This is a three-part, longer narrative poem, seen
as old photographs that follow the main character, My Aunt, Lillian Goldrick, across two decades.  It was written 30 years ago*
______

“Hey Kid!”     Part I

Photographs aren’t fair
stopping the soul where it’s not
in rectangular guffaws
surrounded by serrated edges, pickets, teeth?
to fence and stab in yellow, soft-covered booklets
with designated floppy phrase
“Your memories”

Happier than she could ever be...

A black and white day at Salisbury Beach, NH
hung over his hammock
Private pin-up girl
tilts her head against silver sheen of shoulder
Hair, dark chignon
except for a few wispy curls about her face
freed by wind
bleached by sun

Stopped

...for three decades
Legs slightly bent—long extended
that could stop trains, stop traffic

Stopped

Modest bathing suit, probably peach
cannot hide (not that she would)
the undeniable
And if there were question left
you could look at her smile—and love her
posed by he message scrawled in sand:

“Hey Kid!”

What kid? Where?
In the foreground?
In the camera’s eye?

In the background—
a Ferris wheel, a billboard
and  r-i-g-h-t  there—Can’t you see it?
Look again—behind her eyes
You can barely see it, but it’s there.
Remember?

The Depression
Only ten years before
It was April
Stroke, heart attack
Both of them gone, a year apart!
The priest came
Last Rites for mortally stricken
Candles, crucifix, the Catholic containment
of holy water that dams the tears

Kneeling around the bed
they said the Rosary

——————————

After VJ Day he came
to the house on the corner
of Commonwealth Ave.
She knew he was coming
but she could not be ready today
nor tomorrow
nor next week—or ever...

“Lill! Will ya come to the door?
She’ll be ready in a minute.
Hey Lill! Hurry up, will ya!
They’re waitin’ fer us!”

Upstairs in the dark hallway
her door clicks shut....
________


"Hey Kid"    Part II


The clock at Joe Rianni’s read 20 minutes to 12...

Crowd from the Phillip’s Theater—gone
though laughter lingers
in a Friday mood
in high-backed booths
where only an hour ago swinging free
were high-heeled shoes
legs crossed at knees....

Now on tables abandoned
deserted fields of French
fries lie cold in salt flurries

Only female straws wear lipstick
as do Luckys bent in ashtrays
Males, uniformly flattened
as powder burned, as mortar might
shells, casings—the evidence of war
Among explosions of tickled giggles
one was taken broadside...

listing     toward      stars
_______

...The clock read 20 minutes to 12

when she walked in--
And Rhea stopped swabbing black mica counters
long enough to absorb late-customer hate
and envy that such beauty can arouse
In voice hoarse and weighted like a trucker’s

“Whadaya have, Lill?”

“coffee”

The small answer settled at the soda fountain
and slowly struck a match...
She was falling from the slant
of her black felt hat
dripping off the point of pheasant feather
Gray gabardine suit
tailored from angle of shoulder
to dart diagonally
toward such a waist!
Turned to skirt hips
that arched and dove toward slit—
then seams that run the round of calf

that seem to flow
to ankles of naught—
...and all that seems

Black     high-heeled     above it

Coffee— cold, stale
Gray glassed-in stare
searches air and random walls
of coat hooks, menus, mirrors...
while lips ****** exiled words— replies

Dragging a demon from her Camel
slowly     purposefully
she exhaled a burly arm of smoke
that rose and laid its hand
against the ceiled atmosphere of embossed tin
Then leaning over her shoulder
in roiling emission of shrugs and sneers—

“Lill—There’s no way outa here!”
________


“Hey Kid!”    Part III

After kneeling backwards on their chairs
after nuns, catechism recited
After—
Five of them scuffed through leaves and litter
along the curbing
spotting cars that counted—
Bugs, beach wagons, flying bathtubs
A slower way home of hunting
shiny chestnuts and muddy finds
rare match book covers
and bottle caps that win ya things!

One breaks from bunch
and trials off to where
dimes turn to candies!
...at a dingy luncheonette...Joe Rianni’s
____

Here—behind smeary wall of glass
pleasure leers while holding back
those grimy fingers, lips that long
for jelly fish, gum drops, lollies
holding back the company
of Baby Ruth, and Mary Jane
O Henry or Bazooka Joe!
For less money but the same salivation
there were colored dots to chew and ****
from strips of paper that last forever!
For a little more, plus the sweet struggle
of desire denied
a kid could be proud owner
of a pea shooter or trading cards!
While in the mouth
were golden imaginings—
the chocolate foil of coins
and the candied pretense of cigarette adulthood
_____

Rhea didn’t see her in the line...

Only grownups with wallets and purses
Only grownups get waited on...
...because Rhea was a Gypsy!
Kids could tell!
by her big red lips and hair to match
by the nasty way she chased them out—
“****** kids!”
Only grownups get waited on....
_______

And the clock read 20 minutes to 12

While a child waits—
time stirs in a ceiling fan
   There’s a drift in attention
      along deepening endless walls
         toward a line of sleepy booths
              carved with

“I was here—in such and such a year”

Her aunt—at the last stool—like always
Their names too close
Confused too often

A little girl wonders
about the sight behind the sightless stare
loafers, ankle socks, the ‘40s hair
the gathered skirt that gathers ashes
as they fall from cigarette
held in yellowed fingertips
Tremors crimp the smoke that climbs—

              ...a strobing pillar

“Whataya want, girly?”

              ...the only movement

“Hey! What’s it gonna be!”

              ...in a shot—

“HEY KID!”

              Snapped

Big ships, small ships, yachts and dingeys
Floating across the mighty sea
Carving their way, displacing their weight
To keep afloat the Captain and First mate.

Old ships, new ships, schooners and cruise liners
Have crossed paths throughout the ages old
Once to explore, make claim, pirate and fight
Now to wine and dine on a luxurious bite

Salted beef, rock hard bread and weevil-friendly biscuits
A 3 course meal fit for Old Salts alike
Weevils & worms and bugs of all kind
Along with sparse portions of meat, you might find

French wine, filet mignon, sushi and pastries
Buffets and fine dining, variety is key
All you can eat, whenever you'd like
No chores, no work, just eating all night'

What a contrast exists between these two worlds
Only 2 to 300 hundred years apart
Once grimy, risky, arduous and fraught
Now fancy, lazy, and much to be bought

What if the Old Salts could teleport to today
And live aboard our floating hotels?
With no masts to climb or sheets to tend
Would they break or would they bend?

I suppose that switch would be easy enough
But send us back to Pirate-ridden waters
You'd be sure never to hear from us again
Swabbing the deck would **** us alone
Not to mention the food and disease of back when.

- BPW 
Dec. 11, 2013

I remember it well
As if it were yesterday
We geared up and set sail
And embarked upon unfamiliar waves

It was I captaining the vessel
With One-eyed Sven my quarter master
He could cut throats and roll pretzels
His weapon of choice was his bow caster

This wasn't a mission of plundering
That alone left the crew in a state of wondering
No, we weren't looking for buried treasure
But for sheep skin seat covers and Scandinavian leather

My first mate Mr. Obanion said to me
"Captain are we off course?"
Then my boatswain , Wiley asked sheepishly
"Aren't we going for *** and ******?"

I looked them in the eye at the same time
"Gentlemen, this ship is headed to Dublin"
"We're going to see a good friend of mine"
"Now get back to your swabbing and scrubbing"

This was an order of business not some sort of cruise
I'm sailing with a ship of one track minded fools
We didn't set out on a vacation of leisure
Were on the hunt for sheep skin seat covers and Scandinavian leather

I did not mean to keep them in the dark
But they would think less of me
I needed these things
For the women I married

You see we'd been on the rocks
And I know she wanted these items
So I went over the sea with a fine tooth comb
Until I had finally found them

My men had sailed endlessly for months
They were worn down and ragged
Waterlogged and exhausted
While I always came up empty handed

But I had to save my marriage
Salvage my relationship
I knew it would work
If I gave my love these gifts

We reached the golden, calling shore
Of the beautiful Dublin
From the River Liffey and headed north
My friend Seamus let me come in

I came out shaking his hand
I was satisfied with my purchase
Until I was questioned by my men
What it was we came for in our searches

I had to show them, I was under scrutiny
I pulled out two stagecoach seat covers and a pair of pants
They were enraged and called mutiny
They blindfolded me and bound my hands

Now I'm marooned on some unmapped island
And I see my ship riding that horizon
This will sadden my wife, oh how it will upset her
She will never receive her sheep skin seat covers or her Scandinavian leather

Skin a webbing
Swabbing the leaking life back in
Collarbones a spiderweb
Eyes sunken 
Titanic in an ocean of a face
A harp created from ribcage
The spine a wicked wrought iron gate 
Slamming through the shifting  tundra of back
Tumble weeds where lush gardens were
Why are you running your rivers dry?

Found on the corner of sleeping dogs lie
Came to the spotlight with one crooked eye
Painted a portrait in spite of the light
Hoping the canvas was centered and tight

Poured off the foam before going to bed
It’s easy to sleep when you don’t have a head
Dreams are the reason I tend to escape
Picking up pieces that fell off the cake

Coupled with sailors now off on a trip
Some sunken treasure on some sunken ship
Last time the cannons did roar at the sea
Green was the canvas of the canopy

Blown into port with a quart in your bag
Looking quite close at the half masted flag
Wondering who might have swam with the fish
And ended up sinking and getting their wish

The mist in the air hung so thick on the ground
The bell in the lighthouse could broadcast the sound
Ringing that rang as the tide wandered in
As night storms from southern most points did begin

Anchors were dropped to the depths of the deep
Big leaks were fixed but the little ones seeped
Batons were hatched or whatever that means
Opening gaps welded closed at the seams

Swabbing the deck seemed like pure wasted time
As buckets were emptied with rain in the sky
Sails were pulled down, pulled in, put away
While clouds housed a marvelous lightening display

A bottle of *** and a parrot named bill
They drank and they sang until they had their fill
When off now to sleep they did fall with a thud
Tomorrow the war and the spilling of blood

The enemies’ close they could feel in their bones
Because of the bank and some late payment loans
They shuffled us off to some brightly lit rooms
And offered low interest in brand new doubloons

They had us signing here page after page
As if fountain pens were just coming of age
Now put them away this place sure is a mess
Or move them to somebody else’s address

If the dog is not home and the cats on the chair
Licking his tail with the long flowing hair
For after this voyage we look up above
And whisper a poem that doesn’t speak love

Wind torn sails
and old wives tales
both tell a certain truth
like sailors forlorn
'round the cape horn
drowned or frozen to death

The waves and the wind
punish for sins
that frequently go untold
dare to begin that voyage to win
bring in the most liquid gold

Whaling was the name
of this sailors game
learned from my pappy before
when the tall ships call
you'll answer for all
the misgivings that you ever did

Swabbing the decks
like a beer hall *****
sickly from waves and decay
this is the life
for months at a time
from New England
to the ports of Biscay

First sign of a blow
shouts to below
from where the watch sits above
The decks come alive
thar be the prize
the deadly game awaits

Set sails to the wind
and get that boat in
harpoons and crew await
haul on the ropes
or abandon all hopes
the behemoth  will get away

Hearts pound like the oars
sending us forth
Oh, how our quarry evades
better keep your eyes peeled
or your fate is sealed
if she comes up underneath

With a mighty hurrah
the striker lets fly
the harpoon sinks deep in the whale
it plunges below
taking us under tow
blood staining the deep blue waves

I cry for this sin
as we haul the whale in
and cut up all it had been
trade a shilling in the purse
for a life long curse
never to sleep again

When I shut my eyes
I can still hear the cry
up from it's blowhole it came
shivers my spine,every time
I bolt upright wide awake

There's a first time for everything, I guess

My initiation to the cult of harm came last night
After I'd made sure everyone had gone to bed
Crept over by the window and moonlight
Placed my arm on the altar in front of me
Mechanically, efficiently swabbing it with alcohol
Scent sterile
For even in this, I will hold onto the pretense of a rationalist

I deride myself, tell myself I'm just going through with it because it's what people would expect from the depressed
That I could stop myself easily and so it's my fault if I don't
But god, I want to lose control so badly

The needle skitters across my skin and I shiver
It dances swirls along my arm
You don't need blood and scars for pain

It scrapes angrier against my skin
And a blissful silence pierces my head
As my own voice fades from between my ears

It's a trance-like happiness
A closed-eyed, fluttering-lashes smile
A beautiful pain throbbing, bringing me back to myself
I could have stayed up hours on that one taste of losing control
But this was just an initiation so I dragged myself away

There's not a trace the next day
Except in my mind where I hunt for all acceptable forms of pain
Push on your bruises, a friend advised
Pencil tips, pens

I stop myself
I resist
I said I wasn't going down this path

I'm on my own in August, I only have to make it to then
Then help, so no more of this

I wait until everyone falls asleep again
And though I am exhausted, stumble toward the moonlight
Sterilize, needle in hand, ready to dance

I refuse to go any farther, I tell myself

Death laughs from inside my head
Baby steps he snickers and
Isn't that what you said last time, doll?

There's a first time for everything after all

I won't,
I reassure the needle tracing kisses across my skin.
I'm fine.

Shiver me timbers
What's going on
I was dressed as a pirate
When I woke up this morn

I looked in the mirror
And let out an Arrrr....
I came equipped an eye patch
And a swash buckling Scar

I felt the strong urge
For grog, meat, and cheese
Went into the kitchen
Told the winch who lives with me

It's my new pirate attitude
That I have to thank
For the look that I got
And why I'm now walking the plank

When I arrived at the office
It wasn't the ship I'd hoped for
And security at the front desk
Barred me from bringing my saber to work

With all these modern day regulations
How's a pirate to get a break
When the only body of water nearby
Is a drainage ditch and man made lake

And the only pirate *****
That I'd hoped to see
Is right now swabbing the kitchen deck
While talking mutiny

Still the days barnacle adventures
Had a lot going on
As my head hits the pillow
I wonder what I'll wake up as tomorrow morn

Alkaline eyes
As if pierced by some awl,
As if hallowed by some blunt axe,
As if to juxtapose
Bee stung lips.

Cabaret music,
Dead souls,
Dancing corpses.
Ella Enchanted:

Swinging, Swirling, Swaying, Swabbing
Sick, Suffering, yet
Sauntering;
Sweaty Socage with
Scummy Suede-heads,
Stocking
Satan’s Sweet Sibling.
Swollen Skeleton,
Skin Shunned and Shivering,
Shadowed, her face;
Shock-less eye Sockets

Tired grow her limbs,
Unction bottled in her heart.

Unaware, her clientele,
Zeal in their eyes.

The forgotten essential workers
Who is seldom mention.
Who is so often belittle,
Porters,
Cooks,
Laundry workers
Dish-washers,
Elevator-repair men
Recreations,
Front Desk clerks
Certified Nurse’s Aide
Home health aide
Waiters,
God! Oh how hard we work!
Private’s aides

Now as we celebrate Juneteenth 19
Black lives matters, can we really be seen
After four hundred years of oppressions
Can we tossed back river of tears
we are in 2020 is this our commission?

We as Essential workers in your nursing homes
Being tested twice a week,
By your essential worker phlebotomist
Who puncture my vein with his cannula?
For the governor executives order
listen up you uncouth nurses who poke
The swab sticks deep into my nose.
Listen this quackery has to end!
Pandemic, politics, election strategy
We essential need more respect.
You with your white privileges, and your treats

(RE: PCR swabbing, week being on Wednesday and ends on Tuesday.
If you work 4 or more days you need to be swabbed 2x per week
In a 48hrs time frame, if not you will be taken off the schedule
You will be humiliated, said the Administrator  Mr. Sal
Because he is not a babysitter there to reminds you..
Said a non- professional white privileges)
as the city navigate the pandemic
moving on to injustices of systemic racism,
poverty, militarism and
a war economy:

Mr. Governor Cuomo: I cannot breathe..
I
Mr. Governor Cuomo: I cannot breathe

i can't.
when trimming the calico hairs on skinly jaw.
like trip-hop leaching out of your pearly *******:
like magic-jesus.
with porcelain around her
animal seeds.
where i can find:
the swirling of Listerine flushing down the side of your throat.
like swabbing for cells from the floor of your tongue

like swapping girls.
or
(like) picnicking       deep inside
flower-bait.blue
trilling Gatorade apology/  
simulating love.

and even now. inside the folds of dead house plants  
i would be okay if you stained my teeth
with anything
you
had
to offer.
horse-whole in the water-
milky for you-
white as cuticles.

like the /**** me/ hum of the A/V cart
hooked up and left running:
nothing.
stuffy
in the boxed we built

i am more perfect than camouflage
like pipilotti rist screaming her lungs to pale ribbons.
as kimono as Kiki was real
she- as brave as anything

i found it out.
as fragrant as
the deepest rooted thing-
blissfull as the afternoon.
as
red
as good cadmium.
and that is ******* red

****, i've just ran out of drafts, good news:
this 15th Dec. suspension on ola poetry.com
is going pretty well...
               well: as any worth that's the worth
of dealing with jealous people...

   only today i remembered myself,
shackled in the edinburgh university
never close to the Pleasance courtyard,
St. Andrew's Place...
       oh no, i didn't wish to live on the main
university campus, with its own canteen...
i wanted to learn chemistry,
but also perfect my cooking skills...
every single morning waking up to the sight
of the Salisbury Crags...
    one wild night i stayed up all night,
to walk up Arthur's Seat... returning from
the mountain (in the middle of a ******* city)
to buy myself some cornflakes and full-fat
milk...
   why would anyone even bother
with ******* Halls of residence...
   a university campus makes sense,
if you're talking about a city the size
of Warwick, or Brighton...
         but Endinburgh? to live in a university
bubble, in the middle of the city
like it's some sort of fortified "defiance"?
             where am i, at university,
     or the ******* high school canteen?!
i would still bring packed lunch...
          i liked the nicknames i acquired
over the years...
               goldilocks,
                  the strange fruit man (pomegranates,
passion fruit, sharon fruit, etc.),
                            viking...
   at times i would really love to hate myself,
but i found the stoic alternative of:
just laughing at myself...
   never mind that...
        ah... sweet sweet 18...
having discovered a new prog rock band
outside the top 50 mentioned in the mojo
music magazine while still in high school:
atomic rooster: death walks behind you...
tomorrow night, the devil's answer...
     i would plug in my electric,
put the piecyk (slang for amp) on the windowsill
and muse, full volume, blasting solo after
solo outside the window, trying to see if i could
make the Salibsbury Craig crumple
just a little bit...
                   mind you, in terms of playing
the guitar - i clearly remember Anthony
introducing me to tablature...
                        i can't read music, i wish,
but i can't...
    you really don't have to start with
smoke on the water, or iron man...
               death walks behind you is pretty
easy to learn, even without tablature...
even black sabbath... let's see if i remember
the strings correctly

e
G
F
D
A
E.... let's check.... ****...

                     e
                     B
                     G
                     D
                     A
                     E...      i'm pretty sure i'd still
be able to tune a guitar...
    i.e. make A sound like E on the 5th (divide)
   make D sound like A on the 5th divide...
   F like D on the 5th...
      G like F on the 4th divide...
     e like G on the 5th divide... i think that's right...
5th divide? you press down on the string...
and play E & A together, if they sound the same...
well... you're tuning a gee'tar...

                     e------------------
                     B------------------
                     G-----------------
                     D-------3---------
                     A-------------2---
                     E--1---------------  black sabbath - black sabbath
intro...
   but the next tablature will break
the camel's back...
           it's so... so... simple... & therefore
so genius... it goes against all of punk,
the punk of the rhythm section with only
3 chords... well... this song uses only 2 chords...

free - all right now... i still don't know how
mungo jerry's - in the summertime beat
all right now to the no. 1 spot in england...
  
                     e------------------
                     B------------------
                     G-------7---------
                     D--7----7----------
                     A--7----5----------
                     E--5---------------

                      (obviously you have to find
the rhythm yourself ADG 577 yourself,
       bouncing from a 1-2-1-2 on the EAD 577)...

i really should have succumbed
to teaching my former marijuana dealer's daughter,
a paranoid schizophrenic with an obsession
regarding the illuminati straight out
of Kingston ya'man Jamaica the guitar...

________
.well at least the english peoples
got one thing right,
brewing,
            name me an ale that
doesn't hide a hint / accent of
specific, or an irish stout,
       and i'll show you a cross-dressing
nun riding a chimera
coming from some german
convent, alright?

i guess it's just the tale
of the said / "unsaid" times...
    it's about to crank up the use
of cipher...
   if i get one haiku in old norse,
i'll be happy:
since, as much as i favour
   grammatical rules,
   i'm not a big fan of poetical
constraints...

hence?
    ᚱᚨᚦ ᚺᛟᚻᛖᚾᛋᛏᚨᚢᚠᛖᚾ
    
rað
hohenstaufen
       (plan)
                    which alludes to
          ᚠᚱᛖᛞᛖᚱᛁᚳᚴ  ᚨᚾᚾᚨᚱᚱ

frederick annarr (second) -

some prepositional words
will be missing,
notably the / a,
   direct and indirect articles...
but some prepositional
words might appear...

mind you, if i pull this project
off,
   and forget however many times
i have to ctrl + c / ctrl + p
   my way through it,
how i will have to
                  consult the english v.
old norse dictionary...

how i will also consult
                 futhorc runes
of the english,
         and the younger futhark
of old norse
over an aesthic squabble
when it comes to

             ᛄ / ᛅ - j (futhorc runes)                (ᛃ)

(not to be confused with ᚾ...
which... already exists in a modern
tongue, mein zunge...
          Ł,                     ł -    wom-bat...
see...
             i once heard a scientist
say: 'why bother swabbing
the inside of your mouth,
sending off your genetic
                                signature to
a company,
   to find out your ancestry?
   you'll naturally gravitate to it
                                                   anyway!')

and...           "kaunan" (ᚲ),
   i.e. before the whole mathematical
greater than >
                    and lesser than <
    became problematic,
ergo?

younger futhark ᚴ - k
                 (anglo-saxon) futhorc ᚳ - c (k) -

this could somehow work...
all i'll need is enough nouns and verbs,
prepositions will be troublesome,
given that modern english
is littered with this sort
of shrapnel...

                     but it's about time
to start to elevate the cipher,
if all the youtubers are jittery...
you know something's coming,
and it's not good...

i probably will stick to english
grammar,
   i can't promise a haiku,
         but at least...
          it will seem like...
speaking a language
                  from, my,
previous, now,
                   reincarnated, "self"?!
i don't believe in reincarnation
to begin with...
   it's too NPC for me,
and that's not even a reference
to mahjong solitaire;
   dunno...
     i once sat down and solved
one... then solved another...
i just don't like
        the whole:
there's only a limited number
of authentic souls,
   and they behave in a benign way,
soul-parasites,
while everyone is just plain
outright zombie.
- so this is the plan...
   rarely do i plan something...
might as well give it a shot...

****...
            beside that...
i do remember youtube's algorithm
when it was intelligent...
oh... 4 years ago... maybe even 2...
it behaved like
a thesaurus...
          glory days of exploring
music, i never even managed
to come across these current youtubers...
i couldn't care less...
the algorithm shifted from smart,
to dumb, real dumb...
     and then exploring new music
became a hag, not a hack,
a hag...
                       i'm not even
surprised to say that i never left
comments...
      why?
      i can sort that **** in my own
head, i don't need to comment...
                  oh right...
and if you're reading this soliloquy...
i supposed i never asked
for money.

p.s. good thing that i didn't
desire to consult the paragraph...
if it's poetry or "poetry"
or, more of the allure considering
it a soliloquy...
  well... imagine the claustrophobic
optics of your standard
   piece of paper...
in a book, with a paragraph...

this would never work in a paragraph.

p.p.s. seeing how
i didn't find the old norse
for not...
   but no: neinn (ᚾᛖᛁᚾᚾ)
alludes to a "missing" Tyr (ᛏ)...
which would elevate
the modern word not
               from an adverb
to the status of a definite article...
no and yes are not determiner
words for me,
they share the same article
status as the aesir and,
                                           esp. Tyr.

p.p.p.s.
   red ice tv disseminating
   ms. beat-box gala
                       for the ultimate
stut-stut-stuttering contenst
winner.

Living in heaven. Evidently in bliss... *** im living with angels... a different shade of wish...
*** this place still exists..
between mister gray and black chains
Misbehave and get whipped..
Yeah ******* the ****....
But im wanting more of a pain
If thats possible pain to inflict....
But you read the heaven line and stopped
When I said cause pain in this *****....
Keep reading this caution tale.
Smells like riding hood. Aint the dame that she says....
Choke the beast... and slay a vain
Till you make satan your *****....
Break a leg like Leo on titanic
Rivals a brick...
Break a leg. I'll  gape your ****
And private yacht with a peg....
Calgary is the hottest *****
Chinook gets hot when its wet
Your taught that in bed...
You don't wanna want men...
Freezing huddle for warmth
And spread that thought in your head...
That thought is your legs
And there probably dead
But 15 seconds into your movies
My thought is you and Dennis Rodman
probably...
Had ***.....
Second thought is he probably taught you good head.....
Jk Dennis Rodman. Your just my target I guess...
*** this ship is sinking. Like mister
Leo... and nobodies swabbing his deck.......


Side note I love you Leo... but honestly stop using celebrity status to black ball Canadian oil sands.. that global warming you witnessed was a phenomenon known as a Chinook. It comes every year to southern alberta where warm mountain blasts the cold away almost instantly... im not denying climate change... im not saying we need more oil consumption... we need less overall on this earth... but till than stop with the covert propaganda against Canadian oil. Its hypocritical. We don't start wars to control foreign markets like the US government. We have worlds highest safety and environmental standards. Yeah we don't pump it out of our *** like the Saudis. But hey we are some of the hardest working Canadians and we're albrrtan...
Thats what CHOKES me up....

My monkey is playful and quick-tempered. He'll grill. My sister says that eating monkeys is wrong. She's married and lives her life in the Lord's service. I respect her devotion to Scripture. I respect not her views on eating monkeys. When I want her opinion on monkey-eating I'll ask for it. Those rabbits breed like *******. How dare you take my brat to Mexico to raise him as a Guatemalan!!! The Albanian expression “swabbing my crack makes me late” should NOT appear on your résumé. Homosex is *******. Because perverts have always been creeping in the shadows doesn't make their antics any less perverse. Evict hatred and sign a lease with love.