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Original Poetry by Mary McIntyre-Terranson Once, when my soul was truly ensconced in the west So Present and Home I saw a Timber Wolf, who In the Infinite "wisdom" of those with thumbs

Wherefore art thou? It's been much too long Since last we met My lover awaits At my window The portal to another world In his heated embrace.

I'm scared of the dark, She says. In a wave of humble confession. No, I'm terrified of it.

You ooze confidence Seeping through that sleazy smile But I know just what you are Won't fool me anymore.

You are the scumbag king The narcissistic liar Manipulative coward Embodiment of Evil. The snake that slithered Hissing secrets That led to Eve's mortal mistake.

You look at me I avert my eyes It's like avoiding staring Straight into the sun. Like I will be blinded Should I look too long.

My mind may seem like a dark place to most Full of monsters, untold horrors That are present in my artistic expressions But I do not fear the same monsters that others might. I do not fear false monsters.

In a world where we worship False prophets and pop stars Instead of praising intelligence And peace makers...

I always get asked, "Why is your poetry so serious and dark? Why don't you write about something happy?" I could be wrong on this, but aren't poets supposed to be Somewhat angsty? The world isn't all rainbows and unicorns. It has real pain and suffering Sadness, disappointment, death....Sarah Palin.

You know that feeling Deep down in your gut That tells you When something isn't right? I ignored it.

I am that dying star Hurdling through space at unimaginable speeds Leaving a trail of light in my wake I will not let you see me fall...

A zombie courted a pirate wench Upon the seven seas Decaying smiles across the miles He only wished to please.

Day and night, I ref an internal fight. Nothing seems to win, nothing loses life. Of all the thoughts and all the prizes, I never once knew what a pointless life meant.

Chosen generation. It is time. Shout your victory and let it be Mine.



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Bucharest was not Constantinople: Romanian Shots :

Posted By : Jane White
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Date Added : May 24, 2010 Views : 663
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     Juha was a friend of Calin's from Finland. He owned some sort business in Bucharest and was staying in the hostel for a few days while he was trying to find an apartment. I was freshly showered and dressed some time around noon and folding my nightshirt when I met him. He was talking to a Dane named Scott, who was a story unto himself, and spoke with an uncanny Midwestern American accent.

     "I knew a Finnish girl named Oona who went to my high school as an exchange student." My high school in the southernmost tip of Illinois was a graced with unusual diversity for the area, mostly due to Southern Illinois University. "She was nice, but she was crazy. Every day in photography she would accuse me of stealing her full-frame carrier, and every day I told her it wasn't me. 'I will not be angry if you just tell me the truth. You are always taking my carrier.' I never fessed up to it because I never did it," I recalled indignantly.

    "Yes," Juha said reflectively, "This has also been my experience with Finnish girls."

     One night Juha came with Sorin and me to El Comandante. In the cab over we were telling him what a good bar it is.

     "It will be a good party. Lots of girls.You will meet the most tall, beautiful women in El Comandante," Sorin told him.

    Juha looked back at us an nearly made me blush, saying, "I think I might be looking for more like... short and pretty."

     Sorin pulled the ultimate rug out from under my feet by looking at Juha like he was insane and saying "WRONG!" in the most incredulous tone. It was clear that Sorin and George had completely accepted my as one of  the guys, which made me laugh rather than slap him in the face. Juha was a sweetheart. His friend Panu was not.

     Panu came the next day. Panu was the opposite of Juha in every way, including his appearance. Juha was was tall with a pleasant face and well-kept hair that fell to his shoulders. Panu was short and bald and I wouldn't have trusted him as far as as Juha could have thrown him. If Americans have a reputation for being passive-aggressive, I don't know how I would have described Panu. All night he bought shots that no one wanted but would have been rude to turn down. Calin had gotten us into the club fwithout a cover that night, as he had been close with the owner of El Comandante, and we had been invited to go to Club A, a much more exclusive, and much more dangerous club.

     "We are leaving, to go to Club A," Sorin said, looking distressed. I leaned against the wall behind me, drunkenly figuring out how get through the crowd. "Grab my fucking hand!" We both felt we had been had slightly by Panu, but we were both too proud to admit it. We stumbled up the stairs, neither of us sure who was holding the other up.

    "I threw up." Sorin admitted.

     "ME TOO!"

     "No, I mean... I did not make it to the bathroom..."

     "No, me too! I hate tequila... I tried to tell myself not to puke, but it had already happened..."

     Sorin laughed "I tried to throw up on George, but he SAW me coming."

     I don't remember the walk to Club A, but I remember Sorin telling to shut the fuck up so I didn't get killed. Club A was surreal. The lights were blue and dim; Janis Joplin wailed as women in leather cocktail dresses fawned over drug dealers in track suits. Sorin dragged me to the bar and bought a beer for both of us.

     "Do NOT wander off in this club. We leave after this."

     "Deal," I declared, as we clinked beer bottles for the twentieth time that night.

     But of course, Panu had other plans. He roared drunkenly as he passed out a disgusting purpleish brown shot. I tried to pass it up but was met my severe resistance; "OH, COME ON!" Panu sneered, so I faked acceptance of the situation. When no one was looking, I hid my shot on the bar. Sorin took his, seemingly like a champ, and then we went tumbling up the stairs.

     We found a tree for Sorin to hurl on. While I supported him slightly, I had a moment to really appreciate the beauty of the architecture that results from being conquered by the Romans for so long. It was still astounding, even through the layers of graffiti and placards.    

     "I will not fall," he reassured me, "I am a legionnaire. If I fall... we are ALL fucked!"

     I patted his back supportively as he emptied more of the contents of his stomach.

     "The thing is... the thing is... that last shot was ROMANIAN." He stood up and indicated that he was going to find a cab. It was good to have Sorin around for this, since most, not some, but the vast majority of cabs in Bucharest are illegitimate cars painted yellow with no meters and a couple stickers with a phony cab logo pasted on.

     "Nothing traditionally Romanian... is meant to be drank as shots. You understand?"

     "Yeah, like you're supposed to mix it with water or juice or something," I said as I recalled drinking Arak at Calin's apartment.

     "YES! Also, Romanians are always EAT when they are drinking... these things..."

     We were in the back of the cab going back to the hostel, and Sorin started to look panicked.

     "George, where is George?"

     I opened my window and leaned my head back, "George went back to the hostel before the club."

     "Oh... good. You and George. In the whole club, I only care about you and George. Everyone else. I don't give a shit."

     I can't remember if I said anything to that. I hope I didn't. Anything I could have said would have cheapened the sentiment.


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