Tats Downlow: Black Studs and Thugs in a Ghetto Gym (Str8 Studs Downlow Book 2)

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You can actually hear that bottom catch his breath ask if his ass is going to be ok after that. I havent watched a Tiger Tyson vid in a month of Sundays! You couldn't pay me enough to put my hand on his dick, let alone my mouth. The guy sucking him his really cute though, whats his name?

I think he might have gotten some bad std results. Or one of the thugs that fucked him beat his ass on account of his bad face blurring software!

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They never seem to be able to maintain a hard on, or at times even get one. I can't get enough of the best thug of all: Bobby Blake I heard that he quit porn to become a minister R's vid reminds me of me 20 years ago on Fire Island doing a guy who worked in The Pines at some designer queen's house.

Good times. Unfortunately, the dominating black and Latino porn fantasy is focused on thugs or thuggish dudes. It is what has been popular for a while now. Watch Flex deon blake Threesome for free at www. I hate thug porn. I hate the way they all use common Google words so you can't Google them and find their videos for free.

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There are good vids out there of real thugs sexing each other up, like r A lot of the stuff on Myvidster is just studio crap. I read Bobby Blake's book and he is a total asshole. I also knew JC Carter and he's a total jerk too. Continuing to play catch up on all the TV shows that feature black characters in prominent roles, or significant storylines I gave this one a shot, going in blindly, really not knowing what the heck to expect. But I figured I'd give it my customary 3-episode viewing to get a good enough feel for it, before deciding whether to continue watching, and so that I can at least talk about it with some authority.

I don't believe Curtis has covered this series in his This Week In Black TV series, so I thought I'd mention it because there's some stuff going on here that I think you folks should be aware of, if you're not already. Plus the series was renewed for a second season which will premiere next month ; so, obviously, folks are watching this. I'm just not sure if a lot of black folks are. Here's the rundown Complex 6 episodes produced for season 1 , which drew comparisons to Melrose Place - essentially, a show revolving around the lives of a group of somethings living in the same LA apartment complex, each chasing Hollywood dreams.

So here's what you need to know This is obviously of significance to his storyline otherwise I wouldn't mention it. The fact that he works in the world of hip-hop should clue you into some of the challenges he faces. And Andra Fuller's character is named as Kaldrick, a very successful rapper who trades on his outwardly thuggish image. The problem there is that it's all a front so that he can sell records, because that's what sells I suppose speaking to the frustrations many have expressed about hip-hop in recent years ; and oh, by the way, he's also gay, but deep in the closet.

And here's where it all gets funky. Straight-laced Tariq the intern is assigned by his boss to work with client Kaldrick whom everyone believes to be the thuggiest of thugs, and generally hard to deal with and please; even though all that's a front; but nobody knows that ; Tariq is at first scared of the proposition, but he's ambitious and all that, and so he takes on the challenge.

The two meet to begin working on some tracks for Kaldrick. They spend a day together, with Kaldrick being his faux thuggish self, and Tariq the opposite; neither knows the other is gay. There's all kinds of initial conflict and drama, and Tariq is a bit scared to work with this dude. He challenges Tariq to "do something," thuggish style, aggressive, in his face, as music he put on blasts in the background. And suddenly, they're sucking face and ripping each others' clothes off.

And that's just in the first 2 episodes. Keep in mind that there are about 5 other different stories, following the lives of others, happening simultaneously. I actually didn't see any of that coming until much later in that second episode, so it was a bit unexpected. I won't say anymore; you'll just have to watch for yourselves to see what happens next. I haven't watched all the episodes, and don't know if I will continue; I've done my 3-episode duty :. What I can tell you that, as you'd probably expect, there's plenty of conflict between these 2. They apparently develop a relationship, with Kaldrick having to maintain his thuggish front to his entourage and to the public, while Tariq wants to go public with it all.

How long they sustain this back and forth, I don't know. But you may want to consider checking out the series for yourselves, especially with all the talk over the years about homosexuality in hip-hop. This takes it head-on, and actually turned out to be a little more complex a depiction of a scenario than I expected; though the 'down-low rapper' thread might be tiresome to some, or seen as a little too late. It's not often that this kind of storyline shows up in a primetime network TV series, does it?

So do chime in. One thing I'm surprised by about the show is just how adult its depictions of sexuality both hetero and homo are, given that its on the CW. Nothing graphic, per say, but definitely a little more than you'd probably expect for a show like this, and on this network. I'll close by saying that I was expecting the worst when I decided to finally check out the series myself, but I can say that it's actually not that bad.

Or maybe my expectations were met. If you watched shows like Beverly Hills and Melrose Place back in the day, you'll probably like this. It's pretty much a similar kind of vibe. Comparisons to those shows, based on what I've seen so far, are accurate.

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And if you're chasing Hollywood dreams, you just might dig it too, even though the set-ups are a bit thin. But almost every kind of performer is represented - filmmakers, actors, dancers, comedians, musicians. Despite what weren't the strongest ratings for season 1, there will be a season 2, which begins July 17 at 9 pm. I think I'm done with the series, as I move onto the next new series to catch up on. I watch so you don't have to :. Who knew there are so many Bow Wow lookalikes. But he wishes his ass was that nice. Based on the numbers of Americans who say it's their favorite sport, one would have to assume that football wins hands down.

These are some of the results of The Harris Poll of 2, adults surveyed online between December 5 and 12, by Harris Interactive. There are some fluctuations in favorites over time. College football, auto racing and hockey have all gone up 3 points while men's tennis has gone down 3 points.

When it comes to the top sports, different groups are more likely to cite them as favorites. As we got closer to the beginning of the football season there was a sense of gloom that it might not start. However, the talks succeeded and the season began on time. This scare did not seem to drive fans away from the sport, but rather, moved more people to it as the gap between football and baseball is now the largest it's ever been at 23 points. The question is why? Is it that football is doing everything right and baseball is doing something wrong? Or, is the draw of one sport just that much larger than the other.

Next year, it is possible that college football could overtake baseball and what would that say about America's pastime? The National Football League, USA Football and International Federation of American Football have gone to extraordinary lengths over the past decade to promote American football on a global stage, and as a result, the game has never been more popular throughout the world.

Sixty-four countries are associated with the IFAF, which is a strong indication of the substantial growth that the sport is witnessing worldwide. Every continent is represented, and more countries are expected to join in the coming years. Europe has the highest number of countries engaged in the IFAF with 33; Africa has the fewest with just one. A vigorous effort is being made, however, by the NFL and its players to ensure that the sport of American Football can grow anywhere.

Players are making trips to countries to teach the fundamentals of the game, and NFL games are now being broadcasted to a number of different countries. The closest that American Football has come to being in the Olympics was in at the Los Angeles Games when it was used as a demonstration sport.

The federation joined SportAccord, which is an international organization that attempts to unify sports federations. The federation was approved as a provisional member in , and it then gained full membership in When will American football be in the Olympics? The leaders of the federation then bid for possible recognition by the International Olympic Committee earlier this year, which is the final step to becoming an Olympic sport; According to Albert Breer of NFL.

Some major steps have been made by the NFL to increase the game's popularity and world recognition. The league is looking to expand on its international series because it realizes it has taken only a few small steps in a race that is, ultimately, a marathon. Also according to Breer, Canada, Mexico and Japan are on the second tier internationally, while Germany, Austria and France are not far behind. These countries, however, are nowhere near the level of American players, and it would certainly take a decade or two for the countries to stand a chance.

The Olympics faced a similar issue many years ago when basketball was admitted into the Games, but USA Football's executive director Scott Hallenbeck offered his two cents. With how fast things move, we could be closer than you think. If the world can continue to embrace America's beloved game, we will see American football or at least a modified version in the Olympic Games in the future.

This is the kind I like the most. The ones that turn "soft" when you're alone with them. Kiss and touch them in the right places and before you know it their legs are in the air! I love turning out those guys. They usually are closeted, but whatever. Thats not my problem. Just dont steal from me, stalk me, or bring female drama in my life.

Check out the ass on this fine dude. He made this heifer cum three times until she couldnt take much more. Lucky bitch! Whenever there's a thread here that is in some way created to showcase hot black guys it immediately turns into a light skinned blatino oriented thread. So annoying. R, "Thugs" is not a racial thread. Thugs are of every race and ethnicity.

Moreover, blatinos are Black by definition, and so are light-skinned Black people. If you are frustrated, post your own pics. I love this straight dude, Afrique. He stopped posting vids on Xtube sometime ago. He is a straight up thug when he beats it up! I love thug on white boy porn. Nothing better than a horny hungry bottom sucking off a few uncut pingas.

Thug Porn physically turns me on a lot. But it does very little for me mentally; I'm a patrician type so I can't identify with the characters. I love the passion in some of the thug porn scenes though that's missing in other genres particularly when the fucking begins. And Miguel Temon can seed my hole any day.

I need another smoke after watching this. Latin daddy laying the pipe DOWN!!! I would cum just by hearing his sexy voice. They are becoming so trendy and are staring to appear in ads one ad I saw on the news shows some REALLY hot dude with an afro so of course I would love to see how they look in porn on black men, of course. Talk, lean and muscular, with an ass so high and so firm. He was a sagger, so you could easily make out the outline of that amazing butt through his tight boxers.

I won't tell you what transpired after I approached him giggles! He tipped the attendant, and we went into a booth together. Stupid, I know, but sometimes the dick does all the thinking. He got totally naked, I got down on my knees, and sucked him off. He had a nice full brillo-pad type bush that had the aroma of what I imagine heaven to smell like, and a good 9 inches. I also licked his lush pits and took in their scent. A perfect specimen of masculinity.

For me, the holy grail of male beauty is a tall, muscular, well-built black man. Algerian Thugs fucking with classical music playing in the background After filming The Real World, Brown was contacted by an ex-friend from high school who had surprising news for him — he had a 9-year-old son named Jason. Brown, who was living in Los Angeles as the time, put a halt to his career ambitions, moved back to his home state of Texas, and began the process of adopting his son Jason. Brown says that the mother of his children is not a horrible person.

On the contrary, he says she simplified the process of him getting custody of Jason and Chris. Brown says that his biggest obstacle in being a father is balancing his personal time and family time. I cook every single night. Dinner is on the table every single night at on the dot. I wash clothes and when one of my sons has a cut they come to me and I have to nurture them and make sure they know that they are loved and the cut will heal.

Jason is an advocate for the gay community although he identifies as a straight and has a girlfriend, and when he sees someone being put down for their sexuality he constantly stands up. Although Jason and Chris have thus far had positive experiences in school, they have had their fair share of obstacles. Literally, every thought I have within the day is about how what I am doing will affect my children. So I always make sure that I let my sons know that I will love them not matter what they do or who they become for the rest of their lives.

My household is ran the same way it was with my parents, who were a mother and father with their kids. Love is love and people need to just accept that. Watch how to eat thug booty for free at www. Watch Two Bruthas fucking rough for free at www. The guys in these kind of urban videos know how to rim and relish doing so.

I wanna see more of r, that was so hot and they are really into each other. Who are those guys? Yeah, porn models and actors who looked like they've showered in the last seventy-two hours are way hotter. Yes indeed, we too use "cookies. I know we do! You can thank the EU parliament for making everyone in the world click on these pointless things while changing absolutely nothing.

Otherwise, you'll just have to find some other site for your pointless bitchery needs. Thug Porn Is there anything hotter? Getting with da thugs. Uhm, most thugs are not gay. Links to thug porn maybe? This is pretty hot. Papithugz or Dawgpoundusa? Which is hotter? Dawgpound is def. I'm sure OP is meaning something like this. Uhm, R5 dear? Those aren't thugs. Bilatinmen has some scorchin hot macho dudes. That WAS hot R Papi knows how to fuck. You never heard of gay Jamaicans? Also, I love watching thugs kiss, so very sexy. I think this kid is hot. I love his Law and Order affectations.

R5's link is mostly hot--but those boots at the beginning! They always seem so limp-dicked. That bottom at r17 doesn't seem to think to so, r For blazing thug porn, don't forget my boy "Shorty". Love "Shorty" especially when he and "Carlito" are doing the nasty. Here's some bilatinmen thugs. More bilatin thugs R22, your guy has a youtube page. I know him and his sub buddy. Thug duck is beter than thug porn.

This is one of the hottest vids I've seen in a while. Of course the DL loves thug duck. What does "way too ethnic" mean? Hotter than thug porn? More thug duck please! I love thug duck! If you want AIDS, then yeah! R47 don't you have some dusting to do, dear? R40 should keep his little white trash twink methheads. Then they all should die. Yes OP everything is hotter.

Thug duck! Nothing like a gangster party! What makes them 'thuggish'? Their ethnicity? The way they have sex. For example, Mark Wahlberg is thuggish and he is white. I think for white people any porn with just black men and no whites is thug porn. Do thugs not use the word 'gay', R65? It's a lot easier than 'same-sex orientated'. Please educate us, R What would you like for us to know? No, R66, it's too gay. So, these thugs are the definition of self-loathing, then.

Personally I prefer thug duck dong pron. Str8 Thugmaster as Hattie in Follies!! And the bald guy as Salonge. Here's a hot Dominican guy pounding him with his clothes on lol. More thug porn! And yet r82, you took the time to bump this hot thread. Thug ho adventures continue More thugs in the basement:. I know a guy who works at a local restaurant who used to do thug porn. He's hot as fuck, too. How does he look, r92?

Does he have anything online? Frankly nothing more revolting. But you still clicked on this thread, Miss r I love it. Smell you, ! Latino thugs fucking on Tonka truck sheets:. The top is hot. This is what I'm talking about Daddy Cream and Juan. Dumbo and Nino. The Business is so hot to me. Miguel Temon. Miguel Temon is friggin hot. What R said. I would rather watch dyke porn. How do you meet thugs in DC?

Thugs know how to put it down. Suburban dudes dont know how to thrust and move like this. I need a thug. No dick satiates like thug dick! And probably a republican. Joker and Rogue. I thought this was about Whitneys funeral. Nitro and Baby Star. Sorry nothing more repulsive! Give me a hot hairy Arab any day. Now that's hot. A love a thug who eats butt. Bi Thugs are so hot. Sarge, Thugnificent, and a Chick. Python Delivers the Dick. Jason Carlo. I love thug sizemeat! Hotrod and Kannon. Mag XL and King. Daddy Cream and Ninja Nixon.

Tiger Tyson. He doesn't even know what it is! Brazilians are so hot. We have a large bowl of wheat. I gathered the grains from the fields this summer. The gods have plenty to eat. When I came racing around the corner motor roaring, tires squealing kicking up shoulder dust I was ready for strange adventures ready for whiplashes of wild roses and werewolf parties ready for lost weekends and leap years. I stopped. She got in. I was never like the brown bear who sat on a hill and watched a mysterious woman drop a mysterious box into a river.

He looked at the woman for a minute then he looked at the river for another then he turned and trotted away. Every time a mysterious woman drops a mysterious box in the river I have to jump in and open it up. I was helpless when she asked me if I knew my way around.

The maps in my head crumbled to dust and I was helpless. This is the second time today. I never liked it when she started talking about old boyfriends. She ruined their names by pronouncing them. What a strange social and biological set-up like ducks in a shooting gallery. Fact is : she never knew anything about me as I knew next to nothing about her yet we got along Just fine.

Most of the time. Some girlfriends become wives and some girlfriends become the girls the wives become jealous of. Strange how we never need reason when it comes to all the important stuff. The stuff that shapes your life. We meet again after 40 years all that sweat seems impossible now nights of held breath mad dashes from one hiding place to the next stopping the car in the middle of midnight to race on foot thru a dense forest shouting OVER HERE strolling on mist shrouded beach at low tide curled up in a cubbyhole by the stove on cold linoleum floor at 4 a.

The cheerleaders loved me and my trombone. We took a walk along the river twilight I skipped flat stones out across the water showing her my skill letting her know I was clever and could be counted on to protect her from the fierce mountain lion and the devious rattlesnake. Her words become a blur. But who were we kidding?

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Only ourselves. A widow with a year and a half of empty arms and a good-hearted cowboy who needed a broom horse to ride. Who were we kidding? Not even the canary in the cage or the cat up in the rafters snapping at his tail. By then we were way past trying to fool the cat and the canary. We had other fish to skin and mud puddles to fry. The girlfriend never drove. She never paid. She would chew gum and sometimes smoke But basically her job was to look good. Her earrings were miniature maracas and her ears seemed to be hissing every time she turned her head.

Girlfriend cuts and slices chops and dices spreads like butter on a slice of warm bread and tastes like strawberry jam. As for breakfast bring me peaches on pancakes the salt of the earth and tequila on lemon. They say you can see her coming. Not true. Never true. She always catches you by surprise.

Girlfriends and Farmerwives. She lived next door. She was only 17, divorced, sort of almost innocent asking nothing from life but an honest break and maybe a chance to laugh and chase the blues away once in a while. We lay in a hollow of grass in a public park past midnight huddled under a blanket listening to the footsteps of perverts shuffle thru the leaves.

I had the force of ten men I could leap over small cliffs and large motorcycles I could run marathons and circles around the sun I could play the piano with 8 hands and 14 feet I could hold off the rain with one raised fist and paint rainbows across the sky with the tips of my fingers I could breathe in ocean storms and blow out candles in the Amazon. A photo she kept hidden in the bottom of the bottom of a bottomless bus station locker and refused to show anyone except her mother. We were going to have lots of fun. We were to grow up and go to Paris. We were going to learn everything in school then march around collecting money and giving everyone with polio a dime.

We were going to read every book in the library out loud to each other We got up to page 15 of the 7th book and switched to diving. We were going to master the jack knife and win gold medals in the Olympics. We were going to run the mile and break the world record. We were going to sit in the Red Dog Saloon and drink each other under the table. We were going to teach each other how to play the guitar then go out and join a country band and pretend we were Waylon Jennings and Tammy Wynette.

We were going to give dance lessons to all the animals in the zoo. We would teach koala bears how to do the Alligator teach turtles how to do the Monkey, teach the hippos how to do the Camel Walk, and flamingos how to Walk the Dog. There were hours when we were invincible, invulnerable but nobody ever noticed us not even the street sweepers and we never got to Paris either. She sent me a postcard from Hawaii. She tried to convince me it was her picture on the front, the girl in the grass skirt playing a ukulele.

I sent her a postcard from Reno, Nevada with a picture of the snazziest hotel in town. She wanted me to be her Mark McGwire and hit a homerun season. I bunted into a double play and hung up my spikes. She wanted me to be her Popeye so I ate some spinach and my skin turned green. She told her friends I was becoming a shrub. When I started losing my leaves, she left me out in the garden at night with all the other bushes.

I wanted her to be my spice girl She tried cinnamon and she tried cloves She tried curry and soya sauce She spread a pint of rum-soaked ice cream on her face and lost her smile an hour later. She jammed chilli peppers under her tongue and went for the super-hot goodnight kiss that left me with blistered lips and glowing teeth.

She wanted shirtless Australian surfers with year old sun-tanned muscles but instead got a geek with glasses and a scrawny body covered with sand. She wanted a smooth-talking, longtall Texan and she got a broken-down brakeman from the Rhode Island Line. She wanted a suave, debonair soap opera announcer the man who did the voice-overs by day and at night was a contrabasso, bari-tenortone in the real opera downtown, who sang lead roles in Tannhauser and Rigoletto, but instead she got me the kid who used to sprint the length of the pasture with a half-size football under his arm and dodge the cow pies as if they were real vicious tacklers from Notre Dame trying their best to keep him from scoring a windmill touchdown.

The crowds we lost ourselves in. Throngs of lost lovers. Flocks of fleeting Memory Ducks paint-brushing us into a corner with weathered wings. Names nibbling at our nerves with numbered teeth. Herds of Rumor Cows, stampedes of Story-Stallions, a gang of Gossip Gorillas, heavy-booted Reputation Goats running roughshod over our most populated areas. She was my biggest city, my favorite metropolis. She was filled with movie theaters and art galleries, planetariums, jazz clubs and Mexican restaurants.

Her streets were perfect for skateboarding. Her streetcars ran on time. Her taxi drivers were polite and courteous. I climbed her skyscrapers and rode her elevators to the top floors. I shopped in her department stores and I robbed her banks. I was caught trying to escape into the labyrinth of tunnels in her subway system. Her cops dragged me off to her jail. Her courts condemned me to 30 minutes of hard labor as an ambulance driver for her hospitals. She let me off after 30 seconds of good behavior. I promised never to rob her banks again.

Then I hot-wired the ambulance and turned a joy ride into an exodus and ended up in one of her smaller towns in the south. I was a total stranger there. I lived at the Green Iguana Motel I bowled a perfect game at her bowling alley I ate the blue plate special at her greasy spoon.

Her local newspaper wrote me up in her gossip columns, and her Sheriff finally caught up with me as I was shooting a losing game of pool in the backroom of The Swamp. It was the ambulance that did me in. She looked good wearing the river as a pair of liquid shoes which flowed together and spread from shore to shore. She looked good wearing that mask thru the eyeholes of which you could see the sky.

There were moments when a bee or a butterfly flitted thru a hole and turned her face into a pastoral landscape. You could hear the chirp of crickets in her ears. She kicked the winning goal in the World Cup Soccer final and we all watched in amazement as the ball turned into a cloud of exploding confetti. She was my fortune cookie. She could slip into my future, put it on like a sock, then come back and tell me how it fit. She was better at lunches and dinners. She always had trouble with the frozen peas.

Sometimes they would turn into tiny crystal balls into which you could stare and see dozens upon dozens of different tomorrows. When they changed Price Row to Via Ferlinghetti Bobolink came up with a poem about how it was a shame they chose a short dead-end alley to honor the poet. Everyone agrees. Bobolink wanted to know. Hayrides under a full moon, filled with girls ready to explode under the pressure of harvest hormones of male bodies prone to procreation. It was the last straw. The Chief was irate.

They do not walk poetic paths. And look at all the destruction they left behind. Where is the shaman to lead us out of our misery and aching teeth? Where is the teacher to lead us out of the low-down high-schools and away from those barracks on the other side of the university library? For them, it was a momentous day It was the last days of their lives. I killed them all. Columbus was a butcher alive today he would be convicted and executed for crimes against humanity he chopped up the Indians and fed them to the crocodiles they were in his way he wanted the gold he wanted ocean front property.

Praise is a good thing for all artists painters, poets, novelists, sculptors, film-makers, composers it keeps you going it keeps the channels open it provides nourishment and surprise. Are we supposed to believe that these various industries are doing anything more than applauding themselves? Cruise controlled on the high desert roads of Eastern Oregon New Country on the radio knowing that the most horrible thing in the world could happen to you at any moment.

The old man wore a new pair of work boots. They were stiff. His body lacked the vigor and flexibility to break them in. His feet lacked the spunk. It would be a long time before they were even half broken in and even then they would not bear the scars and wrinkles of a younger man. Still he persisted and wore only these new work boots. They swallowed his feet like leather eggshells. Why would anyone want to go down to Geezer Beach? In the Geezer League.

For racers over sixty. Ten races a season. April to October. The Geezer League. Why do I have to heap all the memories of these life-defining moments on poor grandma? I was raised by an uncle who felt only contempt for me. I refused to slaughter the rabbits. I refused to skin the deer he shot. My uncle did that once in awhile. He whipped me with a belt too. He boxed my ears because I listened to music.


He died of lung cancer, a nasty, old man. Who knows? I may end up the same. They want us for their Christian Scientist experiments. Nuttier than a fruitcake. You called ME a bastard? You called ME a fucking son of a bitch? YOU called ME a fucking son of an asshole? Short pieces of string. Shorter pieces of string.

And pieces of string too short to be useful — but you never can tell. All that music you play. Stick with the Saroyan. You are only seven years old. What were you thinking of? You should expect to receive it within the next two days. I was raised to lean that way the H-bomb could drop at any moment and wipe out us kids beyond imagination in the blink of an eye. You have nothing to fear You are in the safest place in the world : an American elementary school classroom.

Come to Marlboro Country and some of us walked a mile and got fooled right out of our filter tip souls and came limping home full of holes. Observe the way he babbles and burps rumbles and farts you will be amazed to know that he has no control over his body functions in this state of hibernation. We just wandered in. What kind of posters?

I like the bigger darkrooms. We NEED bigger darkrooms. Now all of this happens from to AM every Wednesday night, please note, every Wednesday night. He never went to the Cockring. He went to the Magic Theater. But over here, down in the corner is a poster that even Harry Haller could clap his hands over. I want to see the Easter Bunnies. Fourth Grade. New kid in school. First day. Scared shitless. First class after lunch. I make it half way before the need to take a piss hits my body. I hold back. Afraid to raise my hand. What am I going to say? Everybody will laugh. The need hits like a flood.

I stare at the clock on the wall the minute hand clicks slowly a quarter to two clicks another notch. I feel the warm liquid leaking down my leg I look down and see a small puddle gather around my shoes. Miss Petray told them this morning to make me feel welcome. The classroom is empty. November 12, , 2 am standing in the pitch-dark field tilted downhill knees bent taking a leak and thinking :.

But back in 53 I was milking cows morning and night and thinking about Shirley and Suzie and Patti and Jeanie and Betty squeezing those tits and thinking about Betty and Jeanie and Patti and Suzie and Shirley from morning to night. Navy sailors staggering drunk down the midway with their arms around fat bar girls who were clutching kewpie dolls blowing pink bubbles of gum and scattering the shells of peanuts. I stood looking down into the bin at the old bike in its new home with all the other forgotten scraps of metal thinking that when I first rode it we were living in a house less than meters away across the field and down the road.

Nobody out here can out-appreciate me. In the year of our Lord, the sky was be-deviled with tin pan alleys and raindrops the size of hot air balloons. In the year of our Lord, Mug Face and Chin Nobel played poker with a loaded deck Chin Nobel won with a pair of queens over a bed of hot coals. Chin Nobel was last seen trying to have oral sex with the Statue of Liberty. Did you ever hear about delusions?

Did you ever have hallucinations when you were a kid over there in Vietnam crawling thru the jungle with a reefer glued to your lip? In the year of our Lord, the folks who live up near Sirius who bumped off Alpha Centauri and were about to cruise right into our troposphere took one look at all the crazy shit we were doing to each other with bullets and bombs and loads of religious manure turned around and headed back home. In the year of our Lord, November slid over into December on thin ice and we all held our breath until it began to snow.

After that it was easy we could see the footprints and we knew where everybody was going. These poems were written on the run, Spring, Summer, Fall of I was out almost everyday on my bike. Most of these roads, tho unnamed and unmarked, became my home in the long afternoons and evenings of summer and thus acquired names that only I am familiar with.

Someday I will provide a map of these roads, the hidden and secret byways of the Hesbaye. It was here I lived thru the entire cycle of the seasons, the plowing, the planting, the crops as they grew, the harvest — and beyond. Wheat, barley, betraves, corn, flax, potatoes. Thousands upon thousands of acres of farm land. These poems came from the earth, up thru the rolling tires of my bike, thru my hands, arms, neck and into my brain — then back again down into my fingers and into my notebook.

As always, the trick was not to get in the way. At first, when they fluttered and swooped around me and my moving bike and piped their tiny seagull croons so far from salt water I thought they were just glad to see me. I stop and watch her fly east, south north and west hoping to lure me into following her across the field away from the nest.

I wait until she comes around again then start rolling my bike down the road sure enough she flutters past me and down the road in front of me. I follow. About yards down the road she whirls back — towards her nest. I watch her glide, swoop back to her nest. She hovers above it gives her babies a piping croon then flutters down over them.

The whole world is doing it with the wind. Biking the streets of a Belgian village this afternoon I pass an old man, withered in a wheelchair, being forked-lifted into the back of a van a half-dead piece of meat being transported from one place to another. And a mile later down the road I realize I could become that crippled monster myself this very afternoon blind-sided by a motorcycle rear-ended by a bus side-swiped by an old lady in a Suburban Utility Vehicle who thinks the line of white dots down the middle of the road is a decoration that needs to be observed from both sides.

Where are the angels? The beautiful maidens of romantic intensity who used to leap out of the wallpaper and make me fall in love with them? They scared up a storm up on bald mountain the witches the warlocks on Walpurgisnacht they slaughtered the sheep raped the young virgins then drank to the bottom of their skins, fell asleep and when they awoke the virgins were dancing spinning on tiptoes gracefully spinning like slow boats to hell their steps were not false they were true, unforgiving spinning for satan and the deep raven waltz.

I read about stuff like that when I was a kid. It was in all the old poems. On one side of the road the wheat grows knee-high on the other the wheat struggles to put down roots. On one side the spuds are singing Verdi operas on the other the spuds are screaming for affection. On one side the farmer reads aloud the old poems to his field of corn every day at sunrise and sunset while on the other the corn is scorned. Which ones are old? Do they have grey hair? Missing teeth? Arthritic bones? Grandchildren who sit on their knees and piss on their pants? Or are they stuck in a corner of a rest home where no one comes to visit and only the cagiest and most clever escape from time to time and run amok on the grass of manicured lawns and hide in the sprinkling water of the Japanese Gardens before being captured and hauled back to captivity.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is out on the highway behind the wheel of a big semi hauling a load of pigs coast to coast while sniffing coke and listening to Neil Young on his quadraphonic audio system. The Wasteland continues to rob banks and never gets caught tho he leaves behind a pertinent quotation on each job. Howl sneaks a smoke late at night out behind the garage and once a month when the moon is full he lets loose a wail that chills each sleeper in his bed for blocks around.

The Spoon River Anthology vacations once a year in the Swiss Alps arriving in June for the last few days of ski snow then hanging out with the shepherds in high alpine meadows until September when the Canterbury Tales come slouching around and driving everyone nuts with their phony English accents.

Fra Lippo Lippi tends his acre crop of genetically engineered megamarijuana down in the Mexican jungles and at night swinging in a hammock under mosquito netting he reads a few of the old poems himself. I rode by the field when they were planting the seeds and leaving behind smooth, fine dirt in organized, harmonious rows that erased all memory of the scrabble chaos of the winter-frozen earth.

I rode by the field when the wheat was sprouting and birds were nesting in their harmonious rows and darting up like rockets shout-cheeping, saving their babies by stealing the show. I rode by the field when the sun was burning and the tops of the wheat bent over in the wind Came back the next day in the still of the heat the wheat tops were brown but standing again. I see the tractors lined up at the granary. His life savings is in that trailer behind him. The fires grill meat all day and night watt speakers pump out techno from noon until way into the middle of your dreams.

There used to be a village here. This year it was good the best harvest in 25 years. I have pace. I have rhythm. I can imagine a time years from now when every creature on this planet has learned to get along more or less and a peaceful harmony rules the world like a sky full of everyday weather. Stare at me.

Continue strolling. On the other hand at least I have a self to talk to. The Son of Stud. The last time I passed by the house there were two cows on the lawn humping. No kid. No soccer ball. I quit. I stop. The Stud surpasseth all understanding. An organizer of space and the taster of expensive wines? What I got was a one-lobe baboon fucker with emotional rabies whose primary ambition was to be a shoesalesman to blind amputees. Just your average moron behind the wheel of a thousand horsepower Splat Mobile with thousands of others just like him all lined up waiting to run me down and turn me into a dead hedgehog by the side of the road.

I can count from 1 to 21 without thinking of anything else but the number at hand after that I get distracted. Today I tried to give myself a heart attack head wind third gear pumping uphill all the way. I just want out. I want out of this whole fucking shitload of crap. Fast cars have only spontaneity to recommend them. You know what this reminds me of? The list I made about 10 years ago : 20 good reasons to stop smoking.

So if I had stopped breathing today I know what the engraving on my tombstone would have said :. My eyeglasses are special not only do they make things less blurred but they also magnify the light. Not everybody has the chance to see magnified light. Having written the last lines I stuff the pen in my pocket. It rubs against something. The candy bar wrapper. What the hell? I bite off a chunk wrap the rest of the bar in the silver foil wrapper and stuff it back in my shirt pocket. It bumps into something what the hell? I chomp down on the last chunk stuff the empty wrapper back in my shirt pocket What the hell?

What happened to the pen? What the hell is only the top of my pen doing in my shirt pocket with the empty candy bar wrapper? I should have stopped around verse number four. Go back and start over. Stop before you come to the part where I start eating the candy bar. I get run off the road once a week average cars, trucks, jeeps machines with 4 wheels. Up ahead I see a rose garden in full bloom and out in the middle of it sniffing the roses are two old ladies rosy-cheeked curly white hair cute in an old-fashioned way.

Go find your own piece of ass! I want to get low real low deep down and dirty below like a low blow to the scrotum I want to get high. I want to go sideways slip, slide, sideways onto parallel world highways I want to get high. I want to go around around and around I want to ride the merry-go-room I want to see the backside of the womb I want to get high see the dark side of the moon. I never challenge the cars on these narrow tractor roads I pull over and stop on the edge of the grass with my foot on the verge and wait for them to pass.

I am not being polite. Yesterday a driver smiled and waved as he rolled by inches from my bike. I gave him a sneer and felt like flipping him the bird. There would be no end. Do not attempt to waltz without a partner. Do not smoke an imaginary cigarette. Not only will you look silly and stupid they might lock you up if you persist in your behavior. However, there are a few things you can get away with. You can and must throw caution to the wind especially when the teeth of the wind is at your back and caution is standing in front of you making nasty comments about your family.

Two little old ladies out for a stroll along a country road at sunset. And as I flash past they look into my eyes and see the other end of the gangplank. They look into my eyes and see the spinning blade of my chainsaw soul. I am constantly amazed by the garbage that idiots toss from their car windows because I know they would never toss all this crap in their own backyards.

I refuse to pick it up. Even on one self-designated road I will not begin to be their janitor. The back of my bike would be sagging with bulging garbage bags. I would disappear behind a mountain of beer cans, pop bottles burger bags and cigarette packs. How could I ignore them? You get the picture. I held a gun to his head.

He was on his knees trembling with fear. I pulled the trigger The bullet blew his brains out the back of his skull. Brought along a D harp today. Held it up in the north wind as I pedaled straight into it. Got a nice D major chord going, got it up to my ear. No human could play that long. I rejoiced in the harvest and I gathered spilled grains of wheat on the road with my hands and brought them home and put them in a bowl by the door to honor the spirits of the earth. You never can tell about them.

I still like This Road especially with the wind at my back and the sun in my eyes and my hands reaching all the way down thru the handlebars into the front tire where my fingers can almost touch the black top. And as soon as these words are out of my mouth lo and behold a convoy of bulldozers back hoes, shovels and rollers plus a troop of men comes swarming over the hill. When I reach the top I look back and there below in the dip of the road a brand new wooden bridge spans the drainage ditch.

Phantom American bombers from W. Two destroyed the bridge last night also wiping out a phantom battalion of their own troops. Then a phantom of the U. Army Corps of Engineers moved in and restored the drainage ditch to its original form according to the antique codes in the authentic style of late 18th century grills. I hop over it, hit high gear and head for the top of the hill.

I still like this road a lot. Good place to come when I feel like crying. Ride back out into the bright sunlight thumbing snot into the slipstream of the hard north wind with my soul purified and my heart beating in the right direction again. The next time I saw the dog he was riding a bicycle. He wanted to have leg muscles like mine.

Back on This Road coasting down the hill from the south ahead in the dip I see the bridge that spans the drainage ditch with planks of carved oak. I fly over it like a moon-shot monkey. Look back over my shoulder. No bridge. Just that rusted, busted grill over the drainage ditch. I imagined it all. You can actually see This Road over there to the west. You can see the barn. You can see the fence posts. French speakers?

As for those tokes of wonder weed in the wayside chapel consider them burnt offerings to the goddess Our Lady of Sorrow. A hunting dog in the middle of a beet field comes over and sniffs at me. Dog Sniff Death Row? On Dog Sniff Death Row. Where did you grown up? Dog Sniff Death Row. Where do you live today?

You can put on the dog you can take off the fat you can stick in the mud of green greasy dollars. I biked past the Borg again it was still there Jesus fart in heaven what did I expect? Headwind, tailwind they all even out they become the same sail on the tail rejoice in the head. There is no Teaching No 7. You already know it. In the dark. Never leave your bike where wild animals can get at it The most untamed beast of all is, of course, the human brat He comes in all sizes from Peanutbrat to Geezerbrat. If push comes to shove with the Peanut Brats snarl loudly and show them your fangs.

The bicycle is a musical instrument. And the only time you can hear it is when your mind wanders. The phenomena of man and machine occupying the same shifting spots of space at the same time or if you prefer the delicious discontinuous blend of bone and metal grease and blood and air everywhere inside and out. Each breath you take could be your last. Bicycles do not have a monopoly on this morsel of knowledge. You can learn it while operating a power drill with one hand and a chain saw with the other.

You can learn it playing poker with guys with guns. You can learn it in a bar dancing with a pound Mexican whore while her jealous husband watches from the shadows honing his knife blade on his belt and she, pointing to the room upstairs, reminds you that no less than 14 men have died in her arms including her 6 previous husbands. This lesson can also be taught by a guy named Gus who drives a school bus and chortles with glee each and everytime he swerves out of the way to smash a rabbit or a skunk a chipmunk or a squirrel a dog or a cat a frog or a toad into the tarmac while his busload of kids scream with delight each time a tire bumps over a lump of squirming meat.

There is no fall out here on the farm roads out here in the cold wind riding directly into the setting sun blinded by the light riding into some kind of resurrection. Leaving heading south into French-speaking Hesbaye why am I in a hurry? I climb south into the Hesbaye and when I emerge from the cool, steep tunnel of trees and rise above the high banks I find the sun perched on the horizon half down its arc of light like a neon sign at a burger joint next to the church in the distant village.

Besides I still consider myself the most dangerous animal around. This is a completely different summer. East is west and south is down the back of my neck. Last day of June Who said that? See what I mean? It just crept up out of the wheat field and jumped into my lap. The Notebook Gate. Chemin Des Parapluies. Elderly elegant ladies strolling in the rain, in the hot sun, Jack jumping out from the corn knee high and snatching them umbrellas away. Nobody in sight. I wanted that. Just a leaky airplane up there above the clouds a million and a half betraves a broken soccer ball a mile of sunshine a graveyard a hedgerow with sparrows and a tree full of songbirds but not a crow in sight.

It was a big black SUV the driver had his door open and his naked legs propped thru the open window and from the passenger side drifted the aroma of sweet perfume and a few strings of a romantic melody. I know what it was. It was a bordello. A cat house on wheels. Special service for midgets [High Point] I left my bottle of water down on Chemin Des Parapluies last stop when my pen ran out of ink and I had to delve into my kit bag for a fresh one, then the rolling bordello rolled by and I forgot to pick up the bottle so now the Chemin has everything including a whore house and a drink of water [High Point].

I came back and got the bottle. My 75cl Vittel with the squirt pointed top that I never use it was still there I could see it from a hundred meters away from the crossroad as an elegant elderly lady on a bicycle turned in from the side road and disappeared down Chemin Des Parapluies. There it was standing up straight on the paving stone edge in a pale of sunlight how many people had passed it by?

It has a name. Rue Cinq Bonniers. What does that mean, Jack? So which way do I go? Back around again past the floating funhouse? But the bordello is gone. Where is that load of very small prostitutes going? There only one place down at the end of the road. The graveyard. We met Jack Kerouac today. That was a good thing.

I needed him. I also did not mention the house I passed where lives a potential love affair if only would be foolish enough to stop and ring the doorbell. They were not to be seen. They called down from the cloud above the house and their opinion on the potential love affair was to be expected. Two Trees Road was a dream. Floated all the way down with the south wind nipping at my back in winter I came down here thru a field of snow a road with no borders just a wide expanse of frozen white across which I took my bearings from distant trees and it took me a half hour or more today a couple of zippy minutes at the most.

This is what happens when you mix a puff of weed with two wheels. Take another puff and let the south wind chew off your collar. This Notebook Gate is only for what happens in the collective mind of that creature of me and two wheels and moving parts of the most wonderful machine that man has ever invented. And of course I am breaking this rule as I intrude it upon the freehwheeling spin of this gate. The puff shall be optional. The Two Wheels the most essential. Same thing as yesterday, Jack. Denim shirt loose open in front black t. This pair of levis and another arrived in the mail a week after she died.

They are now starting to wear out and I am starting to wear out too. I can only take so many washings it seems. This pair is at that soft, peak-of-arc stage just before the fade. Mother Mary she is small. She is small. We are all small. I bid Jack to hop on my left shoulder. And I feel Dylan in the shape of a mystical butterfly fluttering down and trying to land on my right shoulder. Due west and flat. High Road. Up Pissing Road.

The first to be named. It was inevitable. This was 4 or 5 years ago, one of our first trips together. Thunder Road. It was the second to be named. And I just got my crow. He could smell me too. So could his 5 companions. I hear sharp pucking noises coming from my right shoulder, soft and professional. Then I hear massive gasping and gulping on my left. How many more days do you have past the 31st? These are the trips I like the most. They flew straight ahead down the road yards then swooped up to the telephone wires to perch.

They waited for me to pass underneath. Then he spoke. I learned that cows are stoned all the time. Alone at the fountain 1st day of July not even Jack Kerouac showed up. I saw that yesterday.

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Go flop somewhere else. I hate sitting on these things. Water, man. I can see now that this Notebook Gate is not going to be written on the run. This Gate needs repose. It needs restful verbs and it wants to take a good look at all the adjectives too. The voices and the verbs pile up, spill out and get lost forever which means that much of this will be written in the pasture bedtime type of tension. The nouns have it : green upon green with yellow-tip wheat and flax clouds bouncing around, dueling with rain hard, sharp sunlight south-west wind shifting around to the south.

Taking no chances today. I think he passed out. Flopped out over my shoulder. And she does have a Japanese voice. Get lost. Hard Luck Road. Used to call it Rum Road, three years ago returning from Les Waleffes with the last pint of rum from the shelves of the village shop going out of business, drunk at twilight and not knowing it until I started rolling down Rum Road. The Verlaine Speed Road has other names too.

The Mean Machine Road from when Quanah was a kid and the huge rusted iron cow shit claw over the slop pit reminded him of mechanical monsters that do not hide their human nature, also known as Treasure Card Street. High Point Hesbaye. I used to think cows were dumb. Stoned out of their horny heads. I was a boy.

So I guess I was a cowboy. I wore a baseball cap and I drove a pick up truck. I thought he heard a marching band, but it was an ambulance walking across the land on two lumpy feet, dragging one, sliding, slurring it along thru the dust. I thought it was Gerry Mulligan Quartet tuning up. You dig Mulligan? I come from a weird place, from between the Sons of the Pioneers and Hank Ballard and the Midnighters. They say the cuckoo wobbles when she flies. One flew east. Somewhere between Moondog and Leadbelly.

Between the dog and the belly. Not bop. Jimmy Reed high harmonica. Face to face with my death. Red gold setting sun reflected in the rims of my glasses. This is not face to face. We got pig iron. We got John Lee Hooker. If you squint your ears she could be playing bar music in the atrium lobby of some fancy downtown hotel.

He wanted to sleep he wanted to dream a dream of impossible dimensions so vast he could walk from one end to the other and discover he was back at the beginning of his life and that his dream was identical to his life — tho backwards and not once did he have to repeat a single moment. I pressed my palms onto the moss and the dead leaves still half-alive with the evening dew. So what happened to that guitar? Did you learn to play it? Did you become a second Segovia? Or did you smash it against a chair after coming home from a Jerry Lee Lewis concert?

So stop complaining. Two out of three is not that bad.

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Georges ]. Boy, am I lucky to have legs. I am lucky to have legs. And by his side on a leash trotted the tiniest dog you ever did see. It weighed no more than a pint and a half it got a few smiles got lots of laughs pound laughters tons of belly jelly rolling and trembling shuddering, slobbering it went on all day it continued at night the little dog bounced and yipped with delight.

We had to hold her down at first but after a while she stopped kicking and screaming and we had some fun. Marie Claire would have been better off phoning the baraquis down on the corner and exchanging a few words with their wild dog. I had to spit them out. I can say anything I can say hum I can cay humdinger I can say it so loudly you will almost see it in print ham bunker rim runner gum bummer plump numb deaf and dumber anything. I can say anything I want I can say hump for example I can say Bump and Blimp listen to me say Lump and Limp went out in a Pumpo Bean, built a leap across Lake-on-Terrible with a lick warm puke box and a charmed arm load of J.

And look at his passport. He never combs his hair and that black t.