This, and That Season

(and that)

I can hear winter getting ready to yell
into our faces, it powders and breaks
out in patches on car windows,

in splotches of fractal, untamed mandalas.
I can feel it coming to get me and
throw a snowball of ice into my brittle

and redder than usual face. To add soft
temporary white freckles to my burgundy
and hazel ones, to my orange ones. I can

see the dogs getting shaggier and their eyes
cooling, over-running then stopping for owner.
In the orchestral march of the stripped branches,

curling around the street like hands to a mouth,
about to devour the whole street, into the blinding
stomach of another dead, long and bitter winter.

She builds her army of men, fat but wiry, as
those in kitchen work lean into the stove now,
and the butchers add a layer, and grandmothers
stay home and do bingo on the radio, never winning.

I can feel it in my feet, too. Like a crypt-escaped
skeleton, I curl up when stationary without even
realizing I am doing it, I have no fascination with it,
I just watch it come in the morning, and after the sun,

It is killing me, this season.
The season, and All That.

autocrat rohtslov

ugly and sin worthy

i lay whats left of me

to the mime

and it sighs


back to me

i scrye

i shadow

and get jealous

we creep together in the sharp

edge of lies

we creep into the hope we might conjecture the obvious

cream above our diet

get ugly

get ugly with me

and stare into it with me

for i am but, the simplest child, of all your easy,
orphan thought

i am clasping at it


let me lay flesh and the ink that continues as a result let it be as easy a stroke of the name of mine as it possibly can, be


let me break it to you easy


we wasted our time making anothers rhyme

make me yours

and lets creep up together on it

lets swim out

easier, and

betray ours

it will mean

what it will mean

meaningful or


cry and wave with it

we are all

the wave

its intricate part its crescent

its crash






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BBC documentary exposes 50-year scandal of baby trafficking by the Catholic church in Spain | Daily Mail Online

Originally posted on Christian Spook :

BBC documentary exposes 50-year scandal of baby trafficking by the Catholic church in Spain | Daily Mail Online.

300,000 babies stolen from their parents – and sold for adoption: Haunting BBC documentary exposes 50-year scandal of baby trafficking by the Catholic church in Spain


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Up to 300,000 Spanish babies were stolen from their parents and sold for adoption over a period of five decades, a new investigation reveals. 

The children were trafficked by a secret network of doctors, nurses, priests and nuns in a widespread practice that began during General Franco’s dictatorship and continued until the early Nineties. 

Hundreds of families who had babies taken from Spanish hospitals are now battling for an official government investigation into the scandal. 
Several mothers say they were told their first-born children had died during or soon after they gave birth. 

Identity crisis: Randy Ryder as a baby being cradled in a Malaga hospital in 1971 by the woman who bought him

Identity crisis:…

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26 (Part 1)

Originally posted on A Homicide Survivor's Journey Through Grief:

When I landed in Halifax, instead of being greeted by my sister’s beaming smile, there were reporters asking me questions. I got a ride from my friend who dropped me off at the Dartmouth bus terminal where I picked up a copy of Metro News. It had a photo of my sister in the one shouldered, fuchsia dress draped in tulle and lace that was soft to the touch. We used to share all of our clothes and loved getting dressed up. Then I read the words paired with the photo. These were the only details anyone knew concerning her whereabouts. I felt warm tears sting my chapped cheeks as I made the pilgrimage to the Halifax Regional Police HQ. Two days of crying and wiping the tears away had irritated the same face that had been smiling just days before. A genuine smile or laugh wouldn’t emanate from my…

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all us hurting things
we stand up
at once
and laugh ourselves
into infamy
that stings like
frayed strings
until someone
changes them
and nobody else looking
the gift shop gets
robbed blind
while the house band
is forcefully
to re-enact
one thousand
year old rituals
for the sake
of function

and the sting
the sting
the sting
that hurting thing
continues thus

to sting
and outside
the front door
daylight broods a broadsword
we bring
we bring
we bring ourselves back indoors


it was another wild week
the irish brothers made a girl cry
after which she went on an anti jew tirade
and we told her to leave
i laughed and thought of you
how clever life is
when it creeps
and crawls
and slithers
and calls out
out with the peoples real desire
to hate as freely as nobody can love
we did it all on the street
we danced in a dozen bars
and laid on patches of clean grass
and told each other everything
and made a spectacle of the spectacle
and when it ended
it was well past dawn
because thats the way we do it
down here in st. johns

Cat Walk

The pitter patter, plain and eventful,
of hundreds of muscles of trees in sway,
that trace the winding catwalk
where the walker takes his walk,
in the boredom of night
finding the same alley cat
as most other nights,
and the memory it jogs of the
drug dealers pretty girlfriend
and her tattoos, universal & easy,
how she smoked and he, pierced to fuck
went on and on about having to quit another job
and the way she smoked and looked vacant
all at once, and the alley cat so
affectionate, like a thing starved for touch
and how the walker felt that way, too,
and the failure of it all
to change anything

but the beauty of it, too.


the wrong ones always teach you the most
about why they’re wrongs are yours
and how you’ll need to fix your own
before the next ones any different

but you always dream
you’ll meet someone in the exact scene
and time
and you’ll both escape
like some kinda new age cliffhanger

you are the kiss you begin with
you are the dance you end on
you are every night’s the best night
you always dream this free
you always look so enchanting?

in here
in this
in with me now
you are the best thing

but for me to really know you to love you I can’t really get that close to it or we will change this thing
this little thing we got right here
is called a conundrum
and it stings
as it is sweet

to be this cool
we have to lose something
been this way since
I was just skinny
and then, into scrawny
into scaled even,

I have yet to see anything go well
if it was just beds and knobsticks

we need it to work too
because more than just everything
depends on rain barrows

it’s impossibility that shadows love

and its them we need most
when we run short of lust
when we lose the ghost

the skeleton remains

and let me tell you
of all phenomenon to see it
dance like that

is it

Net Born

everywhere you go
you get caught up in it
the people are the throng
and the truth
and the trip itself
is made of their shared dreamscapes
the patterns are the closest we get to religion
we do them that justice
gyrating to the new because of its title
and nothing else
but the smell of street vendors at last call
and the army of slipping heeled legs
almost broken under the weight of the night
but still too young to shame a cab