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bignosedcopperking

I will share my writings with this forum

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Llama Dama—By Jose Gainza

“Let me be your flame, Dame,

So I could spark and burn,

Consumed by passion without blame,

Near you dancing as I turn.

Deity, I’ve praised your name—

By you endlessly I yearn.”

Thus spoke my Romantico to me, his Nina,

Before I blushed and took his hand.

I let him sip wine from my cantina

Before he sang then with his band.

“I have searched the world for none like you:

An oasis to a past now considered tundra.

Many joys I did manage to construe

From a life fulfilled by mind’s Utopia.

Virtue, values, dreams, and work

All combined and made my happiness.

Now suddenly my pathways jerk,

And halt before the flower of your beauty bliss.”

Thus continued Tico with smiles sanguine,

Sending notes up to the wind’s embrace,

Blowing words in swirl scented by my wine,

Twirlings in the sand did his body trace.

“I dance for you to help you feel my beats,

And tell you what you mean to me to win,

A life with you earning daily treats,

That grew so ripe from all that I gave in.

I claim that there’s a part of you that swears

Allegiance to the happy minded seers,

And will avenge the torches all your years.”

Executing eyes of mine, how Tico saw,

Willing to condemn the evil men,

That dare to poke me with their law,

That makes our love forbidden.

“Francesca isn’t outraged just for me,

And your Papa is fuming not for me,

They hate the fact that we can find a joy,

Felt by all yet, O, so hard to get.

Don’t you know their anger is a ploy?

To hide the blatant evil they beget:

Hatred for the good for being good—

The why of life so misunderstood!”

And soon he swept me far away,

And my past dust to the wind.

Here we are in San Francisco Bay,

Winning life we never have to mend.

“The white dress that you wear,

How it stands for a soul the purest.

And your joy that I must bear,

Is the cause of our love the surest.

And tonight when I own you in our bliss,

It will be heaven you will kiss.”

Thus we stand here both,

Reciting the same verse,

In a sacred form of oath,

In a style just terse,

To reveal our burning lust,

Sanctioned by god Reason’s cast,

The halo of our trust,

And the blessing of our past,

That brought us here,

To feel this thing,

And know it without fear,

And promise you to bring,

The joy that always stays

Somewhere within me,

Even if you leave our days,

In death and cease to be,

But please don’t die,

No, don’t dare go,

Don’t tempt me, dear, to die,

Though you know how I’ll still grow,

As in allegiance to our life,

A life committed thus in love,

Shrugging off the strife,

Because peace is not above,

It’s here below and on this earth,

It’s been here since our birth,

It came with our straight minds,

And it’s the force that binds,

Us forever

And ever …

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The Struggle For Your Love—By Jose Gainza

We metamorphosed into Superman.

Combined, we are exclusive members

Of the creature called Love that can

Inspire each as everlasting embers.

In relation to the mass who seldom passion find

Our superb love is the rare trophy of the mind.

Just remember when we were still apart,

How you made me long and hurt,

Dreaming of your gun fire start

To send me racing, ending the flirt.

Then I could sing my verses in our bed

And you showed that you had a poet’s head.

Now In my inbox I can find your lyrics sweet--

Not those curt responses harder than Morse code--

Filled with proclamations of your steady heat,

And promises of dancing for me in a sexy mode.

I no longer wait a lifetime for a chance reply,

Now without my kisses you will surely die.

I knew how hard it must have been for you,

To hate the world and think that love was luck,

Yet still there was a slow picture that you drew,

That at completion hit you like a speeding truck.

Your hunger drew the visage of this singing boy

Thus tearing down the wall that made you coy.

With my hammer I struck down at your idol.

I knocked the head right off Frustration.

Envy met severely with my wrecking ball.

Injustice would become a conflagration.

I consumed your trauma with my burning fire,

And pierced the wall with work that could not tire.

Despite the anger as the limelight of your theme,

There always was the gossip of your eyes

That did confirm what seemed to always seem:

That you caught from me the burning of your thighs.

Those irises let out the truth that they were mine,

“Condemned” for life to only on me dine.

When you first saw me gazing, dressed in black,

Suddenly, right then, was loose your happiness,

For it was clear you could get me in the sack—

For that I would give my life and nothing less!

But if dead I am I’ll cease to taste your juice,

So with Death now I have to make a truce.

I must now sell my soul to happy Life,

And treat myself to growing nutrients,

And make sweet Brandy my ex-wife,

And lay bare all my won achievements,

And contrast the splendour of your taste

To the bitterness of Dionysus waste.

I now feel what mothers get to feel

Upon seeing angel babies the first time;

And the mountain climber’s thrill;

Or the sun, to which Edison did climb—

For at present I have reached the height

When I command and need to hold you tight.

Feel!—my hands holding tight your back.

Feel!—my wetness on your biting jaw.

Feel!—the hunger that you cannot lack.

Feel!—the satiety that is our law.

Feel!—my manhood in your deepest part.

Feel!—the heaven now to where we dart.

Free!—the thoughts to plead my case.

Free!—the time to have me close.

Free!—the blushing of your face.

Free!—your love for one more dose.

Free!—the dialogues so wise.

Free!—the sundering of lies.

Think!—that once we were apart.

Think!—and know we are the same.

Think!—on all the gold that’s in my cart.

Think!—of how you used to give me blame.

Think!—that Apollo blessed our earth.

Think!—that now we’ve earned our mirth.

I!—know you want me hard.

I!—is where your love grows from.

I!—am a persistent bard.

I!—cannot bear a crumb.

I!—need the feast that’s you.

I!—will always digest you.

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BEAUTY—By Jose Gainza

Even before the first ancient idylls that uttered your graces—

................. Your were there;

Before the eyes of men to delight in such harmony faces—

................. Oh so fair!

In their dreams you re-emerged in fluttering traces—

................ Hard to bear;

So you branded the lines of many countless races.

................. We still stare

At the likes who emerged from your ancestral basis—

................. Oh so fair!

Then some genius found the means to paint your picture—

................. Everywhere;

Even in the shadows of the clouds’ changing fissure—

................. He does dare,

Despite the torment that ensues from his passion rupture—

................. Shooting flare—

Signalling the wooing of his muse from a lofty juncture—

................. That none compare,

To the combination that he sees without a fracture—

................. Oh so fair.

Now today and on this phone I have the way—

................. I do fare,

On this line where your voice will always stay—

................ Some fanfare—

I can always flip the cover everyday—

................ And I stare

Once the highlight pinpoints beauty without delay—

................ And I dare

To kiss your face that is a screen—I say, “Hey!”

................ You’re so fair!

Then I call you with impatience for you here,

................ Us a pair,

And you promise to run to me like a deer—

................ This you dare—

And I’m certain of your passion I do steer—

................ Now you’re there,

And those brown eyes pierce within me, oh my dear …

................ And your hair

Tangled ‘round my fingers while I kiss you without fear:

................ You’re so rare!

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ADAM’S SADNESS—By Jose Gainza

The dead man walks

Inside your soul,

Persists and stalks.

He even dares to talk,

His voice doth roll.

Echoes seem to blast

Without your will;

Mementos from the past;

Whispers come but pass—

Just weaklings, they shan’t kill.

They’re weak to block—

Ultimately—

Or keep you on the stock;

Or as a baying dog,

Lamenting, O, so free.

Let yourself endure

The heartbeat shocks

Of memories—there is a cure.

Beyond the flashing door

There are easy broken locks.

Break the pads that keep your reason

From solving tears and hurting,

To find the peaceful season,

A happiness out squirt’n,

Once sadness is a-drowning.

It’ll choke thus by your will

But not disrespect the dead.

Death’s a climax of life’s hill.

Thus can’t existence bend

To renew a life that’s dead.

Memories must placate thee,

Happy times must you fish out.

Distant goals will set you free

For days of promised joy—Wow!

Again will rise your joyous shout:

“I love this earth, this one of mine!

I love the tasks that I can find

That keep my days of worth so fine!

Sloth and woe will I resign

To accept my love that is so kind!"

Feel! The pain inside your heart,

The throat that aches and pines

For one who raised you from the start,

With wisdom, wit, and comfort times.

Yes, recall tragedy designs.

But only for a moment of you life …

For thus does human ego cope:

It has to feel the biting strife,

Then ask questions of hope,

Then wash the sadness like good soap.

There are pre-man things

That one can’t change.

Peace, serenity brings.

For there are things within man’s range,

Like emotions men will to arrange.

Man walks with wisdom eyes that know

Between wishes that are futile,

And goals that you can reap and sow.

With calm resurrection deny.

Still work your life mile by mile.

And take your sticks in hand,

Hear the pace of leading strings,

And thrash then with your band.

From father’s moans forget the sting.

Feel your soul of drumming rings.

And know that dead man is in you.

With love you kept a part of him.

You weaved him deep inside of you.

What you did love you will keep on,

And win a man more proud than him.

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Mother, May I?

By Jose Gainza

Stern mother, don’t you know

............... I want your girl?

If you knew what we unfurl,

And how I treat your girl,

And how she makes me dance and twirl—

Oh, how your tears would flow.

You would be weeping, you should know,

Not in terror but in fright

Of our love like dynamite,

That could blow your mores away—

Prehistoric as they are, so blown away.

Stern mother, you should know

I need your girl!

I need her sacred pearl,

For its scent does make me whirl;

But one reason why I love your lovely girl—

And I go “woh … ah … woh …”

When I penetrate her core—oh!

And her nails sink in my back

As we engage our lust attack,

Sending fire through our blood,

Making “heaven” seem like mud.

Deaf mother, you should hear

............... Your baby scream

............... While both eyes of hers do gleam,

Intermittent, as she does scream,

As I fulfill her grandest dream.

It’s not the nightmare of her fear

But the worship of my dear.

I bestow her with my kisses of delight,

And she bites me with a justice, Oh, so right.

She endures the countless rounds of our affair

But too often she just has to pull my hair.

Snotty mother, you should smell

.............. Our aftermath …

.............. But I’ll spare you from that path,

And just say that she does make me take a bath.

And please don’t think I utter this with wrath.

But there is still more to tell.

And I have so much more to sell.

I declare that I loved my prior gals,

So much so, that I’m the envy of my pals.

Coz I’m pure beyond belief and quite honest;

And brilliant, funny, charming—go, do test.

Blind mother, you should see

............... How much we do!

Everything that lovers do and often do:

Debates of life, jokes, inductions so much new;

Sports we’ve played and fights ensue

Coz we’re growing, and enjoying, and we’re free.

Yes, we’re lovers, but we’re friends—don’t you see?

There’s true love that keeps us hungry and content;

So much joy from life that we shall not repent.

I have seen her naked body but her soul

Is so also, and is pure, in our control.

Sweet mother, don’t you know

............... How nice I feel?

When I rub her back, and legs, and seal

The comfort that is ours—and yes, it’s real.

Layer upon layer of her soul I learned to peel.

All four oceans of her soul I fought to row.

And her heart I won by stealing Cupid’s bow.

We cuddle as a movie flashes in the dark.

And we picnic, munching tasties in the park.

I am hers, and she is mine, as you have yours.

So correct and change your “godly”, stupid mores!

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I wrote this poem for my brother and his fiancee who are getting hitched tomorrow. I do wish him happiness, I just don't get this Catholic church thing. It would confound me even more if he and his girl are moved by this poem:

The Prize of Reflection—By Jose Gainza

I sought through her the power of reflection …

I, through him, myself outside of me …

She’s the copy that exists beyond my will …

I, like him, have made myself perfection …

She’s the mirror that can make me delight see …

He—we—are strong by our own will …

................................We have grown,

............... We are two and alone;

............................... We have seen

............... What our true love does mean.

What I see in her is my good attainment …

He has struggled, oh so hard, to win this day …

She has withstood the tempting from them all …

Looking in him is such great entertainment …

Kissing her becomes a pride-filled play …

I won him by still staying on the ball …

...............................We have known;

............... So then we two are prone

................................To be keen

................To maintain our love clean.

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DARING OUR WRATH--By Jose Gainza (2001)

How dare you smash two planes into our tallest twin towers!

How dare you try to sink the source of all our powers!

How dare you take our strong, our brave, our weak!

How dare you say to us, “Freedom you shall not seek”!

How dare you forget the wisdom by which we started!

How dare you think our golden economy will remain retarded!

How dare you use your “god” to stop American ambition!

How dare you leave ten blocks beyond all recognition!

How dare you leave our thousands buried dead!

How dare you think we will betray what we have always said!

How dare you slap the face of “life, freedom, and happiness”!

How dare you dance proud of your damned wretchedness!

How dare you not have learned our pledge to: liberty or death!

How dare you make them scream before one last breath!

How dare you believe that we will let you survive!

How dare you not have known our history we shall revive!

How dare you not have feared our knives, our guns, our bombs, our minds!

How dare you evade the justice no holy war defines!

And so we dare you not to dread our wrath…

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THE HOUSE WHERE I BELONG

By Jose Gainza

I walk by it everyday

Even though it’s out of my way.

Its attractive forces I couldn’t fight

As it was love at first sight.

With freedom I collide

As I imagine the treasures inside.

Just a glimpse would suffice

To calm this curiosity that’s my vice.

But the view is obstructed by a curtain,

The door is locked I am certain.

Where is the proprietor

Who holds the key to the door?

I wish to enter and I must be patient,

Pay the rent.

Earn my way;

If I do, I could stay.

Then I could leave when I must,

And come back when I lust.

For this is the place where I belong!

This is the place that will keep me strong!

A VOYAGE INTO ANOTHER SOUL

By Jose Gainza

It is on an ocean so deep that changes colours

with the sun and the sky, enveloping life in its depths.

Where only the most able at heart can go to see a world

Unconscious to most.

This ocean is calm in the darkness of night,

Its sailors guided by the moon and Polaris;

Those in dread of its impulse to attract the storms,

that scare the unworthy and keep them at bay.

But they default the life in the depths of its waters

That I must not fear to explore;

For the riches I will encounter

Will bring triumph to my struggle.

This ocean is my home, its caprice is my labour.

I long to explore as deep as I must, as long as I can;

With the freedom to worship in a solitary, selfish ritual

Inspiring me to face my fears.

It is a soul I will judge,

The only other I will choose to know.

It will be a part of my soul, vital to my life;

And our waters will merge with purpose

TRULY

By Jose Gainza

When I grasp that I truly love you,

truly, truly, love you.

And consider that you truly love me,

truly, truly, love me;

And then

Consider that you simply love me,

or that you only care,

or that you’re merely aware;

Or

Consider that you just don’t love me,

And

Consider that you just don’t care;

But

To imagine that he who will love me,

truly, truly, love me,

is the one that will always care;

Who

Indulges in the pleasure of my presence,

In front of his eyes or

In his mind:

In imagination or a memory;

Who must struggle to suppress

the thought of me;

As I do with you...

And then

To imagine when that day will come,

When the one who will truly love me,

Truly, truly, love me,

Will awake to find me

Listening

To his heart beat.

Then

To believe

Or delude,

That you truly, truly, love me;

And then hope that it wil come true.

And then imagine that it might not be you;

And to imagine...

And you’re just not there

(In my mind)

...Anymore.

Tears run down my cheeks

Truly, Truly

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Yes. So, I wrote the above three poems eight years ago, when I first acknowledged that I wanted to be a writer, and first won the courage. I was looking for an old essay and stumbled across these poems which I almost ... forgot. They represent my promise, my sensitivity ... and how far I have come.

Enjoy,

Jose Gainza.

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This one was written eight years ago, and from time to time over the years, I remembered it. Most recently I found it, looking for something else. I believe it will be understood.

J.G.

The Laughter of Judgment - By Jose Gainza

Time ran out; run out as the Pontiff knelt before his private altar, praying to whom he no longer knew. Eighty years ran out for this gray haired soul offering himself up for sacrifice to a paternalistic unknown. This hero of born sinners, unpunished by the virtue of mercy, kept living by the grace of god. Who? What? Where? When? Why?

He despised the lust for power, never desiring to be the highest authority of his dear great book. It was not his purpose as a child reading the pages, literally, but being told to look for another meaning; ordered to dismiss the contradictions to reality, used as evidence to prove the book profound. If it didn’t make sense -- as he looked for reason -- his elders advised him that if it didn’t make sense, then it says more than “you” can ever know--that it says more than “you” will ever know.

There he knelt with the burden of having to know, and advise those ordered to listen about the steps they mustn’t take, and what doors they mustn’t open. Sermon after sermon, preaching the law enforced by his servants: that their soul doesn’t belong on earth, their bodies controlled by a pulled noose’s tension; the requirement for an unconditional love. Selfless because the soul belongs to God. Yourself belongs in god’s kingdom. Here on earth you have no self, your body is guided by this man dying old, kneeling before a naked man nailed to boards made by other men, blood running down from his sores, a crown of thorns, tears of unearned guilt.

That was this Pontiff's sign of virtue, the ultimate sacrifice, giving up the passions of the body, caused by anything but his own soul, unless stolen by an angel exiled below. The clock ticked behind him, caused by a motor inside a complex mechanism, reminding him of the time being spent.

He didn’t want to be at the hierarchy’s crest, but chosen with no choice to refuse, he obeyed. Somehow this had to be the course of his determined life: given a sign that he hardly had time left, there he was on the ground praying for his soul; waiting to cash-in on the sacrifice of a virgin mother’s son; a passkey for the door into heaven; a paradise impossible on earth; a pleasure forbidden to the body in existence, guaranteed to the spirit that must temper the corpse’s joy.

The Pope lived with a sense of a malevolent universe, the domain of irrationality, only ordered by his dogma, God’s revelation.

There he lay kissing the dirt on the floor as the sole interpreter of words that rule. Filth on his lips, forced clean by water from his first sacrament, that washed away the dust of original sin, and the desire to know forbidden tastes.

Little John was forced to receive the sacrifice of his human messiah, his body, his blood, as he looked at his father’s smile of pride on his wrinkled face.

There was no explicit force to confirm his reception of god’s grace, a holy spirit, god in him. Johnny accepted for that reason, for that privilege, and the influence of community opinion. Never considering free will when god gave him a soul, his soul, his self, a self.

The Pope pictured god’s view of his body as it would lay colder than the floor he was then kissing; the body being carried away; the ascension of his invisible soul. Considering the woman he never loved, or the child he never conceived, the thoughts and actions he made taboo, he heard the laughter of an unknown observer.

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The Senses of Adultery (?)

By Jose Gainza

We, you and I, each and every one of us,

………….Are a five-tooled set.

Don’t count clairvoyance, which is a tool as well

...………..But out of the box.

Every utensil inside serves so to open our door.

………….Look inside.

Catch all the words from there pitched—go do pen! —

………….On paper to see.

Look how your cursive assists the speed of the catch.

………….A query mark?

Go past the door to the carpenter’s space.

………….Hear the buzzing?

See how a door is created, tools in hand.

………….A long wooden pane …

It is flat, on a hinge, so it can oscillate.

……….That’s a door.

Be it green, be it steel, be it glass,

………It can be accessed.

Intuition can spark the attention of sense—

………Or of mind.

But only mind built on sense can confirm.

………Know your doors.

Clairvoyant entry intents can transform

………Doors into walls.

So please strap on the belt of your tools—

………The handy five!

To use doors to your splendour, forever,

………Continually adjust.

Have you seen past the doors of the Objectivist sage?

………See how rich?

Seen past the doors of the grand physicist?

……... See how real?

Seen in the den of the immense number men?

…….. See how much?

Heard in the hall of the fine music lyres?

………Hear the soar?

Touched in the place where are sculptor’s hands?

………Feel how smooth?

Seen through the lens of the savvy scientist?

………Know how small?

You have seen what your tools can restore.

………Philosophy.

They have all entered in with the help of their tools—

………Those that know.

They have all found the realm that can make them men—

…… .. Those that know.

They have seen all the doors that their concepts are.

……... Past the doors

Are the classes of things by the sameness they share.

………Watch trap doors

That may grant you your wish or just crush you to bits.

……….How absurd!

To think that a woodman would build

………His own guillotine!

If beforehand he knew of the risk—

………Shame if he does!

To think that a thinker would dare

………To misclassify!

To think that he furnishes it with things

………That were not sensed,

(Or connected at least not too far

………From his handy five.)

Or imagine the grand guess that was wrong:

………The world of Forms—

The audacity to claim, smug and all,

………That senses defraud …

Look at existence exist

………Via the senses.

………Via the senses

See zeroes be dismissed.

Concepts get promised, kissed,

………Via the senses.

Pain enacts with pleasure

………Via the senses.

………Via the senses

Men purpose, endure.

Witness Man, the ideal measure,

………Via the senses.

Growing years observe go by,

Inventive action watch it fly

………Via the senses.

One day long gone affects one now;

One day recalled finds the way how.

One willed, years ago, this happy height

………Via the senses.

The moral types of men are seen

………Via the senses.

………Via the senses

Data to encode appears.

Our place is not of fears.

Our joy should not demean to shame

………Via the senses.

Our Forms enrolled in mind

………Beyond the senses,

………Where stored is sense,

Ideals one can there find.

The truth, O, is not blind

And beyond the senses.

Our truths are consciousness.

............Grown from our senses.

………The hunger of senses

Seeks good with tenderness.

But the mind must harness

………Our adulterous senses.

Always gawking at things!

Always sniffing around!

Always eavesdropping on life!

Always caressing this earth!

Always with savoury tongue!

Always—and always—and always!

But they always—always—

………Come back to sense

……….Me!

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A sort of artistic credo in verse.

THE AESTHETICS OF THE APPLE--By Jose Gainza.

I worship the detailed vision that I see.

I want to reproduce it by some means.

I want to make that apple look so real.

I want to make you have to take a feel

And yet this precious apple isn’t.

And yet you’ve never seen one the same kind—

And never will.

It’s not the apple of the great temptation.

It’s not the morning’s apple for your health.

Its reds and greens will never be the same.

Its grand perfection is my delicious aim.

Maybe it’s some apple poison filled.

Maybe it’s the apple after sweaty sex—

But it is mine.

Maybe it’s the only object that you ever stole.

It might be the last meal of your greatest love.

It might be of the orchard of your dedication.

It might stand for the rotting of your education.

But what it is it has to be important.

And has to find a way among your values.

Maybe: a proper theme of life.

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:)

It would be nice to know music because I would love to be able to write the background music for this poem as a song AND one as a rap. Too bad, eh?

One thing I would like to mention about it. There is a line that goes, "I love my love". I would like to pay tribute to the source of that line. It is Victor Hugo and he wrote it in Les Miserables. The English translation I read it in has it as "I love my loves". If I recall correctly it is show on a paper, repeated and repeated for the whole paper. It is by Fantine. It is a declaration of her devotion. Normally such a "poem" would not be moving but since one knows what has happened to Fantine, the phrase becomes a tear jerker, a violent declaration of her desperate devotion to Cosette.

It is evident how I use it. On one tier of this poem it means: an artist's devotion to his muse; for example, in the case of Ayn Rand, the devotion to the projection of the ideal man.

Your Walking Away

By Jose Gainza

Long legs swiftly marching, distracting me—

Fruit-like curves dancing, enticing me—

And dainty cheeks speeding past too fast—

And a smile that tends to rescue me at last,

Able to redeem an earth that seems to be in doom.

His spirit that observes me can hit me with a boom,

That trembles in me but destroying obstacles:

Those fleeting sadness times from doomsday oracles.

I smile when I see you.

Blood flows because of you.

Right I think to impress you.

I feel strong to attain you.

But I smile when you have flown

Leaving me smiling, all alone,

Coz I know that I am sown

At least that much inside your own.

Sweetcheeks hurrying away too now,

Lucky hair locks brushing his fair brow,

Black leather flapping like a hero cape,

For a purpose to be met without escape;

Flying through this city with great soul,

Bestowing people with his charming roll;

Those writing verses all for his pearl smile,

Or running all this earth mile by mile.

He’s the muse of your great soul,

The cause of your fair roll,

When men do dance with gods,

And battles won against all odds.

I love my love …

I love my love …

I love my love …

I love my love …

The tracks will speak for me!

And the train on which he flies!

The floor will feel for me,

And tickle his cute feet,

Have him smiling coz of me;

Perhaps not knowing on the tracks

Are the beats enriching me:

“I-love— my-love …

I-love—my-love …

I-love— my-love …

I-love—my-love …”

Thu-thump—thu-thump—

Thu-thump—thu-thump—

Thu-thump—thu-thump—

Thu-thump—thu-thump:

The beating of my heart!

The train: a zephyr dart;

The tracks: a road to him.

The knocks to capture him!

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Red Moon Lips—By Jose Gainza (2005)

Past the ridge at the line of the horizon,

The red moon rises, full, above the eastern land.

Passing moments change the sphere, still risin`—

The sphere soon cuts in half at clouds’ command.

The bottom part remains and thus is lighted;

The top thus hides behind the unseen clouds,

Turned as such to purple of a day now blighted.

Though half a moon is cloaked in shrouds,

There does remain a pair of smiling lips—

O, how delightful is my power to abstract!

For by this force the moon’s glory flips

Into a facial silhouette, of clouds, intact.

Around your blood filled lips, your face I see,

Though light relinquished for your glory lips.

And then it’s clear; your face is still with me.

And thus I feel; I need to kiss your lips.

Soon I’m crawling on the table towards the edge.

There are cars below that seem that they are toys.

But you so real await my kiss—my pledge!

And so I will my mouth to perk for all your joys.

When that is done, ensues a force

That bows my head and closes eyes.

So this praised prostration I endorse,

Thus I revere; not in shame I close my eyes.

A moment lasts, and then my eyes partake in light.

A lamp insists in the dark ocean of my room,

Reveals a smudge on glass amidst the dark of night.

There is my kiss that on the glass does loom.

So it lingers, and will remain as your lips depart …

And as they float on high I touch my matter-lips,

To hold them still, and save them from vain art,

That dares to stamp on glass the image of pale lips,

That can capture, for a moment, luck’s sweet kiss.

The red lips gone, transformed now into black.

Glass lips outlast; the remnant of a kiss—

The image—spirit—left from a love attack.

The red blaze gone, it left me all alone,

To search my room for something I could want.

And there a green dot flash marks a telephone.

It blinks and blinks; the green light is a taunt—

That screamed for me to go and seek your voice.

The gesture vain coz your number is amiss.

I sit and look, waiting without choice,

For the eastern sky to soon return my bliss.

A yellow sphere replaces reddened smile.

And there are craters—there are eyes;

Another crater—there your lips without that smile;

And there a nose to complete a face so wise.

By my power to create I see your face,

Condensed onto a canvass of pure light,

Framed by that giant circle’s outer trace,

Floating, rising there with so much might.

My hand reaches forth and it is pierced

By a comet of this earth speeding strong,

Invented as the wings for man the sheerest.

I feel envy for that plane but it is wrong,

For it seems to brush your face—but in vain—

For you have only eyes for me … that’s right!

And your mounting night visage eclipses pain.

And life is so throughout this blessed night.

For one whole night I dare to watch you beam...

All this night you have only eyes for me …

And thus to realize my utter dream …

A chance for me to be the only one you see …

To just sit back and drink your bright beauty …

To cup my hand around your precious face …

To watch and know as if my sole duty …

To feel your power sending me to rise and pace

Because a constant gaze could overwhelm …

And stop my heart because of too much grace …

Your love for me at my vessel’s helm …

From the depths of me, duelling time to race.

Tonight I love my only moon.

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Anything But Love—By Jose Gainza

Seek the universe’s first cause,

Take yourself outside the box,

O, just find the basic laws

Of existence—break the locks

That plague us everyday

Far beneath and far away.

Think of how we must think,

Peer inside and name the way,

Know the dangers at the brink,

And the plunges when we play.

Take the wheel and keep it straight,

Know the safe and proper rate.

Find the end of your values,

Name the meaning of your life.

Guide the goals that you can choose,

So you can calm the stormy strife.

Build the system for your fuel—

Keep your burning mind right cool.

See the proper rights of man

That protect us from man-beasts.

Induce these guards—know you can.

Thus keep envy from your feasts.

You live, so thought is at the core,

And serves as property’s door.

Learn to deflate the welfare state,

Increase funding to police

To reduce a crime filled fate.

From our fear we can release.

We shan’t purchase refugees,

We shan’t aid the world’s disease.

Let them cure the bad disease;

Let the doctors charge their cost.

Let them find the way with ease,

Do not let these minds be lost.

Let the laboratories test

For the cure that is the best.

Imagine buying a new heart,

Or the transplant of some ear,

Find the blackened lung’s new start,

Buy a liver that is clear.

Let the angels clone the limbs

To postpone our dawn’s dim.

Market water driven cars,

Make them aerodynamic,

Have their armour avoid scars,

Do not have them be some relic.

Have them last one century,

Make them fly to mercury.

Paint the beauty that’s most fair.

Sculpt the body that’s most strong.

Write the music of great care.

Hear the instruments in throng.

Write the story filled with glory.

Stand, a builder, at the hundredth story.

Do all this but do not love.

Love all this but not a man.

Do no seek your fitting glove.

Do not fuel the flames and fan.

Resolve to work but do not praise.

Do not let some beauty raise.

Feel no passion for a hero.

Do no place him on a pedestal,

Nor press him down with feet of sorrow.

Stay committed to this with your will.

Love will only make you want eternity.

But futility catch with your serenity.

For how could you endure

If your lover died the first?

Relentless work is the cure

For the useless burning of your thirst.

Don’t drink the poison that is happiness.

Don’t let a lover give you tenderness.

Work just work and toil away.

Love your friends but not too much.

Save your money day by day.

And don’t be thrilled by sex’s touch.

Wait to buy that flux event,

The one great but fleeting merriment.

Beware the promiser of passion,

Promising to give you all you’re due,

In a touching, moving fashion,

Even better than your favorite few.

He’ll make you feel as if you’re godly.

He’ll be devoted to you gladly.

You don’t want that, oh no,

Nor to think your life fulfilled.

You don’t want fuel for life to grow.

You shouldn’t pay the biggest bill.

You’ll wake up every morning with such glee.

You’ll struggle every battle breaking free.

Shun cute cupid far away, everyday.

Don’t accept—the pain will come.

Don’t make him room to stay.

Don’t speak, pretend you’re dumb.

You’ll only suffer by that bliss;

Away, you’ll miss his blessed kiss.

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Here is a poem, that I have extracted from a short story of mine. This is the only poem in the story, and I wanted to share it. The story is about longing. The woman who I describe in the story has another name. But for the purposes of this post, I will call it, NATALIA, certainly for the following reason: because one of Julio Iglesias' songs captures the artist's longing in my story. For those of you who know Spanish, Julio's lyrics follow after the poem. I am confident that an English translation will be found on the internet for those who are interested.

Natalia--By Jose Gainza.

Her intelligent eyes made the viewer blush due to her study;

The tenderness of her hands’ caress (empowered from the canvass),

Was felt on one’s cheek as one returned a careful study.

The scorn in her mouth, the joy of her teeth, the vitality of her nose of brass,

The tolerance of her ears, the musculature around her breast,

Her commanding arms, her angelic legs, her knees of worship,

And her feet of flight, was the image of a woman best;

And the goodness of her entire aura went past the essence of friendship.

She was then born solely to live her days with him,

Because he knew her like most men could only dream,

Because the secret of her was to be found in him,

That place and power where they share a dream.

------------------------------

(NOSTALGIA) NATALIE--By Julio Iglesias

Nathalie

en la distancia

tu recuerdo

vive en mi

yo que fuí

tu amor del alma

y a tu vida

tanto dí.

¿Qué será de ti?

¿dónde estás? que ya

a mi atardecer

ya no has vuelto más

¿Quién te cuidará?

vivirá por ti

¿Quién te esperará?,

Nathalie.

Nathalie

ayer mi calma

hoy cansado

de vivir,

de vivir

sin la esperanza

de que vuelvas

junto a mi.

¿Qué será de ti?

¿dónde estás? que ya

el amanecer

no oye tu cantar

¿Qué será que a ti?

no te importa ya

que yo sufra así,

Nathalie.

¿Quién te cuidará?

vivirá por ti

¿Quién te esperará?,

Nathalie.

¿Qué será que a ti?

no te importa ya

que yo sufra así,

Nathalie, Nathalie, Nathalie.

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My more recent poems:

My Bed-Ego—By Jose Gainza

As the exigency of breath to my blood stream,

And the urgency of beats to my heart;

The balance of sun and the void scream,

Keeping me cool with warm heart—

And the demand of my feet on the ground,

Not water, not air, but a floor;

How critically our clothes must abound

On our limbs, as our pelt, as we roar—

As the exigency of light for our sight;

And the acuteness of eyes for good sleep;

And the demand that our words denote right,

So that knowledge we can fulfill deep—

As the crisis commands that we judge

The bully of self-immolation, and desecration;

As the promise requires no goodness shall budge:

The happiness—enactment of self-recreation—

As the exigency of mine is the course

When impatient dream calls on my pen,

And the code of my soul ruptures with force

To a realm of the good happy men—

Then when Facts announce where I am,

And the beacon exposes my soul’s loneliness,

Even amongst folks that are good as I am—

There, injustice gives glow to my still loneliness.

My exigent Attainment demands

I forge by my will a symbol of need:

My lighthouse in these stormy lands,

My creature who grew of the same spirit seed.

By the air of this earth, and the breath of my breast!

By my titanic thoughts, and the health of my head!

By the joy from it all, and the towers we best,

I demand it exigent you be my bed-fountainhead …

--------------------

A couple of nights ago I dreamed that I was shot in the heart. I was on a bus, with a handful of people on it. I went to sit down where I was boxed in between two young black boyz. I wanted to leave them by climbing over the seat, but one held me down, and showed me his platinum colored revolver. Next thing he pressed the gun to my heart and fired. There was screaming on the bus.

But I did not get an ambulance just then. I went to the home where I lived while I was in highschool, and I layed on my green couch. The ambulance was called by my family. In the meantime, I had my hand pressed to my heart, with the bullet still wedged into my heart. Eventually I picked it out and threw it on the floor, where a young boy played with it. I kept my hand pressed to my wounded heart, awaiting the ambulance.

The ambulance came, and the female paramedic was about to put a big bandaid on my heart when .... the phone in the room where I was sleeping rang and woke me up. That was the end of that dream. There are absurdities in the dream because I should have died immediately. I am not one to analyze dreams. But I did make the most of it: I wrote the following poem.

Enjoy,

Jose Gainza.

Your Love: A Bullet in My Heart—By Jose Gainza

Within my blood flow’s quintessence,

My bloody core, my living heart,

I dreamed a slug as my death sentence …

But my life did not depart.

A bullet of a gangster’s gun,

A kid who struts to tribal beats,

Did try to make my life undone,

Did try to end my quill penned beats.

Thus, some portend of my coming doom;

And others, of a long won life.

Some speak of rivalry in bloom,

But I predict a loving strife.

You see, I felt the bullet in my heart;

A pain still lingered even when awake.

But I did welcome this sweet hurt,

And thus its joy I can’t forsake.

Joy! Yes, joy the bullet drew.

I shall not fear this dream.

This missile is a sign of you;

A wound, a whisper of my dream.

The pain was sharp but tickled.

My body weak in bed it lay,

Even as blood outside me trickled.

So I wanted, needed you to stay:

You are this silver slug inside of me:

My heart’s a wolf hungry for you:

A marksman’s goal turned into me:

My single heart thus welcomes you …

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The Ego To His Subconscious--By Jose Gainza

Oh, thank me, you basement!

For giving you everything you have.

For still giving you everything, daily,

Every hour that I wake until I die.

My eyes give you the beauty of the earth

And of the heavens…

All which you can never forget.

And my nose gives you the aromas of pleasure,

The fragrance of ecstasy, the stink of toil…

All which you can never forget.

And my ears give you the music of love

And the sounds of production…

All which you can never forget.

And my tongue gives you the taste

Of delicacies; yes, the bitterness of sand—

But the sweetness of ecstasies…

All which you can never forget.

And my skin gives you the warmth of the sun,

And the coldness of ice, the goose bumps of love,

And the beloved’s touch…

All which you will never forget.

You possess the play times of my childhood,

The angry storming of it too,

The stunting fear and shame, and yet the thrills at root…

All which you can never forget.

All the thoughts I gave were new to you.

All the errors I have made you still possess.

And I have ordered the system that you are…

All which you will never forget.

The songs that I have loved are still in you.

The verses that I’ve penned you have them too.

The essays I have thought still move you.

The wisdom that I’ve sought you have it too.

All the lovers I have loved you still possess.

And the dream of some new hero comes from you.

For storing all my words and values I thank you.

Don’t think I don’t appreciate all you’ve given me.

Don’t think I’ll stop inducing things to you.

Don’t think I’ll stop observing this bright heaven

That we share.

I know I cannot keep on striving without you…

And now all this I’ve spoken you will keep

In you…

None will you forget…

Just give me one more thing

Out of all that you can bring!

Let me hear it ring.

Grant the masterpiece to conquer

My new love:

You can thank me in this way…

Oh, and dry my current sweating writing palms.

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The Ego To His Subconscious--By Jose Gainza

Oh, thank me, you basement!

For giving you everything you have.

For still giving you everything, daily,

Every hour that I wake until I die.

My eyes give you the beauty of the earth

And of the heavens…

All which you can never forget.

And my nose gives you the aromas of pleasure,

The fragrance of ecstasy, the stink of toil…

All which you can never forget.

And my ears give you the music of love

And the sounds of production…

All which you can never forget.

And my tongue gives you the taste

Of delicacies; yes, the bitterness of sand—

But the sweetness of ecstasies…

All which you can never forget.

And my skin gives you the warmth of the sun,

And the coldness of ice, the goose bumps of love,

And the beloved’s touch…

All which you will never forget.

You possess the play times of my childhood,

The angry storming of it too,

The stunting fear and shame, and yet the thrills at root…

All which you can never forget.

All the thoughts I gave were new to you.

All the errors I have made you still possess.

And I have ordered the system that you are…

All which you will never forget.

The songs that I have loved are still in you.

The verses that I’ve penned you have them too.

The essays I have thought still move you.

The wisdom that I’ve sought you have it too.

All the lovers I have loved you still possess.

And the dream of some new hero comes from you.

For storing all my words and values I thank you.

Don’t think I don’t appreciate all you’ve given me.

Don’t think I’ll stop inducing things to you.

Don’t think I’ll stop observing this bright heaven

That we share.

I know I cannot keep on striving without you…

And now all this I’ve spoken you will keep

  In you…

None will you forget…

Just give me one more thing

Out of all that you can bring!

Let me hear it ring.

Grant the masterpiece to conquer

My new love:

You can thank me in this way…

Oh, and dry my current sweating writing palms.

This is terrific, Jose. In my opinion, the best poem you have ever written. It is passionate and full---the poem itself AND the basement---of life! I really enjoy it.

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Thanks Brian. Your compliments are always appreciated. I chose to post this poem here now, though it was written almost a year ago, because I was reading a collection of my poetry that I just compiled, and found again the flow of this particular poem, and realized that it is indeed a front-runner for one of my best, as it is eloquently intellectual, and the style appropriate to my theme intention. I plan on beginning to gather up the courage to read my poetry in public, a serious practice performance, and this would be the first one I choose.

Here is a quick explanation of what I am trying to express in the poem (The Ego To His Subconscious), or its gimmick:

The speaker, the ego (the power that is in first contact with reality), asks his subconscious for a gift. He first explains to his basement, the “idea-factory”, how by directing his senses, he is responsible for what the basement receives (and lives for). Then he goes on to draw the fact that the basement never forgets and stores all—all that the ego, as the first-hand, performs originally; like, childhood experience, thoughts, errors, and songs sung. Then in all honesty the ego explains his appreciation of their interdependence yet the ego’s fundamental role. So, in justice, the ego is asking the subconscious for one more thing, the inspiration for some work of art or even science to conquer his beloved. So, the ego with the squirms for a present purpose, but not ignorant of where the solution to the temporary block is going to come.

Thanks,

Jose Gainza.

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The Metaphysics Of Love BY JOSE GAINZA

It would be nice if when one is twenty something,

When one actively questions faith,

And becomes committed to, “a thing is a thing”—

Because this is all one can taketh—

That one can meet somebody new.

When the horror begins before the call

To lay oneself before their alters.

When their “adventure” seems a great fall,

And your step now hardly falters,

You will need someone ringing true.

When you find you are no longer flawed

And your former heroes are now gone,

But your family and friends still have you clawed.

And you hardly find yourself turned on,

You need that liberating beauty among the few.

When you’re happy in your work but find

That still there is longing to be quenched,

There are no long regrets left behind,

But lessons learned and problems breached,

One will come pledging to prove your value.

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Thanks Brian.  Your compliments are always appreciated.  I chose to post this poem here now, though it was written almost a year ago, because I was reading a collection of my poetry that I just compiled, and found again the flow of this particular poem, and realized that it is indeed a front-runner for one of my best, as it is eloquently intellectual, and the style appropriate to my theme intention.  I plan on beginning to gather up the courage to read my poetry in public, a serious practice performance, and this would be the first one I choose.

Here is a quick explanation of what I am trying to express in the poem  (The Ego To His Subconscious), or its gimmick:

The speaker, the ego (the power that is in first contact with reality), asks his subconscious for a gift.  He first explains to his basement, the “idea-factory”, how by directing his senses, he is responsible for what the basement receives (and lives for).  Then he goes on to draw the fact that the basement never forgets and stores all—all that the ego, as the first-hand, performs originally; like, childhood experience, thoughts, errors, and songs sung.  Then in all honesty the ego explains his appreciation of their interdependence yet the ego’s fundamental role.  So, in justice, the ego is asking the subconscious for one more thing, the inspiration for some work of art or even science to conquer his beloved.  So, the ego with the squirms for a present purpose, but not ignorant of where the solution to the temporary block is going to come.

Thanks,

Jose Gainza.

Jose, I'm not sure what you mean by "...plan(ing) on beginning to gather up the courage..." to read your poetry in public. If you want to do it, do it. The only problem I had in giving readings was overwhelming people with my voice. After the (coffee-house) readings were over the few comments by others were full of praise for my voice, but the poems themselves apparently didn't register. Very few readers have voices, or poems, worth hearing, unfortunately. It is proper that you should feel some degree of stage fright, but don't make more of it than it is; it's not a ten-foot wall to climb, just a three-foot high picket fence to leap over.

Regarding your poem, the basement idea is original and works very well, as does the repetition of "All which you can never forget", which intensifies the focus, which logically leads to more "which you can never forget". Then, to leap to future expectations---that is excellent, while the last line brings us up, down, or back to, the vivid, concrete present. Well done.

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It would have been Ayn Rand's 101st birthday today. I wrote this poem today in tribute of her life. My first ever about her explicitly.

COPYRIGHT © 2006. JOSE GAINZA. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

AYN RAND 101

By Jose Gainza

I felt one day the gift that you could bring.

I fell one day from the cloud that I was in,

As you struck me like a lightning bolted sting,

Plucked me from the fog that blocked my sin.

I was raindrops, tear drops, tears of joy …

I grew wings, floated, fluttered back to earth,

To find the promise of your love and not a ploy,

For the force bubbling in me where is mirth.

There was the promise of a healthy happiness,

There, the esteem, though hiding, of my mind,

And liberty was the beacon to my bliss,

And gold became a product of my reasoned selfishness.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

Yes, you love me to the range that I’m a man,

Though, you left our world in nineteen eighty-two.

Yes, you graced us with a gift of worldly span

For every able minded will to learn it too.

In Howard Roark bestowed was your “religion”,

Despite a world that would surely call you Sin:

The independence of a man to his good vision,

And integrity to create the world that you can win.

With Dominique you alienated heaven,

A realm on earth where mirth is felt alone;

A work of self-esteem branding earthly heaven;

A joy persists despite her melancholy drone.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

It was the promise of Francisco very soon,

Those early pages of a boy, a prodigy,

The money-maker and the boy with silver spoon,

Who caught me to your rebirth poetry.

“Atlas Shrugged changed my life,” so often said.

The promise-wish of sages past with Galt became fulfilled:

A perfect moral man made real—though not dead.

Thus the John Galt line is mine; this be my guild.

I saw a world where happiness is real.

I knew for sure how needed is the mind;

I felt the innocence to feel a self-love real;

I learned money was the best way to be greedy but so kind.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

Though now you lay still in your plotted ground,

One aspect of your spirit I will always keep

In my mind, as a function, guiding me around:

The gem of “plot” to plunge into the thrilling deep.

I know of causes of some ocean voyages.

I know the fountainhead of dwellings tall.

To lose Roxanne I know the vital series.

I know the reason why New York was lost to all.

I know conflict at the core of man’s excitement.

I know how cool it is to watch the stakes grow high.

To clash opposing values is a magnet-merriment,

And to bang inside of men is an explosion in the sky.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

Even more than the fact that we exist,

Of value is to me is how you think.

To think and know men freely must persist,

Straight ahead and not falling from the brink.

I need not pray for a model far away,

Too far, even further than Plato’s silly dream

To know the things before me that can’t stay

Coz they stay but only by a common seam.

And by contrast to near like things

Our concepts glow with a solid essence,

As they are chained to earth by single things,

And open the universe to common sense.

I do know why I love you like I do—

I do know why and it’s true.

I do know why you thrill me like you do—

I do know why and you too.

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REIGN HERE AND NOW

By Jose Gainza

Let existence reign over mind no matter

what is said and done, what they think and wish…

“…That sacred pearl past where there is no more.”

Let nature reign through its recalcitrant rules,

by the way it has to move, the way it has to stop…

“…That place, that force, that law of ours.”

Let Earth reign majestic as the planet better

than all we know, than all we even wish…

“…That wondrous paradise if we make it so.”

Let man reign triumphant past all duels

within himself, versus his foes, smiling from the top…

“…That blessed child born to be a Man.”

Let reason reign as the loftiest animal spirit,

Architect for senses, craning past the puzzles…

“…That grand dynamo when logic is well-learned.”

Let Freedom reign as the arena of thought,

the divan of mirth, and the bastion of our truth…

“…That condition as oxygen for our soul.”

Let justice reign bought by the will we writ,

when the killer’s killed, and the Maker giggles…

“…That blade to peel the fruit or axe the head.”

Let joy reign strong coz of the acts we ought,

by reason confirmed, and felt since our youth…

“…That feeling we win that turns ever-present.”

Let truth reign real in the contest of fame,

Deception banished and scorned … Hail to truth…

“…That sphere that we toil into.”

Let gold reign bright as the standard of New,

as the backer of cash, as the ring of my love…

“…That peaceful blow turned into a caress.”

Let taxes reign strong as the quintessence of blame,

As the fuel of sloth, the stab at Rights, the damner of youth…

“That concept that must reach the majority-minds.”

Let Roark reign strong upon high with his view,

with his peaceful reward, the kiss of the dove.

“That hero who first returned us our code.”

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