American Yarnprose>Short & Quick Prose To Squat By

(1) I Walk Into The Filmhouse Toilet And Start Singing

I walk into film house toilet and start singing; “Nothing could be finer than to see a line o' men pissing in the morning." In the stall next to me, on my left, a man reaches over to grab a fallen thin black Bic pen. Big Negro Arkansas with old beefy hand, that has built this country when at first he stood in soot and soil. I hear the sounds of toilets flushing and men wiping. It's like a symphonic display of self-expression, washing and wiping hands off free of bacterial disease factor. Gone the thousands of terrorist nightmares that were eaten, digested and shat out eight hours later.

(2) Feces' Pieces

A fecal-shaped fist rises up from toilet and points the way forward. Did you ever notice how much waste product points outward and almost never curves? Strange phenomena for sure, as whenever you sit down and have a little grunting and farting session, the brown excess that falls from your body and splashes into the cold clear water.

And have you ever noticed that it is building up and climaxing like an orgasm, all that pushing and grunting and breathing back and forth, just as you lay on top or sideways or behind your girl or boy, the smell is the same of sexuality, fecalism, heavy perfumes and sweat. And afterwards, pulling out, wiping yourself off and pulling your pants back up and flushing away the oldness of action itself down the drainpipe.

Hurricane Katrina Did The Wave AKA Tsunami? Salami? Pastrami? Cephalic Arterial Rami? Baloney!

Lately, there’s been a lot of people griping (myself included) and complaining about the smallest of things, such as the cost of gasoline; although I have to say that it’s already climbed to three dollars close to where I work with no intention of stopping I’m sure, but I’m straying here a bit.

Anyway, people have been complaining about a lot of other things too, like: cost of rent; rules, lack of manners at the workplace, at home and those who have children; children that grow up too fast; adults not behaving like adults; diseases; the casual sex; right-wing & left-wing Republicans & Democrats; the unfounded terror war in Iraq and the hundreds of needless deaths that have occurred as a result of it; Cindy Sheehan; Pat Robertson diet shake mix; bloggers; bad bosses; etc., etc., etc.

The list goes on and on, but I think you get the idea, dear readers, but listen if you would only for one brief moment or two put your complaints and gripes aside and turn your attention to something far more serious and that is of course the aftermath of the killer Hurricane Katrina that has destroyed parts of Florida, Mississippi & Louisiana.

As most of you know, the effects of this storm have been massive, if not destructive as witnessed by many through hundreds of photographs published in newspapers & magazines, on the Internet and described first/second hand by television and radio news reporters.

Having never lived through a hurricane, I can’t say a whole lot to what it must be like, but having lived through other natural disasters since childhood like floods, tornados, blizzards and ice storms, I can hypothetically say that the feelings are similar and the losses are both physical and mental, the latter of course that sticks inside your memory for the rest of your natural life.

Those feelings of helplessness and depression seem to go hand in hand when the very idea of losing all of your worldly possessions comes into play. And the news media and/or press seem to focus on that very human instinct.

Tearful moments between former occupants of homes smashed to bits and sifting through the foundation of what either used to be an apartment building or a home for remnants of a life before the disaster seems to make for good dramatic television, as far as ratings go, but then again, it always has.

And for some reason, we as citizens of the nation eat it up; and rightfully so, because there are some of us who want to reach out and help them as they might help those of us who have been in similar situations. Being homeless is no fun; losing power and who knows when it will be restored for those that didn’t lose their homes and then of course there’s the putrid disease factor. But perhaps the biggest part is loss of life, followed by the rebuilding process.

No, you can’t replace a human being or an animal with others; they will always be with you in varied many ways, both the good times and the bad. The best part about surviving the destruction is, that you get a lot of time to reflect and pick up where you left off.

One of the scarier realizations after the disaster has hit, is the rebuilding part and how much everything will cost, but also the scam artists abound ready to coil and strike and take your money if you’re not careful enough, both legitimate and illegitimate.

A lot of different kinds of organizations & folks out there stand to make either a monetary or personal gain of some type from natural disasters including, but not limited to; Hollywood producers & film-makers; the news media, politicians; con artists; building contractors; insurance agents & their respective companies; looters; government institutions and scores of others.

If you’re interested in helping out in some form or another, either I’ve included this link that I found at online: http://www.networkforgood.org/topics/animal_environ/hurricanes/

At least it’s a start and your money will go to a good cause and it sure as heck beats spending your hard-earned dollars buying the latest Hillary Duff or one-hit wonder music CDs that will end up being sold at a used CD shop anyway and above all, it’ll make you feel good too. And isn’t that what life’s all about? Helping one another?

Death-Defying Feat Of Impossibility: An Occupational Hazard>Act 17

Disclaimer: Take from the church the miraculous, the supernatural, the incomprehensible, the unreasonable, the impossible, the unknowable, and the absurd, and nothing but a vacuum remains. Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely conincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who thinks otherwise, probably believes that to wage a war for a purely moral reason is as absurd as to ravish a woman for a purely moral reason.

Hurry, hurry, hurry! Gather ‘round boys and girls, Moms and Dads of all ages and feast your eyes on the death-defying man known as The Minister Of Sinister! Talk about your survival of the fittest! Talk about your dead man walking! It seems too good to be true, but yes; The Minister Of Sinister has escaped the jaws of death once more!

Those of us who have been on deathwatch in the past knew an execution was up and coming shortly of another beloved inmate here on Devil’s Island. The plan to execute The Minister Of Sinister had been planned out for days, perhaps even weeks in advance, but when it came right down to the nuts and bolts of the matter at hand, those in charge had once again failed miserably.

Nearly one week ago the pleas for giving him a full pardon had once again gone on deaf ears and so the execution was set in motion to occur again. Word of his impending execution spread like wildfire across Devil’s Island and soon, into the furious night there came a great shit storm of anger and discontent; a discontent so powerful and destructive that even those taking over temporary duties here on Devil’s Island (see Act 16) could not stop.

No one truly knows who was behind his execution request, although according to Danceman Darryl, he felt it seemed to fall into the lap of The Most Holy Father, who has taken over where Upper Prison Brass have left off.

I had met The Minister Of Sinister on the outside of Devil’s Island years ago, he was in all of my recollections a funny, sweet, caring man, but then again I knew there was another side of him I was about to find out, a dark secret that only few knew.

At last when I was brought in for interrogation and questioning onto Devil’s Island, I stood alone and silent in my pinstripe suit and patent leather shoes with enough money to buy a jam sandwich, a lottery ticket and a pack of condoms filling my pockets. It was when I saw The Minister Of Sinister once more; I knew I was in what I thought seemingly friendly territory.

But like so many others, I was wrong.

What brought The Minister Of Sinister to Devil’s Island years ago was his ability to escape the reality of situations and bring it within himself to his advantages; that’s where he tripped up and landed himself for a long stay on Devil’s Island until he dramatically escaped one night after a lights out check within the confines of Devil’s Island.

It was only within the last year that The Barnaby Boys were able to track him with the help of newly developed Devil’s Island sonar detection equipment to his whereabouts and brought him back to serve the rest of his time on Devil’s Island.

Previously, there had been talk around Devil’s Island for the last few months as to whether both The Minister Of Sinister & Roger Dogma would be executed together like a circus freak show, executed separately or be spared, no one knew for certain (see Act Six).

When told of his pending execution, The Minister Of Sinister seemed proud of his model behavior here on Devil’s Island and whistled himself a tune onto the brink of happiness. Inside his eyes however, told a different story altogether. Within his eyes one could see that once again the noose around his neck had been retightened after being unseen or unheard from within the normal reaches of the prisoner population for many weeks. Though he remained silent on the matter his voice remained ever stronger than before.

He kept his distance from the general population and did whatever he was supposed to do, for whatever it took to keep him strong and solid. Things were quiet around the prison yard whenever he ambled his way out, but in the many weeks and months that passed, The Minister Of Sinister primarily kept to himself.

But then things changed. Plans were bumped up faster than they should have been and soon the wheels were set in motion. Many a prisoner could feel it in the air, for it hung heavy like cheap perfume splashed onto the fur coat of the late Old Black Devil.

When The Most Holy Father sent for The Minister Of Sinister, he brought in his most reliable crew of dirty birds, the inevitable duo that consisted of The Barnaby Boys, who placed him in cuffs and shackles and lead him down the prison walkway for what was supposed to be his “last mile.”

Along the route other prisoners waved toward him with long faces, to which he responded, “Do not fear, for we shall meet each other on the other side” and marched forward. The Minister Of Sinister was extremely calm for a man who was about to be executed.

But as previously stated he had been this route before and laughed in the face of death and all its atrocities; he had seen it all, heard it all and mostly importantly, lived through the hard times on the outside and the especially on the inside.

So whence came last Friday, when The Most Holy Father flipped on the execution switch and every prisoner feared the worst, but The Minister Of Sinister, although fried and burned to a near golden brown like a stack of waffles, survived and lived to tell about it.

And that’s a true rarity indeed.

Post Oral Operation Visit AKA Knockin’ Boots With Dr. Dre

It was a little over one week ago that I had two wisdom teeth pulled from within my mouth and let me tell you, recovery time has been no picnic!

Before all the pain and suffering, I seemed to be okay, for the most part. It was the left side that was hurting the most; that was the side with the broken tooth, but little did I realize that I would be having two wisdom teeth being pulled out from both sides of my mouth.

The amazing part was that I wasn’t as nervous this time as I have been in the past with other operations. The night before the operation I was instructed not to eat or drink any liquids eight hours before the scheduled surgery which I followed diligently.

My younger brother Benjy took the day off of work for me, which I still believe was a true act of kindness; in fact my brother Benjy is always like this, very kind-hearted and loving. He picked me up at my apartment and drove me to the surgeon’s office. Once I got there, I signed in and just talked with him, read some magazines and poked fun at the celebrity magazines.

I had to wait unusually long as I found out that my surgeon was running about 20 minutes late, so I was fine with that; besides I wasn’t exactly going anywhere for the next 24 hours anyway.

At last my name was called. I walked up to the counter, signed in and the nurses there began going over procedures. While I was there, one of the nurses there, kind of cute, I might add…I’ll call her “Dre” as in “Dr. Dre” for short, happened to like my hat that I was wearing and told me that she wanted it. I was of course wearing my fish hat.

I told Dr. Dre I was once offered $500 for it (see Wednesday, April 20, 2005 blog of New York Tales>Post Trip Talk-Act 3>What Kind Of Meat Is That? for further explanation) and if she wanted it, she’d have to fork over $500 for it as well. That’s when Dr. Dre proposed marriage to me and told me that she was having our baby! All this just for my fish hat! The other nurses in the office were barreling over with laughter, as soon Dr. Dre’s face turned beet red. She seemed a bit obsessed with my hat.

By the time I was ready to sit back down, Dr. Dre began speaking to me again and we had a little conversation. I told Dr. Dre & the other nurses that I act, write poetry, sing, tap-dance, compose songs and throat-sing, which I gave a little demonstration. They seemed elated, if not bewildered or perhaps it was amusement. I wasn’t sure which.

At last it was time to go into the office. The surgeon had arrived and he proceeded to tell me what I was getting done and told me how I was to be knocked out. After signing a release form, I watched the surgeon prep a syringe with what seemed like a six-inch long needle and filled it full of knock-out juice.

Moments earlier I had my right arm prepped and wiped off for preparation of the IV general anesthesia that was about to shot into me, while meanwhile, with my left hand I gripped tightly the hand of a nurse as I felt the prick of the needle into my arm.

I asked the surgeon how could he be sure that the anesthesia would work, to which he responded, “When you stop talking.” And so I did. I awoke about an hour and a half later, to which I found myself biting down on a bloodied gauze pad in my mouth near the area of the pulled wisdom tooth on the right side.

The surgeon gave me specific instructions to follow, a prescription and off I went with Benjy to my local pharmacy and waited for the prescription to be filled. I was to report back in a week to see what my results would be.

After getting a giant burrito and realizing I’d have to use a fork & a knife to cut it and chew my food slowly, Benjy drove me back to my apartment, where I fell asleep almost immediately. Later, when I awoke, I had some dinner and called some friends. The anesthesia had nearly worn off by then, so I decided to go back to sleep.

The following day I took it easy, just resting and not driving all that much. I met someone later in the day and did the laundry, but that was the extent of my activity for the day.

When I returned to work on Monday, I had to proceed a little slower than usual because the pain and soreness of my mouth was prevalent. As the days passed, it seemed to get better. Oddly enough, the left side of my mouth healed faster than the right side.

I’ve also had to switch my diet, eating only foods like oatmeal, tea, Jell-O, pudding and mashed potatoes, a very bland diet indeed. And even some of my co-workers made fun of me because I had my teeth pulled, including one whom I now found out will be having two of her teeth pulled. Wow! Talk about karma!

But today I just returned from the oral surgeon and he said I should be healed up soon and that’s what I like to hear. As for the other nurses who were kind to me while I was in their presence, I say a great BIG heartfelt “Thanks”.

As for my good friend “Dr. Dre,” listen baby; I love you…we can knock boots anytime you like, but remember; I wear the hat!

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Justice Comes On The Wheels Of Speed

Well, once again it's a Friday, the capper for the week and considering the long week I've had especially with the post-oral surgery affects, I'd say it's time for something completely different. As always my dear, dear readers, enjoy!

Justice Comes On The Wheels Of Speed

Sucker-punched.
Threw empty hands across bellied piano keys.
Banged like bodies across dance floor slammateria.

No preservatives.
It could be northernized if judgment weren’t a social disease scratched out in notes left behind in soap scum.

Darkened in nights, 365.

Not knowing the slaughtered waters of sessions.
Shot.
Killed.
Stripped.
Beaten.
Raped before poker-faced women.
under panted men lying on dirty floors.


Dizzied by mint sticks.
Dried by percolated sweat spit 2,000 feet.
Clamored to towers.

Pushed off pads from space rockets pushed through fast-moving clouds.

Forgetting the rules. Filling the void of tick-tocks. Overrun by pick pocketed kangaroos.


Slicked and slacked by zookeepers keeping a 4/4, ¾, 2/4, half-dollar quarter note beat all the way to muddy banks.

Touring crematories. Pouring the Dumpster vomit remains into glass jars. Refrigerating it.

And then, the sapphire draft dodgers run up stairways and shout,


“philllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip moooooooooooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiisssssssss.”

American Yarnprose>Trilogy Of Transit Prose

(1). On 1243 West Rosemont Avenue

I saw the wagon pull away when the murdered man went by. Cops crawled all over 40 cab drivers spilled onto the sidewalk. Wolley and Yellow and Checker and all the independents. Across the way, I saw fellow tenants, parked and pointing on the stoops outside. The night belonged to the murdered man, a fellow whom I did not know, but remembered when I would watch his huge TV screen cast shade shadows across pale walls in the wee cool of the morn.

Walls painted over once caked in blood. And I never remembered. And don’t think I ever will. Whether it was five or six or six or seven that laid him out cold and still. And though this time is now and not so much then, it was not my place to wander again

(2). On The 155 To California Avenue

Oh the man on the bus with the beard did say, “Conduct funerals like triumphs, and losses like parties.” The old man on the bus with the beard is now talking nonsense; about the rain in our souls; and about the stone in our hearts.

How a dollar bill is no longer; and a city fallen apart. Some will stare. And some will laugh. And some while smile with glee. But how many times do we shrug our shoulders, and think secretly that his words sound a little like me?

(3). Waiting For A Number 14 on 11th And Mission Streets

It’s late on Sunday night and I’m standing on 11th and Mission streets waiting for a number 14 to take me back to Robin’s so we can go to porno karaoke at the Odium, as the poetry show at the Paradise Lounge ran a little late they always seem to do that in other cities and never in your own the one I had originally wanted to go to, didn’t happen just like that time in L.A. last year that’s the night I met Jay Leno and was asked about computers but they didn’t show it on TV and the film was sent to Microsoft to help Bill Gates with his trial.

Three, no four buses has passed and now another guy is waiting too he calls on the payphone to his roommates to check on the (bus) schedule-he is silent, huffing and I try real hard not to stare at the guys across the street wearing leather this is, after all, San Francisco and I should be used to it by now, but I never am and it’s like a living, breathing freak show guys in leather, girls with purple hair men and women wearing signboards asking for a beer or a smile and it’s 50 degrees in the second week of January and all I’m wearing is a pair of faded blue jeans, a red Wisconsin Badgers sweatshirt and a brown Sears fedora and I’m not cold, just tired.

It’s funny, you know? Tonight someone at that poetry show somebody recognized me well at least my name, Sid Forest it is the same as the “other guy” who lives in New York whom at this time last year I met on a cold and mushy Thursday afternoon and how arrogance met ambivalence, so I thought at the time.

Now there’s a San Francisco cop who stops his car, getting a good look at us, but he’s looking at a car parked kind of funny at a car tire shop across the street. My feet are sore, as I try not to look at him because I think that’s what he wants me to do and I’d look suspicious and that’s kind of one thing you never want to give to a cop in another city, ammunition against you ‘cause a night in the clink would sort of stink, so I better just keep writing this poem about waiting for a number 14 that I’m waiting for on 11th and Mission streets but that cop turns his car around, drives up to us and asks us what bus we’re waitin’ for we bother answer in unison, “number 14” and he checks in with his command post for after all, he’s just doin’ his duty of keepin’ the peace and it’s nice to know that the San Francisco cops got nothin’ better to do in the early winter of the great YK2.

He was lookin’ real hard at us and all we were doin’ is waitin’ for this bus. I can’t help it if MUNI is late I would hate to find out any other way that leavin’ my heart in San Francisco would really suck after today, so I better keep writing this poem about waiting for a number 14 that I’m waiting for on 11th and Mission streets.

American Yarnprose>Living On The Edge Of The World

By last year's standards, I was a millionaire, by today's standard; I am a hobo; flat broke busted, empty white pockets. I am wearing clothes that have not been washed in over two months. I eat nothing but pasta, egg and cheese sandwiches, ramen noodles, drink plenty of water, a lot of tea and gum my saliva when need be.

The man at the homeless agency tells me to come as I am, so I am wearing a pair of dirt-blue shorts, silk boxers, an old work shirt, a clean pair of socks and my battered gym shoes, when I arrive.

I am still simmering about the bastard who reneged on the deal to let me move into his home, just because his estranged wife is crazy and his grown children, grown children who have yet to make it on their own, have “privacy issues.” Bunch of bullshit if you ask me.

Then his half-assed crazy wife tells him to tell me, “Well, if he’s not afraid of blacks, there’s an empty apartment my sister has on 75th Street.” She has got to be kidding, right? However, of course, no, she is not. In addition, the old bastard himself offers me something even closer, “Somewhere close to 31st Street.” Is he kidding? Nope, he is not.

As some kind of token gesture, he offers to store my furniture until I find a place to live and I think, “Oh no. I do not trust it. What if his kids paw through my stuff, especially my music? That is no good. It will not happen and so I have to devise a plan to get me to the next plateau of a sacred holy ground.

I wait around at the office. The guy is late and the volunteer receptionists could care less and behave as if nothing ever happens in their Barbary Coast lifestyles. While waiting, I open my tattered novel and read.

Five minutes pass and then another five pass. I notice a whole herd of refugees flying through the door like domestic cattle waiting to be shipped out to foreign lands, all come asking for the same therapist and the red-haired sour-faced gal at the desk keeps changing the time as to when she will come back. First 30 minutes, then 20, then back up to 30.

Finally, after push comes to shove, I ask her if she would not mind calling to see where this guy is. Shit, I rushed to this place; still late and he is not even there yet. Talk about a non-chalant attitude!

She is so lazy, flipping through Jewish magazines and believing bullshit stories of falsehood and faded glories. Well, I suppose, since they are not paid for their work, they can behave whichever way they please. Yeah, what they need is a little retraining, ‘tis all. Yeah, that’s the stuff!

I am given an intake form to fill out, listing all of my personal habits. I am on the fifth page, when the man, tells me to come into an office, so he can explain the rules of the shelter to me.

As he continues explaining the rules, I begin to realize that this place is much stricter than I realized in the beginning. Stuttering as he speaks, he tells me it is an Orthodox shelter and they have strict rules, which means, I could not have friends come into my room, let alone my own girlfriend or close male friends and worst of all, I would have a weeknight and weekend curfew!

I do not think I could live with that at all. 10 p.m. weeknights and 11 p.m. on the weekend, no, this is not the place for me to be. I do not want to be on the streets either. I may have no choice, but to accept this.

I do not honestly know what to do. Well, a good friend has been doing a lot of networking for me and I have been doing a lot of hooking-up with people too, sending out emails, calling rental agencies, friends, and family and other resources to see what is available on such short notice. This is not easy by no means, no sir!

I have been doing a lot of walking around the Jewish neighborhood, looking for places to live and I decide to take my friend’s advice and start hitting temples. The first shul I come across is the Temple of Thee Lemur. Once inside, a nice young woman with a colorful dress on comes to the temple office window, and start to tell her my dilemma and she tells me to keep away from a particular apartment rental place.

She is kind enough to let me post a note on the temple office window, knowing almost full well, that nothing may turn up at all and I would be forced to live in my car, a possibility I don’t even want to think about, let alone dream.

This is America, I question to myself, land of the free spirits and homeless to the brave? Nah, this is not the same America I grew up with at all. A country that prides in its citizens also prides in taking in refugees and in the process, lets Native Americans like myself fall to the wayside.

We call it co-dependency, a phrase, just like the word depression, overused and misunderstood. We depend on the natural resources of our country, government funding and socialism to see us through our hard times.

That, unfortunately, is not the way it really is, I am sad to say. There are more working poor people in America than any other formalized country in the world, at least in my opinion, if opinions still count and are not tossed into the woodpile for burning you at the stake, like so many other words have done to others in the past.

Militant Bicyclists, Hurry-Hurry Henrys & Lobster-Clawed Bozos: Welcome To The Egress>Act Two

As of late, there is a bunch of annoyances I’m beginning to notice more and more on the roads I travel down on; namely militant bicyclists, cell-phone abusers & people who are in a hurry to get to where they are going to.

First things first; what is it with all those militant bicyclists who believe they should ride their bikes on the street as opposed to the sidewalk? Do they think their bicycles are cars too? Well, certainly they are not and for the most part, like some drivers, many militant bicyclists do not follow the rules of the road.

I’ve had more encounters with militant bicyclists lately, especially those who ride on the wrong side of the road, riding against traffic, total disregard for using hand-signals, improper lane usage & creep-in-the-road-without-looking factor.

If militant bicyclists want to ride their bikes on the road, they need to follow the rules and not dodge in and out of traffic. Sometimes, but not always, militant bikers appear as if they own the road and will stop at nothing to impress upon vehicular drivers that they do own it.

I remember a few years ago when a militant bicyclist cut me off when I had the right of way & I honked my horn at him. He flew back toward me on his bike, wielding what appeared to be a bike lock and bar toward me and my car with an alarmed, yet violent look upon his face.

I just pressed on the gas pedal and left him in a cloud of dust, watching him in my rear view mirror, just shaking his fists, riding around in a circle on a side street and mouthing curse words in my general direction. That was the only time I was ever frightened by a militant bicyclist.

And yet, some of those militant bicyclists behave and maneuver like the way some drivers do to other drivers when they want to get around them, which leads me into my next observation; what is all the hub-bub with the Hurry-Hurry Henrys lately?

Well, maybe not lately, but in my recent memory, it seems like more and more people are in a hurry to get where they are going to, either work or home. If you’re late for work, you’re late. What’s the sense in rushing if you have a mile pile-up of cars ahead of you that aren’t moving as fast as you would like them to? If you feel you’re going to be late to work, just leave earlier.

Honking the horn doesn’t help any, as it only gets the people in front of you angry or harried and what good does that do, if you want to pass them and they refuse to let you pass because you honked your horn at them only seconds earlier?

But it’s not just the drivers on the main thoroughfares I’m disappointed with; it’s those drivers that lurch out 30 feet from the stop-sign and into the middle of the intersection looking for a way to beat the car barreling straight for them. Just as that “said” car approaches, the intersected car leaps and flies across from them, beating them out by either half-a-second or half-a-clipped bumper. I think what those drivers do is what we used to call “playing chicken.”

It’s on the drive home that is really troublesome however. I see more accidents and near car wrecks that I care to admit. And why is it happening so much more frequently? I don’t know, perhaps they miss their television sets or their pets or their homes or their computer games or terribly dull lives, I’m not really sure.

The drivers that crack me up the most are the ones who rush and weave in and out of traffic, only to cut off four other drivers in the process, then make a quick left or right (as the case may be) & voila; they’re home! All that wasted energy for naught.

But then perhaps there is my most favorite of them all; the cell-phone abusers or Lobster-Clawed Bozos as I frequently refer to them as…I see them all over in both driving my own car & watching drivers during my break at the mill. Now granted I do use my cell-phone when I’m driving, I at least use an ear piece. I also have four basic rules; never to drive and talk during bad weather; never speak to The Arizona Babe when driving; always, always, always keep your eyes on the road and not the phone & never, ever, ever drive and talk while driving on the Interstate.

I do see a lot of people talking on their cell-phones, with one hand on the wheel, and driving as if nothing is wrong. Then I see the same kinds of folks either eating, dressing/putting on make-up or making out while driving; it seems as if cell-phones have taken their proper place next to all of the other fashionable bad habits.

Drivers with SUVs are the worst, a situational comedy at best, what with either kids or dogs bouncing up and down in their seats or hanging their heads out the window and parents driving, not paying attention to the road or their occupants, yet give all of their undivided attention to the person they are speaking to on the phone, when if they really needed to speak to that person, they could easily pull over and talk to them or wait until they get home.

All it takes is one split second and then…well, think of it this way; expect the unexpected; that is when you’re talking on a cell-phone and driving a car. It is assumed that drinking and driving is bad, because vision is easily impaired, but I really believe that concentration can become even more impaired when one doesn’t pay attention to how they are driving because they are on a cell-phone.

Or maybe I’m just too critical.

Well, Uh, Okay...Revisited AKA My Lost Weekend With The Democratic Right-Wing Jesus-Loving Vance “Bo” Salisbury & His Bonehead Fan Club

Mishegas Master: What actually transpired was my version of bar-hopping, which turned into a round of blog-hopping on a mid-Saturday afternoon a few weekends ago. This guy named Bo Salisbury writes nothing but utter ranting crap on which he disguises it as a blog His address is: http://www.pietyhill.blogspot.com/ I read a couple of his pieces of drivel; among them a critique of Helen Thomas, dean of the White House Press corpse (sic), which read more like a swipe of jealousy on his part & a big phat fluff piece on Dick Cheney for President in 2008. This man who calls himself a blogger should be wiped from the face of the internet; but then again I suppose he has to find something else to do all day in between designing websites and twisting quotes from the bible to fit his right-wing agenda, right? The oddest thing was, after I left my unusually angry remarks on his blog-page, he changed his photograph four times!!! (I don’t get angry that often and leave the remarks on someone else’s blog like I did) I kind of feel it was a subliminal action or perhaps intent on making himself a shining example of his great and undying love and devotion to Jesus; in other words he wants to appear like a good & clean-cut disciple of Jesus…go figure!!! He ended up splitting my remarks up and responded to them; Rush Limbaugh and a bunch of those other right-wing Christian talk radio show hosts do the same thing with tapes; play the tape, stop at a critical juncture and comment; it’s boring. Why not just write a critical respond Bo? I guess writing isn’t your bag, is it? What follows are his remarks, inter-sped with my original remarks & then my new remarks. Sound confusing yet? It is!

Vance Salisbury: No sooner than I get rolling again and a widely published poet, Mishegas Master, drops in with one of the most incoherent rants I've seen in a while. Of course, I've never claimed to "get" poetry, so maybe it's time to get back to school, so I can decipher "opaque comments that would bug most people" (to quoet a poet I do "get"). Anyway, here's the comment, with my responses interlaced with the rage:

Mishegas Master: Well Vance, what defines an incoherent rant anyway? And you not being a real writer, how could you possibly tell the difference? If you don’t “get” poetry, then just go ask someone, like me. And quote is spelled like this q-u-o-t-e, not q-u-o-e-t, unless of course you’re trying to create a new word, which I sincerely doubt.

You fascist

Vance Salisbury: Hmmm. That's original. Let me see... a fascist would advocate fascism; from the Italian fascismo, from fascio or "bundle:" a political philosophy, movement, or regime that advocates a centralized autocratic government, severe economic and social regimentation, and forcible suppression of opposition. That sounds a lot like modern liberalism and the institutions they control, such as the academy, social welfare and the arts. Econonic and social regimentation cannot occur in a free market society, where individual freedoms, such as property rights, are cherished. Rather, history has shown that fascism incubates and thrives in socialist states (Germany and Italy) or Shinto and Buddhist countries (Japan, Cambodia, China, etc.). For example:

Mishegas Master: Okay…so where’s the example? I don’t see it anywhere. Liberals do not control any institutions, that’s just an old right-wing myth; hell even the press in America is conservative! Speaking of incoherent rants, this is a great way to open up…fascism as you well know Mr. Salisbury, also means to start fights; it’s nice that you believe that you can look so good with a pile of definitions and intellectualism included, but you’re far from it…oh yeah, and you spell the word E-c-o-n-o-m-i-c this way…

Nazi

Vince Salisbury: No, I am not now and never have been a National Socialist or Nazi. I lean to the right politically, so I think socialism is a dangerous system, which may actually be a form of incipient fascism.

Mishegas Master: A Nazi is a Nazi is a Nazi! Although in your case, you’re a redneck which passes just as well for Nazi.

Jesus disciple pig!

Vance Salisbury: Ah, now we get to the real issue. It's Jesus... it always is. Here, the writer is obligated to condescend to me; "I don't have a problem with Jesus, it's his followers I hate." That's a pretty disingenuous argument... Jesus said that if people receive Him, they will receive His disciples. If they reject His disciples, the reject Him. Jesus doesn't disown his followers, who are pigs like me: We who are strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak and not to please ourselves. Each of us should please his neighbor for his good, to build him up. For even Christ did not please himself but, as it is written: “The insults of those who insult you have fallen on me.” Romans 15:1 – 3 And, Jesus welcomes non-Christian pigs, too!

Mishegas Master: As a blogger Mr. Salisbury, you shouldn’t assume that I…“the writer is obligated to condescend to me; "I don't have a problem with Jesus, it's his followers I hate." That's a pretty disingenuous argument. You see Mr. Salisbury, if you assume you make an ass out of you and you alone. Jesus said a lot of things you know and the more I see Jesus’ words twisted around the tongues of those who are attempting to make themselves look good, the heartier I laugh. It’s rather touching that you use a quote from Romans to try and make your pithy point of view. It falls quite short. It really doesn’t boil down to Jesus, but since you are a disciple of Jesus as you claim then you might want to reconsider your position as a disciple. Jesus was a Jew first and foremost. He died as a Jew and stayed that way, until a lonely band of losers decided to adopt him and make him Christian. Jesus was a radical; he helped the sick and the poor and he didn’t critique, criticize or pass judgment on anybody. How can you claim to be a disciple of Jesus when this is what you do in your blog??? I’m not sure which Jesus you’re talking about, but obviously you’ve been misinformed!

How dare you criticize Helen Thomas, just because she doesn't agree with your politics!

Vance Salisbury: Now here's a fine example of the fascist attitude... "How dare [I] criticize..." In this poet's world, I have to "dare to criticize," because I am not an enlightened progressive. The intelligentsia are untouchable... they are above criticism by someone like myself, from the lower castes. If you will notice, however, I critiqued Helen's boorish conduct... She acts like my kids did, when they were thirteen (and the way I did until I was about twenty). It's pathetic to see a person, advanced in years with an illustrious past in journalism, regressing to the behavior of one of those teens at the mall wearing a "Porn Star" tee-shirt.

Mishegas Master: Helen Thomas is a great journalist and will forever be that way. What’s so wrong with her behavior? People should not be held up to high standards in any field they pursue. It’s part of her personality, so get over it! Your boorish behavior evidently has followed you well past your twenties.

Are you a former burnt out reporter that holds grudges simply because you couldn't advance in your illustrious media career?

Vance Salisbury: Huh? Do I look like a reporter?

Mishegas Master: You write like a wanna-be.

Your simple minded view of the world is typical of the way most of you Republicans think.

Vance Salisbury: Wrong again... I'm a Democrat. I suppose this poet lives in the black and white world where, if you critique someone who makes a fool of themselves attacking Bush, you must be a Republican.

Mishegas Master: I live in a world full of color, intrigue and wonderful surprises. There is no such animal as a right-leaning democrat! What are you sniffing?

If Cheney were to run in 2008,

Vance Salisbury: That was part of the joke... my bad. Cheney will not run in 2008 and I don't know why Thomas doesn't know that. The man's heart is a ticking time-bomb and he's made it clear, this is his last Civil Service job.

Mishegas Master: Sure. That’s what you think, but obviously you don’t know how real politics work. He will change his mind 1,000 times between that statement and the 2008 election.

The only way he could win is if the party steals the election by rigging machines and paying off big-city crime bosses to count dead citizens like they did Ohio in 2004!!!

Vance Salisbury: I think this person confused the urban legends of voter fraud in Ohio in 2004 with the historical episode in Chicago, when JFK won the presidency with votes cast by dead people.

Mishegas Master: I think Mr. Salisbury tends to forget that JFK won the election in Chicago fair and square in 1960 with the efforts of then-mayor Richard J. Daley and his Democratic party, not dead people casting votes. I also believe that Mr. Salisbury tends to deliberately forget that in 2004, 4,000 votes suddenly appear for George Bush within two minutes of the polls closing out there? How did that happen? And then of course, there was the fiasco of the 2000 election that was decided by the Supreme Court and not the people of the United States.

Ps-you spell borscht this way, not the way you spelled it. If you're going to represent the media online, at least learn how to spell words properly, you twit!!!

Vance Salisbury: Okay, so I may be a twit. But, I checked my post and I spelled borscht, b-o-r-s-c-h-t. Unless I'm missing something, we used the identical spelling. Is there some inflection or emphasis a poet would add to this word, when spoken, that I should have indicated? Or, did the widely published poet read my post with such blinding anger and hatred for my ideological bent, that it rendered him/her dyslexic for one brief moment? This person may want to take up writing or some other therapeutic pursuit.

Mishegas Master: Okay, I guess he did spell it correctly, but at least he admits he might be a twit. You know what, Vance? You might heed in taking your own advice, that of taking up “some other therapeutic pursuit.” Perhaps preaching the redneck gospel according to Bo might best suit you.

What follows are my comments to each and every significant bonehead player in Vance’s stable…

The Zombieslayer: Go Bo! Yeah, I've had problems with these kinds of people that resort to name calling instead of arguing rationally. Some other tenants of fascism - one party rule (every election so far, I've voted for at least two different parties. I like candidates as candidates), and gun control. Fascism doesn't do too well when opponents of it have guns. And smearing another man's religion. Well, we can see how he feels about the 1st Amendment.

Mishegas Master: Yeah, Go Bo! Where are we going anyway? These kinds of people? Hmmm, that’s exactly what the Rush Limbaugh zombie-ditto heads speak like, day in-day out. These people? I seem to recall a time when Jews, Blacks, Gays, Lesbians, Native Americans, Asians, Mexicans and every other minority on our planet were referred to as “these people…” Where did guns come into play in this folly? The first amendment I believe my dear zombieslayer is freedom of speech. I didn’t smear anyone’s religion. And by the way, what the heck is a zombieslayer anyway?

Sadie Lou: I like that you called this guy to the carpet vs. just deleting it (which I would have done--but for other reasons). I don't get the opportunity to wrestle with attackers that actually write under a name; I always get anonymous fist shakers that I may or may not know personally. Maybe this guy will come back with a response--that would be cool. Maybe he won't. That's what I predict.

Mishegas Master: Hehehehehe, Vance didn’t call me to the carpet. At least I didn’t hear him calling. I like the fact that you seem to think that I wouldn’t respond, but I have. Why would you think otherwise? Does this mean I’ve passed your eligibility test of being “cool”? I guess your prediction failed you.

Levi Nunnick: Good response, Bo. It always cracks me up when people play the how “how dare you” card, but “how dare you criticize Helen Thomas” is a new low for even that crowd. Criticize Helen Thomas? Oh I dare, baby.

Mishegas Master: Which “that crowd” are you referring to Levi, baby? What is a Nunnick anyway? Could you have misspelled the Yiddish word Nudnik; I think so sweetheart and speaking of which I always appreciate it when a man calls me baby. It shows me how much he really cares about me.

Mike Anderson: Hey... how dare you question truth that is self-evident! And even worse you dared to question the inspiration of a Poet... a Prophetess of Inspired Words channeled from our Great God... Art!! You heretic! Our truth and authority has ruled through the media and academia and the Congress and the highest court in the land for decades and is now... Absolute and Inerrant... and it must continue to shed its Light (even in the out-dated, antiquated, and hard for many people to understand form of The Holy Protest) to guide the way to the Coming! The promised land of Aquarius and the New Order. There is only one Way - that all ways must become our Way... spokes of the only True God Wheel. Questioning the doctrines of our faith in the Perfectibility of Man upsets the Force which we must especially now force upon you disagreeable Republicans!! We can't allow you Republicans to have your way and slow down the only True Movement. Your voices and signatures against our well established and more inspired ideas and doctrines of peace, co-existence, inclusiveness and diversity must be marginalized and segregated at all costs... you niggers! Our end must justify the means! We can't have you conservative idiots at the table with us! No way! can you imagine what it would be like if we had to sit down with, gulp!, the Christians among you!! What could they possibly have to offer we haven't rejected outright from the beginning! You'll ruin everything... you rebellious anti-status qou neo-cons! How dare you stand up to us! How dare you try to be a part of our community...the enlightened, elite establishment! You just don't get it!

Vance Salisbury: Mike, you certainly have the rap down... it's almost as if you've lived in San Francisco... City Lights Books?

Mishegas Master: Oh Vance, when are you going to realize that you’re not cute and funny with your pithy remarks? As for Mike…Go Mike!!! This was the only guy in the bunch that believed in what I had to say…God Bless You, Mike!

The rest of the comments were either deleted or were about Bo’s beautiful former locks of hair. He’s bald now, but then again, who isn’t?

Personally, I have nothing hateful or disdainful against the man himself & if he ever comes up to my neck of the woods Chicago-area), I would love to meet him and take him out for a bite to eat and a cup of tea!

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>The Lonely Pawns Missing 100 Seconds Between The Short Reels Rolling At The Bijou Slipping Beyond The Cracks...

Well, once again it's a Friday, the awesome capper for the week and considering the long week I began with and ended up with, especially in light of my surgery tomorrow morning, I'd say it's time for an intense prose-poem to keep you all in stitches (no pun intended), dear readers! Enjoy!

The Lonely Pawns Missing 100 Seconds Between The Short Reels Rolling At The Bijou Slipping Beyond The Cracks Of The Bamboo: AKA Pretty Strong Words For A Little Girl



“Hygienist uniqueness millennia versus genocider tendency potentia pavilions corridors aforementioned commitment.”

pretty strong words for a little girl


“Know what I did to soothe my pain?

I read your qa.

Saw you had loads of daggers and evil eyes.”
“so many people…
grabbing…pushing…
looking…hurting…saying…
why do people say these things? have they nothing else to talk about in the world?”


pope denounces gay unions
no free speech for ohio steelworkers
2 die in indiana mill mishap
lesbian injured in trench collapse


still a little girl who can't take
criticism, it’s that simple. learn to take yourself, love yourself first.


“you are an untight piece of string.
open your mind and flower it.
I hate you.”


pretty strong words for a little girl


hate is love, step inside yourself and examine it. everything you must do is not hard. keep it up; you'll get there.



“I didn’t mean what I said.
see I hate you but sometimes I love you.”

pretty strong words for a little girl

“Learning to clean house, bake bread and babies? You have no inkling of anything do you? You will learn. You think you know so much? Your life is nearly over.”

pretty strong words for a little girl

The Tooth, The Whole Tooth And Nothing But The Wisdom Teeth

I’ve faced a lot of major difficulties in my short life and this Saturday morning will be no different, as I will yet again be facing another difficulty, namely surgery, though this time it’s oral.

I’ve begun to prepare for the post-operative recovery, meaning taking stock of everything up in the cupboards and in the frig and I realize that I have enough soup to fill the toilet, enough pasta to layer the bathtub four times over and enough Jell-O, pudding, oatmeal & mashed potatoes combined to cover the entire length of my body, so that even the spirits of my late and dearly departed winter mice could easily lick it off me 10 times over.

This began nearly two months ago during my routine Friday night session, when I was working out at my local YMCA on the treadmill, when all of the sudden I felt a sharp stinging pain in my mouth!

From there, I just got off the treadmill, ran downstairs to the community lounge, lay down on a couch and softly bit into a white towel for nearly an hour. Thankfully, there was no sign of blood.

The pain actually began a few nights previously while out on a date with The Detroit Mama, but it wasn’t as bad as it became on this night. All I knew on that night was that my gums hurt immensely and I needed pain relief immediately.

It was late on a Friday evening, well past the time of when dentist offices usually close. Through the good graces of my best pal The Arizona Babe, she provided me with a local dentist’s phone number who in turn prescribed a few weeks worth of penicillin to treat the infection that already had set in inside my mouth.

Up until these events occurred, I never realized that someone else could detect a disease so well like my close companion The Detroit Mama could, just by smelling my breath. That woman should have been a cop, but I digress.

As I previously stated, my gums hurt and I just didn’t know what was wrong. After enough time had passed, I found myself a decent dentist and finally made a visit to him to see what the trouble was. Between the time I went to see this dentist, I was nursing myself on liquid cocaine, generic Tylenol and Ibuprofen. Turns out it was a broken tooth, but that still didn’t tell me much and off I was referred to see an oral surgeon.

Once I got to the oral surgeon, the details forthcoming were much straighter, upfront and honest. When I got there, the hygienist did a panoramic X-ray of my mouth. All I had to do was to bite down on a thin white plastic stick and wear a heavy radiation vest on my back, as the machine did its work.

What the surgeon told me however really surprised me! He showed me within the X-ray that two of my wisdom teeth had been broken, luckily, as odd as that sounds, both are on the left side of my mouth, both directly above and below each other. He advised me that he could either pull both or take out one and do root canal on the other and just opted to have them both pulled out at the same time. He even said that there was a bit of a third wisdom tooth there, but I told him to let it be and hopefully it would fall out on its own over time.

Two of the biggest problems I’ve had of course, is chewing and kissing, as a matter of fact, because I have to be gentle on both sides of the mouth, but I’ve ended up reverting to eating on the right side of my mouth, without touching the infected & painful parts. The Detroit Mama has a genuine gentleness to her, so the kissing is quite nice.

As an avid tea drinker, I’ve even switched to drinking chamomile, as I have found that most other teas I either have or was drinking are a bit abrasive with their various flowers extractions, mysterious herbal parts and spices. Chamomile is perhaps the most gentlest of teas around, a cliché perhaps, but the truth!

The best part about this operation is, I haven’t been as nervous about this one as I have been with two nerve-wracking surgeries involving my right shoulder and my appendix in years past.

I look forward to this weekend’s surgery, because afterwards, I will soon be able to go back to a semi-normal state, in which I can chew with both sides of my mouth and kiss The Detroit Mama without grimacing ever so slightly in pain.

And that’s all any guy like me could ever ask for.

American Yarnprose>Sunday Dinner With Andy Asoopopulanzani, As Told To Billie T. Hijena

Sunday Dinner With Andy Asoopopulanzani, As Told To Billie T. Hijena

Now, this story goes way back Billie. To a time that was never there. A time I had never been to and yet, I was always placed in the middle. A long time ago I was a friend of this guy, Andy Asoopopulanzani. We were friends in high school.

Always ate our lunches together on the same table and bench. Same lunches. Same conversations. Oh, Andy was a real winner of a friend, Billie. And in more ways than one it probably wasn’t a good thing at all. We all have our growing pains and we definitely had ours.

I used to make fun of him all of the time, but in a lot of ways, we learned from each other and I suspect those early days of making up characters in situational comedy sketches that we used to do, more or less paved the way for my cynicism. We parted ways during my sophomore year in college, after I had mailed him a cassette tape declaring my independence from him for the umpteenth time, coincidentally on the fourth of July.

And I always fought tooth and nail with him and his sister Laurie, whom I had always admired. I think what really was a sticking point between Andy, his sisters and his parents and I, was the suicide of his eldest sister Marisa, whom had killed herself by leaving the car engine running in an empty restaurant parking lot. I had always wondered about that, especially since it was early fall, and it was feeling like Injun summer, as the temperature was 70 degrees that day.

His family however, contended it was a cold fall day and only 40 degrees. And they all insisted it was an accident, but I was never believed it. Although details of her death were minimal and kept secret, I knew some of the particulars of the day that Marisa was arguing with the mother who was the kind of mother that loved picking her children’s friends.

Very overbearing and aggressive.

And from that viewpoint, it didn’t seem like an accident at all. For years to come his parents never allowed anyone in Marisa’s room and it became a barren creepy death memorial of sorts. When it came time for them to move in that apartment, that room was the last to be packed up. And it was the mother who insisted on packing Marisa’s room up. Her husband never got in her way, for if he did; he was liable to have been slaughtered by his wife.

Anyway, one night, Billie, he invites me over for dinner. His dad is broiling chicken. Both of his sisters Laurie and Lindy are there. So, we're sitting at the table waiting and his dad is finally done and he brings a plate full of chicken over to the table. And he says to me, "Would you like a chicken breast?" and I say to him, not even thinking about it, I say, oh wait, the teakettle is screaming (good climatic timing). Can you hang on for a second or two, Billie?

Okay, I have my tea and I can see you're just chomping at the bit waiting to hear what I have to say, Billie, aren’t you?

Okay. So, I say, not even thinking about it, I say, "I take all the breast I can get." Now, his sisters, both of them, their faces turned bright red. Andy was laughing so hard, that his sides hurt. And his father had no idea what I was talking about and just couldn’t understand what was so funny.

I was pretty humble myself because I meant it. See, in our household Billie, when my Ma made chicken, it was always my Dad and my brothers Benjy, Joseph & Louie who took the breast meat.

I always ended up with the legs and the wings. So when I said that, I was only thinking about that. Nothing more, nothing less. I only realized later how funny it must have sounded.

I didn't really think about these childhood memories until recently because I am now starting to write about them, Billie.

We Can All Use A Good Laugh Once In A While, Especially When The Joke's On Them, Not Us...

It's kind of been a very miserable situation out there in Israel the past few days, the Gaza Strip in particular, with all the settlers having to relocate, just so the Palestinian people can get what is rightfully theirs and rather than try to comment on a situation that i have mixed feelings about, I've decided to run a piece of prose that I originally ran on March 31 of this year in a blog entitled, "Art Is None Of My Business." We can all use a good laugh once in a while, especially when the joke's on them, not us...

History Makes Strange Bedfellows AKA The True Ballad Of How Dr Jack Kevorkian Tried To Revive The Comatose Life Of Yasser Arafat & Failed Miserably

“No prison can hold me in time of need. Gotta go help my friend dying in a Paris bed. Gotta go fix him good, so he don’t wind up dead,” Dr. Jack Kevorkian to reporters in Paris, on why he escaped a Michigan state penitentiary in early morning hours of November 10, 2004.

This here’s the story of how Dr. Jack Kevorkian tried to alter history, but instead made it miserable for his late dear friend Yasser Arafat. It’s a true story, I swear to Allah…

Late one night in prison cell two, Dr. Jack was kickin’ back with nothin’ better to do, when suddenly he received a telekinetic message from his old friend Yasser, calling out, “Come to Paris right away! I need you!”

Well, Dr. Jack didn’t have time to pack. He slipped through the bars and made his escape.

Meanwhile, back at the penitentiary, the floodlights went up, the dogs were a-sniffin’ about as badly as watching old Scottie Pippin limping off a basketball court. They wrote the report & then came that old familiar sound: Calling all cars! Calling all cars! The greatest manhunt ever assembled & manifested on prison grounds, because most people assumed what old Dr. Jack
was really up to…

He crawled & he swam. He walked & he ran. He thumbed & he crammed himself a ride to Detroit International. There was no stopping Dr. Jack, as he ran down the airport gangway & toward the entrance of a Paris-bound plane. “Take me to Yasser!” he screamed. “Are you insane?” the pilots countered. Dr. Jack produced a needle & a set of rubber tubes. Well, sir, those pilots didn’t need any more convincing, so off they flew, over the clouds and past the oceans. Turned right at Greenland & flew by England, when at last they arrived in Paris at 1 a.m., only to be confronted by a crowd of French coppers, waiting to click him in cuffs & take him back to Detroit.

But that Jack! Was he clever or what! The sly euthanasia pioneer eluded the cops, needling them one-by-one as he sailed passed, watching each man point, click & fall holding their guns, for the very last time.

As 1 a.m., fell into 1:30, he caught a cab & told the driver to step on it fast. The cab drove on until it reached the infirmary, got out and saw the place was crawling with soldiers & coppers & mourners & press corps & gawkers & vendors hawking Arafat trinkets galore.

Tee shirts & flags and posters & CDs & books, describing his life as a secret CIA agent martyr Nobel Peace prize-winning guerilla terrorist, with still surprisingly good looks. Quick-thinking made him open up a sewer cover & dove into an underground sewage canal. He did the front-stroke, the backstroke & the butterfly too, ‘til he found a dry landing. Then, he walked up a few flights of stairs, snuck around the sick wards, ‘til he saw a mob of clerics on their knees, with Arafat laying there, all covered in fleas. It was all that muslin, ya know?

Dr. Jack leaped up and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Yasser! I’m here for you,” but Yasser didn’t answer & over the mob Jack rose, stood at his bedside & grabbed Yasser’s left hand and tried to revive him. Without skipping a beat, Yasser’s eyes flitted, while the mob of clerics gritted their teeth and prayed even harder, to breathe new life into their sleeping giant golem martyr. Jack reached over and rubbed his belly, then his legs, followed by his nose, as one cleric looked up and exclaimed, “Great Allah’s Ghost! We never thought of touching those!”

Well, Dr. Jack, he was doing alright, attempting to revive the great Palestinian leader was his goal & anyway, it was far better than rotting in that Michigan penitentiary hole. So, he moved and danced his way around the room, as feelings of joy & happiness replaced the despair and gloom. Jack worked his magic, as the clerics became flirty, when suddenly Jack tripped over a long white cord & looked at the clock on the wall.

It read exactly 3:30.

Lights Out! The Great Devil’s Island Blackout & Prisoner Escape: An Occupational Hazard>Act 16

Disclaimer: The only source of knowledge is experience. We should take care not to make the intellect our god; it has, of course, powerful muscles, but no personality. Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely conincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who thinks otherwise, probably believes that the only thing a lawyer won't question is the legitimacy of his mother.

The world as a collective whole does not always function normally; breakdowns are usual in every line of work and in every field of grey, mostly due to the occupational hazards of one situation or another.

This philosophy holds so true, tight & solid on Devil’s Island, where often occupational hazards for prisoners and their handlers go wrong at the handler’s expense, sometimes almost daily and also sometimes, unfortunately at the hand of circumstance; circumstances which sometimes are almost meant to happen in one mighty swing of the golden sacred yo-yo.

But then I’m getting ahead of myself for the moment. Perhaps one of the greatest escapes ever attempted and accomplished here on Devil’s Island was indeed performed by Captain Whackencracker.

Captain Whackencracker was a well-respected individual here on Devil’s Island, yet he had a twist to himself that brought him down at times when it was least expected. He was in essence very, very seedy, very, very dark, but humid in the most wicked and delightful of ways.

Captain Whackencracker’s crime that brought him onto Devil’s Island was the mere factor of behaving like his natural self. Almost anyone who has done time here on Devil’s Island goes through some sort of brainwashing program before they are set up into their new digs.

At first Captain Whackencracker didn’t accept entry into it and rightfully so; crimes without cause or purpose deserve to be examined thoroughly and closely. Upper Prison Brass prefers that no one examines any charge of crime too closely. They prefer that those who come to Devil’s Island accept the sentence they’ve received as such and serve the time without question.
Lately, the electrical power system on Devil’s Island had been in question and little accidents had been occurring at regular intervals when it was least expected. Little occurrences like entire cellblocks not opening and shutting properly; you know little things like that. Upper Prison Brass’ usual response was “We’re looking into the matter,” which the bottom-feeders (the prisoners of Devil’s Island) usually took with a grain of salt.

But then one time it happened; the lights went out during a day when a major prisoner transfer was underway; Devil’s Island went completely black! No one could see anything or anybody for that matter; situations and opportunities began to present themselves rather easily. The strangest occurrence that went down that day, however, was that the Fraternal Goon Twins, Old Black Devil, Makeshift Mark and Upper Prison Brass suddenly disappeared in the blackness! Where were they!

On the other hand, within the first few seconds of the historic Great Blackout on Devil’s Island, The Barnaby Boys & The Tommy-Gun Twosome were below the prison decks trying to find out what went wrong and how the situation could be remedied. In the meantime, the Sorcerer Sisters, accompanied by Groggleman, Josie Peppermint, “Groveling Gary” and “Grandma Gretchen,” split up with heavy-duty flashlights, bullhorns and stun guns to try to quell the crush of chaos that was already flowing like busted dams throughout Devil’s Island.

Broadcast Betty was out of her cell the instant Devil’s Island went dark, gathering data and investigating leads to the chaos that occurred only minutes earlier. About one third of the prisoners stayed inside their cells; they were being smart as they knew of the dangers that lurked about within the darkness.

The OCTOBER Sisters were out in the prison yard, smoking up a black-lunged storm; Va-Va-Voom was busy chilling out with the Mishegas Master; “Travesty Tristan” and “Astute Annie” kept busy and quiet while knitting prisoner knee blankets with homemade corrugated cardboard knitting needles while El Noir and “Grandpa Jones” were playing poker.

But not all things were calm. On the other side of Devil’s Island, those in solitary confinement and the Devil’s Island insane asylum were on the loose; among those temporarily freed were Captain Whackencracker, Knee-Jerk Jack, Danceman Darryl, Roger Dogma and The Pontificating Princess, some of the more notoriously dangerous and insane prisoners locked up on Devil’s Island.

Those five prisoners were locked up for good reason; putting them together meant that Devil’s Island could be turned upside down in no time! And that’s exactly what was happening; Knee-Jerk Jack and Captain Whackencracker were already one-upping each other, while The Pontificating Princess whistled them onto the point of no return.

Then the argument between Knee-Jerk Jack and Captain Whackencracker started; followed by the accompaniment of flying fists and the interlocking of sweaty bodies; the two men were beating the living daylights out of each other and didn’t seem to mind. Blow-by-blow with blood splattering everywhere, the brawl began to draw a large crowd.

Among those in the crowd was Broadcast Betty who mysteriously reappeared again, talking to Danceman Darryl for miniscule details of how and why the fight began. The OCTOBER Sisters had wandered their way through the dark with the help of their orange, yet faint cigarette butts, still smoking like chimneys; their clothes and breath reeked of tobacco.

Still no sign of the Fraternal Goon Twins, Old Black Devil, Makeshift Mark and Upper Prison Brass; perhaps they had been kidnapped or were being held against their will. No one knew of their whereabouts for certain.

Then without warning, Danceman Darryl and Roger Dogma ran behind Knee-Jerk Jack and slugged him a few times with a chair! As Knee-Jerk Jack began falling, The Pontificating Princess grabbed him and held his arms and legs together so that Captain Whackencracker could take a few more quick, powerful swings at him and make the gauntlet march toward freedom! And that’s exactly what Captain Whackencracker did before anyone realized it. Captain Whackencracker disappeared into the darkness and over the wall to freedom!

Later, when the power was restored, The Barnaby Boys, the Tommy-Gun Twosome, The Sorcerer Sisters, Groggleman, Josie Peppermint, “Groveling Gary” and “Grandma Gretchen” all held informal meetings with one another to figure out what to do next an to see if the Fraternal Goon Twins, Old Black Devil, Makeshift Mark and Upper Prison Brass could be located; that is when the real adventure began!

American Yarnprose>Two Wee Cats

Two Wee Cats

Yes, my friends this story goes back, back to the times of old, back to when people behaved like animals. Back to the early 21st century. When once upon a time, I was young and in love.

I am sitting at the Gato Pardo Café. It is a nice and warm place to talk. Then I see him coming toward me.

He is wearing black today. He looks at me and gently kisses my lips. I ask him to sit down.

This particular day, I am wearing a blue cashmere sweater with buttons in front. My eyes are shining like a true feline. I haven’t seen him for a long, long time.

I am sitting in front of him. I start playing with my one of my legs underneath the table, just to see him start blushing. The waiter is walking toward our table. I change seats, so now I am sitting next to him and I won’t stop just so I can see the way he watches me and encourages me to continue. The waiter takes our order, an espresso & a cappuccino for me, while he orders a chamomile tea. As I answer the waiter, I continue to look at him. I begin to laugh, as he speaks.

“What are you doing? Somebody can see us.”

I answer calmly, “If you don’t say anything about it, then I won’t say anything about it,” as I smile at him.

Quietly, I begin to unbutton my sweater, just enough for him to get a glimpse of me. I place my right hand underneath the table and slowly it slithers across his lap like a garter snake and settles into a pocketed area of his jeans.

I touch him gently, but just enough so he can feel me beside him. He is smiling at me, slightly blushing. The waiter returns with our drinks, hot and simmering, just the way we are beginning to feel toward each other. My hand moves slightly, lightly gripping him, but fumbling and without hesitation, he guides me with his right hand toward my destination.

In the meantime, I have moved closer toward him; when suddenly we start passionately kiss each other, our tongues colliding head-on and becoming entangled around each other, madly, yet lovingly. I can feel him now. Without warning, I swing my legs around and place them on top of his.

His other hand slips beneath my sweater and begins caressing my soft dark skin, my breathing has slowed down. He finds my left nipple and gently touches it. I emit a soft joyous sound, as he slowly moves down my neck, biting it gently until his tongue and mouth move toward my nipple.

By this time, my sweater has fallen to the ground and darkness has settled in.

I softly moan and stroke his hair, while he softly kisses licks and suckles my left nipple for several moments and then he moves over to the right nipple, kissing, licking and sucking it. In the meantime, my hand is massaging him slightly faster and he can feel the sensations it brings, just by body movement alone. My breath is so hot, yet soft as he continues kissing and working his way down to my stomach, biting and kissing my flesh, looking up to watch me the entire time.

Later on, as we lay in each others’ arms, she says to me, “Next time I take you for a coffee we can not ended on the table making love you bad little black cat,” she laughs.

“Me? You were doing it too and enjoying it very very much, you bad bad little kitty,” I yowl.

“I was just encouraging you and you jump like a cat, “she coyly replies.

“And you went along for the ride. Remember, it takes two to tango. You didn’t interrupt me, which seems to indicate, that you were loving it,” I say, smiling to her.

“When the genius is thinking, he doesn’t want to be disturbed…”

“And yet, I gently remind her, “The cat plays on with him.”

“Yes, she warmly replies, “Yes.”

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Old Ghost Girlfriends

Well, once again it's a Friday, the beautiful little capper for the week and considering the fun kind of week I began with and ended up with, I think it's time for an appropriate prose-poem to let the stress out, kick my feet up upon the ottoman and relax, dear readers! As always, enjoy!!!

Old Girlfriend Ghosts

She calls him late at home, but he never returns her calls and he's moved onto another woman, but she still longs for him.

Long ago, it has been over, but she still wants to be his friend. He doesn’t see the point in lingering, but still she will call thinking, she can get through to him. Why does she persist in calling him? Does she want to go back with him? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He only wishes to be rid of her.

He notices whenever he is involved with someone new, the old girlfriend ghosts beat a path back to his door, wanting to be with him once more, but he sends them packing, feeds their spirits to crows who will be snacking upon them in order to create new souls from the dead or left dying. Why are they crying? Weren’t they the ones who wanted it this way?

They just can’t come home anytime they choose. The door isn’t always open. The locks have been changed. The walls freshly painted. Whatever was previously tainted has been trashed. No signs of back-pedaling, he doesn’t want it that way, but they don’t understand---if only he could tell them to go away, but not in the way that they need to hear, he has to make it clear, that it will never be the same again.

But those ghosts keep coming, pursuant to affairs of the heart that haven’t ceased. He must tell them, tell them, it’s over, over, so that they can strangle themselves politely & die a natural death, return to the burial grounds inside The Gate Of Seth & let him be together with his new love.

Jewish Lies: The American Jewish Committee’s "Paid Radio Advertisement" Scam

Every morning when I get up, take my morning shower and get ready for work, I listen to the news radio station (WBBM News Radio 780 AM, Chicago). News can be monotonous and rather boring as the continuous flow of news is repeated a few times within the half hour to hour that I’ve been listening to in and out of sleepy-land before I’ve actually arisen.

Anyway, there’s an "paid advertisement" that always is broadcast right after the opening segment of the (Charles) “Osgood File,” at 6:41 a.m., which is announced as “the following is a paid advertisement,” which is then followed by a man named David Harris of The American Jewish Committee, who often gives an account on the state of Israel, slight criticisms of Palestinians, issues dealing with Israel or something that might affect Israel in the coming months.

And this is the part that leaves me disappointed, not because it’s a supposedly “paid advertisement,” (it’s not) but because in reality it is really a political commentary hidden as a “paid advertisement.” I often wonder how many other folks listening in at that time of the morning notice it also.

David Harris has a smooth voice and calming effect, sort of like those annoying broadcasters on National Public Radio, but at least he’s not enunciating every other word like they do. On the other side of the political spectrum, I wonder why American Palestinian groups aren’t given the same kind of voice like the American Jewish Committee is given?

But I guess that’s not what I meant to say. My real question is this; why does the American Jewish Committee need to disguise the “paid advertisement” as such, when in reality it is a political commentary being delivered by David Harris, a representative of their organization?

I am pretty sure that the Federal Communications Commission has laws on the books stating clearly that if the advertisement smells, sounds or acts like a political commentary, therefore the “paid advertisement” as it is called, is in fact false advertising and should be fined accordingly. If not, then the issue certainly needs to be addressed.

God only knows how many disc jockeys and radio personalities the world over, have read radio commercial scripts designed as “happy talk” banter, when in reality it is disguised as a real commercial or an infomercial.

What’s the deal with all this bait and switch schemes anyway? If the radio commercial is a political advertisement or commentary, then it should be addressed as such; I mean why are they hiding behind this façade of lies?

It doesn’t make me hate the American Jewish Committee any less or admire them any more than I should, it’s rather that I really believe in the power of radio itself and the ideas behind it.

I guarantee you if the opposite standard such as an American Palestinian Committee were chiding or criticizing Israel through a “paid advertisement,” such as the one the American Jewish Committee runs, we’d hear about it from Jewish groups the world over, including the Anti-Defamation League, who prides themselves on pointing out hatred and any slight directed toward Jews.

So why do radio stations like WBBM News Radio 780 accept these façades? Because usually the dough smells good even if the content is crap and the advertising executives just see the dollar signs, even if the product is not what it says it is, this after they’ve taken the money and spent it.

How so very American & Jewish of them.

The Art Of Writing Headlines AKA How To Be Witty, Cute And Stupid In 10 Words Or Less

There are witty and cute headlines. Then there are stupid headlines. Headlines atop a story in a newspaper or magazine often tell us what the article is about. In journalism school we were taught to write headlines in 10 words or less, but now with the magic of the Internet and in particular, blogs, those of us who write them, have to be a little extra creative in order to cleverly grab your attention.

It’s the same thing with the newspaper and magazine industries, as the editing staff must come up clever eye-catching headlines day in, day out in order to sell the product. Besides the gossip-slandering tabloids like The National Enquirer, who have to be even more creative than the established press to sell papers, I believe that perhaps the best and most creative established press editing news staff is those that work for the New York Post, the Chicago Sun-Times & Daily and Weekly Variety.

My personal favorite headline I read when I visited New York City this past spring was in the New York Post which read; “Hi Ho, Hi Ho It’s Off To Court We Go.” The story was about a midget family in the suburbs of New York that was suing neighbors for making fun of them.

In my own hometown, the Chicago Sun-Times as of the past several years also seems to have a fairly creative editing staff that can indeed sell papers. My favorite Chicago Sun-Times headline I saw once, cut out and taped to a wall read; “Air Head To Succeed Resigning Officer.”

Daily & Weekly Variety also write brilliant headlines, including their two most famous offerings; “Hix Nix Stix Pix” and “Wall St. Lays An Egg,” the latter of the two headlines referring to the collapse of the New York stock market prior to the beginning of the Great Depression in the United States.

Even on Yahoo’s website, the teaser headlines are a little too ridiculous at times. My two favorites that I found today were “Fashion Magazines Show More Body Types.” The article itself ended up being about fashion editors who feature plus-size models. If they really wanted to get attention, they should have written something like; “More Fatties Find Forum In Fashion Magazines.”

The other headline I read; “Some Question Third Year Of Law School,” was about an interview with a corporate lawyer who said her third year of law school was fueled by beer and softball, and the “some” in the article boiled to a couple of different spokespersons from varying law schools in the state of Virginia questioning whether or not a third year of law school was necessary or not. Perhaps the headline should have read something like; “Naïve Lawyers Motivated By Softball And Beer In Law School Third Year.”

The late comedian Pigmeat Markham performed a hilarious skit about newspapers in which he met an old friend on the streets of Washington, D.C. who was a reporter for The Washington News, while Pigmeat’s newspaper was called The Washington Booze.

Markham’s newspaper never had time to write lengthy detailed-oriented news articles and instead just wrote headlines, leaving the reader to figure out the rest of the story. A couple of the headlines he employed were; “She Was The Grandmother Of 28, She Could Have Had More, But Now It’s Too Late” and “TV Star, Foot Slip And There You Are.”

In order to get the reader’s attention, when there’s either a disaster, a death or a story of extreme importance, newspapers will often employ the screaming headline effect that is a 72-point head type, although many newspapers seem to abuse the privilege, again just to sell papers.

It’s easy to write headlines it seems all you need to do is think of it as writing comedy with a little common sense mixed in for good measure; for example using words that seem to fit together or words that are the opposite of what is meant as such.

Stories about obesity seem to employ words in the headlines like fat, overweight, chubby, pudgy and big. Stories that involve music use catchy phrases or clichés like “strike up the band,” “strike a chord,” or “music to out ears.” Fashion stories use words like dress-up, dressy, dolled-up, while stories about love use words and phrases like sex appeal or spicy and stories on automobiles or vehicles often use words like driver, driven, racing or flashy. The list goes on but I think you get the idea. Once you write something, you just pull a few bits of information out and write a headline, simple as that!

But headlines do serve a purpose, which of course is to be witty cute and stupid all in the same breath. And that’s about the size of it.

All Is Fair In Love & War: Happy 37th Birthday, Joey!!!

He’s someone that I don’t speak about all that often, but after all he is a sibling of mine; the baby of the family, the brat, the spoiler and the dirty rotten scoundrel who cheated me out of a chance at a better life…

When Joey was born on August 9, 1968, Chicago was being burned alive by the Yippies and the cops; the music world as far as rock and roll went was in a drug coma and people passed around love like a cocktail weenie tray at a formal dinner party.

I only wish I had nice words for Joey, but alas I don’t, so today I’m going to make some full confessions about the only brother in my family that I cannot stand.

It’s no fun being teased and taunted and ganged up on my brothers and sister; let me tell you it happened constantly and consistently with little parental intervention, but there it was and it happened. And the teasing got rougher and rougher and rougher until it went out of control.

Shortly thereafter, the name-calling came into play. Yep, we all did it and enough of it, so that it hurt and hurt hard. It would end up hurting for years until later when I was finally able to release the hurt into the wind and watch the ashes fly into a beautiful black snow.

Fast forward a decade and a half later when Joey was in high school and helped himself to my clothes closet, my personal effects and anything else he could get his grubby little hands on.

Even later, when I graduated from college in 1990 and lived at home for a while longer, Joey withheld all of my telephone messages from me regarding job offers of places I applied to and never quite fully understanding why personnel never called me back when they said they would.

Only did I find out a few weeks later when I called a lot of these companies back did they tell me that they called me several times and then of course when they didn’t hear from me they offered the position to someone else! This is what I began to understand and realize what Joey was doing I knew he was out for blood and sweet revenge.

Not only was he not giving my job prospect telephone calls, but my personal messages as well. A lot of the time Joey used my job prospect calls to his advantage; in other words I helped him land a job when the job lead was mine to start with! Then once he landed the job, he went out of his way to play-act as if he were angry and surprised when I decided to pursue the position at the company he now worked at!

I never got that job either and the several hundred I applied for, all due to his not giving me my telephone messages. I ended up with crap, yet that was Joey’s intention; his payback to me after all those years of teasing and name-calling that he repeatedly denied doing to me.

But I won’t tell you about his long and weaving drug and drinking habits; nor will I tell you about the time he pissed away $2,500 my parents gave to him as intended for college at Arizona State University in Tempe, Arizona in Las Vegas, Nevada in one night; nor the time when we were driving back from somewhere with my parents and I was reading a gay/lesbian newspaper and he suddenly shouted obscenities and angrily tore the newspaper to shreds once he saw what I was reading; nor the time during a thunderstorm when he got extremely angry and threw a fork at my left eye, that missed it by half an inch; nor the time he complained to my mother about myself that I lived too close to him, even though I lived in the apartment I was dwelling in two years prior before he even moved within range of me!!!

So it’s Joey’s birthday today and I’m going to be extra generous and nice to him by letting everyone who reads this journal his phone number (773-267-9340) to call and wish him a happy, prosperous birthday; he’s 37. While you’re on the phone with him be sure and ask him about all those incidences that I can’t tell you about.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot; be sure and tell him that Sidney AKA The Mishegas Master sent you!!!

Cutting The Devil Out Of Them: An Occupational Hazard>Act 15

Disclaimer: Appearances often are deceiving. In union there is strength. Be content with your lot; one cannot be first in everything We often despise what is most useful to us. Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely conincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who thinks otherwise, probably believes that God spelled backward is Dog and that Devil spelled backward is Lived.

Recapping the last installment of Devil's Island, we learned of the strange religious fanatic named Priestess Paulette, one of Devil’s Island’s roving spiritual marms, who along with Matterhorn Melissa and Brimstone Bettina who organized a secret, yet holy religious cult on Devil’s Island that targeted the weak-hearted & feeble-minded.

But all that holds forth and court for that matter hold true; even though these religious ladies appear sweet and loving on the surface, they are sneaky & fiendish underneath it all and will stop at nothing to reign supreme to their salvation, just as long as the price is right for the righteous rewards that await them once they have confessed sins to the Holy Father.

It is not known exactly when the cult began, but what is known was this; it was in some form of existence when Old Black Devil arrived on Devil’s Island and eventually reigned supreme for the next several months on Devil’s Island.

Strangely, in the beginning it was only known to attract women, but then the women grew long stalks of ennui and began to encounter and eventually lure men into their cult. Of the many men who were enticed to join ranks with them was none other than Roger Dogma.

As previously stated in the annals of the Devil’s Island saga, we have learned thus far that Roger Dogma is a gentle & loving soul, but it wasn’t always that way. Before Roger Dogma joined up, he was a swinger, a true partier, even more so than Va-Va-Voom & Loud-Mouthed Lucy combined! Roger Dogma stayed up all hours of the night, smoked bowls of brownies and hit and even scored on anything that moved.

In other words, Roger Dogma was a mover and shaker, the kind of man that attracted women in a heartbeat! Was it because of his short spiky hair, sharply curved & toned pecs and torso that attracted them? Perhaps it was those beautiful baby blues he flashed at each passing female that wandered into his den that made him so popular.

Or maybe it was his touch. Whatever the reason, Roger Dogma had it all going so well for him, that is up until he met his match…

Sometime ago when the prison was in the doldrums, Old Black Devil wanted to bring the spirit of the Holy Father back into prisoner’s lives. At first it took a while to organize, but then lo and behold, Old Black Devil found the right elements and viola! She created a religious group that would soon take precedent over all things Devil’s Island.

Old Black Devil recruited three women; Priestess Paulette, Matterhorn Melissa and Brimstone Bettina. Hindsight had proved wisely and was researched thoroughly by Old Black Devil herself. It proved successful; in other words if anybody could motivate the population into becoming believers, it would be these three women.

Priestess Paula came into Devil’s Island by mistake actually. She was on her way to a three-day conference on how to cast out demons from waywardly people’s souls when she stumbled upon Devil’s Island and offered her services. Old Black Devil eagerly agreed.

Matterhorn Melissa was brought into Devil’s Island on the basis of mistaken identity, a case she is still trying to get back into the court system and prove to the world that she wasn’t the one who stole three Easter eggs on a Palm Sunday 40 years ago.

Brimstone Bettina’s crime against humanity was simply for passing out religious tracts inside a house of ill-repute, a crime she still heavily commits on Devil’s Island when no one is minding the store.

Former Devil’s Island inmates Botox Frankenstein and Dinosaur Jr. were two of just the many inmates who received tracts from Brimstone Bettina on an almost daily basis, while listening to the sometimes hot and heavy ranting and raving, by all three women and Old Black Devil combined.

Though it is not widely known, Old Black Devil was a seeker of the divine truth, and time after time sought knowledge of the evil Western ways in order to teach herself the true calling of the Holy Father.

The group started with three individuals, but soon it swelled to at least 20 members solid. The numbers rose steadily with Old Black Devil’s support, mostly through combined actions of snake-charming ways involving veiled threats and promises that were repeatedly broken in two, other than seeking divinity from the Holy Father.

The Holy Father was considered the true divinity of all those that sought comfort in their lives, a prickly yet soothing novelty in the shape of a human being that sported unfamiliar traits. The Holy Father had answers that both the group and Old Black Devil sought out from time to time for comfort and wisdom of their own means.

Roger Dogma was at best the true male influence and role model for the group; he campaigned and rallied heavily on behalf of the group for the other prisoners. He recruited tirelessly for them, averaging five members per month he saved or counseled; he was a blessed man for certain.

Roger Dogma was in fact, a true gift of a man that had dropped from the sky one day and just enjoyed helping his fellow man or woman, for that matter. He never sought reward or reason. He just enjoyed giving and giving and giving without the receipt of reward. That indeed was his reward, those that he helped along to better their lives.

But then situations began to change. There was talk of heathen rights occurring with punishment for those who disagreed with the group’s philosophy. And accusations within the network, but who got the blame for all of it? Well, it was none other than Roger Dogma the rightful heir apparent to the religious throne on Devil’s Island.

Old Black Devil never intended for Roger Dogma to get so far so fast and tried every trick in the book to make him see otherwise. Roger Dogma didn’t budge. He stood his ground for human and religious rights. Old Black Devil didn’t like that and accused him of an incident that was never proved. Still, the damage was done. The group’s image was tarnished forever and members of the holy cult left in droves.

Eventually the group disbanded and Roger Dogma was sent into solitary confinement where he still sits presently, even though Old Black Devil was executed many moons ago. Roger Dogma has never made any attempts to get out simply because he prefers the peacefulness & the quietness of the area.

As for the three spiritual marms, Priestess Paulette, Matterhorn Melissa and Brimstone Bettina, they can be seen on a regular basis, preaching and passing out tracts to anybody who will give them the time of day and listen to the divine truth that comes to all once they meet and greet the Holy Father in and around Devil's Island.