Found Objects
On each beach they’ve been different.
at home there
washed up gently by lapping waves
or thrown by high seas.
Now they’re at home
in my house.
Each beach together,
captured memories now.
.........
Daylight
It starts with one.
One skylark singing.
Then the robins
and blackbirds
the early birds,
then the wrens
and warblers.
Listen.
Can you hear them still?
Don’t sleep.
Don’t wait
to hear
the silence.
........
Night Light
There are light spaces in the dark
Places for light to shine through,
for stars to dance,
for neons to cast
their artificial glow.
Hidden places where glowworms
call to their mates.
And the infinite space where lightening cuts
through the night time storm like glass
and finds a home
in some dark
place and lights
it up.
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/
Palma de Mallorca 1992
Those soft sand beaches
and delicious food, the
cathedrals have now been
closed for renovation, it’s
1992 again and we were young-
we sailed the nights and travel
the world, some call us "squids";
I call us nomadic wandering
conformists. We shall fight tooth
and nail, we shall die upon the
high seas for her, that land of liberty.
Blood red Sangría sunsets rue the
day, my love; I leave you now, oh
my love, my Spain, but someday I shall
return whether it be in dreams or upon my
death bed confession, I shall.
Meanwhile in the D.C. Airport
No longer in France-
No longer in Switzerland-
I'm existing again, lingering
in the purgatory of the Nation’s
Capital-
awaiting my flight in D.C.
back to the Midwest, back
into the doldrums of that
familiar life-
I listen to an elderly couple
with very thick Boston accents,
the lady scolds her husband
every time he asks a question.
One time he asks-
How far is it to the bathroom?
She asks a young man nearby,
a non-employee of the airport-
Where's the bathroom at!?
The young man sheepishly
replies-
I think it's halfway down that
corridor ma'am.
The woman asks her husband-
Do yuh think ya can make that
fah!?
Before he can utter a word, she
answers her own question with-
I don't think ya can Morty!
Poor old Mortimer then murmurs-
So, what do we do now, just
wait here?
She sharply replies-
Yes, we wait here, because
there's nothing else to do!
The old man slumps lower
in the airport chair, like a
scolded child waiting his turn
in which to board the aircraft,
his cane is perched on his right
side, his stronger side.
Wayne Russell is the author of the poetry book 2020's Where Angels Fear via Guerilla Genius Press, available for purchase on Amazon; his second book Splinter of the Moon published by Silver Bow Publishing; has just been released and also can be found at Amazon in both Kindle and paperback editions. Wayne has been once nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and The Best of the Net.
The Wages of Sen-Sen
“I’ll take care of it,” said Tom, reeking of cigarette smoke and Sen-Sen, a licorice-flavored candy he used to block the smell. He scooped the black cash deposit bag -- the till --from the table. Although she had Tom’s word, Lisa wasn’t convinced that the redhead had ever been a noble creature. Certainly, she thought, Tom wasn’t above stealing from the marginalized, the poor, the disaffected. She had worked the streets with him over the past three months, collecting for Children In Need -- CIN -- and more than once the two of them, both becoming increasingly prone to indulge in drugs and alcohol, had absconded with the funds they’d collected from high-minded and generous contributors to the cause.
In one instance, after a hard night soliciting for CIN, they had wound up at a tavern on the west side and drunk their way through the $200 they’d managed to collect in four hours -- on top of the hourly wages they’d subsequently collected for their efforts. The organization was lax, however, and Lisa suspected that management half-expected their employees to exploit the weaknesses in the structural integrity of the charity in order to supplement their meager wages. Another time, Tom and she had spent $75 for some smack -- injected on the streets by a man who called himself a “doctor,” and who used the same needle on both of them. Lisa was experimenting, but the experience had frightened her half to death.
Now, miraculously, she had happened upon the cash sack that another of their fellow employees had somehow lost track of. Unsure how to restore the property to its proper owner, Lisa had asked Tom, “What’ll we do now?” Tom, naturally, had all the answers. And out the door he went, money bag in hand. Would she ever see Tom -- or the money -- again? she wondered. Tom was sort of a loose cannon, she knew. He was moody, arrogant and unpredictable; Lisa never knew quite what to expect from Tom.
Lisa didn’t know the employee who’d lost her till -- Anna -- but Tom said that he did. Anna, Tom said, worked in the Edgewood neighborhood, about three miles distant; her partner had gotten a different job and so Anna was temporarily working alone. Tom was Lisa’s ride back to the suburbs where she lived, so she just stood on the corner, waiting, for what seemed like hours.
“Hey, you ready to go?” asked Tom, materializing like a spirit out of the shadows, a lighted cigarette burning in the darkness.
“You get her?” asked Lisa.
Unconsciously, Tom smirked. “Yeah, I got her,” and his smirk blossomed into a wide grin.
Lisa tried to ignore the cynical sexual allusion. “Was she happy to get her money back?” she asked.
Then Tom laughed, a deep, reproachable chuckle. “I was happy enough for both of us,” he said.
“You gave her the money, didn’t you, Tom?” said Lisa, worried that she had been played for a fool.
“She had more than $300 in her till,” remarked Tom, as if in admonishment. “We bartered,” he explained. Lisa only stared at him. “I gave her two hundred and fifty bucks and she gave me a blowjob and I came away $50 the better; sweet, ‘eh?”
“You extorted her?” asked Lisa incredulously. “But, she’s one of us, she’s not an enemy. She works the streets...”
“And tomorrow,” said Tom, deadly serious now, “she'll work the streets again. Do you know what would have happened if she didn’t recover the till?” he asked. “She would have lost her job,” he said harshly. “So,” he concluded, “for a modest fee, I saved her job.” He chuckled at his own cunning. “Hey,” said Tom suddenly, “you wanna do some more smack?”
Lisa had only done heroin the one time, with Tom, and it had made her violently ill. “No,” she answered, then asked, in spite of her growing mistrust of Tom, “what else you got?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “Either smack or squat. C’mon, do a spoon.” Lisa shook her head no. She had been foolish with Tom once before, but she was afraid of becoming addicted. “I’m good,” she said.
“Then come on, I’ll take you home.” On the ride home, Lisa began to get the itch of drug deprivation, of the melancholy and feelings of dismay that came from being always alone. She was almost always lit up nowadays, from whateverTom provided, but mostly, from pot. And Tom, unaccountably, eschewed weed. Yet, he smoked cigarettes like a chimney. Then he chewed that detestable Sen-Sen to try to cover the smell. Lisa shook her head, uncertain what to make of her mentor.
In spite of their proclivity for peculation, Tom and Lisa were the most profitable pair on the CIN circuit. They regularly outcollected all other duos. This was due in part to Tom’s patented hang-dog expressions and raspy, pitiable utterings, and his street smarts, but it was due as well to the fact that Lisa was a very pretty woman, and very good with the contributors. Sometimes, Tom behaved more like a pimp than a charitable fundraiser. He made $6 per hour; Lisa $5.25, plus all that they scammed off the collections.
. . . . .
Tom knocked upon the blistered wood of the apartment door and waited. In a few seconds came a cry from inside: “Whozzat?”
Tom exchanged a glance with Lisa, then replied, “Children in Need Charity. We’re asking for donations.” They waited.
Next, several locks were loudly disengaged and the door swept open, revealing a twenty-something African American woman with two small children hanging onto her legs, as she endeavored to balance a third child in her arms. “Come in,” she invited them. "Watch your step," she cautioned. The uncarpeted floor was littered with toys.
Into the chilly, smokey, onion-scented room filed the two fundraisers, batting away the aromatic smoke of a wood fire and coughing into handkerchiefs. “Please have a seat,” she instructed them. They plopped onto a bedraggled sofa. “You with Children in Need?” she asked. “I seen them on TV,” she added, waving vaguely in the direction of an ancient B&W television set against the wall. “They hep’ little children in Africa, ain’t that right?” Tom agreed that they did. Lisa only nodded. “How much you want?” she asked, all business now.
Tom’s eyes took on an avaricious glimmer, but Lisa spoke up: “Whatever you think you can afford, ma’am.” The young mother nodded and, reaching to a coffee table, took a ten dollar bill from a care-worn purse and proferred it.
Lisa, looking around the apartment, felt instant remorse. “Ma’am,” she said, “if you can’t really afford it, that’s alright. We don’t want to take food off your table or...”
“What's the matter, my money ain’t good enough for you?” asked the woman, getting her back up a little. “It green like any other, it spend the same,” she pointed out. “Poor folk wanta help, do their part, just the same as all youse. So take the money, Miss,” she insisted.
Lisa nodded. “Thanks very much for your contribution. ma’am,” said Lisa, climbing to her feet. In an instant, Tom and his cohort were back in the hallway.
“Good deal,” said Tom enthusiastically, taking the bill from Lisa. “I can use a couple packs of cigarettes.” He folded the sawbuck and put it not into the till, but into his own shirt pocket. At Lisa’s reproachful look, he hastened to explain, “Well, we made our quota at the last apartment. The rest,” he said with a grin, “is just gravy.” And he lit another cigarette and slipped a Sen-Sen between his lips.
Later, as the duo traversed the streets of the city, searching for a housing project which Tim indicated was “always good pickings,” Lisa, behind the wheel this time, stopped the car at a corner, where a large man stood like a sentinel, watching them carefully as they approached. Lisa rolled down the window.
“Excuse me, sir, but do you know where Chambers Rock is?” referencing the low-rent projects on the city’s east side. Slowly, the mountain of a man approached the vehicle.
“You po-lice?” he asked warily. Lisa blinked in bewilderment. “You po-lice?” he repeated with barely concealed hostility.
Lisa shook her head. “No, I’m not police.” He appeared mollified by this. “I’m just looking for the Chambers Rock Projects; do you know where it is, sir?” She spied in the man’s large hands a plethora of tiny plastic bags of some white substance -- crack? she wondered.
Apparently satisfied by her explanation, the man muttered out directions. With a smile and a thanks, Lisa sped away.
“Huh!” muttered Tom, sitting in the passenger seat during this exchange. “That spook had a lot of dope. Maybe we should go back and take it?”
Lisa rolled her eyes. “He’d have your white ass on a meat hook in about a minute, Tom.” Tom, a large man, looked skeptical. “He was packing, partner,” she told him.
, , , , ,
Finally reaching Chambers Rock, Lisa and Tom climbed out of their vehicle and sought out their destination. Choosing the first apartment at random, Tom again pounded on a weathered door and was granted entrance, this time by an ancient, white-haired woman, who pointedly told the duo to take a seat on her sofa. There was, Lisa discerned, a chirring, humming sound emanating from the walls. What was it? she wondered. Taking a chair facing the sofa, the old woman scowled and then pounded upon the wall with her fist. The chirring ceased. “Damn roaches,” she seethed, then smiled at her guests.
As Tom went through his spiel, Lisa glanced around the room, and noted the fireplace, in which a robust flame blazed. Across the carpeted floor were various components of cheap furniture which had been hacked to pieces with a hatchet, which lay upon the floor. The woman, seeing Lisa’s appraisal, explained, “Power company turned off the gas in November.” Silently, Lisa nodded her understanding.
Finally getting five dollars and change from Mrs. Seibold--aged 90, she told them proudly--the two exited the depressing edifice.
When Tom told her how he’d manipulated the feckless Anna into a compromsing position, Lisa had wondered why he had never propositioned her. Was she unattractive? she asked herself. No, she had been told by many that she was cute and had in fact received her fair share of sexual overtures in her 21 years. What was it, then? She put the question to Tom.
His eyes bugged out, but then he regained his aplomb. “We work together,” he explained tersely.
“So?” she asked.
“Like my daddy always said,” continued Tom. “Don’t mix peter with payroll.” It was at that point that Lisa realized how integral she was to Tom’s continued success. Tom was, after all, just some faceless stiff with a tin cup. He wasn’t particularly attractive or articulate or personable. That’s why he was paired with Lisa, she now realized, because she was everything that Tom was not. Slowly, the gears of reason began to grind in her brain and she began to feel -- a little -- better about herself.
At quitting time -- nine p.m., Lisa and Tom pulled into the parking lot back of what had become their favorite tavern, The Lotsa Luck. Stepping inside, they relished the warmth, after the chilly December air. While Lisa ordered a pitcher of beer, Tom drifted to the rear of the bar and began a mindless game of Pac-Man. Standing at the bar, waiting for her beer, Lisa was approached by a gaunt blonde woman with tattoos spread over her bare arms. She stood staring at Lisa. The other woman acknowledged her with a smile.
“I can get you a better deal,” whispered the newcomer conspiratorially.
Lisa blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“I seen you with that fat man,” continued the woman, gesturing with her head toward the back of the bar. “He your pimp.”
“He’s my partner,” Lisa corrected the blonde. “You’ve got him confused with someone else,” she told her. “Tom and I solicit contributions for a charity.” The pitcher of beer arrived.
“That right, Tom!” declared the woman in hushed tones. “He a pimp onna streets. He my pimp a year ago, till I got a new deal. I can make you $75 a trick, none of this shitty twenty-five for you, seventy-five for him.”
Lisa grasped the pitcher by the handle. “I don’t what what you’re talking about. Tom isn’t my pimp. He’s my partner.”
The other woman looked archly at Lisa and nodded knowingly. “You’ll see, baby,” she murmured, then turned away.
. . . . .
At the end of the week, Tom picked Lisa up at her apartment and as they rode into the city he remarked, “We have to go into the office before we go on the streets tonight.” He lit another cigarette. Winstons, Lisa decided --sickenly sweet.
“What for?” she asked. “Are we in trouble?” This would be her first visit to Trenor Street since she was hired, three months ago. She felt uneasy.
“Quarterly work evaluation,” explained Tom. “They tell you what you’re doing right and what you’re doing wrong, ask you if you’re happy on the job, all that shit.” He didn't seem nonplussed, so Lisa relaxed.
“So we’re not in trouble, then?”
“Hell, we rake in more dough than any two other teams put together,” Tom crowed. “They might give us a raise,” he said optimistically.
A few minutes later, their car turned into the stark, unadorned parking lot on Trenor Street, which faced a stark, unadorned two-story, red-brick office building. Pushing through the metal and glass doors, Lisa was struck by the cluttered, claustrophobic interior. She followed Tom as they approached the front desk.
“Hi, Eleanor,” said Tom with a gloating smile. Eleanor, a 30-something, dark-haired woman standing behind a counter, regarded Tom cooly.
“Go on back, Mrs. Albright is waiting for you.” Shrugging at the rebuff, Tom led the way past a rabbit warren of small offices, down a narrow corridor. Arriving at the regional CIN director’s office, Tom knocked on the open door.
Mrs. Albright, 50, military haircut and no-nonsense, said in a clipped voice, “Follow me to the conference room.” She preceded them down the corridor to a larger room, with a dozen captain’s chairs arrayed around a huge table. Stepping into the room, they found the space already occupied. Round the table were two men, in suits, and a woman, young and pretty.
“Lemme do the talking,” Tom whispered clandestinely.
They all sat round the table. “This,” began Mrs. Albright, snapping on and speaking into a tape recorder, “is an investigative session in the case of allegations by Anna Triphonas against Thomas Rice." She recited the time and date. Lisa glanced at Tom; his red brow was deeply furrowed. Clearly, he had not expected this. "Although Miss Triphonas is represented by counsel and CIN is represented by our attorney, they are here only as observers,” said Albright, nodding at the two men in turn. “Mr. Rice,” she went on, since this is an investigatory and not a disciplinary hearing, you are not entitled to counsel at this time. Tom began to sweat. Lisa held her breath.
"Miss Triphonas, would you make your statement?" Anna’s eyes gleamed and she smiled tightly. She went on to recount various incidents in which Tom Rice solicited sexual favors from her and other employees of CIN, none of whom had agreed to come forward. She recalled extortion, drug use and even violence. Tom, she said, had promoted the addiction of women, some as young as 18, and had managed a “stable” of prostitutes, some of them even younger than that. At length the young woman concluded her tale of depravity. The room was utterly silent.
“Mr. Rice,” said Albright, “do you have anything to say by way of reply to these allegations?” She stared at him blankly.
Glibly, Tom took the floor, citing his long years as a CIN employee, his unblemished record, his highly-profitable work performance and his selfless mentoring of other workers. He had, he admitted, briefly dated Anna, but that things didn’t work out and she hadn’t handled the rejection well. Lisa absorbed all these lies with no expression, until which time as Tom said, “Just ask Lisa.” Her face fell.
"Miss Curtis -- Lisa" said Mrs. Albright kindly, " -- do you have anything to add?" Lisa glanced at Tom, saw the smirk on his face. Then she looked at Anna, whom Lisa knew was really putting her neck on the line in what would likely be dismissed as a he-said, she-said dispute.
Lisa took a great breath and let it out. “Well,” she began, “Tom never touched me.” She glanced at Tom again; his smirk had become a grin. “But he did steal money from the till to buy drugs and he and I did some heroin he bought from the money we collected for CIN.” Lisa heard Tom draw a strangled breath; sitting next to him, she could smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes and his hair, plus the Sen-Sen that he always gobbled up to try to cover the stench. She almost gagged. “And,” she added, “he bragged about blackmailing Anna and receiving sexual favors from her.” She glanced once more at Tom; his face was a solid block of hate. “But,” said Lisa, “I drank the beer and took the drugs that Tom bought with the donation money; I’m as guilty as he is.”
In the end, Mrs. Albright agreed with Lisa. The confab morphed immediately into a disciplinary hearing and both Lisa and Tom were summarily fired. As they rose from the table, Lisa looked at Tom a final time. At six feet two inches tall, and 260 pounds, the mercurial man could easily be believed to be capable of violence, she thought. He stalked from the room without a word, leaving Lisa to wonder how she would get home without a ride. She shoved her hand into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a few coins.
She looked up with a start, saw Anna standing before her. “Need a ride?” she asked with a gentle smile.
Lisa nodded. “Thanks. I don’t have enough for bus fare; this wasn’t what I had been expecting,” she said lightly. Then she grew serious again. “You were so brave to come forward. I wish...I wish I were that strong."
"In the end," said Anna, "you were."
Mrs. Albright approached the two women.
“Virginia,” said Anna, addressing the director, “do you think you could give Lisa another chance? She’s weathered the wars. And I still need a new partner.” She smiled at her boss.
Virginia stared sternly at Lisa for a moment, then her face relaxed and she smiled too. “Would you like to partner with Anna, Miss Curtis?”
Lisa felt her face balloon into a smile. "Yes. I would. Thank you, I really would." Yay! thought Lisa. No more Sen-Sen.
Marital Reflections
They had an
Ernest Hemingway
Old Man and the Sea
Kind of marriage,
A big catch
And a lot
To be
Excited about
But then they
Went through
A bunch
And once they
Returned home
Everything was gone.
Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. “Rescue Dog,” his fifth book, was published on May 7.
Egypt celebrates the International Day of the Poet Cavafy and awards the Yorgos Foudoulis Prize for Culture 2024
Egypt participated in the celebration of the International Day of the Greek Poet Cavafy, including the Yorgos Foudoulis Prize for the year 2024.
The Egyptian-Greek ceremony was held at the Grand Hotel
Organized, sponsored and chaired by the Commissioner General of the Foudoulis Award in Egypt:
Dr. Atef Khair
The vice president of the celebration
Manar Marouf
And Dr. Reda Abdel Rahim
And the journalist Andy Al-Arabi
And journalist Marwa Abdel Ghani
The ceremony, started with the playing of the Greek National Anthem and then the Egyptian Republican Anthem
The Yorgos Foudoulis Prize for Culture was awarded with honors
Honor, shields and certificates of appreciation by the name of the Yorgos Foudoulis
Culture Award
The Foudoulis Prize for Culture for the year 2024 was awarded to :
Professor Dr. Mona Haggag, Greek archaeologist and civilizationist
And the Greek archaeologist and civilization scientist, Professor Dr. Wafaa Al-Ghanem
And the distinguished artist of the Egyptian Supreme Council of Culture, Dr. Ali Abdel Ghani
And historian and writer Dr. Reda Abdel Rahim
The Vice-Chairman of the Celebration is Mrs. Manar Marouf
Issam Helmy, the Egyptian guitar expert
He knows the semsimiya instrument and the leader of the traditional semsimiya band, the artist Ahmed Ashry
And the international visual artist, Dr. Adel Benjamin
And Mrs. Amani Ahmed Tarraf
And President of OCD Academy of Arts
Visual artist Abdullah Kharouba
And the artist Marian Muhammad
And the artist Imad Muhammad Ibrahim
And the artist Nisreen Al-Lawandi
And the artist and calligrapher Ahmed Tariq
And the poet Hana Al-Gharabawi
And the poet Maryam Al Faraskouri
The artist is the leader of the Storm Team performing arts team
The Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Grand Hotel, Mr. Jamil Farah, was honored
And the head of the Egyptian Society for Human Rights, Counselor Gamal Al-Najjar
The ceremony included speeches delivered by the presidency of the celebration, and Dr. Atef Khair thanked and appreciated the attendees.
He also thanked and appreciated the international Greek musician Giorgos Foudoulis, who authorized him to award the award in Egypt.
The ceremony was presented in English by journalist Marwa Abdel Ghani
The ceremony was presented in Arabic
Journalist Muhammad Al-Jazzar
Professor Mona Haggag and Professor Wafaa Al-Ghanem spoke about Greek civilization in Egypt and the historical relations between Egypt and Greece.
The poet Hana Al-Gharabawi recited the poem Greece
The poet Maryam Al Faraskouri also recited the poem “Ithaca” by the poet Kafafis in Arabic
Storm Team Performing Arts performed
A dancer's performance to the music of Zorba the Greek
Pharaonic review
A review of Egyptian folklore
Guitarist Issam Helmy played musical pieces
Singer Hamsa Ekramy presented singing segments
The ceremony included a musical performance by musician Yorgos Foudoulis
And Cavafy's poems
And the Greek song of Alexandria
Certificates of honor were presented to the attendees and participants from the Egyptian governorates and cities of Cairo, Alexandria, Port Said, Damietta, Asbut, and Sharqia.
In the conference hall of the Grand Hotel Ras El Bar.
She is responsible
She is insane
You think she is your cup of tea
But she is the main
Do not call her useless
She is productive in her own lane
(OPto Dr. Raafia Shaheen)
{PAKISTAN}...
About this Whole Nature vs. God “Thing”
I recall it now, in a time of plague.
I was in love with someone.
Who it was is rather beside the point.
I loved her and she loved me, that much I remember. If it was the person I am with now, then the story makes no sense to me. That love is still good. And I associate the story with a fall. So, I am pretty sure it was a failed love. That we loved each other, but that something went wrong.
What happened, which was not the terribly wrong thing that took away our love, was this:
We went to a ballet. It was almost that simple.
Other people went with us, friends, family members, they all joined us. We had enough tickets, that we all sat in a row, alongside one another.
I had family there, she had family there.
I had friends there, she had friends there.
We both were surrounded by other people.
I hated and hate the ballet.
It felt like something forced upon me, like life itself.
What I mean is, metaphorically, no one chooses to be born.
But once born . . . we choose to live.
I did not want to be there, but, there I was.
And during the entire show, I only remember two corresponding sensations, which, combined, informed me about something . . . taught me something about this experience I never would have chosen to live through.
To my left, I felt, repeatedly, an elbow in my ribs, and, whenever I turned, the person to my left kept saying, repeating, “Look at that DANCE!”
To my right, I felt, repeatedly, an elbow in my ribs, and, whenever I turned, the person to my right kept saying, repeating, “Look at that DANCER!”
So I, listening to both of them, trying to learn from both of them, how I might best enjoy this living experience, looked at what we were all there to witness and experience.
And I kept seeing the same thing.
Whether I looked to the Dancer, or to the Dance.
It all looked the same to me.
Aren’t Judas I just perfect, given the money?
I give my money to the brewers of the world because they are truly great human beings. Still it does me no good for answers when I question almost daily the accident of my life, sitting in my apartment loft, reading Henry Miller, staring at my diplomas, wondering about my father, whose first job was holding live pigs’ hind legs, while the animal doctor cut there, or my father, whose last job was holding stock, or wondering about my mother, whose first job was teaching special children, or whose last job was teaching her children.
My life does me no good for answers, petting two cats, one named for disappearing, one named for being seen, or listening to music – name the genre –or sitting next to a well-lit globe outlining already outdated countries – the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, all other countries all running their mortal course, including our own, or typing on an outdated machine, one worth more than a third world income, or wondering why these thoughts of mine do not inhabit another – a Muslim woman burning alive in more than the sun for being unveiled, a child of a disappeared Pole in a forest near white Russia, a South African miner, ass daily probed, giving the merry widow its glow, a rubber worker from Indonesia, his grandfather killed in 1965, in the uprising, an American nun, who taught sharing – that’s what she called it – in South America, now somewhere in its Incan ground, or a revolutionary living in a world without accidents of fate . . . or wondering . . . hung up, if he loved Mary, because he could, or if he loved her instead because he could not . . .
The money that pays the next bills, it gives no answer, no clue, doesn’t it, as I give it to the brewers of the world . . .
this well-lit, mortal world?
Because
They raised the children to be unkind because the world was unkind
because they raised the children to be unkind because the world was
unkind because they raised the children to be unkind because the
world was unkind because they raised the children to be unkind be-
cause the world was unkind because they raised the children to be un-kind because the world was unkind.
