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Pics with verse Storyteller

Good morning me neighbours

Good morning me neighbours

Well I work up to snow this morning, so how do I counter that, daydream of a tropical country road, ohhh yes I am there, the sun beating down on me, the cool trade winds easing the swelter, I am sipping a tall glass of passion fruit juice, hypnotized by the cubes of ice clinging against the glass. Oh yes that alleviates the sound of my size eighteen shoes crunching on the snow. True, true me neighbours, this morning I am letting my imagination take me there.

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Storyteller

Bloody Face Stranger

So here I am walking down 4th avenue last night coming from the radio station around 12.30 am when There were several people walking in the same direction as me.  When I got near to the Tattoo shop I heard someone shouting, “Hey bro, hey bro!” So I turned around and a man with about three bags ran out of the dark. At first I started walking but he shouted, again so I stopped. he walks up to me, blood streaming down his face, droplets of blood dropping off his nose. “They beat the f.. out of me.” he sais, so I said “Call the police,” he said “Nah don’t want to do that.” so I said, “What do you want me to do?” He said, I need shoes to wear and looked at my feet, “I said cant help you I wear size 18 shoes,” He says “Ahhh s…” All the while blood is flowing from cuts all over his face. “I said again, “Call the cops,” He mumbled something and reached into one of the bags so I took a defensive stand, he says “You are alright,” as he digs through the bags. That was it for me, I started walking away insisting that he call the cops. I am still wondering with all the people walking on the street, why did he pick me to call. Is it because I am seven feet talk, did he think if people who assaulted him came back I would fight for him? hmmm I guess I will never know. There is one of the reasons I do not walk late in the town.

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Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

Ladies of the Night From the novel I am a Dirty Immigrant

There were lots of things about The Melting Pot City that fascinated me. For instance, the prostitutes. I had never seen that before so I took an interest in how and what they did. No, I did not indulge in their services. I am a people watcher. That is how I am able to write this fantastic book, right? We lived on Eastern Parkway between Utica and Rochester Avenues. Eastern Parkway was the biggest and busiest street I have ever lived on. I used to sit at the window and watch them, wondering why in the richest country in the world the women had to resort to this. They walked up and down the avenue in short dresses, uncomfortable high heel shoes and skirts so short you could see the beginning of their butt cheeks. Scores of cars with lonely men came and went. I mean, you should see them, looking around like cartoon characters, gripping their steering wheels, their eyes wide with lustful anticipation. I felt so sorry for these women. I wondered what they thought their life would be like. Were they victims of society or were they victims of cultural circumstances?

The most disturbing thing about this was that there was a pregnant woman out there. Car after car would pick her up. None of the men seemed concerned with her condition. I often wondered what sick bastard would take advantage of someone like that.  Our landlady would scream at them, calling them the worst names, as if they needed to feel any more degraded then they already were. My ex-wife and I felt compassion for them, so we let them sit on our car. They promised as long as they were there, no one would mess with it. That summer, with the constant complaints from the landlady, the cops chased them off. That very night, every car in a four block radius was broken into. Is it not sad how society, indoctrinated by judgmental ideologies, makes the people believe that these women were less than human? Truth is, their humanity was stripped by the same ideology that claimed to be virtuous. Just look at all the preachers and politicians who partake in the very same debauchery.