ORAN DAYDREAM

Oran Daydream
PM 1311022

Sometimes it hurts to read but the

words must somehow press their way

out of the book and into my brain,

it doesn't hurt but I can't resist the call

and I can't resist the feeling I get to

press on and find out what has been

presented to me. I feel and hear the

rattling in my brain as I need to know

what is going to happen on the next page,

skipping forward in impatience only to have

to go back when I realize I've missed

something important.

Visions of The Pink Panther drowning in

a pink asbestos pool are replaced

by a couple dead arabs on the beach and

I realize I have gone too far and need

to retrace my steps, get the hell out of 

Algeria and move on to safer habitats

in the world, moving forward but not

averse to hiding in the shadows as long

as it might take.

Oh, how mighty I am and I easily 

defeat all the snakes and monsters in my mind

only to be frightened by a small dog

as I walk to the store to buy a package

of cigarettes. Why be afraid of a 

small dog when lung cancer should be

weighing on my brain in a much

more profound way.

The barriers are so high and so many

survivors are keen to tell their stories

about how they leapt over them while I am

most concerned about finding the secret

door to sneak through when nobody is watching.

But the East German guards are always

there at the top of the wall,

waiting this time to shoot people trying to sneak

under while helping others who are braving the

elements and trying to get over the top.

I will never be one of those survivors, I don't

have it in me and if I did, I would only try

harder to get rid of it.

I cower behind the chairs in the cafe across

the street and wonder when it will finally be

my turn to shoulder all the responsibility the

world has to offer. How can one mature in a 

world that has so obviously crowned youth

as the ultimate victor and ageless wonders

land in the Guiness Book of World Records

still starving to death and wondering how to

spend their welfare cheques.

MCC

HOTEL LAS VERBENAS

Hotel Las Verbenas
PM 1311021

I paint myself a bright, neon orange

but it still comes out black,

as black as the most evil night,

like in Argentina when the power goes 

out and there are no cars around to

at least show intermittent light.

No beacon to lead you back in from that

stormy night or just to remind you that

you are alive and not just gone blind.

Lying in a bed under a window I see nothing

outside and from the inside all I get is

the glowing ember from a cigarette

quickly lighting up that face and then I

wish it had never been lit up at all.

I lie there, so scared and so frightened,

we are in Mendoza, a beautiful city

but so frightening at night when all the

lights are off.

I hear so many motorcycles in the 

distance and hope none are coming for me.

Bike gangs take on a different meaning here,

a means to travel cheaply and nothing

more, I had seen a raven that afternoon

as we arrived at the city and stopped for gas.

Hotel Las Verbenas, I saw the sign but had no

idea what it meant and I couldn't get my

mind off the stupid raven.

It haunted me even more as I lay there

awake, dreading the moment I might hear

the crash of the door being broken down by a

jack-boot. They wouldn't bother to 

interrogate children, we didn't know 

anything, they would just shoot us and

dump us in an unmarked grave somewhere,

or leave us dead on the roof for the crows.

What was that raven doing at the gas station

and what did he know about us? What did

he know about me and the things I had been

up to? Once again, the strike of a match, a quick

glow and then only an ember, more pronounced

upon inhalation, just enough to shed light on

the devil.

I had seen so many spiders that day

and now I was at their mercy,

there could be one inches in front of my face

and I couldn't do a thing about it.

Maybe there was a rat right by my pillow just

waiting to gnaw my nose off,

sharpening his teeth on a rusty fork,

I could scream but nothing would come out,

but then the power comes back on,

at least the air conditioner is working again.

MCC

SHATTERING GLASS

Shattering Glass
PM 1310044

A slight disenchantment coupled with a complete

lack of interest, I can't tell and I can't put the

jigsaw puzzle together. I must be really stupid

or perhaps just completely insane,

I have trouble putting the two together and more

trouble admitting that I am neither.

I used to be strong, or at least I thought I

was, I can't move around like I used to

and nothing gravitates to me anymore,

I am giving off anti-matter,

and I don't know what it is.

how can I be giving something off if I 

don't know what it is?

I guess I just know that I am emanating

something and people just know enough to stay

away from it.

I used to be able to thread a needle at arms

length, but now if I don't have my glasses

on there is very little, if no, sewing being done in my

life. I can't fix a button and I never knew how

to repair a zipper,

Who does anymore?

No point in crying, salty tears only leave

streaks and sometimes it hurts to wash your

face, battery acid pools in the wrinkles,

scouring them for certain but not the

kind of clean you were looking for.

The bench in the park seems the most

likely place to take that load off,

watch as the world passes you by

instead of making any effort to become a part

of it, each passerby leaves behind something

in their wake, your choice whether to make

a positive catch or not, let out the fishing line

and don't try to hook anything,

let something bite your hook.

I lay awake all night and wonder how I will

make it through the next month,

do I have the where with all to imagine the amount

of scenarios it takes to make a complete day?

There are so many holes in the universe

and each step is a risk and a victory at the

same time. Walking on glass is not a metaphor

to be used wisely especially for those who live

in glass houses.

Feel the glass crack under your feet and

wonder when its going to break, what is

underneath to break your fall, will it save

you, will you kill it or will it kill you,

its too far to move off the glass

so you have to take the next step.

MCC

GREAT NEON GHOSTS

Great Neon Ghosts
PM 1310043

The surface is bright white, sparkling

when clean enamel, it brings out many

of the blemishes right to the forefront,

much like my personality, out in the open

yet hidden down a dark hallway

the doors all have cobwebs on them and

there is nothing to direct you to which

one to open.

People walk through this corridor

every once in a while but they fear to 

open the doors,

strange noises come from the insides

and it makes more sense to run than it

does to investigate.

Sometimes I sit out in the hallway

preparing ginger tea,

not to impress, just to settle my stomach

and I get the strange leer,

the dead eye,

and I cringe in my chair hoping that

nobody is on to me,

and I crawl back into the room leaving

the smell of boiled ginger in my wake.

Its cool behind the door, and I play the 

ever-looping tape of eerie noises and

dog's barking, just to keep everyone

else at bay.

Nobody would dare open the door with

any idea of what was going on in there.

A very lonely man, alone, sipping from a 

mug of ginger tea, wondering why the world

chose to pass him by, why his neon did not

light up, the gas didn't pass through the right

connections and left him lifeless.

The neon flashes so brightly in Las Vegas

beckoning all those stupid enough

to give their life over to reckless abandon

for a weekend of thrills and a plastic beer mug

full of tokens.

I toss my neon back into the clouds and bid

it a fond farewell,

my journey has to be different and with the

difference it becomes much darker,

an unlit path, careful on the turns

and stay out of the corners, there might be

something awful in there.

Who can resist not going onto the corners,

I am unable and even though I know I

shouldn't, I still venture inside every

time I am confronted by one.

MCC

приветствовать любителей русской поэзии!

To My Russian Readers!

приветствовать любителей русской поэзии!

I have noticed a lot of visitors from Russia lately, more than anyone else actually, please feel free to contact me or leave any message on my writing. I am very excited to learn of the sudden interest.

AMBER LIGHT

Amber Light
PM 1310042

The light has switched from red to green

to yellow a number of times but I

am unable to move forward when it

goes green and by the time I manage to

coax it forward just a little the light has

switched back to red.

I am in trouble, all signs point to

just go through the red light and hope

for the best,

face the consequences when you get there,

and if nobody sees you, you will be safe until

the next set of lights,

it never crosses your mind to take the car in

and get it fixed,

solve the problem before you get to the light

and then they will all turn green in unison

and you can sail right through

unimpeded.

Why do I wallow in such stubbornness 

when I could easily soar above the land

and watch it as it blends everything up

into the turmoil that is life.

I feel it deep inside me, scraping the insides

and absorbing the refuse

instead of rejecting it.

How can I soar above such an ugly plain

and why does the fog always choose to

roll in just as I am preparing to lift

the front wheels off the tarmac.

Somebody left the side doors open and

now all the refuse of the world is pouring

in, unchecked,

and I can't keep up with it all.

I don't even want to, and as I watch it

flow by I realize that sooner or later it will

clear itself up and run opaque again,

I can't keep adding to it forever,

so if I stop it had to rejuvenate on its'

own, I am not in control, I never will

be so as I lay next to it I can only

pray that goodness will one day come through

and the stream will run free and clean.

Talk about biting off more than I could

ever chew, a small weight lifts off my

insides and reminds me again that I was

once a child,

but on that thought the darkness sets in and

the child I never knew is dead,

he never had a chance,

born without a bullet-proof vest

I took way too many shots to the head.

MCC

DISQUIET WEIGHT

Disquiet Weight
PM 1310141

I thought I had left my hard outer shell

behind, I know it had fallen off and I had

kicked it into the gutter,

it lay there, lifeless and I laughed at it as I

continued walking on, I should have

taken a picture of it because I now

forget what it looks like and now it may

be possible that it never happened at all.

In any case, the shell has begun to grow

back and its hard as steel this time. Nothing

will be able to penetrate it and this should

make me feel safe,

but it doesn't,

I am as vulnerable as the day I was

born and I know something is going

to land on top of me one of these days,

maybe not a grand piano, but something

heavy and the soft spot on top of my head

is the target.

I can't make it safe,

neither can I extend my shell over the

top of my head, it is always out in the

open, bare to the cold, the ill-will and

they try and enter it using a cold hammer

and chisel.

Every time I try to fight back, I grow cold

or I fall asleep,

something always happens to make me falter

and I realize why, always too late and

too quickly, I realize why.

Nothing can escape the final weight that

bears down upon you,

and I can't be strong anymore,

anymore.

I never wad and the lack of strength

has been my downfall,

and the reason the soft spot never hardened.

All would say its best to wear a hat but thats

only more weight,

and I do not need more weight on my

head, I can't carry what I have now.

Sadness is keeping me down and I am

drowning, not in tears but in pools of

self-loathing and mistrust,

unable to fight the monsters, I retreat

and berate myself for being such a coward.

I am not strong and never was,

I don't feel until well after its already

gone and by then is too late,

I can't get up in the morning and I can't sleep at night.

MCC

RAGEOUT

RAGEOUT
PM 1307301



Too many are waiting outside for my
arrival and I can't understand why
there is no one else who can look after
them right away.

I curse all of them inside as I throw 
out my cigarette and realize that my 
soup is going to get a lot colder before
I get the chance to eat it.

People are stupid, and the less smart they
are, the quicker they become more impatient
and more demanding.

I feel like they think I am the devil,
or at least his servant,
thrown here to abuse them and treat
them like the dirt they wallow in
day and night.

I don't care anymore, I treat them as
they treat me, relying on the first impression
to make a template for my future dealings,
but they eye me with such distrust that I have
no discourse but to bristle at them and this
is evident in my eyes.

Once they feel that initial stab, there is
no winning them back,
the poison was released in the
quills and the only antidote is to treat
me poorly,
no greater revenge than to remind me of
who I am and where I have ended up.

Instead of smoothing things over, I stir up
the water into a torrid whirlpool of hate and
animosity,
I stir and I stir until I have made
myself seasick from the motion.
Mal de mer which translates into more
distaste on their part and I know they 
hate me even more.

Even when I smile at them they feel
as though they are being spat upon,
my smile can only be fake now,
false as false can be,
yet I can now flash them at will
and at the very least, I'm not automatically
considered an outcast.

They still leave, seething just a little
as they have paid, and paid dearly
and though they think they are in control,
or at least that they deserve to be in control,
I am the one who has won,
at least for the time being, a shallow victory,
is still a victory.


MCC

ROADSIDE EMPANADAS

ROADSIDE EMPANADAS

PM0906133

The young girl at the side of the road looked no

more than nine or ten years old, maybe she was

twelve and suffered from malnutrition,

I couldn't be sure.

The basket she carried on her hip was huge

it looked bigger and weighed far more than she

did, all sorts of small packages, balls wrapped 

in napkins, steam coming off them in the early

morning cold.

As she climbed onto the bus, nimble as an elf,

the aroma hit me full in the face,

beef and onions, olives, all fresh and just off

the fire I would wager.

She smiled a mouth only half full of teeth,

whether it was her age or poor oral health,

I couldn't be sure, maybe a mixture of both.

I bought four for ten pesos, two dollars, more or less,

I offered one back to her but she refused,

she continued on towards the back of the bus

returning five minutes later with an empty basket,

I marveled at her salesmanship, yet a bus full

of hungry passengers was an easy sell.

They were delicious yet I couldn't help but picture

the bug-infested kitchen they were prepared in

and the less than sanitary hands that crimped the

dough and then so gently placed them in the

boiling oil. The dirty hands that wrapped them

in the napkins and gently filled the basket, trying

not to break any of them and have all their

goodness spill out.

How far did she have to walk to reach the road

and then how long did she have to wait for the

bus to come?

And when she got home, did she clean herself

up and begin the long walk to school,

or did she just fill up with more pastries and

get ready to go and wait for the next bus?

How does one analyze the different worlds

people live in without feeling a stab of pain

and wonder how some people live so poorly, 

and we complain when we are living so well.

I ate those four empanadas so quickly, as if they

were nothing, I didn't resent that I had paid the 

foreigner's rate, I just enjoyed them until the

bitterness arose in me so vile as to how many

might have suffered for me to have something to eat in

the morning after a long bus ride.

Her face was so dirty and sad and I will never

see her again as long as I live,

and she could be out there right now, waiting for

the next bus, an empty desk in a schoolhouse.

MCC

BARBARIAN AT THE GATE

BARBARIAN AT THE GATE

PM0906132

The gates loomed above me as I got off the bus,

I had been looking out the window,

and as I spotted the King David Hotel and

considered getting off and going on to use their

washrooms. The hostel washroom had been very busy

that morning and the smell had sent me outside

to urinate against the side of the wall.

Everyone out at nine in the morning sharp, a cookie

and some orange juice, that was the free fucking

breakfast? The orange juice was canned, we had

passed acres of orange groves on the ride from the

airport and I was given an paper cup of canned juice?

Anybody would have felt ripped off.

Back to the gate, it was so high, how the hell did they

build that without using a modern day crane,

it must have taken years,

I entered, everyone looked seedy, not a smiling

face in sight.

I was glad I hadn't shaved in days and I had

left my backpack at the hostel so I didn't think I

looked like a tourist, a terrorist perhaps! The aroma

of nearly a thousand different food stalls permeated my

nostrils and slapped me right across the face.

Finally I felt somewhere strange, exotic, alien,

everything I didn't want to see wasn't there,

no McDonalds or Dairy Queen,

and not a doughnut in sight. No sign of

the stars and stripes here but the sight of

so many yarmukhas and uzis in the same spot

was unnerving, so nothing I had ever seen before

and as I stopped to buy some sesame cakes

from a vendor I got some strange looks,

as though I shouldn't have been buying

anything from this person.

I walked on, munching, but still feeling very

uneasy and I couldn't dream of a spot I might

fit in here.

The ugly foreigner, perhaps, but I wasn't up to no

good and they should have known that.

I continued on my adventure through the city,

so much to buy and not a lot of money in my pocket,

learn to shop with your eyes at all times, I was told,

you don't have the means to carry any of that shit

around with you even if you could afford it.

Leave it for the rich Americans who could pay for the

extra luggage and who had lots of room to store the shit

when they got back to Albuquerque.

I smelled hash coming from the back of one of the stalls,

now there was something I could afford, and finally

someone smiled at me as I walked towards the back

of the stall.

MCC

FEAR SWEAT

FEAR SWEAT

PM0906131

The red light flashed and a buzzer rang,

but I ignored the customs guy and tried

to nonchalantly walk out the door.

Not today, I was called back and sent into

a room with my luggage.

Screw this, I thought, I'm not in a hurry,

and I don't have anything illegal,

I just want to get the fuck out of here.

I can't take it anymore.

I waited and I waited,

what a bunch of assholes, I just wanted

to get out and have a smoke,

I had been on the plane for hours and if

they had let me outside for two minutes I would

have happily sat there for hours as they tore

through my suitcases looking for heroin and ecstasy,

or whatever it was they thought I was trying

to smuggle back in.

I had lots of alcohol, maybe twenty bottles of wine,

but that's not what they were hunting,

why should they care about alcohol,

and the worst-case scenario was they would take it

away or charge duty on it,

fuck them, whichever they decided, just make the

decision and let me get the hell out of there.

I put on my most uncooperative face and just

sat there as if I had all the time in the

world, which I did, but then again,

I didn't.

I smiled as they pawed through my dirty 

clothes, they looked for secret compartments,

and they even opened my notebooks to see if

they could decipher what was on my mind.

Nothing.... doodles, swastikas are not illegal, we

are not in Germany or Israel,

frown and suck in your breath all you

want, I have done nothing wrong.

I answer the questions that I have not listened

to or understood and I wonder what they really

think of me. They are so interested in my notebook

and I can't help but laugh at the irony, I have 

tried so hard to get people to read what I have

written, but there are so few takers, yet these idiots

seem to be glued to every word, every pen stroke

every nuance, they didn't spend this much time

on my laptop for crying out loud and there could have

downloaded upskirt pics in there that

could have raised an eyebrow or two. Finally

they close my bag, look at me as though they are about

ready to spit and then they send me on my way

with a wave and a scowl, oh that cigarette was Heaven.

MCC

Engineering Open House

Visiting as a parent of a new student, what a different environment! !!!

RADISSON OLIVES

Radisson Olives
PM1303162

The sun shines, melting all the snow of

the previous night, all the vestiges of a hard night of

work destroyed in the twinkling of an eye.

I aspire to vanquish the storm clouds

on the horizon and deep inside my mind

but they remain, fluttering eyelids will not

make the blackness disappear nor the

cold icy blast of Arctic air that comes

streaming across the parking lot and taking

up room in my heart.

Though my feet may freeze and my fingertips 

turn black and fall off,

I cannot warm them, not even by

sticking them directly into the epicenter of

a fire, icicles still dangle, tauntingly,

and I can only wonder how the fuck that 

is possible.

I feel the poison building back up in

my brain,

every time I breathe it is there to

remind me who is in control and the

amount of time I actually have left.

The poison, whether up from my heart

or downward from my brain, its trying

to destroy me from the inside out and

I can't see far enough inside

to get the poison out. If I can't see

it the doctors will claim its not there

but I know it is there and I can feel

it slowly digesting the insides of my

skull cavity. All this time I thought

it was my teeth, but it goes far deeper

than that.

To truly rid myself of all poison I would

have to cut off my own head,

not a viable option,

at least if I am still deciding to

keep on going.

Can't make a go without the head.

Blow it all out disintegrating tissue after

tissue,

the only way to survive but it will surely

catch me one day,

one day it won't stop until every

ounce of fluid has been drained from my

body and I will remain, mummified,

in whatever position I happened to be in.

Other choices exist but I am blind to their

existence, be it dictated by intelligence or

even common sense, both curiosities I'm not sure

I possess.

Turning over I wonder if the next

breach will be my last,

will I feel something inside me

permanently detach and spell out

the last thing I will ever do.

Will I drain over a clean surface

leaving a blot or stain where I once was,

or will it simply be washed over with a

mop and a bucket of water and pine-sol?

The people I see here are getting dumber 

by the second,

so many vacant looks and equally

vacant stares,

they ask me questions while the answers

are there, open, right in front of their faces,

yet they don't possess the eyesight to just reach

out and take it.

It would be so easy,

yet life is not easy and it never 

promised to anyone to be easy,

they certainly got that one right

as an unfettered run is next to

impossible.

I glimpse into the future daily and I

never see that silver lining

that is rumored to exist in each cloud,

only endless billowing that seems so

light, yet weighs us all down with such

excruciating force and dexterity.

You want to blow it all away with a hair

dryer but there is no extension chord long

enough to reach to the sky for that purpose.

Instead you watch them and try to

figure out what shapes they have transformed

themselves into on that day,

when you know deep down that it has only

been a matter of chance,

and surreal exercise in your mind.

A dog, a cat, Otto Von Bismarck, you can turn

them into anything you want to.

I prefer land masses to people or animals,

you can't insult anyone that way,

how can one not appear to be fat if they

are told they look like a cloud?

Furious rage is beaten down onto your head

as you try and make sense of every

oxymoron you have ever heard,

and you have run out of ideas on how

to make any more.

Bittersweet irony was the only irony ever

invented.

MCC

HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

Home For The Holidays
PM1303161

John Fitzgerald Kennedy International Airport, New York

City, the bar looked out on to the various

runways, while planes from the world over

taxied by, filled with wild-eyed vacationers,

some heading home, possibly for a funeral or

maybe even a birth,

long shot case even a circumcision, but then

again, why would they be leaving New York.

I ordered my third whiskey sour and decided

maybe I should slow down, I had four or

five hours to kill, most could be done in front

of this window but if I fell asleep I would get

in trouble.

Royal Air Maroc, LOT and Aerflot, one behind the

other, I guessed Casablanca, Warsaw and Moscow

and I was probably right. I could 

make out the faces inside the tiny windows

and no matter the amount of happiness it

was always overpowered by the fear.

The Fear.

The fear of crashing into the ocean,

the fear of being late,

the fear of a mid-air collision and your

body disintegrating beyond recognition.

The fear of a customs dog picking up on the

scent of marijuana embedded in your

jean jacket no matter how many times

you had it washed,

how long would you last in a South American 

jail,

and would they even notify anyone to come

and get you out?

I doubt it.

It's easy, just don't get on the plane.

Not so easy, I already checked my luggage,

it will go anyway,

and how do I get back to Toronto,

I don't have a return ticket.

Avianca flight # whatever, I'n not going to

Bogota, finally I see the Aerolineas 

Argentinas jumbo jet move down the tarmac

and into a dock.

At least I know the plane is there and I

forget everything else, instead deciding to have 

another whiskey sour, I wish I was back

at school and the holidays were over.

By the time I'm ready to board, I'm drunk,

by the time take-off rolls around, I am asleep,

somewhere over the Amazon I awake to

find they have kept my meal warm and the flight

is running smooth as silk.

Ezeiza in the morning, just in time for breakfast.

MCC

GRASS WEEDS

Grass Weeds
PM1303154

The fear chased after me on Saturday and

Sunday but did not overtake

I was too quick.

Forgetting about work I set in strongly

and protected myself from her evil work,

the way she pulls at my brain stems and

tries to clog up my heart,

stopping the blood and killing me slowly,

I don't know how to react but I know I

must run,

not to feel the steely, icy grip that cannot

be unclenched by even the greatest will.

No matter how fast I run there is never

a good place to hide,

when I come upon one that seems good

enough,

I talk myself out of it, bad reasoning

as to how it can be breached and

how long I will last in the shadow.

The shadow moves faster and will still one

day envelop them all, I know this but I must

run from it anyway, knowing the day I am

caught I will beg to be tortured but it will

refuse and I will have to face it fully sane

and fully clothed.

It is not what I fear but is also

everything I fear at the same time.

I will be forced to stand up straight,

shaking knees and sore feet will go

against me but I will be held up by a

power yet unseen, blood will harden and I

will stand as rigid as a statue,

hovering over an ancient background,

fallen bodies and blood long replaced by grass

weeds and wildflowers, a blight upon the

existence of man yet the beauty of nature

overcomes all. One foot lies firmly embedded

in the sand while the other is just as secure

entrenched in the mud, neither can break free but

one isn't as bad as the other.

I cease to struggle, it only makes matters 

worse and I wait for the light to come on

and blind me in it's magnificence. I shield

my eyes, waiting for the blindness that will

soon overtake me, I welcome it as much

as I fear it.

Here comes the candle to light you to bed,

Here comes the chopper to chop off your head.

Winston, you should have stayed in your own

apartment, things were a lot safer there.

MCC

REVEILLE

Reveille
PM1303153

The rain beat down on the window,

lulling me to sleep and keeping me awake

at the same time.

I looked up but couldn't see, pure darkness

except for the occasional flash of lightning

that illuminated the room for a few brief

seconds, actually making things eerie

and more frightening.

The luminous dials on the clock showed

four-thirty, not enough time for a good sleep

but not late enough to completely give up

and rise to start another day.

The fear had set in long before the loneliness

and I clenched my eyelids tight hoping

that whatever was there didn't exist, or

at least would go away.

Opening my eyes would only bring it to

life, I could see no evil and there would 

be no evil.

I could picture any over-exaggerated,

sabre-toothed monster which would quickly

turn comical and I could just laugh

the fear away.

Other times I would overdo it and absolutely

scare the shit out of myself.

I could try to scream out a name or

be primal, but nothing would elicit from

my throat as I tried in vain to force the air out

of it. Nobody around to hear the scream

anyway, the people upstairs screamed all

the time and I never went up there to see

what was the matter, I didn't care about 

them so why should they care about me.

I rose finally, shaking off the mental pictures

I had created and went to lie on the couch,

the living room was brighter and dawn was

making an entrance.

As I looked outside I could see the trees,

indistinctly but I knew they were there. It was

still raining and the whole world had

become wet overnight, the snow was almost all

melted and an eerie, greenish brown lies

underneath, yet carrying the hope that

spring is going to come sooner or later. I lay

on the couch facing the front window and the

sky is appearing painted in loneliness, I watch

as the dawn slowly uncovers everything and

reminds me where I am.

After preparing a pot of

coffee and lighting a smoke, I ponder the future and

try and decide if I should search for a job

that day.

MCC

EILAT BEACH

Eilat Beach
PM1303152

The cops had caught him fair and square

but he couldn't bear to be arrested,

he had shot his mouth off too many times

down on the beach,

accepting a few free Maccabees he had

spilled the beans, where he had done it,

who he had done it to, and how he had

got away with it. Luck was on his side as

someone heard him, and turned him in,

instead of leaving it to vagrant justice.

They would have beaten him to death,

I know, I saw it happen a number of 

times and became sickened to my surprise.

Blood flows so crimson and wide, staining

pavement for yards around the victim.

First the cops surrounded him,

there were five of them against one,

nobody would come to his aid after what

they heard, as if fearing injury they all

pulled out their batons,

five batons, one head.

He screamed in pain as the first two hit

his skull, but fell silent as he fell down,

they continued to pummel his lifeless body,

as it lay on the dirt floor.

They stopped as the bleeding became heavy

and worry overcame them as they feared

they might have hit him one too many times,

one felt for a pulse and upon realizing

there still was a faint one they grabbed

him by the hands and feet and began

pulling him out of the bar. He left a

trail of blood in the dirt as they dragged him

out, through the window I watched as they

threw him into the back of a van. They 

could have done that to anyone, I thought,

they didn't even question him. I had half 

a pint left but I couldn't finish it, it had

gone sour and the smell of blood was

making me ill. One of the women from

behind the bar began sweeping up the clots

of blood lodged in the dirt, cursing all of

us as though we were all animals and

we all deserved to be dragged out of there

unconscious, hardly a good way to make any

tips but her hatred ran deep. I left my beer

on the counter and walked out into the hot desert

afternoon sunshine and tried to draw some life

from the awesome heat. Nothing doing, my blood

had run cold and it would take more than forty

degrees to warm it back up.

MCC

SCHOOLDAYS

Schooldays
PM1303151

After the surprise beating to the hands,

six mighty whacks on each with a leather

strap,

following the even more ignoble punishment,

the ultimate blackmail, unfulfilled,

I make a beeline for the door,

yet reaching there I find my hands are too

sore to manage the knob.

I twist the gnarled claws and somehow

manage to awkwardly wrap them around

the knob,

then I twist my body instead of the hand

to turn the knob and get the fucking 

door open, my comical antics create

laughter, elicit mirth from the two ogres

relishing my discomfort, knowing they

have been absolved by a signature of my

father who allowed the torture.

When questioned later about why he

allowed these events to transpire he

joined the ranks of millions of Germans

who claimed and asserted they had no idea

of what went on behind the fences and the

gates.

Absolution! Absolution, what you can't

see, doesn't exist in some scenarios,

most severe punishment, the way it os

described in the brochure, most severe

punishment, here is how it could

have been more truthfully described;

Your child will be approached by an overweight,

porno-collecting pedophile with a foot long

leather strap which he will apply to your

child's hands with as much energy as he can

muster. To add insult to injury he will

also laugh at him as he tries to open the 

door to get the hell out of there and to top

it all off he will make him lead the entire school

in grace at lunch that day.

Possibly your child may also have been forced to

perform fellatio on the chaplain earlier that

morning and that's how he ended up there in the

first place.

I'm sure attendance and enrollment would have

suffered if that notice had shown in the brochure.

The alcoholic pedophile resides six feet under

at the moment and I can't think of a better

place for him, the other, I'm sad to report,

still lives, but I need to know what he is

living with and if he ever thinks back to

that morning and smiles, or throws up,

I need to know.

MCC