Now I know the basic steps, “Slow, slow, quick quick, slow.”
I think.
More to come.
cafegroundzero
is catching up with his account on 43 things, and later going to workFor instance, 1212121 is the “smallest seven-digit smoothly undulating palindromic prime number,” according to “Prime Curios” a website done by university mathematicians connected to University of Tennesee Martin.
... “Those that keep
Their plighted faith
And act aright,—verily
G-d loves those
Who act aright.
As for those who sell
The faith they owe to G-d
And their own plighted word
For a small price
They shall have no portion
In the Hereafter.”
(Surah III 76-77)
On a February night before dawn, in 1987, I left driving east by way of Peoria toward Normal.
Never regretted my decision to leave the burg.
http://www.smithmag.net/sixwords/
Supercalifragilisticexpeallidociously, painstart evolved courageous wisdom mystically.
Change to working core muscles various ways: some of these will be isometric and others will be crunches.
Working temp work at the factory has proven much more feasible. I flex the abs and move as I work, almost never sitting, never standing still.
Listening to Never Know from In Between Dreams. Drinking sun tea and wishing we could gather in Chicago again.
1. Yes, I have sucked a cock.
2. No, I am not a fag.
3. I don’t give a flying flip what you think.
4. I have thick glasses.
5. & girls still make passes. Not just fag hags.
6. My sister hates me.
7. I have a high creep factor, but I don’t give a fig.
8. I’m an addict.
9. I’m an alcoholic.
10. I’m operating under the influence.
Once you jump off the building, it’s highly unlikely you’ll catch yourself on something lifesaving.
Once you’re out of the closet, in Bush’s Amerikkka, who knows what wonderful things can happen.
My first caveat is that all you’re reading
Is buffered by Prozac; first admission.
No, that’s a lie, because I ran out.
So this is fueled by malt liquor.
I will only start to share my memories
Of melancholy, blue sadness and depression.
A swig, and here I go: as a young boy,
I had no inkling of what I felt, only loneliness.
The other kids left me alone or beat me, kicked me.
The only relief was to hang out on the edges.
By the age of twelve I began to think of death.
I had no idea how, only that death seemed an easier path.
My mother taught me that if Jesus could deal with his fate,
Then I could deal with mine; I bought this for the time being.
Fantasies of torture basements where I’d get back at mine enemies
Gave me some secret relief, but I grew tired of hating.
A man is not supposed to cry; a Catholic’s not supposed to want
to die, so I was between a rock and a hard, sharped edged place.
I still wonder to this day why I haven’t yet killed a man.
And must thank my mum she taught me Jesus’ loving plan.
In high school a jock revealed his knowing Buddha,
And ahimsa not harming life he woulda tried and true:
So I kept to the hard and rocky path to salvation,
And made of all the world my nation.
I’m not a rich or famous man today by any stretch of your imagination.
But I know I took the right path and it gives me satisfaction.
I still mourn and sorrow but now not just for myself.
I offer up my sadness to the love of others, for their help.
Depression doesn’t have to end in self-destruction.
You can make your way and manage to function.
Poetry is 2008 – alain julivert, a.k.a cafegroundzero
Recorded at Gay Poetry Online? – All Rights Reserved
Print Date: 4/13/2008 10:25:53 PM
I’ve been published online and in print:
One of the recent sites where I had to get the poetry approved by an editor was
post random questions daily and see if anyone plays with me and answers them :) (read all 6 entries…)
What are the differences between a zither and an oud?
How many different kinds of bagpipes are there?
post random questions daily and see if anyone plays with me and answers them :) (read all 6 entries…)
I’ve become interested in how some very good writers seem to fade into obscurity, and otherwise, some rather mediocre writers sometimes enter the limelights or top twenty, what have you.
For instance, in my own humble opinion, Graham Greene could receive more consideration in literature courses and the reviews. Maybe so with Kingsley and Martin Amis. There are some very good writers of older generations who seem to have gone forgotten, their works relegated to garage sales and thrift stores.
Meanwhile, you get some, like Steven Koontz, who are just over-rated. His plots are good, but his prose lacks sizzle. Even the great Steven King seems to have lost the brilliance and freshness he once had as a young horror writer. Or am I wrong? Prove me wrong.
Let’s dialogue.
... There lived a family in a great land. The father came from burghers and had some noble blood. The mother was of noble blood, and of a different people than the father’s. Yet the two loved each other, or so they thought at first.
They had a son, born to them in the time of the apple blossoms. They had another son, who died the third day of a hole in the heart. Then a daughter was born to them. She grew at first so very beautifully, and so to this day is thus, but at the age of two or three the family realized she would not be one who spoke and reasoned as others.
Then they had another boy, and a baby girl; and when the oldest son was six going on seven, they moved from the old Edwardian house with the stained glass windows and turret, from the little town whose name was the same as one of the Protestant reformers of Europe, to a town somewhat larger, on the railways, where the county seat established the courts.
And the oldest began to attend Catholic school in the north end of town, in one of the parcels where Catholics had been allowed to build.
(To be continued…)
