my cousin liked to have breakfast
at an open air café, with his fiancée, on Fridays
the owner knew she loved French breads, having
been schooled at the Sorbonne  

the bakery made them at his behest    
he would tell his staff to keep one for her
and to bring a bag when served;
she always saved half for later  

rush hour was madder than usual  
that night, until the bombs blasted
and brought the synovial silence that comes
in the wake of wondering, what
has happened?    

the sirens screamed soon enough
and my cousin smelled the smoke  
cordite, yes, but burnt baklava,
Maamoul as well  

his fiancée came to him that night  
watched and waited to hear if anyone they knew  
was lost, their hands clasped tight, breaths shallow,
in the languid hush after the city slowed
to its mournful rest  

the sun rose, the skies clear, crisp, to their surprise,
and they went to the café, where the owner apologized
for the wicked, wicked world, and for not having baguettes
after the bakery died

“Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.”
                                                    ­ George Orwell, 1984* (published in 1949)

Which brings us, of course, to the subject of torture since 1949.
Come with me to the Casbah, Babaloo.
We begin in the 1950s with the French in North Africa,
****** baguettes in Algeria,
Couilles frits, anyone?
Electrodes wired to Mustapha’s *****.
And "Bigeard's Shrimps,” as the bodies were called,
Dumped over the Mediterranean from aircraft,
All things considered a je ne sais quoi,
Though Camus and Sartre gave it a whack.

Then the 1960s: the CIA dabbling in mind-control and LSD.
Later, a Phoenix Program,
Very secretive, sympathies with the Cong required,
Various elders selected,
The village disinfected,
**, **, ** and a bowl of Pho.

Apartheid anyone?
Thirty years of South African terror & torture.
Torment in the townships,
Shaka Zulu gold and diamonds,
De Beers in Swaziland swing.

1971: riots at Attica,
Prisoners abused and tortured,
Rockefeller’s overcrowded slammer,
An upstate New York katzenjammer,
Nelson’s finger on the trigger,
39 dead and counting,
But who’s counting?

The CIA, back in the news in 1973,
Torture chambers under Chilean soccer stadiums,
And the Khmer Rouge:
Those Wacky Cambodians with skull racks.  
And let us not forget the British,
With centuries of colonial experience behind them,
Occupy six counties in Northern Ireland.
Finally codify the imperial process,
The Five Techniques:
Sounds like a Motown group,
Satin smooth colored boys,
But more method than music:
(1) Wall-standing,
(2) Hooding,
(3) Subjection to noise,
(4) Sleep deprivation,
(5) No food and drink.

And there’s a bunch of horrible ****,
We still don’t know about the Argentine ***** War,
And other Mai Lai-like,
****-fest massacres in Vietnam.

How about torture since 1984?
Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo,
Come quickly,
(www.prematureejaculatorsanonymous.com)
To mind,
As do US-sponsored rendition facilities,
Spread throughout the NATO alliance.
And closer to home, it’s never a dull moment in the 5 Boroughs:
Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, The Bronx and Manhattan.
Take your pick from Giuliani’s Greatest Hits,
Rudy Kazootie’s campaign of law and order,
Not necessarily in that order.
More awful than lawful,
A bathroom plunger rammed up,
The Haitian voodoo ****** of Abner Louima,
While he be handcuffed at a Brooklyn station house.
Or, the NYPD partying like it was 1999.
When in fact, it was1999,
And a curious death it was for Amadou Diallo,
Would-be American citizen from The Republic of Guinea,
(No connection to Italy or Italians),
Abner & Amadou: a pair of cautionary tales,
Either/or reflecting standard procedure for the Po-Po,
Time and time again from coast to coast.
Either/or: poor Abner, no Haitian Papa Doc.
Poor Amadou, on his way home from night school,
When police squeeze off 41 rounds,
Most of them in his direction,
Hitting him 19 times.
Just the facts, ma’am:
Diallo had reached into his jacket.
A trigger-happy police officer yells “Gun.”
A jungle warfare quartet springs into action:
Shenzi, Banzai, Ed & Zazu,
Four equally trigger-happy colleagues,
Empty their weapons.
No gun was found on Diallo,
Only the wallet he tried to pull out,
Containing his Green Card,
4 U.S. dollar bills;
And a laminated,
Credit card-sized copy of the U.S. Bill of Rights.
(I just didn’t know when to quit, did I?
The wallet was there with Green Card and the bucks,
But I made up the part about the Bill of Rights,
Trying to add poetry to tragedy, as usual.)

I don’t have to say much about Rodney King (RIP).
You watched it on TV a hundred times,
And a picture’s worth a thousand words.
Or ten thousand or a million, I suppose.
“Can’t we all just get along?” asked Rodney Glen King.

Last but not least there’s Kelly Thomas (RIP),
Another incidence of police insanity,
It was July of 2011 in Fullerton, California.
Thomas, a 37-year-old homeless man,
Schizophrenic, but unarmed,
Beaten to death at a bus depot,
During an altercation with six Fullerton police officers.
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2019225/Kelly-Thomas-Poli­­ce-beat-taser-gentle-mentally-ill-homeless-man­-death.html#ixzz1e­3­4QnHtr

Mervyn Lazarus | Attorney | (www.mervlazarus.com) Police Brutality, Excessive Force and Jail Injury cases | California . . . Albuquerque

Jackie Chiles perfect attorney -YouTube, (www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpcEietIoxk) Nov 17, 2010 - 13 min - Uploaded by Kroeger22 All the scenes with Jackie Chiles from Seinfeld."Chiles is a parody of famed attorney Johnnie Cochran; both ... www.seinfeld.com

Perhaps the greatest torture of all,
Is that which artists subject us to.
Let us examine the case of Roberto Bolaño:
Roberto Bolaño, the great Chilean writer,
Tells a fabulous World War II story,
About a Spaniard--an Andalusian--
Fighting for the Germans against the Russians.
Captured by the Russians,
He is tortured for information.
The Spaniard speaks no Russian,
He knows only four words of German.
The Russian interrogators strap him into a chair,
Attach electrodes to his *****,
Attach pincers to his tongue.
The pain makes his eyes water.
He said--or rather shouts--the word coño.
It is Spanish for ****.
The pincers in his mouth,
Distort the expletive,
Which in his howling voice comes out as KUNST.
The Russian who knows German looks at him in puzzlement.
The Andalusian was yelling KUNST,
Yelling KUNST and crying in pain.
KUNST in German means art,
And that was what the bilingual Russian heard, KUNST.
“This ******* must be an artist or something.”
The torturers remove the pincers,
Along with a little piece of tongue,
And wait, momentarily hypnotized by the revelation:
The word ART had soothed the savage beasts.
So soothed, the savage beasts take a breather,
Waiting for some kind of signal.
Meanwhile, the Andalusian bleeds from the mouth,
Swallows his blood liberally mixed with saliva, and chokes.
The word coño,
Transformed into the word *KUNST,
Had saved his life.
It was dusk when he came out of the building.
Light stabbed at his eyes like midday sun.

So, it’s a fact that I love,
Truly love the simple blunt Anglo-Saxon expletive ****,
****: I pray that while I am being tortured some day,
I have the dignity to scream the word out loud.
And if I am screaming **** at the very end,
When my nervous system finally fails,
When I **** my pants,
When my pulmonic heart and lungs collapse,
Is that so bad?
Is that so wrong?

Do you realize that 1984 came--
Came and went, without any significant cultural hoopla?
The networks ignored it.
As did the cable pundits.
No significant comparative analysis between,
Orwell’s book 1984 and the year 1984,
Was broadcast electronically or publicized in print.
Steve Jobs got it, but as usual no one else did.
Mr. Jobs (RIP) did his best,
To mainstream its profound cultural relevance,
But ultimately failed,
Despite the $1.5 million he paid one of the networks,
To air a one minute nation-wide commercial,
During the 3rd Quarter,
Of Super Bowl XVIII,
January 22, 1984.
Despite Ridley Scott’s astonishing spell-binder,
His 60-second spot for The Macintosh 128K--
Still considered a watershed event,
And an advertising industry masterpiece,
…YouTube it and watch it.  (www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8ji0B98IMo).
See the hammer throwing athlete chick,
See her fling the sledge,
That huge sledgehammer,
Smash into Big Brother’s flat screen face.
Despite Jobs’ global presence,
Despite Steverino’s unfettered microphone access,
Whenever he felt an oraculation coming on,
Despite everything,
He was unable to move the powers that be,
To either hype the book or the prophecy come true.

So, what’s my point? I have two.
First, in April 1984 the estate of George Orwell,
And the television rights holder to the novel 1984,
Considered the edgy Jobs/Scott commercial to be,
A flagrant copyright infringement,
Sending a cease-and-desist letter to Apple Inc.
And the advertising agency that produced the spot: Chiat/Day Inc.
The commercial was never televised as a commercial after that.  
Score: Lawyers 1, Artists 0.

My second point is that in November 2011,
The U.S. government argued before the U. S. Supreme Court,
That it wants to continue utilizing GPS tracking of individuals,
Without first seeking a warrant.
In response, Justice Stephen Breyer (one of the sane ones),
Questioned what this means for a democratic society.
Referencing Nineteen Eighty-Four, Justice Breyer asked:
"If you win this case, then there is nothing,
To prevent the police or the government from monitoring 24/7,
The public movement of every citizen of the United States.
So if you win, you suddenly produce what sounds like 1984 . . .”*

My third point,
(Yeah, I know I said two, but *******.)
My third point is that I’m just so ******* angry,
All the time, late and soon like Wordsworth,
(Was anyone more aptly named?)
I am angry about so many different things,
And every day that goes by I relate more and more,
To the thousands of Americans that occupied,
Zuccotti Park and Oakland,
And countless other venues,
Out into the streets.
Across the country.
Around the world.  
I am humbled by their courage and perseverance.
Yet, I am afraid for them.
I am made paranoid by the scope and power,
Of the government,
Of the ruling class that controls it,
And the technology they allow us to embrace,
Technology’s sinister potential,
Now that more and more knowledge and information,
Has been digitized,
Existing only in cyberspace.                                                      ­                                                 
What frightens most is the realization,
That anyone with a word processor,
And access to the database could rewrite,
Any historical or legal document,
To fit the needs of a current agenda.
The scary part is—
Repeating myself for emphasis—
That anyone with a word processor
And access to the database could rewrite,
Any historical or legal document,
To fit the needs of a current agenda.

Does anyone out there give a ****?
Does anyone out there share my nightmare?
Do it to Julia.
Do it to Julia.

Jane the economy toaster
Was cheap as appliances go
Her unpolished sides were all greasy
And as grey as suburbanite snow

The edge of her slot was all melted
And her tray was encrusted with crumbs
Her lever was missing a handle
And would nibble at fingers and thumbs

She lived at the back of a cupboard
With some rusty old pans and a spider
In the gloom she would dream that somebody
Would hammer a muffin inside her

That some special son-of-a-baker
Would fill up her dusty old holes
With croissants and baguettes and bagels
With waffles and tea cakes and rolls

But alas with her family broken
The whisk and second-rate kettle
Her owners replaced the whole set
With something more classy in metal

And so in her murky wee crevice
She wept and she twiddled her ****
She twitched her lever with envy
Of the toaster that lives by the hob

Jane faded away and she vanished
But in silicone heaven she boasts
That she's Jane the economy toaster
The maker of muffins for ghosts

Hey, another week whispers love to win "W" That womanly wonder I need to take a step back to "V"  just need to vent out.
I'm here not over there? Medieval times "Roman Festival" of love
I have to catch up to get to V- Valentine things are the sublime wake up take a bite the "Viennese Whirls" biscuit "The Cats Meow"
The Siamese to suit me just fine. The Valentine recruit her day of pursuit. Her lower V back to her higher love loot plays up to her **** and boots.

A victory versus the villain Mama Mia striking gold but I am a face to red like grapes. The Italian Villa making love in her red hot chinchilla. But somewhere over her sheer rainbow, he got sidetracked all the way she looks divine in her "Rosy" slingback chair. Read my lips go smack CD track "V-Valiant" multiplying like ants. She flaunts herself such a venom demonstration. The biblical (V)-sword wins her love sentimental. What aims the bow and arrow a heart is her V village daring. Quite shocking and alarming the poems red silk ties her love force the light shines romantically warm red. V Virtual reality Strawbery Sponge cake.

Her V-Valentine the first day she met him. Where she came from will we ever know? What's in the card do we win or lose to know what in store for you?

You will get to know me 
The sweets got her set
The bittersweets only yet
Plays the different drum
The Valiant V venture
Hum all *** about him
The ricochet "Russian *****"

This is not the end of the alphabet
zoomed in like the Zebra
You got me V for Visa
But Y where did the
( L)_ go we are losing some??
Alphabets 
More victories firelight sunset

Lionhearted heroic I bet
Did you throw me into Lion's den?
Refresh my L- love ******
"O" only roses pink/red sonic
Zippety do day happier
V Day the wine glasses
L-O-V- E Ecstacy

I suppose another tempting
Dose V vitamins
"Valiant Rose" Face
Such velocity
I feel pretty dancing
high castles
   "Valentine"

 Herbivore love me messy
Victorian sleeping beauty
Rose Kiss Hibiscus
Vampire rosebuds
Cherubs ****** red
Red Mercedes
Hubs of love
husbands

For the "Valiant Smart ladies"
High society noses
Pluto-Venus Starwars
V Valentino and their singles
Cappuccino in Italy Portofino
Chic centerfold V candles
Damask Rose pretentious pose

She's the V Voluptuous
Red devil ventriloquist
Pink/Wink Strawberry mousse
The Bulgarian with her cute
Pomeranian and spouse
Elephant Tusk smells
of musk E-love

"Marilyn Monroe" baguettes
Yves The Saint Laurent
So Valiant bond deep
Cut thorns of Reds
Bergdorf Blondes and
Brunettes
Valentine duet V-shape
Headset  vivacious escapes
So mindset
Never forget the one day

February 14 your
Valentine ring
heartedly set
Salute to the cadet

To have loved, is more than man
For should ever want, or can
Ask of, out of his life.
The ever stirring mind, and
Almost frenzied hands
Of the fools who dance,
The waltz of romance

We used to play billiards
and fight all the fire.
We'd drink tea
from cheap mugs,

read The Economist
or newspaper,
chat about boyfriends,
girlfriends,

what was and wasn't a rumour?
The printer munched on paper,
lounge about on scratchy chairs.
50% revision, 50% laughter.

Psychology was me
with a group of girls.
How many people, where, when,
and what was it Freud said again?

Spanish was the same,
me, L, C and E.
Picasso's view of war, a bull and a flower,
grammar overload in the afternoon.

And then there was English.
Can you hear me Fitzgerald?
On a row of females (not just one),
roses, four stories and a single trumpet.

On the garish bus
to see the Manor or the specialists,
to walk up and down aisles in Asda,
talking music with baguettes and meatballs.

Two years came, two years went.
Exams, goodbyes, brown envelopes arrived.
After tapas and a holiday
came sly September.

Here I was with fresh men,
different faces from different places.
So I walked up the steps
into the next avenue.

The autumn winds ***** her mercilessly,
as idle hands lunge for delicate petticoats.
Their ugly, pockmarked howls pinch her deeply
with each new limb they expose,
until her tears drop like leaves, unheard
and become soiled.

By the winter, she’s left leaning awkwardly
like a slapper against a lamp post.
Her body but scattered, bent baguettes,
freeze-set with the frigid, nightly chills,
which preserve her stark immodesty
and her malign revenge.

Yet spring adorns her with tentative protruding buds,
glazed like freshly shellacked fingernails,
as her body itches with the swellings of youth
and foliage fastens frills around her chest,
summoning the dewy-peach lustre of virginity.
Now she basks in our wanton, forgiving glares.

As the summer teases, she writhes ******-like
in a raincoat that clings to her, just so.
Her barely concealed fruits spilling out,
as the sun caresses her skin hotly, until she ****
with that cacophony of lilac bells gawping, grape-like,
ringing out the sweet moans of her petite-mort.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Leitch.  Have you had a busy day?”

     Grey eyes peered over wireframe spectacles and gazed upon a vision that lifted the corners of his mouth.  “Yes, quite.  Thank you for asking.  So lovely to see you again, my dear.”

     As she entered the tailor’s shop and lithely traced her fingers across yards of brightly colored silk, and muted finely woven wool, her companion quietly assembled outside the entrance door.  He had selected a prime location adjacent to the neighboring baker’s store.  At that hour, the wafting mixed aromas of warm cookies, cakes, baguettes and shepherd’s bread would lure workers of the day from their homeward paths for just a bit of something to fill their evening meals, or add a little nuance to the setting of the sun.

     “And you as well, kind Sir.  I do adore observing the mastery in the magic of your finery.”

     “Well now, what a lovely thing to say.  And I adore listening to you as well.  But no more of that ‘Sir’ business.  You must call me ‘Arthur,’ as I have said before.”

     “Ah, then no more of that ‘dear’ business.  You must call me ‘Kathy,’ and we shall both listen to more lovely sounds that will soon fill this room.”

     At that moment, when the tailor’s eyes began to sparkle, Kathy’s companion began to strum a well-seasoned lute as he sang a refrain from an old Yorkshire ballad:

          Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Remember me to one who lives there
          For once she was a true love of mine

Then slowly, a crowd began to gather, one-by-one and in twos and threes, of those emerging from the bakery or simply passing by, as lamplights began to glow against the evening sky.    

          Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Without a seam or needlework
          Then she shall be a true love of mine

Entwined within the strumming, individual notes came alive and danced their way across the frets and fingerboard to leap and float about the crowd.  In time with the rhythm and the melody, pence and schillings soon found their way into the instrument’s open case, sounding light percussive accompaniment and applause.

     And then as though entranced, Kathy twirled about the tailor’s shop and took the tailor’s hand, to lead him out into the square and join the merry band.  She smiled a wondrous look, with eyes closed to the scene around her, as she gazed upon the vision within her, and her sweet voice shared its verse:

          Tell him to find me an acre of land
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Between the salt water and the sea sand
          Then he shall be a true love of mine

Then Kathy gave a laugh or two, and raised her arms to the incandescent night, as a blackbird perched itself atop the crescent moon, resting in the palms of her hands.

A Tale of Two Cities, Marie Antoinette, Les Misérables,
Populaire and Jacqueline Boyer—
Van Gogh and Monet and all things the Louvre—
Louise Labé and Louis Aragon,
Camus, Voltaire, Baudelaire…
I’ve been breathing in pieces of France,
Eating baguettes,
Dreaming of their kisses,
Committing the curl of their words to memory,
To maybe find out just why they say the French love better.
Maybe if I’ve established the impartiality to the Eiffel tower and the familiarity of romantic cheek-and-cheek-kiss greets,
I will grin under the Parisian Moon, whispering with some curls of my own:
Je suis heureux.

Thine temple is an edifice, holy, ever-reaching the overhanging of cliff's, step by step I walketh; a journey I only canst travel. Thou hast guided me on the long road's, wherein soul's get lost and caught in the world's tempting channel. O' blest refinement, God hath freed me from confinement; as the angel yea the angel he sent to me was thee;
Sanctified I am, inside of thine wing's. In commitment shalt I bring, in song's I shalt ablaze in glory with thee wherein the mind's of two shalt cling. O' mine hymn, O' mine diamond .
On a turret I shalt keepeth watch, when the round ball we loveth smoke's up thus, and drop's; beyond fear and falsehood talk's, we shalt walk in a grove,
henceforth the evil staying below, ourn cheeks, colored into snow that fall's starlit, warm-bits. Ourn finger's warm, ourn toe's kick to hot spit by the kissing over-satisfaction. Ourn coroner's laced inside with baguettes, daily deeds like seeds groweth from fountains with nets, nets to catch ourn amour' like open door's we shalt enter. Ourn heart's at the center exploding into a universal call to all other cherub's, seraph's, archangel's, stomping the scarab's. As eternity draweth us as the lost city of gold.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley-filipino rose dedicated

I saw Stewart and Maud under a locust tree in Kensington market.
They had new bicycles. She leaned her sweaty, curly head on his bicep.
They had baguettes, flowers, asparagus and apples from the farm booths in their packs,
Buzet and Minervois from the liquor store, library books. They had life-loving things.
He says that for him this new life is instead of being an artist in Paris:
Backpacks, bicycles, the look of young lovers. The little possessions
That don't feel like a car or a house.  They are wearing bright white t shirts
And denim overalls. His children are confused. They have little money.
He joined the many who have refused to be punished for a mistake.

My friend Stewart lives with a university student.
You get to their Annex apartment up iron stairs bolted to the
Outside of  a building of old brick coloured like a driftwood campfire. The bed's iron.
She's been an adult for seven years. Iron, bricks, flowers, white iron bed,
Stewart has the skills to make it good, he's done this before, made the Muskoka
Chairs, the harvest tables, and sold them, repaired window frames and doors,
Advertised in supermarkets. He likes to breathe, to drink water, to cut wood and dress it,
To study, to read, to live well with a woman, to write in the evening, to make life like art.



                                       Paul Anthony Hutchinson
                                       www.paulanthonyhutchinson.com
                                       copyright Paul Anthony Hutchinson

I love the feeling
when a song
comes on
and suddenly
you find yourself
lost deep in a
memory you
forgot to
actively remember
until now.

The soundtrack to
the summer of '09
when I would
drive 6 hours with the
windows down,
the wind and
the bass from the speakers
in my Honda Civic
creating harmony
in G major,
the hot
sun beating against my
sweat-speckled skin.

And a couple notes
strung along my
eardrum as I
reappear in tears after
you told me you'd
leave me if I
refused to give you what
you wanted,
a melody mixed with
my pathetic, incurable
obsession with pleasing you
and some serious self-loathing.

And then I hear a tune
that sounds reminiscent
of the soft ripple from the
waves the river made
as I smoked a J and
wrote about my days
away from home,
desperately seeking to figure
out who I really am
when I'm completely alone.

Songs that remind me
of sunsets and
old jokes and
the sand between my toes;
rhythms of
bare feet pittering and splashing
in sprinkler water on squishy,
damp grass,
of  French phrases and crunchy baguettes
that I chewed on
in Dijon,
of day parties with plastic
cups and ping pong *****
where we used college courses
and boy drama and
undefeated seasons as
reasons to binge on
cheap ***** and beer.

I hear a bridge,
and I cross the river
where I tread water
for 4 years as I waited
for you to meet me
halfway,
and I drowned
in your lies and mind control.

Chorus of Christmas mornings
with homemade cookies,
joyful jamboree
of after-school
dance sessions in my parents' kitchen,
prom night poses
and people we still
laugh at.

First kisses reverberating
in headphones
and mouths belting
names of forgotten friends.

The soundtrack to my life,
a collection of good time
genres and painful
classics,
number one hits and
one hit wonders I
cherish equally,
my taste as vast as
the memories
contained in the
music.

You're asleep, but I'm having a little fantasy.

We are going to Paris (of course) and we just decided to go. No planning, no serious packing. Just got our stuff together and went for a few days. We fly through the night, and I wake up with my head on your shoulder (like Gordo and Lizzie) and we eat plane breakfast (which for some reason involves sausage links and orange juice in this little dream) and land at Charles de Gaulle at 10 AM.
We get off the plane and go find our hotel, which is kind of far from the heart of the city but we like it cause that's where the really cute eclectic apartments and shops are. And you buy me red roses that night and every day we take long walks all over the place.
We do touristy stuff while we are there, and you take me to all of the places you went to with your family and we even play soccer in front of the Eiffel Tower one night, for your old times sake.
But mostly we make love a few times a day and go get beautiful meals and I speak French to the waiters and you think it's ****. We go to a little bakery down the street from us every morning and night and just have an obscene amount of baguettes in our room. We sleep with all of the windows open (it's summer) and the light of the Eiffel Tower is visible at night, far off in the distance.
Some nights, we make love on the balcony of the hotel and then just talk forever, and I'm so perfectly happy there in your arms on the balcony of our little quaint hotel in Paris just for the hell of it.
And I'm so ******* glad you're there with me, even if it's just in my head.

I'm one of a kind.
Stuck in my own mine.
The only place I can find, a calm find,
Is the confines, of my own mind.
And it's fine, at least I've
told myself a thousand times.
Now I'm sick of messing around,
Started laying these rhythms.
In perfect line, one at a time
to inspire these inquiring minds.
So they will find;
History, or Herstory, repeating itself
Line after line; over time.
through these thoughts of mine.
All this sadness, at the expense of happiness;
straight up madness.
Killing yourself with this mad stress,
while chasing success, in all ways.
"Always ends up a mess," experiences says.
Taking baby steps towards more unhappiness.
Worry free days, migrates to migraines, with growing pains.
What's perceived as success, should be worth way much less.
Cost of yourself, at the expense of progress, that does not exist. Got you living a dream, while you losing the rest.
Blood thicker than water, but not baguettes or the flesh.
They will, **** you for the dough, then fight amongst themselves over the wealth. Their net worth, worth more than how they value them self. So you "so soon, they forget." And to, get what they want, or perceive as need, they'll use you to get. So be careful,  in the pursuit of happiness, don't lose sight of yourself. Or it will be your final regret.

My Saturdays belong
to a quaint Parisian cafe.
I only have to think about carrying coffees
and baguettes
and they pay me for it.
It's the cheapest therapy I've had.

I've come to know some of the regulars.
Some days I wish
to tell them I love them
and I don't quite know why.
I suspect they remind me
in some part of myself,
or how I wish to be.

An almost elderly lady
always comes alone.
Her hair still retains some of her blonde youth.
She orders two very weak flat whites
and sits for hours,
writing letters to distant loves
and reads the paper.
I clear her cup
and she smiles
with both her lips and her eyes.
She makes you feel like your job
means something more than it probably does.
I bring her a second coffee,
a very weak flat white.

In the afternoons
a couple comes in for coffee.
She is quiet,
the artistic type,
and wears their son in a sling.
A sweet little thing with cherubic cheeks.
The father is a darling man
with a softness many men resist.
I watch the way his eyes sparkle
when he tells me of his sons milestones.
I make an effort to see them smile,
bring them water on hot days
or just talk.
But sometimes I leave them be,
watch them from a far,
and let myself be swept up in their love,
before they leave.

My Saturdays belong
to a quaint French cafe
with dark timber floors
and French antiques.
I haven't quite mastered the art of conversation
but I'm adept in the science of smiling
and that's enough to get me by
for now.

Ditch Digging

I look upon ***** hands
Unclean in their deeds
Of shoveling their last pit.
For all those sad little things,
For all the past pains,
There is this one grave,
Dug out in the night
To hide all the shame.

Looking mournfully back
At one man’s miserable life,
At one man’s miserable wife
Who covertly snuck away
On a night just like this.
She left to find her real love
In the darkness of the sky,
Only to sneak back home
At the dawn’s first lights,
Only to find her husband
Waiting awake patiently.

Peeking back to his job,
Of a boss who would deny
Every request for a raise,
And every pitiful plea for
Just a couple more days.
The boss who always drank,
And smoked, and yelled,
Who always made passes
At his employee’s wife,
And would call his house
In the middle of the night.

Thinking of his two
Most precious daughters,
Who were the most cute
Of all the little girls.
Those innocent fiends
Who always took their
Spoiled mother’s side,
And would make life
Miserable for their father.
The two girls that looked
More like the man’s boss,
And would barely pay
Their father mind.

As the poor man dug
With his short shovel
And his tired hands,
He thought of all his miseries,
And those who did him wrong,
And how in this 5 ft trench,
He would fix it all.
The faithful pup that turned wild,
And now tries to rip out his throat.
Of the bus driver that steals his change,
And gives him spit in return.
Of the corner shop bread baker,
That only sold him stale baguettes.
He would bury all of them,
And make again, his happy life.

The grave digger finished,
And he washed his hands,
And climbed into the hole,
And fell deeply asleep.

Remember that time in Paris? I do.
Cafes and baguettes;
Eiffel tower and views
Especially
Champs-Élysées

Do you remember that time in Paris
The Metro and Seine;
The streets of history

I remember that time in my Paris
Most of all I remember Cathedral Notre-Dame

I want a man whose heart is so full -
Rainwater dripping from the pitcher on the drizzled grey of yesterday,
A soft sound in the great symphony of the wet garden,
Bejeweled and glistening,
Pianoforte drops
Upon the wet leaves
Falling.

I will know him by the way he writes, the kindness in his eyes -
Flashes of him in my professor,
In myself, caught laughing like a child,
In the quiet teenager who is becoming an
Unlikely philosopher, frontal cortex in heat,
With the implications of existence
(He’s awake in the early dawn, a furious Jacob,
wrestling with his God)

And he will be a Seeker of Beauty:
“There is no medium unworthy”
He will tell me, but never in words,
Crouching for perfection’s grace among leaves and dirt
Like a widow beneath rainbow fractals
At early morning’s mass.

He will be effortless, like the unspoken love
Between two old friends, bookends
Scattering crumbs of baguettes in the park
To clicking beaks, and dancing pigeon feet.

Burying himself in pages, when he thinks no one sees
(Was that you there, on the subway?
Dark eyes, fixated on the lines,
Crinkling with understanding?)

Both of us adventurous spirits -
“Let’s run away, you and me” and we will
Melt with ease into cityscapes, so transparent, adaptive,
Young and free,
Like the wood moths becoming one
With the aspen in its serenity,
We light upon
France, Spain… Italy.

I know I will find him
In my own verse.
Will discover him
In pages that I’ve turned.
Will recite his thoughts back to him, and will
Love him like poetry.
I will know him by heart.

Where I'm from
You either smart of dumb
To rules of cash making
Ain't no faking
We got young gs to ogs
Rolling trees
In Texas we always got the summer breeze
Yea ya might sweat
But it don't matter
We still fill our pockets
Chck the Rolex with baguettes
In houston
We never showed love to maggots
Comprende
Got a few eses that rolls with me
Considered family
So watch where us step fool
Listen to the sounds of the tool
We dumpin hits bump in
Straight outta htown not Compton
Stomping
On the hardest grounds
That most can't walk on
Talk goes on
To them hoes that try empty our
Bank rolls
But my minds on patrol
Watch them ******* scroll
Cuz they see ya coming up
But wasn't down wen we was penned up
In the penitentiary
Seems like everybody after me
But still excell through heaven or he'll so I dwell
On good times than the bad times
I stay with high ratios
More buckets than misses
Kisses by the slugs
To wannabe fake *** thugs


Like Mack said. I can't stand it got **** it
Single handed
Flipped the game ya know the name
Yosef can't be tamed or maintained
They say my lyrics is wack
But I'm still pulling dame
In the players hall of fame
Ya see my name
Next iceberg slim used to rock overalls n timbs
But now I rock suits n ties
Black Capone gngsta **** is my love Jones
We break bones those intruders
Wicked mid range shooter
Don't test the best
From the south we always get next .so **** yo flex
Cash comes from others check
No bouncing
But I take it ounce
8Ball rolling strong controlling
This rap game master my art piece
One shot release .equals mo decease
Got my beauty n I'm the beast feast
In weak souls
So I've been told
And if ya step to the best
Southern link with the west
Better believe we leaven holes in in in yo chest

Uh