quiet

till he agrees to take medication, he is high on dope and he thinks it’s helping him so ****** is the best option for him, it gets rid of

any signs of mariguana, and personally i think taking him away from the carols was the best thing, because just imagine if the kids

saw an angry man like him at the family event and ron left and started preparing for his christmas party and at 1.00pm on christmas

harry held a fork at the nurses throat and said LET ME FUCKEN SEE THE DOCTOR YA **** and ron came back and gave him

600 mills of seroquel and told him to relax but harry said, I WILL FUCKEN **** YOU TOO, IF YOU DON’T LET ME GO OUT, I HAVE

A CHRISTMAS PARTY WITH MY FUCKEN PARENTS and ron said, ok i will give you more ****** because we can’t let you go

because, you are danger to yourself and to other people and then ron said merry chrkistmas and went back home to clean up the

party dishes and watched the micheal buble christmas show on television, and then went to bed and woke up at 8 am for work and

went to his cafe for breakfast where he told them about harry who was brought to the HDU from the carols on christmas eve and after

finishing his coffee he went to work and harry was restrained because he became violent and harry gave him some more seroquel and

then asked him what was bothering him apart from the visible but harry yelled GET ****** and ron went back to the nurses saying keep

an eye on harry ok, we can’t have him go free because he could cause harm to the other patients and to us, and ron went home, ordered a pizza

and watched a video on how to control dope users.

Some people die in Texas.
Some people die in Spain.
Some people die in their sleep.
Some people die in pain.

We were all in love with trauma.
We were all in love with the same
ideas we projected onto people
and disguised with their name.

I don't live in nine-eleven-land
and neither do my peers.
I've been monitored by other people's Gods
for twenty-two ******* years.
Coffee pots and cigarettes
stimulate my day
and keep the thoughts streaming,
that eventually fade away.

Some people die in Utah.
Some people die in Prague.
Some people never get married
or have the family dog.

We were all in love with status.
We were all in love with goals
that would make life poignant
and make ourselves whole.

I don't subscribe to the thought
that my thoughts necessarily matter.
If life is a horror movie,
then I'm the fake blood splatter.
Bible thumps and dead eyes,
are all part of my design,
and how I live and where I die
means to separate my mind.

The ******'s Lesson

They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.

Then the Butcher contrived an ingenious plan
For making a separate sally;
And fixed on a spot unfrequented by man,
A dismal and desolate valley.

But the very same plan to the ****** occurred:
It had chosen the very same place:
Yet neither betrayed, by a sign or a word,
The disgust that appeared in his face.

Each thought he was thinking of nothing but "Snark"
And the glorious work of the day;
And each tried to pretend that he did not remark
That the other was going that way.

But the valley grew narrow and narrower still,
And the evening got darker and colder,
Till (merely from nervousness, not from goodwill)
They marched along shoulder to shoulder.

Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky,
And they knew that some danger was near:
The ****** turned pale to the tip of its tail,
And even the Butcher felt queer.

He thought of his childhood, left far far behind--
That blissful and innocent state--
The sound so exactly recalled to his mind
A pencil that squeaks on a slate!

"'Tis the voice of the Jubjub!" he suddenly cried.
(This man, that they used to call "Dunce.")
"As the Bellman would tell you," he added with pride,
"I have uttered that sentiment once.

"'Tis the note of the Jubjub! Keep count, I entreat;
You will find I have told it you twice.
'Tis the song of the Jubjub! The proof is complete,
If only I've stated it thrice."

The ****** had counted with scrupulous care,
Attending to every word:
But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair,
When the third repetition occurred.

It felt that, in spite of all possible pains,
It had somehow contrived to lose count,
And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains
By reckoning up the amount.

"Two added to one--if that could but be done,"
It said, "with one's fingers and thumbs!"
Recollecting with tears how, in earlier years,
It had taken no pains with its sums.

"The thing can be done," said the Butcher, "I think.
The thing must be done, I am sure.
The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink,
The best there is time to procure."

The ****** brought paper,portfolio, pens,
And ink in unfailing supplies:
While strange creepy creatures came out of their dens,
And watched them with wondering eyes.

So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not,
As he wrote with a pen in each hand,
And explained all the while in a popular style
Which the ****** could well understand.

"Taking Three as the subject to reason about--
A convenient number to state--
We add Seven, and Ten, and then multiply out
By One Thousand diminished by Eight.

"The result we proceed to divide, as you see,
By Nine Hundred and Ninety Two:
Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be
Exactly and perfectly true.

"The method employed I would gladly explain,
While I have it so clear in my head,
If I had but the time and you had but the brain--
But much yet remains to be said.

"In one moment I've seen what has hitherto been
Enveloped in absolute mystery,
And without extra charge I will give you at large
A Lesson in Natural History."

In his genial way he proceeded to say
(Forgetting all laws of propriety,
And that giving instruction, without introduction,
Would have caused quite a thrill in Society),

"As to temper the Jubjub's a desperate bird,
Since it lives in perpetual passion:
Its taste in costume is entirely absurd--
It is ages ahead of the fashion:

"But it knows any friend it has met once before:
It never will look at a bride:
And in charity-meetings it stands at the door,
And collects--though it does not subscribe.

" Its flavor when cooked is more exquisite far
Than mutton, or oysters, or eggs:
(Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar,
And some, in mahogany kegs)

"You boil it in sawdust: you salt it in glue:
You condense it with locusts and tape:
Still keeping one principal object in view--
To preserve its symmetrical shape."

The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day,
But he felt that the lesson must end,
And he wept with delight in attempting to say
He considered the ****** his friend.

While the ****** confessed, with affectionate looks
More eloquent even than tears,
It had learned in ten minutes far more than all books
Would have taught it in seventy years.

They returned hand-in-hand, and the Bellman, unmanned
(For a moment) with noble emotion,
Said "This amply repays all the wearisome days
We have spent on the billowy ocean!"

Such friends, as the ****** and Butcher became,
Have seldom if ever been known;
In winter or summer, 'twas always the same--
You could never meet either alone.

And when quarrels arose--as one frequently finds
Quarrels will, spite of every endeavor--
The song of the Jubjub recurred to their minds,
And cemented their friendship for ever!

Faceless books relive life as pseudo-abbreviated scribes
the tip tapping of helvetica lies reporting banal times
falsified laughter coughed up between every three lines

Faceless books wasting precious time
gathering the masses for the fanfare of a couple of guys
and gals.

Crippled by conformity to fit within cyber-society for cyber-friends and cyber-lives, virtually living a virtual life without virtually living in the first place.

Posing pursed lips and filming grainy video clips
one-liners of the wall signers pretending to pretend to care to come off as they actually pretend to care to begin with.

Two hundred and plus empty entities and counting, the next person met can subscribe to my life now.

I saw him; I saw an Israeli committing ****,
In the Gaza strip the former land of Arabs,
The eye of Palestine, a beacon usurped away,
By the sons and daughters of God, the Hebrew Yahweh,
I saw there the sons of God committing ****** horror
Of all lethal horrors, they brutally ***** Arab women,
***** Arab girls and lame women, grand mothers
And others in the brudah as their male loved ones,
In askance standing to look, their face tearfully a gape,
Sons of God from the house of Israel **** brutally,
They wound, mayhem, do every thing murderously,
Other than mass ****** in rounds, a lesser punishment
Perhaps; they mete as a show of forgiveness, show of ruth,
Sons of God have an evil nemesis; they siege humanity like a devil,
They unashamedly **** young children, sexually and homosexually
Lesbians from Israel, the house God also brutally **** and ****,
They **** forlorn Arabs and Africans, for no other reason,
But the race, faith, ethnicity and weapons of their victims
Are no match to the evil and satanic ploys of house of God; Israel,
Israel Please, stop ****, stop; ****** and civil casualties,
Against the desperate and the armless, they are forlorn,
Israel listen, your Gaza Culture is crime against humanity,
You maliciously habour weapons of mass de-creation; Nuclear,
You have fierce most segregation camps, to detain African
Refuges, o! No you call them black illegal immigrants,
And in those camps you brutalize them more than the visitors
And the   inmates of Guantanamo prison, you really torture,
And you leave them to die of hunger in the open field,
As your head boy Benjamin Netanyahu gives an OK.
Israeli you are liars; you are not the sons of God,
All humanity reflect divinity, But Israel reflect terror,
Israel you are liars, god never gave you Palestine,
Those are your fables that fuel racism and terrorism,
It the weapons you get from America that gives you
Palestine your evil acquisition, an eyesore to the just,
Israel you played a decoy and bombed the twin towers,
In New York on the 11th date of September,
To stunt the American bulls to goof in their folly
To attack Iraq of Sadam with drones and scuds and
Patriotics, as you stand aside in self-congratulation,
Israel you are bad, your heart is anti-human and satanic.
Who made other nations to be gentiles?
Other than your malicious conscience,
That breeds hatred inherent in you
For those who confess different faiths?
And subscribe to different nationalism,
O Israel! The dweller of Jerusalem
If God created you alone, then who
Created Negroes the dweller of Congo forest,
O Israel the forced dwellers of Jerusalem
Why is it difficult for you to stay, mix and intermarry?
With Asians, beggars, gravediggers, Muslims, Africans,
To intermarry with humanity, how fragile and
Self suscipicious is your testicles and vaginas,
So that you uppishly shun humanity, by denying the poor
Their natural right of ***; *** that only  prevents war.

Cyborg;
n.
A cybernetic organism,
Cyb[ernetic]-org[anism].

Cybran;
n.
A cybernetic human,
Cyb[e]r[netic]-[hum]an.

Nation;
n.
A large body of people united by common descent, history,
Culture, or language, inhabiting a particular state.

Aeon;
n.
Originally meaning life, being, age and/or time,
Now relating to nous, noesis, noema, noumena, noumenon;
The noumenal world-in-itself, eternity and immanence.

The Way;
The philosophy that all should embrace peace.

The Illuminate;
Those who subscribe to The Way.

Hi there everyone!
this more of a message
than a poem...

please subscribe or watch my videos on youtube.

My channel is: Everlasting Emo Goddess

check out all my videos but in this case
i just want you to check out my
latest ones and tell me what you think

My latest ones are:      Jeff the killer (with video clips)
and                                The slenderman (WITH VIDEO CLIPS)

Thank you guys so much for helping me out!

Kaitlyn Bristowe and Shawn Booth open up about breaking the rules and their plans for a (really big) family. Subscribe now for all the details plus exclusive photos, only in PEOPLE!

Get ready to toast to Mr. and Mrs. Booth!

Kaitlyn Bristowe and Shawn Booth, who got engaged on The Bachelorette's season finale, are ready to walk down the aisle … just as soon as they take a little breather.

"We just want to enjoy the moment right now," Booth, 29, tells PEOPLE exclusively. "It's been so crazy. We just want to hang out as a normal couple, do a little traveling and then sit down and start making some plans."

Adds his bride-to-be: "We can't wait. We don't need to plan it right now, but we can't wait."

And the famously laid-back former dance instructor, 30, says she's already got a couple visions for her big day in mind.

"I always picture myself having a destination wedding because I'm so low-maintenance," Bristowe says. "I don't want to pick out flowers or colors, I just want to be like, 'yes, no, yes, no' ."

Jokes Booth: "I always pictured a wedding in Vegas at a little chapel!"

As far as expanding their family down the road? It might happen sooner rather than later, if you ask Bristowe.

"I have such baby fever," she admits. "I want four [kids]. Shawn wants five. And I hope to God I have all boys."

"One girl," Booth chimes in. "One girl that looks like her mom!"

For much more from Kaitlyn and Shawn, including exclusive photos, pick up the new issue of PEOPLE, on stands Friday

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane

My roommates Leong, Sophie, (Charles) and I were coming from a Yale sporting event. The sky looked like a ***** Swiffer-mop and the wind seemed to be ignoring the posted 20mph speed limit. It was a typical spring day in New Haven, overcast, 65°, with intermittent, drizzling rain. I was thinking it was a good day to be a duck.

We were looking for something to gnaw on and a beverage - of the alcoholic variety. We picked up some Mike’s hard cider (featured in our refrigerator now), which proves college students really do plan for the future.

It was about 4pm and the streets were puddled, slick-looking and empty. The lone passing car sounded like it was riding on a sponge. I was wearing a navy blue, short sleeve Polo dress, a matching Polo bucket hat (for the rain) and a slub knit hoodie that I ‘borrowed’ from Sunny forEVER (seriously, I ordered her a replacement from Amazon) and Roxy boat shoes.

On a side street, a “party-bike” sat parked, sad and abandoned in the rain. A party-bike is a tram fitted up as a bar that slowly drives noisy drunks around. The drunks sit around a “U” shaped bar, on small, backless stools welded onto the tram. Yes, an open-air bar on wheels. I can’t help thinking that a lawyer came up with the idea, because what could go wrong?

The first time I saw a “sightseeing” party-bike was on Beale Street, in Memphis Tennessee. Memphis is the Disneyland of barbeque and the blues. Every storefront for blocks is an open air blues bar, a barbeque place or souvenir shop (or all three at once). Party-bikes make sense there, because intoxication is like oxygen in Memphis. It's a party-bikes native environment. In New Haven, they seem cheap, excessive and opportunistic.

As we were walking, in the distance, we heard the wail of a saxophone and a beat so clear, that the sound seemed to linger and shimmer in the air, like a cartoon neon ‘Jazz’ sign. We instantly turned that way and discovered it was coming from a place called “Three Sheets” which was having open-mic tryouts for the house band.  

It’s a bar that serves food and there’s a ‘beer goddess’ painted on one wall. In Georgia, we’d call it a ‘fern bar.' We found a table in the darker back, out of the way, and settled in. A waitress quickly took our orders and brought us several IPA beers.

Near a platform stage, there were 6 or 8 musicians sitting around (with their instruments) waiting to take a turn forming a trio with the house drummer and bass who were laying down a constant beat. One would step in with a guitar and play for a hot minute, then a guy with the sax, another with a trumpet and yet another with a clarinet, it went on and on. They each had a solo, at some point, and it made me wonder why I don’t listen to more jazz.

Our afternoon of music was something Sophie had wished for. Earlier that morning, as we were leaving the residence, she’d said, “I wish there was a concert or something going on tonight - something musical,” and boom, we get this. Still, I don’t subscribe to the idea of holy intervention.

I hate it when I hear people say, “God never gives us more than we can handle.” I bristle, my head snaps in the direction of the speaker, I want to see who that dumb-*** is. My parents and sister are doctors, and believe me, people are dying every day in situations that are more than they can handle. Heart attacks, staph infections, gunshot wounds, covid, cancer - Uggg, sorry, I got off track and boiled-over there.

Anyway, we had some jazzy music and incredible Vietnamese pulled-pork sandwiches with fries and a smoky ketchup that I could have just drunk.
.
.
**I put (Charles) in brackets because, as our driver and escort, he’s usually there in the background when we’re not in the residence. But his presence is circumscribed, because he’s not there socially. Is it rude not to include him in every narrative? I don’t know - it's a habit.

I promise,
to watch you everyday.
To like everything you do,
even when others don't.
I promise to share you to all of my friends,
but tell them I found you first.
When you need a smile,
I will make a gif of yours and watch it loop.

If better,
means making your view count higher,
count me in.....count me in a 1, 000, 000 times.
If worse,
means staying up past 3am to see your new video,
let me be an insomniac.

I will care for you,
when you catch a virus.  
I will never cheat on you,
with another channel of viewers.

I will subscribe to every,
heartbeat,
breath,
and click.
I can muster.

You are my tube.
and I promise to love you,
till we crash.

The view from you
may be a lie,
but it's one I subscribe to.

You told me they were cogs,
and I deserved to only
watch from afar.

The view from you
has got me dizzy, woman,
but it's a worthwhile fright.

You told me to turn me on,
plug in to higher existence,
I asked, "god?", you said, "nah."

The view from you
is going to send me to the ground,
howling the whole way down.

You told me I'd enjoy the journey,
"it'll be brief, but sweetheart,
you'll never taste of grief."

sign me up.