Ball Bearing Factory

by Roy D. Follendore III & Julia S. Follendore
Copyright © RDFollendoreIII 1970-2001

Introduction: In the 1960's I was part of the generation of Television. I went to school and I went home every day. At home I would have dinner prepared by my Mother and during the meals we usually watched the news. I grew up with the Vietnam war and my conscience mind never really differentiated the war from my childhood fantasies. By 1970 I was a senior in High School, and it was only then that I awoke from childhood. That year I got my draft lottery number. As I recall it was something like number 6 or 7. In the previous months our country had invaded Cambodia, and that previous year I think they had called up to number 117. The numbers were not important after that. I knew I would be drafted and suddenly a war on the other side of our planet had meaning. I enlisted. The Ball Bearing Factory began naturally as part of what I felt going into the U.S. Army at that critical time and the adjustments that I made after I came home. My experiences in the military changed me, but college and the love that I would later find in college changed me far more. These writings of The Ball Bearing Factory represents that search for myself but it also represents my most serious personal search for my soul. It is therefore represented as a complete body of work and should remind every one of us that we are always part of a larger universe we call humanity.

Unless otherwise specified all material is authored by Roy D. Follendore III. Great contributions were made by my true Lover and Wife of many years Julia Sides Follendore who contributed her educated wisdom and love for literature as well as one of her poems to this effort and to and for whom many of the poems were originally written.

Please enjoy what you find, both within and between the meaning of my words.

The Hot The Cold

by Roy D. Follendore III

Take the best with the worst,

The richness and the poverty,

the quantity and quality.

Establish and destroy

whatever you want;

for the real is unreal,

and neither you can steal.

Put the hot in the fire,

and the cold in the ice,

Take the masses meat

and feed them rice.

Whatever you want;

for the unreal is real

and neither can you steal.

Chewing Gum Spare

by Roy D. Follendore III

My chewing gum spare

lives in my trunk,

accompanied by friends,

like my fishing rod

and some dirty old rags,

like an old lady on social security.

The Instant

by Roy D. Follendore III

The lights went off.

The floor squeaked.

A cricket raked his legs.

The fish lost their air.

A cat jumped to the floor.

Time stood still.

I had blinked.

Stepped On Frogs

by Roy D. Follendore III

I had a friend once

that stepped on frogs,

and oil and guts

and brains

would burst out

and eyes would

slide on hot concrete

(green staring eyes).

Dead insects oozed

from its stomach

half digested,

and left a stain

on the shoe of my friend

that stepped on frogs.

No John Waynes

by Roy D. Follendore III

There are no John Waynes

in this place,

no "Heroes" of war

or peace.

There is only the solitude

of independent suffering

of ripped stitched

burned scarred flesh.

In each, the memory of the mind

or the poison of the body

builds a wall of steel

even the chatter of

the nurse through a glassless

window can not penetrate:

for there are no John Waynes

in this place.

And those that were in war

can have no place.

And those that were in war

can have no peace,

And those that are in peace

must now fight a war,

for they are men of pain

united.

A Salute to a Mercenary

by Roy D. Follendore III

I salute you Lobo

for having the guts

to spill other's blood

and risk your blood

in Angola;

and make a buck

in the name of

fighting for your country.

Maybe I can get a job

like you

raping young girls

in the name of virginity.

United They Sit Divided They Fall

by Roy D. Follendore III

One man, shot in the lung

and penetrated by mustard gas

sits...dying.

A second, both legs blown away.

The first has the Victory

of the first Great War.

The second legless one has

memories of having lost

and so they sit in

their chairs and wait

their chairs and

their chairs

their

wait.

Just Pass The Ammunition Sergeant

by Roy D. Follendore III

"Sergeant!"

"Yes Sir."

"Where did you put the ammunition?"

"In your desk Sir."

"It is not here."

"But I put it there."

"Well... never mind Sergeant."

"Sir?"

"Never mind!"

"Don't you want your ammunition?"

"I forgot that the General told me not to use real bullets."

"Sorry Sir!"

"That's OK I'll use my cap pistol."

"Oh, Uh."

"Yes Sir?"

"Have you seen my caps?"

The VA Hospital

by Roy D. Follendore III

Broken spines

cursed bodies

and ragged minds

red blood spills

stitches and sterile white nurses

and doctor's blue pills

air conditioned womb

of bone-white tile

the reek of antiseptic

and the smell of the Tomb

jackets with the stains

of human grease

and hundreds of rooms of pain.

They Didn't Do

by Roy D. Follendore III

They stick you with pins

and dab you with cotton

and there you are

plugged in and decked out

on display.

They fill you with drugs

and tell you what to do.

Sometime later,

you feel better.

I wonder if it was

what they did

or what they didn't do?

The Truth

by Roy D. Follendore III

We knew the truth when we could see,

with our second slice of pie,

the air strike and the children's scream,

and smell of death on TV.

We saw and then we choked

on burning, running, screaming people,

their clothes charred and blood soaked.

For on that screen of phosphorus,

we all awoke and found the truth:

It's wrong for us to win the war

when in winning we must lose.

Superman

by Roy D. Follendore III

You grew up on Superman,

your hero.

You were a son of your country's flag,

your symbol.

And now Superman only comes

at 8:00 AM on Sunday mornings,

and the country has been replaced

by "Let's Make a Deal".

The God Suit!

by Roy D. Follendore III

The Psytecks were right. If enough time is spent in a Mod K-D suit, a reactive link on an A level conduction is completed. I am now my suit, and my suit is me. I now have steel chromium plated forefingers. I now have the power to crush reinforced concrete into powder with a stroke of my hand. I can live just as comfortably in outer space as ten miles below the surface of any ocean. The counter offensive pack which is self-contained on the back plate of my suit is made up of over one hundred reactive weapons and devices which range from arrays of deadly frequency resonated light magnifiers, to thermal nitro-energized bombs. Of course, my particular outfit also contains the latest in full propulsion and anti-gravitational gear.

The uniform was jokingly called the God Suit for obvious reasons; and we who wear it Gods (G.O.D.S). We are the Galactic Operational Defense Suits. Our specialized missions are to infiltrate planetary defensive organizations and destroy key personnel and their equipment in order to maintain galactic peace and security. As you may know, any organization depends on certain key personnel in order to function. By Depriving them of these people, we may accomplish our mission.

Those of us who are lucky enough to be chosen for the G.O.D. program have been trained from a childhood of ten standard years to perform just one single mission. Even with the high tolerance levels to which our equipment performs and the proficiencies which we must achieve, we have been told that the odds of survival are roughly 50 50. This means that the average age of our agents is twenty-five, and the average retirement age is also twenty-five.

A robotic voice with metallic overtones crones rhythmically in a monotonous monotone.

"Secure Primary Systems!"

"Prepare for ejection."

"E.J. prepared."

"Go Manual."

"Manual is now operational."

"On your mark."

"Five!"
"Four!"
"Three!"
"Two!"
"One!"
"Mark!"

My steel clad glove touches the armored red stud on the platform.

Press!

Instantly, my face plate goes black and then slowly clears. Suspended below are now a series of rectangular substructures. The roar of the anti-grav boils, stabilizes and then is gone. Only the warm hum of a gyro-control defies the sound of cool breezes across my face plate field of view. A sharp hiss and a streak of light jolts my conscience as my defensive portapack destroys three U.F.O's.

Ah! This time only a few birdlike creatures.

A little mechanical voice in the back of my mind engages:

Warning!

NOTHING MAY LIVE WITHIN 50 METERS OF THIS UNIFORM WHEN OPERATIONAL AT THIS COMBAT LEVEL!

I tone my uniform down by five hundred percent. Instead of automatics, I choose a hand weapon. It is a field disrupter, and I know it to be fast and efficient. I have just enough time for one more minor adjustment on my suit control, this one on the chin panel in my helmet as my metal toes touch the surface of the planet.

The surface is a typical Class B (for Barren wilderness), you know the type... rugged, flat, and hot. Very hot. A building looms in the distance. A square of white light appears in the side of the block. It is a door. Two humanoids step forward to meet their doom. The nearest holds a primitive weapon, a phantom particle projector. I activate my forward propulsion switch. The figures appear to suddenly grow. Energy on a continuous high audio level is directed against my uniform. It is an obvious attempt to beg for mercy. I of course, ignore it. This is followed by flashes of light and the deflection of six ultra dense high speed projectiles with a huge weight of 10.537 universal standard mass ounces. They explode in the distance.

Instinctively, my hand moves upward, and through reflexive training my suit is more responsive. My gesture has moved my weapon’s destructive beam across the center of my targets. The leading figure is instantly cut in half. Red corpuscles are splattered across my visor, to then drain through the front of my power chest plate. The victim's heart bounces twice on the asphalt, flopping like a freshly caught fish out of water. The other figure lies crumbled in a fetal position with its oral cavity spread open. In only sixteen seconds, my training of fifteen years has been fulfilled.

It is over.

Suddenly, I feel the suits hypo injectors as they jab both of my thighs to reduce my combat neurotransmitter chemistry from a combat mode. The drugs instantly relax me. All that now needs to be done is to activate the homing return instrumentation. I carefully break apart the protective red shield surrounding the suit's homing drive unit. Steel makes contact with steel completing the crucial circuit!

Click!

Surprisingly, flames leap from my alloy tank of extra oxygen. My defensive pack then attempts to activate even while the pale creature of my true destruction, the internal thermal reaction, seeks the vacuum of my living lungs.

My face plate now full of blood, melts... from the inside.

Agony!!!

Darkness is pressed forward by a blue flame.

Bloated, the now hollow suit falls limp onto the black artificial surface.
It bounces only once, and then rests forever alone on this ancient planet.

Warning!

NOTHING MAY LIVE WITHIN 50 METERS OF THIS UNIFORM WHEN OPERATIONAL AT THIS COMBAT LEVEL!

The suit was jokingly called the GOD suit.
The Psytecks were right.

Chase The Blues

by Roy D. Follendore III

I interrupted my solitude

of the six o'clock news

cause I need that lover

to chase away the blues.

Put down that repression

and lie right by your side,

cast away the moment

as the sea casts away the tide.

by Julia S. Follendore

E wondiddatymup

spredegul

asordove

purrverdidrape

E wondiddatymup

igotskard

anrayn..........

Armageddon 2076

by Roy D. Follendore III

The cold blue shaft of steel rises to meet the morning dawn. A little rust strikes the cylinder with a drift of color. The whirring sound grinds the air. My eyes focus.

"My face...wet?"

A glove of blood touches my cheek. A gentle breeze flutters the sleeve of my torn shirt. A sheet of paper blows and sticks to my leg. It is caught for a second and suddenly leaves in the next gust.

"At last the war is over and we are free!"

I pull myself up to the level of the charred dressing table and look into the fractured mirror. The table top creeks under my weight. A gold plated clock falls on the ground on its back. The shattered face becomes a puzzle. The hands on the clock are frozen at six o two. Two maggots wiggle from my eye sockets.

The cold blue shaft rises to meet the morning dawn. A little rust streaks the cylinder with a drift of color.

The whirring sound grinds the air. Oil runs from the ground and flows onward, down the sides. The pink flesh of the earth is still warm to our touch. Soon it will be as frozen as the air surrounding it. Then it will be the time for the taking; a land where the earth is not hollowed out and ...

"Oh God the earth still moves!"

The whirring becomes even louder! Quickly we push our blood encrusted gray bodies back into the living earth. The blue cylinder becomes a blue circle surrounding a black abyss.

A snap of a hammer...

A flash of blinding red light... and there is nothing.

"At last the war is over and we are free!"

The Other

by Roy D. Follendore III

Your Being,

My Being--

Neither

has meaning

without

the other being.

Puss

by Roy D. Follendore III

Limp, drip, blood

puss oozes

the flesh brooozes

spirit loozes

Limp, drip, blood

puss oozes

Peace In A Tear Gas Canister

by Roy D. Follendore III

The mocking bird called.

Called!

It is a large area surrounded by a large iron fence. It has black painted knife-like ornaments that stand like like phallic symbols toward the morning dawn. A coat of fresh dew has wet the good earth and a chill drives right through my short sleeved shirt. I can smell the dirt. Paint and red blood still stand wet and slippery on the monument in the center of the garden. Tear gas canisters lie gray and silent on the green morning field: They give no indication of the terrible violence which erupted from them. The sting is still in the air from the night. Paper is everywhere, and everywhere there are torn signs, signs giving up clues to the ideologies to which all of this desolation is dedicated. Broken eyeglasses lie mangled in the the mud. Reality has sailed in this battlefield. The excitement and terror have gone along with the words of rights and power. The dew of the morning reins here.

A young girl, maybe fifteen, her long blond hair, dirty matted and tangled, wades through the isolated are as if looking for the memories which can not be pried out of her mind. She could have been my sister. I touch her hand and she looks up into my face. A large brown bruise covers her cheek to her lips. Someone else's blood is streaked and caked on her face. An image of a rifle butt striking this fragile girl recycles across my mind. The fear, the fear in her eyes has long since been washed away by the acid still lingering in the air. She holds my hand and then falls to my shoulder in waves of silent sobs. I hold her close. Her arms are cold. Passion overcomes. With my arm around her waist, we walk through the artificial mist of the morning and silently become a part of it. We can not look back, for all is lost until the next time we lay down to dream.

Death and Red Wine

by Roy D. Follendore III

A night

full of plans and hope and bright lights.

Red tail lights flash.

A pale angel bent forward over a shape,

a figure.

I decide and rush from the still moving car.

Dizzily run forward.

See the victim.

The legs bent beside her bleached white girdle,

her blood.

A piece of her glasses falls into an outstretched hand.

It makes the sound of tinsel

like ice melting, falling from the eve of a roof.

I scream, "Don't touch her! Don't touch her!"

But, no one listens.

A moan, a kiss with the breath of life.

I move on in a dream to find another figure,

a man holding a head of blood.

I scream, "Don't touch him!"

No one listens. No one listens.

And always the legs are bent out of shape

like a doll stepped on by some brutal stranger.

In cars, one after the other,

strangers come mouth agape; they watch a drive-in movie,

and a funeral procession all in one.

Pulsing flashes like a beating of light.

Blue and red crooning screams of distant ships.

Men in blue and white speak with firm directness

like deacons of a church.

I look down and find I have stepped on a piece of human mind

still steaming

with the thoughts of life.

On the black pitch highway of night,

I feel a need to get away,

to crush these memories in my mind,

to wash the stink and stain of death with red wine

far from the darkness of this night.

Armed Camp

by Roy D. Follendore III

I am an armed camp

protected

from the Unknown

defended from within

in a war that can not be won

unless of course the Calvary rides

over the hill

and saves us all

like a late movie on T.V.

The Joke

by Roy D. Follendore III

If everything in Life

is a joke-joke-joke.

Nothing, nothing, nothing

is sear-e-us.

Then. . .

Nothing, Nothing, Nothing

ever

Hurts, Hurts, Hurts. . .

Groping in the Dark

with Allison

by Roy D. Follendore III

A dog barked

graphite scratched the paper

and ink flooded the surface

a smudge suddenly appeared

and in that moment

my kidneys seeped urine

I'd made an image

groping in the dark.

I am artist

and this is Art.

Palm Tree Blues

by Roy D. Follendore III
Copyright © RDFollendoreIII 1970-2001

Yes there are palm trees and blue sea where all of those red tiles on the roof break the rain like a mirror in the sun. But, there is only one bar in this town, and it serves only rot gut whiskey. The glasses are not clean. The town's only taxi usually stays parked outside. Its fat driver, with his mustache and three-day-old beard, has a gold front tooth.

I live right outside town on a two-lane highway, alongside the beach. The smell of salt exists in the constant breeze. The sand on the beach is bleached in the bright sun and surf. Right now I am sitting with my feet on the rattan table. A reed chair squeaks as it shifts under my weight. The only movement in this dingy room is the large overhead fan--the kind you would find in any Southern bar. My white hat rests close to my eyes; my tie is loose. A joint, poorly rolled, burns in my hand slowly and lazy smoke drifts in the air.

The waves move rhythmically on the wet sand. There is a beat. Up the road the sound of a radio meets my ear. No, it is not a radio. The sound of the bass drum throbs through the ground. A small dot grows upward, upward into a row--a row into a column--a column into a company-a company into a whole marching band; each person playing "The Stars and Stripes Forever" and "The Star Spangled Banner". They are blowing, banging, picking, and plucking. Every musical instrument there is had been represented. My foot taps to the tune. I see at least four American Bald Eagles fall right off their cliffs into the cloud of dust, (Bald Eagles are very sensitive to patriotic music,, you know.)

All this music and marching goes on for at least two hours and when they leave the way that they came, they go where they came from. That is when I just take another sip of my mint julep, roll another joint, and turn off the television.

Impressions of Closed Eyes

by Roy D. Follendore III

I close my eyes, and I see the sparks of the universe trails in front of me. Purple moons bubble from the black cauldron in rhythm to the reassurance of an old phonograph record, The fabric of time is stretched, pulled tight by the never ending grasp of mankind,. The bubble bursts and the stars are strewn at my feet like the still glowing cinders from a volcano. I turn and meet myself at the door.

Blackberry Times

by Roy D. Follendore III

Interstellar space

satin place

let emotions flow without that trace.

Blackberry-times

while reading rhymes

only once you pay the dime.

Try Redbow

the Ribbony lace

you're not about to lose your place.

Grim satire

Golden spire

keep this love from

Satan's Fire.

God is Dead

(Thank God)

by Roy D. Follendore III

The thunder rumbles across the moody gray sky, and God says, "Let there be light'' God had just clicked on the lamp, and there was light, and light fills the bedroom. Smoke fills the air as God takes a deep drag off the half smoked cigarette and slowly exhales through his nose. He smashes it into the butt filled ashtray. "That was a good lay Goldie.' God pats her on her nicely rounded cheek. Goldie does not smile; she just sinks deeper into the hairy chest of her new lover. She kisses his nipple. God knew that she would do this. God knew everything. "You know how that turns me on Goldie" said God. "Now, I'm going to be Late!" She knew he was right too because God is never wrong,

"Again?" she whispers as he rolls over flat on her. Harps play softly in the background; Suddenly a tear gas shell shatters the ,bedroom window. A black boot kicks the door in.

"FBI! Don't go for the gun!" In a flash God rolls off Goldie and reaches...

Baml Baang! Bang! Red spots appear on the hairy chest. Chunks of flesh and brains splatter the walls and cover the girl,- The body goes limp and an arm dangles off the edge of the bed.

"Too bad.." the FBI agent says slowly, his gun still smoking. "At least we got Robert Victor God, We can scratch one more off the ten most wanted list,"

"Yeah, but it's too bad we had to blow him up that way."

"Did I do OK?" Goldie whimpers, wiping God's brain off her cheek.

"You set him up good, You earned your money," returns the officer as an electric flash of lighting zippers across the sky.

Impressions of a Moment

by Roy D. Follendore III

The moment came swift. My tongue strikes pink flesh. Glands weep in the sensation of the touch. Salt is electric White ivory grasps and penetrates the surface tension. I leave a purple mark, a mark already condemned to die. A mark which will live its life out on the intimate surface of her thigh.

Women

by Roy D. Follendore III

Women use their sheaths of love

as a man would use a switch-blade's light

to gain a purse without a fight.

And women use their sheaths of love

as a snake would use sharpness of the fang

to penetrate the flesh

to place the poison in the vein.

And women use their sheaths of love

as the Gods would test the strength of man

to taste the nectar of mortal love

and fall like grains of sand.

And women use their sheaths of love

as a woman should,

to wrap around Love's spear

and hold out the emptiness-- emptiness of fear*

My Watch
by Roy D. Follendore III

It moves its arms

like a goulash two-legged octopus,

the long time wrapped around the short.

I move my wrist to see

if I am strapped to it

or it is strapped to me.

Split Me

by Roy D. Follendore III

Go on

split me in two.

Take one leg,

one ear.

Take half my mind,

split that with fear.

And sex... well

take that part too!

Cause I'm twice the man

when you split me in two.

Warm Taste of Life

by Roy D. Follendore III

This intercession

of life

can be compared

to that natural affect

I find in your touch,

smile

and warm sweet taste

of your love.

The Abortion 1975 #3

by Roy D. Follendore III

A warm full womb

an empty heart

Hard cold cash

payment in full

Hot steel knives

cold metal tables

Sterile white masks

blood bursting out

Red jellied mass

a cold world

A cold child

a polished technique

An empty womb.

In Human Retrospect

by Roy D. Follendore III

Cold.....

Sensations touch me. The fur of the brown deer hide is soft to my chin. 'Tim last embers of a once warm fire die as a cold shift of wind sweeps through the cracks in the mud walls.

KoDi!

Instinctively my hand reaches, but the place of his sleep is not warm to the touch. Alone, I wipe the grain of sleep from my eyes. A stirring is felt in this gray, early morning hour.

The baby moves. My breasts are hard and tender. A sharp -pain reaches me from my swollen stomach. This will be our first son! KoDi will be so proud!

Our son will ride the wind; his strong hands will bring much food to his people. His people will know him as a hunter. His life will be one of many children and much. . . .

Ohhh, ohhhh! My knees draw sharply in a sudden contraction. The brown hide no longer provides the warmth. I sweat, and my hands, are cold. The baby is to come now. Now! The blazing pain of fire grows dim.

My mother has told me of such things, Images flood of the woman things my mother and her mother showed me. I must bare down, bare down, bare down. A red face emerges from the breach of matted hair and blood between my legs. The breath of the wolf in heat blows in my ear. Powerful thrusts--my belly writhes with powerful thrusts. By your spirit I need you now! A strange cry pierces the chilled morning air. With a shock I realize it is my own!

The place of spirit is prepared. The white of the rabbit fur now is red with my blood and-my infant daughter's. The soft shroud clings to the stillborn infant. This small product of the bond of my man and me will forever marry the rich brown earth. Ko-Di must never know of the love and sorrow buried here* The
pain must be buried with the dead. Earth falls frozen and heavy as it fills the void. My salt of tears mix with fresh snow. A crow's scream pierces twilight calm.

...

Bright flood lights mark the tiny bones on hard stone. A young couple strains over the gallery. FM radio plays softly throughout the museum. A gray metal plate reads, "American Indian Female (Prenatal infant.) 1400 AD."

"Look how small the bones are!"

"This place makes me sad. Let's go get a coke."

Union of Trust

by Roy D. Follendore III

A union of trust,

a pleasurable taste of human lust,

the tender touch of skin to skin,

to pull it back or push it in.

If love comes but once then do it twice.

Together we move up to paradise.

The storm will break, and we will come,

to the same throbbing sound of a distant drum.

And, with that last love contraction,

we hold each other in total satisfaction,

throughout the night into the sun,

we hold each other as one.

For you say no, but you know that we must

reach and touch our union of trust.

You

by Roy D. Follendore III

Chestnut orbs floating in a warm bowl of honey.

Threads of silk that fall weightless,

slow and then cascade on a gentle curve,

that flows into a current of form and soft line.

The glint of starlight

and the grace of a panther in moonlight.

Yes, you are all of these things and more,

even as a crystal vase is more

when it contains but a single red rose.

Madonna of Day

by Roy D. Follendore III

Light streaks the skin

and then races along the curves

of your breast and hip

and thigh.

It touches your cheek

and warms the gold

in your hair.

It gleams in your eyes

like a star on a cloudless

winter night

when there is no moon

or air.

It touches you

in every single place no matter

how innocent or intimate,

then it touches me

as if it wants to ray

the love I hold

to you my Madonna of day.

Now

by Roy D. Follendore III

A tangled web crossing

a twisting pattern

that stands individually resolute,

rough and brazen

but bending and living,

blends together

and folds to hold one another,

embraces one from the other,

on unto the other,

forms into a cloth of wood.

Behind, a shiny, shimmering

displays in ripples

agitates in dense transparency,

bursting out in all directions,

yet staying together

in a globular form

as, rust and aqua-colored flakes

paint the depth.

Together they form

a complicated yet simple parallel

as the earth and the womb,

the sun and the sky,

or a solitary tree and pool

can only exist as one.

The Hobbled

by Roy D. Follendore III

The warm coarse wool of an old and tattered gray army blanket is all that keeps both Kala and me warn. We need the warmth as much as we need our blood. It has just snowed once more outside, and the shelter they provide us barely keeps the wind away. The chains which bind us one to the other in human misery also bind us to this cold. Lack of food and shivering lack of sleep prevent any escape. Every morning the ancient lock on the door is opened, as though the holes through the walls were made of steel. But walls and chains are not what keeps us as prisoners. Only once a in the morning is food provided. A piece of bread for each is thrown in when the door is unlocked. The few who are strong always get their share but most get little or nothing.

In the night, we women must give up the only thing we have to trade for those hard crusty morsels. In the dark, after the door has been locked once more, all can hear the screams of pain and the groans of heavy breath--sweaty slabs of fat slapping flesh throughout the night, Through flesh, the flesh might live.

Many meals have been missed, and through an uncertain morning light we are moved to the block. I curse the block and revel in warm bath water that we are now provided. Still chained to seventy human souls., I scrub my daughter Kala's naked back then gently wipe her vacant face. She smiles slightly. A touch of her hand on mine shows me her will and an ember of emotion. The chain clanks and breaks the moment. The monotone of the guard's curses drives everyone out -to dry. Fresh clothes are brought; the chains unlocked; and we are taken through a squat wooden door. Kala goes first. A rough hand grasps her shoulder. She screams a high pitched animal sound and is dragged into the portal of the door.. I look down and find the dewdrop of red next to the steel on my wrist. It glistens. My eyes clear, and the shine of my blood merges with my chains.

"Mrs. Murphy!

Mrs. Murphy! Mrs. Murphy! Oh God, I think she's dead!

Harry! Harry come here! It's your Mother!"

A swirl of thought, and I open my eyes to find the face of my son, His hand touches my wrist.

"Don't worry Mother, The Doctor is on the way. You will be OK."

"Kala! Kala!"

"This is your son Harry. Mother!"

"Kala! Oh Kala."

"She doesn't even recognize her own son."

"Maybe it's better this way. These past few months she has. suffered so much."

"Maybe she would be better off if she were out of this misery."

"God knows, Harry we can't afford another doctor bill, and there won't be enough left from her will to make up for all our efforts to save her."

"For God Sakes Margaret, she's dying!"

"Yes."

The guard unlocks the shackles on my wrist. This time it only leaves a red mark where it has been. The cuts will heal. I dress quickly as yet another guard screams in my ear to move on. A hand is on my shoulder, and I am led through the door. I take my place next to Kala now dressed in red still weeping. My poor poor Kala. What is to become of her? Fat shiny faces stare down on us. Laughter and the smell of cheap wine and perfume reeks the air. The jingle of money., the rake of bids.* and we are sold.

down pat

by Roy D. Follendore III

you got me down pat

pat me you got down

got me you pat down

you pat me down got

God you pat me down.

So Man

by Roy D. Follendore III

And So--

you understand

all about me, man.

First understand

a little bit

about yourself, man,

before you stand

on me,

man.

To Be Continued...

.