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ESP (Espiritismo, Santeria, Palo)

Poems, Etc.
(all copyright 2001, David A. Scheffler)
In the early 90s, coming out of a half-decade or so of down-time following my final
frustrated, fed-up farewell to the so-called Caliphate OTO (my involvement had been a
fits-and-starts affair and featured, as perhaps the glistening cherry on the top of a mound
of manifold inebriations-in-the-name-of-Hadit-worship, receiving Minerval from Grady
McMurtry in the rear ritual room at Magickal Childe. It would be as far as I would travel
on that overpriced, overrated subway), I found myself fully, inexplicably entranced by all
things Afro-centric.
I made up my mind to crash the gates no matter what.
That decision, followed steadfastly, fanatically to the limit, proved to be not only
astoundingly costly (in several senses but mostly financial), but profoundly metamorphic
as well.
I started my odyssey in Philadelphia where, at the time, I resided, but soon found that city
to be, at least for me, a closed shop. Soon I was trekking every week up to NYC where I
had much better "luck". Eventually, after a brief adventure in an Afro-centric House led
by a non-Lucumi Babalawo, I chanced upon what I was really looking for - La Regla de
Ocha, perhaps better known as Lucumi or, even more popularly but somewhat less
accurately, Santeria.
My first Lucumi Godparents lived in the South Bronx and I got to know it rather well for
the year or so I was with them. But fate led me to another House in Elizabeth, NJ. It was
definitely a Matriarchy there. The Madrina was a fierce daughter of Oya; gorgeous,
gifted, greedy and full of guile, she was a noted Espiritista, a Palera and a Santera with
numerous Godchildren. I will say only that, in due course, I left her House as had all her
Ahijados before me and, I suspect, all that follow me have or will.
But by then I had been scratched and crowned omo Ogun. The maniacal fervor which had
fueled my life for nearly a decade had cooled. The blinders fell off. The rose-colored
glasses shattered.
The fool I saw in my mirror was hardly a happy but surely a wiser fool.
I can track his arc with some poems and a story written at various points along that way. I
designate them ESP - Espiritismo, Santeria (Lucumi), Palo. They are presented in roughly
chronological order.
First Misa: La Misa y La Casa
The head does not speak. The spirit
doesn't come down like the dove
with tongue of flame,
but rises through the feet

to wrack the blood with knowing.

Through this house the train don't run.
The river, maybe, skirts along the side.
Leave a few small coins beside the door,
cense with cigar, asperge with rum
and ease on in.
At first, nothing. Pressure
at the top, perhaps, and twinges.
Prayers and perfumed waters, smoke and dust.
A silkscreened wake on a balloon prepared to burst.
Find a spot that feels all right;
could be a name, could be a stone
lit up by Gabriel's firey horn.
Hunker down and, softly, like a good guest,
say hello.
The women coach, coax and cleanse.
Grandmother hovers through me
with gypsies and the Indian scented,
vying, pushing within ponderous pate
to flood up through the feet and change my voice.
Light your candle, sing your song,
speak plain,
ask for nothing barring payment.
Guard against sleeping. Watchful you don't overstay,
benumbed and dry, confused like a lost cricket.
The red cloth on me. The red cloth spins
about my face and I spin, stumble,
sit and gnarl against my holdings
while soft voices spin I spasm
and from everywhere jerk to it that
it's not the head that's speaking
but the bones.
Even in the Bronx
Even in the Bronx
behind rowed houses
squirrels like bold monkeys
dance through the trees

There's grass in the sidewalks

bugs in the air
Even in the Bronx
the rivers flow seaward
A cat springs the fence
after a squirrel
We might as well be
on the Plains with the Okies
But the squirrel backs him off
with a tail bushing scowl
He caught from a cabbie
on Westchester Ave.
Inside there's a Santo
The air hot with songs
through Cuba from Africa
here in the Bronx
The squirrels chase each other
in sun and in rut
not caring for ozone
not searching for God
First time I came
got off the train
stood in the rain on old El steps
Looked around and said out loud
"What the hell am I doing here?"
This Santo's made.
Padrino calls,
hands me a mop and leaves.
The cat's laugh mocks me but the squirrel has seen my glow
We neither question "why?" these days,
both of us think we know
Madrina the First
Assailed by concrete and the Bronx,
Madrina sits,
watches leaves fall,

shares her sadness at the wane of life,

dreams aloud of verdant Puerto Rico.
This place is hard. The river fills
with rusted steel and
swearing drivers snake the blocks
on rolling stereos with tinted windows.
But all is well I tell her.
Death is life's rich lining,
grinning skull designer label on its multi-octaved coat
of awful harmony.
The cold air's thrilling. Dead leaves rain beauty
on this cracked cement;
She smiles,
sees through me to another time I cannot follow.
"Sweep them, then, you chickenhead."
Laughing she returns to the Iyawo.
Broom in hand, bound in the Bronx and love,
I watch her go.
The Stick: Rayamento
The stick is down,
The ground is alive.
The sun, broken in pieces by time,
lies wedged like a fruit,
bleeding shadows on dust.
Only the dead know the flow of this song
whose rhythm rings flame in the blood of a fern
crushed in deep forest by a saucer-eyed deer
dispatched at her end
by a knife steeled in herbs.
I start to dance.
Gunpowder greases my bones.
My skull fills with trees.
Nobody cares if the geese know the name of the river.
No one remembers the rainwater after it leaves.
I have been cut.
Blood oils my waters,
flies four directions, doubles back,

saps the patient stick and,

like the sun,
crawls home to ground.
After the Crowning
Wind surely sockhopped trees
when wood & god went steady
before Jersey streeted
Dog in the moment
Now, near seductive shaking hedge,
carrion birds nudge secret treasures
Jewkids shoot baskets
"Goats" duel "Hogs"
High beyond branch trauma
before sherbet clouds
crawl underladen airliners
Overbooked bags egg corporate secrets
Once only forest
Certain breeze
Dog in the moment
The Final Ocha
One summer evening, as I wallowed in sweat and self-pity in the attic apartment I rented
in my Godmother's Elizabeth, NJ house, I received a phone call from Eugenio, one of my
Godbrothers. Come over, he said, Ive got big news! I wasn't sure what he meant, but
I had high hopes. Hopes that he might help extricate me from the spiritual dead-end in
which I felt trapped. I hurried to the Bronx, giggling and cursing all the way.
He led me from his Grand Concourse apartment to the other side of the Bronx saying
only Youll see in answer to my relentless probing. We approached a house in a section
unfamiliar to me. He knocked. The door opened to reveal a comfortable living room
filled with Santeros; some I knew, others I didnt. I looked to him for explanation.
Here, Eugenio gestured, Throw yourself. These are your grandparents.
Clara and Prospero, the Godparents of my Godparents, therefore my grandparents in The
Religion. After the greetings and introductions, I was invited to take a seat. They asked
me what life was like with Millie and Paulo, my Godparents. Everyone listened intently
to my narrative, interrupting frequently to ask pointed questions: How many initiations
had I received and at what cost? What were my duties at the house? What sort of training

had I been given? My answers provoked an angry chorus of rising voices and, for a
while, chaos reigned. Finally Clara stood and waved them silent.
Listen, she spoke grimly, We all know what sort of woman Millie is and now he
knows, too. Ok. Time to get him out. She faced me. You have got to get out of there.
Now! This was the signal for the chorus to begin anew, several octaves higher and many
decibels louder. I gripped the arms of my chair and my head spun as I heard,
simultaneously from many voices, the litany of crimes committed by Millie over the
years. Their eventual verdict: She had performed a valid initiation but had taken me
repeatedly to the cleaners and if I stayed with her she would suck me dry, spit me out, and
Id end up a Santero in name only without training, resources or contacts. As I made my
way back to Jersey, shaking with shock and rage, I realized I believed them and that I
had, deep down, known a good deal of it all along.
My first action, Clara had told me, must be to safeguard the Orishas I had received at my
Ocha. Millie, a crafty Palera and experienced Espiritista, was doubtless aware of my
escape plans and would stop at nothing to foil them. I must choose a time when she was
away and carry the Otanes, the sacred stones which are believed to house the Orishas, to
Clara's house in the Bronx. I was instructed to leave their ornate soup tureen containers,
called soperas, in my attic dwelling as a ruse. In addition, I should sprinkle cascarilla,
powdered eggshell, under my bed each night before sleep to combat the malevolent
magic Millie would surely hurl at me.
The next Saturday, while Millie gambled away derecho money in Atlantic City, I
schlepped out my secrets, returning in the evening to skulk about the darkened attic like a
dime store detective on the lam, finally powdering the floor with cascarilla and collapsing
into a troubled sleep shot through with dreams of mayhem.
Clara made an appointment with Nolo, a Babalawo she trusted, to check my Orishas and
offer advice on my situation. Nolo and his mother, Cubans, lived together on the fifth
floor of a noisy building in Washington Heights, just down the street from the local
Precinct HQ. One had to make ceaseless, often fruitless, circuits of the block to catch a
parking spot. I was breathless by the time I lugged the last stone-laden bag into Nolos
small apartment. Clara was drinking Cuban coffee in the living room. Across from her sat
Nolos shriveled, silent mother. Nolo's manifold flesh cascaded over a once-well-stuffed
easy chair. He wore shorts and his bulbous legs, covered in red blotches, splayed out in
the air. I cycled my grimacing gaze elsewhere, feigning interest in the floor, the walls, the
Nolo rose and motioned Clara into the bedroom. A few minutes later I was summoned. A
long aluminum table, the sort one sees at picnics, had been set up near the foot of the bed.
Nolo sat on one side, Clara on the other. She told me to sit next to her. Nolo then began to
cast the diving chain, the Opele, to determine if my Otanes were all right. Everything
seemed in order until he checked my Elegguas. I had three, garnered at different points
along my odyssey. For me, Eleggua, the infamous trickster Orisha, was the foundation of
the religion. I had always enjoyed the weekly ceremony of spraying him with rum and
cigar smoke. I had always prided myself on the knowledge that he cared for me. I loved
each of my Elegguas. Now, in a cramped, oily bedroom, an odiferous, obnoxious,
morbidly overweight Babalawo was about to pass judgment on their validity. I felt as if
he were about to rule on me, to critique how wisely or foolishly I had disposed of my life
for the preceding seven years. I watched in fear as the Opele repeatedly hit the table.

Sure enough, all three were worthless. Nolo and Clara began chattering, their Spanish too
rapid for me to follow. Nolo left the room. I felt like a drowning man and looked to Clara
for rescue but there was nothing to uphold me in her eyes. Nolo returned, his sweaty right
hand squeezing a hammer. He seized the largest Eleggua and hit it hard, opening a
massive hole in the side of the cement head. He continued until the head was gone,
leaving only an open basin like the vacuous remains of a half-consumed chocolate Easter
Look! He shouted at me, What is in this? Ashes? Why did they put ashes? And this?
Looks like thorns or something. Who made this for you?
Nestor, my first Padrino, I croaked. My eyes were tearing but I could also feel the
anger rising from low in my back. Is the gold there? I asked, I gave him gold for it and
a silver coin.
No. Only this bullshit.
Nolo opened the other Elegguas with similar results. I cannot recall what they contained,
for by that time I was numb and disassociated, but I remember him self-righteously
ranting to the accompaniment of Claras chorused acclaims. When he finally calmed he
told her to write down a list of things I would require to set my Santeria house in order;
all to be supplied by him and his Godfather, another Cuban Babalawo. As Clara jotted
down each item he named the derecho. All told, it came to over a thousand dollars. I
Abuela, I whispered to Clara, I cant afford this! Im already in debt! You know that!"
Clara took Nolo aside. They whispered for a minute or two, then she turned toward me,
I understand, I understand, Nolo nodded, You can pay me a little at a time. When you
bring the first payment, I will begin to make your new Eleggua. Then my Padrino will
help me mount another Ogun for you. Dont worry. Everything will be fine.
Clara and I made the trek back to where I had parked my pickup. I listened to her echo
Nolos statements of dubious encouragement and struggled to believe. Perhaps
everything would be fine. But the hum in my head gained volume and the knot in my gut
tightened. Abuela, I asked, He lives there with his mother, true? But there is only one
bedroom and only one bed. Where do they both sleep?
Together, Clara chuckled.
I crossed the George Washington Bridge to Nolos every month with another payment.
The work on my things was going slowly. Nolo was preoccupied with the upcoming
Santo of one of his Godchildren - a pleasantly self-important student named Xavier who
was going to be crowned Yemaya - and had little time to devote to my installment-plan
project. I was anxious to have the work done but, in truth, thankful for the chance to drag
out the derecho. Back in Jersey, I had found a small apartment and needed every spare
cent to make the move. Nolo assured me everything would be ready in time for Xaviers
ceremony, when he would feed my new Eleggua and my re-born Ogun, the warrior
Orisha who had been seated in my head. He also made it clear he expected me to work at
Xavier's Santo.
A Misa Espiritual is often held a week or so prior to an Ocha to propitiate the candidates
ancestral spirits and determine if they require anything to guarantee the ceremonys
success. Xaviers Misa was held in Clara and Prosperos basement. Prospero, an omo

Chango, was also a staunch Palero and their basement frequently hosted Misas and other
"spiritual" workings.
Clad in light colors, our heads covered in white, we arranged ourselves in a jagged semicircle before the altar-table, lit cigars and waited for the spirits. Two hours later we were
still puffing but few otherworldly visitors had joined us and none of those had been
particularly enlightening. The doorbell rang upstairs and Prosperos youngest son went to
see. He returned with a short, wiry man ostentatiously festooned with Elekes. A white cap
sat cocked on his speckled hair. He could have been 40 or 70. He sat down, greeted the
assemblage, lit a cigar and began to talk. When the Misa concluded an hour or so later, he
was still talking.
Who was that guy? I asked Ophilia, my girlfriend, as we drove to her apartment after
the Misa.
They call him Esquina, she snorted, but I have no idea what his real name is.
You think he was giving good evidencias? I asked, trying to conceal my suspicions.
No more than you do, honey.
The weekend of Xaviers Ocha approached. I was still several hundred dollars short of
Nolos full derecho but had paid enough to secure my Eleggua and reconstituted Ogun.
These would be fed during the ceremony, after which I could take them back to my new
home in New Jersey, but I had many miles to crawl before sleeping there again.
Early Friday morning, Eugenio and I drove to the vivero. We were to collect the
sacrificial animals Nolo had ordered, then deliver them to his apartment. He had decided
to conduct the ceremony there rather than rent the customary row house basement.
Eugenio informed the clerk we were picking up Nolos order. I looked up at a classic
snow sky and wished it was Monday. The clerk came back, shaking his head, saying the
vivero knew nothing of Nolo or his animals.
I thought he phoned this in yesterday, I said to Eugenio.
He did. Maybe they sold his stuff to somebody else. Always a lot of Ochas going on.
Eugenio paused, then, Man, you are lucky you werent there last night.
What do you mean?
Nolo and the Oriate got in a big fight over the Ebbo. Lots of cursing and yelling. That
Oriate is crazy, man. He almost walked out on Nolo. And over nothing, really.
Whos the Oriate?
Some old Cuban Eleggua whos supposed to know everything about The Religion. They
call him Esquina.
I bit my tongue. Eventually, we purchased, then loaded the animals and drove them to
Nolos. Piled in the bathroom, the boxes left scant space for the necessary functions of
human organics and I wondered how Nolo planned on juggling the manifold elements of
an Ocha in such a small apartment. I left as quickly as I could, dropped off Eugenio, then
went to Ophilias, aiming to relax.
The snow fell rapidly during the night. I left Ophilias around 8 a.m. and had to clean an
inch or so off the truck. Sliding toward Manhattan, I wondered why any sensible person
would hold a ceremony during the years worst storm. But if Nolo had any sense he
would not have insisted on shoehorning a pack of Santeros into his tiny apartment for an
Ocha. I assumed he preferred to pocket the piece of Xaviers derecho which would have
been used to rent a basement. I found a parking spot on Nolos block and trudged through
the slush to his building.

Inside, it felt like the place was teetering on the edge of an abyss, ready to plunge at any
moment into bottomless chaos. Esquina and Nolo argued, locked in a doctrinal wrestling
match to determine who would run the show. Clara sat in the living room, wedged into a
corner of the couch by two huge Cuban sisters squealing simultaneous stories of The
Religion in their homeland. She caught my glance and discreetly rolled her eyes. In the
kitchen a young Santera and her two daughters tried valiantly to follow the orders barked
by Nolos mother. Prospero paced the narrow space between bedroom and bath,
muttering to himself and, occasionally, to me about how this was not the way to run a
fucking Ocha and, anyway, when the hell was it going to start?
Nolo broke away from Esquina and summoned me. Davi, he smiled, placing his hefty
hand lightly on my arm, Go get us some sodas, cigarettes and paper towels. I nodded,
looking at him. Of course! he eventually chuckled, pushed a few wadded bills in my
hand and returned to Esquina.
The color and noise of Washington Heights had been replaced by an undifferentiated
opaque that faded the tops of buildings and obliterated the ground. I slogged several
blocks to a bodega and bought what Nolo wanted. I only had to add a little of my own
money to complete the purchase.
The Santeros were still arguing when I returned. They stopped while I distributed the
sodas and cigarettes, then took up again, occasionally adding a sidebar argument with me
over a perceived flaw in delivery. Prospero lobbied for an immediate start - an Ocha takes
all day even with a timely beginning. This one threatened to break records. A sudden
silence. Nolo sat down in defeat, Esquina raised his arms, Santeros to the room! he
The room the sacred space in which the initiation ceremony takes place is,
normally, the better part of a row house basement cordoned off by white sheeting. For
Xavier's Ocha, it was the narrow hallway at the apartments crux. A continual flow of
folks chatting on cell phones cycled through it from kitchen to bathroom to living room.
No sheets were hung to shield the proceedings from profane eyes. I felt sorry for Xavier
and wondered how many thousands this travesty was costing him.
Esquina began singing for the Orishas. The rest of us, seated on low wooden stools,
shredded herbs into bowls of water, scrubbed stones, shells and beads, and marveled at
this Oriates encyclopedic knowledge. Soon, tears poured down his cheeks as he sang
innumerable songs for each Orisha. The Santeros exchanged confused glances Esquina
had crossed the line between priest and performer.
That guy is crazy, Prospero grumbled during a break, Hes going to make this thing
last into the night.
They say hes hooked on crack, I whispered.
No, Clara corrected me, Its cocaine.
Why did Nolo hire him?
Nobody will use him, so he came cheap, she snorted, and Nolo is cutting corners.
Nolo sent me again for sodas and smokes. The earlier postcard tableau had turned angrily
arctic. My feet were soaked and my attitude soiled. I found a working pay phone and
called Ophilia.
Hows it going? she asked.
Hardly started, I reported. I have no idea when Ill be back.

Prospero failed to persuade Nolo to forego the traditional long meal break. Esquina
strutted like a rock star, talking incessantly, giving orders and telling anecdotes of Cuba.
The young girls were washing dishes when Nolo ordered me out for another cigarette
Before trudging to the bodega I decided to clean off my truck. By the time I returned to
Nolos, the main part of the ceremony had begun. True to form, Esquina stretched
everything well past the limit. The Santeros were muttering. I was worn out and angry.
Hours filled with carrying and cleaning, standing, singing, squatting, holding heavy
objects aloft and fighting my way through snowdrifts were taking their toll. When the
next break came, I leaned into a corner and slumped onto the floor.
The Matanzas is next, Prospero announced, smiling down at me mirthlessly.
The Matanzas, the killings, the ritual sacrifices, the feeding of the Orishas who will be
born along with the new initiate. For many people outside The Religion, the idea of
animal sacrifice meant disgust and horror; that evening, for me, it merely meant the
hardest work of a long, hard day. I stood and tried to fend off my fatigue.
As the Babalawo, Nolo should have performed the sacrifices but, probably because his
extreme girth made movement difficult, he left the job to Esquina, who was delighted to
be in charge again. He had been a preening pop star in the earlier ceremonies, but now
Esquina steeled himself for the killings and became a true dictator.
The number and kind of animals sacrificed in an Ocha depends upon what Orisha is
being crowned on the initiate and which other Orishas will be received. Xaviers Ocha
was a relatively simple one which made the marathon antics of Esquina all the more
aggravating. Various birds form the bulk of the sacrifices, but there are always at least
several cuatro patas, four-legged animals, to be slaughtered. Babalawos and Oriates are
usually deft, efficient and experienced killers but no animal, even a pigeon, gives up its
life without some struggle. Those tasked with holding the animal while the priest
performs the sacrifice are on the receiving side of the struggle. I was told to hold.
It began badly. Esquina had suddenly decided to move at lightning speed. I was having
enough trouble with the birds but positioning and steadying the wildly squirming fourlegs for his knife was hell. He was hollering orders I didnt understand and couldnt
follow. Prospero intervened and we managed to make it through the first round of
Orishas, including my Eleggua and Ogun.
A spate of birds followed and the situation calmed. I was exhausted but managed to relax
a bit. Esquina took a short break in preparation for the final set of sacrifices: several birds
and a large sheep. When he was ready, he told me to take a hen from a small, wooden
crate. The bird broke free and took off for the ceiling. Without thinking, I grabbed at it,
catching it by the tail. Feathers tore in my grasp but I managed to catch it. I handed the
hen to Prospero and staggered to the bathroom, looking for a place to hide.
My sanctuary was fleeting. Prospero pounded on the door and told me to get back in the
room. It was time for the sheep. We opened the box and the animal, sensing the air,
bolted. We had to tether its legs but, even then, it struggled so fiercely it was nearly
impossible to hold, let alone position for Esquinas knife. My strength was waning
rapidly. I could barely hold the heavy animal. Hog-tied and unable to stand, the sheep
was nonetheless winning our wrestling match. Esquina shoved his face next to mine and
screamed a string of insults. It was the last straw. Adrenalin-fueled rage gave me victory

over the sheep and, as I held it for Esquina, I turned to the Cuban sisters who were
hovering, taking it all in like rubber-necking gawkers entranced by highway carnage.
If he doesnt stop yelling at me Im going to knock him on his ass, I snarled, spit
foaming down my clenching jaws.
No, no! They squealed in unison.
The sacrifices over, Esquina disappeared into the living room with Nolo. Prospero and I
were left to clean. I was still fuming and did a hasty, shoddy job, careful only with my
Eleggua and Ogun. An hour or so later, I painstakingly piloted my igloo pickup through
the snow-packed streets to the Bronx and Ophilia.
The next day should have been the Tambor but Xavier was not having one. Instead, a few
friends had been invited to salute him under the Trono - the throne, the slice of sacred
space which shelters a newly-crowned Iyawo for a week. Attendance was mandatory for
those who had worked the Ocha.
Ophilia and I, who often argued like a mismatched married couple, had bickered deep
into the night, so I went alone. Prospero and Clara were leaving as I arrived. I paid my
respects, collected my Eleggua and Ogun, and headed for the door. Nolo stopped me.
Esquina wants to say something to you, he announced, and led me back to the living
Esquina gave a flowery speech about how hard I had worked and how much he
appreciated my efforts and how we were brothers and, yes, he realized he had been hard
on me but that was only because he wanted me to learn and if I ever needed a place to
live I was always welcome at his home, and I should never forget that we were brothers,
and he continued like that forever but I had long tuned him out. I mumbled something
gracious, bowed to the assemblage and headed across the GWB to Jersey.
As I neared Fort Lee, I glanced back and promised myself that I had worked my last
Santo, had spent my last dollar on derechos. The next time I hit the Internet, I ran a search
on Hsing-I.
Afterword: The Fruits of Therapy
As Fate would gift, I was accepted as a patient by a wonderful, remarkable, and truly worldrenowned psychiatrist living and practicing in Philadelphia. I won't divulge his name but I
shouldn't have to. He was a student of the late Wilhelm Reich and practiced Medical
Orgonomy in direct lineage.
At the best of times I was only able to see him every other week and there were sometimes
gaps of months, even years, between my sessions. But I found the therapy to be powerful
and lasting. Deep down stuff, all of it body-based and primal as hell.
Being the silly roustabout that I am, I found myself "composing" (receiving?) a funny little
poem-ish doggerel-ish piece as my mind one day ruminated about the general topic of
therapy. Not in any way directed at my Doctor, nor, for that matter, at myself. Purely
fantastical, fictional, dramatic monologue full of pith and wit and sarcasm. All the good
things rolled into one - like a poisoned tastykake.
Anyway, I had it secure in my head so, one time while sitting across the desk from the
Doctor, I told him I had written a poem about therapy and recited it to him. He was not
amused. Of course I explained that it was not "about" him, not "about" me, just a snide little

ditty but he was not amused. He said nothing at all but his reaction was clear. I paid for my
session and hit the bricks.
He was not one to hold a grudge and most likely forgot all about my silly rhymes soon after
my ass disappeared down the street. I continued my therapy as often as I could manage long
thereafter with good result. He helped me beyond words as he had helped so many others
over the course of his career.
Here's the piece:
so much
I said
thank you
rising from the couch
10 years have gone so fast
and I have changed
thank you
here's a check
next week?
I'll be back
I'm happier
and not as pained
I still want to murder nearly everyone I meet
I fantasize their broken bodies covering the street
I'm too polite to do it, plus, it wouldn't be discreet
I still want to murder nearly everyone I meet

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