Ruddy's was the place to be on Wednesday nights, cheap drinks, free hotdogs and the graceful presence of Times Square hookers late at night, what a wonderful scene, marines hookers and the best jazz juke box inn manhattan, rowdy and something almost always happened, better than life. I was a young man in a strange country, had my fists tested in FLA and Brooklyn for stupid prejudices on my behalf and others, words hurt only those who do not know their meaning and root. There was a black man sitting next to me, quiet and still, a true barfly, he turned and said;
- you are not from round here-
-  no - I said -I am from Mexico -
- you don't look Mexican, but let's go with it, I don't look African American either-
- r you from the south?-
-Georgia, as they call it -
-well, I've worked in FLA and met some rednecks, Cubans, blacks, but almost no Chinese-
-you mean yellow-
-or *******-
- or ****, you know men, I prefer racism down south, over there the distinction is cut loose clear, we don't like each other, but here, men I tell you, you wannanother beer?-
-sure men-
-Girls just wanna ******* cause I'm black, you know, to be cool and ****-
-yeah, Jewish girls wanna **** white Gentiles, different reasons same goal-
-I hear you, here it's all about being fashionable, but deep in the pit it's all fake as a 10 dollar coin-
  We kept at it until Beth started a fight with another ******, they were calling each other **** I've never heard.

He entered our classroom
Quietly
Something in his hand

A slip of paper
Assigning him
to English 11b

English words
Thick in his mouth
He whispered his name,
Jaime Chavez

Jimmy Changa!
someone mocked,
Had one of them for supper
Nice to know you burrito boy.

Jaime Chavez smiled,
And remembered.

He entered our classroom
Quietly
Something in his hand

A book
Shakespeare
Carefully noted
In Spanish and English

Jimmy Changa
Someone mocked
Whatcha got there?
A book?
You don’t need them to cut my lawn.

Jaime Chavez smiled,
And remembered

He entered our classroom
Quietly
Something in his hand

An award
Superior achievement
English 11b

Jimmy Changa
Someone mocked
You didn’t earn that,
*******, ******, ****

Jaime Chavez smiled
And remembered.

He entered our classroom
Quietly
Something in his hand

Full scholarship
Princeton University
In English Literature

And something else

A bumper sticker
"God Bless America,"

Which he carefully
tacked to the bulletin board

My name is not Jimmy Changa.

My name, is Jaime Chavez

And he smiled.

I am Mexican:
       Brown and forgotten inbetween,
       Brown like the dirt poor I am.

Iv'e been in hard labor:
      I do what "they" don't want to anymore,
      I am the backbone of the working class.

Iv'e been poor:
      I see no handouts under the pyramid scheme,
      I am the Latin prince of the ghetto.

Iv'e been a hustler:
      Every penny earned off my back
      Makes dollars for "their" pockets.

Iv'e been here:
      I am no *******,
      I am the American dream,
      Still I must show identification.

I am Mexican:
      Brown and four generations deep
      American, I am still
      The immigrant face.

My advice to fellow geezers?
Just say **** it!
“Roll up to the magical mystery tour!”
Just like John & Yoko!
Smoke a big fat doobie each morning.
Step out the Hogan door, just greet
The East and walk in beauty.
After a few weeks you just won’t
Give a **** anymore; just not give a ****
In general, no longer care about what’s
Not important: The Guv’ment.
Politics. The rate of unemployment.
Inflation. Even radical, freaking
Muslim Jihadist TERROR!
Yes.  Just light up, Babaloo,
Do one’s bit for the Decline &
Fall (dropped you, didn’t I?)
Let’s mourn the dying ***** goddess.
America: that shining city on a hill,
Colombia in all her senility, insolvency &
Not even D or I, just Lusions of grandeur.
Let us contemplate the decrepitude,
The crumbling, up-in-smoke spiritual infrastructure,
The USA: the United ****'s-Creek of America,
Going down, down, down . . . ALERT!
NEWS FLASH! It’s Rome & Great Britain,
It’s the update, the demise of Empire all over again.
I remember those sorry-***, pathetic Brits,
Met them all over while hitchhiking around
Europe, an intensive, closely observed tour of duty
Abroad: a gift to myself, in fact a scholarship,
I rigged for myself back in the early ‘70s.
Going abroad: once a reserved right of passage for certain,
Privileged children of the 1890s, lucky spawn from
Families known as the “Well-to-do.” And why not add:
Dubbed the “Mauve Decade" because William Henry Perkin’s
Aniline dye allowed widespread use of that color in fashion.
The "Gay Nineties,” referring to a time not of buggery, but
Merriment & optimism, & lest we forget, Twain’s “Gilded Age.”
Got the time, spare a dime, got the freaking time-frame, Mack?
It was a dark & stormy total eclipse of Jupiter.
Spiritually speaking, I was free-floating.
And what of those same-self, sad-assed &
Sorry, pathetic Brits?
Well, consider the specific years.
Experience in Europe in my early 20s,
Meant 1972, 1973 & 1974.
Surely, a time for English disillusionment,
What with the sun finally setting,
A vague, prismatic twilight time,
A virtual requiem for His or Her Majesty’s Empire,
“Rule, Britannia ... Britannia rule the waves.”
(Cue ruffles & flourishes, fifes & flugelhorns)
This was pre-North Sea Oil Bonanza days.
This was England before Mrs. Thatcher
Gave her good people a long overdue,
Richly deserved kick in the tuchas.
“The Iron Lady” they called her.
Stopped Orwell’s future, doornail dead, she did.
“Maggie’s Miracle” they called it.

Those Brits I met & knew back then,
Those “Used-to-be-Contender” types:
Self-deprecatory, apologetic & cynical,
Mocking the Union Jack,
Shedding salty tears for Lost Empire.
“This blessed plot, this earth,
This realm, this England.”
Ironic & bitter to a man,
“Gulping gin & bitters later,” observes
Current tenant occupier, 221B Baker Street,
Sherlock finding the word at last,
The definitive literary term,
That one precise mot juste, that says it all.
In a word? Sardonic.
The USA is going down, down down—
“And away goes trouble down the drain!”

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That’s right: $KA-CHING$!
An ad right in the middle of a ******* poem!
Always the sensible poet, I kept my day job.
But now in my 60’s finally figuring out:
HOW TO MAKE POETRY PAY?
Bow down to Adam Smith & Ricardo—
Not the ‘Splaine me, Cuban bandleader
Of that surname, but David, the classical economist,
The “Iron Law of Wages” guy
It’s time to make money.
Call in the Madmen.
Send in the clowns.

Mad Men – AMC - AMC.com www.amc.com/shows/mad-men Official site for AMC's award-winning series Mad Men: Games, making-of videos, plus episode & character guides.

$KA-CHING$! $KA-CHING$!

And Dan Draper: an alcoholic, chain-smoking,
***** magnet & Korean War ****-up, shifty
Name-changer, last seen at that Big Sur ashram,
The Esalen Retreat & Jingle Inspiration Center,
**** Whitman coming clean, at last:
Hovering a foot off the ground
In the lotus position, receiving **** *** from a
Coke bottle incarnation of Vishnu.

Search Results I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing (In Perfect Harmony ... https://en.wikipedia.org/I'dLiketoTeachtheWorld . . . Wikipedia "I'd Like to teach the World to Sing (In Perfect Harmony)" is a popular song that originated as the jingle "Buy the World a Coke" in the groundbreaking 1971 ... Writer(s)‎ ‎Jon Hamm AKA Dan Draper; ‎Label‎: Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce.

Money: FUNGIBLE GREEN.
$KA-CHING$!

Those once sardonic Brits,
Now have Brooklyn accents.
We’re going down the drain, Babaloo!
The barbarians are at the gates,
A horde of hunger, a ******* rabble,
Green-eyed monsters, envying America’s poor,
Craving what little Uncle Sam’s indigenous poor have left,
Ragtag migrants, short, dark compañeros,
Swarthy Huns & Visigoths,
Whitman's last yawp, the last gasp breath of
Work Ethos, be it Protestant or Papist,
A colossal mélange of famine, hope & prayer,
The usual suspects: “Your tired, your poor,
Your wretched refuse & solid waste,
Your huddled, yearning masses.”
My advice to Emma--Sephardic-Ashkenazi,
Proto-Zionist, years before Herzl:
Get yourself a nightclub act, Ms. Lazarus.

America: I am hidden in a high grass savannah,
I watch the hyenas pick your carcass clean.
Adam Smith: he displaced the term greed--
Smacking as it does of deadly sin baggage—
Replaced the term Greed with Self-Interest.
And the only invisible hand I know of is
Down my pants, jerking me off,
Mesmerized by slogans, divine metaphors, like:
“A rising tide lifts all boats,” a Big Lie, for example.
Today’s economists call it “The Multiplier Effect.”
You pay me and I pay him & he pays he or she,
Merry Goes Round, Goes Round & Round the Merry-Ground.
All is just so cool & groovy,
Life is just a copacetic bowl of copacetic until
Some self-interested ****-*** decides to export
Your ******* job right out of the country:
Casus belli? Most certainly. Class warfare,
Always our hitherto history.
It’s not like that fat slob Michael Moore never warned us.

**Roger & Me (1989) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0098213/ Internet Movie Database  Rating: 7.5/10 - ‎22,470 votes Director Michael Moore pursues GM CEO Roger Smith to confront him about the harm ... Roger & Me -- Michael Moore's controversial but popular film is a highly ... Plot Summary - ‎Quotes - ‎Trivia - ‎Awards

Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess
Boy, you’ve been a naughty girl, you let your knickers down...
                           John Lennon

A carnal muse and fallen sprite
I’ll paint for you, in flattering light.
My model’s sensuality
Shall trump all dull reality;
Inspired by Womankind’s raw truth,
Life-drawing class heats up, uncouth.
Still, I am sure some stiff-necked *****
Shall smear my heartfelt lay as lewd.

Edenic exile sought by men,
Receive this tribute from my pen
And keyboard, played inexpertly
By one who knows you rapturously
As a muse of Aztec/Latin race
Prodigious in your works and grace:

Born Ruth Ayon, in God-Knows-Where,
She overwhelms in underwear—
And shedding that, turns good men bad,
Makes angels fall and gods go mad.
Los Angeles (and that’s the joke)
Is where this cherub went for broke
Cashing in her soul for action,
Soreness, ***** and tumefaction.

Laurie Vargas, mouth full of ***,
Spread for us now your Aztec ***
Your sultry contours hypnotize;
The laughter in your ******* eyes
Brings music from Tenochtitlán
And opens windows to Aztlán
You smile, unlike those other *****
Who merely grimace. Gringa butts
Are less audacious than your own . . .
Their charms are better left unknown.
Your cheeks in tan proportion shine
Embodying some rare truth divine.
(Through Poetry, I’ll make them mine.)

I must speak forth of what I found—
Though standing on unholy ground,
Here I behold your lively art . . .
Your unpierced flesh has lanced my heart.
Whereas most stars are tattooed, jaded
Your bright aspect shines, unfaded.
Clad in campesina thread
While moaning on your torrid bed,
Adorned in homespun broidered blouse
In some vaquero‘s rancho-house
Or naked as Mexica dawn,
Bespattered like a dewdropped lawn,
Spurting with some panting plumber
In an endless *****-summer,
You glow, like honey dipped in light
And undulating Latin night.
Your burning bush, much-trafficked place,
Recalls the Red Sea’s parted space
No less than your beatific face.

An unrepentant Magdalene,
You plunge into each graphic scene.
Madonna of the varied act
You swell, engorge, dilate, contract
And play the part with crazy wit
Suckling madly at your own ***.
The way you can accommodate
What barely seems to satiate
With pure abandon, leaves us awed,
As mesmerized, your name we laud,
(With one hand—harder to applaud !)

Will you survive to have regrets
When raw desire no longer gets
Your body hot with inner flame?
When *** has ceased to call your name?
I wonder if you’ve found such paths
Of flesh and pimping sociopaths
A route to riches, gain, and pleasure
Or mere sacking of your treasure.
At the end of your sweaty day,
Is there more than a harlot’s pay?

I wish you well—and hope in time,
When life has left you less sublime,
You’ll find your way to God through Christ
And learn of what was sacrificed
To free you from your sordid fame
Where sinners hail your glorious shame.

i walk through towns
modern in architecture
modern in travel
modern in appearance
            but
the words spoke were [trapped]
that fell into the gutters of the nation
           ******
         *******
          *******
      camel jockey
           ****
           *****
           ****
         squaw
       c o l o r e d
littered the lips of a unified nation that crumbled at its core
the moon is attainable
           but
minds are trapped in ignorant comfort
too afraid to face the date their phones flashed

for a world found, little has been learn

Life is far from fair. He was born to this place, but his ancestors took it by foot. So long ago he can’t remember what being the immigrant felt like. Can’t remember the xenophobic slurs were placed in other people's tongues to whip the different out of him. This took place so long ago now he doesn't remember what blood spill looks like, can't remember his fist drawn back. He is the **** Italian immigrant, the fire crotch Irishman, the Gew the ******* and now the towel heads. He is everyone who has made himself at home hear afraid again, that a new immigration will take all the parts of their home  he loves the  most. Forgetting quickly he was the ones marching last time around. Refugee is so much more of a statement then immigrant. An immigrant is looking for a better future. A refugee is looking for any at all. They fleeing from war torn promises and bombs that fall from the skies like rain. My government fears ISIS, those towel heads, they all look the same to our fear filled eyes, so we through them to the wayside. My government does not speak for me, I would welcome every refugee.Anyone who has that common enemy, who wants to fix it with love and a new life, I open my eyes and my arms wide.I remember that I didn't  belong here at first, that we were promised something more. I can't deny that to you and yours, I welcome you. Life's not fair, it’s clear to see, I am sorry that you are you and I am me. Difference only in where I was born, difference in this is already my home.I am sorry. Sorry that those with fear filled hearts have no room left to welcome you. That they are so worried about what pain might feel like that they can not feel sorrow for the pain you are already felt. I am sorry. To every middle eastern refugee that has been denied the right to live humanely… all I can do is be sorry.

Mi compadre
Mi esse
Mi frijolero
My *******
My ******
My border jumping
My tunnel digging
My river swimming
My orange picking
My lawn mowing
My house building
My taco eating
My Mexican Friend

****, they may as well have started holding hands
And making paper dolls together,
The way they carried on
Back in the neighborhood after push came to shove,
Like none of it ever happened:
All the times they spit on us,
The constant **** and ******* and goya,
The ***-kickings if we went one alley too far.
Peace didn’t last; hell, it couldn’t
It’s just the way things have to be, man.
If I ever got in front of some parole board
(Not that I’ll ever have that chance,
As I ain’t goin’ anywhere unless they send me
To Auburn or Attica for some change of pace)
This is what I’d tell ‘em:
You come home to your nice house
In your tidy little sub-development
After a day at Corning or IBM,
And you find out that some punk
Has ******* one of your daughters
And stuck a shiv into her quarterback boyfriend,
What are you gonna do if you find him
Hiding in one of your neighbor’s rosebushes?
Exactly. Save the taxpayers the expense of a trial.

Musta been a year, maybe eighteen months ago,
This bunch of goody-goody types,
All social workers and sweet boys,
Show up here to put on some **** play
Where this guy’s uncle kills his dad
And starts puttin’ the blocks to his mom,
And for hours it’s nothing but yak, yak, yak.
And I’m thinking Man, could you just ice the guy, already.
Let me tell you, I’ve never seen ‘Nardo’s ghost
(Let alone that ******’ ******’s one)
But if he ever shows,
It ain’t gonna be to accuse me of nothin’;
No, he’d smile and shake my hand,
Because I did what the code said you gotta do.  
Just what the code said.

when mobs turn against them & sanitary measures have gone ******
the major majorities proffer witless witticisms for what I say's witty
for the sake of a fixed *****'s runt puppy & a ***** cat's calico kitty
plunged from the plumbed gateway of George Gordon Battle Liddy
whose secret lifer Walter Mitty never suckled a sweet, Turkical *****
or hot **** east of Angkor Wat with red, new Cebu City pinay ******
as it keeps normal men from gravitating toward the homosexy flitty
In delirium, my imaginary friend Stephen made encephalitis a mess
when pittin' concentration against what's scoped as synchronization
as a guarantee to Judgement Day inquisitors that I'll readily confess

A wealthy old American, perhaps like you or I
Lay down to sleep in his comfortable bed
And, in the darkness, died.

Imagine his shock and his dismay,
This man who had it all and more,
To find himself an immigrant
Cast up on heaven’s shore.

The cherubim and Seraphim
All cast disdainful glances
At this importunate immigrant.
They didn’t like his chances.

“Heaven is quite full enough!”
The elect, in unison, said.
“We’re sure you’ll find a fit in Hell
Perhaps try there instead””

The poor man looked from face to face
But no mercy could he find.
Treated like a ******* sort-
Ignored and cast aside.

He wandered, homeless, cloud to cloud,
But no rest did he find.
An illegal tossed between Heaven and Hell
Bereft of Kin and kind.

For those who sit in judgement here
May find the tables turned
When they themselves are supplicants,
When it is they who yearn..

Listen silent cinema ice man, my 2 glass eyes are cold microscopes
with manual hands that brush across the shady contours of your gay
black broads's ****-front parts with the indirected aim of lawn jarts
that I queerly lob at my axle-grease-needin' Walmart shopping carts
My horrifying memories of you crash like 39 trillion shopping carts
into Lake Erie on a Thursday night during Black Lives Matter night
I drink & drive responsibly so that those I crash into will stay alive,
and I don't do naked modeling much anymore, not since I turned 95
Your French doors are bunged by bunkies and the oily space below
your drip tray makes me abandon regulated marriage very suddenly
too with no tickee, no fucky, no plucky ***-jab, no lucky rose tattoo
She's hot enough to melt dry tampons & I knew that she liked ****-muffin' dark muffin, so I reamed her out with thrill-hammer stuffin'
I gobbled your cookies while you added inches to my wiener which
protruded beyond my pregnant bump to make me look much leaner
like a Mexican scarfin' kidney beans to make his *******-id keener
or to show his legitimacy as a greasy-haired ****** passing as a big
****** thrill-boy looking for a white woman to be his house cleaner

When I was young I thunk Chicklet was quite the sassy, saucy dish:
double stitching ******, stripping for money, eating discounted fish
and majoring in alcoholics while imitating crapped-out Lillian Gish
******* on Easter portraits to the wall as that was her Easter wish
Let's force our greasers punked up on acid to pay steep border taxes
to seat obese Arizonian ******* witches in lawn chairs that relaxes
intestinal tracts south of ghettos, west of any congress that backs us
with terminally benignant tumors on communitarians who tracks us
befouling a eugenically, puritanically Marxian, hocus-pocus praxis
Back, back into the hobo camps of our most viciously-local hordes
a ****, ******, blondish woman of 25 can strain folded vocal cords
Girly bodies are Lord-filled temples, like carriages carrying gourds
as Jerry and Betty were just 2 of the rat-milking, rat-breeding Fords
You as a scoffing ******* are, of course, free to freely scoff
but don't till you've walked in my 2 shoes with both legs blown off
knowing that these lung-replacement problems began with a cough
while doing ****** under bridges is worser than a rental apartment
or wiping up gooey filth in New Stanton's G.M. dental department
as only niacin will **** cannibal queen Beth's mental bombardment
Cast your queer leer to the queerest of baited states: Massachusetts
that has granulated Hillary's lesbian **** above where her ***** sits
Iraqi citizens saw the free eye surgery provided by Saddam Hussein
as a surgical gift of vision freely given by their sad man who's sane
as opposed to the mayor of Bangor proposing a sand dam in Maine
In an empire failing Americans find Uncle Sam ****** in Bahrain
Trifling things shall not diminish my reverence for Miss Kitty Ting,
despite the fact that her '67 suicide made moot mere mortal atoning
from Diana's birthing moon where Earthen-Human souls are placed
in 0-72-hour newborns after old-corpse memories have been erased
K.F.C.'s M.S.G. excito-toxins made Harland Sanders a river dancer
before he crapped out from acute leukaemia & chicken liver cancer

Let me bask on the beaches that you have in your huge, smart brain
as I collect bile secreted from diseased livers, causing kidney strain
onto my sprained elbow that I got from a big poodle attack in Spain
while maneuverin' a titanical, behemothical Titan sea-floating crane
I deduced that pan-****** pan-lovers must nonstick together in pain
like did that ***-***-munchin' ****** Alan Ladd who played Shane
whose feelings were imported because he was a ******* in the rain
reekin' of donkey ****, high on lithium carbonate & babbling insane
oaths about eating pompano guts on Key Biscayne while bathing in
Charlie Company's Mỹ Lai Massacre blood as it went down a drain

We shall overcome the indignities dignitaries hide in ******* City,
as the cost to infidels for their infidelities is the price of Jesus's pity
when mobs turn against them & sanitary measures have gone ******
the major majorities proffer witless witticisms for what I say's witty
for the sake of a fixed *****'s runt puppy & a ***** cat's calico kitty
plunged from the plumbed gateway of George Gordon Battle Liddy
whose secret lifer Walter Mitty never suckled a sweet, Turkical *****
or hot **** east of Angkor Wat with red, new Cebu City pinay ******
as it keeps normal men from gravitating toward the homosexy flitty

I gobbled your cookies while you added inches to my wiener which
protruded beyond my pregnant bump to make me look much leaner
like a Mexican scarfin' kidney beans to make his *******-id keener

Listen silent cinema ice man, my 2 glass eyes are cold microscopes
with manual hands that brush across the shady contours of your gay
black broads's ****-front parts with the indirected aim of lawn jarts
that I queerly lob at my axle-grease-needin' Walmart shopping carts
My horrifying memories of you crash like 39 trillion shopping carts
into Lake Erie on a Thursday night during Black Lives Matter night
I drink & drive responsibly so that those I crash into will stay alive,
and I don't do naked modeling much anymore, not since I turned 95
Your French doors are bunged by bunkies and the oily space below
your drip tray makes me abandon regulated marriage very suddenly
too with no tickee, no fucky, no plucky ***-jab, no lucky rose tattoo
She's hot enough to melt dry tampons & I knew that she liked ****-muffin' dark muffin, so I reamed her out with thrill-hammer stuffin'
I gobbled your cookies while you added inches to my wiener which
protruded beyond my pregnant bump to make me look much leaner
like a Mexican scarfin' kidney beans to make his *******-id keener
or to show his legitimacy as a greasy-haired ****** passing as a big
****** thrill-boy looking for a white woman to be his house cleaner