Filed under: Poetry
For what its worth,
which probably ain’t all that much,
at one point,
I thought it was really important
to understand
as much as possible
about everything having to do with
why’s.
You can easily share the
apprehension that comes
with thinking about why,
much too much
for the sake of sanity
and getting something
useful done.
Moreso than any
chemical elixir
is the seduction of vanity
that comes with
thinking too long
about all the why’s.
Meanwhile the world moves on;
people have babies
that grow up to be more people
who act just as mysteriously
as their parents used to
before they got boring
and predictable.
All the while I lose afternoons,
and the last part
of a good many mornings,
and some all nights,
thinking about all those
why’s.
Like why does it matter
if I choose to disregard
some arcane aspect
of a dress code?
or
Why do people settle
for certainty when
uncertainty comprises
so much more of the world?
Before I knew what happened
to all the time that hadn’t
happened yet,
it went and happened
and all the time that’s
still waiting
will probably creep by;
but it won’t be
because I’m thinking
about the why’s.
Passive wonder will
have to be enough,
there are probably things to do,
things like buying sweaters
and ties, mowing the lawn,
and of course having babies.
It sure seems like a lot of work;
there’s not enough hours
in a day or even a week
to do all that and still
think about the why’s.
Practice trumps theory again.
a fact that there’s no need
to wonder about;
the same holds true
for the babies and ties
and lawnmowers
and department store sales
on all of ‘em.
Yet most everyone makes the same choice,
or maybe they just compromise;
thinking to themselves,
“it’s not as good as knowing why
but I’m getting laid more often,
and my car is shiny and fast,
and my house is huge,
and filled with stuff,
and all that’s gotta be worth
something, right?”
But what about the why’s?
Someone has to think about them,
and what is it exactly
all those University approved
Philosophers
do with their day?
I suspect they spend very little time
on the why’s.
A drug like that isn’t allowed
at work.
All of this curls back on itself,
with the gravity of everything
tugging on everything,
nothing moves except
when everything moves,
and why is that?
and does it have to be the
way it is?
Only when another afternoon
is lost on all those why’s
do I remember why I
decided not to think about
all those why’s in the first place,
saying to myself
“remember potted plants, and
settling down for a few decades,
and coaching little league,
and all the other shit you
thought you were supposed to do.”
With shaky confidence in my judgment;
is there any other kind? (strike that.
we’re not thinking about that right now.)
but confidence nonetheless,
I’m gonna settle in
for the long haul,
maybe get an office plant or two;
brag to everyone ’bout how good
it is when my car is the
right color, without so many
stickers and dents.
maybe even a baby seat
clinging to the seat belt
for dear life.
In the midst of all the
gonna be’s,
it seems too much; for one thing,
who’s going to trust me
with all the trappings of
this high class life?
Not me, that’s for sure.
Not to mention,
it still feels like
too much work without
adequate reward.
Call me foolish anytime,
but that much work
demands much more,
why sell out so cheap when
the money’s just paper
and the car needs gas,
and a trustworthy mechanic;
and the grass is growing too high,
and it’s not the good kind of grass
or the good kind of high.
Suspended between everything
with no desire to choose
seems to piss off those
around me, but none of them
know why it has to be
a decision in the first place;
so why should I trust their judgment
over my own?
Nothing resolved,
but another evening and morning
sacrificed to thinking
too much about all the things
I keep promising myself
I won’t think about any more.
Does it say something about
my infidelity to myself;
or simply my lazy ambivalence
to anything but thinking
about the why’s,
and do they have rehab
for this sort of thing?
I walked 12 steps to the kitchen
and drank some soda
and ate some leftover spaghetti
with cold sauce and no meatballs
and wondered why I hadn’t cared
enough to make some
earlier this afternoon.
Tomorrow I’ll go to the store
and get all the stuff to make chilli.
It’ll be progress.
It’ll be fun.
Really.
With all this on my plate,
for later, I feel fine;
fine enough for omphaloskepsis;
babies and chilli are the farthest things
from my mind. What’s a few
more hours, anyway?
This one’s about genesis. That’s the only way I can think of to say that all the warnings and suppositions are just more kindling for the fire. Right now is what can be controlled, at least in that vague manner of the righteous few. It doesn’t happen much, but the rules are there. The best part is nobody has to think about it. The worst part is that nobody does. Still; it could be something more ethereal. Every time I get too close to knocking it down, the whole thing stops making sense. I guess thats O.K. I mean, it’s not like you can pick and choose when to stop and start. What’s the fun in that?
I was going to tell you that I’m “fighting onward,” but that’s the wrong analogy. Fuck it. Maybe the whole thing is a poem. There’s nothing to fear about that. There’s that whole murky clarity of painted straws cut with the fine mist. Ain’t nothing that can’t be solved with the right mixture of fuel and desire. My fingers might be slow and my mind drafting, but let’s split the difference and call it the kind of essential preparation for enlightenment. I got all kinds of experience that tells me not to worry too much. It ain’t that long of a ride.
So where is everybody now? Some kind of sick joke; bad advice mixed with good intentions. Never underestimate the power of the echo chamber. For a few brief seconds, gravity dissipates and everything rises a few inches. So tangled; how did they all hear the story at the same time? It boggles the mind. Most of them have better things to do when gravity reasserts itself and we all come down. But I got time. There could be measurements made. Maybe even those crucible judgments that let us know that yes indeed, we’re really one of the chosen few. I guess some find comfort in such simony. Still nothing to say about the rest of the world. I reserve all judgment until just after everything starts making sense. Mediation would work, but who sit’s where at the table? Do we need more than two chairs?
All the answers reside in the pocket of a pretty little thing walking around somewhere south of here. Miles are miles, and they make kilometers out of yardsticks. She never reaches for this particular pocket, but something she said years ago still figures in the thoughts of cloudy days raining down on those hillsides and mountain meadows. Some day I’m gonna reach for that pocket and find out what it was that made things as they are instead of some other way. I’m gonna question everything, down to Planck size issues that we never got to talk about when the time was wrong. Patience, patience. I’m not here as some johnny-come-rapist in the dark of night. I never hurt anyone without a damn good reason. It’s in the joke spoken by the auteur. Plainly said, I’m just here for the sake of the question. If there was anything that could be done (besides the obvious concoctions mixed with keen razor blade theory) then it is going to be done. Don’t ask me to stop. I couldn’t if I wanted to.
Precision knowledge can only be accumulated via conversation, or maybe in the recitation of restraint and self control. Who says who does? Go join the people, get yourself a wife or a husband, maybe have some kids. I’m told passing on your genes might be why we’re here. I shudder when those words pass through my lips, as disrespectful as I’m known to be. Fuck it. Like so much else, it will have to wait.
———————————-
Maybe it’s a poem?
The more I think
about the pocket of the jeans
of the girl walking
down an old boulevard or avenue
of a gracefully familiar town,
the more certain I become
that the contents of her pocket
hold the memory of my muse ,
and the answer to my question.
————————————-
Maybe it’s a stab wound in the arm, or a fall from from on high, either pride or a skyscraper. But maybe she’s just got the peculiar mix, like shards of green busting through concrete. Maybe I know how to slap together some kind of dinner from scattered lines of poetry gathered up from the tangles of her hair while all around me is in motion. Is this a weathered grin? Is it important that she not know her role in leading the words and sights of this sorry assed dumb fucker? He’s still convinced that the word and the light (sorry CB) mean more than a ragged body and scattered mind. He cares little for anything but the word. With the help of music and his muse; strike forth. Forget meaning for a moment; create something else based in part on that sensation of reflection of the light from bulb banging into her eyes. A welcome wave of relaxation passes through. You can’t make this shit up. Who knew what unlocking the passenger door could do to a fool?
With all the conversations that never were, the word and the light (apologies again CB) seem to leave a broken trail to follow from the exhaustion to rebirth. If there was any justice, I’d be weeping. More truthfully, it’s late, and I’m too tired to satiate my muse with the praise she deserves.
—————————-
nobody remembers how it felt
to open the door of my piece of shit car,
on a cool night in the old mountains,
wearing my lousy jeans and a cheap shirt;
and welcome Pallas Athena
with prayers and nervous laughter.
warm light from the sodium bulbs,
lascivious light falling down
made the act of opening a door
seem magisterial; my muse
sat next to me as we drove off.
at the same time, far in the past,
I was dumb enough to look at the front
of Athena’s tight jeans
instead of the hip pocket;
where everything I could ever want
waited on me.
back to the present, years
later and in a different place,
straining to remember the
night I tried to satisfy my muse,
sharing cigarettes, wanting something
I couldn’t quite name.
the scent of perfume remains
embedded in my memory;
lining my mind as I look to that moment
when she swung her head
around and washed me
down for good
the scent of beauty and genius;
Pallas Athena
It’s late, and I’ve failed;
and I’m too tired
to satiate my muse
with the praise she deserves.
————————————-
Too many questions for a restless night. I might be getting my poetry mixed up with my prose. I’m so tired, and I can’t give back what was given to me one night a long time ago in a place that’s as closed as a boarded up row-house. I did the best I could tonight; I tried to be a poet.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Various portents of salubrious consternation. There isn’t much too it, not like fancy words and facile logic was really ever that useful for anything that important. The Fool was traveling in the limited manner he often enjoys, and it brought to mind trips to far off beaches, like Ocean City of VaBeach, where there is a skein of mud covering everything the eye can see. Still, good memories all around, at least to whatever extent the memory remains. Short term is not my strong suit. There used to be a real good reason to go to one of those beaches, but like all real good reasons, this one ain’t good anymore. It happens, and it’s not much of a surprise as to why. The only real question is why it took as long as it did. Fuck it, this is no night to be looking back. That seems so boring and cliche.
Tonight’s trip was one of those enjoyable traditions that intense and repetitive pain can’t stop. The mind gets limber after recreational exercise provided by the good people of Consolidated Industries, Inc. If they only knew how much it helps. Still, that’s why they’re in business, to help seekers like myself. That deserves a coke and a smile. Only you older fuckers will pick up on that. Pity you can’t join me. This droll pretense of reserved laughter and the quiet pin prick of my assertions of petty dominance are quite the show. So much the better with an appreciative audience. Then again, there’s always a table for one. Cheaper that way too.
Little bit of everything on the drive. The near miss of a few hundred pounds of steel hurtling across three lanes of traffic is always enjoyable. Like I am forced to keep repeating; almost getting into an accident is the same as not getting into an accident. Fear not the unknown…it can’t possibly be any worse than the known.
This was meant to be short, so let’s agree to keep it that way. Rest assured I am as filled with the same vitriolic and often petty hatreds as usual, but am too far gone to make any sport of it tonight. Some nights are good enough without adding anything else, and lucky for this son of a bitch, tonight is one of them. No running into walls or playing with scissors for this kid, there’s more enjoyable pastimes to fill the void. Like Eleanor of Aquitane;
“Come, stickpins. We can do it all again tomorrow.”
Actually that wasn’t it at all, but seems like it will work well enough for tonight. Me? I’m gonna go jerk off to the box score and think about next weekend, when we clash with evil for the second to last time this season. Until then it’s going to be a long, long week ahead. Could be worse, tomorrow could be lorded over by some dickhead sky pilot. Better not.
I couldn’t sleep because all the settings were wrong. Not too far, the knobs weren’t twisted more than a quarter turn. I get the sense it might even have been less than that. We’re not talking about black swans, or those one per billion years or so kind of event. Maybe that’s the problem. After you live on gruel long enough, it tastes like everyday. Just enough to get by. Just one bite to tide you over, one cigarette to pack it down. Makes you wonder. Makes you wonder is all that it does, the never-land variation of questions and quests, movement of jaw and body down a long road or up a high mountain. Either/or repetition might make you really good at some tiny (and possibly obscure) part of the game, but when it slows down and the thoughts roll out to the sounds of trucks driven at high speed on cold nights, it seems both wondrous and mundane. That’s a week. That’s a day, an hour, a minute, all representational of the wide world of ideas. How frustrating. Hold for another smoke. Talk about a miracle.
None of this will hold indefinitely. Even the newly fired commandant will probably figure it out if given enough time to think about it. Maybe not. Maybe I’m giving out too much faith and not enough realism. Whatever the shortcomings of living in the moment, there has to be some way of keeping in mind the thematic glory of free living. It seems so paradoxical amongst the theology of old friends. I can’t really comment save to note that that all this (gestures wildly about the room) is not the hall of trophies. There is life, even in the anteroom. Damned rationale of the fearless fool. Life accretes, everything else is nickels and dimes and glass trays filled with razors. Am I getting through to you? Does any of this make any sense?
Let’s leave that to bleed on its own for a minute. Don’t worry, the human form is filled to the brim, and we’ll come back to that later. Even at this early hour when the commercials on television seem like they’re selling something that might be true on another planet, the mind reels and then falls over with the weight of incredulity. It would take a much more vapid mind to believe what it was told. I’ve seen that girl before, the one in the commercial for eHarmony. She was bitching and moaning about how hard it was to find love as a working woman. Never mind that this time last year she had fallen in love after being matched up with a different actor. It makes me feel better to know she’s probably out behind the set sucking cock for 15 bucks a pop, swallowing for an extra fiver. Let’s kick her while she’s down; the bitch probably likes it. And this is supposed to make us feel better about the power of the internet? Bah. Foolhardy to find your faith in the memes of late night commercials. Even when sleep is a dream, there is no manna to save your soul. I haven’t given up; I’m just taking a break.
There are substances that can help fix the location and provide some bulwark of security. I think it was said somewhere else, but it’s never going to increase the enjoyment of existence to see the boss on the soup line with the rest of us bastards and fuck-ups who make it their business to get the shit end of the stick. Still, the sun comes up at the same time for all of us. Even if the taste is reminiscent of the mornings back before giving up the goat and living this morass of stillness, it still doesn’t equal defeat. Not yet anyways.
What started in sadness can end in euphoria. As hard as it can be to keep a smile from forming on such a tiny basis. It’s kind of funny to see a loser cheese off the fuckers trying to run him down. I can always sympathize with an underdog. I’d call it one of the great faults in both my judgment and my sympathies. Not for nothing, but there’s something strange in looking around and watching the desperation that pervades suburbia. Worse yet, it’s not the same as the quiet desperation of Thoreau. He saw some deeper meaning in the nature of desperation, as if it propelled some great desire for something, or some great movement towards fulfillment. Maybe that held true in his time, but not now.
Most of what I see are the reflections of desire expressed as a longing for some mythical time where everyone gives up the adversarial bias and actually begins to care. The signs are everywhere, but never articulated in a direct manner. Must be something that stops it from happening, but the end result seems to be greater pressures placed on each interlocking individual as opposed to less. If I were the type to jump to conclusions, that kind of theorem would seem to lend itself to all manner of possible answers. Somehow, the worst realizations are the easiest to ignore. Fucking Darwinian selection of psychological attributes. Maybe that explains why so few people seem to grasp the connection between isolation and desire. But shit, I saw it on television. It must be true.
The logic required to hold all of this together comes with indoctrination. First things first; mind the borders of thought. After that, just add in repetition (in various media and culture) of a few simple ideas and watch it ripple through the population. Unintentional comedy.
Distance and perspective seem to be the only way to see the larger implications of what might be the natural response to infectious thought. The rest can be left to Dan Dennett. Sleep is no antidote, but it safely gets us all from now to later. Eyes forward, but closing slowly. Can’t imagine why.
As funny as an infected sore on your asshole. This kind of humor has no place in the fan based synthetic world of morphonic tangents covering up historic defeats. Instead we should probably take the time to reconnoiter the visible worlds of occipital movement and hinges, broken doors and broken windows. The air moves as if on cue, rising up and swelling forth from the bastion of righteous behavior, credit card receipts, and smiling faces. Take the rest on faith, given the tacit admittance that maybe, just maybe, none of this is right to begin with.
A bunch of three dollar words assembled by a three dollar mind living in a three dollar world. A bums rush, but more elegant, easier to understand, more fun to take apart and synthesize as something to smoke, drink, or pop like kernals of corn. Can you easily imagine the splitting and hissing that would result from this kind of psychic fight? I’m under a lot of pressure here people, when I collapse it won’t be with a supernova; I’m more of a neutron star. A small dense ball of iron just sort of hanging in the sky. At least I’m not a black hole. That, for some, would be progress. Not for me…not that simple. I’ve just never been into creative destruction. Like they say, when you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail. Makes me sick to think such prurient thoughts.
In this admitted manifesto, there is no due diligence, no thought, no planning. I might be made of aluminum for all you know, crushed and straightened in regular intervals of time and space, like ambulatory metaphysics. Of course, I’m not smart enough for a graduate degree, just another individual who likes to read and is interested enough to try to find out what my species has discovered about the origins of the cosmos and Darwinist thought and atheism and looking for the light. Everything all the time, motors without an all-stop setting (so much for intelligent design) powering the biological equivalent of the great red shift. That’s the teleological explanation, which admits change much faster than those ridiculous bible thumping pseudo-intellectual crowds still looking for signs of old white men with beards. Based on that, you have to wonder why they didn’t turn Darwin into Santa Claus. It wouldn’t have taken much effort, but the mental dexterity required would have been intense. That in itself explains a lot.
I have to wonder about what Billy Bragg would say about terrorism in the age of Aquarius. I’ve got to know for sure but never certain, because it all changes so quickly as we learn the difference between forward pointed feet and steps seven through ten. Consummated morphology, dictated iconography like charcoal rubbings of famous personages of historical significance (so says Bill S. Preston, Esq.) that whisper against the crown in a sort of didactic dance. The song starts, ideas rolling forth, makeshift headquarters for the general staff, musicians all trying to be heard above the din and roar. I don’t have to wonder how frustrating it must be, surrounded as I am by doctors that couldn’t find a cock on a rooster and lawyers over-fascinated by minutiae. All this expertise, and nobody that knows anything about what you’re supposed to do when they’ve really come to stick it to you. Just goes to show there’s little to be learned from the upper crust. Try the mantle instead.
It is at least approximately true that any previously researched line of inquiry is fair game for extrapolation. How far out you want to go, how deep into the musky locales and dive bars and accents and vagabond thoughts is your business…at least it feels like mine. The rampant articulation of the obvious hurts me in ways I couldn’t possibly describe; I know the agreed upon terminal end of what we are/were is no longer up for conversation. Some of us don”t want to spend our lives attacked by every feckless illusion that happens to wander past. Others seem so happy to indulge in the specious yet seductive notion of our own immortality. Those types have a big surprise awaiting them.
In the midst of the din and clamor, it would be comforting to find some small protected space from which to rest. If denied the succor of a momentary cessation of hostilities, then I’d refuse to ask for the slightest comforts. All the changes and alterations between the idea of what you want and where you got stuck trying to match appearances with reality. It’s a bummer if it takes some kind of coming to terms with the sudden disappearance of a warmly trusted friend. The lonely sadness of the moment of realization ain’t gonna be easy, Back to right, fight, fight then just as quickly back to lonesome tears falling on long nights. All the associated good luck of the moment can only last so long. This pressure is unrelenting, and even a neutron star can crack if the differential energy becomes unstable. Sometimes things end without warning. Nothing lasts forever. If there is to be a recession of faith, that’s as far as I can go with it. They tell me you’re fine as long as you can bury your head in the sand. Just my luck. Standing on concrete. Ha!
Far past fucked and not yet struck.
Again.
Filed under: Poetry
“she made up her mind”
She’d made up her mind,
same time,
in the last couple of months,
no cheap stunt,
The addition of hard times
lengthening long lines,
that wore down the break pad,
busted the break
metal on metal shower sparks will forsake
guess it’s time to admit
as bad as it gets
I keep hoping that it’s all just a dream.
Never wanting to see that you could leave,
like water through a net or gold nuggets in a sieve,
While I’m too crippled to pursue,
The girl that played the part of you
No tears, no tears, I swore no tears
but i can’t smile either and I can’t work the gears
And I’m scared and alone and it’s getting too dark
and my lighter is busted and my confidence shot
So it’s quiet round here, I’m left to myself
Just stuck in a box and the box on a shelf
She’d made up her mind,
same time,
in the last couple of months,
no cheap stunt,
The addition of hard times
lengthening long lines,
that wore down the break pad,
busted the break
metal on metal shower sparks will forsake
guess it’s time to admit
as bad as it gets
I keep hoping that it’s all just a dream.
—————————————-
Alone again and the night is quiet like death. Anything I can add would be immaterial. I’m feeling like a black hat fellow waiting to go back to being unnoticed. Maybe going out for a long walk will do me good. No sleep tonight. This is not a good night to lay awake staring at the ceiling. Get me my scissors.
THIS IS WITHOUT A DOUBT ONE OF THE WORST POEMS I’VE EVER WRITTEN. Sorry.
I apologize for the tardiness of the post, but I wanted to leave a nice written record of my current battle with bankrupt conglomerate Citibanc. Check in on their stock symbol, a big unambiguous upper case C. Do some research on what’s going on over there where the big bad boys of finance prowl the waters looking for marks to clean out. It’s a great game, and if you know anything at all about high finance and the current tete-a-tete of the Second Great Depression (brought to you by your own government in collusion with the banker-boys!) I’m sure you have enjoyed watching it as much as I.
However, times being as they are, and myself being as I am (that meaning functionally bankrupt with a small monthly fixed income via a not-so-friendly reinsurance company whose name doesn’t bear repeating here found myself with a nearly 300% rise in interest on my low balance ($1700) Citi card. Not being able to afford the rise in interest rates on a fixed income, I promptly called Citibanc to explain my dillema. After being put through 3 different operators, I was directed to yet another 800 number to discuss negotiating a closure of the account.
This is where it gets fun. Let me explain. There are a few things you need to know to properly understand my situation. The first is my status under US Bankrupcy law. Basically, I would be considered a No Asset bankruptcy. When we drop the bullshit from the statement, we understand that this means I don’t have title or ownership of any assets. I am literally worthless. Just like the day I set foot on this sweet sweet Earth. Once I have filed the paperwork (should I choose to do so) I am invincible to my creditors. They can’t call and whisper sweet nothings to me on the phone, They can’t write me love poems about how much fun we used to have together sent by mail. They can’t text me and ask for a few dollars in leetspeek on my cell phone. Nothing. De nada. A big fat fucking goose egg spinning up the anal canal of one of America’s largest banks. So, let us call this the nuclear option. Once the pin is pulled, it’s game over for all particiapnts. I will be roughly where I am today, except unable to buy a house (wouldn’t do that) or a car (don’t need one.) There are some other issues, but they are not germane here.
Option two is a settlement. I have offered this monster of American finance $500 dollars which they can take in exchange for closing my account and agreeing to never contact me again. I received a counteroffer of 90 cents on the dollar from Citi. It comes out to about $1550 or so.Since I don’t have that much money either, I replied that I could scrape together $500.00 American dollars and get that to them, but not a penny more than that. I informed the good people at Citi that I was out of work and have been fired for getting hurt at my job. I explained to them my income, and my commitments and the restraints naturally inherent in this situation. I appealed to their intellect, their compassion, and their hearts. I would have had better luck simply slicing my penis off with my favorite pair of scissors and mailing it to the bastards COD. An unbiased mind might see this as the best offer for both sides. Citibanc recovers at least a few cents on their bad investment (that would ME, in this case.) and I keep my cock and balls right where they are.
Option 3 isn’t really an option on its own, more of a theory. The moment Great Big C begins the paperwork to unleash the lawyers on me I can walk into the local district court and file my bankrupcy papers, having filled them out beforehand just in case the Citi is as dumb as they pretend to be. This would immediately cease all contact, and then I would have the pleasure of a court appointed dilettante to tell Citi where to sit and spin. Ah, nice to finally find a benefit to being totally broke.
Mostly, I want to end this by telling anyone else in this situation not to be afraid. These bullies cry like little bitches with a skinned knee and run off to the government tax teat at the first sign of trouble. They are used to simply demanding a certain result and getting it by putting the fear of Zeus into those that owe them money regardless of circumstance. Assuming you take a few small steps to prepare yourself, they cannot hurt you. DON’T BE AFRAID OF THEM. The assholes have stolen billions of tax money to cover bad bets they made in a highly leveraged environment. They have come, hat in hand to steal American tax dollars, the few that are being collected!!! They aren’t stealing my money. I didn’t ask for this to happen, hadn’t missed a payment ever. I know if anybody else is reading this and going through the same frightening process, they should know their rights, both financial and criminal (if need be) But don’t let them take you dignity, or your ability to look at yourself in the mirror.
At the end of the day, there is a behemoth Bank trying to run a group of people over with a road grader. This doesn’t have to happen to you and I won’t let it happen to be. From now on, I will try to tape any phone discussion and repost them here. I’m not much of a techie, but will continue to look into it. Good luck to everyone out there, come back for more as the story develops.
They picked the wrong broken backed unemployed useless slacker to pick on and threaten. This time, turnabout is fair play. Today…the bums are going to win. Maybe.
