monoxide monologues...
What would I have said
this brilliant morning in January?
sitting on a bench, outside a mall
in Scarborough
the bench, cold... chilling me
like someone’d shovel’d snow
down the back of my shirt
shivering and wet
A fine sheen of rainmist...
spraying me with a reluctant shower
...water almost run out
like a writer facing a blank page
...out of ideas...great words
just too numb’d and cold
to think warm thoughts
...or remember better times
This huge sign glaring at me
“Eatons”...like they have an identity problem
don’t they know...they’re all sold out, finished
old and jaded...the owners
once vibrant, passionate men
blood’ied and decorated... with the spoils of business
now faded...hunched, and...
like their mannequins...discarded!
I drop my gaze an octave or two of Gray sky
at the place where the monsters sleep
...heavy machinery...cranes...’dozers...tractors!
powerful...earthshaking...even at rest
pre-historic...fugitive metal dinosaurs
from a distant, doom’d future...
jealously guarding these portals they built
...pleasure domes for ferocious finance
Shifting in my seat...fleshburning
at every contact with cold metal
breathing deep ... the stale, cigarette choke’d air
...the poisonous, monoxide belchings
from cars...trucks... left running
the owners safe and warm within
too lost in dreams of blissful peace
jelly-lip’d... snoring...they destroy the world!
And the stop sign...Red and White
catches my eye...there is deja vu here
something I must decipher...I falter instead
looking away... in desperation
...do I stop at the white line?
...move no further...or merely pause...?
...and drive on ever forward...no looking back?
there is mystery in the meaning I do not see
...But then again, what could I have said
this brilliant morning in January?
Canada, Saturday, January 8th. 2000.
Bombay
Losing my senses over you
dreamlike and sensual
slipping away into troubled sleep
drowning in waters too deep
fathomless and mysterious
fading away like a silent prayer
an unfinished symphony no one will hear
the echos of my heart distant...faint
a canvas utterly devoid of paint
patient... awaiting the first brush stroke
Losing my faith in fickle fantasy
the sepia and teknicolor in Joseph’s coat
was it love, truth I saw in your eyes
they say the camera never lies
looking but never seeing.
touch’d by your magic
undone by your grace
you made the embers glow in flame
I feel the lust...I feel no shame
to hunger for your moistening love
Losing my religion over you
I sin as I touch you, hold your hand
draw you close and feel your breast
your soft hair silky on my chest
and know all demigods have died
I felt you speak...I did not hear
the words flow’d silent from your eyes
of love and loss...like wasted tears
wishing I could kiss away your fears
like a gentle summer breeze
Losing my senses over you
dreamlike and sensual
slipping away into troubled sleep
drowning in waters too deep
fathomless and mysterious
fading away like a silent prayer
an unfinished symphony no one will hear
the echos of my heart distant...faint
a canvas utterly devoid of paint
patient... awaiting the first brush stroke
Canoes and Cottage country...a short collection of verse
Just pickin’ up a couple of things...
I think I’ll take some margarine,
and a couple of pounds of cheese
...no thank you, not the synthetic
stuff, I’m talking real cheese here, you
know the kind that leaves an exquisite taste
on the palate,...Oh, Oh! I’m salivating already,
Just thinking about it.
And plenty of bread, and dinner rolls, to go
with the cheese. Hmm...let me think, a couple
of cases of coke, and throw in a case of sprite
as well. ..goes well with vodka, just in case, you know,
we run out of MHL. Yes, I said two large packs, no,
not the European style, give me the Caesar
with the dressing. Hmm, just six cans on the shelf,
chicken and mushroom, may as well take the lot.
Are they microwave ready- I mean just nukeem
and eatem? Great, pack a couple of them in as
well, yes the fifteen inch one’s, they just love pizza!
The quiche looks good too, I’ll take a pack, thank you.
Toilet stuff...yup, the johnsons no tears soap
and shampoo. Oh that’s just so cute, that little duck!
Is it soap, really? I’ll take the yellow one and the...
do you have any other colour... no?...Ok I’ll take
two of them. Toothpaste, shampoo, toilet rolls,
I mustn’t forget the sunblock...now what was
the percentage I was looking for...?
There it is, thank God. Do they really work, I mean
those eucalyptus candles? Give me a couple
please, and that insect repellent too.
The cookies! The cookies! Knew I was forgetting
something - let me write that down. Oh,
and the first aid kit too...
...Jesusmurphy!!!
And I thought the only
time I had to worry about bits & bytes,
was in the office!
Now if only I could find myself
something decent to read. There’s the
book-section...Hmm...The God of
Small Things.
Charming!
Wonder what she means by that, and how
on earth does she pronounce that name,
...Aranditty???
Now there’s a real tongue-twister for you.
But I’m outa’ here...gotta’ pick up the kid’s
stuff from the cleaners, and those video’s,
they wanted to see,Oh, and the lawn,
...mustn’t forget the lawn,
someone’s gotta’ do it when we’re gone
to the cottage, I’d better hurry now.
Ha!
And I thought I was just pickin’ up
a couple of things...
...yeah right!!!
Even the angels cry...
Just look at you...in those white shorts,
with the blue, striped, sailor shirt,
knotted at the waist. And boat shoes,
and a white scarf, around your neck.
And those lovely knees...tanned and rounded
...perfection and grace.
And that smile on your face,
as you leaf thru a random page
of an Oprah selection,
and wonder...sigh, at some, fleeting,
moment of art, imitating life.
Pure epiphany...
the deck, swaying beneath your feet,
the lulling sound of waves...
slapping against distant shores.
Caressing you...you sleep.
Golden slumbers...the gold in your hair,
shining, like the enchanted treasure,
Jason sought...only, infinitely, more precious.
The single tear meandering down your face
like a dewdrop, sliding reluctantly,
off a leaf...when morning has broken,
and the first bird has spoken...the clouds
all scattered...and a rainbow fills the sky.
I gaze at you spellbound, and know,
sometimes...even the Angels cry.
Ripples and whorls...
Sitting at the edge of a marina,
wooden planks, cool and pleasant,
...moss-cover’d-comfort
on a mid-summer afternoon.
You drape your feet in the clear water,
watching them bend a little,
refracting in the sunlight. It feels so good.
Swirling them now, in the quiet noon,
watching the ripples and whorls,
whirplool themselves around your feet.
Reaching down, scooping up a handful,
liquid crystal you splash-on, your face,
your golden hair. You look so tan
behind your neck, where the sunburn
hurts the most. Never taking your eyes
away from this magic pool,
greenblue...gray, so enchanted,
...your heart is fill’d.
You look up now, an octave or two of clear,
blue sky, at the geese, in formation,
they fly-by, and you wonder
...where do they go, in winter
...where do all the pretty birds
find shelter...from the storm?
But suddenly, the reverie is broken.
And you smile, with innocent delight,
at the crystal drops that stream like dew,
from round your eyes...each drop
a bird enfolds, in flight. And your eyes...
...O Esmeralda, how they sparkle,
...now blue...now green and,
no, those are not tears that you shed,
but the ripples and whorls you gently held
...in the precious, stillness of your dream.
Hemingway...
Hemingway fallen asleep... by your side.
Too bad. You finished the last tale,
before you arrived here...cottage country.
The lounge chair holds you, snug and cozy.
Your eyes feel heavy-lid’d, torpid,
hearing the sounds, the buzzing bees,
the crickets on the ground,
a slowly, receding, wave, and gentle
birdsong all around...coming to you
like a smorzando passage...
... Soporific and silky.
And your lips are cool, sipping an MHL
on crushed ice. You touch the dimpl’d drink
to your soft, dimpl’d cheeks...feel the
perspiration from the glass cool against
your skin. Now a gentle gust of wind,
rustles the brush, the trees that surround you.
Kissing your face like a fairy breath...
...why does reading that line, fill you with deja vu?
There’s someone out there keeps telling you...
‘...your voice is like a fairy breath.’
Can’t seem to place whom, at the moment.
Could it be... that everyone...
...says the same thing...In different ways?
Now a gray cloud, stumbles across the azure sky,
pregnant, burden’d...rich with rain,
filling your horizon. A shadow stealing over the lawn,
like a dark coverlet, pulled across your bed,
when sleep is done...and morning has come.
But wait... someone just dial’d down the light
...the sun wink’d out...and it’s dark as night.
And you never knew when your eyelashes kissed
...or when you dream’d, and sighed, and made a wish,
to fly like an eagle and kiss the snow
in the mist cover’d mountains of Kilaminjaro.
The laughter in your eyes...
Insouciantly you sit, out on the patio...quiet.
Cottage country...intellectually incommunicado.
With only two words, filling your brain
incessant...demanding,
like a tape recorded in perpetual loop,
playing back a relentless refrain
...alone...lonely...alone...lonely, again and again.
So similar, yet so diverse, the words.
One could be lonely, but not necessarily alone,
and then again...one could be alone,
but not necessarily lonely?
You look around... realize,
this is no place for dialectic diatribe and,
in any event, you are not lonely...just alone.
And waiting for the morning to come.
You watch’d the dawn...O how she danc’d,
and weav’d her way, and slipp’d into another day,
like changing clothes...the dark robes of night,
for a Josephcoat, manycolour’d...bright,
... and you were entranc’d.
And then you gaze’d across the still, blue, lake,
where the water ripple’d,
where the flatstone skate’d,
...the one you toss’d, with a graceful flick,
counting...each...dancing...skip,
the numbers unspoken, from your ruby lips
...one, two, three, four,...five, six, seven,
...all good children go to heaven.
You smile’d at the rhyme
...and you never did see, the sun rise
with the smile on your lips, and
...the laughter in your eyes.
Oz never was...
Just wandering about, chilling out, you were.
Kicking stones and stuff underfoot,
stepping over the freckl’d earth,
where a heavy tire had left it’s heavy tread,
and a tiny lagoon was born.
Rainfill’d, it sparkled in the morning sun,
and you thrill’d at the colours, each single one,
in this gasoline rainbow you had found,
...just out and about and kicking around.
Funny how these things work, but suddenly,
your mind had wander’d...
...someplace between the yellowbrick road, and
over the rainbow...lateral thinking...pots of gold.
You could spend all your life dreaming,
about the elusive search...or,
you could search, all of your life,
...for the elusive dream, and still miss the point.
But Oz never was, and neither was Alice.
Nor did she, or Dorothy, for that matter,
ever have to gaze into a looking glass darkly,
and see the seasons change...her beauty fade,
like the autumn leaves before winter has pass’d.
But you, Esmeralda, your beauty is eternal,
for you have kiss’d the sky. You have slept
on the earth, and watch’d the birds fly.
You have sail’d on the waters, and wish’d upon stars
and dance’d in the magic of heavenly showers.
So you smile, softly...softly, you walk away,
from the gasoline rainbow...the yellowbrick way,
with a dream in your heart, where it always was,
unlike Alice in Wonderland,...or Dorothy in Oz.
Half-sick of shadows....
Well, you can’t call that narcissism, I mean,
not really. I was just doing my hair, you know,
the usual stuff, the brushing and the back-combing,
and the critical scrutiny, of each curl and lock.
Being methodical, I feel, is the key.
I could hear them giggling and shouting,
having fun. The little, scampering, scrambling, feet,
the delightful squeals, only the most precious,
little angels, can make.
A tap turned on, somewhere, in the kitchen.
Sounds of a plate being rinsed, put away.
The tap turned off,somewhere in the kitchen.
Can’t be...this can’t be happening to me!
I must get some proper light on the subject.
There it was, gleaming, in stark contrast,
the silver sheen, refusing to merge
into the (quite) glorious gold. Uncanny, how my
subconscious chose the word silver,
over the less complimentary gray.
I turn my head, towards the single
sliver of light, leaking in, through
the washroom window, and find,
to my utter delight, that I see only gold,
and no trace of white... so I look again.
Life is all about changing perspectives.
I’ve gotta’ hand it to me!
I must confess, in certain angles,
with the light just so, my profile
suddenly seems, like...like all aglow!
Quite beautiful, really, in a mysterious
sort of way...you know what I mean?
Not that I’m being narcissistic here,
but It was a little weird...
...like I was looking at myself,
for the first time...seeing the real me
...and not the stranger,
I’ve been used to seeing, all of my life.
And suddenly, I was free.
No single, silver, hair, would worry me
...ever again.
In my mind, at that very point in time,
I smashed the (social) mirror I’d been using,
into a thousand pieces, or more,
and thought about some lines
that I’d read, a long, long time ago.
I don’t know, it was probably Tennyson,
...or Sir Walter Scott...???
“I’m half-sick of shadows cried,
The Lady of Shallot.”
Between you, and the dawn...
Nothing between you and the dawn...
...nothing except the long, dark night,
and ersatz sleep...trickling on, and on,
...with slow, shuffling, feet.
Looking for the black and white
in words, that are only half complete,
kicking at the dark, till it bleeds with light,
...the Sun’s first gentle spark.
But then, you know as well as I,
life is live’d in shifting shades
of gray, we live between the lies,
...the half-truths we say.
Yet secretly you count the stars,
celestial lily’s of the night,
in Lethe’s stream they dance, with Mars,
...do you wake, or dream?
And sullen Sun does rise again,
this rainswept summer,damp and cold,
and life goes on, with sad refrain,
...between you, and the dawn.
Your palimpsest...
In the morning, I am the Sun,
the Golden light, that freckles
your cheek, and kisses your neck.
I bless the summer’s breath with love.
I make your shadow to walk...to run.
I am the singing brook,
the one where little angels play,
I am the tear, in your eye,
as you watch them paddle, and splash,
and cry. I am that secret, poignant page,
you read over and over, in your book.
I am the bubbling stream,
you walk in, my touch cool,
against your skin, as I
flow over you, seductively
and stealthily, I slip
inside your dream.
I am the mud, the soft, damp, earth,
I caress your feet, and leave a part
of me behind. I am the silt
between your toes, the lingering
memory of every summer you have known.
I am the clay, I am your hearth.
I am the wind, at noon, I furrow
through the golden corn, your hair
I touch with the sweet scent of
summer and fresh-baked bread.
I bring you music and magic
in whisper’d tunes.
I am the whisting in the trees,
the clicking castanets in the bush,
the fragrance in every bloom,
and the sensual Samba of lily’s
that sway and dance to distant sounds,
and calypso rhythms from across the seas.
I am unbroken, the bended grass,
upon which rests your bended knee,
I am the single ray of light, that steals
into the darkest chamber of your soul.
Where you rest, and sigh and wait,
for the sadness to pass.
I am the orange orb in the West,
the twilight hush that welcomes night,
I am the moon and stars, the purple sky,
the parchment upon which you write
your dreams; I am not one of them.
For I am just your palimpsest.
You thought about the lily’s...
It rained tonight
in cottage country.
Drenching, wet sounds,
the drops, they made,
and machine-gunned
the window-panes.
Splashing, gushing,
flash-flood streams,
rushed through trough’s
that edge’d the roof,
down bent,old
iron pipes,
with hoops,
into the flooded drain.
And you thought about
the lily’s
...and wept.
Secret, silent tears,
that you kept safe,
behind those eyes,
sorrowful pools
of your sweetest,
sadness,
...your saddest thoughts.
Do they tremble...
...feel pain,
do they weep,
you wonder’d...
...or do they love the rain?
The country, the cottage, and canoe...
The echos of your goodbye,
still ringing in my ears,
and I should be happy
...for you.
Off to the country,
the cottage and canoe.
So why do I feel like...
...like a postage stamp?
Ten cents, no more?
You know the kind where
you lick on some spit,
slap onto an envelope,
hollow with emptiness,
and let slip...into
the bottomless pit...of
an abandoned, postbox,
no one will clear?
There’s nobody near!
O Esmeralda, if only you knew.
What good the country,
the cottage and canoe?
When my every, waking, thought
...is fill’d with you.
Imagined Publishing details (yet to be published...but this is what the Title and publishing details could look like...who knows???)Excerpts from the collection of modern verse entitled The country, the cottage and canoe, or songs for Esmeralda.
Hunchback publications, Canada
************************************************************************************
Funeral for a friend...
How could I know you better than I do
…you who can make the rain to stop,
or make the sunshine to darken my windows
…make believe out of unbelief
as I stumble and fall… waiting for you
to catch me out of my misery.
Take these thorns out of my crown
unnail this crucifix from my body…
all crazy this weedhappy dream sequential
look…my mind bends spoons and forks
my knife cut thru water like butter
I can make your hiccups cease…but
this beating, this throbbing that works my insides
makes the space between my ears
resonate like a cavern full of gongs…
I hear my heartbeat…deathbeat in syncopation
…yes…we die when we die; the beat doesn’t go on
…Sonny & Cher lied.
Confessions at the confessional
the sins all come flowing back
Iike a moonstruck tide…fresh and strong
in the sound of your voice…
my soul’s desperate howlings in the wind
when you are gone…or when you kiss me
awake in my dreams…and I am falling deeper
and deeper in the ground…back
from whence I came…falling
from the deepest depths
into shallower, more hallowed ground
six feet …no more, when we all go
kicking and screaming…my father died
this recent…distant… winter
When? …I forget exactly…but I am not distraught
Now, …never was…somehow all my sins
forgive me…or maybe he does
…yet he haunts me still.
And I make a conscious effort
to write all this down, in stream of consciousness…
oxymoronic juxtapositions of word and phrase
leave me unburden’d, like the maple tree
out my window…unsweeten’d and bereft
of leaves…all grace and supple
in these godforsaken winds
bend me then…take my pride…destroy me
…take me away from this vanity…
this surreal ‘maya’ of of immortality,
take me with you…
to a funeral for a friend…
Ukiyo-e...
Like Okuni you dance for me
religion in choreography.
Your image sleeps with me at night,
a picture of the floating world
of love, and sin and purgatory,
and eyes that glow with saddest light.
Timeless lives inscribed in wood
...bashful virgins...Samurai proud,
when Sharaku lived as mortal man,
a shooting star that none would see,
and Edo ruled his craft as rude,
the truth he carv’d with gifted hand.
I dream of you in Kabuki
a brocade, magic, nishiki-e.
The orange blossom in your hair,
your breath...a whisper’d memory.
Where do you go my Ukiyo-e
for when I wake... my soul is bare.
'I' in 'Pidgin
i toss i turn
i cold i burn
i mind in churn
i gotta learn
i laugh i weep
i wake i sleep
i body worn
all skin ‘n bone
i walk i stop
i jump i hop
i no control
over my soul
i weak i strong
i short i long
i just going nuts
with if’s and but’s
i mourn i sad
i joy i glad
i wish I knew
my point of view
i blind i see
i slave i free
i know i chain
around my brain
i sane I mad
i good i bad
i think i go
which way i know
i brave i fear
i far i near
i pray my heart
not tore apart
i soft i loud
i star i cloud
i humble mumble
jungle stumble
i dark i light
i flee i fight
i wish i may
i wish i might
i hate i love
i bird I dove
i like to fly
in your blue sky
You are Dulcinea...
Don Quixote
never met you
when his mind
was ravaged
with visions
of Dragons
in Dungeons
...when there were
only Windmills
to tilt at...
for you would
have been
his lovely Dulcinea
He never heard
the music
you compose
so easily
...when you sing
and whisper
speak soft words
from your heart
that curl Silk-like
around the soul
like a warm,
friendly hand
Or see your eyes
and know
the Paradise
he sought
lay enfolded there
in deepest green
and blue
and some,
mysterious hue,
between
Or sleep
with dreamfill’d,
visions of you
...and beauty
...and truth
that fill the mind
even in waking
dreams surreal
touch your hair
your lovely face
hear your voice
feel your grace
and know
that Heaven
is a place on earth
But Don Quixote
...Man of La Mancha
hears you
dear, dear friend
...but tilts at windmills
still!
streams of consciousness...1
sunny afternoon’s
...escape
snow in face
the sunshine
foxes at play
you saw
in a half-white field
looking for
buried treasure
reflections
Geese in glass
did you see them
mealtime masquerades
and cool vodka’s
mhl
smoke in the gloom
your eyes
fill the room
glow’in dark, and
secret’s
still...deep
hurried meals
unhurried talk
I
play
with spoon and fork
...yours
...so irritated!!!
gotta’ speak!
...I hear you
always...
everysilence
everyword
everybreath
everylaughter
everysigh
polite waitress’s
waitressing
busy businessfolk
businessing
a friend
befriending
you met...so sweet
you are...beautiful
everything
...nothing
my car
so full...music...you
showing me
the way back
so I can growl
starving
already
when
will
you
be
hungry
again...?
Fire & ice...
Burning...
this freezing cold,
this fire...like an icicle
in melt’down...a cold,
frigid, slope...
cascading seductively
into the labrynth
...of my soul.
I reach out tentatively
...touch the stream
of consciousness
that flows,frolics
in your mind’s eye,
the the windows
of your soul.
Like fire and ice
you glow...you flow
cunningly... into me
...some ocean
...some sky,
intravenous,
drip...by...drip,
one, single, look
at your mystical eyes,
...I overflow,
my cup...is fill’d
with cosmic streams.
and my heart
is still’d,
yet... I am empty
Magnificant...
this madness I feel
...suddenly,
...this glorious sadness
I taste relentlessly.
I hear, the silent,
whisper’d, songs,
from luscious dreams,
of you, ...entwine’d,
...serpentine’d softly,
dangerously...beautiful,
around my numb,
neutraliz’d head,
...still’d dreamscapes
...poignant promises,
deja vu, in mobius motion
like marijuana metaphysics
they spirit me ...away,
stone’d...immaculate,
from this Sysphean choice
...to have...or to be.
Like Garuda...I wing away
...I arise...from the ashes
of this hollow song...
...you
have
set
my soul
free...
Now ... & Zen
Now,
as the present
moves into the past
even before
the thought has left my mind.
To become crystallize'd
on this single sheet;
my fingers tap a single,
discreet, motionless, word,
‘Now’...but thats' absurd
...I mean hasn't the 'Now'
already become the'Then'
and in this Zen-like flash
the moment has
slipstream’d away into the past
...like the way we were
not so long ago...
living...
like we would never die.
Anticipating everything
we desire’d Now, everything
we just had to Have;
and leaving nothing
to chance...or
the poignant wonder of gifts that come
from the abstract, randomness
of unexpected surprise.
How could we have known then?
That our greatest gifts
are what we already have
...health...love...faith
the things that we
could never buy...
...not with all the money
in the World.
‘Having'
more than we ever needed,
'Being'
less than we could have been?
If there is a Divine Plan here
... I do not see It?
Why do the aged
and the infirm
wither away, desolate...lost,
each in the private wilderness
of their own mind,
...that secret garden
where we all bloom once
and then fade away
in utter silence...frigid cold,
for we have learned
a relentless loneliness
...one that pierces the soul,
remorseless...
...like a cold steel pick.
Sure It’s nice to know
that Barb (Tarbox) never quit
she went out smoking...
in a blaze of glory
...the Obit’s eulogize her
...the grizzled veterans
in the Anti-Smoking Lobby
chastize her...
...she was no example for kids they say
...she smoked till she dropped dead,
...they said!
Yet we know
she is only physically gone
and her metaphorical message
will live on...and on
Recognize...there is no living
like you will never die...and,
don’t go chasing the Dragon...
...the smoke will kill you;
don’t grow the vines
That seed the grapes
that make the wine
that consumes you;
...and don’t wait for the water
it won’t change
… to Cherry Wine!
Smooth jazz and pillow talk...
Smooth jazz,
and pillow talk.
The painted ladies
wear their coiffure's
and coldcoffee tan's,
like bad disguises.
Elegant...demure,
cultivated cleavage,
...teflon coated nipples,
deceive the eye,
but hey...!
You get a hard-on
... anyway!
Your ears strain,
cliched conversation
numbs the brain.
Regurgitated reparte,
slipp’d on and off,
like unladder’d stockings
the men unpeel,
from lascivious ladies
in evening gowns, and
stylishly clicking,
stilletto heels.
You watch them go.
To the quiet corners,
the gender’d washrooms,
...cfc freshn’d,
scent of pine, lemon
...legerdemain lust.
Where eyes meet eyes,
hands touch hands,
lips seek lips,
and tongue’s entwine.
Where genitals weep,
for the comfort
of strangers, and
other lovers, and
nirvana arrives,
with one,
last,
desperate
thrust.
But you nibble
at hors’d ouvres
and shrimp cocktails,
...watch made-up faces
that never pale, the
dancing couple
carved on the door, and
the men...who glide,
and come and go,
...fickle, fragile
couplings done,
...O so glamorous,
every...single... one.
You follow them back
to the empty spaces,
where they put on
their faces,
and their rented tux,
and black bow ties.
Back to wives flush’d,
in natural refulgence,
from likewise trysts,
...sensual indulgence
taken at other times,
...other places,
with remember’d lovers,
...unremember’d faces.
You watch closely how
they take their caviar,
with delicate fork, and
...gazellelike, graceful,
they sway...they walk
to the sound,
of smooth jazz,
...and pillow talk.
