Oranges Everywhere

there is hair everywhere.
there are oranges everywhere.

there are traces of you not here
everywhere.

he said,
you must learn to share the sidewalk,
he said,
he said,
oranges are not worth the colour
they leave on your hands,
he said.

oranges are not worth the time,
the taste is not worth the time.

oranges under your pillow
in liquid and peeling form,

hair under my pillow,
another trace of you not here again.

in one piece, wishes,
in many, some time.

oranges under your pillow
you threw me there each time I left,

a treat for later,
he said.

If You Can't Cut It Whole, It Shouldn't Count

Who needs symmetry?

She tells me hearts are symmetrical.
The only symmetrical hearts that I have ever seen,
were the ones made by folding the paper
and cutting only one half of the shape out.

Cheating.

And the ones that were made for the stores,
manufactured,
measured, not real.
If symmetry is to be applied here,
I do not want it.

And what of Rod Stewart's face?
Rod Stewart's face,
is not symmetrical.

He is inticing me with one side of his smile,
one side of his eyelid shut less,
and he is not symmetrical.

If Rod won't have it, then neither will I.

I remember symmetry. Symmetry is colours
on one half of the paper only
and folding it over to share your creation.
That is symmetry if you get it right,
but if you're like me

you'll probably stick your finger in one side
before the paint is dry.

Je Ne Sais Quois

Boys must have wandering eyes,
nice shoes and dead talent.

Boys must have girls on the side,
inconspicuous smiles and wicked jeans.

Boys must have je ne sais quois,
girls on the side and something good to give.

Boys must have love,
good hair, good eyes.

Boys must have good eyes,
good love, and trust to give.

Boys must have girls, eyes, shoes,
danger on their skin, and looks to give.

One Of Three I Can Stand

when i am drunk

i act
like pink bubblegum,

and then

like
gin and tonics,

and in the morning

i act
like cappucino

brewing between the boundaries

of whatever glass
i can slide
into.

Cigarette Woman

twenty packs, twenty five packs, ten packs,
its all the same to me.
are cigarettes time bombs?

they should make them in tens,
in case you don't want as many;
my grandma used to say a ten pack
would last her a month,

she didn't smoke much though.

it lasts for half an hour,
time frozen.
why are we having
this conversation.

cigarettes are disgusting,
responsible for your teeth,
you hair, your skin.

sick,
is what you look like. you're lucky
you got away while you did.

having a conversation with my mother
is trying to win
an
impossible argument.

she remembers differently,
every time.

takes her six conversations to get it
straight in the first place.
the longest brawl we've ever had:

i'm packing my boxes.
no you aren't. i'm going to sit in your room while
you're gone and feel you.
no, i'm packing my life into boxes.

she remembers it differently
of course; changed her mind when
she decided to renovate.

got angry at me
for not
packing
my life
away.

says its my fault,
all my things have disappeared.

my mother smoked for a lifetime,
until we told her she was stopping.

we couldn't stand her life then,
or the reflection of
it onto ours.

but she thinks different of this too.

possibly,
wouldn't mind starting up again,
by the look of this cigarette pack
dissertation.

Teacher Says I'm Clever

that crazy bitch:
you watch your ass or i will kick it.

she offers me a job,
tells me later, about the respect
inside the classroom.
that crazy bitch:

i had to lie about my due date,
spitting something out about my gums,
showing her my teeth,
making her believe my lies,

and then she gave me one hundred percent,
hands down.

that crazy bitch:
she writes "Sigmund Freud" on the board
and asks my opinion before ripping
his theories apart.

that deserves an academic discourse checkmark,
dear. good for you.

that crazy bitch:
it looks like a couple people in the classroom
have a crush,
is that my in?

that crazy whore, she says:
do not fry your brain and come to my classroom,
do not fry your brains at all,
but especially do not come to my classroom,
if you have fried your brain.

so sometimes i come,
and sometimes i make an excuse,
sign my eighteen year old self out at the office,
and then meet laura out front
for a session at the water.

Only Boys With Mohawks

mohawk boy
you have sex written all over you,

your gaze,
your hair,
your hands in mine,

you must have something for my
fingers to get stuck in,

like my foot is getting stuck in your limbs
my hand is getting stuck against yours,

your shearling jacket,
mohawk boy

you are perfect for me.

and then the night is over
and you are gone.

i go back to thinking where i can get
sex as good as yours,

and then i remember the impossibility of appearances
the impossibility of sincerity,

with a boy like you.

Life Inside Her Womb

it is not even worth it anymore
listening to the iron thread
twisting itself inside my skull.

its not even worth it.

don't show her the light
you should have known,
and now she wants it,
more than you did.

don't show her the light.

don't listen to the womb screaming
in the morning and at night,
a wooohha woooh aa whooooo
has someone been a baaaad boy?
yes you haaaaveeee.

don't talk to my child that way,
my child is a person.

it's not even worth listening to
the iron thread
twisting its way inside and out
of the left side of my brain

because there is nothing
she can do
to stop it now.

Fancy Meeting You Here

the woman in the roses
has been watching you
since you came into the
theatre.
you laugh, she laughs.
each time you laugh,
so does she.

letter, letter, laugh,
laugh, laugh, letter, letter.

everytime you laugh,
so does she,
watching you from her seat
two rows back and one row over.

the woman in the roses
has been watching you
since I got here.

Apples, Please

i used to ask my mother for apples
just so i could watch her use the"machine"
that cut them into perfect pieces.

and then the apple
would get brown over the time it took
me not to eat it.

today i carved all of the skin off
of an apple and i cried at the empty shell
of it that was left behind, left standing
perfectly on the table as though i had never
removed it in the first place.

The Moon In the Wind

The moon is shining bright today
and I think I found you.

Those are the most clever blacks
that I have ever seen.

That is the most clever word
that I have ever seen.

You used to ask me to marry you
every time I found you sitting under
the moon.

Will you be my hippie?
You could have said
but instead you made me promises
that you could never keep.

And now I want you
to be me
and I want to be you too.

Black Like This (Getting Lost in Acronyms)

this sheath reminds me of the times
we spent talking around each others
lives on your couch one night.

so you bought the dress for tonight, did you?
that's crazy.

you're crazy.
there we go again with romance.
there we go again with thinking we are fitting
into each others palms again.

there we go with taking off our clothes
again
and being naked.

i like sleeping beside you tall friend.
its like slipping under each others eyelids
for a second, and smearing the black and red
we find, across each others faces,

and then waking to find each other tall again.
or small i suppose.

i wish that you
would pull the sheets over my head again,

like you did that time i woke only to find myself
cold and naked on your bedspread
and you creeping up quietly,

lifting my pale skin into your arms
and cocooning me into your comforter
and into your warm body.

this sheath reminds me of all the mistakes
we make in the morning,

lifting keys off of the table and
never finding words enough to make each other
want to stay.

when she saw you
she said, i get it.

and today i wear you,
this sheath

over my skin
as though there is nothing

underneath it
as though i am myself again.

Windy Situation

they forgot to shut the door
on the masquerade ball,
all the people that do work here.

i've been walking around
with my head cut off,

i mean,

i've been floating around
with my head cut off,

i mean,

i've been pushed around
with my head cut off,

all day now.

do you play the cello, masquerade?
do you play the banjo, masquerade?
do you play the flute dear, masquerade?

,all day.

Why do you call her searching, I must know.

who are the people that come here?
i must know them.

look inside your wooden place,
and hand me the key,
we are all the same here,
we all came from trees.

find yourself a Muse,
and paint them.
i've got a Muse around.

look yourself inside,
and paint all the things you see,
a plate, a fork, a tree.

who are the people that come here?
that became here.
i must know
a single part of where they come.

Do You Mind If I Sit Here?

And by sit here I mean sit,
Asian pride.

I seek comfort in you.

It Sounds Better If You Whisper

there are gems falling from the sky,
much unlike the ones around my wrist
or the ones adorning mon parapluie;

not one place of the sidewalk left
untouched,
not one side of my flighty
armour left unsparkled by them.

there are gems
falling
in all directions
from the sky,

forming sheets of glass where we step,
look, fall,

think to ourselves,
what would it be like,

to sparkle like that,
send warning;
what would it be like,

to fall in sheets against the sky.

i knew the night would end like this
while i stood inside the quiet house,
shaking gems from empty hands.

my thoughts fermented by them,
thinking i might have evidence
enough now,
to leave.

Charmed, I'm Sure

never know when you might
be found or by who.

he says, "baby you look great,
what's your trade."

The Lovely

Little Sister,
Please don't beat me, Little Sister.
I've got nothing left in this world,
If you do.
This is it.

(It's only natural I know,
For you to grow,
But please,
Please just don't).

I Bought a Necklace; You Bought Self Tanner, Bleach and a Ticket to Cancun.

I envy your disillusionment,

your jaded,
self-involvement,
your tired hands,
weak and dying hair,

your complaints,
and
or bragging rights.

I envy your lack
of perception,

of concern,

your ability to see the world
at such a level

(you will hear, "know" but
never change).

I envy your lack of need
to impress me,
surpass me,
be me.

I envy your life,
the money wasted on vain endeavours,

and your sense of disillusion,
with everything that is real.

It Ain't Published, And It Ain't Good.

i want us to travel
across this map filtered paradise,

eating new food together,
buying new clothes together,
learning new words together,
shaking new hands.

heating our curls straight
between two plates
to strike the boys eyes

as pretty.

not the same girl as before
i am sure,
sarah, caitlin, diane, marissa,
whatever

we have no need for names,
just earrings and drinks and boys
and new skin
and new shoes
and new food
and new tables,

and you will see new words
and the time at which
they grace my pen
and you will read my stories
of the world

of our adventures,
growing slowly in and out
of each other,
curly hair raving in the wind,
the thought that roots like
these came from genes the same,

and we will laugh and dance
and you will see my words,
and you will see that poetry
my friend is not bashing or scared
or lonely or desperate

but a photo of my face
with your face smiling in the background,
our hair fading into each others,

noone able to tell where it started.

"What are you doing?" "Trying to make sex into words"

how am i ever to get
your long legs through those skinny jeans of you?
i thought this
before you pulled them off,
pulling on some pajama bottoms instead,
flannel, checked, soft beige,
so unlike you;
more like the curtain hanging by the tub.

bewildered i sat,
resting from my chattiness,
or maybe just too worked up to have anything to say.
my sister gave me these.
ah yes, our common ground,
our fragile common ground.

i saw a picture of your sisters,
the wedding picture.
yes: how strange that you remembered.

i don't feel much,
just that our bodies are welded together,
not like strangers in this one man apartment,
but as friendships nutted close in a field of stillness.
what imagination
i conjure as you hold me.
our bodies together,
limbs fallen between like sticks,
my leg sliding off your flannel bottoms:
the most real thing i remember.

Lucky Feet That Boy.

hesitant as the marijuana
swept hidden in a jar,
the smirnoff bottle
swept plastic rolls
across the floor,

the red book of ginsberg
i swift through on vday
searching for cock
and people's magazine,

the history i aim
to lack to know,

the friendly grass on
her backyard estate,
and her room in the attic
of the old mansion,

as country flags on silver plates
swept tight around my wrist;

hesitant like feet the ground
reaching barely
of her unguarded coils.

hesitant hand,
growing fast and large,

strangled sappled jaw,
prickled back hair
grazing your fingertips
as he learns to trust
the william at your feet,

diesel jeans across your ass
and the sincerity
across the jar
you keep hidden
'neath your hat
sodden loose around
your head.

Sole is Sold to Strangers

sole is white,
sole is black,
and that is why this suits us.

its like,
no, you have a soul
its just burning.

bright orange
potent red,
or burgundy like the love between us,
harvest as the sun inside us grows.

harvest like three kids
and a new mother
in a pumpkin patch,
framed in wood.

or black sole,
soul,
and white honest sole.

madness
and wantness and needs
led us here,
to moulding ourselves,
squishing ourselves in,
loving ourselves,
and learning to share.

you are my friend,
boat sole shoe
i love your fringe,
inked suede colour,
the way you feel on
my foot, good friend.

you can pay me the money
when need be or favour
need be returned.

Oh God, I Screwed Over My Girl Crush.

what a day.

where do i begin hmmm.
scared,
hmmm i'm sorry,
what am i going to do now.

nothing.
what pretty cheeks you have,
what pretty words you have,
what pretty brain you have,

bold girl.
so sharing poetry
is wisdom,

enough of that,
enough of this,
its getting old.

au revoir then girl,
in a language we both
can understand.

i am sorry for my lacking,
wise girl, bold girl
i thought you were more brave.

i will bite my words
away from here,
i am sorry.

Picture of my eyes, lashes crushed together, matted with loving you, JW.

not quite
the discrete reference
you were looking for,
i know.

can you cry
alone in your room
all night

because you don't know how
to tell someone
how beautiful they are

how pretty their words
are across the screen
and finally coming out
of their head

into my eyesight,
my hindsight
i am floored

by you
and ashamed of me
in front of you,

where do i get words
as pretty as yours,

but you proclaim your beauty now
and i love it.

passionate soul,

how would i dare
stick around now;
i am so little
and i love you,

how would my words
dare stick around now,
you are beauty
and i love you.

Whole Life

you can call me bitch,
can i call you diatribe.

can i tell you what i think about you?
tangled up in blue,
lets get tangled up together,
or not.

i had a boy once,
someone to pretend not to know with,
to pretend to know all with,
no thanks.

enough of a guy,
he wants to put his arms around me
and feel how big he is
but you can't have a friendship
on that many conditions,
on that many things to remember.

i'm here for the cocaine,
bitch.

i'm here for the cocaine,
maybe later the sex,
and then later the family values,
and i hope you get the nerve,

or i'll have to get drunk
and do it myself,
sad right?

Running With the Wind

My papa talked today,
walked

six

miles

today,
and more.

Says hes gonna do four
per one day
and more.

Says he felt close
to God today,
took a break and
prayed.

Says hes gonna
run again
some day,

like he used to.
Ain't reason why
he shan't.


Running,


running with


the wind.


Wish I kept my
papa's words,
his passion
on that paper
for days like
these
when he tells me
he will


run


again.


Ain't no reason
why he can't.

Nine Kids in the Family

old man old man,
hobble along,
old man.

how did you become
so old
man.

brother flies airplanes,
just got a new job,
took your sweetie skiing
from the top.

brother has a wife
he don't like no more.

brother
drives a taxi cab
in Kingston,
reads Woolf and Bronte,
is one of the numbers in the
statistics
talking about how undergrads
aren't worth a thing.

brother
is your friend,
your only friend at a time,
your best friend now.
helps you out with money,
gonna help you die one day.

brother's
got a party in his pocket,
an asian bride,
and noone to tell him
how to behave.

then you've got those sisters,
each aware of what alone is like,
had their true loves taken
one by one.
heart attack on the ice,
slow and trying cancer,
dead in a car crash
left her alone getting married,
bearing kids,
living life in the sidelines,
but now she's got someone with
nice hair and big money to keep
her company.

she says i'm a spitting image.

old man old man
how did you become so young.

In Person

i lost my ring in moving cars,
with open arms around me
and this is what you said:
please don't start acting like Caitlin.

the empty spots in all my drawers
make me think of you.
the things i find between them
are all the things of me you know,
the things between the empty spots.

but the empty spots
are what i need you for.
you've never seen the murmer in my heart
or the blank space in my head,
the toe length distance
that describes who i am.
you've never seen me cry,
or even fathomed it
and i don't need those boxes,
i already have them.

what i'm concerned with is my father,
his shaky voice and rotting limbs,
the empty trails he plows,
friends who think too much of
the clothing in their closet,
and the empty street in midland,
where i have walked many times
beside you and without you
along with all the empty space
that is between us.

The Wiccan Guide to Healing

material, material girl:
what happened to all the steez,
where did all the money go,
material girl.

is Wicca a religion?
i don't know.
is this a religion,
do you feel you are ok?

convince yourself that you are
and you will be fine.

they can't look past you,
material girl;

your name on paper
in a jar of honey sealed tightly
in the freezer,
and all will be fine:
do you love me?

you will lose belief in knives
and fresh spices,
i promise.

noone wants to look you in the eye.

Writing Poetry Drunk, Girl.

Why are you so sad,
pretty girl? So pushed
down in the dirt,

so DRAMATIC; why do you find it so hard to keep
ground, when you are speaking ALL THE TIME...

I wondered when you would speak again
and here you are, more
but all the same, prettier than I once thought,
prettier than one with strength of yours should be.

Broken table,
put your legs together,
You are beautiful.

Daina says:

roses are red
violets are blue
suck my dick
yhou're a p[rick

my night with daina
and erin

*
vogue, april 1st and 2nd
grant hall
tickets on sale soon at destinations.

New section of the bookstore.

all the places i have been
or want to go

called i hope
you find me here

(the soldier finds it funny)

Night Finds Us Staring At Words Representative Of Who We Want The World To Think We Have Become

thank you for melodies
at nightime,
i will never forget you,
shaken.

you are wonderful,
you are sad.

i will cry at the death of you
at the continuing death of this
of all the commonalities,
slowalities, romanticalities,
perfectalities, mistakealities
that our removal from each other
endured.

goodbye place,

i want you
in mine
and vanish
the death of us.

let's get better.

You Are Tall

juxtaposition
of body
against mine
of beauty
against mine.

let's do it again
on the lonely street
of your name,
rubbing your past
against mine
folded at the edges
faded across the
distance of time
and the
youngest
oldest,

i just want
to talk
and talk
to you.

You're Never Going to Get Married Unless You Learn to Drink Beer

It's not only this
but the maple syrup in the kitchen,
and the tangles in the back of my hair,
and you looking out the window,
and taking my clothes when you can't find yours,
and the way my clock has been ticking
ever since you fixed it.
And the words you never say,
and the words you don't know how to say,
and the words you don't know how to want to say,
and the way you hate it here
and need to be here.

Sticky fingered child,
Proud little youngest child,
Sad conformed and missing child,
Proud in the morning child,
Sad lonely little child,
Proud looking out the window child.

Luke

thank you for walking me home,
after i couldnt get home from the bar;

thank you for being my boyfriend,
oh wait, you are the worst boyfriend ever;

oh wait that was wrong from the beginning,
thank you for walking me home.

go to australia already.

(do you want to go to the park
and sit on a rock
and ask little children for a lighter
because we are amateurs and too nervous
to act normal?
i do).

Maryjane

She loves you baby, baby.

I love you baby, baby.

What a pretty girl
you will become.

Baby, baby.

Marie

Mari
e, (Maria Maria)
How it should be said.

I keep thinking I'm seeing you everywhere,
Somedays, when I am really tired,
I see you in my hair,
and the bags under my eyes,
and I understand you.

And I see you in the mirror in front of me,
the tiered angled mirror:
Long hair, matted curls, dead bouffon, and frizz,
You concession stand whore.

Part Two

Who am I but the plougher,
the children, the boat,

oblivious to the plight of Icarus.

Who am I but the one who laughs
at the passing tradegies,

the fool on the edge
who points and laughs
before rolling backward
from the stair.

What happened to you?

Writing poetry at the desk
has become a fallen task.

I keep dreaming of you writing
to me, dancing with me, pushing
me away.

Yet I have nothing.

Part One

How young I once became,
Kissing other youngsters,
Thinking myself aged, matured,
Sedated in the image of myself
That still remains the same.

How old I have become,
And yet still only twenty,
I have not seen enough
Not breathed enough,
To want to go home now.

I have no trouble finding hope
In the aftermath of ruckus,
I find a block in a pile of dirt,
And I glee.

I have no trouble
Seeing myself dead
Or alive beside my family,
But now imagining myself
Is painted by everything
I no longer have a need to accomplish.

The aftermath of videos, bottles,
Rafts, clams, sand, shoes,
Colours, makeup, words, the world,
Is that I am still searching for the same,
Finding only the new in the past
And the future.

Living has become like dying,
With every stroke, brush,
Every inhaled breath of repentance.

Fuck Off Cohen

i know why women cry,
why they remove their makeup,
take off their jewels,
strip themselves of clothes

and stare themselves in the mirror,
every once and a while,

breaking their knees
between the loves they leave,
and those they seek.

it is not vanity
that serves this.

Being Pretty is a Chore

the thing i hate the most
about doing the dishes
is filling up the water.

finally,
something i agree with.

i don't like people who tell me how to act,
what to say,
who i should be,
and that's what this is becoming.

what happened to all the stories
you used to tell me about your life
your journeys,
the jewels you hide in your pocket,

or in a pouch full of dream dolls,
your father bought you
in the dominican republic.

please stop talking.

i need a rest, a break,
whatever happened to your face,
to your voice.
i need to call my dad and find out whats going on here.

this is my daughter he says,
grabs my hand and smiles.

she filled up the sink,
so i dirtied the water and cleaned
the dishes, for the family, the household,
the people living here.

how many days has it been since
you shot me in the head?

stop being stupid.

Place to go Home

more chocate daddy
more chocate

(you always need a place to go home to)

so he builds a palace
in the forest
paints my bedroom green.

she says it too
but i don't believe her;

futon adjacent to the windows
where the bed used to lie,

vcr on the dresser,
shelf emptied,
boxes of me
filling the closets.

more chocate daddy,

unpiling life
gets tiring
after the seventh box
and the seventh empty spot
where nothing needed
is found.

no caitlin, you already had
enough chocolate.
no caitlin...caitlin, listen
to your mother.

It's a Happy Day!

leave Allen Ginsberg
for another day,
and shes right.

but still i go back
for a second time
and browse.

cross me crying in the poetry
section of the bookstore,
clutching books of many.

i found myself
and i couldn't leave it on the shelf,
streaming tears
finding all the words i was reading
on my cheeks,
and i couldn't leave it.

i notice the man staring at the freak
in the corner
(me)

and i cry still
and buy all the books i can afford
that make me think i'm something.

Ricardo

you're out of it
but thats ok
i wish that i was too.

there are ghosts living in my house.
there are ghosts in my house too
but the ghosts in my house are real.

my sister can't sleep alone.
i couldn't sleep alone for three years
because i had a dream a hooker came in my
room and tried to kill me with a gun.

if the person who is sleeping with my sister
leaves her in the middle of the night
we find her crying in the bathtub.

Places I've Never Been

i want to shine coins

in all the places
i've never been before

to see what they look like
without you,

and if they look lonely,
like i do at the present time,

then i want to leave a treat there
so all my spider friends

will come and leave pretty things
like legs, and arms, and webs, and bugs

wrapped in cocoons,

and then
i will go to all the places i have never been
without you

and stare at all the pretty spider things
that have been left
in the place of so much something

and nothing to hold on to.

To a Girl I Don't Know

the things i could write of you
the times you have left me on the street
dancing to the beat of the thoughts
of you in my head.

the girl in the brown cardigan,
the sunglasses,
coming in late with her coffee in hand,
and her soul on her sleeve,
showing the world with every action
just how brave she has become,

inspiring in those who don't know her
how to be confident, contended, creative,
lost
and found.

and i know nothing of you,
yet still
i am bound to the intrigue
of tapping

the sources you leave me
to try and find you
in another street
another room
another lettering of words.

Boy, Really?

if you had said to me again
"don't fuck with me",
i would have stepped away
from the bottle,

not tried to turn this
into a celebration.

i would have left my gay at home,
kept my feet more firmly on the ground,
maybe would have cleaned my room a little.

"i can't believe the first time"
was all you had to say
to keep me the way
i have been since i ran into
your room, a note on the door,
my name spelt almost right,

a composition so arranged.

a few blacked out phone calls
sharing the worried character
of your numbing fingertips
was all i had
to make me think
our initial deliverance
was fair.

a picture falling from
its place on the wall,
was all there was,
in the middle of the night
you gave me away,

as you poured your mouth full
of liberation
from what you thought
you were getting yourself
into,
(exhausting yourself, you told me)

to let me know
that things were
only going to be

like this scratch on my face,
left from the acceleration
of buildings losing their place,
and the sharp corners
of the wooden frame against
my happy eyelids.

*
the less i think of you
the more i worry if you think of me

"Poetry is Dead"

he says, he says.
he says.

like the squirrel is dead on the lawn,
interrupting my walk on this day
(thrown there), (died there),
red blood matted to its hair
head crushed against the ground;
stop talking about death, the dead
the dying, stop talking about that.

if you're there i don't want
to be there.

there you are walking down the street,
with your iridescence hanging capaciously behind you
like the flag of a foreign place
i need to go to.

look at you looking at
your incompetent admirers.

he says it,
stares strangely around the room
(strange is a beautiful word, but does not count
near manifestos, new moves, romance is dying);
the irony in the classroom is stupid,
hangs heavy like the blood in the fur,
we're all here to be different,
and come out all the same

- with some exceptions, romance.

a dead squirrel does nothing to impede
these thoughts of you
and or
these thoughts of stability
(as i have been on a downslope lately
thinking about the dead, dying, etc).

poetry is dead, and or dying,
and along with it,
the lot of us who give a damn about the words
not worth a damn in themselves.