It's like this, and then there was total recall. Fast like a safety plan made wrong and then bouncing in and out all the way down the hall. Up through cable cars, Korean fast food market, wet fish, soupy street, concrete cracks filled with crab meat and **** heads. Just a square, a five block, two street, sideways quadrangle, beat of the Tenderloin, hour of the dove. Every one's dead on these loose ends. Hills of the back of her backside, skin of the back of her neck. Rapture is the grave of the sunset, memory is that thing that I said.

No one cans in carnivores, no one runs moves like a shepherd. Sunday, daft as candy, luck in the ways of the prophet. Canon of the blaze of every woman that died today. The sleep setting, the motorcycle bending the hollow, the ravines noisy interlude, up through the rough and the tangles, huddles in a six pack, three or four walking up the block to meet the rest of them.

The skin doesn't fit right, it wears wrong, the shoulders stiff, the masseuse excuses himself. Buckets of flowers hang from the ceiling like stripped cat christmas decorations in suburban mastermind serial killer resort town. Everyone is quiet because they gotta. They move their feet like they were hurrying death into a red volcano, like they were the errand of red from the top bell to the bottom of the town.

I sit on a roof top, baking in the noon day sun. Stripping sticks and stems off the side to sideways, just roasting away, laying, low in the afternoon light. I see a girl with her hands on her skirt, wobbling, scooting a priest card on a periwinkle terra-cotta.  I move my head, turn it upside round to take a better look. No one counts to ten when they see me. The gangster that woke up isn't the gangster that went to sleep last night. My wickedness ended my words mean your bright decay. So I ride the pavement exhausted, burying my coughs in an L-shaped arm

MANILA, Philippines - The public knows me as the Father of Philippine Franchising but what is hidden from the public eye is that I am a father of five sons and a daughter. This fact became very real to me again recently when my youngest son, Sam Gregory, got married.

Like I said, I have five sons and all of them are achievers and successful in their respective fields. My eldest son, Sam Benedict, for example, has a master’s degree from Kellogg and works for a top American company. My fourth son, Sam Christopher, on the other hand, got his master’s degree from Oxford and used to work for a top British conglomerate.

When my other sons got married, I was happy and proud as I could be; but when Greg got married I have to admit that there was a certain tug in my heart realizing that my little Sam was finally leaving the nest. I am not the sentimental type, but I guess every parent has a special place in his heart for his youngest.

But don’t get me wrong, Greg is no pushover. Being physically small, he did have his share of bullying when he was in school. But Greg knows how to deal with his problems. He befriended a number of his bigger classmates and that solved his problem in a snap. He may be small but he has a big heart.

Greg is idealistic and principled. He usually volunteers for civic and charitable activities and contributes to fund drives for disaster victims. My wife and I have accepted the fact that every time there is a typhoon, we can expect our cupboards to be cleared of canned goods and our cabinets purged of old clothes, which Greg would donate.

He follows traffic rules and regulations even when there’s nobody watching and even if following is not convenient for him. He saves energy. He recycles. He even convinced me and my wife not to use narra wood flooring in our retirement home.

Being a careful planner, he is the most prepared among our family for the “Big One.” But what I find most admirable is that he keeps two emergency kits in his car in case he finds himself in a situation where he might need to help others.

Greg is also romantic, creative and dedicated. When he was studying in Beijing, he would organize a virtual date with Charmaine Haw (who would eventually become Mrs. Sam Gregory Lim), who was in Manila. They would watch the same movie on the web and Greg would order movie snacks, which he would send to Charmaine’s house. The couple would also have virtual dinner dates where Greg would order similar meal courses, which would be delivered to Charmaine’s house and then they would chat via Skype while having dinner.

When the time came for Greg to buy his engagement and wedding rings, he refused to let us — his parents — help him. He used his own money despite being the one among his brothers who could least afford it, being the least salaried employee among them. He did this as a symbol of his love and commitment to Charm.

But when the wedding came I insisted that it should be a grand wedding.

To guarantee a great party, we made sure to have great food, a great place and great companions. Being an avid sci-fi fan, Greg already had an idea of a unique garden wedding. He wanted to transform the New Grand Ballroom of the Marriott Hotel into the forests of Avatar. To do this, the wedding stylist had to import a collection of trees, hanging plants, shrubs, flowers and other plants. The images projected on the giant 15-meter panoramic LED screen added to the reality of the scenery. It was a unique and original “garden setting” and was certainly a sight to behold and remember.

For the food, Greg was at his meticulous best to make sure that the evening’s feast was memorable. The dinner opened with a mouth-watering appetizer, lemon-spiced pan-seared scallop with tomato cucumber timbale in creamy ginger soya sauce followed by Manhattan clam chowder with cornbread dumpling. For the main course, we had the beef tenderloin prepared by the master chef of Cru Steakhouse of Manila Marriott Hotel, sea bass with roasted shallots, dauphin potatoes in perigourdine and mustard herb sauce.

The espresso-infused tiramisu and the white chocolate cheesecake with mango salsa served with piping-hot coffee completed the culinary feast.

With 800 guests, I would have to admit that we did splurge a little. But we also wanted the wedding reception to be an opportunity to thank the people who have been a part of our family. These are our relatives, friends and associates who have inspired, mentored and helped mold my children to be what they are today.

To my youngest son, Greg, and my new daughter, Charmaine — quoting from the Vulcan salute of the Star Trek saga (of which Greg is a big fan) — may you both live long and prosper!

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

http://www.marieaustralia.com

Your sky is pink.
They're eating yellow grass.

I'm at the epicenter of chaos
Syringes for the sick and
Banks robbed by viruses
*** in the palm of my hand.
The streets paved with lies
are decorated by death.
And buildings built
by policies
to build policies (to fill prophesies)

Wicked water, and open wounds
Saturated diets and broken wombs
Your sky is blue
Their water is black
Children's eyes close and never look back.
There are snakes in the sand
Lightening strikes in the distance
I can't see where I stand
And the wind smells of something vicious

Your sky is grey
The loudest one in the room is the TV
Candy and coffee for breakfast.
I'd brush my teeth
But I haven't the time, dearest Siri -
Seriously though
Sometimes I question if I'm the canary
in this binary equation
wondering when it's going to cave in
But its cool, I can be patient.

i’m boy with broken jaw
my face and flesh of citrus
fingers dripping resolute

by weight of sweetened tendon
the motion to which i descend
i last resort upon thy tenderloin gloss

touching me under sublunary breath
he melts darkness to sugarfisted ******
i taste of all he ever wanted

it’s a dirtyparadise out here behind the neon nickelcade
day-glo slithering below my belly
just ten bucks, and you’ll get your turn

replacing white lines with gray ash and sleeping in beds for sleeping in bathrooms and you wonder if you had any self respect in the first place because this afternoon you tried to think of your happiest memories in the past year and it wasn't when you were in someone's arms or thinking of your successes in the mirror while you flexed your kickass young *** it was when you were smoking bummed menthols and your friend commandeered a miniature tractor in the tenderloin and conducted two drug deals in less than 30 minutes and you watched her disdainfully with her girlfriend and wondered where on ******* earth you could get a three dollar old fashioned and let a forty year old flirt with you for coke and you wouldn't even have to do anything for it wouldn't life be nice like that

Can a pretty girl
in a short red dress
take away
this emptiness?

Hold me close
squeeze me tight
fill my soul
with rays of light?

Used to be that
the prettiest girls
were actually boys
but no more,
for nowadays
there's a whole mess
of the most gorgeous women
in heels & short tight dresses,
standing on the corners
as offerings to the ways
of men,

some so youthful
that their long sweet legs
totter & tremble
in their fancy shoes
as do the steps
of a new-born
upon the vast
plains of Africa,

& strutting jazzily
their tender flesh
to catch an eye
& then lean
in provocative geometry
into car windows
to state terms
& size customers,

with small handbags
squeezed tight
to their sides,

as they gather in groups
emanating an ****** power
seemingly enhanced
by numbers,

& yet to stroll by
& listen in
reveals nothing more
than simple gossip
& observation,

for after all these
are only working girls
not goddesses at
their ease.

ARMOUR AVENUE was the name of this street and door signs on empty houses read "The Silver Dollar," "Swede Annie" and the Christian names of madams such as "Myrtle" and "Jenny."
Scrap iron, rags and bottles fill the front rooms hither and yon and signs in Yiddish say Abe Kaplan & Co. are running junk shops in ***** houses of former times.
The segregated district, the Tenderloin, is here no more; the red-lights are gone; the ring of shovels handling scrap iron replaces the banging of pianos and the bawling songs of pimps.Chicago, 1915.

Prairie winds howling from the south, the entire southern plane a gaping maw issuing forth wide frozen tides in the air scorching the land. peering thru the open blotches of the windshield on the way home, headlights revealing the rolling billows of misty scintillating snow devouring the gravel road way, old raised green truck roars thru the drifts. Earlier, twilight. Freezing. Everything the wind touches, everything that blocks its path becomes still and solid and severely dense. Had a bubble bath before i went out. AB =Long Johns 7 mo's. outta the year. Cheeks barely exposed to the elements, cells begin to deteriorate instantly, the strong stolid ache appears seconds afterward, and spreads in my blood quickly, and doesn't stop till some minutes after i seek refuge in the truck. Taking an elk. old bull. my step dad bumbles the first shot and the beast runs down the *****. He shoots it again. Cuts the throat and eventually takes off the head. Draining Blood is steaming. Leave the entrails in the snowscaped pasture land. Chain the legs to the bale mover on the back of the truck and make for the shop a few miles away. There Fire rages in an old steel drum in the corner, burning wood blocks and black petroleum wax leftover from the pigs that blast out from the pipelines. Feeney's in my coffee mug. The heat radiates just enough to reach us in middle room but we still wear full coveralls against to stifle the endless cold. We hang the carcass by running a steel rod through its achilles tendons. Grandpa & Stepdad refer to a murdered family in Consort whose place was burned down, suspect the son was involved in a drug deal gone bad. (Cohen bros. come to mind. Real life in Alberta & BC seems a blend of Big Lebowski and No Country). Skinning the elk. Carving it up. Learning the different cuts of meat, where t-bones come from, tenderloin, round steak, sirloin. Cool. Mass more than a 100 lbs of meat for jerky making. Country cousins comin over the next few days to help with cutting it all up. Striking a balance between fine articulation and the art of laughing. Turns out Everyone respects poetry for the audience. Good god y'all.

When he speaks, I hear the sound,
a president who's been around
speaking of the wife with cankle
not that she could care to rankle

Yo, BT, he fights for freedom
Rocky would be pleased to meet him
late at night when lights are lunar
on the road back home, a crooner

fools rush in, no longer Bing
the king of rock, old Pop can sing
a whispered line from any song
but suddenly I'm in the wrong

and one tough stooge I hear he bought a
tommy gun, and "why I oughta"
tell you something you don't know
it's Ahnold Schwanal ** dee doe

and then another voice will join
it's Raymond with his tenderloin
this sailor's gal has quite a name
he cooks his spinach in the same

a wealthy man on distant isle
who's wife is Lovey, makes me smile
Every single voice he's got
is good but when he's best it's not

the person he'll impersonate
but his own voice...it's getting late
but wait, there's more, but I am spent
on telling of the way it went

or so it goes and what'll come
the truth is, well, I love the ***

it was the
summer
of 13

when a city
consumed in a
Cronut crazed
heat wave

amped
the tenderloin

slicing the underbelly
of Hell's Kitchen

packing meat for
Russian oligarchs
pouring fistfuls
of petrol rubles
down the
thirsty gullets
of glutinous
developers

their distended
bellies welling
with aching
avarice
from an
extended
stay at an
All You Can Eat
zero interest
smorgasbord
courtesy of
Uncle Sam’s Diner
somewhere off the
West End

getting fat
on the land
reclaimed
and rebuilt
on the dust
and detritus
of an expired
Great Society

Bloomie's metropolis
rising on the rubble
of razed neighborhoods....

the vertical leaps
shooting ever upward
the heady windows
framing portraits
of endless replication
offering the amenities
of the vain comfort
found in ghettos of
soulless high rises
and the billowing
gray perspective
of blanched out
street cafes
brewing $9 lattes
and big box
boutiques busy
busking the
latest rage
of sweat repelling
yoga mats and
wearable apps

America’s Mayor
Giuliani paved the way
he arrested all
the squeegee men
confiscated their Windex
dumped it down
the sewers and filled all
vacancies at Rikers

a year after Sandy
rolled up the Hudson
breaching the banks
of West Street
licking the streets
clean of urban
flotsam the
surging boom
bloomed

Bloomie bankrolled
a red carpet
for his global
fraternity of
plutocrats
unleashing a
tsunami of
shekels

washing away
the fading
memories of
Captain Sully’s
cool headed
lunch pail
heroism proving
that 727’s can
walk on water
was now passe

Lou Reed
left town
the wild side
monetized by
the belching
banality of
Urban Hipsters

millennial
babes in toy land
embarked on an endless
shopping spree
where credit limits
never expire and
giddy narcissism
greased with entitlement
orders up room service
as the next course
in this endless
movable feast

Music Selection
Philip Glass
The Hours



9/8/13
NYC
jbm

Oh, thou art the dawn
Of they servant’s nature,
Thou that must quench the fire
Of they servant’s thirsty marrow,
Thou that the arrows
Of thy servant’s eyelids cannot sleep over,
Thou that the malaise molten
Nutrients in thy servant’s veins,
Erupts at thy glorious countenance,

Oh, thou art the guardian
Of thy servant’s soul,
Thou that sour and sob
At the nakedness of evil,
Thou that speak for the bees
That provides for the other class,
Thou that make the wicked blood flow,

Oh see, thou art the tenderloin of the devil indeed,
For thy heart, mind and soul are
All blank with no other value
Except manipulation and loneliness,
Insecurity and the terror of death
Are now accompanying thy cruel destiny,
Ah, the hour of thy selfishness
Has faded thy glorious tenure,

Thou have learnt to appreciate
Taste and sight only in thy dying days,
The Abosom deserves an answer
And thou shall produce it,
Thy liquor and chicken and incantation
Cannot please the ancestral spirits,

They have no pleasure in what
Thy hand has acquired by their grace,
We are now under the siege of June,
But the mighty walls are no more,
The woes of war and torment
Ahead are mightier than the former,
Famine and pre-mature death
Must also be a caution,

Oh yes, thy sense of judgement
Is well appreciated by the priest,
Thou that have corrupted
Thy present and future glory,
Thy past cannot pacify thy present,
For the current cyclone of Uganda
Has eroded the sweet-scented rose
Of thy scattered devilish soul,
Thy hymns are as evil as thy goodness.


© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: nanaspeaks@gmail.com

Remember that time when somebody
died and somebody else brought us food-
all the people are irrelevant-
but you complained that the tenderloin
wasn't up to your standards.
Hearing you say such things about
a perfectly acceptable meal
sent me to the place that makes
me a barbarian to my most intrinsic core,
so I grasped the smoked log of meat with
my bare-heads and hurled it into the rain.
Say something about it now-
now that you have nothing to eat.
People say drugs killed him.
You killed him and you still haven't learned.
You killed him because you never
told him you loved him after he ran away from
home that one time or the time after that.
And I believe that the reason
your photographs are always
tinged with a hint of
the most aching and indescribable regret
is because deep down in the
pit of your greasy, swollen gut
you already know this,
so I don't have to tell you.

.all in all: pro bono persona non grata... but it's nice... the dodo of excavations because douglas murray citing t. s. eliot... is... such a pristine... welcome... caveat; it's such a stark-naked revisionism of the concept of pink... outside and beside having scotch-notching of the bristle... this... fidget and all that's the forever the anglo-sphere of solispism... the unsavoury redeemer of europe... napoleon (1)... ****** (2)...     the pauper states and the ottomans... take... three? hell! when england is fidgety about being an island dwelling folk (in europe) and a "diaspora" when something a bit like... h'america and australia... comes along... the best gay is the old gay is the no-new gay and the no-old... and gay... the 5pm stubble intellectualism... hot and bothered given there's not grand admiration for an ethics without a joy-ride of an expelled peoples... that the future is: having made... a people... local! for those being made to make digestion: focal... and immoveable... pawn strictures... post racial and thereby new scrutiny: grammar... or... lah blah l'ay lo bo'go'h zupp'ah crispy ****** ****** fue fue and few! this the "neuweil"...

     it's snooker and not chess...
and because snooker can
be televised...
    in that it's not a private affair
of "i.q." strain of a sudoku...
it's still purely optics...

   red = 1
             yellow = 2...
                   even if the pawn
were to = 1...
       you can't fathom the affair
with 3rd party spectactors without
a necessary lagging...

but it's a televized sport...
but it's unlike bayern munich
trashing barcelona 8 - 2...

          there's that theatre of
red is 1...
        all gyst of what remains
the doctrine of spheres...
      perhaps the pawn = 1 = red...
the blanket...

the metaphor of... the cue ball...
like a lion or any other
predator picking out the lazy
angle the weak pack of the herd...

        how doesn't one welcome
a sport of such befitting attire...
savile row -esque rummaging
to tie with a librarian monstrosity...

it's so much easier to stomach:
all spheres...
   the vast confines of limbo green
of what's pitch-black
vacuum of space and eternal
glue fabric of the orbs...

         now agitated in a sneaking
parody of bulldozer
a cue-ball an asteroid...
a football match
with so much fervor...
the chanting, the shirts...
the agony of the whole affair...

   never the stressed individual...
in a sport so much talk of
fluke and chance and: the gods
of snooker... oh indeed:
the gods still watch snooker...
chess is too much noir et blanc...

   snooker is a...
           why so much of everything
has to be wrong with love
in what's wrong with love
to begin with:
the idealism of males invested
in the project under
the pseudonym: stendhal...

          then there's the other comparison:
if snooker is not chess
then... perhaps it's... boxing?
such a brute sport...
it's bothersome enough to be eating
a diet of beef and tenderloin
poultry hearts in a broth...
to have to entertain the brutality
of boxing...

   i watch snooker i envision
myself coughing into a napkin...
i imagine... fencing...
another great expansion of sport...
selective sport
that's still somehow physical...
unlike chess because chess...
is not to be televized...

                   oh truly: these favourable
ideals of hot-topics for poets...
the ideal love...
"you" the "ideal" and "lover"...
never the one potting
a perfect 147 jerking off...
i tried myself with prostitutes...
it's a harsh reality
when both parties are playing
a poker of pretend...

   snooker is unlike any other sport...
to boast to blame to glisten
and to subsequently **** a suffocating
throttle of an exercise in...
agitation... whimsical! whimsical:
i dare you! please!

    it's unlike a football match...
       golf can **** my big toe xerxes...
the contraints...
i once anticipated this meditation
with tennis...
a game of... moon...
and... 7 rectangles and...
          the umpire and...
                        10 judges...
and... 4 ball-boys...
                             tired sport of
professional fluidity...
    
                         to appreciate is best
to not play it...
from the t.v. with nostalgia...
an itch a view of a
famous onlooker...
   none other than
the iron maiden drummer
    at the sheffield crucible...
                     nicko mcbrain...

yes: me right now...
a matthew arnold take on seeing
liszt play and all the girls
having reached beatlemania fever pitch...
d.n.a. score...
it usually took two to tango...
i don't like the idea
of the man being burdened
with a d.n.a. progression
of "passing-on"... the... "details"...

              i'm very content taking
the solo walk home...
because... come to think of it...
i am not impressed with the arguments
to counter my: will...
i'm not willing to make either
sacrifice or sacrilege...
                        i'm more than willing
for the entire lazy abode to jump
in on early on the nibbling prospect...
not out of: some high-praise of self-worth...

what would we be talking about...
had i not the capacity to take
snooker to sleep...
   and i was a east-end
millwall "hooligan" cabbie...
                   it's snooker...
it's not woah-kitty science... is it?

too much of perfect love went
into writing - perhaps a toll of mine -
and not into the exploits of
the day-to-day living out the grit...

tolling losing affairs with
english like the long lost cousin
of a bavarian misantrophe...
should there come an ease!
with a entymological scrutiny...
idiosyncratic as that old
borrowed & blatant saxon...

   fudge-packers of the world unite!
the broad and the default...
the skittle blisters of skim-rhetoric...
the lobsided slob...
beginning with etymological
genesis:
                  fudge-packing
           fudge-packing
                 either side
of the propaganda machinery... glut...
no glue! all the glut but no glue!
fudge-packaging:
the beside "question" of...
              a straight banana
                                 syndrome...
because: no new "wonder" analogy...
            beside "that" one...
                                  
   to be humbled is not, to be...
humiliated...
   how can... the tolerance
of humbling being made
synonym of being a meaning
of humilitiation?!
*******! asylum!
   proto-****-sane-"metaphysician"!

to abhor liberals is to somehow love
homosexuals...
to test the competency
the phallus
in competition the joy-*****...
           and such that...
there's no new morality...
only the old europe
with the europe
of the "rejected" yews...

clear-me-up-on-the-kippah:
forthright on the ***...
no new shlang...
    this... archaic... this...

primordial ****... and never...
the proxy bilingual...
you... basic... ****-wit and...
  comma!

   and... the gay-"dude"...
the argument...
the boxing females...
and the still intact...
***** industry...
   like... carpentry with
carpet tiers...
like...
    **** with stink...
like... metal with... ore
and... rust...
like: forget me whips...
and i'll flake you another; boss stephens!

to have to stiffen-up
over a... this logistics of gloating...
the west gloats...
a history of gloating...
whether the mongolian recession...
of the soviet nudging death-queue...
gloat... the ******* feeds off gloating...
i'm tired of gloating...
given... after a while...
there's no more a winning
or a losing: gloat
or party to feed off...
a supposed serenity of...
an otherwise...
nihlism & *******!

- you ******* ginger-bread flims!
finicky bypassing wording...
           ein-grab-beste-"oops"-

and thus: the name horowitz...
barking...
          ottoman....
    rotherham...
   ­           roam-befitting: "future"...
          there's the closure
with upmister...
            the the blessing...
all creasing with copper-skinz...

ONREPEATZ... ONREPEATZ...
same old replica...
           towing the jew
in a spiderweb...
like a gravitational pull
toward a moth and
scuttling h'americana

  best be broken h'americana
cain chess of the limbo
continental...
                 abel my abel...
my liquidating sod...

                      it was never to be
a prized event;
of good... to have cleaved one
to a momentum...
god.... the usual bollocking riddle.

I wish I could explain it to you, but I can’t.
You’d have to walk around with me for a month
or so for it to make sense,
to seem like a real thing.
Sometimes, it’s not even real to me;
but it’s my life and
I’m the one walking around in it,
so there it is.

In the fall and winter,
particularly around the holidays,
it gets worse.  Some days,
especially during the last two weeks
before Christmas,
it gets really bad.

(Why do I think it’s a bad thing?)

(Is it?)

(What is this about?)


They come at me like zombies
when they see the crutches
and yet I refuse to blame my Cerebral Palsy
for what they do.  
Really, I believe that they’d show up anyway.
I think that they, and I to a degree,
feel some sort of cosmic pull
toward one another.

The drunks come to me.

(the developmentally disabled too.)

They tell me stories of how they ended up
in the same place that I am.
They tell me that they know also
that our paths were supposed to cross.
They tell me about their relationship with God
and how Jesus loves them in spite of their drunkenness
(or impairment.)
They tell me how blessed we are to have met.

That one always leaves me flummoxed.

All I wanted to do was eat a tenderloin and some fries.
All I wanted was a cup of coffee or a beer.
All I wanted was to occupy a small bit of
grey space for a couple of hours.

These cohabitates,
these space-stealers
always go straight for The Bible.

They talk of rapture
And the wholeness that I’ll
find in The Kingdom of Heaven
and I want to tell them that they’ve
taken some of that wholeness for
themselves, but I can’t.

I always say: “Thank you.”
And speak to them in
bumper-sticker platitudes;
telling them that we’re all
making our own ways
down our own paths.

And, it’s true, but I don’t want
to have to say it.
I don’t always want to believe it.

(And, I don’t always.)

I wish I could tell them that I want to be more like them,
to work in a factory,
lift the heavy stuff;
to work steadily on the line
or over the road,
inside the grey spaces
with more time to think,
to be quietly oaken
and iron.

*

-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications

SF. or known as the bay.

it's 3:11 am and i am hopelessly reminiscing over the cold mist
constantly over the Golden Gate.
maybe they're just like the rest of us,
trying to cross the bridge
off to somewhere else.
as all of those who had jumped off.
off to somewhere better.

i miss the secret breakfast or dulche de leche
exclusively available at humphry slocombe
nestled between the hoods of the spanish speaking
¿hablas espanol?
roll the tips of your tongue like you mean it
as you feel the bourbon melt off the tip of it
just like any human body would.
and i had always secretly hoped
that the sandy blond hair and green eyed
regular over the counter
would scoop me up just like that ice cream out of the tub.

i miss lee and steiner
who basically are my ride or die's
over the last summer.
who swear to love me
over my insecurities
with theirs.
those 2 am giggling and yelling over spiders or a boy's text.
12 pm groggily teeth and hair brushing or blush and mascara applying.

the struggle remains between shorts tights or jeans,
a thin cardigan will suffice
but you know you're going to regret it
as you shiver so hard
on the side of the open muni station at 6pm when the sky darkens at the blink of an eye
with that hobo next to you bracing it everyday business
tomorrow.
I AM NOT RISKING IT TOMORROW AND HELL YEAH I'M BRINGING MY PARKA.
come tomorrow
vanity always wins in the end
as you decide nobody will see your #ootd underneath those layers.

pride parade had always been a big thing.
as you squeeze through the crowd to the end of the tenderloin
you decide that sometimes,
penises are just not your thing out in the open.
but hey those tutu's and rainbows
and ******* plastered with heart shaped stickers were at least worthwhile.
you do support LGBT after all.
more even when there's a scenery.

not to mention
that occupied corner
always ready to slip a slice of *** over when you need it
fearless of the SFPD.
eyeing the whole trade happening.
viva la vida.
is that stash lasting long enough for you to write the next pop hits?

sipping on the peets you got over at mission
you always wondered why is starbucks always so crowded with writers and chatters alike.
but constantly in the rush
you wished you had the time for that urban outfitters at union square
if and only if,
you'll just probably end up at the ones over at fillmore.
should you give in and just stumble into the mess of the forever 21 instead.
ah decisions.

i will never forget that night where we got back from sf and got stranded in the towns of santa rosa.
waiting for a ride.
journey to remember,
always.

I think Women are Hot and.
Should be shown respect
And all though I get *****
I take time to Listen

Can't get into Sports Teams
Know's what fashion is a Dream
Of Bob Mackie, Calvin Klien
Versace, Chanel, and Ralph Lauren

In the Kitchen I create with Panache
Tenderloin of Beef with Marsalle Sauce
Vintage Recipe Chocolate Cake at
Proper Temperature I Bake 'til Perfect

And shopping is a Spree as
Long as its not for me
Rather Shop a Bra for a set of knockers
Then Shop for a Pair of Kahki Dockers

When it Comes to Culture I am Allured
To Poetry, Art, Music and Stage
And so ever fond of thespians
Could it Be I'm a Male Lesbian


All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack

the center
of The Universe
and
the center
of
nowhere
at all.

This city...

Saint Joseph,
Missouri.

like an apartment
complex
or
a cul-de-sac
built by
The Hand of
God,
right
in the
bottom
left-hand drawer
of The Devil's
bill-paying
desk.

we walk
our dogs
on
long leashes
making sure that
they can ****
in our neighbor's
yard.

we cultivate
red-state
politics
and blue-plate
specials,
complaining
that our crime-rate
and our cholesterol
are too high.

we're the tenderloin
capital
of the world;
and we closed
the door
on that debate
as well as
several
others.

once,
not that
long ago,
we put it
to a vote,
whatever
it was...

it hardly
matters
anymore,
but only
18%
said: "aye"
and only
37%
said anything
at all.

the ballots
must've been
kept in the
lockbox

in the
bottom
right-hand drawer
of
The Devil's
bill-paying
desk.
*

-JBClaywell

The night is dark and dangerous,
For monsters lurk from dusk to dawn.
Hunting for a beating heart,
They stalk, each step in time with their deadly song.

Listen to the howls,
And you will soon feel the tune.
This is their deadly beauty, Their alluring choir.
Spreading emotion through a soulful hymns fire.
Chanting for another voice to join,
So they may dine on tenderloin.

With beauty and grace,
The Sophisticated beasts begin the chase
You are the prey
And you see the face
In splendour and awe.
Your emotions, prepared like your flesh,
Raw

The Wolf is howling,
With her beauty and grace
This,
is loves first taste.

my shirt barely fits over my stomach
my belly is a bag of granny smith apples
**** and plump
misleading in their sweetness
underneath growing ten-fold each week
all the different fruits for growth
leave me anemic for heartier things
tenderloin heart, blood steak
there's a biting pain on the side of my hip
that feels like what I imagine a dog nipping at your heel
could feel like
and I hear it
the small squeak at the bottom of a storm drain
a miniature kitten trapped in the middle of concrete and hot cement
it hasn't rained in months
and my mouth starts to water imagining
the dehydrated lungs of an animal
that's destiny has been sealed

Walk on babe, the night will find you soon enough. But, do not give in so kindly- it seeks to play with you for 100 hours, or 100 years; perhaps 100 years and 100 hours, I don’t know…. my glasses fell off. The best way to say it: if the day is temporary, so are you, and the night will swallow everything, from common skin to rare hues.
Don’t pull your punches with nature! Don’t let that primeval smell defeat you or good God- get a kick out of you. Nature is the piece of furniture that you bought, not the other way ‘round. So, how do you feel? Icicle fingers, sap bearing veins, rebar arms, tenderloin body, washboard neck, prison gate mouth, airstrip nose, typhoon eyes, telephone ears, coniferous hair, freedom’s mind. You owe it to nature, she coddles you.
A funny thing, then: the lifetime of a dream. Where love, bliss, sorrow, *** are not unknown, but as uncanny as they can be. Old friends may sleep it off and give you a cheque and a kick out the front door, but don’t you know what you were in their beds for? It was something true, and if you were the only one to find it in that pile of quick/messy lovers, it is truer still. So walk on babe, the technicolour night has left you, but in its hazy laboured breath, it promised to return. It swore to explode all over you- what can you do in return?

Sometimes you have to travel to
The underworld to know what is-
What is ordinarily  not believable.

Early in 1974 I found myself in the
Tenderloin district of San Francisco.
This is the down and out area akin
To New York's  City's  Bowery yet
It has its own distinct character.  I
Belonged there as one of it's newest
Misabthropes.  I had checked into the Y
On Turk Street.  Early in the evening
I went out to look  ove rthe neigborhood
I went down Turk toward Market
Think it was Lyric St  that i turned on-it
Was early dark and about midway down
I came across a man going through a
Trash can.  He seemed to know what
He was doing as he kept pulling out
Sandwiches  cleanly wrapped and uneaten.
It was  as though they had been   just
Left for him.and I thought at the time well
Ar
Least I shall not starve as he offered
me one and so we got to talk a little -then
We went back to my room.as  he said
He was going to show me something
When we got there
He pulled a small transistor radio out-
It was bare of its plastic cover; and then
He turned it on and deployed a tool, I
Think a small ***** driver and began
To change the stations with it -changing
Them rapidly.  At first I could not under-
Stand but then I began to hear a sequence
A story.  It was my life with great detail.
It was fully coherent and as I listened I
Do not know how long I understood a
Deep truth that there was indeed more
Much more to the universe than was
Comprehended by my little philosophy.
My friend got up and left my room as
Soon as he had seen I understood what
He had  to shown me; I never saw him again
But-Somehow I knew the Universe had a
Secret auditor of my thoughts and knew
All I had ever done.  Magical was Reality
I knew then that life was strange and I
Was a stranger in the land and given
The gift of knowing it.  Suddenly all the
Miracles of Jesus, all that He did and what

Was done to Him seemed so much easier
To believe-even His death and His rising


But I do not want to say then my life became
Easy  A gift from the underworld has to be
Paid back Just ask the god father or President
Trump.for that matter.  It is not a panacea- that
Is a small town in Florida on the gulf.   I went
Through it once. along the coastal route  
From the  causeway the setting sun
Seemed to speak of a peace that is forever
I wanted to=
Stay but thought I had appointments to keep
-maybe I should have thought better but...
That is life sometimes it shows you somethings-
You can't understand nor the reason why- when
You cannot make proper use of them-  You get
The winning lottery ticket then you lose it.
I guess the Good Book said it best: Lean not
Unto your own understanding but trust  in  God

With your whole heart.. mind and soul an if that
Don't work you can always Give UP but that is
Not so easy either....................God Bess Us
For Still Our Advocate Lives

I’ve said only half-jokingly
I’m a slow learner
of life lessons.
I was wondering about snails
if they learn as slowly as they move
but does our species
ever learn
really absorb
even the basic how-tos
of saving ourselves and our planet?

I might never sate my appetite
for ice cream, tenderloin, or fried fish
but sometimes
it’s hard to empty myself
and make room
for the other fella’s little world
or for God.

while being quarantined
inside our own invisible bubble

Transcendent meditations
while athwart oblate spheroid
allow, enable, and provide
deft capability deciphering
snap, crackle and pop
accepted as mere static
to the untrained ear.

Each inaudible silent cerebral
deaf utterance doth ricochet
across avast heavenly expanse
broadcast far beyond the realm Hubble
telescope detects faintest sound
signaling when cosmos began.

Courtesy near futile results
after jogging me memory,
the following individuals
(unbeknownst if still alive)
helped diagnose mental faculties
concerning yours truly
approximately comprising last two thirds
of mortal male named Matthew Scott Harris;
Ray McNeil
OVR Counselor;
Paul Sachs
licensed psychologist;
Elba Dorley
her professional title unknown.

Unsure who if any among
three aforementioned named
specially trained persons
coined diagnosis (mine)
I accepted (until now),
and blithely communicate
Schizoid Personality Disorder,
and crafted oodles of previous poems
concerning said malady.

Nevertheless profound social anxiety
plagued my every waking and sleeping hour,
scuttling many (née countless) opportunities,
whether series of unfortunate events
encompassed academia or
string of abysmal employment endeavors.

Sequestration of self
most often housed
within bedroom walls
(defined narrow realm),
where alone within
emotional wilderness (mine)
branded passive aggressive lad
(appellation brainchild
of late mother dearest)
as the world turned,
he remained holed up
(except for bathroom needs
and meal times)
inside most secure space
since he exited the womb.

Back in the day Kripalu Ashram
Sumneytown, Pennsylvania location,
which intentional community
(no longer flourishing)
offered peace of body, mind and spirit
found writer of these words
relief from parents,
whose ultimatums couched decision
livingsocial among macrobiotic residents.

Although welcomed for brief hiatus
against domestic backdrop
of psychological torment and trauma
(yes verbally skewered
gratis those two people
who helped beget their sole son),
the tranquil physical environment
extensive acreage incorporated
wooded hillocks, which topography resembled
324 Level Road - boyhood home
(an abode long since demolished
to make room for vinyl city)
afforded consciousness expanding
sensory perception awakening.

Since spiritual immersion
fostered by Guru Dev (i.e. Amrat Desai),
(whose reputation sabotaged,
violated, and yanked off pedestal
by his own stealthy appeasement
unleashing hormonal secretion
granting call of the wild
concerning tenderloin temptation
read carnal concupiscence
(impossible mission to maintain celibacy)
flagged above iterated transgression
blatant barenaked lady
espied flagrante delicto,
amazingly enough, which fall from grace
explains reason residents abandoned facility.

Mindfulness philosophy toward existence,
especially listening to structures of silence
constitutes mantra that endured
since familiarity learning heightened vigilance
(more'n half my life time ago)
experiencing honing sensation
with laser like focus
that buffet five senses.

I didn't realize I traveled a thousand miles
Just to have fate repeat itself
I may have a different Style
But I didn't come to be as a shelf

Maybe I'm in my own hell
Maybe someone will hear my prayers
and ring a little bell
I always dreamed of blazing my own trail

But I ended up burning bridges instead
And sometimes I imagine myself all alone
In a small little stead
Cooking a little tenderloin

But dreams are dreams
And only that
"You're a fool to follow your dreams"
Now welcome to the rat race