Freshman Year, EHS 1983 ~ 2014.6.21

~~~

Dear Minnie Mouse, 

Please forgive me for stealing you away,

inside your friend's bedroom, where we made out

like bandits on her bed, while the party

out in the living room was a soirée

to remember with guests in Halloween

costumes. I will never forget the cloud

of happiness I rode back home. Hardly

a day goes by since that one fateful night

thirty-two years ago, (like a low beam

the light travels below the fog of time), 

I don't look in the crystal ball to see

why it is I broke off our chance to date

or go steady. I told your friend a lame

excuse, and said some things I regret, pity.

Yours sincerely, 

Mohandas K. Gandhi

~~~

"Boxers Salivate for Blood" ~ 2014.12.18

Sick with worry, what's the point of money

Ignorance guides the wise from their folly

Caution thrown like a curveball in the wind

Kites fight as boxers salivate for blood

Night watchmen enter penumbral delight

Eclipsed by bliss carried within torchlight 

Spanner in hand ready to adjust torque 

Screw any loose bolt stripped naked 

Sentenced to eternal unrest to reach

Kingdom come for an apple or a peach

Enticingly dangling from a low limb

Inviting a desperate hand to climb

Never to grasp the fruit swollen with juice

Snickering winds blow branches & rejoice

"Manuscripts Don't Burn" (Рукописи не горят) ~ 2015.2.17

"Or who cleft the Divels foot" (John Donne)

Will I ever write a line worth reading,

A page worth perusing, a chapter worth

Clipping unkempt phrases to remember 

At a party to show your good breeding?

The Narrator questions himself at times,

His eyes seem to fail him ever since birth,

Is what he sees a fact or an ember

Sitting inside a wood stove burning leaf

After leaf of a tree that speaks in rhymes,

In riddles, like a sphinx, to her victims,

Such is the love a cat has for a mouse.

If he answers her true, she cries in grief 

From hunger unable to feed her whims,

Her whelps suckle her wit under a blouse.

"Fat Cats" ~ 2015.4.24

Some wake up as the birds begin to sing,

People like this are children of the dawn.

Have you met or married a morning star?

All I hear is the chatter of sparrows.

The world turns on its axis by money,

Luck has nothing to do with getting rich.

"A Student’s Eulogy" ~ 2015 6 10

Simply put there is nothing I can say
To take the pain away when a friend dies.
Under the circumstances we must all
Deal with the tragedy in our own way.
Each of us must accept the fact that pain
Needs time to heal a broken bond that ties
Trauma to memories we can't recall.
Seems like only yesterday we first met

Eagerly enjoying the points we gain
Under full court press as the game starts,
Leading before the buzzer calls halftime.
Only we've lost our friend before his prime,
Grieving alone with our broken-ass hearts,
Yearning for memories we'll soon forget.

"Asterion" ~

Myths of the past may explain conditions

Inexplicable to the minds who saw

Nightmares in such cases, no instructions

On how to interpret a breach of law

Tellingly informed the public, the gods

Answer our prayers and petitions with acts,

Uneqivocally of vengeance, for clods

Refashioned walk the earth as brutal facts.

Arguably, a child with a bull's head,

Treated by pediatricians today,

Realistically, would not find himself

Inside a maze, a brother with no bed,

Unlike his half-sister, whose thread helps slay

Mentally-deranged monsters, with some help.

La Petite Chambre

~ 1 ~

Within the camera lies a small chamber,
Inside this petite chambre is a room,
Therein a miniscule maid in waiting
Holds her breath for a diminutive queen.
Inspiration comes as she gasps for air,
None know her spirit for conspiracy.

Spirit blows into the lungs of young men,
Patiently waiting for war to begin,
Ignorant of the drama that unfolds,
Riddles the flesh to allow blood to flow
In strange rivulets along desert sands,
Theatre troupes enter streams of applause

Aspire to attain a hero's welcome,
Solemnity for soldiers who expire,
Prison for deserters as for cowards.
Inhale the stench of putrescent corpses,
Release the dogs to attack the vultures,
Exhale the wind to sweep all four corners.

~ 2 ~

Answer the call of duty if summoned,
Nevermind if the diminutive queen
Summons men and women to die in war,
Were they not to fight in battles for G-d,
Eclipse the sun with just a crescent moon,
Relish the irony of the same G-d.

Empire against empire, G-d favors none,
Mother Mary, pray for us sinners, now...
Pray to G-d, as man preys upon mankind,
Insolent wretch, the king is but sleeping,
Read the newspapers to believe in facts,
Errors made irrevocable by time.

Summon all boys over the age of twelve:
Under the law, the diminutive queen
Mandates all teenage sons of Ireland
Must appear before a royal magistrate.
Orders not upheld are punishable
No less than thirty days in the stockade.

~ 3 ~

Twelve year-old boys ingest apprehension
With pitchforks of ominous forboding,
Eating fear and anxiety salads
Leaves shards of obsidian glass flowing
Volcanically through their long intestines
Erupting from their anuses as rocks.

Ingest the extrusive igneous rocks,
Noble magma molten in a chamber,
Gabbro overlaid the maid in waiting,
Explosion after explosion eject
Streams of lava, saturates the image,
Tephra layers the photograph in ash.

Shards upon shards of pyroclasts litter
Horizons of temporal mountainside,
Airborne projectiles inside the belly
Release markers of chronological
Descent, the diminutive queen decides
Slurry with felsic lava on top slides.

~ 4 ~

The Lizard King

I've come a long way to recline my head upon your fulsome bosom while we watch Romeo and Juliet in the dark in our classroom where we met long ago.

Zeffirelli was our teacher of sorts but I knew nothing of love at that time, only fourteen and expected to score with whomever a young bovine fancies.

You smoked Camel Lights, not your typical teenage sun-bleached buxom beach-bunny blonde, but a hard-rockin' long-haired head-banger wet for The Lizard King of Le Marais.

My dark-brown skin floated gently over your jean jacket, until our teacher told me to take my own seat, but as a punk, indignation arose unrequited.

"Erwin, What's in the Box?" ~ 1.18.14

Her tears trickled into his beard

only to disappear from sight

embarassment is what she feared

her emotions coming to light

to cry in public is no shame

if no one cares to share her pain

he has only himself to blame

crimes committed, nothing to gain

crimes of omission, sins of deed

he knocks at her door, is she gone

a house in Memphis, Tennessee

orange Karman Ghia, green lawn

it sat stock still in the driveway

she took her life, he had no say

The Taste of Venom ~ 1.30.14

Gratitude doesn't come easy for me

Resentiment rides high on the agenda

Anger resists suppression by brute force

Tantrums are not just for boys under five

Elegance of cats lost in the clutter

Finesse enters the room to tidy up

Ulterior motives drives his vision

Last rites were given to the lord our god

For it is right to give him thanks and praise

Alternatively, the taste of venom

Lingers on my tongue forked with silver tines

Treat the cobra as you would your best friend

Erase the past with ineffable noise

Rest assured karma catches my mistakes

Fallen Angel ~ 2015.8.9

Every time the tap drips, an angel falls
From celestial heights (like a faucet),
Forever thrown from those heavenly spheres,
Lunging forward to plunge into the halls
Under the surface of the earth, where streams
Effluent flow out of rivers russet,
Nasty with the stench of dead souls, their tears
Tumble (like fallen angels) into hell.

Leaky faucets allow for broken dreams,
Infernal thoughts, and flooded basement floors.
Question not the logic of these verses,
Undertake to understand when a bell
In motion pictures rings, it opens doors
Decidedly closed by fervent curses.

"Aide-mémoire" (Homage to Czesław Miłosz)

We were flying westward above the clouds towards sunset.

A crimson silence enveloped the horizon.

In the distance, as if out of nowhere, a meteor burst forth across the sky.

You or I tried to capture it with our camera.

That was long, long ago before I graduated from college. 

Presently neither of those events make much sense, 

Not the endless sunset, nor the flash of meteor dust.

O Mnemosyne, where do they travel from, why do they disappear

The poetic experience, phenomena of light, mysterious fireball.

I question not because I've forgotten, but long to remember.

Stardust Sutras

Some of us wear our scars on the inside

Tossed aside like an old rag doll damaged

Aging nonetheless somehow still useful

Riddled with doubts about love we abide

Defending our parents from the abuse

Unconsciously inflicted by their caged

Siberian tigers let loose to maul

Their children now and again a light snack

Simply put childhood was an art a ruse

Under the circumstances to get by

To get ahead succeed despite the odds

Rational thinking suppressed the cracks

Anxiety developed on the fly

SOS our distant cry to the gods

--

2014.8.12

"The Ocean Blue"

Praytell, if I had known before we met,
Under that wholesome Midwestern façade
Reigned the queen supreme for all things purple.
Praising Mrs. Patimkin for her eyes,
Leaving no one in doubt about her faith,
Even Prince William knew his heresy.

Silly of him to reign Prince of Orange,
Eventually, she would assassinate
Royalty like a female praying mantis,
Intercourse always ended with dessert.
Aspects of her psychotic persona
Left no one in doubt as to her M.O.

Katharine was persona non grata
In circles including sociopaths,
Leaving no royal family unattended.
Lest she catch their eye, all royalty fled.
Erik the Red, protecting his son, saw
Red clouds at night and sent Leif sailing west.

"Too Sad to Laugh at Abject Poverty"

The elder transgender cripple breaks stride
continually with adjustable canes,
unable to stand in one spot to beg
for spare change, money for the tip jar bride.

She hobbles forward to confront her past,
demons for tip jar bride grooms who take pains
not to notice her hopelessly broke leg,
equally destitute, speaking too slow.

Satan sweeps the streets in the Loop, aghast
at the hustlers, bustlers, chattel rustlers
swarming the lake front avenues at noon,
too soon, too soon to swoon, a horrorshow
freak show of clowns in long gowns, town guzzlers,
married to the bottle, hold tight babboon.

"Eva Trifles in Treif to Free Adan in Intervals" ~ 2015.11.19

Blood flows like vinegar, as oil and wine
limns vines in a tapestry, hung on ropes
in a room, pitting with edema, bruised
purple with blunt force trauma, as I wind

grandfather, clockwork spouse, with a key
roundabout, counter-clockwise, Inca pipes
intuit intonations ancient, praised
prophecy, the dead will arise again.

Pretend not to notice the orange koi
inspires asthmatic breathing in the dead,
guaranteed to rouse ancient man awake,

rise from eternal slumber, her anguish
inhabits archaic song, a triad
brittle as broken plaster, chords bespoke.

"The Unrevealed Mystery" ~ 2016 1 18

Each day flays my body from head to toe.
Visually, it may be too much to bear.
Each day slices anew, sinew from bone.
Rest assured, the metaphor takes its toll.
Year after year, I work this daily grind
Down, only memories remain, so spare,
As to endure the burden weight, as none
Yet so great to press me six feet under.

Ear on the rail, eye on the tracks, to find
Verily, they buried me years ago.
Age blazes a path to define one's glory.
Decline to decay from lack of thunder.
Each day grinds my bones to dust, my ego
Revels in the unrevealed mystery.

"Sunflower Seeds" ~ 2016 1 1

Three birdies in a tree in the dead of winter,
no leaves at all to see, at length do they banter,
until I walk on by, then they decide to fly,
how vast and wide the sky, a pale blue, the air dry,
the cold burns off my ears, so chill, I cannot wait
to get indoors, my fears lessen, then abate.
On the bus, my disgust grows enormous and fills
me with contempt, the trust in others lost, the wheels
keep turning, a woman spits seeds onto the floor,
New Year's Day, when we span our actions (in horror)
over the length of days, the year to come unknown,
what we see, with the grays of winter make the loam
fertile, the soil to till, only now do words come,
like birds with songs so shrill, they wake me from slumber.

"Stoke the Embers" ~ 2016 1 25

Choke me father, choke me until my face turns blue.
Hold on, mother needs to see this, she must observe.
I will bear witness to the crimes of my childhood.
Leave it to adults to play games without a clue,
Due to the fact they lack the sense to remember
Really, what it's like to grow up, beyond the curve.
Education is more than just knowing what's good.
Never mind I found hell at home more so than school.

Enrich children only if they stoke the embers.
Needless to say some boys and girls know how to find
Relief from within cabinets, liquor and pills.
I learned early to dull the pain, only a fool
Could tell how misguided my life strayed from the grind.
How could I know then what I know now, wisdom kills.

Rest Assured ~ 2016.4.22

Enter the big sleep, the eternal rest,
Terrible as it seems, we are all dead.
Elvis, Lemmy, Bowie, Prince all live here.
Rest assured, everyone wil pass this test.
No one fails this exam, we always pass
Into our own silk plot, our own brass bed.
Toss and turn, if you can, it may appear
You still have the ability to move...

Entirely false! In bed, under grass,
Never imagine we know what's unknown.
Treat eternity as your only friend
In the Afterlife, with no one to love,
Rest assured, we all resist the old crone,
Even as she takes heart in hand to mend.

Sundial Wild

Blue lupine blooms sundial wild for gossamer wings on sandy, loamy soils,
Lack saves Melissa Blue outside Center Station, later renamed Karner.
Organic growth permits unmowed pastures to thrive among abandoned farms,
Overt fire suppression destroys habitats lost to development goals.
Myrmecophily sounds mutually pleasant, as associations
Symbiotic oblige ants to tend butterfly larvae to obtain honeydew.

Competition Rules ~ 2016.5.29

Twice heard, the phrase above acts both to regulate and to enforce a fact
Rough sleepers face daily, their livelihood taken from them, their dreams stolen
Under frozen noses by men in bespoke suits, Italian leather shoes,
Interested in no one except their business peers and the poor, old hunchback
Seated beside the boss, heir to the throne, glory, power, wealth, prestige, and wit:
"Money cannot buy love but a stripper will do in a pinch for a price."

"Double your pleasure with Wrigley's Doublemint Twins for only twice the cost."
Anyone knows Darwin knew nothing about sex but an angel fallen
Rests assured to exploit the weak and disabled, the devil knows the blues.
Wicked in his desire, his sense of justice wronged, Darwin chose his victims
Intent on torturing the best and the brightest of his father’s firm, fit
Not fat, for to survive the whip longest without tears, he needed lean mice.

Elegant in manners, Darwin played well with charm but learned to harm with frost,
Vulnerable women, he gave no second glance, but weekend warriors,
Older men out to prove their mettle against youth half their age, Darwin ate
Like liver and onions, they stank, visceral weeds, but they appeased his whims
Voyeuristic, to watch them squirm under the blade, cut down the barriers,
Exacted his revenge, for brute instinct let him fish with just line and bait.

In Defense of Neglect ~ 2016 5 22

Create for me a world where though my father dies, I see him in repose.
Locate exact moment when we arrived at Mass too late to bear witness.
Open caskets once shut may not be reopened to pay our last respects.
Signs point to a hostile takeover by a stock broker who plays the role,
Erroneous, of course, of the loving brother, the sympathetic one.
Denied access to view the corpse of my father, we continue with Mass.

Create for me a world where we pay our respects, where we don't arrive late.
Arrive late as dad's car engine no longer worked, as it hadn't been used.
Sitting inside the car, inside the closed garage, we sat in a panic.
Kick myself in the rear for not waking early to check the car still runs.
Egrets fly, no regrets, Pam spoke with her sister, Diane, staying nearby.
Treasure the gift of chance, Diane drove us to church, stayed for ceremony.

Create for me a world where everything happens to show who really cares.
Ostrich feathers dust off years of family turmoil, scattering particles
Fine powder laid on thick requires dust cloth, water, a lifetime of effort.
Forget graduate school, we get a PhD for our dissertation
In family dysfunction, Alcohol 101 to Defense of Neglect.
Nail down the coffin boards, get the furnace ready, a death mask bears no fruit.

Encoded in Shrouds of Elegant Math ~ 2016 2 28

Unacknowledged legislators rule by
Nuanced lines of verse not even a dunce
Alone in his corner on a high stool
Could misconstrue with multiples of pi.
Knee to the groin, doubled over in pain,
Naked as the day he was born, the once
Ogled teacher's pet lays in a rank pool
Wanked by all the indignant boys in class.
Legend has it this genius grant insane,
Encoded in shrouds of elegant math,
Denounced by the southern nobility.
Glance in his direction see shards of glass
Enounce in indistinct English your bath.
Duck under water, blood vengeance city.

Religion May Save Your Soul ~ 2016 6 17

Everyone will pass away in due time,
Maybe you find it funny but it's not.
Exactly what is funny about death?
Religion may save your soul, but a dime
Good as FDR, with compound interest
Entitles you to a funeral plot,
No questions asked, memorial service
Tabulated into the total cost.

Royalty may earn their keep but as a guest
Entertain fantasy not with a thought
Grown from insecurity, your nervous
Energy, as poet laureate, caught
Nell off-guard as you walk upon the heath,
The old queen will outstrip us all, you jest.

Good Morning, Octavius!

Good Morning, Octavius! The first day
of October honors you with wind, cold.
Do you really want to go for a walk?
Let's steal away in bed, what do you say?

First, a piss in the lake; a light breakfast;
Then, sleep. I see, no rest for the wicked.
Guess I slept away the night, awake. Fuck!
Classes start in Just-...must catch a 6 Bus.

Cody ~ 9.10.13

1) Back in the day...I used to play fetch with Cody, our dog, in the backyard. Often, I'd bounce the ball and he'd jump to catch it in his mouth. One time, he jumped so high he did a flip. I could never get him to do that trick again.

2) Back in the day...Cody would jump over the fence and our neighbor would bring him home, or he would just show up at the front door.

3) Back in the day...dad added a three-foot extension to the wooden fence in the sideyard to keep Cody from jumping over it.

4) Back in the day...Cody ran away and didn't come back for sixteen months.  I used to say, "Cody's here, Cody's here" out loud while sitting in the dining room reading books on Greek and Roman mythology. After a while no one would believe me. Dad even took down the extension to the fence. But one stormy night, Cody came back home, ragged and worn, a wet and dirty dog. We'd no idea where he'd been all this time, but there he was, wagging his fluffy tail. Perhaps reading mythology made me appear as Cassandra did to others. My family learned to not believe my lies. But my fortune was that no one could tell, as I would look them in the eye and fib.

5) Back in the day...my dad put a long chain on the collar of our dog, Cody, who had run away before, so he would have length to wander about the paved sideyard.

6) Back in the day...my brother told me to run around front to see if Cody was okay when he saw the taut chain over the fence. To his credit I was a fast runner. We had our Keeshond cremated that night. I was fast, but no one can outrun death.

Fallen Angel ~ 2015 8 9

Every time the tap drips, an angel falls
From celestial heights (like a faucet),
Forever thrown from those heavenly spheres,
Lunging forward to plunge into the halls
Under the surface of the earth, where streams
Effluent flow out of rivers russet,
Nasty with the stench of dead souls, their tears
Tumble (like fallen angels) into hell.

Leaky faucets allow for broken dreams,
Infernal thoughts, and flooded basement floors.
Question not the logic of these verses,
Undertake to understand when a bell
In motion pictures rings, it opens doors
Decidedly closed by fervent curses.

"old folks got troubles everywhere--"

You are only as good
as the asshole you show
to the world, the one
you carry with you
and reveal on special
occasions to your
closest friend...
your proctologist,
who gets paid to examine
your asshole and what lies
within the cavern of your
rectum, sometimes even
greasing a tiny camera
up your ass while you
sleep, heavily sedated
(like Joey Ramone),
only to reveal later,
when you come out of
slumber the beauty
hiding behind your
sphincter muscle.

We all get old unless
of course we die young,
then maybe we're lucky
not to suffer the
infirmities of the
body, the need to
sit on the toilet
for hours, wondering
why it hurts so bad
to shit the crap we ate
yesterday or last week.

Welcome to the over the
hill gang, you could have
died young but you chose
to stick it out for this
moment on the crapper,
on the throne even royalty
endure. Imagine the
Queen of England, Elizabeth II
on her own throne, your
highness, at her lowest
point, sitting with her little
white ass on the throne, her
sphincter muscle pulsing,
pushing until the fecal
discharge releases, God
Save the Queen! She has
her infirmities to deal with
just like you, old age loves
to toy with those who
struggle to have a regular
bowel movement, James
Dean doesn't have to
worry about his
shit anymore, not like
the Queen of England,
Scotland, Wales, and
Northern Ireland. Great
Britain hasn't had a
royal live so long to
shit since Victoria, God
rest her bleeding sphincter.

I hope for the sake of
humanity my sphincter
doesn’t collapse into a
voracious black hole
sucking in every object
until not even light can
escape its vortex, its
savage hunger to swallow
the finite in its infinite
appetite to mange, mange,
mange the fuck out of
the world. It is simply an
asshole like any other but
watch out for those teeth.

As I leap towards 47 my
body lets me know it is
driven to fail, to collapse,
a red giant, a white dwarf,
my anus has released
horrors of pain, grief and
sorrow, desire and
frustration in merciless
excrement exploding into the
bowl, from my bowels to the
porcelain shit-stained graffiti
only a soothsayer can divine
the augury, like birdsong.

Welcome to getting
older, wisdom hard
fought from the front
line of the firing
range, pull no punches,
this may be your last
shot at greatness, let the
shit slide down your
cheeks, slip-sliding
away, into the pristine
waters only a dog would
drink, blood comes at
times, internal
hemarrhoids, filling the
water red with
crimson silence. Your
appointment to the
proctologist, your
friend in waiting, lets
you know the blood and
pain will eventually go
away, and you can go
home, relax your mind as
the old hole longs for
death, you choose to
prolong the pain through
an ill-conceived belief in
an afterlife of punishment
or bliss, you fucking moron,
your asshole knows more
than your brain ever will,
listen to your body, end it all
while you can before the
doctors put you on opiates,
then you are fucked for good,
right up the old asshole, until
death do we part, ashes, ashes
we all fall down, the black
plague, AIDS, HIV, and
death. You're welcome to
join the reaper in her harvest.

Letter to God ~ Tuesday, 18 July 2017

Dear God,

I'm at the end ready to hang myself so few people to trust everyone including family former lovers friends and complete strangers criticize me in life for eating for speaking for not making money in this life poverty eats at my livelihood my body turns to rust doctors and insurance are out of my price range I can no longer run everyday I feel pain but live without access to medicine x-rays

Tell me what I can do other than buy a rope I'm so tired of people only playing mind games as if a game of chess was all of life's dangers

Little to look forward to but more suffering I don't find it funny interminable life others fight to enjoy I never got a chance veritably the truth is my witness this life was never really fun endless is my struggle to stay above water to float for eighty days

No one seems to notice how much debts weigh on me the bells in the steeple orderly in rhythm play out the notes pray for the dead I want to live to run the great outdoors to go the full distance to lead by example

Despite my poverty oftentimes I flourish as if I could tap dance in the face of the blues in the face of hardship I run to live to give endless wisdom from pain from sorrow to suffer is strength praise this sample

Bedbug Infestations ~ Saturday, 15 July 2017

Blessed as we are you brought us home to settle in with you and your family excitement we could not contain as if we won the lottery our pride delivered from our days of boring hotel life packed inside your luggage believe me getting out of the city to chill in Flatbush happily under cover of night inside your pajamas we snuck into your gear generous your offer for us to stay at your place indefinitely

Insult to injury you add salt to our wounds we feel betrayed by love no one ever let us know of your plans to gas to fumigate inside for the sake of our kids please give us fair warning we don't carry baggage exactly as the case may be we came in peace as guests we meant no harm squatters yes we're guilty as charged but to kill us all was my greatest fear terrible as this sounds your genocide caused more damage but silently

Articles in the news The New York Times never appeared with hand in glove the exterminators came again and again to destroy our children in light of our Geltish background like Young Gulds armed to the teeth for slaughter onslaught after assault all the eggs finally burst some survived on the farm neighbors brought you to stay at in retreat of crimes unspoken at the Glenn systematic murder massacres robbery rape our wives and daughters

The Upper Air ~ Saturday, 15 July 2017

Disappointment after disappointment meeting after meeting clients inebriated with the magnificent clouds we discuss the mountain sitting atop the mist and fog below nothing only the great beyond mountain as metaphor for struggle survival life lived in defiance animated puppets striving to climb higher to reach the mountain peak love is born out of this bitter disappointment this endless need to meet

Master knows nothing more than language these speech acts resolve no feelings hurt arguments show no love invest no energy overflow the fountain liquid spilling onto the tiles within the cave where we create a bond answer drunken patrons empty pointless questions about what's in the clouds distilled from the ether of ambrosia what more could they ask for or seek yeasts ferment the sugars within the mountain streams the air rises with heat

Apparently the clouds form like cotton candy clients eat by the quart foregoing their ascent patrons stop to visit our small monastery figuring out the trap much too late novices decline to return home electing to stay on to help run the temple cover the dead with shrouds creature comforts are few within our tradition we collect the berry travelers on the slopes find edible get drunk ask about the blue dome

CS 2 ~ Libel ~ Tuesday, 11 July 2017

Sitting under the bridge one night long long ago a distant red light flashed this was allegedly the source for our band name that was Crimson Silence I think I nearly died laughing after much thought though it appeared profound at the time since we were tripping on LSD much later the phrase clashed in my mind like the sound of a crash cymbal split at the lip of the bell more thud like a flat tire than the pounding of waves toppling the local pier

The End Cafe nearly tumbled into the sea into the Pacific Ocean in '83 to criticize a name doesn’t ever make sense my own contributions came to nothing but now I know the name Unwound worked well for another band from Olympia three years after we split we all went our own ways music faded after Proctor forced me to sell my beloved drum kit on the cheap the bastard to his cunt friend the sheer

Audacity to take advantage of someone down on his luck the dick on whom I take revenge was no real friend of ours but a worthless blockhead yet another Priam this one brainless at base so this libel may change in name but the facts still stand that time in my life when depression unfit my brain for thirty years another pigeon hole to prescribe drugs to dead beat drummers with no life no opportunities no future for danger

Watch Out Miss, Broken Glass: Guilty Conscience...Return to the Scene of the Crime ~ Monday, 10 July 2017

A bottle falls as glass shatters the sound forces a man to ask loudly who did that who did that the other man across the street looks down a beat his paper bag ripped wide open by tensile strength the force of gravity powers beyond his control his own silent retort as he walks on proudly who will clean up this mess is a better question without accusation without a broom and pan close at hand shops all closed along the broad sidewalk

each man goes their own way no use to the other or to anyone else what happens to the glass someone else's problem during summer bare feet not uncommon flip-flops sandals inattentive eyes ever so pretty look down grimace in pain blood enough for stitches her foot ripped open wide the need to call a cop alert an ambulance why this imposition in the fall she would run the Boston Marathon but now forget it talk

is cheap or so they say no one in the city cares nothing but for sales if you get paid to care to handle the problems of the world sure you care you mend torn flesh set bones put out house fires arrest people who break the law but if they don't get caught if they lack a conscience who hurts on the inside if no one takes a stand to see no one gets hurt we rush like bulls to gore and maim to cause damage with the red cape in sight with hooves we stamp and paw

CS 1 ~ One Bad Idea to the Next ~ Sunday, 9 July 2017

It was a bad idea to use the word 'crimson' in the name of our band we were young dumb naïfs with the future ahead of our lost teenage dream four boys still in high school playing music or noise as the neighbors would say in a one-car garage maybe it could fit two with the wave of a wand and then to add 'silence' as if that made 'crimson' that much less worse to hear we might as well have been deaf to how that sounded clanging like pots and pans

in the ears of others like the geezer next door who couldn't stand our sound only Priam would think up a ludicrous name like that to hide in shame never to state out loud in fear others would laugh but we were proud to play under that moniker that I repudiate to this day as inane a game of pin the tail on the donkey wearing a blindfold to face fear as if to snub the snobs the kids who couldn't care less about our punk band

I can't believe I gave up the chance in high school to become college bound and earn a scholarship in cross-country or track though I got worse and worse with all the injuries and after depression set in my junior year it could have been the drugs acid mushrooms and pot to overcome the pain of my fucked-up family 'dysfunctional' a word not so common of course back then in the eighties mine was alcoholic another bad idea

Letter to My Father ~ Saturday, 8 July 2017

Dear Dad,

The time has come for me to no longer act like a delinquent engaging in acts of arson and thievery I burn and steal and lie cheaters never prosper so the good book tells me but I never listen and no one seems to care if I ruin my life like Lucifer hell bent destined to fall from grace to tumble from Heaven like bats into a cave enter into darkness the future uncertain the past a memory

Time they say heals all wounds so the good book tells me but I feel no better when as a child I read out loud so you can hear me pronounce the words fie expectations to fit in with Americans to sound like them glisten no cheeks with tears golden brown my flesh my skin tanned by the rays of the sun treasure the memories trapped within my skull bone boxes time in a grave your ashes in an urn where mother goes to pray her memento mori

Flat out fucked since childhood no better than the rest of my own jet-setter anti-generation dubbed Generation X by the news media to make sense of our fall from grace like Lucifer like bats from the belfry how we flew with singed wings tumbling into the night handsome demons who run eternally blackened with soot from the chimney our own acedia runs counter to virtue our apathy in words states "get out of jail free."

Sparrows in the Bush ~ Friday, 7 July 2017

On the bus no one knows anyone else most of the time on occasion we see someone we know start a conversation make plans to meet elsewhere later on at the bar for drinks and more chatter where we know this person no one else on the bus cares a lick about you or them their whole reason as to why they are there has little to nothing to do with your chatter perhaps you think they ride the bus just to listen to your conversation

Black Oaks Hill ~ Sunday, 2 July 2017

Open the box to find my hand ° that's how I died ° I bled out from my wrist • no one wanted to help ° they paid no attention ° went about their business • when the time came ° they put my hand inside the box to leave for my parents • as to my corpse they tossed my body down the well ° where our illicit tryst reminds them that romance of this nature cannot abide among their kind • down I fell to poison the well ° to drown naked ° my other hand balled up

into a fist • I cursed their church at the bottom of the hill ° from inside neither heaven nor hell • but while I bled and drowned within that well ° senseless well-wishers stood over my cylindrical grave ° prayed for the appearance ° aberrant as it seems ° of Christ to cleanse my soul beside the well ° washboard ready to hand • they stood in a circle around the well holding hands • bind damnation to their faith • with axe present at hand ° who would carry the cup

under the canopy of black oaks surrounding the plateau • confide priest in my homicide • as Christ is your witness ° confess your crime out loud where all can hear the song of your hypocrisy ° your collusion with sin • ancient as Cain * brother * you are able to learn ° to discern • cut the cord • remember my parents whom you greet outside church ° with others in the crowd • defend your decision to sever my right hand • I float above ° a djinn

Unsent Letter to My Mother ~ Friday, 23 June 2017

Dear Mom,

I wish I knew when I was still little the rebel never wins even if I listened to you and dad and brushed my teeth after I ate candy and before bed I would still feel rotten as a loudmouth adult aging at forty-eight forces me to reflect on my catholic sins decisively I lost my faith in our family early on and found drugs exactly when father found sobriety with the twelve steps and AA

Enter through the front door into the atrium no one would ever think inside our home the rage of my drunken father would force the hand of fate given my childish need for love and attention but instead felt the belt hand fist and father's foot corporal punishment went overboard at home terrible to mention this as you turn eighty this year but all the hugs you gave your little boy could never take away years of abuse today

May we sing you a song on December 13th and raise a glass to drink our good fortune to know you are alive and well on this day of your birth tragically your husband of nearly fifty years passed away from cancer he shared birthdays with you one year older his tomb exactly the same size as a post office box as ashes to the earth return to you mother to celebrate your birth.

With love, your son, Hamsa

Reason Versus Sense Experience ~ Friday, 23 June 2017

Do not close yourself off from possible future events by creating mental categories that restrict your choices and limit openness this renunciation is the ascetic's path of denial and hardship only misery shall follow the fool who asks to be treated special as their right not privilege to proscribe a circle around their own body to describe a boundary as to will a force field to protect them from harm such madness guides vegans to believe animals as sentient beings who obtain the same rights as humans without cause but by proxy defense we give voice to our fears that when they encounter mistreatment and neglect we note their suffering and interpret their screams as horror in the face of murder or slaughter to put it politely to save face before death and if we were to face such wretched conditions for Death Row prisoners our vehement protests would never go unheard for to slaughter humans like other animals as we are animals all of the same kingdom we must preserve their right to a good life equal in value to our own and therefore must desist from wholesale consumption of animals for food no matter the flavor the aesthetics of scent nor nutrient value and thus the argument stands with reason not sense experience as guide

Ahimsa ~ Saturday, 17 June 2017

When I look back over my shoulder the tower block on fire engulfed in flames humor is not the first thought that comes to mind in awe I watch from afar intimidated by my own deed arsonists around the world will see my path to destruction my struggle for revenge shot in twenty-four frames second thoughts I reserve for those uncertain few who look back in horror yes I burned that tower down to prove a point to show the world it could happen

Hammer the flames with sword in hand as the blacksmith enfolds steel upon steel upon my word I did the deed the fire grew bold I could see from my car beautiful tongues lashing out against the night sky tigers climbed rapidly rushing to heights unheard of in Romtom brutal architecture the crime ignorant to neglect the poor the downtrodden the immigrant terror shame on our ministers to allow a building to become misshapen

Restless as firefighters work within walls of heat dust acrid smoke to peel every layer of flesh off every wasted corpse to identify dead grannies from injured ones make no mistake I watched this unfold on TV resting my weary bones at home in bed for days after the taste of grime embittered from battle on the front lines of Bakh diesel fumes in my head timid since time began I grew fierce learned to burn watch it on DVD

The Prologue ~ Al-Fātihah: Makki ~ Friday, 16 June 2016

The Prologue ~ Al-Fātihah: Makki

"Not of those who have earned Your anger, nor those who have gone astray."

Not Me the little boy in the Family Circus whom Mother knew nothing

of as he was a ghost invisible to her but not to her children

those little rat-fink brats who acted innocent yet placed blame on Not Me

who could not be seen nor heard by any witness but as scapegoat bells ring

have the rules of the game ever changed when a vase breaks while children play

earned the wrath of Mother these godless little brats she tossed in the cauldron

Your eye sees all events as Eternal Witness from Not Me to Donne's flea

anger, a game Mother plays with cleaver in hand when I stole from her purse

nor did she hold her tongue in check while taunting me with knife above wrist slay

those dragons before you before they command me to steal money again

who controls your actions but you with severed palm still graciously attached

have the games of abuse ever changed a woman scorned told me to refrain

gone were the days on swings in the park in autumn her son was lost mismatched

astray. Nothing to do for children who place blame on Not Me nothing worse

"The Pope Retorts" ~ Friday, 9 June 2017

"You're going the wrong way!" He stood and barked at trains as they passed his window elephants could pass by along the road below but he couldn't care less lesbians could cavort atop his queen-sized bed but he wouldn't notice liberal as was G-d before Republican politics put him down outside the universe banished from humankind in the fascist shadow whitewashed by history in camps full of denial don't look away he'll drown

snot-nosed anarchist brats whine about genocide as if they could undo all the murdered corpses they read of in textbooks like empty promises liberal governments offer as police force to each broken regime level the world says G-d and extinction occurs dinosaurs of deep time obliterate the lie of our humanity as Jesus undresses watching the trains pass by without thought He implores conductors to argue

"virgin hymen" a joke one Democrat relates to the Argentine pope ignorance breeds children like books out of charred wood from butchered rainforests socialists disabuse the pontiff with questions about theology agnostic atheists break bread with the Satan who reaches down to grope girls boys to say hello pedophile Lucifer begs forgiveness he jests enthusiastic flames devour apostasy for Christ's apology

Pounce ~ Saturday, 3 June 2017

Since all of you conspire to wake me up and there is very little I can do to stop it then I must decide to rise and fill your bowls with food and pour water for my little critters who howl and fight over the fact I am not dead asleep any longer but see my feet rustle under the top sheet and blanket or just the comforter and see the need to pounce upon the little mouse or rat they find hidden and must attack with force with claw and tooth until they see I have risen

Speechless ~ Friday, 2 June 2017

I stand in the cauldron water boiling searing my flesh and imagine the natives are getting restless waiting for blood to pour out of my eyes then it will be over this life will have ended and I could not foretell a better way to die than this mode or fashion this remedy to sin to resolve past mistakes in a very hot bath with flames up to my ears who knew these men offered such a gift to warm me from my toes to my crown as king of this domain I thought best to venture forth conquer and destroy little did I foresee my future was in trees hidden from my own spies bound and gagged not a word I spoke to these kind men ready to cast a spell to relieve me of pain in that my blood would seep out of my pores and flow over the edge dowsing the flames by then body and soul drown in my tears unrepentant for years what was the point as king to care for those I've sown into the earth with mirth no love ever have I shown my subjects no joy did I bid them witness in war or times of peace never did they decline to fight for my honor for my kingdom for me but now who dares to come rescue their lord in time before the heat melts flesh from bone too slow in their search maybe this is what they mean by fate being a source divine I have naught more to say words no longer befit a king speechless and dumb

Southern California Is a Desert ~ Wednesday, 31 May 2017

What I wouldn't give to be with my friends as horrible as it was in high school to return to that wretched place and time knowing nothing how the future plays out at least we had each other mad bastards angry at all the world in paradise we'd never have it better none of us but getting older could never be worse than growing up with all my bastard friends in a punk cover band with teenage dreams the future was ours for the taking no getting drunk taking drugs and passing out always in trouble with lousy parents sneaking out late at night driving their cars underage drinking at the kiddie park tripping on acid outside Disneyland eating burgers fries and vanilla cokes at Bob's Big Boy on Adams Avenue riding our bikes everyday around town to Camel Records and Music Market getting stoned in Tony Nealon's side yard going to underage clubs and dancing hanging out at South Coast Plaza with friends going to motel parties getting drunk on the weekends on Harbor Avenue somehow passing classes year after year taking college exams graduating never having a steady love interest always knowing nothing lasts forever I don't want to watch this body grow old never have enough money to retire never be able to afford a car or have a job that pays for insurance can't go to the doctor or the dentist what's the point of this life America I'm sick of being alive poor hungry only getting to eat one meal a day why did my parents come to this country the land of milk and honey makes me laugh the land of opportunity fat lie live struggle suffer get sick and then die this country of fast food lies and neglect note our homeless veterans on the street in shelters badly in need of repair poverty in the face of Hollywood Southern California is a desert may the western wind blow it all away

In Memory of Lost Time ~ Saturday, 27 May 2017

If I could start over and relive my lost youth trapped inside a bookstore never would I have thought twenty-two years would pass like a prison sentence maybe I would have been a vagabond traipsing across Europe learning every language I came upon like a linguist outside the classroom door maybe I would have sat at tables in bistros in Paris and elsewhere originally made famous by those writers of the forties who fought real battles on the front lines in the resistance and wrote philosophy yielding to none the force of their dialectic never caught on the fence offering arguments systematic and sound to set scaffolds burning fierce unquenchable flames for all eternity watching the firemen fight losing battles against the tyranny of hope romantic yet unfair organized as poets shouting epithets at police their language wrought sulphuric in workshops inside dismal classrooms with a gleaming trophy to represent their past and possible future but their present is lost tossed aside like a gift from a gilted wedding abandoned for true love intrepid motorbike gangs pass by the melee over tires burning bright mighty outlaws outside those systems of language that govern at a cost exactly when will I discover the nature of time and rise above 

The Kids Are Alright ~ Tuesday, 16 May 2017

We may never return to those warm summer days buying gear in thrift shops eating Chinese for lunch walking in a downpour burgers at the diner memories take me back to our time together when we weren't so lonely as we had each other like four lonesome brothers who never felt teardrops yet today the tears stream down my face as I wake and listen to The Who never did I know then how easy our lives were that we could not return ever again our lives scattered after high school teenage dreams come to end verdant grass as I pass you in our cross-country race I win nothing finer endless the stream of tears girls we chased now women none caught but the homely rest assured I may jest but with our ugly mugs crooked teeth broken homes real love came much later too sexist to mature into grown men the glue entered our veins to bond us by both fear and hate we sit as bonfires burn treasure the memory of nights on the beachfront we lived so close we tend urchins along the coast like us lost to the tides too young to know the past reserves only future pain look forward always never back to our youth never would I accept this game with time to play drums not to write these poems take me back to the time we made music our band of mods and punks flew fast oblivion we found with wine and drugs I want it back I seek the truth

Didactic Mysticism ~ Thursday, 18 May 2017

First you have to make it before you get to die if you don't write the book under no conditions will strangers know to mourn the fact you passed away considering you left nothing behind to read but excuses and lies kangaroos have better chance in the lottery of fame and fortune look eye to eye with demons inside your heart and soul like cancer in your blood disease eats at tissues like a fine restaurant you could never afford 

Breathe brother breathe until your lungs can breathe no more then cease this restless fight even if you feel down deep you need time to finish you have much more to say you need to let it go no one cares at this point about red-eyed fruit flies or someone needs to check your priorities list as you enter the door needless to say your words are of little concern unless they stop a flood decide now that this life is more important than the chairman of the bored 

Resolve to make amends with the sandman for lack of sleep it isn't right even if everyone else jumps off the same bridge choose to be your own man please no one but yourself if what you do pleases others do not complain ask for help when you need learn to know whom to ask don't ever ask for more in the interest of God He knows how much time's left in your stunted lifespan remove the guilt and shame you carry on your back your star knows of your pain

Mallard Among the Spooks ~ Monday, 15 May 2015

Problems come problems go if we solve them by June we can balance the books if we catch the bastards we can lock up the crooks or they'll put us away take your pick they don't care they just want their money fair and square the bastards you know this will go down badly if we don't find Mallard among the spooks 

Young and Brown enter court sharp in suits to manage the facts with blatant lies our best efforts to find the dough went unnoticed by Flynn or so they say under his watch we lost the funds somehow noses powdered with cocaine nerds in college we made bombs for Afghan rebels shot Russkies against the wall

Mention the war out loud and they all simply laugh as if swatting at flies on the wall was easy like killing those stinking commies by firing squad then we watched the world change for the worse forever since we beat the red scare however we still fight as our enemies now are Afghan rebels odd even though the Russkies support for al-Assad prove our rockets' red glare removes the taint of war collateral damage aside we heard the call 

Yes No Ifs Ands Or Buts ~ Sunday, 14 May 2017

Yes no ifs ands or buts no one to stand before me in my way ever
ever ever I wish to leap over hurdles observe the sea otter
swim ever so fast under over between in case she needs to flee

never have I sat down so long to watch events unfold to see over
old age my youth run off in love with life I fear uphill I rise to climb

I stand to watch the tub fill up to flow over over the edge water
falls spills onto the floor soapy from the wash nothing to do I see
stand in terror over nothing no one gets hurt no one loses all hope

as if I can hold back water release the jam unclog the plug in time
nothing to do but watch to bear burden after burden I feel so lost
despite my age I look younger than most my age why it is I do feel
so much aware of pain we all suffer old age sickness dying I toast

old pale cognac in glass crystal without a fight to fist cyan to peal
ring knell the bell it tolls for me I wait to see if I ignore the trope

born neither black nor white never have I fit in or felt I can sever
unto humans their game as I see fit my age creeps up on me I die
tragic never to live like you or you or you stuck in my shell I cry
shards of cut glass in tears I laugh myself stupid I see death lover

Song for My Father (Canção para meu pai) ~ Saturday, 13 May 2017

Is it too late to start again to start over to stop and start over

control my fall to land safely to break my fall to halt to start again

ascend to feel the sun I look below to see how far I must descend

relax to rise higher to feel the heat to see how far I can hover

under duress I must confess I am falling ever so fast stop stop

stop my rapid descent I dive into darkness into despair I plunge

higher higher higher until sunshine melts wax feathers flutter I fall

until I plunge enter the sea hard as marble I dive beyond my ken

broken I die my skull shatter my bones batter never will I ascend

rise up lift me higher salty the sea my mind without a word to say

if I listen I hear I am legend in death in life my flight I drop

shimmer icy dusty comet azure brilliant blue sky I scream I lunge 

mask my terror enter the sea I dive I plunge I scream I lunge I call

your name father before I die before my death I fall I drown I hear

tin drum battle cry fly not too high nor too low into the sun the sea

how did I fall the heat the salt the sun the sea I dive into the bay

o gods you name the sea after disgrace my fall hubris I die I fear

silence the wine-dark sea swallow me whole legend I am now free

"La petite mort" ~ Sunday, 30 April 2017

Today, I'm heartbroken. I don't know why I'm here. There must be a reason.

I still search for answers as to why this happened. I don't know whom to ask. 

Still, I am here for now. I don't remember how I arrived at this point.

The questions are many. They are ready-to-hand. A blindfold for treason?

Hanging or firing squad? How long before I die? If I don't die, what then?

Exit the womb stillborn? Would that have been better? Why am I still alive?

Someone must love this life. Even I have moments. Fleeting in solitude.

Even I taste the tart raspberries with honey in Greek yogurt and bask

As if the summer sun across my bronze flesh in the ocean, buoyant,

Surfing the perfect waves, tubular in motion, gliding with my body

Over the jet surface then crashing to the depths, deep where a mermaid's den

Nestled under the sea, awaiting a sailor, drowned, hungry to survive.

Fortress of solitude, where the creative spark lights at high altitude,

Origin of lightning, cosmic forces collide in the Crab Nebula,

Radiate beyond space, beyond time, beyond breath, where consciousness resides.

Jubilation! I found the reason I am here, beyond all enquiry,

Ordained to suffer life, old age, sickness and death, wisdom spectacular,

Yoni surrounds lingam, the origin of joy, where the death drive presides.

Sonnet ~ Tuesday, 18 April 2017

There was that night I met DJ 5K spinning bhangra hits straight out of Punjab dressed head to toe in traditional Sikh gear like an ancient guru born in Bombay. I sat mindfully at the box office in yet again another dead end job, working to shuck pistachio shells, beer in hand for my end of the night shift drink.

He took one look at me, the artifice of a poet, my salt and pepper beard, long hair flowing in resplendent black locks, and lean runner's figure then thought how weird to find a sadhu in a pair of Docs in a nightclub, stout in hand, made him think...

"On the Pain of Not Returning" ~ Thursday, 6 April 2017

Unless the stars align in the fourth dimension, I win the lottery, and heaven rains manna from dark, fulgurant skies, I will never return to study at this school, this institute of art in the Chicago Loop. Instead I will perform anarchic acts of love: I will plant raspberries on golf courses, they grow like kudzu in Memphis, burn like wild brush on fire in the hills of Southern California, away from the salty, beach air.

If I were to return to this school my classmates with whom I came to climb the ladder of degrees would all by now be gone, writers who came to learn the fine art of gliding like a flying squirrel in a squadron, a troupe of performing artists on the flying trapeze, graduates in forget me nots and hoops on fire like lions trained to leap bravely straight through the gyre of heat and flames, the scent of fur singed at the mane, golden yet worn for wear.

Remember me, I doubt you will ever forget our time together, time spent at the local bar, wasting our days and nights drinking and toasting Joyce with Bushmills and Guinness if we got paid that day, if not we drank cheap beer and spoke of better days, when we have enough dough to place a winning bet or send some home to mom and dad, earn their respect, as laughable a choice as studying writing at the local art school, it matters not, I fear.

Sonnet ~ Tuesday, 2017 March 28

arguments for the sake of liberty

rarely occur within a fourteen line 

gamut of poetic exposition,

urgent as the need to dethrone thirty

murderous tyrants who govern our lands

egregiously with harsh penalties, fines,

nefarious acts, as executions

transpire and exile for those who incite 

revolt in the kingdom of golden sand,

excellent are they who fight oligarchs 

guaranteed protection by lash-bearers

noted for their contempt of anarchic 

usurpers in their attempt to empower

memorable rebels against red kites

The High Road ~ Monday, 2017 March 27

The I that is me is not this body. Like a book on the shelf I am content to appear as the spirit found in words on the page whether genteel or bawdy. It matters not a whit whether you choose to judge my appearance with malcontent complaints. I will choose to ignore your words of abuse while I seek out the high road. As a mirror projects the words you choose to describe your discontent with others, I move beyond your transgressions. I seek the high road of success and find others like me abused by words who choose to seek out a higher ground and faith in the high road.

"Out of Sight, Out of Mind" ~ Thursday, 2017 March 16

once dead, now forgotten by family and close friends, not a kind word spoken,

bury or burn the corpse in order to move on, in order to progress,

insult to injury, add or subtract, to speak truth against villainy,

testify to witness, to bear the weight of smoke, passing in flight, broken 

underneath suspension bridges, over rivers, through valleys, past shadows

silent during daylight, hidden within darkness, speechless since without breath

fornication left none to follow his footsteps, walk a mile in his shoes,

ugly soulless wingtips, flightless, without feathers, egrets without regrets,

solo with a sibling, with loquacious parents, sparrows in the rainy

clouds of thunderous chatter, striking violent bolts like gods against mortals,

uisce beatha, water of life, aqua vitae, his breath like peat meadows,

sugar turns alcohol sweet, fortified port wine, tawny, ruby for health 

tripping trinkle tinkle every night after work bottom shelf with the blues,

erroneous accounts cover up the disease with familial lies,

suffer in ignorance, in adolescent fear, the love of an angry

tormented patriarch, hateful, spiteful teacher, full of silent quarrels,

injured and insulted, the boy becomes a man, forgives guilt, never cries,

suffers the shame of tears in lonesome solitude, in life, a ghost, hungry

Resplendent at Twilight ~ Thursday, 2017 March 2

"Resplendent at Twilight"

Fuck Shit Up were a group of skinheads in high school who found community under the auspices of the straightedge movement from bands like Minor Threat, generating a scene by starting a music label, Dischord Records, acting out of DC, even kids in Cali saw opportunity zipping off all their hair with a pair of clippers, then shaving their heads clean, if they were boys, but girls wore bangs, side locks, neck locks and the rest clipped down short.

Misfits like Mario never felt the appeal to seek outside his tribe, align with the wrong clique and the group dynamic hedges against his bet, resolved to the win-win strategy where none lose when they fight without swords, games where all can profit, even minorities like Mario makes friends if he shaves off his hair and wears a flight jacket, his steel-toe boots look mean, negate the bigotry of the majority outside of his cohort.

Welcome to religion, an alternative faith, a military vibe, against the discipline of the ROTC, junior or otherwise, lacking in leverage, they gain in unity a power not found alone, kick down the doors and run like hooligans abroad, thugs always find the ends entertaining enough to make the means worthwhile, violence makes his eyes resplendent at twilight, sinking his teeth down deep to tear flesh from the bone.