CONTACTS 09.01.2017 A


More contacts.

Harsh Reality wrote that like my comment on “Life.” And, I did and do like it. Harsh Reality is also known as Opinion Man. He is someone who really puts a lot of thought into what he is writing and has a huge following.

Life

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MakeItUltra is another site worth visiting. The author speaks on therapy, narcissism, and narcissistic abuse. That can be found at https://makeitultrapsychology.wordpress.com/2017/08/10/5-signs-you-havent-fully-healed-from-narcissistic-abuse/

There he  offers 5 signs about narcissistic abuse. Very interesting.

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Man of Many Thoughts is another that I have commented on and is well worth a journey to his blog to see what he is writing about. Guaranteed he can set up a scenario  that will generate a lot conversations. https://keithgarrettpoetry.com/2017/08/18/dismantling-of-america/

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Then there is this delightful blog BlueFishh. The author welcomes you warmly and explains what she is all about in a few simple paragraphs. The blog used to be call Economix.

https://bluefishh.wordpress.com/about/?blogsub=confirming#blog_subscription-3

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If I could… (Friday Night Poetry Corner #142)

You have to visit this location. Seriously. The art work is interesting in itself, a bit confusing at first, but draws the artist/poet/searchers/etc (etc is a pretty big area) right in. So go, read.

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Lakshmi Padmanaban is an Indian girl who …. well, you can read about her at

https://thethoughtfulrants.wordpress.com/about/

if I tell you anything it will spoil the adventure of going and reading her blog. So, go, now. Just do it.

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jade0207  ah, this one is an area for ladies.

https://being1nsane.wordpress.com/2017/08/01/why-we-desperately-need-girl-friendships-in-todays-times/

164 bloggers like that page!!!!!!

Personally I have always had more girl relationships than male relationships. I guess I just like women more than men and, as far as my mom and dad were concerned, that was and is a good thing.  Women are just so incredible, love everyone I ever met.

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Later more on Delmer Smith and the victims whose blood he shed.

 

 

 

 

Beer Cans on the Counter and Random Thoughts at 0436 08.03.17


Just woke and fixed a salad made up of cucumber, sweet onion, tomato, and Caesar dressing. Love it. Thinking of writing a play. Wish I had the talent. Don’t think that I do. In the meantime I look at my family history and think of all the rich material there and believe it is sad to let the story not be told. I look at life and see mistakes, countless mistakes, and a tragedy that should never have occurred and wonder just how to handle it. I wonder if it should be told and does it really matter. I don’t know. Really. I don’t know. I just see this pile of shit (can I say that?) and wonder about it all. I wonder who would it matter to except for myself?

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Once
a poem by Gordon Kuhn Copyright 08.03.17

I was young once and lived all alone.
Each night I sat drunk in the dark
And listened to the neighbors fighting down the street
He said, she said, oh who gives a royal fuck.

My nightly dinner a plate of fresh boiled spaghetti,
The sauce a greasy mix of fried bacon with sweet onion
My drink a tepid six pack of cheap bought beer
The couch before the tv was my throne
And drunk I had not a drop of respectability
As I staggered about in my individuality
Inside the one bedroom apartment
Lost in a world without companionship
Lost without counsel, without guidance
And faced life confused and all alone.

Beer cans setting on the counter
One rolled up under the recliner rocker
Neighbors fighting down the street
He said, she said, oh who gives a fuck
Simply leave me alone, all alone
Its how I want to live, all alone
Being young once and eating a dinner of spaghetti
Its sauce fried bacon and onion on top a greasy mix
Washed down by a six pack of Old Milwaukee
I could not afford a better fare.

Beer cans setting on the counter
My body asleep on the floor
Alcoholism was the bed time Teddy Bear
Beside the bed near the door
Where I could see the beer can under the rocker
The neighbors screaming, fighting down the street
He said, she said, oh who gives a fuck.

Beer cans setting on the counter
The neighbors fighting down the street
He said, she said, oh who really gives a fuck.

Poem: Heartbeat at Night /// 8.1.17 A


Heartbeat at Night




by Gordon Kuhn
Copyright 8.1.2017 all rights reserved.

I stand alone in the steamy dark
Listening to the sound my heart beat makes all alone
and the other voices there never reply
no matter how I call out their names and I fight and try
to hear a voice, a single voice,  come to me from out of the sky
For I am all alone in the steamy night
I speak to the dusk surrounding and there is no response
My words echo back so lonely in the night
I speak to the darkness surrounding and there is no response
for living ghosts never show themselves in séance
at least none that I have ever found
and their voices never reply, and they, should they try?
to be so earthly bred and bound a monument to the living
no matter how much I speak and try and I cannot make it by
listening for a single voice to be found, just one to speak to me
as I stand all alone in the night, the steamy night and am so alone
to hear a voice come out from the sky, to simply reach me before I die
from those there standing so clearly in my sight

New Car and Other Random Thoughts


Have a new used car. Jumped into a 2016 Honda Odyssey EX-L. White with light interior. Sliding doors on the side and a power rear door. It has all the bells and whistles.  It has a camera on the right side for making turns and the first time it came on I thought I had lost part of the car as I didn’t know it was there. Fast. Smooth. Not like the 2007 Chevy. PU truck that was my love and I planned on being buried in it. Alas, not to be. Too hard a ride to go to GA and other places and besides Tread, the German Shepard service dog was miserable and getting rebellious about getting in and out of the truck. Suzie, the Great Pyrenees had no problem. She was a love and I miss her and her brother, Sergio, and Tifton the little brown dog we found one Labor Day weekend driving through Tifton County in GA.

rabbit tears – run rabbit run


Chapter one: How do I love thee, let me count thy bruises.

He stood in front of her rubbing the knuckles on his right hand staring down at her where she sat on a wooden chair in front of him. He growled as she reached up to where blood trickled from the bruised flesh below her right eye. Touched it, saw the blood, then lowering her arms clasped her hands in front of her on her lap. Slowly she looked up at him with tears racing down to her chin. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he voice trembled. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

The year was 1926. She was just 19 and he was 27.

He slapped her hard jerking her head to the left. She slowly recovered. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“So, my mother and sister are liars?” Blood stood against the vows of marriage. Sometimes blood is stronger, and in this case it was. “They saw you at the theater”

“No,” her voice wavered, “no they, if anyone it was Virginia and all I did was acknowledge an old school friend.”

“Who you then went into the movies with.”

“He had his girlfriend with him”

“You sat with him.”

“I sat with them, not with him,” she said her face hurting her badly. Her tongue slipped sideways and found a tooth had been dislodged.

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Bacon and eggs and coffee, please.


So, there you have it. Breakfast in a world where many have nothing to eat and there are those who blame us for that tragedy and yet the “old world” was established for a very long time and mostly lives in pre-Christian  terms. America became independent, went to work, used capitalism, not socialism or communism and definitely not under a dictatorship government to get to be where we are today. Yet, there are those who want to toss all that away out of fear that someone might come along and kill them. Well, get real people, there are people out there that will kill you just because that is the goal and sucking up to them isn’t going to save your ass but challenging them and fighting for what we have here will at least give us a chance. If you believe that socialism or communism is great then for goodness sakes don’t let the door smack you in the ass going to where those economies are. You want to live in a dust bowl with killers running around then go, but please don’t expect everyone else to follow your hysteria while you drop your drawers so you can be violated by thugs.

Dinner With Diane Brinker


Jan and I were very fortunate to have as a dinner guest yesterday evening Diane Brinker who was one of  the eight sisters of Kathleen Briles. There were 9 girls and 2 boys. Diane shared a lot of details with us and it was a pure blessing to simply be able to sit and talk with her. In some ways, having conversations with her and others, the people in these stories become family to me as I ride along listening to the fun days and the sad days. It is so sad to me to meet them with all this pain brought about by one person, and the tragedy is that Kathleen would not have died if the FBI had not failed to keep their computer data base up to date. Diane shared photos of her sister and her family with us. It was a wonderful evening but so tragically  brought about. It leaves me with a major responsibility to write Nightmare in Terra Ceia with as much sensitivity as I can muster.