Stormy rain, stormy Eyes.
Look at me.
Wish you had of died.
A fairground trick, you never rang the hoop around.
The fairground ride,  you could see the nuts and bolts.
But still you whooped with me.
There was a time,
at the beginning of the line,
where you begged me for a kiss,
for a moment of bliss,
before the fear set in;
before the terror unfolded,
and i was screaming and opening my eyes,
and looking forward,
and never at you.
I smiled for the camera,
to capture the moment,
of unequivocal bliss, of falling and riding high again.
Still you swore you would hold my hand,
for whatever we had planned,
and when i let go,
you looked at those lines,
and realised,
boy, you're in this world alone,
to ride the ride,
with me by your side,
but alone in your seat;
So what is it?
Ultimate bliss,
or,
terror of self-defeat?




Just remember,
I was there,
just a hairtip away,
just a fingertip, from your fray,
when you start to unravel,
from me.


As we swoop,
as we fold,
as we argue through your childhood behaviour,
untold.


Line up, line up.
The ride is free.
The journey is finali-ty
when you are riding,
with me.

In the good old days
Before rock and roll
******
The velvet underground
*******
Sid vicious
And assorted bad men
And bad women,
In the good old days

No man and never a woman
Would profess their alienation from society
As society was a god society
And if you were alienated from society
You were in effect alienated from god
Which made you a sinner
An outcast
A candidate for purgatory, hell or if unborn or unbaptised,
Limbo.

Thus a man or woman
Would confess their sins
On the first Friday of each month
In the local church to the priest
Who knew them intimately
Despite the darkness
And the little grilled window
And the closeness of voice to ear

And on the first Saturday
All of society
Would be full again
Of forgiven sinners
And the good old days
Would continue

There are of course flaws in this.
In the new days
You can be alienated
From yourself
Your wife
Your mother
Your father
Your sister
Your whole **** ******* of people you know
You don't know

And you listen
To sid vicious
Nirvana
Rammstein
The voices in your head
The dreams of your nightmares
The girls of the canal bank leafy walks
The boys throwing cars at each other in the boreens
The men
The women
The whole gee bang sheebang hee bangs

There are flaws in this

And what you project is no longer god
And so no man or woman is god

Cranky tin pan alleyway of a universe
Cluttered with suffering silence once more
As no one knows the unknown language
Of the unknowable when all you can
Know if the echo chamber of the mind and soul and two pence
Mind we rig up with lights and flashing noise
Known as the modern
Keeps mouthing nonsense on top of nonsense
Without due regard to that ******* boat
That brought us here,

Echos of hades, charon, siren siren siren siren

This morning I watched as crows
Grabbed black pudding left out by my girls
On a small wooden bench

And over the hand made wall of dry stone
A thousand bodies kept each other warm
In that other place, no place, some place, where place, what place,
Marked by lichen crusted stone crosses and then some,

Discord they cawed, discord, discord, as they swooped
And watched with eyes sliding magnetically open and closed
Revealing milky white spectral analysis
Of this small earth ball of mucky matter
Which on closer inspection
Reveals much space between
And the nothing inbetween which makes us more of what we are
Much more so than believing we are flesh or bone or even water

The nothing in between, between, the start of and end of the sentence
That begins I am insert whatever the **** twixt the blanks,
And no amount of miraculous sonerous beautous melodifications
About blooming effing flower petals nor soulful dirges
Can be the blank in the between

Is it a scream, a whooping holler, a mouth rounded beneath
Roundier eyes miracling a confrontation with all of space
And
Maria Callas does not end on that note, ever.

I told the crows to *******. I ate the pudding. It is only fair.
My feathers are darker and more spectacular

Though my girls
Whooped and hollered
As I flew away

A space in space.

I was 'bout a haf mile down Shadow Holler, lookin' for my dog Jack.  I rounded the bend long the river and thar he sat just lookin' up at the moon that was back dropped behind him.  I was so entranced I stood stockstill in the chill evening air.  He raised his head and let out with that beautiful soulful baying only a huntin' dog can make.
Then he took off tearing through the woods like his tail was on fire.

Well, I commenced chasin' ol' Jack down, but I swear evra tree in that holler was out to get me.
My clothes, they was ripped up and my feet were on fire from being torn by briars and such.
I finally, upped and caught up to Jack.  He was pacing the bottom of a Sycamore that was glowing white in the moonlight.  I heard some cacklin' up in that tree and I looked up to see a sight that I nev'r saw afore.  They was a **** up in there just grinnin' down at Jack like he was playing with him.  Now Jack was in a right tizzy over that ****.  He leaped up the side of the tree as high as he could, barking treed as though his life depended on it.  That **** was doing a bit of glowing in the moonlight itself.  I'd never seen a Cinnamon colored **** before, but thar 'e was, bigger 'an life.  And while it was grinnin' it was busy collecting some twigs.  Next thing ya know it was chattering to beat the band and throwin' sticks at ol' Jack.  Well, I can tell you, Jack didn't appreciate the humor in this sitcheation.  He backed up and made a leap so high I thought shore he was gonna take flight, but he got nothin' for his trouble but a whack in the head as he collided with a big ol' twig thrown by that ****.  

Thinkin' that Jack had had about enuf I tried coaxing him home, but he was havin' nothing to do with it.  So, I told Jack I was heading home and he could come if he had a mind to, but I wasn't staying out in the woods all night while he made an *** of himself over a **** that was makin' fun of him.  I started off and then heard a loud yelp.  All of a sudden Jack came blastin' past me, and not far behind was that old Cinnamon **** giving it all he was worth.  Well, as he was headin' towards home I followed along.  Just at the mouth of Shadow Holler, and not to fer from home I found ol' Jack.  He was up a low slung tree whimperin' like a puppy.  That **** was pacing the trunk, back ****** up, teeth bared and laughin' out the side of its mouth.  As I walked up on this pathetic scene, ol' Jack took one look at me and started crying fer help.  Well, I took pity on the poor fella and walked up on that **** with a right big stick.  And right afore my eyes it just faded into nothin'.  Scared the bejeebers outta me!

Took me an hour to coax ol' Jack outta that tree.  And then I couldn't keep up with him once he headed towards our cabin.  At home I told Pa all about our lil adventure, and he bout whooped me fer even goin' into Shadow Holler.  He said, "Son, I tole you to stay outta that holla.  They's ghosts and spooks down in thar.  Old Lady Jalson disappeared never to be seen again until the Smith boys saw her wanderin' a trail down there.  On'y problem is they cud see through 'er.  They's all sorts of stories 'bout shadows roaming free and playin' tricks an' worse on folks."  

Well I never seen my Pa so scairt as when he was tellin' me that, so now I just keep away from that holler.  And, ya know what?  I ain't never seen ol' Jack even turn in that direction since that night.  Musta learned himself somethin'.

He awoke at four that morning with the sunrise.
"Time to go, babe, get ready," he said with a smile,
Thinking I had been asleep, unaware
I lied awake all night, waiting anxiously.
I wondered if he thought it rather strange,
His little girl wanted to deep-sea fish.

He hand-made ham sandwiches with cheddar cheese--
(Because he knows that cheddar is my favorite)--
And then forced me to take some dramamine.
"It keeps you from puking your lunch," he teased.
I didn't fuss at him for giving me the **** pills.
I was ready to catch my first Atlantic shark.

Florida's early mornings aren't that warm,
So he gave me his old jean jacket as we drove south.
The dock was full of average sailor types--
Our captain's name was Anderson, I think.
Anderson looked just like his boat too,
Weathered by the wicked waves of the ocean.

The boat would swerve and I would sway so awkwardly,
Unbalanced like a newborn giraffe.
Dad gripped my shaking shoulders and whooped,
"This one's gonna be a beauty, you can mark my words!"
I snatched, tugged, and reeled violently--!
The beast finally surfaced with the tiniest plash.

She wiggled on the hook, to my mild astonishment,
Slippery, slime-covered, and small in size.
"It's a white snapper!" Anderson boomed.
She was sixteen inches and diamond white,
Glistening in the sun like the greatest treasure.
Dad patted me on the back, chest swollen with pride.

Catching Atlantic sharks didn't matter now.

Quantify

We will ease into this twisted or rebellious look at what experts say is the top trend
For 2012 this quantifying was first done in ancient abbeys but they did it on the front end you were
Told how long to meditate, pray, copy older manuscripts but now technology is going to do it at the end
And it is called the quantified self a top magazine that writes about these things says there are already
Three big hitters geared and going already their data bases are going to record practically every human
Action then it will give you a read out numerically where you can strategies a perfect day even the writer
Knows how much he wrote last year how much the better writers wrote and with less words they
Received better results on hits or they will tell you how many steps how many calories they have a
Sleep machine that will use Doppler radar and it will tell you when you’re in deep sleep track your sleep
Cycle show when it is best to get up yes it has all positives cut down on wasted expenditure of energy
Come out ahead for the day in less time but it will mean you have to be self driven I never respond well
To the whip I don’t care who’s holding it and if they have sleep machines not far behind will be intimacy
Meters all of a sudden the geeks and nerds will be gods the woman turns on the **** his eyes light up
Like a plane ready to taxi and his bow tie will start to twirl like a propeller but listen to two regular guys
Man I can’t take it I use to beg like a dog now she smiles real big then she takes the only key turns the
Lousy thing on turns the **** to the slowest point you can’t even ride a bike at that speed you just fall
Over you think you have it bad my wife almost twist the **** off I feel like a greyhound at the track but
I’m the only one in the pack that knows the rabbit isn’t real who wants to chase a sock on mechanized
Rod you go twenty five it goes twenty six well you know who is going to have a career resurgence Kirk
Douglass all of this whooped up speed nonsense all he will have to do on screen is ride down the street
Top down doing ten miles an hour hey Kirk you’re my hero the one per centers will scream what’s with
That ole **** the new rebel will be the day dreamer standing idle watching a cloud pass slowly over head
I can just see all the animals going bald from the stress some jack rabbit wanting them to eat faster sleep
Less forget the flees one guy said he tried to shoot himself but the ammo is so out dated and slow he
Kept missing his head Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn will not only be classics but new best sellers and all a
Painter will to paint is a bare foot kid with a straw hat and a fishing pole they will sell like hot cakes to
Frazzled out over achievers we had a New Yorker move into our Midwestern town and take a job at the local
Factory that’s the way it will be he looked like he was on video tape being fast forwarded and we were
On regular speed and when he talked it was like the old LP records when you put it on the wrong speed
He was talking a mile a minute and sounded like Alvin the chipmunk where we were on the slow speed
And we fell in a vat of molasses turtles that talk my final word I miss the good old day

So much pain in my life,

I got a million question and can only get one answer; this too shall pass...,

I can't say nothing back I got so much that's already past in my life,

I try to do right try to live by the word yet as wordily as

I live I still can't get up from this weight burdening my chest.

So much pain in my life,

I thought of giving up many times,

Thinking how I got my soul whooped and got my face torn - broken

My heart left in shambles but still I continue,

I strive and survived made it threw so many storms

but how long I can I go on,

how can I continue to hold my head up ,

So Much Pain in my Life,

Look at all the stuff that's happened Uncle killed in car accident,

Born to a mother with nothing but sin prostitution,

A drunk& drug addicted father who couldn't bother

for the life of him to give to all these children

what was need to

keep even the house heated,

Marine &Vietnam; Vet- P.o.w. ,

Shhh get down don't move,

See this was something

we all got used to made fun of him and his craziness too,

So Much Pain in my Life

Nana Sick and doing her best with all these kids,

Got a gambling husband

so hiding Money be come a game to us,

Out in the street catching heat,

rolling with the Latin Queens thinking

I was bigger and bader than anyone

till shot fired

My friends life "red" spread on the concrete, got pregnant

and never thought to be the same ,

Little girl become woman - At 13 -Baby ripping out my innocents,

Hell of a life to live &still; I give!

So Much Pain in my life...........



SO MUCH PAIN IN MY LIFE,

Why me I cried to Allah/God,

Why am I being punished, my answer in return, was nothing,

So much Pain in My life..,

Lightly

thoughts come to my head "this is the cross you must bear,

a test to see how much do you love me" must be the voice I been waiting for...,

After that silence noting...,

I bow my head and say thank you ...,

Even still I'm left feeling stupidity and sorrows chilling my bones,

So much Pain in My Life,

Strife's wont let up ,You cant possible know my pain just like I cant know yours,

Saw Tricks turn Church goers and pimps turn child molesting-  Preachers,

Growing up grown and trying to make on my own, NYC held me down,

But the lessons haven't ended it's just the beginning for me,

So Much Pain in my life, I

'I'll continue and win some day soon...,

Until I do hmm I cant tell you

I have no advise to give to you, as wise I am

I'm still learning and growing ..,

So much pain in my life,

Been mother and pretend father to children of and not of my flesh,

Been the abused as well as the abuser,

Many times I wanted to take my own life, but the Sign at the

Gates Say do not enter the sin and thoughts of a sinner must

not disgrace these steps turn around its not ya time and if you take ya life ,

You'll never be a child of mines,

I walk away inflated, Begging to make it another day,

So much pain in my Life,

Night and day I beg for release for the pain in my heart to Cease,

Wanting to be more and working on the impossible,

Cuz threw my life and my eyes

I see miracle's happening every day and the dream continues to make me,

Breaking sprites but in love I can't say I ever felt it truly owned it or knew it,

Lust I can confess plenty,

but one things for sure My time isn't priceless everyone has something in the closet,

weather or not , they'll tell is up to them for me its another way to let you in,

So much Pain In My LIFE.........,

Now as I lay my children down to sleep,

I smile and think to my self even threw it all I got the

one things that counts& cant ever hurt me ,

Maybe I say..,

Thinking of Nana again and the pain her own Children caused her,

I say another Prayer,

Spare me lord, don't let my children ever feel what I felt..,

And if it can be helped please never let them live life as

I once did ,Give me the peace in knowing they'll

grow up better and striving to Greatness in their own

womanhood,

With out, So much Pain in their Life.

Like mines...,

I'm crying as I ask him this and I say to him again even thou you

Carried me as the
Footprints would have me Believe..,

I thank you still for you're by my side and always will be..,

knowing your

Love's unconditionally

Given to me with out question
and I'm blessed
Still I say thank you..,

Knowing you Saved me

SO MUCH PAIN IN MY LIFE!

Always Me Ayeshah

He had their attention,
He always did,
The whole nation looking at him,
Every one focused,
Waiting...
Waiting for the great Khan to speak.

He scanned the crowd,
Masses of people going on for miles,
These were the Mongols,
The wolves,
And he was their leader,
Their lord.

" My people, the moment has come,
For everyone of us to go to battle,
And be glorious!
For as long as there are a million enemy's,
We shall fight a million times,
And be victorious!"

This year would be a good year,
He could feel it,
The crowd whooped and cheered,
Chanting their lord khan's name,
Genghis...
Genghis...
Genghis...

Midway- Surprise! We saw them
Coming from a mile away.
Japanese aircrafts and ships try and attack,
And they get their butts whooped!
And then we got the idea to island hop!

Hop to Iwo Jima- Slowly.... Slowly.... Don't scare it,
It's like a nest of bees!
And we got it! Two air bases captured
And one step closer to the mainland!
Japan may be fortified, but we
Have tons of muscle!

Hop to Okinawa- this one was a doozy...
The biggest amphibious battle of WWII,
And contained the most casualties! Pretty harsh.
Maybe you they shouldn't have attacked us in the firs place!
We only meant to invade and use the island as a
Springboard towards the mainland, but the
Battle took too long.
Just weeks after the fighting ended, Japan surrendered
And we bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki!
We never got to invade...

The elevator opened on the 46th floor, to a small foyer and one plain, grey door

The door opened and a young girl, 10ish, in a blue, polo, tennis dress, said, “Hi! I’m Karen, you must be Anais. Will is around here somewhere. Aren’t you pretty, though? You go to school with Lisa? No wonder Will likes you.”

She skippingly ushered me from a bright, windowed, off-white, staircase entryway, into a deep-red, mahogany paneled library. A persian cat was soon underfoot, purring and winding around my legs.”That’s Misha,” Karen said, “just shoo her away if you don’t like cats.”

I stooped down to pet Misha who eagerly offered herself to be petted and admired. As I stroked her charcoal fur, Karen said, “Let me get Will,” as she scampered off.

A gold framed, impressionistic painting, pin-lit in bright crystalline light, hung over a fireplace. In the painting, two girls, in summer hats bright with startling red bows and yellow flowers, were sharing a book. The colors were rich, deep and swirling - it looked very much like a Renoir (I know my French artists). He’d done a whole “two girls” series. I drew closer - it wasn’t a print.

Though dazed by the opulence, I hadn’t missed what Karen had said. Will liked me. I longed to interrogate her about how exactly she knew Will liked me, and what form, exactly, Will’s liking took.

I know Will and Lisa (who would be joining us in a minute) are just friends. Not that it matters, we’re heading back to New Haven later - but Karen’s statements were capable of activating a girl's guy-dar.

Karen, wearing socks but no shoes, came to a sliding halt, on the wooden floor, by grabbing the door frame to stop an otherwise complete slide into the library. “You guys are going to the Ritz for lunch?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder, in a way that indicated that she knew the answer quite well.

The Ritz Carlton is a block away and our mission was to grab the food and bring it back here to eat. “Mind if I join?” she said, before I could answer her first question, all wide-eyed, blinking impatience.

“I don’t mind at ALL.” I said, Karen whooped and was off again down the hall. “I’M COMING TOO!” she yelled. I chuckled, knowingly - I’ve been there - I’m a little sister too.

The boy, with the dent in his chest, inhales so loudly
that his ribs pop with a resounding boom. They shatter and collapse,
sinking to his feet. His life is lived slumped over, never making eye
contact because he believes it is a spell. His spine grows twisted, broken,
bent. His heart is locked away in a bone prison. With his eyes to the ground,
he is running blindly forward into a sea of decisions and failure. His
confused feet charge him head first into the girl with the swollen skin. She
sees his spine and ribcage ankles as intriguing, and he doesn't mind her welts.

He touches her, feels her, learns her.
She holds him, feels him, learns him.
She is his, and he belongs to her.
They are each other.

He sees the world, sees everything he was never seeing. Her welts become
a foreign thing to him. She was different, less beautiful compared to the sights
he was now seeing. Her mind tried its hardest to forget his twisted nature. She
could only remember how he felt her skin and called it amazing, stunning.
Her skin welted in his memory; his spine curled in hers, but snapped back
straight when she called for him. She shouted a final plea for the future.
He whooped and hollered and yelled so loudly that his inhale broke his
ribs and sunk them back to his feet,
as his head slid back into its horizontal position.

Storm clouds raged across the sky and the silver sea boiled in the wind.
The great green fin of La Isla de Tiburon cut the water,
Mysterious, so painfully close, yet dangerously distant.
Monsters swam the gap and past waist deep the ocean had a lethal tug.

All morning we (father, big brother, little sister, and me) hunted in the sand for clams and later boiled them in a sardine can.
Dad ran along the shoreline and into the waves wearing yellow trunks, hunting with a sharpened stick.
Dad, the Wildman —hairy and shirtless—ran for our entertainment into the surf and whooped when a skate flapped pitifully at the end of his spear.
My brother kicked a trio of *****, fishermen's gifts, kept them from scuttling back into sea, and leaped over them for fun.

Sardines on saltines tided us over as the main course—crab, clam and skate—cooked on burning drift wood.
We children watched in drooling anticipation as a claw, wreathed in flame rose in agonized supplication
then collapsed back into embers to cook.  Froth bubbled out alien mouths and black stalk eyes.
Roasted alive seems an awful fate, but, oh, how delicious the meat!

Later, by lantern light my sister read her book over the protests of a gathering wind that scratched at our tent all night.
The sand spat out the tent stakes, but the poles held firm and our weight held our shelter down.
Never before and never again
I live here in my dreams.

LET'S GET REAL

There are no more jokes to life.
WE are FALLING as a RACE and we should be ASHAMED in ourselves
Violence is erupting in our streets
Innocent people are dying
Yet instead of mourning over the lost we are being ignorant
The foolishness needs to stop!
All we are doing is PROVING THE WHITE MAN RIGHT
Proving that we cannot be civilized, that we belong in shackles being whooped in cotton fields
Our ancestors would not be proud if they saw what we are doing today
In fact they would turn their heads and bow them in disgust
Thinking to themselves all that hard work for nothing
Is that really  what we want...history to repeat itself all over again
For us the black race to be treated like animals
To be treated as if we are inferior to dirt the other races step on
If that is what you really seek then continue
But if not...
Stop the meaningless violence

I see it as from outside a window,
Myself walking fast, head bowed,
Life happening all around me without sound,
Distanced even then, not sure I know why
The paces of development grow hazy around that line.

My heart was soft,
My head curiously empty,
A balloon floating along,
Not certain where she might belong

It was the best of times,
I still go there in my head,

I don't remember the feel of the wind on my face,
But the feel of the wood I sat on in my classroom
The urgency every time the bell rang for lunch hour,
The acrid taste of isolation when I hadn't enough for the tack room

It was the best of times,
I still go there is my head,

My friend had a bag of coin in the desk nearby,
I saw her put it there and,
I took it, I don't know why,
They found me out, hung me dry,
From then on I tried not to pry,
Kids really know how to crucify.

It was the best of times,
I still go there in my head.

When my child's eye was pure,
Boys hard-wearing, still demure,
I used to think I would never be self-assured,
I'm still not,
Confrontation ties my insides in a knot,

But I live for those days,
When Saturday mornings meant cartoons,
Followed by hilariously misguided cooking attempts at noon,
That would get you later whooped past sense
All your friends watching from the fence.

It was the best of times,
I still go there in my head.

Cliché Walking-
His hands jittered
Struggled to zip his
khaki colored jacket
Her eyes remained
On his pained face
Observing through contacted
Magnifying lenses
Somehow their eyes met
Past the jammed crossway
The cluttered New York street
Through the busy cars
And zesty pedestrians
With spill-able coffees
And steamy attitudes
Somehow their eyes met
And the air froze
Still as the desert
Although the air doesn’t freeze
‘Least not in the middle of spring
Although the desert is attacked by constant wind
The silence was like a pin drop
Or something to that effect
Although with the zooming cars
And obnoxious New Yorkers’
It couldn’t have been like so.
And they knew
They just knew
Love at first sight
And all that jazz
Without even knowing
They knew.
He was her Humphrey Bogart
Whoever in heaven’s name that is
And she was his Audrey Hepburn
‘Cause he seemed like the kind that’d know her
And so this, the cockyspaniel
And the chickyhuahua
Crossed the street
And met each other
Halfway…
Right there
In the middle of it all
Cars honking, women screaming
And they swore to the depths of hell
That people clapped and whooped
Because the STD filled kiss
Was Shakespeare inspired
Cosigned, even
And the love was tragic as ever
But hey
What did he say again?
All is fair in love and war and all that hooplah

She stood,
at serene attention,
her frailty forgotten.
face made alien,
to most, by the nature
of the disease.

Oh! but the smile,
beamed lighthouse bright.
as she brought forth her
frail hand,
to recieve the parchment
paper. Her Doctorate.
The soft hat glowed,
velvet, indigo blue,
in the autumn sunlight.

The crowd that had, expanded to twice it's normal size,
for just this special person.

Stood in a wave of love.
and the graduation day,
became,

The Day of Sue.

As we whooped and hollered and stamped and clapped,
the tattoo, of our loving respect.
As tears streamed, unchecked,
down one thousand faces.
She beamed and bowed
and left the stage.
One last time.

slang..
updogged = when you chip in to keep a conversation trend going
fit = gorgeous
buje = unexplainable glamor
football minute = a minute, that with time-outs, lasts a half an hour.
crute = cute but cringy
women's-rights = a really funny joke

In the subscribed course of science - and eventually medicine - night hours seem multiplied by the rough enforcement of study, but this tale is not about that, fair reader.

It’s about a reception, last Friday night. It hardly matters what it was for, there are so many. This one was first class - so please, have some decorum ladies. Our cast is Lisa, Leong, Sunny and I (4 roommates). We stay clumped together, on nights out, like conjoined quadruplets because there’s safety in numbers.

There were about sixty people there, mostly students. Lisa and I had gotten invitations, Leong and Sunny are our plus-ones. After making the rounds, doing our meeting and greeting due diligence, we’d captured one corner of a long table and began enjoying some actual drink-drinks. We’re usually studying, trying to prove ourselves like rats in a maze, so we go a little crazy when they let us out and about.

Is it me, or are free drinks just better than other flavors? There was a long line of ‘Tom Collins-ses,’ on the bar which one could freely walk up and take. I think they’re made with lemon juice, sprite, gin and the tears of fallen angels.

These were quite good, each featuring both a lemon slice AND a cherry. Like I said, first class. We were taking turns getting them, two of us going up, each returning with 2 drinks. That way we didn’t look like 4 hookers hanging on the bar like horses at a trough (decorum).

Socials, receptions, fundraisers - whatever - can be social minefields. Even in how you greet people. Do you shake hands? I’d heard that shakes were out due to COVID, but if so, they’re back now. Some people were even huggers - your professor initiates a hug and you just want to avoid head-butting him. Monday morning though, you better hand in that paper, girlie.

At one point (I was mothering my third Collins), Sunny said, “Meeting people is awkward,”
“Being out in the world is awkward,” I updogged.
“Not for Lisa,” Leong said, and everyone sniggered.
“Why not ME?” Lisa said, looking up from her phone.
“Because you’re fit,” Sunny said, “everywhere you go, it’s like ‘Goodfellas,’” she mimics various, waving people, “Hi Lisa, or Hey Lisa," and “Yo Lisa!” with the point & nod.
We all chuckled again, but Lisa said, “It’s not true.”

Alas, it is true. I’ve come to rely on Lisa’s buje. Places seem livelier, less daunting and more welcoming when she’s there. She draws all the attention - I might as well be her beaded handbag and I’m fine with that. In unfamiliar situations, she’s a shield, handling the initial introductions and handing people off to me, like a track-and-field sprinter passing the baton. Without Lisa, in new situations I’m quiet. Quiet doesn’t mean shy - that’s a false assumption, I’m a natural watcher.

I’m skipping the mingling and speechifying - the boring stuff. Apparently, it’s all about us, we need to make a plan and do more, about everything. Interestingly, of the 8 organizers (the adults) five had literary first names. There was a Jude, a Tess, an Ophelia, a Clarissa and a Cordelia. Granted, they’re all fictional characters, but why name a kid after a protagonist who came to a tragic end - to seem well read?

As Leong and Sunny returned with our fifth round, Sunny pronounced “Tom Collins for President!” and we all raised our glasses. Just then Leong’s phone whooped with a text. It took her football minute to fish the contraption out of her itty-bitty disco-clutch, and then she fumbled it to the floor like an oiled baby.

It was a crute moment that, at first, struck us like women's-rights - but it had a sobering effect too. We agreed, in the silence of exchanged glances, that perhaps we were having too much fun, and we soon made our usual quiet and dignified exit.

The old man sat on the long park bench
Where the children used to play,
He seemed to be harmless, sitting there
Though he’d be there every day.
His pockets were always full of sweets
And he’d smile a kindly smile,
But mothers would huddle nervously,
They suspected him of guile.

‘What do you think he’s up to,’ said
One mother to her friend,
‘I’ve read some terrible things about
Young children and old men.’
‘Can’t you see that he’s harmless,
He’s so old, and frail and sick,
He’s just like a kindly grandfather
Who walks with a walking stick.’

‘He shouldn’t be handing out those sweets,
We don’t know what’s inside,
What if it’s something horrible
And one of the children died?’
‘You need to become more trusting,
He’s out here in the light of day,
I hope that he didn’t hear you,
That’s a terrible thing to say!’

He smiled and nodded, and fell asleep
Sat back on the wooden seat,
His overcoat had seen better days
And so, the shoes on his feet,
He woke when the children whooped about,
Swung high on the rusty swings,
Tempted the children with his sweets
And to some, he muttered things.

‘What did the old man say to you?’
One whispered to her son,
“He asked if I wanted knowledge, if
I did, then he’d give me some.’
‘You’re not to speak to him anymore,’
The woman cried, in fear,
It isn’t right that he fills your head,
By rights, he shouldn’t be here.’

She went to sit on the wooden seat
And she grabbed him by the sleeve,
‘What do you mean by ‘knowledge’ then,
I think you ought to leave!’
‘I mean no harm, I’m a kindly man
And I love those children dear,
I’d give my all to be young again
And I feel young when they’re near.’

She nodded, said that she felt ashamed,
And patted him on the arm,
Then got up, leaving her son to play
She’d lost all sense of alarm.
The boy was tempted again by sweets
And the old man grabbed his hand,
‘Just stare right into my eyes, my boy,
I’ll take you to fairyland.’

The old man’s eyes were hypnotic when
He stared, and soon glowed red,
And then the little boy trembled as
A lifetime flowed in his head,
The old man smiled, and his hand relaxed
As the young boy turned to go,
‘At last,’ he capered, and danced about,
And the old man sank back, slow.

The mother came to collect her son,
He was nowhere on the green,
She went to the old man on the bench,
‘Where’s John? You must have seen!’
The old man struggled to sit upright
And held out a trembling hand,
‘I’ve waited ever so long for you,
But I don’t think I can stand!’

David Lewis Paget

HUNGRY PRINCE
            It is the year One-Reed, and on this date
            Lord Quetzalcoatl, from this earthly throne,
            Long, long ago departed for the East,
            And on One-Reed it’s known he will return.

PRIEST OF TLALOC
            One-Reed: It is a fatal year for kings.
            Our scriptures teach that when a murderous streak
            Finds black Tezcatlipoca, lord of chaos,
            On year One-Crocodile, he hunts our elders,
            One-Jaguar or One-Deer, he claims our children.
            But if he strikes on ominous One-Reed,
            Death swoops for princes.

MOTECUHZOMA                             On that jolly note,
            I open business for this syndicate,
            Myself presiding. All may find their seats.
            Now Tlacaelel, venerable friend,
            What progress on the state’s scholastic front?
            When last we met, the annals of our past
            Were deemed due for aesthetic overhaul.

TLACAELEL
            Lords, as you know, our eldest histories
            Have painted base and barbarous accounts
            Of our bewildered, wandering origins
            As meek and muddy natives, which- though true-
            Do not keep pace with our notorious present.
            Those earth-born tracts have all been commandeered
            And each one cast to char in heaping bonfires.
            Ah, what a purifying blaze that was!
            The inks of black and reds were rarefied
            To sheets of flame and wells of fluid coals.
            Now is our culture cleansed of heresies!
            So far from mourning that scholastic loss,
            The rabble whooped, and, singing rowdy reels,
            Made merry at that bedtime barbecue.
            And now, to re-devise those lowly annals,
            I move that we enlist our liveliest dreamers
            To craft extravagant and stately archives
            And claim the pedigree that we deserve.
            For what are histories but wrangling theses,
            Or dogma, but the darlings of a moment?
            So on this same authentic evidence,
            Let’s breed imaginary ancestors-
            Or ***** their deeds out- with a flourished pen.

My mantra is
What goes around comes around
For I can trust in karma that
He who kicks my *** shall
Get whooped also by the
Mighty hand of God above

As the sun comes up,
I realize I’ve been wasting away night after night
And I’ve done it all with a nonchalant air about me and a smirk plastered onto my **** face.
I’ve been wasting the gift that is my life.
I’ve had every opportune moment to put an end to my dilly-dalliances
And yet I have ignored each of these many signs in favor of bringing about my own downfall. Might as well bring out the corks because I’ve practically celebrated–whooped and cheered!–as I’ve run the course of life through each tattered obstacle
Bumping and falling like a drunk performance artist trying to make a buck at the county fair.

Be here,
be there,
be everywhere.
Alone to look at the starry sky,
alone to watch to night go by.
Afraid to share your hopes and dreams,
that once had died like the stars that you watch fly.
Bring yourself to a stand and let it all go.
Let it fall free from the bags you held it all so close.
What do you do?
You let him in, and no he's gone.
He ran away.
Far, Far, away.
You tried to convince him to stay.
He wouldn't listen to your words.
He would listen to your movements.
The dance that you had shared...
forever lost on one side.
The choreography was beautiful.
Like a dream come true,
but soon it turned in to a nightmare.
The crowed all cheered,
Clapped, and whooped.
It was the end of the show.
The curtain was called.
They didn't know that there was another act.
You took his hand as they all clapped.
You slapped on a smile, and bowed with the crew.
You where the only one that seemed to notice.
It wasn't suppose to end.
Maybe it was in your mind.
Or maybe it was in the script.
Whatever it was it was time to make a new wish.
When you went back stage.
You where in a field of dreams.
You looked up at the sky, and then be your side.
He was gone... but you are stronger now.
You are always stronger in the end.
As you looked up at the sky.
You had a new wish in mind.
All you had to do was find a way to fly.
When you lay down to rest.
Your dream came true.
You flew, and you flew.
You flew over the ocean.
You flew over city's and Fields, and in to the sky.
The dark blue starry sky.
You became a star.
A bright and shinning star... full of vibrant life.
You dance and you play, and you fly all night.
Your wish came true.
Surrounded by bliss.
That's all you could wish.

and in all - who deranges the work of thought? no one - in its weaker endeavors, it merely deranges itself th(r)ough the false desire for public validity.

and has not all anglophone intellectualism
been nothing more,
or become nothing more:
than a case of validation?
it just seems a validation for a sorry
case: of a club of plum kidneys
poached in punches...
  ******, you cry one more time,
i'll add another worth's of harvest...
oh, i'm not apprehensive of
violence, i sometimes punch myself
in the face to test the mercedes glee -
might as well, it's worth the wait.

they, these people talk so much,
can i make a suggestion?
the the 1st 2nd amendment?
i.e. you are free to speak,
but you're also free to get
a leech knuckle punch -
  can i introduce the freedom
of thought, as the higher
prioritised base concerning for law?

it's what kierkegaard wrote
as the antithesis for the american
constitution:
people complain about a "freedom"
of speech, yet so little managed
to concern themselves about
a freedom of "speech":
that ambiguity, that's thought.

am i really the one to care?
      we talk as much *******
as we think it,
   who cares about hearing the raw
herring flappers stinking with
ultra-caviar perfumermery?
    cheque please!
i'm this close to about to: puke.

oddly enough i'd revive a state of
politics with:
      you have the freedom to think
what you want...
oh right... the claustrophobics...
apparently thinking is a congested
place, or some sort of claustrophobia
hell..
       were americans claustrophobic
to begin with, feeling their egos
and thoughts couldn't fit
into their heads?!

   priests always, so far, always derail their
train of believers with their sermons,
does that matter?
  it matters on the grounds of secular
terms...

and yes, my life is like an art gallery
with only one painting in it...
     i have a canvas,
              i have a painting,
i have an inanimate object either side
of the painting,
      there are the inanimate objects within
the pain-taking (painting) observation,
then there's the observer, who also
looks like a whooped hoping pigeon
on one leg pretending a tango -
        only if in your life does there
emerge a canvas, can you start to form
yourself into a true observe -
  a true observer in that you paint:
by being the unobservable unobserved -
"telekinetic" in the sense of:
                        the unavoidable change -
taking place, without surprise or
warning...
           then again i live in a telekinetic zoo...
i change without want or will,
  on the carousel of seasons...
                a *work of thought, as ever,
is hugely undermined,
      since this "work" does not eventuate
in the zenith of telekinesis...
           and as any fancy -
     psychology fakes "progress" by attaining
telepathy - psychology is just shy of
attaining telepathy -
  but it does so, nonetheless, by its rainbow
of pathologies exhumed from the crypts
of the unconscious;

summa summarum:
psychology deems to call telepathy -
         dialogue,
                a one sided case of
      the psychologist being the narrator -
and the patient, as any patient,
       only a julien sorel in stendhal's work...

i find that all psychologists are
psychopaths -
               they're atheists for the most part,
who deal with the logic of the pathos of
a psyche (the workings of the ailing of possessing
a soul) - they're like cyborgs asked a moral
question...
                  they deal with the pathology
of a non-existent soul - or otherwise they
try to treat asthma -
  another term for breath in grecian -
         or some other variant of the debate...
don't know, don't care, i have a dinner to cook:
meatballs in tomato sauce with rice and
beetroot & cucumber pickles; sorry.

I was in my mama's whip coming back from group session
Didn't think I'd see this pretty girl at the intersection
Man I had to get to know her fell in love with her complexion
So I turned the whip around I did that **** like so aggressive.
She was with my sister and my cousin but I was stressing
Had to get her by my side I knew she was a blessing
Took the 3 to Mickie D's didn't say one word to me
But I knew we needed time you just had to notice me
Didn't even know your name and I just knew I couldn't ask
Didn't want to start no trouble sister would've whooped my ***
In the whip just switching lanes I caught myself just looking back
Looking at the woman of my dreams sitting in the back


October 2nd, 2011-present....

Five years with her on October 2nd 2016

How’d those spots get on the moon?
That’s where the astronauts wrestle.
Papa said Andre the giant came over to his house for fried chicken one Sunday.
Guess who got whooped?
But Papa has never been to space.
So I’m not sure how he’d do against Neil Armstrong

Gravity is tricky business
You’ll catch on when you get older
Thats why it all become less dreamy
And everything starts to sag

Green lantern came over the Sunday after.
He got a whoopin that he couldn’t have imagined
Probably why that ring doesn’t work anymore
It’s funny how imagination is a super power once you’re past 20.

Space helmets covered in chalk dust from where the kids used to play.