Delight with the urchins while the oil socks the coral.

I awoke to the swoosh sound of windmill blades and memory of rain. When I finally came to consciousness there was no sound and no rain. Sara was asleep next to me. A bloody towel to my right spotted with semen and menstrual blood. The dog lay near the head of the mattress watching for signs. I kept thinking, “this is probably schizophrenia.” It’s not the first time I thought this. Once while dismounting the train in Belgrade I had a distinct thought that it was all a fiction, nothing real; plus it smelled like burning tires and the locals couldn’t corroborate – a sure sign of madnes. One can ride the swell of change like a champ, understand its currents. Act. That’s not me. I’m under the wave getting churned about with sand in my teeth. Most are watching from the shore, amazed by the fools perishing in the dangerous waters. But somehow I get calm when hope is abandoned and rise to the surface like a fluffy sliver of pork fat. Madness is not knowing; acting on ignorance, or rage, or abandon.

Delight with the urchins while the oil socks the coral. Darlin’ o’ darlin’, this is just what love is. And it goes on from there except I kind of stop myself before it gets too desperate and breathe deep and remember I’ve had four beers and some pills and the feeling will soon end and it won’t always stay beautiful despite my best efforts to keep it such.

Mack lost his job. How does a committed culinary artist like Mack, with three recent glowing reviews mentioning the man by name in this fair cosmopolitan city lose his work? One might ask. Power flogging. And it goes like this: Have a talk with “the man” to the buzzing and righteous tune of, perhaps, sir, more money as the wages are far lower than industry standards especially now that competence is clearly established and reputation built upon hard work and honest dedication. Receive response: house nigga’s still a house nigga, you work for what I pay you and that is what you are worth. Bye bye Mr. Man, hello desperation and fear and the American dream machine. And the machine they will get, for every decent human who has been graced by Mack’s loyalty and talent will pull together and answer to goodbyes with decisive action. Be damned the belligerent drunk, be damned the golfing fat ass that grips vainly at culinary glory in the shadows of better men, be damned the source of manpride womanizing that halted youth. Be damned that source of manpride that halted youth. The wave of change is rolling and we are over, under and between those tidal currents, and we understand now our toil.

And that is what we can count on, dear readers, because there is nothing more to lose. Not a lip smackin’, ass canin’, shit talkin’ thing. For youth! For youth.