Let Me Say


-Everything has an age. Every flower is in time. Love also has an age. You are not enough aged to do that.
-Everything may have fixed time but love does not demand age.Even it does not depend on place and person.
-What do you want to say.
-It is simple. I think very simple. You are enough aged to understand me.
-Don't talk like a philosopher. Shoot the wee! How bright again?
-Don't talk in this way. You should not underestimate me. Size don't matter.
-ha ha. Size don't matter but chopping wood.
Cathy is laughing loudly. She looks at Cotty carefully and says with pleasant harmonic sound
- Want to be Jerry. Every one is not Jerry.
Not everyone can be Jerry. It is good to be smart but not so good to be over smart.
-Size don't matter but producing love.
-Ha ha ha....... You are a love machine. What is the name of your love industry?
Cathy is laughing again. The symbol of mystery  plays in  of her fresh eyes. Her  eyes of twenty years are deep and clear. Her smiles sometimes tells the hidden stories of heart.
Cotty suddenly tells
-Sorry.
-Why?
- I don't know. Oh, yes l don't want to be Jerry.
I want to be your partner.
-Partner? What are you saying? Are you in good condition? I think you are out of control.
Control yourself  and speak properly. Little creature!
-Why do you treat me in this way? l am not so that you think. I am more than me.
-Is it, isn’t it? You are junior to me.
-So what?
- Strange! Of course this is a fact.
-I love you and this is true. Love does not depend on age.
-But l do not love you.
-That is your own business. I love you and love you. No one can stop it. Even you. The water of rivers flows on and will flow forever.Wind blows and will blow.
- You must stop.
-Never. If love starts it never stops. Love has only beginning but no end.
-You are talking like an experienced guy
-Everything does not have experience. From where and from whom did Adam, the first man, our ancestor, get experience? He is the first but not inexperienced in the world. Still now we are are learning from him  and becoming experienced. 
-Really you are a torch bearer of love. I could not read you properly.
-I do not want to express myself in this way. Please do not say in this way. Try to understand me.
-Cotty, you are so small and my love is so vast.
- You are right. The sea is so vast and the boat is so small. But the small boat can float easily on the vast sea. I want to be a boat for your sea.I wish I were a boat for your sea.

Two birds come and sit beside them. Cotty looks them with love and Cathy looks at Cotty. Both of them are wordless. They are in deep freeze.
The birds are exceptionally beautiful. They are more attractive than time. But everything is transitory to Cathy. She only finds the definition of love in the eyes of Cotty. Cathy wants to break the iceberg. She becomes close to Cotty. She wants to say something to Cotty but can't. There is someone whom she does not see,  lives in her inner world, pretends her to say. She conquers something and says
-I
Cotty stops Cathy's lips and says
-Let me say
- What?
-That you want to say.
-Actually I... I....
-What?
-I.....
-Let me say.
Both of them say but only the gentle breeze hears them. The birds starts to sing song of love.



#######################


Two Immortal Souls in a Grave

-Who are you?
-I am a boy of unlucky seven.
-Unlucky !  Unlucky seven! Why are you unlucky?  l don’t understand.
-Unlucky is unlucky. l am a unlucky guy.
-Tell me at first your name.
- I am Justin. My friends call me Just.
Oh! What are you doing here.
-I have come here to talk to my father. Everyday l come here to talk to my father.
- Strange! Where is your father? I can not see anybody around us.
- How can you see him? He is not with you or none in this world.
-Where is he? How can you talk to him?
-He is in this grave. This is my father's grave. This is my father's grave. I lost him one year ago.
Justin starts weeping. Tears come from his eyes. He sees everything from his heart.
Collins says with strange voice
-This is your father's grave? Oh no.
-Is there Anything wrong?
-No, no.
-I think you are hiding something from me.
- l lost my father in my childhood.
-So you are same to me. Your father is dead and my father is dead. We are alive but we are in death. Everytime we are dying.
-What are you saying?
-Yes. death touches us every moment. Life is transitory but death is permanent. It is absolutely true. We are walking towards death. Grave is waiting for us.
-I am surprised  to hear your words. You are so accurate. But a little boy like you how can express all these things.
- I am not so little as you think. All people were born at a time. But the time is different of coming this world. So souls are not junior or Senior.  Only the bodies are junior or senior.
-Who have told you?
-My mother, my world.
-Do you believe your mother.
- I respect my mother and I believe my mother.
She is my everything.
-Where does your mother live?

Justin very simply says
- I live with my mother. We live in a hut. The hut is one kilometer from here. I come here everyday on foot because I have not enough money. I am a student but l have to work to live. My mother forbids me to do work but l do work to support her. I do not want to depend fully on him.
-What does your mother do?
-She is self reliant. She makes different kinds of pizza and sells to the customers. If l earn sufficient I will not let her do anything.
-Your mother is lucky and you are also lucky.
-Why do you think so?
-My mother is unlucky and l am also unlucky.
-Why?
- My mother is alive and she does not keep me with her. She lives in nursing home.
I earn huge and l have enough money but she does not take any help from me.
-What is the reason?
-This is my misfortune. Once she asked me money but I Didn't give her.
-Why didn’t you give her money?
-I don’t know,  I don’t know the real cause.
Collin starts to cry like a child.
-l think you did a great mistake. Go to your mother and ask her to forgive you.
-I have lost the real track.
-Why have you come here?
- I have come here to talk to my father.
-Which one is your father's grave.
Collin shows the grave of Justin and says
- This is my father's grave.
-Are you mad?  This is my father's grave. You are wrong. Every  day I come here to pray for him and l have never seen you here before.
- From now I have lost everything. 
- You have lost nothing because your mother is alive. Go to her and do your duty. Don’t lament for your father.

Tears of Collin's eyes  are falling down on the grasses  of his father's grave. The grasses are shouting but who knows what they are saying.
Collin starts to walk through a new way but he   follows his footprints of his past. Suddenly he hears the voice of his father
- Collin, do not forget me.
Collin looks back but he doesn't see neither his father nor Justin.

###################


Come Back to Love

Slavery is not love
Love is not shaped in slavery
It is unconditional tree's flowers
That grow and bloom to spread beauty
In two inconvenient considerable hearts.
Nothing is alternative to produce love
Sacrifice  is the beauty of love
That removes the anxieties of slavery
Brutal force cannot conquer strange islands
It is love that absorbs waves of the sea of pain
Everything can be separated but it can't be
It can't be broken up for colonizers
Wear the clothes of hope and possibility
Fight against dark and hunted nights

Share love like an endless fountain
Whoever we are and wherever we live
Love's dream is to be individually freedom and collectively independent
Cut off doubt and disbelief
Come back to love.

Shall We Try Again?

The ache in my heart, I’m sure, is more painful

than yours since we have been apart.

Though I try to ignore the torture and emotion,

my heart is in pain so much of the time.

My face is wet from the tears I cry silently.

I have always prided myself for being so strong.

Crying is foreign to me because I refuse to be weak,

but you, for some reason can bring me to my knees.

And yes, I do try to hide it, but not very well.

Now that my smile is small, it hides nothing.

Everyone can tell that deep down I am drowning

along with you, and there is no glory in that.

No, love can’t be the same, but maybe it can be made stronger..

So, I put down my pride and say with all that is in me

as I stand before you with no shame and tell you,

“I am still in love with you!”. And in my vulnerable state say,

“I don’t want to hide anymore behind this fake smile.”

“Forgive my pride and stubbornness, but my heart has suffered

much in life and it is hard to show vulnerability.”

Before I turn and walk away, I will ask you once only and then no more…

“Shall we try again?”

Hope Restored

When we met, you were in a painful state

Someone before me had stolen the joy within you

You thought she was “the one”

But she crushed you, instead

You lost everything, including yourself

She never cherished your being

In your darkest hour, she left you

I found you broken; with a sobbing and painful soul

You were in need of a pure love

It took a long time for you to let down your walls

You began to trust me, then you smiled at me one day

I never pushed you or demanded anything from you

Our friendship grew and you became my best friend

I saw joy in your life again

I rejoiced with every smile

From friendship grew love..

A pure love that expects nothing in return but a smile;

The unconditional love and respect that you deserved

All I ever wanted was to see hope restored in your life

But I ended up with far more.

Autumn With You

Autumn has always been my favorite time of year

It’s relaxing sitting in the sun along with you, Dear

The days are now more quiet like a silent bereaving

The end of a scorching Summer is readily leaving

Taking walks hand in hand, watching our neighbors raking

as the aroma of cinnamon bring memories of baking

I welcome the deep colors that amaze my eyes

as we sit on our porch and take in the trees and blue skies

Limbs slightly blow in the breeze as a few leaves fare

creating a sense of peace within me like a whispering prayer

The sky is so clear, bright stars I can see

I lean back against you with your arms around me

As we watch another sunset from our porch swing tonight

I am thankful being with you in the Autumn Moonlight.

Biography

Kristy Ann Raines, born April 9, born in California, in the United States, is a poet/writer/author, who is very versatile in her writing and internationally acclaimed.

From fantasy and love, to serious subjects such as, domestic violence, and human rights. Her passion is writing children’s books, short stories and romantic poetry. Kristy has earned many awards and has five book that she is working on. One will be published soon.

Battle of the Bans

I grew up in an age & a country where banning books was commonplace. Authors – Henry Miller & William S. Burroughs. Titles – Lolita & Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I seem to remember that Ulysses was not long off the list; & there is a marvellous story, which I’ve never checked in to preferring to keep the memory intact, that Barchester Towers & Doctor Thorne were banned for almost a century because they appeared under the author’s name of A. Trollope.

Not that I’m against banning things. I marched calling for an end to nuclear proliferation – ban the bomb. I marched in support of outlawing racial discrimination. I believe commercial whaling is wrong, that industry should have an incredibly strict set of environmental guidelines. I believe capital punishment is totally wrong, & have written earlier of how its legality in New Zealand depended on which political party was in power until a conservative Attorney General broke with his party & said it should be outlawed forever if it could be (re)introduced on a political whim. (& a little later, I remember reading an essay by Camus – Reflections on the Guillotine? – where Camus describes his father, who was a strong advocate of the death penalty, attending a public execution & coming home totally opposed to the State taking lives.)

But never books, or movies or records, no matter how distasteful & offensive they might be.

I have seen nationalists like Ho Chi Minh & Fidel Castro basically forced into the Communist Bloc because their leftwing views were unpalatable during the Cold War. I have seen the Russians crush a revolution in Hungary, & felt it quite strongly because of the protests outside the Russian Embassy which was directly across the street from where we lived. I thought JFK was the hope of the world & mourned his death. I was shattered when later Martin Luther King & RFK were also assassinated. Mandela – happy birthday, Nelson – was a figurehead in prison for most of my life & I remember weeping with joy the day he was released.

I am ambivalent about nuclear power.

The coming of Nixon fucked the world. L. blames most of the current troubles on “my generation” – the beats, the hippies, free love, lotsa drugs, lack of censorship. There’s some truth in it, but for a different reason. I do not believe we went far enough! Not quite sure what I mean by that; but I feel that at some point we decided we’d done enough, got sidetracked or comfortable or aged, & stopped pushing. Stepped back to revel in our small achievements. Got steamrolled.

I am anti-terrorism where the innocent are killed or maimed yet I am pro-Palestine, feeling their cause is just & they’ve always had a rotten deal. Where do you draw the line? I think the U.S. & its allies are reaping what they sowed – the seeds of Bush’s arrogance; Le monde, c’est moi – in Iraq & Afghanistan though again it is the innocent who suffer. At least in the Cold War there were sides. Now, with just one megapower, there is no-one else to turn to, no-one to stand up & get in the way.

I have seen in an earlier time in N.Z. laws enacted which gave the police the power to raid houses if “they suspected drugs were there”. Up until the time someone blew the whistle, this power was used probably 50 times & only once for drugs. I watch the new anti-terrorism laws in many countries with horror. The presumption of guilt instead of innocence, & such gobbledygook! We can’t tell you what you’ve been detained about, & because of this you can’t tell us what we want to know because we don’t know what we want to know & you don’t know what we want to know & don’t know what you know or don’t know. & & &…..

I see that the trial against the last Australian in Camp Delta at Guantanamo is to go ahead, even though it has been proved there is no chance of a fair trial.

& why this rant, this scattershot diatribe? Because on the news today the Australian Government is talking about banning, outlawing, charging Islamic bookshops because they might be stocking ‘dangerous books.’

The thought police are breaking open my head.

2005

Hired Ghost Cigarette Plague

gentle          kick
        ing             cycle
    holi
    day     screech
beach                    wing’d
          net
      horrific rally
                       swe
               pt           pet
scheme
           ream
                  beam
   picnic               rest
less
             pond
          prevent
          ed
                      explosive
bone
bike
sight







Interested Curb Hill

ire
   ire
      g o i n g
virtual        primary
         under
         statement
                      Revolt
ballot pressed sheets
wheat thin king dome
reversal Nut crack
crackling sung hanging
m a g a z i n e
                    lubrication
        bAsIc clean wrench
contrasted
               oblivious

Neighborhood OP-ED
k e e p                  urgent
               gle                  e
         glue         gloomed
hurricane
                   Mutual
             rust

Slow zone phone stone
overturned limbo LED
rEEf wandered conversion




Diss Miss Hiss Swish

listen Free ur than a feeler
fumigation National psychosis runner
an Errand Err or stymied swamp
fist cuff muffler storybook ledger
page wedger fluffy mist
coast armful of puzzle zipper
weeping seeping entrail poppy
seeded search party bestseller
confirmation basis bias dais
tiered welt felt sweltered chin
heaving Having five cents Water
bottle Sensory overlord Sword
Had swallowed Demonic log
In fanciful aside Residing
cabin Wood Should Could under
where stand flying trapezoid knives





gRoSsLy GREASY palm StAiRs

….. reveal a firecracker recommendation
slobbered consumerism exile thrust rust
eat end amend ID inheritance Screwed
suicidal FanNy PaCk rAcK rIb nip bib
earth to earth to thirst to worst clenched
spinal rectal recital ant sunflower ram
Cumbersome smack dab launcher raunchy
ranch pyramid headache tank rank pan
cake corpse sniffing fog soggy zero times
denominator bewildered tombstone deck
satellites sickened Standing stubborn sky
….. whereas popsicle pitch indulge
rotten whim sickle manhole Latin beat
neat brownstones eyed paradoxes…..

Mutual Happens Giraffe
strutting stunned hinge
skin trap tarp warp burp
same argumentative ooze

supplemental façade self-buttoned
bottom inane entity barrage onion
certain stupid super salutary figs
supple dimpled conceptional morons

FaiLinG Obtuse spruce
UpUpUpUpUpUpUpUp
grunt manage foreign shelter





Shrimp Shampoo Radiation

messiah differs facing squadron
,   of   somehow   ,   hear   ,   indicates
  genial              environmental      ,
             crusted               released
Tank           took                        Tone
,
      nice Ram   ,,   nice vice Ram
&               Toon        a page to
   drown oppressive swaggering
,      egg

Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is member of C22, an experimental writing collective. He is the author most recently of the books peeping sardine fumes (RANGER Press), [Ruptured] >> Schematic <<  MAZES (Sweat Drenched Press), destructive paradox slips on banana peel (Cajun Mutt Press), and Dance of Resistance Brainwaves (C22 Press). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals including Otoliths, Synapse, Version (9), Don’t Submit!, BlazeVOX, BRUISER, and Unlikely Stories Mark V. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com

given the family history
 

i always get an eerie feeling

when a family member dies

 

especially out of the blue

or way too young

 

given the family history

 

i have started counting

sunsets

 

smelling the flowers

 

embracing kindness

instead of despair

 

the end is coming up

over the horizon

 

borrowed time is about

ready to pay the bill

 

last call boys

 

make it memorable
----------------------------------------------------------
high school glory only goes so far
 

making art out of

an awkward moment

 

laughing in the rain

because they have

laws against killing

the innocent

 

remembering when

you were the toast

of the town

 

but high school glory

only goes so far

 

comforting the dead

 

knowing damn well

you'll be joining that

club before too long
--------------------------------------------------------------------
release the evil
 

the blood always

starts as a trickle

 

let it bleed

 

let it flow

 

release the evil

 

turn on some

music and make

it a ceremony

 

a sacrifice

 

although, that

is all life seems

to be anymore

 

revolutions come

and go like a thief

in the night

 

hope is a lost cause

 

happiness comes

with a price

 

love is something

someone invented

for greeting cards
----------------------------------------------------------------------
all the way out here
 

a deafening silence

 

all the happy trees

have been cut down

 

that little bob ross

cabin in the woods

would be where he

would take his victims

 

they can't hear the

screams all the way

out here

 

he leaves them all

in the basement

 

a poorly dug hole

 

just enough light

to see the horrors

 

the bones

 

a bucket to shit in

 

all the lost souls

of women they

stopped looking

for
----------------------------------------------------------------
a winter coat
 

halloween tonight

 

chance of snow

 

i still haven't seen

a superhero ever

wear a winter coat

 

we stopped giving

out candy years ago

 

i wanted to pass out

little bottles of jack

daniels but that is

frowned upon by

the authorities here

 

they apparently are

unaware of all the

dysfunctional families

that exist

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, Carcinogenic Poetry and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

EVENING’S TIDE

The broad beach has disappeared
	beneath the rising tide
Faint rose tints the scattering
	clouds of this sunset

& as blackness settles
	with the song of some
		night bird, frogs & a gecko
the fiercer waves climb the steps
	of the long-gone promenade
		leaping, splashing
against that rubble
	white rip currents pulling
		into the high ocean

& the lights of distant villages
	speckle the far horizon



 
LEAVING BEHIND

I leave behind
	mothers bathing their
	naked daughters
in a growing tidal pool

& follow a narrowing path
	through mangrove brambles
	escaping far from people

I sit on this deserted beach
	the porpoise-colored sea
	rolling its rising tide
	against the black rock …

shaking off troubling thoughts
	to be captured
	by this surf,
	washed far, far away

& my Spirit takes wing
	like that piquero
	soaring over the waters
	swooping & diving …

to be like that sea
	lion pup, playfully
	plunging beneath, bobbing
	with each roll of this sea



 
TOWARDS THE RIVER PLATE
(Montevideo)
 
Paper & leaves scuttle down cavernous Saturday streets, 
few souls out in these depths.
A woman holds the reins of a horse-drawn cart,
her children staring into the closing morn.
Limp bags of cardboard & bottles hang off the sides.
 
Along Sarandi Street, artisan stalls of puppets,
stones & carved gourds, honey & fruit preserves 
in the cool shade of worn buildings.
A silver-haired man plays violin, 
his sightless eyes closed.
Case open at his feet, scattered with coins.
 
Suddenly the rhythm of drums echoes up this way
from the Plaza Constitución.
Three boys with blue & yellow tambores,
a friend with hat in hand, 
followed by a policeman herding them away
from the antique sellers beneath trees,
away from the couples dancing folklore, 
gaucho & tango in front of the cabildo,
away from the diners in sidewalk cafés.
 
Up the calle along the Central Market & Mundo Afro,
beats of a comparsa resonate       resonate.
Dark hands caress the skins while the other
grips a stick rapping       rapping, 
painted stars bobbing on the red & black drums.
 
Beyond, the River Plate flows,
bands of muddy brown, dull green, 
tarnished blue in the past-noon sun.
Down along the Rambla,
men sit sipping mate, 
thermos tucked under arm.
Families swim along the sparse-sand beach, 
bask upon wave-smooth rocks.
 
Up on the Cubo del Sur,
children pose upon a rusted cannon 
for papá's photo.
A man slits the silvered belly of a fish.
Long black rod in hand,
white cap shading his eyes & balding head, 
he baits his line.
 
& far on the horizon,
in the haze of sun & sea,
slow ships steam to other ports.

Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose writings appear in over 400 journals on six continents, and 23 collections – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and thrice nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her adventures at www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or http://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com. 

Walking out into a late Spring Day                                  

SO =   Jan was lucky to have walked out into a late spring day. They had been pushing and pushing and + but + no, no. The steps had been taken, and. That was all over. There came time for lines in the sand et centratoonlia, but, the important things were there to be taken. The yard. The grass of the yard’s so green. And, the day. Dew glistened across right left up and over and. S telephone pole stretched there pointing from between the square yards pres’t the houses uck’dde neighboring, and/und, a line could be drawn down the pole cross the grass to the sidewalk clear out to the street, if one were so inclined to desire. “Can’t Stand This [gorilla]” and.

And.

And.

One step out. Grass. Look ‘round. Look over. Step {turn} grass. Neato-rupt’ out to the pole. Lean. Down. Lean. Down. Yes; there’s something about it, yes. It does smell. :what do we smell, snark: smells like just one’s another type II weedy-rotting log but upon second glance smells much more likewhich a utility Experimental Heemio pole-trilliac pole, in some circles which may or may not exist in past or future days (does it make a sound?) all’s which-so mee’ b’ known as a rott’d heeliog of’f a trilliac’d down Experimental, Mat’ema’tic’alle, ‘sso Wagner’s gas station of great big nose acne’d, raise the lift so we can see the bottom of this Ford, quite long t’phone pole—and stepping back-Jan. While was stepping/step’t back Jan. One instant of loneliness. Struck from un’ ‘nder someplace in the press to the grass o’er bottomsides that pole, Hishteennea, think ‘m ‘h ‘e ‘ressed it’ll :get: when those three are on it down the road but no no no do not want to be lonely ‘til the three will step up off and over to get the slope down ‘cross the fat Main street : of which Jan’ll no ono never’ll be positioned to merely know of it let alone to experience it, SO, turn to the left onto the grasse long armflick’d lift od a walk’d dog who not yet existed/exists yet, moreover,  thwack-stain, thwack–stain, thwack-stain, thwack-stain, thwack-lillian’s astckly great bit dead “stain”, which rub can not get, nor Sunday to Saturday, oh so many times, as—Jan musedly walked toward a suddenly handy next thing to see, t’ ‘e <> lump in the lawn, but wide like a pile, some dirt’d been dump’d here, for some purpose or other, known only to one single person most likely, and Jan, you ought to have seen it; this mound-hill grassed-over nine-ten o’ yards ‘umferenenced roundy ‘bout why, oh why, oh, why have I never once wondered why this is here, yes why like the pole there whose being I’ve never questioned, why we’d never off’d Lucifer to know the damn thing, eh why is that there eh why do you need to know that Gimi, why d’ down’d dirt d’ya need to know that now, after all it’d been there all your limited allotted days Gimi, and it was never important to you ‘til now, when you are lonely and need somebody Gimi, why is is only when you’re lonely or need something all of a sudden what’s under this here moun’’s so equally important Gimi oh why o why Gimi, oh Gimi, why oh why, Gimi oh why and oh why and oh why Gimi Gimi stuck down on it’s platter it did become tiresome, where’s the switch there’s the switch they made it big and red to be easy to hit in the inevitable emergency life and/or limbed seven-legged emergency, which when pushed shines strong light in the room where the creature’s come [ so hot to the touch and to the touch only ] threatening, which said light make a dash n’ scurry ‘way gone of at least this problem but remember there will always be more many more yes lots more Gimi Gimi see here ha Gimi, there’s always been and always will be plenty more of me slithering in Gimi, so aw dump the scamper don’t pull that trick this time, we know you so well and sir turn-kneenevtable gas, frustration frustrationfrustrationfrustrationfrustrationfrustrationfrustration but {[ why on earth when they saw the need for an emergency stop button did they not simultaneously see that meant they felt the effort to perfect the machine was incomplete? Like, y’know,  we fear it may be deadly we fear we fear we fear et-schrectoolia,? Why’d ‘ot go ditch the red button go just design better and harder out to perfection which is actually attainable but for their inherent [don’t go there can’t go there said not to and never because you just might find HORN HORN that phrase intentionally blanked down to nonexistence]]}  ten hots for ten Hoovers lack of the simple everyday ability to see past the God-damned you-know-whats’ tip?         Bland lo Schledney     c r a n k  we get frustrated we get frustrated we get lots and lots of frustrated                                                                          oh hell of course its fine you can’t yet see. We are after all only 839 and a half pages in, and counting                                                                              drag                               block                               tackle drag    block and  tackle                                       drag block and tackle                                   God damn let us in as you rig up your damned block and tackle need power to LIFT this why the hell’d they construct this so ASS to require block-tackle and more liniment o’er the burning part to bring this big question mark of a simple gragoon-simple instance of a COMMON race RAZOR to HEEL!                                        ‘kay why’se guy why dontcha?                                         Gimme gimme here gimmi gimmi gimmi-hech’ BUT  Jan stepped toes-up to the mystery mound in the grass-lawn {back the usually most shady spot most of every hot summer} and toed a light kick into its base. Hard, they though. Now we ought-could have dug into this. To find out what’s inside, you know?   But it was not important at the time. Like always these are; when the tools commonalities and the actual object of interest (ya ya what’s its history what’s it’s [we get lots and lots of letters] history)   no more Art Linkletter ever again Gimi please promise me that Gimi please promise me o-o—o-o please promise me no more Art Linkletter ever again, Gimi   are available, the interest in knowing what’s inside is not, “whereas”, when when the tools commonalities and the actual object of interest (yrotsih ]srettel fo stol dna stol teg ew[ s’ti s’tahw yrotsih sti s’tahw ay ay ya ya) jamais d’Art Linkletter Gimi, s’il te plaît, promets-moi que Gimi, s’il te plaît, promets-moi o-o—o-o s’il te plaît, promets-moi de ne plus jamais avoir d’Art Linkletter, Gimi   are no longer available, the interest in knowing what’s inside is not, and ye yat brains    as Jan stood there musing all this out,           wow wow WOW                 a voice    bark, said the startled dog               

Hey. I’ve got this game here. Want to play it?

: turns :

What?

I said hey. I’ve got this game here. Want to play it?

Hook = Playing it alone vs. playing it with people     colorforms    piano for people unlike other people

Am tired of playing it alone. You know?

Am tired of playing this game alone.