I recently met face-to-face a stranger... it had nothing to do with this quest writer who I invited to submit a poem... the below work is by Stan Apps, who was at one of my home reading... stan stared some work with me.. this piece *I have been enthusiam* struck me, stirred in me.. brounced off th walls and landed here..,,,


I have been enthusiasm, often. Believe me, I have been believe. I want to be approved of, which of course requires a form. The words in the poem. You step between them and they praise your wishes. With a whim, you can deceive yourself, and wash the ugliness out of the poem.

The gadgets in the poem are attackable, like her mouth becomes really tense. Wind blows the expression off of someone’s face. And if what we want to dois couples calisthenics at our wedding, with personal trainers to assist us, then the question is which gym will we call. I need to be encouraged correctly. Yes, I’m sure I will need to be tugged at, tweaked, and prodded—but I also want to be rewarded, with stage-whispers of approval—

such as a mother spills, when there are no more dishes in the ocean. Good men have gotten sick sometimes of committing violent crimes, for the better future that the war-profiteers have advertised—These men should remember that God approves of everything, sooner or later, and better yet the girls that were requisitioned will soon be arriving on a truck, as soon as some more locals have “volunteered” to trade their sex for room and

board. *Bored* is a word that expresses why things happen. If no one spoke, read, or wrote, or took off their underwear expecting admiration or a blank stare, then we would all be *bored.* God is bored. God loves the blank stare of the victim whose recovery is eternally delayed by further violence. He created the world so He could have this person to be near him without contradicting him. If all that one expects is to be hurt, then one stops

expecting, so abused children actually are Nirvana. Religions without bloodstains make no sense. To make sense, a religion must accept war as the natural lop-sidedness, that disintegrates the moral fiber of those whose lifestyles consider themselves blessed. In my constitutionally-protected abuse of privacy. Wash wishes off. Following a whim that seems rather stupid is one way to feel relatively free. I am glad this writing has no destiny

to commit. I refuse to believe that any of these whims have been predestined! I admit I have been wanting to say these things, but I can no longer be bound by that. Our values thrived during the gunplay brought on by the food shortage. Our dead became new chapters in the textbook of Mechanical Defeat. Teeth fall out without a dentist. Each of our dead is a new tooth in the snapped-shut jaw of God. Dead bodies are predestined, so

the meaning of each death is the only obstacle to a history that adds up to a Heaven we commute to, through internal processes. Exaltation. Joy. We can be persuaded to experience truly wonderful transformations, which through loyalty, we prove we did deserve those Heavens where we’ve been.



Stan Apps was born in Toronto, grew up in Waco, Texas, and is currently eager to move away from L.A. again. He has an unpublished book, currently called "tickle at the knock-knock," and can be contacted at stanbobapps@hotmail.com.