A New Word I'd Like To Introduce Into The Venacular

Working in a bar you meet all kinds of people. I dig people. I’m a people person. But some people cause me to ponder.



Picture this:

You meet someone, whether in real life or online, and you initially find them kinda intriguing. You don’t know why exactly. They are not your usual type. They may be off-the-wall, slightly offbeat, or just OFF. They might even be a little shady. But on the personal tip, you have always prided yourself on having a very LOW stankosity quotient. You're that sort of person who can get along with most anyone (at least until they give you a reason NOT to). This is just the way you roll. You try not to judge people. So if someone steps to you, you don't put up the sign of the cross if they happen to have bad skin, bad teeth, missing teeth, or a single rotten toofus… You are able to overlook the bad grammar, a bad odor, or a little whiff of danger. They might come off a little too shrill… a little ill, but still there’s this dirty little thrill about them.



They entertain and they amuse you. In your own private way, you actually kinda like them, and almost admire their swagger and sway. But you’re not exactly falling in dig with them.



Anyway... They leave you their number, but you know you’ll never call them. Yet, there’s some strange thing that's almost, but not quite appealing about them.



Maybe they provide good convo. Maybe they make you laugh in spite of yourself. Maybe they possess an esoteric kinda charm thing, or perhaps a certain strain of edginess.




No. They are not drop-dead gorgeous, or whip-smart, and not particularly your cup of hot java. Still… you find them interesting… Interesting, yes… BUT maybe just a little stank.





And sometimes you find yourself wondering: hmmmmmm… what up with those people… those interesting, yet slightly stank people?





Interestanks I calls em.





I’m sure you must know a few interestanks, right?





Ponder.





One.

Miriam Makeba aka Mother Africa Draws Her Last Breath

MIRIAM MAKEBA: AFRICAN SONGTRESS DIES AT 76

MIRIAM MAKEBA, the Empress of African Soul collapsed on stage in Castel Volturno, Italy during a Sunday solidarity concert on behalf of six Ghanaians who immigrants who were shot to death several months ago.

She died on Monday from a heart attack at the local hospital.

To her dying day, she gave voice to those who no longer had a voice.

MIRIAM MAKEBA was born in South Africa on 03-04-32 and became a famous songtress of South African music and a vocal opponent of the Apartheid policies of the South African Government. After starring in an anti-government documentary that was filmed outside of the country and entitled; "Come back Africa" (1959) she was banned for over 30 years from returning to her home country. Becoming the most famous performer out of "Black Africa" she was called "Mama Africa".

I clearly remember as a kid my mother playing this strange rhythmic song called "Pata Pata." Although I didn't understand the language there was something in the quality of her voice that compelled me to listen. I would continue to listen for years.

It was followed by another strange (to African-American me) yet intriguing composition "The Click Song" ("Qongqothwane" in Xhosa), where she used a language composed of a tongue clicking sound which was and the native-speak in Xhosa. This was as educational as it was enthralling. Miriam Makeba used her gift of song to teach us new and important things about the world she inhabited, and those of us who listened, we were all the better for it.


In later years, it was she who inspired me to pen a poem that became my first piece published in the National magazine, Essence:


**"I dreamed you were
A Poem,
Composed in Makeba clicks
And hypnotic chants. I dreamed
You were
An ancient dance of
A poem."

During her career she had performed with several musical legends from around the world including NINA SIMONE, DIZZY GILLESPIE, PAUL SIMON & HARRY BELAFONTE. Her work with HARRY BELAFONTE lead to her 1960’s American Grammy Award. She also sang for world leaders such as the late President John F. Kennedy and South African President Nelson Mandela. During her personal life she was once married to South African trumpeter HUGH MASAKELA "Grazing in the Grass" (1968, #1 Pop/RnB) from 1964-66.

Also she was married to the Black Power Activist Stokely Carmichael from 1968-78. Carmichael changed his name to an Africanized one and became the President of the African Country of Guinea.

MIRIAM MAKEBA announced her retirement three years ago, but true to her art, the woman never stop performing. It was on her 75th birthday that said, she "would sing for as long as possible…..and will until the last day of my life!"



When one loves the beauty of their country, and yet decries its ugliness in song, in activism, and in the very spirit of their artistry, perhaps the best way to die is in expressing your soul in music before a crowd that loves and appreciate it.


Rest in Peace, Mother Africa!

One Love.



** excerpt from the poem "Art Groupie Exile," ~by L.M. Ross

After We Fuck (Recitation From my One- Act Play)

After we spark

After we talk

After we kiss…

After we touch



After that fit of

Magic happens between

Us... After we descend

Like slow and falling

Stars… After

Stripped virtues

Quickly depart



After the stardust

After the rush

After we bust

That final nut…



After our bellies

Fill with

Mild disgust

After the silence

What'll become of

Us?




After we've moaned

And groaned our

Frenetic groans...

Shivered in rivers

Then made excuses

To head home



After we've fucked

In the absence of lust

After night sucks passion

Like a Hoover Deluxe



Will what happened

To them

Ever happen to

Us…



After we fuck...

After we've fucked?





After we've howled

After we've screamed

After we've exchanged

These bodily fluids

After we’ve hummed

And come…

And made shit and dust

Of a Sacred Moment



Will tomorrow be implied

Inside this silent kiss

Or will tomorrow be…

Just another muscular

Virus?





After the suck

After the ride

After the fuck

After the lies



After we've kissed

After we've touched

After we've descended

After we've fucked?





After we

Bust

That final nut…

After our bellies

Fill with mild

Disgust…



After

The Hoover night has

Sucked passion up…

Will what happened to

Those others

Ever happen to us…



After we’ve fucked?





One.

OBAMA'S VICTORY IS A VICTORY SHARED BY US ALL

America has a brand new swagger this morning. It strides and moves in a unified sway, and it feels to me like the rhythm of change.

I am proud that on November 4, 2008, World History was made. I am proud that I was able to experience the Monumental Event come to pass as Barack Obama became the 1st African American male to be elected President of the United States.

I am proud, as a Black Man, because I am well aware of the tumultuous history of this country.

I am proud because Barack Obama's victory speaks multitudinous volumes, and has set the stage for people of ALL races.

I am proud because Obama is living proof that we are in the land of opportunity.

I am encouraged that Obama's ascent did not solely manifest from the works, the deeds, the hopes nor the dreams of black people or white people, or brown people or yellow people or young people, or women or men. His being elected to the Highest Office this country allows did not rest solely upon the shoulders of straight or gay votes, nor the rich, middle class, the poor and disenfranchised alone. His ascent to this position is due to all these people coming together as one in a profoundly beautiful AMERICAN MOSAIC.


I am encouraged that we each now have the opportunity as Americans to unite and work towards rebuilding this country. The 2008 Elections have been irrefutable evidence that this change can and will happen.

As I watched President-Elect Barack Obama give his acceptance speech, I thought of my late grandmother Margie, who lived most her life under the spirit-robbing, soul-smothering blanket of Jim Crowism, and who didn't get the right to vote until she'd reached middle-age. I thought of my late father who quietly raged against his perceived limitations and his ultimate station as a black man in this country.


EITHER OF THEM COULD HAVE EVER IMAGINED THIS DAY WOULD COME.


It makes me believe in the strength of the law of attraction. Americans came together promoting change and empowerment through a sense of passion and hours spent in preparation of this election.

It is evidence that what you think about, you bring about.

And comes the time for Americans and the world to THINK ABOUT empowering ourselves, and to BRING ABOUT the spirit of positive change that is yet to come. Barack Obama has made it clear that he can not accomplish the herculean task before us all by his lonesome. He needs US!

I am proud to know that you and I and we are far more powerful than we've been conditioned to believe.

This election has affirmed for me that America has begun to live up to its creed.

Never again will I allow anyone to tell me I am not deserving of the life of my dreams. Barack Obama by his mind, his will, his plan, his determination, his sheer 'audacity of hope' has already proven that YES WE ALL CAN!


America has a Brand New Swagger this morning. It feels like the rhythm of change.

As Sam Cooke once sang so prophetically over 40 years ago:

"I KNOW, IT'S BEEN LONG TIME COMIN'... BUT A CHANGE IS GONNA COME."



Congratulations, PRESIDENT-ELECT OBAMA!


May GOD be with you.


One Love.

An Emotive Election Day Here in Moan-ville

Today, wanting to avoid the crowds, the long lines, the stress and headaches, I was one of those wise people (or fools) who ventured out into the pre-dawn darkness to cast my vote for President.

One of the wonderful things about this country is that we, as a people, are given a voice. It’s probably the only chance laypeople and non-politicos ever truly get to exert a sense of power in the way things are governed. Ultimately, the big cheese, the big baller, the grand poo-bah, the main fat cat who’ll be running things, calling the shorts, making the tough and necessary choices, this all becomes OUR decision.

Today, I walked with just a little more power in my stride as I headed off to get MY vote on.

As I entered the building (a local youth center in my ville), I encountered an elderly man behind a desk in the lobby. An old Italian gentleman in bifocals, I took him to be a retiree hired to meet and greet, and be social. He had a friendly face, and I gathered this position made him feel useful. He reached out his hand and said, “Welcome. Good to see you come out this morning.”

As I shook his hand, I thought that would be it, and I’d keep it moving. But, no. He then went on a mini tangent about the candidates. His words clearly favored Obama to the point of dogging McCain.

I like McCain. I think he’s a decent man. A funny man, too. John McCain is a man who has served his country well. I don’t see him as my enemy, just as I don’t see Barack Obama as my savior.

I guess this old gentleman assumed, that since I was a Black man, he was already preaching to the choir. Suddenly, I was elected to be his AMEN corner. To be quite honest, this felt a little condescending. However, I’d always been taught to respect my elders, so I just let him speak.

It was then 6:25 AM. More and more people were steadily arriving. Each of them had the casual luxury of stepping past his desk and going directly to the voting room. I, meanwhile, was a prisoner to this man’s political diatribe/monologue. He’s ranting about how unfair the campaign has been to Obama. How McCain’s people should be “ashamed” of themselves for suggesting socialism was at the core of Barack’s philosophy; ashamed for questioning the man’s religious faith, his true agenda, etc. etc. Me? I just nodded along. He then went into the subject of Obama’s father leaving him and not representing what a father should be. And he waxed on into Obama’s grandmom’s passing, and how emotional Barack was while speaking about her.

Now I’m thinking: Okay. This old man’s for real. He’s a fan of Barack’s. He wants to BARACK the vote, yo!

But people were coming and going, and my early-bird intentions are lost, as I’m standing there, nodding my head at him. At one point, I wondered: WHO CAN STOP HIM? Would someone PLEASE stop him!

Finally, I looked at my watch and said, “Great speaking with you, sir. But I’ve gotta get in there and vote, before I head off to work.”

He ends his monologue with, “All right, then. Go vote! But I pray he (Barack) wins.” He then pulls out a crucifix from behind the collar of his pale blue shirt. He raises it slightly to the heavens, and kisses it.

Yup. This old cat’s for real.

Once I make it inside the voting room, there is a smallish crowd of maybe 20 people in line. They are young and they are old. They are Black, White, Brown and Yellow. They are the faces of this country.

I show my ID to this elderly lady sitting behind a table, as another checks to see if I’m registered. I admit this part was a tad stressful. I’d heard some horror stories about some people don’t being able to vote in this election for various reasons. Sometimes it reeks to me of the pre-civil rights era in the south. But luckily, my name is listed, so I’m cool. Good thing, too, cause I really didn’t wanna have to SET IT OFF up in that mofo! Especially so damn early in the day!


As I waited my turn in line to cast my ballot, I was reminded once again of my power. There was power in my little vote. I was thinking how this day was a historic event, no matter which candidate wins the election. I began to feel this sense of PRIDE to be a small part of it, and have lived long enough to see it. Perhaps it’s the writer, the chronicler of events, this poet in me that actually brought on a twinge of emotion.

I didn’t take this lightly. I hope no one does.


As I pulled the lever to close the curtains, I remembered my childhood, and my grandmother telling me how she wasn’t able to vote until she was in her early forties. The laws didn’t ALLOW her to vote. Such were the troubling and racist times in her native Virginia.

How dare I or anyone else take this right for granted!

Well, I voted. Pulled four separate levers, and then it was done.


I walked out of the place at 6:47AM. The sun was out by then, and it was shining, almost brightly.

I walked away with just a trace of power in my stride.

Yo! No matter which candidate you favor, just VOTE people! Go get your power surge on!


One.

For Jennifer Hudson & All The Rest Who've Senselessly Lost Their Loved Ones

There is a song from the classic musical HAIR, and it asks the essential question:



“How Can People Be So Heartless?



How Can People Be So Cruel?



Easy To Be Hard.



Easy To Be Cold.”





Maybe for some people it IS easy to be hard and cold. But HOW and WHY? I wish I knew the answer to those questions.





Ironically, Jennifer Hudson did a remake of that song a couple of years ago. She sang the HELL out of it then. I bet, if she sang it now, it would be with so much heart and pleading emotionalism that it would bring a torrent of tears to most anyone’s eyes.




I've sat here for 15 minutes trying to figure out what I could say or write that would clearly communicate the weight and the sincere meaning of what I am feeling for Jennifer Hudson, and her sister, Julia, and the rest of their family, but I can't. Words fail me.



What can you possibly say to someone whose mother, brother, and little seven-year-old nephew were senselessly murdered?





The Hudson family is in my prayers today, and yet they are not alone.



I have no words for the abusive Brooklyn mother who beat her 11-year-old daughter to death with a mop handle and left her to die in her own bed.





I have no words for the 25 year-old woman in Queens whose throat was slit, and who was stabbed to death, while she was nine-months pregnant.



I have no words.



I don’t know why some 18 year-old-kid would kill his parents, set their home on fire and afterwards laugh, while drinking wine nearby with his girlfriend.



I don’t know why someone takes a gun onto a college campus and shoots young people to death.



I have no words.



I don’t know why in nearby Newark NJ, people are shot to death while standing on the street. Two of them died this weekend.



All these tragic occurrences happened in the course of a rainy October weekend.





I know no words.



I guess, as the song says, it’s EASY TO BE HARD.



I don’t understand that heartless nature in people. I just don’t fuckin’ GET IT.



I wonder if pure evil exists and grows more muscular in the hearts of mankind, or if it’s all some sickness in the mind that disguises itself as evil.



I don’t know what will become of the people left behind who will live to mourn, wail, ask why, and try to make sense of the senseless loss of those they loved.



I have no words.



I do believe in God.



I do believe in taking our grief to Him and allowing Him to work His own gentle miracle of transference.



I do believe wholeheartedly in Karma for those who perpetrate acts of evil. .



Most of all, I believe in love.



And so in the spirit of love and condolence, I pray for some semblance of spiritual peace to be placed inside the hearts of those left behind.



And so in the spirit of love and sympathy, I'm mustering up all the Compassion, Tears, and Prayers I can access that your stricken families hold on to each other and know that God, The Creator will embrace you.



That’s all that's really left to believe in anymore.



Because these days, it seems a little too Easy To Hard.





One Love.

My Tisha Mae, My Favorite Jersey Chick, On Her 46th Natal Day

Dressed down in all black, our berets cocked at a deadly tip, our cool is

heading towards ridicuous and our swagger is becoming the stuff of

legend in this city. Hey, Tisha Mae, in the moment, I am quietly digging your

sway, and how sometimes you'll move in this smooooove unutterable elegance, I

become so impressed by the essence of you... that I almost forget you

know me, know my name, shared my secrets and heard my dreams, and you

even “LOVE” me a li'l bit... that way you Jersey chicks do… or so you’ve said

on a bold or giddy occasion or two… though it seems it’s always me who says it

first...




Night blows by like a hit of good cheeb... and we sit, lit in pink bistro

light. Some slight scatting jazz chick croons from the juke... and jazzoid that

I be I think it’s Rosie Clooney, which is sweet though Nina Simone would’ve

grooved and wooed and taken us home in slow motion. Slowly, we eat, talk, laugh

some. We speak fluently of horny evenings and current sex machines and of poetry

readings in Brooklyn. We each secretly want to be Real Poets kissed by stars of

adoration and acceptance. Yet we only admit this in deeper whispers when those

voices of our inner perverts come gleaming from our eyes. Funny how we become

two groggy victims from this Italian wine with the world "swhirling" and the

traffic sighing around us as Rosemary Clooney serenades us.


"Happy Birthday, Tisha Mae!" I raise my glass and sing in Stevie Wonder style,

as waiter brings a single red cake cupcake and you smile like the sun.



Later on, 27th Street sits all over your shoulders like a navy shawl with

moveable glitter in it.



You want to visit a psychic. You want to pay some mystic to feed you

good news and divine you some brighter future… But I nix this idea. Psychics,

scare me. Besides, I say: 'I’m all the clairvoyance you need, baby! Let’s see:

You still dream to be kid-free, Jersey-free soul-free to write and Be

Heard or maybe if not prominent then at least a cooly popular cult figure.




See? I know your dream. I even share its sheen with you.


No need for juju nor tarot reading mojo-slinging mystic women summoning up

Voodoo, at 1:22AM. No need when nothing but the swoosh of traffic and Cool York

City noise comes on strong in this shrouded voice of Love and yet-to-be poetry

speaks best for you and me.


Hey! Tisha Mae, have I told you lately how your smile paints me softly in

colbolt blue plumes and downtown moonlight? Hey! Maybe it’s infectious, too.

Makes us giggle like junior high fools and beautiful, if profoundly retarded

people do. You smile and it reminds me how I haven’t really smiled from

deep inside my soul in a week (or was it a decade?) or two. Well, at least

since my last time hangin' out with you.





The night turns a cold 59 degree shoulder to us. I walk you in Stagger-Lee mode

to your train, and we wait for its arrival. And it comes in a slow gust of foul

air, and I kiss you goodbye. And you grab my ears... and you smile that smile

you do. "Thanks for making this one a memory, Lin." And you kiss my lips, and

you kiss my cheek. And I back away as you board the train. And I turn back

to see you in the windows. You are moving through the cars… just moving with

this Grace, with such quietly dignified, with such unutterable elegance that

your swagger becomes legend… and you make a new memory... and it's times like

this that I almost forget, you know me, know my name. I forget we've shared

each others secrets. I forget, you know the weight of these dreams I’ve put on

hold… Hell, you even “LOVE” me... a li'l... or, so I've been told…



Seems I'm always the first to say it, though.


Sometimes, inside my mind or in the back of my throat, I find myself

humming it, in a happy-to-be-nappy tune of strangely transforming notes

all the way home.



Happy Natal Day, Tisha Ma. I do… I really do love you, yo.






One.

The Choreography of Love

My love for you has advanced and journeyed through the clouds to a place that is higher than the stars. And now those stars sit static inside their blackened coats. And now those stars are jealous of our beauty. And now those stars are so envious, they blush from this Love we make beneath them.

And now that I’ve found you I am warm and whole in a place where my spirit was cold and frozen. And now I hear music in a place where before the lyrics were all unspoken. And now there is music in my heart and it waltzes to the rhythm of Love’s rapid feet.

It is YOU, you, who choreographs this foolish routine that beats inside my chest. It is you who directs my mood and sets free this dancer in me. It is You, and the stories in your face, the soliloquies in your eyes and this music of your hips that inspire new concertos in me.

And what am I to do with these songs you’ve birthed within the concert halls of my soul? I want only to play them into your waiting ear and for future generations of our brethren to hear... and to know they were made from Love.


And together, we'll let them know this Love exists and it gave us wings... and it gave us flight... and it gave us the ability to soar so high that our heels would scrape the darkest corners of night.

Love is the gift I get from you. And love is the package I present to you. Just say you’ll take it... because your love is the lyric and the melody... love is the music… and the tune… that makes me… your forever dancing fool.




One.




* Poetic Excerpt from a new work by L. M. Ross

Cool Like Newman... Reflections Upon an Icon

Rest In peace, Paul Newman







Paul Newman made his transition over the weekend. He was 83. When a legend passes, I’m sure it leaves many people who've followed their careers a bit sad or reflective. I feel some of that, but not knowing Mr. Newman personally, and having real loved ones pass in my family, it doesn’t feel quite the same on the human heart.

Paul Newman is dead, but his films will live on to inspire and entertain for many years to come. I remember watching his movies as a kid. A program called Million Dollar Movie played in the afternoons after school, and not being a kid who lived for cartoons, I’d view those old films. Newman starred in many of them. He soon became an iconic presence in my mind. He was lanky and cool, surly and smooth, and sometimes even a little rough around the edges. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Hud, The Hustler, these and others became staples in my filmic memory.

My personal favorite of all his films would have to be Cool Hand Luke. It was the essential Newman part, the classically handsome rogue, the smart-ass, authority-bucking anti-hero who becomes a real hero by displaying the size of his spirit and determination. But the end of the film, damn near every macho prisoner, and a couple of the guards nursed man-crushes on him and that “Luke smile.”



Yeah, Paul Newman made many great films and memorable, no doubt. Maybe that’s what most people will remember about him. But his biggest contribution to the world was not his features, his fabled blue eyes (which apparently were colorblind), or the fact that he raced cars when he was well into his early 80s.

Paul Newman had a wonderful heart. He used his fame beautifully. He understood the importance of capturing the world’s attention wasn’t purely about self-garnishment. He didn’t do the Hollywood thing. He lived modestly (only owned one suit) and remained with the same woman, the equally talented Joanne Woodward, for fifty years. He used his mind beautifully. Real Life always took priority over his career. At the height of his fame, when it could have jeopardized his career, he marched with Dr. King. He was a liberal and a proud one. He used his political savvy to show that he cared about the world around him. He used his wealth beautifully. His greatest achievement was in founding the organization called The Hole In The Wall Camps, and making his own products of Lemonade, Popcorn, Dressings and raised, to date, 250 million dollars for kids with cancer and other life-threatening diseases.

That’s huge. That’s bigger than any movie. He used his life as a true and shining example of what one man can accomplish with his time here.

So those who are old enough or aware enough to know who and what he was, you can grieve his passing if you must. But, I’m just glad such a man lived.

Rest In peace, Paul Newman.

One Love.

About Motherfuckas, And Why They Are So Necessary

Recently, I experienced a great and profound disappointment in my life. Boo-hoo. Woe is me. Being a human being, I’m not exactly a newbie in the field of disappointment.

This particular one, it hurt me so much, I felt it down deep in my soul. When the soul hurts, it’s serious business.

Without going into great detail, I will say, I’d lost my trust in man, and in all humankind. I'd forgotten to Trust Only in God, as a rule. Man is full of bones, heart and bullshit parts, and thus, man is bound to bullshit you, and disappoint you, and lie to you, and smile in your face and stab you in the back with such cunning and swift precision, you won’t even feel the blade coming.

When someone does this to you, whether they be a man or a woman, it’s a Motherfucker’s Move.

In life, we need to be aware of the Motherfuckers. They are everywhere, yo! You can’t and you won’t always spot them right away. Why? Because Motherfuckers are shape-shifters, damn it! Act like you know! They can wear the face of a friend or your boss, your family, or even your lover. What makes them Motherfuckers is that they won’t really care enough about you to support you when you’re down, or have your back when that back is against the wall. When you’re hurt, when you’re struggling, when you’re trying to keep your head above water, that’s when the Motherfuckers will show you their True Face.

That’s when a Motherfucker will rise from the dens of their wretched Motherfucked-ness.

So, upon the Great Disappointment in my life, caused by another kind of Motherfucker entirely, I sought friendship, instead of stress. I sought understanding, instead of madness. I sought empathy, instead of selfishness. And I sought love from those who claimed to love me.

When you love someone, and they require space... you give them space.
When you love someone, and they ask for peace… you give them peace.
When you love someone, and they need to be alone… you give them their alone time.

But a Motherfucker won’t care about any of that shit.
A Motherfucker has his or her own agenda.

A Motherfucker will make demands upon you.
A Motherfucker will make erroneous accusations about you.
A Motherfucker will not give a shit about you or your feelings.
A Motherfucker will always find some new shit to bitch about.
A Motherfucker will say some shit with no other objective than to Piss. You. Off.

And yes, a Motherfucker is chronically insecure.

A Motherfucker will secretly smile at your misfortune.
A Motherfucker doesn’t care if there’s a death in your family.
A Motherfucker will only crave more attention.
A Motherfucker will drain you of your last once of energy.
And then that Motherfucker will still ask for more.
A Motherfucker can’t stand it when you tell them NO!

A Motherfucker truly believes they are the planet’s most important person.
And yet, that same Motherfucker needs constant emotional reinforcement.
A Motherfucker will try to make you doubt your own abilities.
A Motherfucker is truly a miserable human being.


But I want to give all The Real Motherfuckers their rightful due.

You Motherfuckers inspire me to be the best that I can be.

You Motherfuckers give me new confidence in myself.
You Motherfuckers make me realize the hero within me.
You Motherfuckers make something in me rise higher.
You Motherfuckers stoke my creativity’s fire.
You Motherfuckers are soooooo damn necessary.
You Motherfuckers make me stronger than I ever knew I could be.
You Motherfuckers force me to make a LIAR out of you.

So, thank you, Motherfuckers.

Even if you don’t know you’re a Motherfucker.

I know it now. I hope... No. I'm sure others recognize your Motherfucked-ness, too.


One.