There is potential. There is always potential in everything and nothing. Some people are gifted with seeing this potential, screaming out its existence on top of their lungs like a bunch of howler monkeys. I was not blessed, but I constantly hear about this potential, yet it never materializes. Where is it? Where is this all powerful potential that is said to move the mountains themselves, uproot trees, trouch the sky? Where is it? It it's so enormous I should be able to spt it from my precurious position of a cynical bystander. Yet, it escapes me. I'm as blind as a bat with its sensors out of wack. Sometimes, I'm under the impression that one has to grow into finding potential. And it's the key to success in this world. Upi just find that potential, grab on to it tight, and pray to God it lifts you off the ground. A very tricky business I might add.



It used to be that when people saw english on a russian website, they would get angry. I used to advocate the freedom of speech. And now that I won it , no one cares in what language I write, it's a bitter sweet victory. There is no pride in people for their native tongue and culture. Everyone has to be either American or European. Whatever happened to the Russian?



“Who’s your daddy,” asked I, spanking Christianity

Because the naughty priest denounced bestiality

but grunted like a wild mule for younger bloods.



Last weekend told to Catholic Church

New gods are really all the rage

Who wouldn’t test my literacy skills.

Time’s really ticking, said I to the priest

Before ka-boom goes pope and Bible

When we decide its time to clone

When we decide in love ignore

the gender of another person….



Then boom goes church and then the masses

The crosses, Jesus…. Christ and all.

Among the rubble, chuffing feet

The altar boy will loudly weep.

“Now where the hell do I get action

since yahoo outlawed good chats? “



I tell you, brothers, something’s screwy

With bondage turning hard and core,

Interrogations of sweet Jesus

And mother Mary… bless her soul.



Well, ‘til they listen to my reason

I might as well start my own church



I’ll hail the holy chair and table

The great white walls of suburb’s homes

And clear cut windows of our rooms

Oh bless the door that lets us in.

I’ll call it,”Church of Holy Sin.”