THE STORY OF SARA

OR A REFLECTION ON OURSELVES

Ayad Gharbawi

Chapter 4: THE HALLOWED PURIFICATION PROGRAMME




  One night, Omar began to thunder on:
  "No more of the disgusting concepts and ideas created by the Pigs! We should eliminate from our minds every single Pig that is influencing you, and I must say to you all, that I'm not seeing any progress."
  The audience suddenly went all quiet.
  Our leader was not satisfied with our emotional progress.
  We were not purifying our minds in a manner and speed that was satisfactory to the Great Noble Leader Omar.
  "I am looking at you all. I see you; yes, I, Omar, see each one of you. Your eyeballs seem to me to be unsure of what's behind them – I mean, your brains."
  Omar's voice began to talk in a tone that was almost a whisper, whilst the vast audience strained their ears to catch his every precious word.
  "And inside your brains lies our minds. Well, I'm talking about your minds, my friends. I'm not seeing progress. Yes, you do this riot; you **** this Pig; you burn this Pig school – and all of these acts are crucial to our holy cause. But, what about you yourselves? What about your own minds? Maybe you, too, are tainted with some of the Pig mentality yourselves? Now, how about that? Yes? What do you think?"
  The audience gasped.
  Omar began to raise his voice again.
  He was taunting this audience.
  Mocking them.
  Sarcastic.
  "Why, you really are telling me, that you think and feel and believe, that you have the right to **** Pigs?"
  At this question, Omar stopped.
  The audience gasped louder.
  I knew what they were thinking.
  Is our Great Noble Leader questioning our faith in him and in the cause itself?!
  He screamed, almost blowing away the microphones!
  "Why, who gives you the right to be soldiers in this unforgiving, merciless and ferocious war we are waging every day against vastly superior forces? I'll tell you 'who' gives you that right."
  The audience waited in tense anticipation at our leader's answer.
  It was so silent in this vast stadium, you could hear a pin fall.
  "What gives every man, woman and child the right to be a soldier in this brutal struggle is when that soldier has the purest heart and mind. It's as simple as that. And to be 'pure', my friends tonight, is the one who has not a shred, and does not have one ounce of Pig matter. That's right, you heard. Pig matter. Any dog that has even a fleeting Pig thought, is a Pig him or herself!"
  The audience now began to whisper among themselves.
  They seemed to be receiving the light from the words being delivered by Omar.
  Many were saying among themselves, that, 'Yes, we do have Pig thought and ideas and emotions and feelings in our hearts.'


  Omar continued, in a soft voice, after allowing his audience to digest his last words:
  "Yes, that does come as a surprise to you, doesn't it?"
  "Yes!" roared back the audience who now fully submitted to his question and answer.
  "So, I ask you – who are you?" he screamed!
  And the crowds immediately screamed:
  "Pigs! Pigs! Pigs! We are ***** Pigs!"
  Again and again, the crowd seemed to be going a little bit hysterical.
  Some began tearing off their clothes, as if they were trying to 'cleanse' themselves from their Pig thoughts!
  "That's right!" screamed back Omar, furiously and wildly staring with those maniacal eyeballs, like some trapped, ferocious animal, at his audience:
  "Why you yourselves are Pigs! That's right! Come on now! So, what are going to do about you? If you give yourselves the 'right' to **** Pigs, then why don't I have the same 'right' to order my best elite troops to **** you too?"
  "Save us! Save us!" screamed back the audience.
  "Save yourselves!" Omar screamed right back.
  "We are filthy! We are Pigs!" the audience began to insult themselves in all sorts of words and phrases.
  At this point, Omar was shrieking!
  "That's right! You are filthy Pigs yourselves, aren't you now?”
  The audience continued to scream and you couldn’t understand what they were saying anymore.
  Omar went just as suddenly silent.
  He just looked at his followers, and allowed them the need to express themselves.
  After some twenty minutes o this chaotic screaming, Omar became impatient and quickly motioned his followers to be quiet.
  Silence.
  He continued, with a soft tone:
  “So, I hereby announce the following."
  Once again the entire audience become tense.
  What was Omar going to order now?
  "I hereby allow you all, and I mean all our soldiers and not just those sitting with me here in this stadium; I order all of our soldiers to purify themselves of every Pig matter. You will have three months. And then, after that term ends, we will establish courts, to decide wether you have succeeded in cleaning yourselves from these cancerous and murderous feelings and emotions you have. Our courts and our hallowed judges will next decide, case by case, wether you are clean or not!"


  Later, when it appeared that our mostly pathetic, ***** and sick 'soldiers' were simply unable to cleanse their minds from the Pig establishment in three months – since they had no instructions or guidance - Omar, in his eternal grace, patience and humanity, decided to help them, by allowing classes to be held where one teacher would help each and everyone to 'cleanse' themselves.
  Personally, I thought that our Great Noble Leader was decidedly wrong in being so gracious to these so-called soldiers, because, in my opinion, this lot were not worthy of being in our party, and they ought to have been immediately expelled.
  "But, Sara," Omar would gently explain to me in his humble office, surrounded by his most trusted officers, "if we were to purge every undesirable element in the party, I would be left with practically nobody!"
  I took in his gracious words. and then thought about it.
  Why, he was correct, yet again, in his thinking!
  Indeed, if we did purify our party from the filthy ones, we would be left with little more than a handful of true, faithful and clean combatants and that, obviously, meant our self-destruction!
  "You're right, Sir; as usual, I think too hastily. That's why you are the only leader for us; my God, if I, God forbid, were leader, why I would have destroyed the party and our eternally holy cause years ago!"
  "Indeed, indeed, my dear," Omar softly said, but he seemed to have already forgotten my words, and, he was already somewhere else, thinking deeply about another problem.
  And so I, of course, went silent, so as not to disturb him.


  "You know what?" suddenly he asked me, his eyes sparkling with passion.
  "Yes, Sir?"
  "These 'classes' I was talking about. You've studied psychiatry, and I believe that we must use psychiatric methods to purify my subjects."
  Suddenly a strange feeling overcame me; I found the word describing the party members as 'my subjects' a little bit odd.
  Also, didn't Omar call psychiatry a Pig subject for all those years? Indeed, he said everything they taught us at university was evil, and that even the institutions of universities were dens of evil. And, yet, now, he was asking me to help him using what I was learning from my university days?
  "Yes, I can see the path I am talking about Sara. We need to get psychiatrists, like yourself, to tear out, yes, tear out, the filthiness in our party members."
  Suddenly, he got quite excited by his visions.
  "That's right, my dearest one, Sara. Yes, and I appoint you to supervise this programme of purification. That's right, and I shall call it by its simplest name, the 'Programme of Purification'!"
  Suddenly, I got excited as well, forgetting my previous disturbance.
  "That would be such a heroic move on your part, Sir." I gleefully told Omar.
  I feel that not only was he the saviour for our nation, but that he was also a personal saviour for myself.
  "Yes, I see my vision where it is leading us to. My dear Sara; you will set up these classes and you will bring the psychiatrists and you will purify the ***** elements in our classes."
  I got nervous again, for I just realized the magnitude of the job Saviour Omar was demanding I do for him!
  "And therefore, I Omar call for an immediate ceasefire against all Pigs!"
  Everyone in the office stood there in a state of shock!
  A ceasefire against the damnable Pigs?!
  Holy Omar could, of course, read our faces and smiled.
  "But Holy Sir," one officer softly asked, "how can we have a ceasefire against the most evil forces in the history of our country?"
  "And, Sir," asked another officer, "if we stop our eternally pure and humanistic battle against the disease-ridden pigs, wouldn't the latter take that as a sign of weakness on our part?"
  Next, saviour Omar raised his hand.
  Everyone went silent.
  He looked at us.
  There were no words from his mouth.
  We waited humbly.
  Geniuses take their time to formulate the right structure of words, not because they don't know what to say, but they do so that we fools can understand what they have to say.
  It is out of concern for us.
  Omar finally spoke:
  My clean, pure soldiers. We must declare a ceasefire, for I have no other choice. As a humanist, how can I allow impure elements from our party to fight and **** Pigs, when they themselves are still 'impure'? Where is the morality in that?"
  Suddenly, I couldn't help but feel such fanatical love for this man; I can only describe his man and his words, as pieces of Heaven coming down to us inferior beings, and if we are decent, then we must grab every shred and piece that he utters, so we can, in turn, save our impure souls.
  "Beautiful thoughts indeed, my Gracious Leader!" I said.
  Then I turned to the listeners:
   "What's wrong with the rest of you? If, one of our 'own' party members was impure, then by what right does he and she have to fight and **** Pigs? We must cease all out activities, until we have a purified party! It's simple and obvious!"
  Thereupon followed silence.


I was speaking the obvious.
  Finally, a voice spoke:
  "So, how exactly are these psychologists going to 'purify' the 'minds' of our party members?"
Good question – one that I had not thought about.
  Indeed, how, and by what means, were we going to purify the undesirables?
  And then, just at the right moment, Omar spoke his words:
  "Yes, that is a great question. There's no use giving orders that no one knows how they are to be carried out. You see, it will not only be the job of psychiatrists who will purify the filthy ones. No, we will force the filthy ones, to ***** out every filthy thought, feeling, and idea; and we shall make sure that all these impure thoughts and feelings and convictions will be screamed out of their minds."
  At that last phrase, once again, I found myself pausing and thinking, what an odd thing to say!
  I got lost in my thinking.
  After all, Omar always, and I mean always choose his words carefully, for he would always make it a point to be so careful with the choice of his words, so that his credibility would never be in doubt and so people do understand that that he means exactly whatever he says.
  I must confess, I was completely confused.
  On the one hand, I had such deep reverence, complete love and a total need for Omar, and then, there was a part of me, that simply didn’t understand what he was talking about!
  I remembered, once more, how everything was so nice and easy and simple with Tony.
  But, I assume, that Tony was a general doctor, whereas Omar was a surgeon, and so, with Omar, we had to face a far more complex situation.
  "What do you mean by that, Sir?" asked one of the officers, waking me up from my thoughts.
  "I mean, it shall be the duty of every party member to purify every other party member. We must all be psychiatrists! This will be done, of course, under the supervision of the leader psychiatrist in each class. He or she will guide you, as to how to get every party member to rip out every Pig attribute in our party members. It's as simple as that."
  At that, Omar gestured to indicate that the meeting was over, and so we left.
  I kept thinking that his idea was, I'm sure, utterly brilliant, but how in practice were going to do this?


  He left his office far too soon.
  We had too many questions to ask, and yet, by leaving us, Omar was, in effect, giving us a 'programme' to do, but without clear, precise orders.
  So, how were we going to carry out his orders?
  What did he mean that 'we must all become psychiatrists'!
  That was absolutely absurd!
  Untrained people cannot simply 'become' psychiatrists, even if they are 'led' by psychiatrists – or to use Omar's words, to be 'guided' by psychiatrists.
  So, Omar's idea seemed to me, to be really a recipe for a catastrophe for our party.
  The more I thought of it, the more I found my mind asking myself the question: why was Omar insisting on this 'purification programme' in the first place?
  Couldn't the party and its members simply continue the struggle, without having to enforce this ridiculous programme?
  And didn't Omar realize that his insistence on us carrying out his orders to do the purification programme, was going to cause absolute chaos, disruption and ultimately mass desertions and expulsions from our party?
  In other words, Omar's sudden 'need' to 'purify' our own members seemed to me to be a self destructive act that would seriously damage the party.


The ceasefire announcement was barely noticed by the Pigs – which came as a shock to many of us.
  The government didn't seem to actually care at our ceasefire announcement.
  Indeed, the Pigs declared that what they termed as the 'social troubles' was, in effect, 'over' and so, therefore, the country could breathe a sigh of relief, and people could now be 'happy'.
  I didn't believe what the government was saying.
  I was of course nauseated by the hypocrisy of the Pig leaders, because, their pronouncements were lies, as usual, and they would of course, continue their merciless war against us, while we had to cease our fire.
  Yes, Leader Omar was probably correct, but I was **** frustrated, because it seemed to me, for the first time since I joined the party, that the Pigs may now well win the struggle.
  It was obvious to me!
  For how on planet earth could we 'win' a war, when we were not allowed to fight, while the same eternal enemy would continue his war against us?!
  Also, to be very honest, I'm not sure that we could 'purify' Pigs in the first place.
  It seemed to me to be a contradiction!
  I would simply have to swallow whatever Leader Omar ordered us to do.
  God knows, he's proven to be correct every time before, and maybe, he will confound us once more with his superior wisdom.
  Have faith, Sara, have faith!
  Never question the Great Leader, for he is superior to all of us; after all, that’s why he’s the ‘Great Leader’ in the first place!
  Keep the faith!
  How can we understand what a su

Some people say and will say, let us unite and heal. Unite round what exactly? Fascism??  This is at best a pipe dream and in reality a nightmare for billions of people everywhere on the planet. There can be and there should be no unity with fascists and a program of global violence and destruction (already under way for several centuries now)..  An historical reference: People who say this are actually saying "be good Germans" do not protest or resist the death camps and slaughter of Jews and others. Their cry: "Uber Germany - Uber Alles" - "God, Fatherland, and Motherhood".  In our case 2016, it is non whites, Black, Muslims, Mexicans, GLTQ people, women and abortion rights, and the environment that will be the targets of this "resurrent America"... and why would anyone want to "unite " with this?? In the name of humanity, I will not unite, collaborate, conciliate, nor capitulate to a fascist America.

In this light I offer a statement / message that is being distributed throughout this country and where ever people are protesting and resisting, including to people in other countries who are looking to us to see what we will do. Here is the link:  

http://www.revcom.us/a/464/in-the-name-of-humanity-we-refuse-to-accept-a-fascist-america-en.­html

While I encourage everyone to read  by following the link, I am also going to post the message below.

In the Name of Humanity,
We REFUSE To Accept a Fascist America
Rise Up... Get Into The Streets... Unite With People Everywhere
to Build Up Resistance in Every Way You Can
Don’t Stop: Don’t Conciliate... Don’t Accommodate... Don’t Collaborate
 
Donald Trump has now won the presidency. Under the slogan “Make America Great Again,” he has viciously attacked Mexicans and Muslims, threatened to deport millions and boasted that he will build walls and close borders. He incites people to fear and hate those who are “different,” or who come from other countries or nationalities, or practice different religions. He crudely demeans and degrades women, and openly boasts about molesting them. He’s a champion of white supremacy who has insulted and threatened Black people, and whipped up a racist lynch-mob mentality. Trump has mocked the disabled.  He is an aggressive and unapologetic militarist, who threatens to use nuclear weapons and will have his fingers on the nuclear codes. He openly advocates war crimes and crimes against humanity"including torture and killing the families of people accused of terrorism. He plans to pack the Supreme Court with justices who will gut and reverse the right to abortion, gay rights, and other important legal rights. He calls climate change a hoax and his policies will wreak further devastation on the environment. He has attacked and threatened the press and stirred up his supporters to do the same. Trump has utter contempt for facts and the truth, and consistently lies to advance his agenda. As for the rule of law, Trump went so far as to openly threaten his opponent, Hillary Clinton, not only with jail, but even assassination. Donald Trump is an outright fascist. And he is now the president-elect.

Fascism is a very serious thing. Fascism foments and relies on xenophobic nationalism, racism, and the aggressive reinstitution of oppressive “traditional values.” Fascism feeds on and encourages the threat and use of violence to build a movement and come to power. Fascism, once in power, essentially eliminates traditional democratic rights. Fascism attacks, jails, and executes its opponents, and launches violent mob attacks on “minorities.” In **** Germany in the 1930s and ’40s, under ******, fascism did all these things. They imprisoned millions in concentration camps and exterminated millions of Jews, Roma people (Gypsies), and other “undesirables.” And ****** did almost all of this through the established institutions and the “rule of law.” This is where this goes. And yes, ****** himself could “talk graciously” when he felt it would serve his interests and lull his opponents.

Trump did not even win the popular vote, (even though he did win the “electoral college” which decides elections in the U.S.). ****** himself came to power through democratic procedures, including through the process of elections. Should people have accepted ******?! Unfortunately, they did, at a horrific cost to humanity. Today, with nuclear weapons, that cost could be far higher.  

In the name of humanity, we must refuse to accept a fascist America!
The fact that Trump won as many votes as he did must be understood. The fact that he got more than even 10 percent of the vote is disgraceful and reveals some very ugly things about America. So why did this happen? The world today is turbulent, full of changes. Those who supported Trump’s fascist program were overwhelmingly sections of white people, especially but not only white men, who yearn for the days of open white supremacy and American global *******, and the blatant subjugation of women. A significant minority of white people did oppose him, but we have to confront how deep the racism, the national chauvinism, and the hatred of women is woven into this society... and not give in to this, but vigorously challenge and fiercely oppose it. 

But even more than this, Trump was backed by powerful forces in this society. Beyond those who directly supported him, the media, the Democratic Party, and others treated him as a legitimate candidate, refused to call him out as the fascist he is, and now call on everyone to accept his ascension to power. All the major powerful forces in this society bear the responsibility"it is they who have, over decades, either built up this fascist force or have “enabled” it.

You cannot try to “wait things out” with fascists. Those who lived through ******’s Germany and sat on the sidelines, looking on as ****** rounded up one group after another, became shameful collaborators with monstrous crimes against humanity. Trump and his regime must be resisted and defied, beginning now, in many different ways and in every corner of society. 

Reconciliation and collaboration would be nothing less than criminal and deadly. Literally. Come together... resist... and let the whole world know that we will not allow this to stand!
                                          **revcom.us

seedy motels crowded with undesirables
shooting up
smoking ****
toothless ******* for a fix
welcome to America
home of the brave
and the crack den
what a beautiful country ours is
majestic purple mountains
slick black tar ******
amber waves of grain
skid row and soup kitchens
the struggle to survive
we fight to stay alive
land of the free
but free has hidden fees
free love?
Aids'll stop ya
free health care?
Get out you ****** *******
free speech?
Only if you don't mind mace
Here the dom in freedom means *******
******* of the free
we go through it all like marionettes
glassy eyed and blank faces
our strings pulled by wealthy men
we become older and older until death
and don't forget the debt
that will be your children's problem

State Fair, Kentucky 2013

by Yoko Molotov and David Willams


It’s time for the State Fair,
today is the last day of summer.

love all the animals. pet all the animals.
cook all the animals. eat all the animals.

inflatable prizes on a stick, slowly deflating,
it’s the childhood's defeat-
they are lying lifeless in the backseat.

guess your
birthday,
weight or age
within 3 days,
20lbs, or 3 years.
junk on tables for looks at-
key rings, magnets and stickers.
Formal complaints.

white people.
Starving ducklings leap and fall
while snotty babies squeal at them.
Obama, I'm a friend of Mitch.
donate 3$ to the GOP.
I fed an estranged Grandpa
roasted pecans.

country people. concrete floors.
legs. legs long and legs glossed.
Thousands of people and two thousands of crocs.
pillars of ivory, blue and dimpled.
sunburn, wife beaters, and university shirts.
(THAT'S IT, I'M TELLING MEMAW, your shirts are beautiful)
beautiful lips
and toothless maws.

half-hearted, half-heated corn dogs and overpriced
beers, I can never finish an ice cream so
I usually leave the cone lying to be
sat in.
Dead bugs in a box and bug puke in my mouth.
A salad made from blue ribbon tobacco and light bulb tomatoes.
everything smells like popcorn, **** and tradition.

Joseph's Dreamcoat worn in some nobody's county.
you're my favorite gingerbread girl.
lover's quarrels are illegal, thanks.
everyone has the right to be miserable, thanks.

bovine pet request,
dumb static and docile eyes, do they ever change?
does any of it really change?
at some point all the cows petted will be digested and shat out.

congested aisles, shoving and trampling,
the mobilized morbidly obese in carts
WWJD?
a fat stone in a brainless trout stream.
the failing pan salesman hawking his wares,
no one in attendance, wearing a headset (a real go-getter)
and holding his pan like a flag.

the really poor families come to the fair
because it's cheap entertainment,
and it's cheap tradition.
and these struggling families
trudge proudly in faded Kmart attire-
an exhibition the pretentious call
"people watching".

separating oneself from the herd of undesirables,
a pasty man
with his head awkwardly on a pillow,
trying to convince an apathetic and bloated crowd
the perfection of his product,
his head a bit like road ****.
he's selling but the
crowd walks on-on-on.


Was there more guano under the bridge or beyond the gates?

I am a criminal,
So you and the papers say.
They would put me away
For countless nights and days.
Tucked away "safe" in jail,
All for the choice of herbs I inhale.
That they would only have their way...

Yet I am no marauding mobster,
No gangster for hire.
I smoke in the evenings
When daylight is fleeting
And withdraw to my rooms to retire.
I am no plundering pirate
Pillaging your private property.
I go about my day,
As right as I may,
You will find no evil protégée.  

I am spoken in the same breath
As delinquents and undesirables.
The infamously unfavourable,
Mire on our tireless society.
Well I am tired now,
Fatigued.
I've grown weary of living
In your narrow minded
Make believe.

Yet I leave you be.
Keep to mine and own.
It is you who lights the torches
From high deluded throne.
It is you who crafted and rounded
That perfect stone,
Hurled with such indiscrimination
Always many, never alone.

Each night now I wonder,
When I cross that imaginary line.
Such fools we've been,
The waste obscene,
Who really commits the crime?

Well oiled lamp shades
Whispering lust degrades
Frog legs & undesirables
Tree tops & mountain springs

I will get to enter you now
Finger tips brush olive skin
Wetting dry lips w/ moist tongues
Loom weaved young silk sin  

Carried away to a foreign place
Warmth & comfort known for style
Never a urge to alter this space
This blissful plain of existence

Well oiled I slip
I should have seen this
Crumbling beneath me
Pushed away lost grip

I will travel trough you soon
Blissful moon breaking into
I will travel through you soon
Was this always I wanted to do?

Slimy fingers grasping at altered existence
Persistence warmth longing stars from eyes
knuckles cracking down to get what they need
No resistance, it is done, what was replaced by lies?

Warm sweet clammy skin  
Was it really just a dream?
Did I flashblack from times mind
Screaming love, lust sins

The city's shrouded in smoke today
smoke coats my mouth, throat & eyes

& I know, I know.
       I should be writing in form,
in rhyme - villanelles, sonnets, terza rima
      some say there's too much free verse, some say, it's like
everyone's jumped on the bandwagon
       yet the most of the magazines still all want rhyme
                 but sometimes this is just the tune
                                    your heart sings, a broken smile
                                    & the way the images build up
                                        waiting to sail like ships in the harbor


& besides, should we really be writing in villanelles when we are the Mad & I see now, the best minds of our generation, the gifted,

the naked wastrels of the coming apocalypse,
talking to lamp posts, screaming of Ginsberg's Moloch

& the wrongs they did us, yet not destroyed even as we scream locked
behind whitewashed walls in razor-blade glint & halogenic

glow of ECT or walk the empty streets at guerilla dawn
& dusk, bearing the ample weight of our drugged-up minds

like those martyrs of the old Soviet Union & clinging
on to memoirs of our stolen, interrupted, spiritual awakening,

searching for the redemption of litter in this hobo life, 
changing countries like some change bed sheets,

others rooted by the invisible chains of familiarity & home, still calling
for the road, oh Kerouac, the fallen angels of tomorrow strung out on sweet

childhood memories & jazz in starved sunsets,
picking themselves up to pick at their scab wounds,

spitting at corrupt governments, bitter with alcohol,
writing poems of unrequited love to poets

far better than us, while Elvis croons
in the background & a Baboushka spits sunflower seeds

in the Russian town of my ancestors
& an open air film plays in black & white

& this colorless summer is nearly over
& they still haven't lifted their sanctions

them with their stone gods of war & psychiatry,
always lining up the next undesirables :

you could be next, yes you with the rainbow eyes
you the believer, you the dreamer of visions

Oh pity them, the children of smoke,
blind to the vagabond, the poet, the lover

lost children always seeking out the same roads
the city is shrouded in smoke

& I wonder if it's not always been there
& if we're living amongst blind men

ones that never read poems
or else how could all this happen

I just received some very important information
I am not inclined to reveal my sources.
What it is, is a fast track to the future.

It reveals your life pattern and your successes and failures.
When you see it you will understand.

It allows you to avoid the undesirables in your life.
Sometimes the undesirables produce offspring.
You will have to decide when to cut the cord.

Fast track allows you to connect with the ones you will have long term relationships with.

This will allow you to see the future.
You will see the success and observe the future.

My sources are secret.
I wish I had this source when I was 16.

It seems so futile now.
I am almost 60 years old and I love my wife.
My son is a very bright person and has a lovely partner.

If I knew this back when I decided to take my life when I was 30 year old.
I would never have done it.

Lucky for me I was given a fast track to the future.

it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girl with the mousy hair
10,000 hipsters stand in the square
with ***** makeup and ****** flare
prayers fly into the dim lit sky
as a generation asks god  ‘why’
it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girl with the mousy hair
I sit here in despair
for a god of whom I did care
well, just a man with a master’s eye
for making all of the people sigh…
and now I sit here with my head in my hand
just trying to understand
what this world has come unto
can there ever again be skies of blue
and while *swishy in her satin and tat
frock coat and bipperty-bopperty hat
there can never be another like that –
the morning news brought a cold chill
as the icon of us undesirables
came to be laid at rest
it’s on America’s tortured brow
leaving us to sit solemn
as old records spin
telling tales of space men
and life on mars
a little china girl
and one man who feel to earth
it’s on America’s tortured brow
the fashionista of glam rock
the birther of Ziggy
the man who sold the world
forever changing
chameleon
in smart shoes –
spinning grooves
and scattered cd’s
tears slipping away
as memories already start to fade
it’s the freakiest show
look at those cavemen go
will they ever know
just who left us
take a look at the lawman
beating up the wrong guy
it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girls with the mousy hair
now she walks with a sunken dream
and the cream that once rose so high
so too will come the time to die
and as all of us let him go
there can be a bit of hope for those
who carry a torchy flare
to the girl with the mousy hair
and will sing in the dead of night
with face paint and a big spot light
******* and the party boys
come out with their fancy toys
but it’s a god-awful small affair
if you find you’re too square to care
‘bout the goblin kings sad depart
from this earth and from hipster hearts
see these kids have no loyalty
to a man who helped define me
when the world gave me a frown
for kissing boys in a dainty gown
ole Davy gave me peace
with a confidence that never ceased
oh Mr. Jones I’m in debt to you
for turning my grey skies to blue
now I’ll forever carry this torch
from green valleys to my own front porch
but it’s a god-awful small affair
it’s nice to know some of us care…
about the earth and sun and stars
and yes
there is life
on
     Mars –

Abraham Horowitz thought he was dead. Maybe this was what death was like, desolate and bleak, no different than his last few years of sheer misery, humiliation and pain.  He already felt he was in Hell, for Buchenwald was a Hell on earth, but what was going on now?  Just where was he exactly? His glasses had been smashed by a **** guard months ago, and now he couldn't understand why he could not make out the hazy figures of the guards barking out orders and smashing the butts of their rifles into the heads and backs of tormented inmates.  All that seemed to exist were walking skeletons aimlessly drifting about in the blowing wind.

His situation was always dire, but today was an indescribably odd day.   It wasn't good or bad. Lately, little aroused Abraham to ponder upon as he had long ago begun to believe that he was an animal and not a man. After all, different walks of life were thrown away like subhuman trash—left for the flies to feast upon—and it had powerfully defined the ghastly surroundings of his disgraceful existence. People who once were somebody to someone had soon become nobody in the world.  The rotting corpses proved that out. Since he was deemed as a beast, Abraham no longer thought or reasoned like a human being. There was no longer any reason to think or to feel or to imagine anything that could inspire his will to thrive.

The inhumanity had taken its toll. Too weak to stand, he had been fading in and out of sleep and consciousness when much of the chaos of forced marches took place. The Nazis were desperately trying to avoid encountering the allied forces that opposed them. They weren't going to give up easily as they'd sooner shake their fists and make all the prisoners suffer to the bitter end. Many of prisoners were moved out as possible, but not all went willingly. The remaining prisoners—those who weren't half dead—now had their chance to resist.

Abraham's back was leaning against the splintered, wooden wall of one of the barracks. He had tried to prop himself up in an attempt to sit up and then stand up. He only succeeded in sitting up in an awkward slouch, much to the discomfort to his bony backside. The sun beat down on him, his only solace to warm up his frail, battered body, his only comfort in his state of wasting away to the shell of the man he once was. Soon the sweet sun was quenched as he was engulfed in the shadows of a soldier standing before him.  

There was nothing left in him, no more will to live. He was done. No more fear flooded his mind, only thoughts of nothingness that gave him an actual period of relief.  If he was still alive—he had thought—the best thing to happen would be that the soldier now in front of him end his miserable life with a bullet to his head. What once was deemed a horrendous fate now seemed like a welcome surrender

"Hey there... sprechen sie Englisch?", the man asked him. It was the worst German accent that he ever heard, but it might as well have been the voice of God.  

Did he speak English? Oh, yes, he did! "Ja…Englisch", he managed to utter, in sheer bewilderment. He struggled for words to say, but they could not leave his mouth.

The man crouched down and said, “It’s okay now. You can say whatever you want, buddy.”

Abraham still struggled to speak. "That is yes...I...I... do....I do...and Hebrew... and Yiddish... German and… a bit... Polish", he answered with a parched, throaty voice.  Abraham had enough strength left to place his quivering hand up to his eyes. He simply cried as the light went on in his mind. The rumors going around the camp were true! The Americans had come!

Tears are for little boys. The image of his father, scolding him for crying as a youth, dashed into mind. Abraham tried to contain himself. Weeping was one satisfaction that the inmates wanted never to give to the Nazis. Only the irrevocably broken ones begged for mercy, wailing uncontrollably as they were laughed at, mocked and scorned by their enemies.  Conditioned to show no emotional response was one up on the Germans, the only control and dignity that a man had left.  Self-restraint meant you were never owned by anyone.  

Soon a slightly cool cup of water was placed upon Abraham’s shaking lips. He slurped at it—getting more on the ground than in his mouth—like a man coming out of years in the desert. Oh, how precious was that water! He could have drunk it by the gallons, splashed in it, played in it—danced in it!  If he could only stand and be given the chance!

"Easy now, buddy”, the American advised. "My name's John, by the way". The young, freckled-face private smiled proudly, stating,”John Dunn from the good, ole USA—from Jersey...New Jersey, that is."

He was only the second soldier that Abraham ever met in this entire ordeal of brutal capture and madness of war that had a heart. The soldier was rare sight in that he showed him even an ounce of kindness. John Dunn reminded him so much of Otto Brumler that he began to weep, again. He didn't know he even had it in him, for he had stopped crying so long ago that it was as if he had forgotten how.  Lately, there just weren't any more feelings left—not even hate. Oh, how he used to hate! There were only numb movements of a dead man walking about. The tears felt cleansing upon his dry and ***** face.

Otto Brumler was a rare anomaly. He just didn’t seem to make sense in this sea of insanity. A **** guard, he liked to talk with some of the inmates, discreetly giving them gifts to pass around—some cigarettes, chocolates, cheese, bread and sausages. How peculiar to be coming from a German soldier!  Some of the inmates were suspicious that he was a spy that was out to trap them and feared him even more than the most loathing of the guards. Abraham was one of them who at first thought the man was purposely trying to get them in trouble.

Trouble abounded in the camps. If the men couldn't work hard enough, they were daily beaten and tortured, so badly beaten down that many could not get back up again. If it wasn't an act of harsh aggression, it was starvation and disease that got them. Herded up like animals, the filth from their ****** fluids and human waste was an ever noxious presence, their ragged clothes soiled in the foul mess. The stench that was once unbearable eventually became to define them as trash to be thrown away, and they had forgotten what a clean existence smelled like.  

Abraham would sometimes wake up in the morning and find the one next to him had not made it through the night. Sometimes, it was on both sides that dead bodies had sandwiched him in-between. If not those succumbing to the horrible conditions, the weaker ones were taken away while alive, never to be seen again. And some would give up the will to live by refusing to press on, passively taking a bullet or a fatal beating. Then there were those who would end their own lives as the only means of escape. It seemed one less triumph for the Nazis, to deny them the sick satisfaction of killing yet another, wretched soul. Yet the Nazis always won the victory of a victim’s life ending.  Regardless of how the death of any of the undesirables occurred in the camps, it fed their ideology of superiority just fine. Many of the prisoners lay awake at night wondering how this barbarism could flourish and go unnoticed.  When would it end? Had the whole world gone mad?  

"We survive and that’s how we win”, one of the Polish prisoners, Jan, encouraged some around him. "We make it to the end because they will be defeated. They cannot last forever. You mark my words!"

"And how do we do that?" “a doubtful Jewish teen, Eli, insisted. He once was so spirited, and he had great plans to travel the world one day. "I lost my whole family. I'm the only one left and it will just be a matter of time before they get me, too. We are all doomed!" His gaunt face and hallow eyes spoke for themselves.

Abraham needed to believe he'd have even a glimmer of hope to be free one day, or he'd have lost the battle by now. His sanity would not hold out. Many already had no hope and that was like a death in itself.  Most of the men knew that to hold on, they'd have to defy logic and hold out for hope. They'd pray with each other, regardless of being a Jew or Christian or even the agnostics, sometimes losing the meager hope that they were had. It grew as scarce as their rations of crusty bread. Nevertheless, they prayed.  

One time, Abraham was grabbed by a guard by the throat and hurled to the ground for being too slow. He had been dumping out human excrement from the campgrounds. The guard berated Abraham as he kicked him over and over again while the poor man curled up into a ball in helpless submission. Protecting his face and head, he soon found himself sheltering his groin, writhing in  pain in that sensitive area that had been attacked by a heel of a boot.

It was Otto Brumler who astounded him. Why wasn't he like the others? As a Jew, the disgust the Nazis had for Abraham was as obvious as the gloom hanging over the camp. Hatred defined Abraham’s world ever since ****** took power and convinced the people that they would be better off without his kind.  Otto was looked upon as being too soft on those he guarded, reprimanded for not being too tough and rough on the prison ****. He did not go above and beyond his duty, nor did he take pleasure in anyone's pain and suffering.

"My best friend was a Jew", he confessed to Abraham one night, sneaking him some salve for his cuts and abrasions from that last beating, providing him some meat to satisfy his longings to fill his stomach.  

Abraham actually showed a real emotion that was a rare sight these days, a slow expression of surprise. "So why are you here at the camp?" he asked him.

Otto puffed on his cigar and passed it to him. He laughed a little, replying, "I think ****** is a little man...but a big bully. I would have gladly be no part of this greedy thirst to devour other nations, but I was forced into it." He looked at Abraham and smiled a bit with sad eyes. It was quite the contradiction of mirth. Otto had a ruddy complexion and dark blonde hair. In his youthfulness, there still an air of innocence about him, a kindness that the ugliness of the war had not killed in him.

"I love my country", he admitted.  "I just hate what they are doing now and how blind we have become. It will be to our ruin."

Abraham admired his honesty. "I guess there are a few good men in this world", he admitted. "My father taught me that it isn't where you come from but who you are that counts."

"That is true, my friend." Otto patted him on the back and added, “My old friend, Avi, had saved my life."  He was speaking of his Jewish friend from childhood. "Many years ago, he rescued me from a lake in my hometown. We went there to cool off from the summer heat.  I couldn't really swim, but I became overconfident and dove in like I was the best swimmer in the world.  There, I found myself in water over my head and didn't end up so well.  I would have drowned without Avi rescuing me. Unlike me, he was fearless."

"So now you know we Jews aren't devils." Abraham remarked, with a hint of a twinkle in his eye.  

"Of course not! Avi was like a prizefighter, a real proud kid. He never backed down from a fight, and there was always a challenge for him..He had to fight off the boys who picked on him for being different from most of us—for being a Jew. So he learned how to stand his ground. I was a fat boy, and Avi would defend me from the bullies who picked on me, too. He was a good friend to me. I know a a bully when I see one, Abraham” He pointed his finger all around, “Bullies everywhere, but they are not men…just weak, little boys who need someone to kick around to feel better”

Abraham knew he had a genuine friend in Otto. “What happened to your friend?”he asked about Avi.

Otto just shrugged his shoulders. “I hope he hasn't lost the fight. I wonder what has happened to him quite often...if he is alive now…if he has made it this far."  

It was nighttime, but it seemed even less secure to come together like this than if mingling in plain sight.  There was never a time where anyone could feel safe, not one minute. Abraham knew this encounter was risky, deadly for sure if caught. He talked about his lovely, young wife, Rivka, and how she felt she was not blessed with having a child. Now it seemed like it was a blessing not to rear up a child, not to have it cruelly ripped away from them and mourn the aching loss and its tragic demise. Rivka was already dead, herself,. Women and children were often the first to go. All Abraham had now was her memory, the image of her sweet face in his mind. Otto talked about his young sweetheart, Gretchen, and his dream of starting a life with her once the war was over. He still believed in a bright future.

That wish would never come true.  It wasn't long before Otto was found out about for his secret encounters with some of the prisoners and shot before a firing squad as a traitor. When Abraham found out, he wanted to weep over the loss but the tears wouldn't come. They couldn’t even come for his lovely Rivka. They only came now when Private John Dunn had given him water, mirroring the same kindness that Otto had once done, redeeming him from an animal to a man  once more.  

Abraham was eventually placed on a truck with other survivors and transported to more humane conditions. Allied soldiers were fully in charge the camp now, and there was no going back to that hellhole ever again. At last, he was truly a free man, though a heartbroken one who was not the same man as he arrived. He had not died—this was not just a dream—but he still was not convinced he would have the will to go on. The breeze on his face felt wonderful, the sun in his eyes, miraculous. That held some shred of promise for him. He passed by trees and mountainous views that he was never convinced he would ever see, again.  No more smell of death, but even the most fragrant flowers could not mask the memory of the horrible stench of his war-torn memories. Some things did just not die away that easily. Memories had a stink of their own that could not be masked by beauty. He had seen things that few could bear, much less go on to tell about it.  He'd never forget being penned up like pigs for the slaughter and made to have no hope. But by the front of the truck, there was Jan, the Pole who once said that the Nazis would be defeated and everyone could mark his words.  

Abraham looked at him until Jan's eyes met his and they both managed a smile. He had come too far to give up. He would not win the victory if he did not survive. He owed it to those who did not make it—to his people, to his fellow inmates, to Rivka, and even to Otto Brumler.  He had no clue, no answers of where to go or how to conduct himself in the world, again, but he would continue to hold onto hope that he would make it.

It suddenly dawned on him that his wife had a few cousins in Chicago that she grew up with. His mind was alerted with the remembrance of Rivka exchanging pictures, postcards and letters throughout the years, All he had of her was robbed from him in the war—everything. To lay eyes on her image—once again—and the possibility of maybe holding her actual words in his hands began to overwhelm him. His imagination could barely contain the thoughts, and he began to weep yet again. As once, crying was weakness to a man, the tears just now meant he was alive. To be counted among the living—to belong somewhere—it was the closest thing to pure joy. Thoughts of America started a small spark within—just enough to start a little fire in his soul—to lead him on to a path with a hopeful purpose. There was no turning back now.

I love
You
Don’t care

In-diff-er-ent
Isn't paid
Much attention
In my apartment
We’ll
End-if-her-rent
Isn’t paid
In our
Department
But who cares?

Separation
Doesn't
Always cause pain
And pain
Isn't always
The cause
Of separation

We just
Happened
To drift away
Like
Messages in a bottle
Off the coast
With no intent
Of being found
Our lonely islands
Are crowded
With shadows
Of friends

We forget the darkness
Because at least
We no longer
Burn each other
With our angst
And anger

We remember
Everything
Except rations
Of ourselves
We left
Like t-shirts
And underwear
Tangled
In each others
Laundry

Then throw
Them away
Find them
Another day
in the exact same place
We excavated them
The returnment
Of our undesirables
Show fate’s
Sense of humor
But
Only a stubbornness
Such as ours
Could devour fate
And disavow
The vows
It set out
To make...

We
Will
Never
Be
Again
Never
Again
Will
We
Be

Sums
Up the sum
Of each halves
And the total
Is something
The totaled
Hearts
Can live with...

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar moll:  You dare say you're going to organise a petition to evict us, aha, who do you think the ******
country belongs to?

ME : you are a bare-faced thief, how can you steep so low as to burgle your neighbour, after all we've done for you and your lot. From you
moed in over three years ago, there's been over twenty burglaries on the Estate. Police always at your door, your husband always in prison. I don't understand what you mean by Country belonging,
what do you mean.

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll: I know I am not black and
you can't do anything to evict us. Just watch yourself, you're going to be taught a lesson, you wait and see.

ME : Yeah! you're going to send your hoods round to beat me up or
maybe steal my four wheels like you did before, what are you gonna do, **** me! I have done nothing wrong, I am not a ****** thief!

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll :  Ah! just you wait, just you wait and see. We are going to do your head in, chuck mud at you, you ****** fool. we will hound you even into the hole of any woman, we will put ants in your head, we will drive you paranoid, you black man!

ME : I am not scared of you, let me tell you that, a thief, a drunkard, a scrounger and a Racist, what a lovely human being you are. I am going to report you.

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll : Haha..and I am going to steal the match on you, you don't know what you and your wife are in for, we are sorting you out, sunshine!

ME : You don't need to steal a match, I'll gladly give you matches to light yourself up, I hope you and your thieving gang go up in flames!

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar :  Say goodbye to your life man,
nothing is ever going to be the same anymore. You will never be able to trust anyone again from now on..haha!

ME : How rich, a bare-faced crook talking about trust, what do you know about trust, I am not a thief and as you ****** know I live a lawful and blameless life, so carry your ****** threats and go stuff it. You do not frighten me one bit, you're a mean and racist crook!

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll : Somebody is in for the jump and its not me. Soon, somebody will wish they were dead and it's not me either, that's all I'm saying, man!

ME : Yeah, go get your gang, come and **** me, you can see I am shaking and trembling already. Hopefully, we all on this Estate will be rid of you and all the undesirables you bring here, we are fed up of you all!

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll : Ha..! all I'm saying is, Bye bye Blackbird, bye-bye Blackbird....haha, Gangster departs singing,
Bye-bye Blackbird, bye-bye Blackbird....hahaha...hahaha,,bye-bye
Blackbird....!!!

My fingers never touched it,
save for the tv screen.
Mama told me to not touch the screen with my unclean hands.
Sometimes when she wasn’t looking, I did anyway,
and felt crackling beneath my fingertips,
miniature lighting storms,
ravaging the faces of the young, famous, and beautiful.

but i never touched the undesirables,
never laid holy lightning on the exposed war-bones
escaping at 90 degrees from charred, living corpses.

i never held the dying children,
coffee-cup weight in my palms,
colder still,
and forgotten after the end of the episode.

and i still felt nothing
when i should have smelled ash.

i can’t imagine, or i can,
what happens on our interior planets,
during the four seconds before impact.
are they blissfuly going about routines?
are the markets full, only a few dissenters
crying “end is nigh” ?

they won’t even feel it.

Feel like a *******, only used at night
Never appreciated, I don't think its right
People make use of me with little thought at all
Without me they'd be in the dark, could trip or fall

Never worry about me, couldn't care if I'm hurting
But! don't they complain when I'm not working
Stuck out here in the weather in all extremes
They all rely on me or that is the way it seems

Only time I get washed is when it happens to rain
Sometimes I short out and spark, oh what pain
My cover is old, yes its all cracked and broken
Does any one give a dam? you must be joking

Dogs **** there leg next to me and take a ****
Birds **** all over me, I don't think I deserve this  
Men lean their girl against me for a kiss and a feel
Undesirables stand below me to make a drug deal

Police try to solve crimes perhaps stop an odd fight
No idea most of the time, I try to shed a bit of light
Concreted to the ground, can't move surely not fair
Stuck out in the weather with my head high in the air

Once I was hit by a drunk driver and knocked to the ground
Police and firetruck arrived, driver was nowhere to be found
Sparks and electrical currents, gee **** it certainly hurt
Firemen threw powder over me,  too dangerous to squirt

I lay on the ground for a week, some flags around me
People stayed away at night, just wasn't possible to see
Then along came some workers, absolute gentlemen
Fixed me up good and using a crane stood me up again

I cannot understand people at all, certainly not fair
I needed to be run over before they showed any care
They are all happy to use me while my heart glows
Don't they cuss though if my poor old globe blows

The meeting of the minds is taking place in a booth in the back corner or the pub with those beer nuts you like so much

The Cheapskate
The Peddler
The Chiseler
The Swindler
And The Big Shot

Originally it was supposed to just me the Big Shot and the Peddler
Then the Chiseler squirmed his way into the scheme
Since three was already a crowd no one protested to the company of the Swindler and The Cheapskate

"Around of scotch for my homies!" says The Big Shot to the barmaid
The Cheapskate turned pale and whispers into The Big Shot's ear

"Four scotches and a tap water!" The Big Shot called out

The last time these five character went in on something together it turned into a huge power struggle

The Big Shot got too big for his britches
The Swindler tampered with the numbers
As he and The Chiseler blamed the blame game
While the Peddler was managing the tensions and just trying to get all he could off his hands
And the Cheapskate putting as little as he could in to get as much as he could out of the whole thing

Those were their salad days
Wheeling and dealing
What a shame they never came out clean
At all
Such a shame

But this time they will not repeat the trauma
They're in it to win it
The sweepstakes scam of the century
The feel good moment

They all knew none of them got along
But they had to get on with it

The plan was intricate
First the Chiseler would take every love letter intended for a physicist
Then rewrite in as a hate note
Upon reading the phony expression of disdain
The physicist would dive into his work to get his mind off it
And develop his studies of String Theory

Then The Swindler would buy the theory from the broken hearted egghead with the money The Peddler made from selling the spinning squares that make a dizzying circle he got at wholesale from his guy in Cairo

The Cheapskate would then gather a few undesirables from the abandoned paper factory and have them ransack The Physicist's lover's house and hold at gun point to have her cough up a few of her ***** little secrets which include the fact she had been sleeping with The Big Shot

The Big Shot would at that point step in and end things with the Physicist's Lover and tell her it was because she could even protect the material things she owned
Which made him question if she could guard and protect his heart

So The five masterminds would have the rights and royalties to The Physicist's String Theory, his lover's every last belonging, The Peddler's wacko drugs and his connection and a few of The Lover's unmentionables
Plus the Big Shot gets to get laid

Not bad for five guys who couldn't get along

And not a single cop out or snide remark thrown

Thusly it was agreed upon with a five-way spit hand shake that if anything would happen that could incriminate any of them, The Swindler would answer for everything with his feet on the ground
Because the Chiseler had Plan B which involved a jailbreak

A Night for a Rose



The arrogance of passion
Touch me in places I didn't know existed
A gallant prince silently Hunts for the stars
Midnight brought Feathers descending slowly
On stray wave thoughts hang on the balance of peacefulness
Deliverance bottled up inside the pain
The thickness of an iceberg
Keeping a glacier glue to the sky
Insane minds swinging with the sharks
The discovery of your eyes in the middle of a blossom rose
Strings of my life squeeze a breath of air
Your hands unlimited creation, a rhythm breakthrough a kingdom
Swift passage through earthly possession, franticly speaking
Fear has left me breathless, reneged against the machine
The exception of a butterfly, the ways of the moon
Straight face keeps false pretence of many eyes
Unpreventable desire of lust
Continue their journey upstream
Deeply pondering, my words became clouds raining on your parade
The door close behind the red lights igniting my way out
Surrender in front a passion passing you by
For a longest I can remember love walk away from my senses
The letter awaken your nakedness in front of the mirror
Softly I lay beside a broken lover
For miles I believed the touché of my lips will heal you
The strike of a guitar playing with the stars
Shine a knockout blow for the undesirables
The wave unveil the true meaning of lost
But the light always shines bright
On my heart…



Rony Joseph all rights reserved 2010

Like concrete weighing down on my chest
Thorns that bind around the depths of my heart
Wounds that never seem to heal
Patched with seams that have grown old, and damp

When will this pain subside?

Each day a new heart is granted in my hands
To feel new energy surge through my veins
To keep myself going from the days rough road
But only to find a fractured heart at the end of every journey

What an imppossible feat!

To find a heart that never breaks
A heart so perfect
Unable to be stained by undesirables
A heart that never feels pain...

But what kind of heart would that be?

A heart that never learned to endure
A heart that knows no strength
A heart that does not understand the true meaning of triumph
A heart that does not understand...

I say to you

Never dwell in grief
Feeling downcast because of a few scars
For these are the marks of a true warrior
A soldier that endured
A fighter that fought a good fight

Never dwell in grief
Because at every journeys end comes a new beginning

And a new Heart.

When sleep can't find me, I guess because I'm camofluoged and fit too well in the night
(After all, sleep does have its eyes closed)
I make the 25 minute drive down to "L" street.
I sit on my old bench in that ****** fake park with the lined up giant rocks and the one weeping cherry tree. City counsels gift to the street ******, rapists, thieves  and drug peddlers.
  I watch, I listen and sip my whisky. L street is the worse part of town here. There's an asylum on one side of the corner, a bank on the other. Red light number 3. People are always lined up in front of the asylum. I suppose for little blue pills.
  Further down the row of crumbling bricks, is a cafe that plays live music on Friday and Saturday nights and across from that is a pool hall that sells green hotdogs. On the other side of the pool hall, is an empty building with my tobacco lady painted on the side of it. And my "bitchs bench", as I call it, sits beside that.
My mother has always raised immortal hell about my going there. Day or night. "You'll get *****, hooked on the "L" pills or murdered. Dont come crying to me when it happens", she sais. But as much time as I've spent there, I've spoken with more than a few of those "undesirables" and they all have a story of such pain and heart break. Or they're just mentally ill.
They're daisies. That didn't grow upright in this field of life. They tripped.
  My "L" street,
is where the daisies tripp.

nevertheless
can't help but remember
what happend that day-
not so fun, huh?
not a proud moment in any of those 24 hours,
just nostalgic
destruction
wanting to go anywhere
to not think about there
here
and now and again
I return to those moments
not to reflect per se
but to induce vomitting-
not so fun
being compared to undesirables,
and yet
so fitting
in a way
or five hundred,
it's you.

I know I’m not as perfect as they see,
Why look at me so wicked?
But hey, I’m standing tall like a tree,
Imperfect outside, but inside strong-hearted.

The world is twisted, I’d say,
Too much vanity and greed.
The powerless they just stray,
Saying pity is nothing but a creed.

Feeding rejection has caused madness,
The undesirables now fight back.
Poor Elphaba,they say, never received kindness,
But here I am, ready to strike an attack.

Yes, it’s that wizard who says,
“Everyone deserves a chance to fly.”
But I? I’ve found ways,
No more good deeds to try.

I thought I’m made for something good,
Despite my green skin from that vial.
Saving Fiyero is all that I could,
Well, say as good, but that’s denial.

Oh, let it be then,
I shall unleash my minions.
To Emerald City we tighten,
It’s time for all evil’s dominions!

Though I may perish in water,
I don’t mind as long as revenge is sealed.
No more of good dreams that bother,
Conquering Oz is now reeled.

I once thought that the world was divided between the gifted and the non-gifted. I obviously count myself among the gifted, and why should I not? Do I not possess a superior IQ of 176 and a body worthy of Tier 1 reproduction status? Being born into wealth and position made it only a matter of course that I attended only the most superior of educational facilities, where my vocation as a State Psychiatrist was determined by the Board of Selection at 14. My adolescence was exceptional only in the fact of our Noble Republic's crushing victory when I was 16. I knew little of our Great Enemy's designs or dogma, imbued rather with the glorious teachings of the Ministry of Education and the need for constant vigilance against the corrupting influence of those deemed non-gifted. My blissful ignorance of the Enemy would soon change however, at my first official posting in our province's Mental and Behavioral Correction Compound. My duties for the duration of the year long post consisted or interviewing certain Counter-Revolutionaries, deemed necessary for posterity of course, and for the good of the unborn children of our State's Glorious Future. The twelve undesirables under my charge, six male, four female, and one pre-pubescent child of each gender, were to be disposed of as a matter of precaution upon the conclusion of my study. The preliminary timetable of cataloguing was ten months from inception to disposal with another two for editing and compiling the data. I cannot honestly say I welcomed the assignment, seeing it only as a test, my inception into the apparatus of the State, a mere stepping stone at best. My subjects did not even exist as people like you or me, rather effigies of a decadent past. Subjects had no names, simply numbers and faces. How can I be blamed for what transpired, for my ignorance, when all of them had ceased to be human, even to themselves?

Day 1 - Preliminary with No. 613774-1

Begin Transcript:

"Hello No. 613774-1, my name is Dr. Williams. I will be conducting a study of you and your fellow subjects over the next ten months at the behest of our Noble Republic. It is in your best interests to answer my questions fully and without reservation. This is being recorded for our State's benefit and that of Holy Father Science, so do please be polite. Shall we proceed?"

.....................

"I asked you a question No. 613774-1, it would behoove you to respond in a timely fashion."

"I have a name Herr Doctor. I would like to be addressed by it."

"You will not be disrespectful during these sessions No. 613774-1, it is inappropriate. Nor do I enjoyed having my title abused."

"I am being respectful, possibly even polite. The term Herr is one of respect in a language known as German, and since this entire setting is so very Kafka-esque, I find it quite applicable to you, Herr Doctor. And ironic, as Kafka isn't known to you. "

"Regardless, I must insist that you address me as Doctor or Dr. Williams."

"And I insist that I be addressed by my real name rather than a number assigned to me. Until then I fear I must continue to address you as such, Herr Doctor."

(Door opening)

"Guard, bring No. 613774-2. This session is concluded."
"Yes Sir."

"Good day Herr Doctor. I enjoyed our chat. Do be nice to No. 613774-2 please. She is my wife."

(Scuffling, a thump, door slamming)

End Transcript

At this same time every year
I set down my poets pen
To grab a hold of my lost soul
And reign it all back in

I  close and latch the beat up screen door
So I can still feel the open breeze
But keep out the undesirables
That have control of me

I'll sit down at my morning table
Where over life I'll contemplate
This I do once yearly
To try and set myself back straight

I turn my thoughts back to my God
Who after all is my first love
A fast of sorts to wash away the worst
Of a world that never offers enough

Like the prodigal son in the Bible
I grabbed life's riches and I fled
Until I reached the emptiness
Of the life of nothing left

I'm not talking monetary
Here today, gone tomorrow
But of the very heart of man
The root cause of my life's sorrow

I'll return after a cleansing month
If after all I feel I must
But I'll leave that in the hands of God
In whom I place my trust

I love each of you and cherish dearly
Your friendship and time you've given me
But I feel I must release these modern demons
Which I sadly confess...is even poetry

who does heaven’s gate open for?
there is an ideal candidate, a type of person dripping with so much grace and benevolence it sickens the normal people passing by. even the kindest among us avoid the runoff.
are they even human?
i don’t part my lips for righteousness.
i don’t spare second glances at books on par with it, either.
let the sky open for the people i know. the real people.
the beggars and undesirables, the people who cut you like broken glass and lick your wound clean thereafter.
the people just getting by, doing anything to get right there and barely reaching beyond it.
the people who live in the margins, yearning to have their name written on a line someone will read.
let me see a sky as deep as time, as vast as androgyny.
open before us with warm arms and chest to sink our earth-weary souls into.
open unto us or we will make waste of the clouds and clip the wings of fleeing angels.
if it is not for me, i will pry the door open with my fingers.
i make my own welcome.

Collect the bones of the poor,
     And let there bones build
the walls to keep out
           the retches,
                   the undesirables,
                                 the different.


And then realise that the wall
                contains you.


For we are all poor in different aspects,
                  be it dignity,
                            be it humility.


Be it the virtues that make us who we are.



We should never look at another as divergent,
                 for we are all apitamy of
                             our own diluted reflections.

Everyone is insolvent in the walls we create,

                        We just have to learn never to build them
in the beginning,
                           and realise we all take the same footsteps.

 No one walks differently from another in life journey.

hate sings a love song,
blithe, pretty, little tune
in honor of its heritage.
hate sings sweetly, a song
of marches and hangings,
of ghettos and slavery
it hums admiration for its people.
it sings of this land.
the majestic peaks and playful meadows.
it sings, with love, of blood-drenched cotton and  
trenches adorned with crooked bodies.
it sings of its forefathers-  
the conquistadors and pioneers.
saintly butchers and child rapists.
hate paints it’s history holier than the Sistine Chapel,  
singing blindly like a hymn.

hate sings a love song,  
possessive and vicious.  
it scrawls the lyrics on
subway walls and sycamore trees.
it sings in symbols and metaphors,
accompanied by the beat of temple gunshots and kicks to the ribcage.
hate sings through the pulpit and the pew,
clipping it’s verses from a holy book,
it sways to the rhythm of “Amens” and “Hallelujahs”

hate breathes down my neck and yours,
knocking door to door,  
bearing music with a message,  
it weeds out the undesirables one by one.
for the greater good,
hate tortures children therapeutically,
and executes those presumed guilty.
it erases generations
in concrete rooms  
and in the bellies of ships.  
it explodes homes,
smashes panes of glass,
and burns every convenient symbolism.
hate roves and rages and spits and howls,
singing the song of a beautiful future.

The frustrating pocket sweater lies
next to a glowing, sharp calculator and the vacuum
smells up the whole place with purple air.
The knot on the table is promising,
the curling band-aid twists over a sheepskin pencil pouch
and dreams continuously of health-care, and affordability.
A series (or a set) of remote controls telling the canned beans to drink from the yellow mug, that's the lucky one.
Cat-tails whimper, and an old man hugs the edge of the moon,
making sure the fork in the road is repaved.

Flossing, a girl looks up into the eyes of the lawyer and asks him,
"Have you ever seen me before?"
A running start the clock gets before it jams into the car,
with the other undesirables.
Counting their blessings, the smaller plants assemble before the dawn of the helicopter, to plead with their feather-dusting friends.

Keep up the good work, a construction worker yelled across a desert,
to a tree. A huge tree with sparkling fruit and splinters waiting to be annoying.

She’s discretely picking herself up
yet again.
her toothbrush is in the front pocket
of her ripping knapsack
her necklace
refastened around her neck.

he’s still holding on to
her vintage
beach rock CD.

someone will always walk away
with something that wasn’t theirs.

the look in her eyes
when she was trying to drive,
was exhausted by the streetlights
and repressed remnants of
secretly sought after destruction.

she and her passenger
were separated
though verbalized indignation
seeped into
timid toleration.

he’s god knows where
touching who know who
it took three whole days
to move on.

She’s not strong
she just knew he was wrong
and lost in a throng
of undesirables

left overs in Styrofoam cases
with their names carved out
are shoved to the back of the fridge
silent and molding
like unspoken words
hanging their mouths.

it’s the mid-afternoon
and he couldn’t be bothered to wake up
before two.

she slipped out of his grasp
and dangled off the porch
in an overcast lavender blue.

back inside
the wood floor gives way
to her moon beam knees
and she loses perception
in the imperfections
of her dreams
and realities.


c.m.
7.15.14