What if you are a little kid, clutching, a snow cone, or an ice cream one, wading through customs, screaming for mama, unable to ask for directions, separated from the only one you can ever love, or care about?
Screaming into the damn Silent Night, Holy Night, all is calm, all is bright?
You could have been born aboard, smuggled in utero, or popping out, inconveniently, beneath “a mule”– jew el a mu el Istanbul, touching the heart of the golden boy, who had a name of Gold, through an ICE ocean old, fold, you don’t go in to a port
I would like it if it would be “old sport”. Little kids, each gifted, each loved. Each beautific, in art projects, to give, dazzled, to a resistant reward. Protein drinks– if that’s what it takes, mother’s milk not good enough, after age two. But where is the sure enough of my love rocking pure enough, into the blue?
Later in his career, at least as “we” conventionally define “late”, Robin Williams committed suicide.
That was “reality” as “we” conventionally define “reality”.
Not that “Reality? What a concept!” wasn’t funny. It was funny. “We” want to know how “we” found such hog-tied pressure position,emotionally sadistic, pissing– into the whispering wind– FUNNY.
Spam of Human Affection 
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