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Fran Lebowitz

I've done the calculation and your chances of winning the lottery are identical whether you play or not.

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Fran Lebowitz

I've done the calculation and your chances of winning the lottery are identical whether you play or or not.

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I've Done the Best I Can So You Can Do That Better

Beneath the tree
That falling leaves descended from,
I stand.
Thinking of the changes,
I have experienced being the man I am.

'She is now called 'Mama'!
Ma! Or Ms Mimmie'.
When she's with her children...
And grandchildren too!

And I look up above me to witness the branches.
The twigs!
And the wonder of the tree...
All of this ascends from!
'Matriarch she is! ', I think with no doubt.

And the birds, squirrels and all that come to visit,
Are always welcomed

And I wonder if anyone wonders...
'How can anyone disbelieve there is a God? '
How can this be done?
And by whom?
We all can't be vacant with a disconnected fate!
'Something' is planned by the doing in all of this!
'Something' is in control and knows everything that sits...
Within and 'out' of our midst.
'Something' about this most people miss.

'How can anyone disbelieve there is a God? '
And we are God's experiment!
And my 'sisters' were born to nourish the flourishment.
And I can see...
Looking at 'this' tree before me I inspect.
And 'It' observes...knowing!
Encouraging those after birth and going...
After growing up,
With a gentle toughness that is meant.
'I've done the best I can so you can do that better.'

Dedicated:
To my sister Andrea. Mim, Mimmie and MimmieD
'You have 'eight' grandchildren? EIGHT? How, Mimmie? '
Where was I when all of this happened?
And Tammy and Lisa? ? Naw. No way, yo?
You can 'not' be in your 'fffffffffffffaaug. Getting 'more'
mature. Geeeessshhh. HOW do you all get so much older
than me? Overnight it seems.
LOL

Love you,
Larry

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You, Your Face and Your Many Faces

you and your face
you and your many faces
i never clarify your other face
because you build a siege
with your many faces
your many faces have a heart of liar
little facet of your tricky mind
you and your many faces
your face not to be someone's follower
your face to be the queen of yourself
you and your face
you don't need to show your inner face
your many faces will play the pace
and no one resist your easily fake face
your face and your many faces
if those two are not good enough
to get me
what will you take to become your face?

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You Do Know That The Lights Are Out?

You are playing alone.
And in left field.

You do know that the lights are out?

Do you practice for a new game to begin?
With a planning done in my presence.
I am not going to say you are bold...
And cold.
I'd call this...
Straight up heartlessness.

With a tilted head,
And a lot of salt and pepper.

You are playing alone.
And in left field.

You do know that the lights are out?

Why are we arguing between us about faults?
And what had been accepted,
Now hated so that has you hissing.

You do know that the lights are out?
Here!
And you can,
Play the field.

Did you come here...
To hear again,
That reminder?

A pain healed, seldom repeats that process again.
When one's duty is to booty,
Loses compassion...
Don't expect a lost action,
To rekindle itself on memories.
Few...
Were the good ones.

Do you remember your entrance?
That is also your exit.
And...
Those lights that are out?
You did it.
You turned them off.

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Morituri Salutamus: Poem for the Fiftieth Anniversary of th

Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis,
Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies.
Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi.
"O Cæsar, we who are about to die
Salute you!" was the gladiators' cry
In the arena, standing face to face
With death and with the Roman populace.
O ye familiar scenes,--ye groves of pine,
That once were mine and are no longer mine,--
Thou river, widening through the meadows green
To the vast sea, so near and yet unseen,--
Ye halls, in whose seclusion and repose

Phantoms of fame, like exhalations, rose
And vanished,--we who are about to die,
Salute you; earth and air and sea and sky,
And the Imperial Sun that scatters down
His sovereign splendors upon grove and town.

Ye do not answer us! ye do not hear!
We are forgotten; and in your austere
And calm indifference, ye little care
Whether we come or go, or whence or where.
What passing generations fill these halls,
What passing voices echo from these walls,
Ye heed not; we are only as the blast,
A moment heard, and then forever past.

Not so the teachers who in earlier days
Led our bewildered feet through learning's maze;
They answer us--alas! what have I said?
What greetings come there from the voiceless dead?
What salutation, welcome, or reply?
What pressure from the hands that lifeless lie?
They are no longer here; they all are gone
Into the land of shadows,--all save one.
Honor and reverence, and the good repute
That follows faithful service as its fruit,
Be unto him, whom living we salute.

The great Italian poet, when he made
His dreadful journey to the realms of shade,
Met there the old instructor of his youth,
And cried in tones of pity and of ruth:
"Oh, never from the memory of my heart

Your dear, paternal image shall depart,
Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised,
Taught me how mortals are immortalized;
How grateful am I for that patient care
All my life long my language shall declare."

To-day we make the poet's words our own,
And utter them in plaintive undertone;
Nor to the living only be they said,
But to the other living called the dead,
Whose dear, paternal images appear
Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine here;
Whose simple lives, complete and without flaw,
Were part and parcel of great Nature's law;
Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid,
"Here is thy talent in a napkin laid,"
But labored in their sphere, as men who live
In the delight that work alone can give.
Peace be to them; eternal peace and rest,
And the fulfilment of the great behest:
"Ye have been faithful over a few things,
Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings."

And ye who fill the places we once filled,
And follow in the furrows that we tilled,
Young men, whose generous hearts are beating high,
We who are old, and are about to die,
Salute you; hail you; take your hands in ours,
And crown you with our welcome as with flowers!

How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams
With its illusions, aspirations, dreams!
Book of Beginnings, Story without End,
Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!
Aladdin's Lamp, and Fortunatus' Purse,
That holds the treasures of the universe!
All possibilities are in its hands,
No danger daunts it, and no foe withstands;
In its sublime audacity of faith,
"Be thou removed!" it to the mountain saith,
And with ambitious feet, secure and proud,
Ascends the ladder leaning on the cloud!

As ancient Priam at the Scæan gate
Sat on the walls of Troy in regal state
With the old men, too old and weak to fight,
Chirping like grasshoppers in their delight
To see the embattled hosts, with spear and shield,
Of Trojans and Achaians in the field;
So from the snowy summits of our years
We see you in the plain, as each appears,
And question of you; asking, "Who is he
That towers above the others? Which may be
Atreides, Menelaus, Odysseus,
Ajax the great, or bold Idomeneus?"

Let him not boast who puts his armor on
As he who puts it off, the battle done.
Study yourselves; and most of all note well
Wherein kind Nature meant you to excel.
Not every blossom ripens into fruit;
Minerva, the inventress of the flute,
Flung it aside, when she her face surveyed
Distorted in a fountain as she played;
The unlucky Marsyas found it, and his fate
Was one to make the bravest hesitate.


Write on your doors the saying wise and old,
"Be bold! be bold!" and everywhere, "Be bold;
Be not too bold!" Yet better the excess
Than the defect; better the more than less;
Better like Hector in the field to die,
Than like a perfumed Paris turn and fly.


And now, my classmates; ye remaining few
That number not the half of those we knew,
Ye, against whose familiar names not yet
The fatal asterisk of death is set,
Ye I salute! The horologe of Time
Strikes the half-century with a solemn chime,
And summons us together once again,
The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain.


Where are the others? Voices from the deep
Caverns of darkness answer me: "They sleep!"
I name no names; instinctively I feel
Each at some well-remembered grave will kneel,
And from the inscription wipe the weeds and moss,
For every heart best knoweth its own loss.
I see their scattered gravestones gleaming white
Through the pale dusk of the impending night;
O'er all alike the impartial sunset throws
Its golden lilies mingled with the rose;
We give to each a tender thought, and pass
Out of the graveyards with their tangled grass,
Unto these scenes frequented by our feet
When we were young, and life was fresh and sweet.


What shall I say to you? What can I say
Better than silence is? When I survey
This throng of faces turned to meet my own,
Friendly and fair, and yet to me unknown,
Transformed the very landscape seems to be;
It is the same, yet not the same to me.
So many memories crowd upon my brain,
So many ghosts are in the wooded plain,
I fain would steal away, with noiseless tread,
As from a house where some one lieth dead.
I cannot go;--I pause;--I hesitate;
My feet reluctant linger at the gate;
As one who struggles in a troubled dream
To speak and cannot, to myself I seem.


Vanish the dream! Vanish the idle fears!
Vanish the rolling mists of fifty years!
Whatever time or space may intervene,
I will not be a stranger in this scene.
Here every doubt, all indecision, ends;
Hail, my companions, comrades, classmates, friends!


Ah me! the fifty years since last we met
Seem to me fifty folios bound and set
By Time, the great transcriber, on his shelves,
Wherein are written the histories of ourselves.
What tragedies, what comedies, are there;
What joy and grief, what rapture and despair!
What chronicles of triumph and defeat,
Of struggle, and temptation, and retreat!
What records of regrets, and doubts, and fears!
What pages blotted, blistered by our tears!
What lovely landscapes on the margin shine,
What sweet, angelic faces, what divine
And holy images of love and trust,
Undimmed by age, unsoiled by damp or dust!
Whose hand shall dare to open and explore
These volumes, closed and clasped forevermore?
Not mine. With reverential feet I pass;
I hear a voice that cries, "Alas! alas!
Whatever hath been written shall remain,
Nor be erased nor written o'er again;
The unwritten only still belongs to thee:
Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be."


As children frightened by a thunder-cloud
Are reassured if some one reads aloud
A tale of wonder, with enchantment fraught,
Or wild adventure, that diverts their thought,
Let me endeavor with a tale to chase
The gathering shadows of the time and place,
And banish what we all too deeply feel
Wholly to say, or wholly to conceal.


In mediæval Rome, I know not where,
There stood an image with its arm in air,
And on its lifted finger, shining clear,
A golden ring with the device, "Strike here!"
Greatly the people wondered, though none guessed
The meaning that these words but half expressed,
Until a learned clerk, who at noonday
With downcast eyes was passing on his way,
Paused, and observed the spot, and marked it well,
Whereon the shadow of the finger fell;
And, coming back at midnight, delved, and found
A secret stairway leading underground.
Down this he passed into a spacious hall,
Lit by a flaming jewel on the wall;
And opposite, in threatening attitude,
With bow and shaft a brazen statue stood.
Upon its forehead, like a coronet,
Were these mysterious words of menace set:
"That which I am, I am; my fatal aim
None can escape, not even yon luminous flame!"


Midway the hall was a fair table placed,
With cloth of gold, and golden cups enchased
With rubies, and the plates and knives were gold,
And gold the bread and viands manifold.
Around it, silent, motionless, and sad,
Were seated gallant knights in armor clad,
And ladies beautiful with plume and zone,
But they were stone, their hearts within were stone;
And the vast hall was filled in every part
With silent crowds, stony in face and heart.


Long at the scene, bewildered and amazed
The trembling clerk in speechless wonder gazed;
Then from the table, by his greed made bold,
He seized a goblet and a knife of gold,
And suddenly from their seats the guests upsprang,
The vaulted ceiling with loud clamors rang,
The archer sped his arrow, at their call,
Shattering the lambent jewel on the wall,
And all was dark around and overhead;--
Stark on the floor the luckless clerk lay dead!


The writer of this legend then records
Its ghostly application in these words:
The image is the Adversary old,
Whose beckoning finger points to realms of gold;
Our lusts and passions are the downward stair
That leads the soul from a diviner air;
The archer, Death; the flaming jewel, Life;
Terrestrial goods, the goblet and the knife;
The knights and ladies, all whose flesh and bone
By avarice have been hardened into stone;
The clerk, the scholar whom the love of pelf
Tempts from his books and from his nobler self.


The scholar and the world! The endless strife,
The discord in the harmonies of life!
The love of learning, the sequestered nooks,
And all the sweet serenity of books;
The market-place, the eager love of gain,
Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain!


But why, you ask me, should this tale be told
To men grown old, or who are growing old?
It is too late! Ah, nothing is too late
Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles
Wrote his grand Oedipus, and Simonides
Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers,
When each had numbered more than fourscore years,
And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten,
Had but begun his "Characters of Men."
Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightingales,
At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales;
Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last,
Completed Faust when eighty years were past.
These are indeed exceptions; but they show
How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow
Into the arctic regions of our lives,
Where little else than life itself survives.
As the barometer foretells the storm
While still the skies are clear, the weather warm
So something in us, as old age draws near,
Betrays the pressure of the atmosphere.
The nimble mercury, ere we are aware,
Descends the elastic ladder of the air;
The telltale blood in artery and vein
Sinks from its higher levels in the brain;
Whatever poet, orator, or sage
May say of it, old age is still old age.
It is the waning, not the crescent moon;
The dusk of evening, not the blaze of noon;
It is not strength, but weakness; not desire,
But its surcease; not the fierce heat of fire,
The burning and consuming element,
But that of ashes and of embers spent,
In which some living sparks we still discern,
Enough to warm, but not enough to burn.


What then? Shall we sit idly down and say
The night hath come; it is no longer day?
The night hath not yet come; we are not quite
Cut off from labor by the failing light;
Something remains for us to do or dare;
Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear;
Not Oedipus Coloneus, or Greek Ode,
Or tales of pilgrims that one morning rode
Out of the gateway of the Tabard Inn,
But other something, would we but begin;
For age is opportunity no less
Than youth itself, though in another dress,
And as the evening twilight fades away
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

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The Blues Are Brewin

Eddie delange / louis alter
When the moons kinda dreamy
Starry eyed and dreamy
And nights are luscious and long
If youre kinda lonely
Then nothin but the blues are brewin
The blues are brewin
When the wind through the window
Blows across your pillow
And tells you sleepin is wrong
If love goes a thirsting
Till you feel like bursting
Then nothing but the blues are brewin
The blues are brewin
Suppose you want somebody
But you aint got nobody
You only get a gleam in your eyes
Till somebodys found you
And put their lovin arms around you
You got the feelin you want to die
But when the lord up above you
Sends someone to love you
The blues are something you loose
Youre so busy doing
The things that youre doing
That love aint got no time
For brewin the blues

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Where you live.

What's in a postcode? , of your humble abode.
Not just part of your address, information they possess! !

Browsing the net, pigeon-holed info'my eyes met.
Departmentalized, job and income, even what paper's I read, ‘Star& Sun.'
Ironic, me the‘tabloid stereo type', their web-page is static, not right.
So much for the world wide medium, on the day, I'd been reading the‘Guardian'!
This all explains'personnel circumstances'getting a loan and your chances..
Regards to my loan rate, dictated by‘Where You Live'it should state.! !

They categorize, label, stigmatize, so'they', your custom, can patronize.
Ticked off, a bit annoyed, at their criteria that's employed.

If only, I had lived in a ‘better location', maybe, gotten a better deal with my loan situation?
So if ever you're refused a card or loan, 'No'you're told,
Check your out your post code, and the data it may hold! !

28/05/06

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Catman (The Rosies Are Coming)

Catman, youre looking cool today,
We say, catman, umm, catman, umm.
My name is rosy and my hangs on you,
Catman, umm, catman.
So keep your high-heel boots and your knee-high mind,
Come up to my pad and see my work,
Go for a meal and hear my joke,
Or get in a bag and take a poke,
But dont be too clever or well kick your fillies in.
Look out, look out,
The rosies are coming to town.
Look out, catman, look out, catman,
The rosies are flashing along.
Catman, we feel a fool today,
I say, catman, umm, catman, umm.
My name is rosy and my wangs on you,
Catman, umm, catman.
So leave your well polished tail and your uptight suit,
Show us some funnies that are better than daddies,
Or bake us some cakes that are better than mommies,
Or give us your witties that are trapped in your willies,
But dont be too clever or well scratch your goodies out.
Watch out, watch out,
The rosies are riding the town.
Watch out, catman, watch out, catman,
The rosies are slashing about.
Catman, shining your tools today,
They say, catman, umm, catman, umm.
My name is rosy and my fangs on you,
Catman, umm, catman.
So save your thigh high thoughts and your banana skin,
Well burn your pansies and give you a bug,
Well squeeze your lemon and give you a mug,
Well cut your daisies and give you a slug,
And dont be too clever or well blow your sillies off.
Keep out, keep out,
The rosies are passing the town.
Keep out, catman, keep out, catman,
The rosies are bashing around.
Coochy coochy coo, bunny bunny boo, patti patti poo,
Catman! catman! where are you?
Dont be a prune, catman, give us all youve got.
Your blueberry eyes and your evergreen lies.
cause after all, by this fall you might grow too old,
And you cant ask your mommy to use an old fruity in her pie.
Patter cake, patter cake, bakers man,
Bake me a cake as slow as you can.
Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with o
And put it in the oven for me and my mo.
Batter cake, batter cake, bakers girl,
Fake me a cake as fast as you curl.
Bat it, and whip it, and mark it with blood
And throw it in the oven with trickles and mud.
Wetter cake, wetter cake, bakers boy,
Make me a cake thats sweet as your toy.
Wet it, and slick it, and mark it with p
And leave it in the oven for lizzie and me.
Catman! catman!
Hey, dumballs, get me a pair of rubber dolls, will you!
Catman!
Catman!
Catman!
Man -
Catman!
Catman!
Catman!
Catman!
Catman!
Catman!
Catman!
Catman!

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The Poets Are Coming Out To Play Today

I came home this morning
after saying goodbye to a ghost.
I wrote a little poem about
and posted it. Then up popped Alison Cassidy
dreaming of summer.
In England, we are all doing that.
We have to walk in our wellies,
hoping not to get our feet wet.
Andy Wilkinson posted
another romantic ditty,
then he comes along,
and calls me sentimental
because I wanted to say goodbye to a ghost
where I used to work.
Yes, I think the poets
have come out to play today.

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To A Friend Who Thinks That I Always Win

my dear friend,
you always think that i win,
and you hide away from
me in the cloak of your
jealousy.

is this all about winning
and losing?
i am for you.
And all these are for you.
The red rose, the blue sky,
the flowing river
the cliffs, and mountain
the trails
are all for you.

i do not have any bag
where you say
you do not fit.

shall i have the desire
to put you there like a
sackful of potatoes?

you discover a secret trail
you smell the scent out there
you want to find me
you are searching for me

but my friend i belong to the wind
i am a dropp of rain to the sea
i am the grain of sand on the shore
i am but a speck of the dust on that
cloudy sky

how can you ever find me then?

listen my dear friend
this is not about winning or losing
this is about our journey
the destination of which is still open
like an entrance to a cave
without light, damp and dark.

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Someone I Am Not

You'd like for me to be for you someone I am not.
You'd like for me to dropp my priorities,
And put your agenda on top.
Stop!

Wasting my time I have never found comforting.
Or deciding my life is less important than yours,
Has never occurred to blur my vision.

Any door of opportunity I see for me that is open,
I am going to walk through it.
And your attempts to block me...
Is a notice from you I do not deserve.

And ignoring you does not take neither courage,
Or nerve.
You're just another observed fool in my way!
Move,
You can not stay here to pluck or shuck...
Not at this door to cross a threshold.

You'd like for me to be for you someone I am not.
You'd like for me to dropp my priorities,
And put your agenda on top.
Stop!

What have you not heard?
Do you wish for me to show you,
I can be insensitive?
Someone I am not.
But I can deliver a believable portrayal,
Whenever someone has that as a need.

You'd like for me to be for you someone I am not.
You'd like for me to dropp my priorities,
And put your agenda on top.
Stop!

I prefer to be left to be someone I am.
Not to be changed into someone I am not!
Although I am quick to defend against,
Misdeeds and their intentions.
With a noticeable determination.

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Fran Lebowitz

I figure you have the same chance of winning the lottery whether you play or not.

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The Nights And Your Eyes

The nights and your eyes
How they are alike
With both I'm in love Since I'm alive
They are my best friends The nights and your eyes
With them I can talk and dance When I'm destoyed and alone
They are my honest friends They never refuse listening to my hearts voice Inside silently they cry When I tell them sad stories of love They always cry Though they try to hide But I can feel when those eyes cry Oh those eyes are my life and the night is my dear friend. They wipe away my tears and they ask me to smile And I ask them to let me in There I forget all my heart pain Once I smile and once I cry When the time of goodbye arrive

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Believing What Is Done Is Exclusive and Fresh

Most times it is better to leave things as they are,
If your mind is at peace with contributions made.
And anyone can say anything that they wish...
About your attitude and disposition,
To disturb the happiness you currently possess.
There are those who enjoy projecting their perceptions...
To benefit their mental limitedness.

A clarity of mind does not seek definition.
Especially when one 'arrives' feeling blessed,
And grateful.
While many still ride a merry-go-round,
Believing what is done is exclusive and fresh.
And,
For some it is!
That is why most times,
It is better to leave things as they are.
Or if you desire,
Choose to participate...
Knowing that choice is up to you,
To make and do as you wish!

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The Chances Of Winning

life is like a game, you lost and you win
losing is winning where it fall and
winning is losing where it stand
all the day through, you gain, but nothing
has been done

what makes it defferent, when everything
is nothing and what makes it something
when everthing is nothing

life is just, but a game to play... make the
best for it, for you win for something, that
will make you something out of nothing

many years have gone, yet! it seems
that those are just a dream, a dream that
i stand for none and end with gone

i now live for something, that the only chances
I'll make, will leads me to do something
the best of the game, i have to stand for my
chances of winning is something out of nothing

winning is a matter of chances of nothing.....
just do it... right

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You and Your Neighbor

You are correct!
I will not get upset,
Over those things your neighbor
Has done to you.
Nor do I care about those things shared,
The two of you choose to do!

You and your neighbor,
Have been doing what you do for years.
That what has been done now escalates?
Is none of my business.
I've never been invited on your discreet escapades.
And today I could care less,
About this mess going on between you two.

You are correct!
I will not get upset,
Over those things your neighbor
Has done to you.
Nor do I care about those things shared,
The two of you choose to do!

Remember then when I made my comments?
And you said to me,
My comments made were making you about to vomit?
You should have purged then!
Not today!
When you're knee deep in the mess you are in!

You are correct!
I will not get upset,
Over those things your neighbor
Has done to you.
If anything,
I congratulate you both!
You have graduated from avoidable ignorance...
To flat out public scrutiny that is assessed as stupidity.

No!
I do not want a cup of coffee.
I prefer these days to walk in peace,
And alone!

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Leave The Past And Moving On With The Future

What does it means to
Leave the past, and moving on with future?
It means you have to just let it go
Even it going hurt and feel so much in pain
You have other things looking forward too
If you love something so much
It will come back to you
It does it meant to be and if don't then just move on
I have finally learn my mistakes after yesterday
It's was perfect day off
I want to be who I am
I changes so much just to fit in
That's not like me
Time to figure out what I really want
What does it means to
Leave the past and moving on with future?
It means that this is now and your chances to do what you been waiting for
Time is running out
No going back and forth in path
No going back and forth in past to future
I'm stop acting like I'm scared
I'm not and now this is my time
I'm not regreat anything anymore
I don't want be like this
I need to think before I say something or do it
Past is not something I need think about
I need to think about future that I'm waiting for to happen
This is me and I finally understand what I didn't before
It's all right in front of me
I need to grab it and hold onto it
Future is waiting for me
I'm moving forward
Leave the past and moving on with future

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Get Your Biscuits In The Oven And Your Buns In The Bed

(Kinky Friedman)
You uppity women I don't understand
Why you gotta go and try to act like a man,
But before you make your weekly visit to the shrink
You'd better occupy the kitchen, liberate the sink.
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed
That's what I to my baby said,
Women's liberation is a-going to your head,
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed.
Early every morning you're out on the street
Passing out pamphlets to everyone you meet.
You gave up your Maiden Form for Lent
And now the front of your dress has an air scoop vent.
Every single brakeman that's ever come along
Had a little woman always tellin' him that he's wrong.
Eve said to Adam, ?Here's an apple you horse?
And Delilah defoliated Samson's moss.
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed
That's what I to my baby said,
Women's liberation is a-going to your head,
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed.
Mean-hearted harpies are breaking all the laws
Tearing up their girdles and a-burning up their bras,
Now the air is dirty and the sex is clean
And your coffee makes my hair turn green.
So damn emancipated in your mind and your body,
Gonna have to cancel all your lessons in karate.
If you can't love a male chauvinist
You'd better cross me off your shopping list.
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed
That's what I to my baby said,
Women's liberation is a-going to your head,
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed.

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Wall Street And The 99 Percent

You can bet your bottom or your upper dollar
Where there is money, there is a lot crooks,
Unimaginable corruption, chefs cooking the books,
Accountants being zealously creative, Auditors stealing the jar,
And Managers looking the other way, away from the sun.

Wall Street ignores the facts that it exists because of Main Street.
It is about time that it shows more respect and compassion
By doing the following: Stop all unfair exploitation,
Give the middle class and the poor something neat,
Free of surprises and bed bugs that can destroy all fun.

The Hedge Fund Managers ought to receive a substantial pay cut,
They already have money set aside for their tenth generation,
They should give the maids, the babysitters better compensation,
So they can live comfortably not like some sorry nuts
Who need daily prayers from a pervert priest and a sad nun.

Oh! It is unfortunate that the Mayor and the Police
Are not too happy that the protesters occupy the park.
This is America, this is New York City; let the dogs bark,
Because Wall Street is infested with bears that love grease,
Gold, diamond, sausage, pepperoni on a monster bun.

The 99 percent can peacefully change the course,
Stimulate the economy and improve the discourse.
There is going to be a party, only coffee will be served,
No toxic tea will be allowed; the Activists deserve
Compassion and admiration when all is said and done.

The protesters are right: no more foreclosures,
No more layoff of teachers and other dedicated workers.
We all want peace and respect; love and decent perks
Will solve all problems. Let’s talk and quit behaving like jerks.
Let’s all strive to make tomorrow a better place for our children.

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Your escapades and your having to wear red

So you have gone to Burma
Blending with the natives in the jungle there
You trembled in East Timor
Afraid that you cannot return home
You were like a louse
Hiding in the eye of the storm
In the middle of their war
In your escapades

Shocks!

And all the rest were also shocked
Mr. Takahashi
Has become your new name
While you bade goodbye
To the French journalist
At the airport
If the plane somehow crashes
Your name on the list is
Takahashi

“it is no longer funny” you said

Now you are wearing red
Your way of supporting
The oppressed monks of Burma
Who were tied on the posts
In Rangoon
And gunned by the soldiers there
Balding themselves
Pretending to be monks

And some were cremated
Alive

And you quipped
“Hello, what I am doing
Is both a political and
Fashion statement”
A joke and
Something serious
Like you and i
Just like chatting
Could be true
Could be false
I have no trust
What if the person beside me
Is only faking
Cheating me
What if what he said
Were all lies
We are just playing games
Hide and seek
Catching flies because
Everything is merely
To cover
Boredom

Sandwich fillings
Closing and opening
This lust
Close open
Close open
A baby’s game
Could be also because of missing the
Feeling of having to love again
Returning to the past
The shells long ago broken
Near the white thighs of the
Sea..

“Crazy”
“Fool”

That is actually what life is all about
True and false
Playful
Fate

Sometimes we travel to far places
East Timor, Burma, china, united states of America even the sierra madre, the malindang mountains


Got urinated by a tarsier
Got pecked by a monkey-eating eagle
The white cobra spat on me>

I have always flown away
On a plane
Always riding on a bus
On train, fast crafts, chopper and even
On a submarine then take the pick-up
On a pedicab on a motorcycle
Went down got on my worn-out sneakers
Walk again for hours and hours
Always crossing rivers
Eight or the ninth crossing the same river
Winding on the same mountain and the same forest and valleys
Then again crossing the same river
Sometimes too shallow on my heel then deeper up to my neck and chin and sometimes I have to swim
On the murky river and trip on big boulders
Walk, swim, and walk,
Trek again on the footpaths under the cogon grasses
Climb the cliffs
Take narrowing footpaths
Sharp stones
And then comes the muddy paths
Places which had much rain
And get flooded
Because of the rain
But there is another rain
I tell you
The rain of bullets
The rain of screams
For those who died here
Rain of sighs
Rain of cries of brains
I have seen much of this sort
Of rain
Shouting, crying, running, hiding,
Catch, hold, squat, dropp to the ground,
Jump, fall, run, catch, run,
Tie, beat, tie, and beat,
Slap, questions
There are no answers
Threat, ask, threat,
Convince,
Hit, box,
Wounds, bruises,
Inflamed, blood,
The wide expanse and the deepening depths
Of silence
Diffusing
All walked away
They left, they journeyed
And what was left on the river
Was the sound of a crying child
Looking for mother and father
And his three siblings

The wind caressed the leaves of the ipil-ipil
Stained by blood
Sticking
And diffusing on the roots
The Nipa huts
Are dead
Muted by all the sounds of pain
A while ago its doors
Were kicked and forced open
And there were holes on its windows
Where the bullets went through
With sparks

I have seen many of those who cried in my journeys
The cry of the widow sounding like cows bridled
Cries of children sounding like goats caught by their own rope
The cry of the beautiful maiden
Tears falling on her cheeks absorbed by her long and thick black hair

Sometimes with the many cries I heard and saw
The constancy and the frequency
Seemingly endless


And other ambiances or funeral senses>

Sometimes sometimes I begin to hear nothing
Sometimes I do not see anymore
Even if I have to face them
I seem to look much farther
And see nothing at all near me
My thoughts have gone to a very far journey
Away from them
Just like you
My thoughts will be traveling far, far away
Away from all these that face me

< I HAVE BECOME NUMB TO ALL THESE
MELODRAMA OF STRATEGIES AND RETALIATION
THIS ENDLESS WAR OF IDEOLOGIES
THESE MEANINGLESS STRUGGLES
ALL THESE
CRAP>

I am now in the faraway jungles of Burma
In East Timor, in the United States of America
I always have this dream
I have always traveled in this dream

I have to journey towards myself
I have to get inside my own brain
And I ask

For everything, for the places I have gone,
Have I gone to myself?
Have I ever gone to myself?
Where is this place?
Where is this going to be?
What ride will I take?
Going towards myself?

Hey pedicab driver,
Pedal me, take me
Towards myself
Please take me there
And dropp me by.


AND so in wearing red
And for those, those which you want to do and say
And the other thousand things you want done
Surely, There are, surely, still many of them
That my fingers cannot count and the other toes included

I will see you and your dreams
And your hopes
A face complete with a nose, a mouth,
Eyelids and ears
Cheeks and lashes &
Hair


I HAVE UNDERSTOOD NOTHING
I AM SEEING FARAWAY THINGS
YET I HAVE NOT SEEN ANYTHING
I HAVE TRAVELED FAR
YET I HAVE NOT ARRIVED ANYWHERE

These are what I have cried for
The cries
I have heard
More horrible than the cries
I heard on that river
On that river
Where my friends were gunned
And killed
Worst

WORST THAN THE SOUND OF THE SHOVELS
THAT DUG THE SHALLOW GRAVES
For ALL OF THEM
THE SOUND MUCH LOUDER
THAN THE BULLETS THAT RIPPED
THEIR HEARTS
THAT TORE THEIR CHEEKS
THAT PENETRATED THEIR SKINS AND FLESH


Had the chance to bite
Because mother and father
Had kept watch
Throughout the night>

This is my cry
Loud cry
Loud crying
Tears flooding from my eyes
Like the flood from the mountains
Where the tornado fell
But in that thunderous
Loud sound
Nonetheless

It is only I
Who heard it

This is
This is
This the cry
Of myself
I am
I am the only
It is only me
Mine alone
I am the only one hearing it.

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