Winter 2011

To quote Professor Farnsworth, “Good news, everyone!”

The new issue of Illogical Muse is finally finished. You can now enjoy some fine poetry from newcomers such as Michael Estabrook, Betsy Humphreys, and Jane Stuart as well as returning poets Lyn Lifshin, Carol Hamilton and others.

More good news! Sometime in 2012 – I’m shooting for early spring – I will be releasing my first self-published chapbook, Queen of Spirituality. I’m trying to keep costs low so the purchase price will be $3 and will only cover printing and postage expenses. I’m taking advance orders now so if you’re interested please let me know.

I’ve also considered making an annual newsletter for Illogical Muse; a supplement for those who don’t have internet access, and for those that do but enjoy reading printed material. Since this will be only a sampling of what Illogical Muse has to offer I’m estimating it will include an editorial, 2-4 poems, updates to the submission guidelines, and maybe a photo or two. It will be only 5-10 pages in length and cost between $2 and $5 for an issue. Again, the price will only cover printing and postage costs. I’m not looking to make a profit but get the message out there. To give you an idea of what I’m going for I do have a sample issue available for $1 payable by check, money order, or cash. (If paying by check or money order please use my name – Amber Rothrock – not the name of the publication). All payments, whether for the sample issue or the chapbook, should be sent to the address below.

I appreciate any and all feedback you can give. I don’t know how other editors do things, but it is the thoughts and opinions of my readers that make Illogical Muse what it is. You can reach me by post, by email (illogicalmuseonline@yahoo.com) or leave a comment here on the website.

Now, I believe there was something else I wanted to include here but for the life of me I can’t remember what it was. So just enjoy the first, and last, issue of 2011 and have a wonderful holiday!

Sincerely,
Amber Rothrock
115 Liberty St. Apt. 1
Buchanan, MI 49107

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

American Life In Poetry Column 178

American Life in Poetry: Column 178

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

We mammals are ferociously protective of our young, and we all know not to wander in between a sow bear and her cubs. Here Minnesota poet Gary Dop, without a moment’s hesitation, throws himself into the water to save a frightened child.

Father, Child, Water


I lift your body to the boat
before you drown or choke or slip too far


beneath. I didn’t think—just jumped, just did
what I did like the physics


that flung you in. My hands clutch under
year-old arms, between your life


jacket and your bobbing frame, pushing you,
like a fountain cherub, up and out.


I’m fooled by the warmth pulsing from
the gash on my thigh, sliced wide and clean


by an errant screw on the stern.
No pain. My legs kick out blood below.


My arms strain
against our deaths to hold you up


as I lift you, crying, reaching, to the boat.


American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright © by Gary Dop. Reprinted from New Letters, Vol. 74, No. 3, Spring 2008, by permission of Gary Dop. Introduction copyright © 2009 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

Fire

Photo Taken by Robert L Potts

Character As Ever by Carol Hamilton

So tall, so handsome, but with twitches and fits
he could never control.
Only Catherine could soothe him,
his head in her lap, and the startled
visitors learned to pretend
they did not see.
Eagerness was Peter’s hallmark,
and curiosity. The plotting relatives
insisted the 10-year-old share the throne
with his older, sickly half brother, Ivan,
son of the first wife and Peter of the second.
Poor Peter and Ivan both needed
adult supervision (gladly given)
to greet visiting officials.
Ivan had to be propped up
and Peter held back,
as he would dash forward
to shake hands, chat,
all this against protocol
until the elder stepbrother
could make a first move.
Adult puppeteering kept
the court functioning thus.
Peter loved his brother,
never plotted on that doorstep.
There was time enough
in the years ahead
for twitches and fits
against more serious rivals.

Visit Carol's website

A Midnight's Chant Of Chamomile by Jenna Kelly

Have you ever realized
That ev'ry gulp of solitude
Resonates like the breaths within
And sounds like a delicate
Pulse?

Pour yourself a piping-hot
Cup of lively tea prior
To the entrancement of dawn
Yet a short time after
The dawning of the new dusk.

A simple
Sip
Of such silence
Can make you think so deep...

Perhaps, as deep as
The ultraviolet that pulls you
Under;

That you can flavor the world
With as much heart-warming
Honey
As possible, but no matter
How good it tastes: life
Will always--somehow--
Find a dark way
To run

Dry.

Ice And Snow by Jerome Brooke

Ice and snow, lay before them,
In rags, a dirty band.
In front was the man, the tall one,
Wooden spear in hand.
Blood was seen, red on white,
Where he had gone.
Next, came one with hammer,
Crude axe of stone.
Blood, blood could be seen,
Where feet had lain.
Hunger, relentless hunger walked,
No game to be seen.
Last, came one with a metal can,
Filled with precious ...gas.
Where is the tank, it was here, Yes, here in the pass!

Concrete Steps by Danita Dyess

When my spirit is diminished
And my feet can't take another step
When the world wants to exploit me
And the manager wants more than I can pay
I have a place to go - I've found a place to stay

This school is my safe haven
She's my fortress poised high on a hill
With a 1,000 lights glaring
And a maze of classrooms, hallways, and doors
There's a cafeteria, library, and auditorium on multi-level floors

By day, she houses a principal, teachers, and administrative staff
By day, she is surrounded by kids with freckles and missing teeth
But at night, the brick and mortar walls become my castle
Her only concern is protecting me

On the south entrance, four panels composed the rear roof
But, the wind blew and only left three; three panels protected me
But, then it rained again and the wind blew
Now, there are only two

The north side is my palatial estate - Greek architecture and a courtyard with Corinthian columns
Concrete steps lead to my "room" on the second floor
Who would dare climb the steps and disturb my sleep?
Who would invade my inner sanctum and steal my peace!

In the stealth of darkness, I appear
Our's is a clandestine affair; it's a cloak-and-dagger operation
Six hours 'til daybreak, just 360 minutes
Then I'll slip out the same way I came in
I'll become an apparition, a figment of the imagination

Close calls and near misses. Yes, I've had a few
In the spring, bushy bushes and thick trees hid me
But winter came and they shed their leaves
In the morning, couples walk their dogs and teachers arrive early
At night, maintenance workers work late
These are the culprits that jeopardize my fate

Familiar sounds comfort me
Two raccoons sit atop a trash can and munch on leftover morsels
Crickets chirp and a kitten's bell-studded collar sounds
The generator spits and hisses, spits and hisses, spits and hisses
And a leaf falls from a maple tree

My neighbors are the Rothchilds, Sinclairs, and Westons
They have manicured lawns and vintage cars
Are they so different from me?
Our only separation is their fenced back yard

Someday, I'll leave this place,
Yes, someday, I'll simply fly away
My spirit will be restored, and well-heeled shoes will adorn my feet

But I'm saddened as I contemplate
My exit from this refuge
Somewhere I used to go
When I needed a place to stay

The Summer Before Our Senior Year by Jane Cassady

(A semi-made-up memory for Rachel McKibbens, who needs more good ones.)

We needed some extra money for all-ages shows and clove cigarettes, so we took a job at the New York State Fair babysitting Kayla, the two-year-old daughter of the couple who ran the fortune-telling machine in the Center of Progress Building.

Like most children of carnies, Kayla was philosophical about fish. Her days always began with the Win a Goldfish game, bouncing ping-pong balls across the miniature fishbowls until she won. Unlike the cruel fairgoers, we didn't walk around all day with the fish (usually named Ariel) in a baggie.

This was the gift Kayla's parents gave her, to compensate for her migratory summers: hitched to the family's Winnebago was her aquarium, big as a small U-Haul, with mountain scenery--the Saddleback range in Pixar colors. Kayla would climb her blue sparkly stepladder and let the fish out to join the glimmering hundreds.

Then it was time for the skimmer. As she fished out the one or two silver/gold bodies floating at the top, Kayla would look at us rabbinically and say: “Fish die. They Die.” After they were skimmed, thanked, and flushed, we'd move on to the second important ritual: multiple viewings of The Little Mermaid, the songs from which stayed in our heads well into the Nineties.

At the end of each shift, we'd carry Kayla back across the midway, sugar, fatigue and carnival lights pinking her cheeks.

The fortune telling booth looked 1950s futuristic, all red and green blinking lights and needles bouncing over dials. Customers entered their birthday and some other information and it spit out fortune-cookie-sized slips. Kayla had a nest of afghans and plastic toys under the counter. She slept there for the rest of the Fair's late work night.

Over a dinner of local sausage, we'd guess at what Mom and Dad were doing just at that moment: “Mom's out in the front yard, broadcasting seeds.” “Dad's tipping up the cooler so it'll pee out the melted ice.” We rolled our eyes like daughters.

Then we'd go meet our carnie boyfriends, who looked like doused glam-metal stars. Yours was Ring Toss and mine was Land the Nickel on the Dot. We'd drink Lebatt Blue and make out with the boys by the rabbit-end of the Poultry Barn.

On one such night, you fell in love with a brown lop-eared rabbit kitten. You spent a significant amount of your Kayla- money on it. You named it The Immortal. And it was.

Visit Jane's blog: The Serotonin Factory

Family Of Moose

Artwork by Amber Rothrock

Your Faithful Option by AJ Wells

Are there only two options in a choice?
Is there not one more that everyone averts,
But maybe not by our own decision?
Is someone else blinding us from the real idea,
The outcome to be?

Is it happiness?
Or just loneliness in charade?
Do we need our best friend to decide for us--
Is that not why we have best friends anyways?
But then, are we really us?

Wouldn’t it just be easier this time?
To open your eyes a little brighter,
And listen to your thoughts a bit more in depth,
And let the beating of your heart enlighten you upon a new path,
And then with your heightened senses,
Stare upon the third option:

The one you have never seen before,
The one that is breathing its cold, real breath in your face,
The one that your senses tell you is there,
But you have refused to listen in past times.
The one that follows you in devotion.
The one you have never turned upon.
But it is faithful.
It is there,
Just grasp it.

Listening To Geese by Alan Britt

A large flock of geese,
honks resembling
bamboo flutes,
swims beneath mercurial clouds.

The flock’s outline,
one ragged shark’s tooth,
cuts a deep wound
through January twilight.

Minutes later,
a single honk
follows the general direction
of the main flock.

Later still, light fades,
more honks,
in groups of two…
six…three.

All night long,
wild threads of geese
slowly unravel
the black mamba sky.

Goldfish by Rebecca Komathy

My pet in a bowel
Swimming in your own toilet
I give you one week

O'er The Waves by Raymond HV Gallucci

I used to jump over,
But now I duck under,
Because I've grown older
Than when I was younger.

Back then I was bolder,
Much more of a plunger.
Now water feels colder
And life holds less wonder.

Must make some concession
To muscles less limber.
No leaping obsession
With legs stiff as timber.

More prone to confession
Than lighting with tinder.
Life's lasting impression?
All flame ends as cinder.

Gramma Tells The Young Ones About Spring by Sonja Kosler

The blanket of snow is spread over our winter land. Sound is muted beneath this whiteness. At times, here in our home on the eastern shore of East Silent Lake, the silence is so strong it becomes difficult to breathe. It seems the simple inhale --- exhale would destroy the perfect world within this Minnesota snow globe. But then there is a signal. The world itself stirs and breathes. The breathing of Mother Earth releases sound to paint the air.

Listen! Sit quietly, patiently next to the garden on the west side of the house. Did you hear that? The faintest rustle of mulch disturbed by the palest green leaf of a daffodil searching for the sun. Oh! And did you hear the red-winged black bird out in the swamp? Some people say robins signal the season, but we and the swamp birds know better. Soon that pair of geese will be returning to their wetland nest to raise yet another family.

I think that tomorrow the lake will give us a concert. See how the color has changed? That dark blue-green means we can see water moving below the sun-thinned ice. This breeze will definitely stir things up. How will you know? Oh child, think about how paper rattles when you crumple it up and how water spatters on a hot metal pan. When the lake begins to talk like that, then it is time. You will be able to hear a crack in the ice begin way over on the west side of the lake and end up right there at your feet. When there are enough cracks and the wind waves its arms like a conductor, then the ice will begin to move. Along the shore where it is the thinnest, small pieces will float and dance in the water, touching each other like crystal chimes stirred by a gentle breeze. Huge slices of it will boom against the rocks along the shore and other pieces will follow right behind making the music of kettledrums. And then it will all be gone. The lake will be back again with her winter white snow blanket put away for awhile.

No, the loons won’t be back right away. The water is still a little too cold for them. Don’t worry. When they do come back, they’ll rest for a short time after their long journey and then call out to say “helloooo”. The dock will be in by then and you can walk down to the end and call back, “hellooo looooons!”

Before that, you’ll hear another sound that most people aren’t around for. Just like the maple tree knows when the day and night are the right temperature for her sap to wake up and move, so do the frogs in the swamp! At first you’ll hear just a few peeps and think maybe it’s crickets making that sound. Then a few days later that wetland will burst with frogs singing to each other, trying to find their partners. Oh yes, it’s pretty – at first. Sometimes by the third day of it, though I wish their cacophony would cease and desist. For me, it’s all too much racket after a long winter of silence. Yes, it does stop just as quickly as it started.

That’s a hard question: what is the last sound of spring? I’m not sure what that is; you’ll have to help me listen for it this year. I do know that the first sounds of summer are that high-pitched whine of a mosquito followed by the slap of a human hand!

Fire

Photo taken by Robert L Potts

There Was Once A King by Michael Brownstein

There was a man who lost his grip on water and drowned.
A man on the beach saw him and yelled,
"That is the man I must worship." He jumped into the sea
not to save him, but to honor his sacrifice.
The drowning man fell to the floor of the ocean
and found contentment on a throne of shells and porcelin.
The man who rushed into the water to save him found he could not
and somehow held his breath until he came to the living.
Somewhere in all of this is a lesson and a king.

A Simple Memory by Kristina Balazsi

A beautiful soul
A mountain to climb
She cries out with sorrow
For joy all the time.

Is This Where God Hides? by Ben Macnair

Is this where God hides?
Is he waiting to spring his surprise?
Is Jesus’s face in your next bag of Crisps?
Is the Virgin Mary to be found in the rainbow of an oil spill?
Or will we see God in the criss crossing of raindrops against the window?
Does the Virgin Mary statue really cry tears?
Or is it because we expect her to?

God is not hiding.
He just waits to be seen.

The Verdant Eyes by Corry O'Neil

The verdant eyes of Happiness, flower-round,
Peep through little birds on fields of tawny pain,
Flitting up and down the bovine expanse
Of leather dressed for slaughter, marked for morbid pleasures,
Costumes sewn for those who fashion violent tastes.
And, "Everything exists to induce a deeper trance,"
So say shifting sparkles on the sequined brook
Say the fragrant folds of the floral wind.
For cruel eyes will see sights they can't envision,
And callous minds will know thoughts they can't imagine
When her eyes, peacock-tailed, through Mind redound.
Then their craven brains will bust their bursting seams,
Rending their garments and trembling as she comes.
Restoring what they stole, she will smile when it is done.

The Lonely Grave Of Ingram by Robert D. Lyons

Bleeding to death from a wound all too invisible, a permanent scar with clairvoyant fortitude merged from the utter uncertainty that has engulfed her being like a relentless black hole. She limps softly upon sacred ground, heaving her frail limbs, burdened by an aged spirit, upon rich and hearty soil furnished by those once lingering above. She struggles to hold her head high amongst the treacherous spring breeze. She wobbles with diminishing, almost vacant, dexterity toward her only fortress of hallowed ground. Her face tenses, the wrinkles tighten like the strings of a dusty worn guitar; she falls slowly to her knees as if trying to hold on to her soul like a leaf to a sturdy branch. She is the humble caretaker of this forlorn stone. She glides her withered finger along its surface; the small tablet feels as soft as his skin used to be in the security of the nights loving arms. This gracefully etched stone, the symbol of which, as sturdy as the marble it uses as its voyage. The plot she guards so loyally is the final vessel of her hopes, dreams, and loves. Underneath this heavy soil that sticks black as death is her only worthy lover, and with his decaying bones lies her soul. Yet another bright and lonesome Easter morning where resurrection is proclaimed unto the skies by devious human minds. Yet another year of greeting morrow in a cold and empty bed, feeling his presence like an amputee to a phantom limb. Yet his kingdom is one of the worms, a sepulcher forged for eternal slumber, silence in hopes of hearing God’s whisper. She renews the roses that lie battered from the barrage of time as she shakes subtly, a weary traveler who has foreseen a destined, but grim fate. Her promise of renewed love in a trivial realm: a compassionate gesture in a malevolent plain. Sitting patently on his perch lays the watchmen, forever guarding the presence of his master; sitting peacefully to right of the elegant stone, forever steadfast to his principle. This cast iron soul, bound no tighter than any man breathing, hovers in his dreams with a straw hat shading his eyes. The cast child sits year after year with only a twig and line in hands, dangling over the steep of the rock; dying to try his luck. Forever his line will dangle without turbulence, but nor will he glance over the edge into the abyss only to realize that there are no fish. For ever perched he shall stay, till affluence finds his way. A guardian with all his might protects against a lonely night. Fermented tears sprout from her aged and confused eyes, trickling down to pepsinate the barren soil bellow; yet all the love in the world could not bring life to grow. She is alone and terrified in a dangerous world shed from quintessence of dust. Another anxious and torn soul swiftly sucked up in a spring gust.

Bear Cub And Buffalo

Artwork by Amber Rothrock

An Artist’s Sketchbook by Jane Stuart

On summer mornings
scaly pinecones glitter
in the warm sunlight;
needle-sharp fir fingers stretch
across the wind, catching rain

A skinny scarecrow
dressed in a straw hat and gloves
chases away birds
pecking at rows of ripe corn
sucking our red tomatoes

Rich trees, glossy leaves
clumps of moss beside the creek
mornings full of rain –
gallant summer in full dress
caught in color on earth’s page

Now You Don't Have To Be Different by Santiago del Dardano Turann

While riding on the L one afternoon
I saw an advertisement at a station
Proclaiming in bold glossy letters freedom
From all the thousand shocks to which we're heir.
Enlightenment is just a pill away
As what was once the soma of the devas
Can now be gained through modernized indulgences;
Prescriptions from the drug cult of the doctors.
This gospel from respected drug cartels
Proclaimed “Now you don't have to be different.”
Is 'different' now a psychiatric state
Thus casting 'health' as flat-line drugged conformity?

The hundredth monkey is the strange one;
The one that for the first time took a twig
And stuck it in an ant hill for its lunch.
How much of what we’ve done flows from that moment?
Without its hunger and anxiety
As fuel to drive its life on into new
And unknown vistas it would not have happened.
If some dark alchemy should sponge away our sorrows
Then entropy alone will fill the void

Visit Santiago's website

4 AM by Michael Estabrook

We’re both up in bed.
I’m telling her,
“We have nothing in common, you know:
completely different lines of work,
live on opposite coasts of the country,
don’t have any sports in common,
he’s a golfer and I swim,
no hobbies the same,
he certainly doesn’t read poetry
or have any interest in the arts,
I have no interest in traveling like he does,
or in all these modern electronic gadgets.
We have nothing, except for our family history,
we have nothing else in common.”
She’s sleepy certainly, but replies finally,
“None of that matters. He’s your son.”

Jug Of Wine by Vince Fitzpatrick

Sunday afternoon and
Matt bought a poorboy of port wine.
We lugged the jug to his favorite
back alley drinking hangout.
Walking along the famished side streets
of low-rent areas.
No one notable ever walked these streets,
neither Hem, Faulkner, Ginsberg,
Frank O’Hara.
The sun never rose for anyone around
here!
I wondered if a few rays would shine
on this midnight scribbler, sometime
haiku artist?
We proceeded to kill the jug in this
narrow shaded alley between two
tall buildings.
I leaned back against the wall
to arc piss to the opposite wall.
No go.
Brimming with winey confidence,
Matt followed.
He didn’t reach it either.

Walking Across Africa by Betsy Humphreys

Your big black feet compress the gritty earth
as you plod through centuries of footsteps.
down the ancient path to the river,
beside the dirt road to the market,
up the squared sidewalk
to the big house on the hill,
routes measured not in miles or metres
but in callouses, cuts, and blisters.

You knew these paths while still a child,
trudging beside the white folks’ trail,
where you hated the sting
of an air-con Mercedes
swishing past your sweaty skin
lifting your shirt in the only breeze
it would know that day.

Or, if your timing collided
with the master’s goodwill,
you could scramble into the back
of the farmer’s baccie,
to bounce along the dirt road
that led to the town
you only saw on Saturdays,
hoping no more than
you’d catch the return.

And now, millions of steps later,
if you wait an hour or three
(and you’re good at waiting)
you pay precious rands
to haul yourself into a combie,
taxibus of the poor, the dispossessed,
the non-aircon crowd.

And crowd it is —
“I don’t go until you are twelve,”
the driver says as you shift once more,
squeeze heat-infested bodies together
to let one more stooped traveler
inside this rattrap van
with its clear view of the ground
beneath your sandals.

It’s misery but you stay,
for this modern wonder will take you
in a day's time to an ad lib stop
where you clamor to the earth
so you can plod down the ancient path
to see your children,
the ones you birthed
and gave to the grandmother
so she could see them grow
while you followed the squared sidewalk
to the big house on the hill.

Boston Terrier

Artwork by Amber Rothrock

Those Who Have Eyes by Mick Ransford

I found the rabbit on the far side of the footbridge. A young rabbit it was, about the size of a half-grown kitten. I caught some little movement out the corner of my eye, I suppose. It was already dying when I found it.

It was lying on its side in the short grass. My first thought was that it had been struck by a car or a bicycle and knocked into the grass. There was no blood or any marks anywhere on its body. When I hunkered down I thought it was already dead. Then I realized its paws were moving. The front and back right paws. Lethargically threading air, as if the rabbit were running in a nightmare. The paws were wet from the dewy grass. Just that, just the paws. It must have come out of a burrow only moments before. Its eyes were open. Almond shaped. Liquid and sloe-black. I thought about putting it in my rucksack. Taking out the things I’d bought earlier – a carton of milk, a bottle of YR sauce, a tub of butter – putting them in the pockets of my jacket.

Making a kind of bed in the rucksack then with leaves and grass. I thought about carrying the rabbit home to my daughter. Nursing it back to health, the two of us. I wondered would it get on with her guinea pigs? This wild thing. Would they fight?

I slipped a palm under the cooling, pliant body and lifted the rabbit off the ground. Dew was soaking into the fur on its side as well. Blood, I thought before I realized what it was. The neck flopped about loosely. I slid my left hand under its head, my fingers curling around the delicate jawbone. I noticed grass juice in its mouth. On the lower gum. At the base of the tiny, clamped teeth.

I’d carried it for maybe twenty feet before I realized it had died. I was standing under a canopy of ancient trees. It was darker here. Dense, tangled woods wound away on either side of me, the trees on my right soothing the noise of traffic out on the motorway.

I laid the rabbit on a bank of ivy. I pulled some leaves and twigs over it. I tried to shut its eyes but they wouldn’t close.

The Round by Gerald Zipper

First came the snow pouncing like a carnivorous beast
clutching with whiteness
not even the deer risked cutting through the woods
trees tipped over from the strain of balancing
the sun flew into the frozen sky threatening never to return
fields dissolved into the vast milky sea
but Spring bounced back like a boy released from school
the snow mutated into rushing channels
shoots of grass and bright buds rose up and stared in amazement
the world burst into frenzied life like a traveling circus
Summer then burned its way over dusty roads and bleached grass
the world was covered in a deep green fuzz
fresh corn and ripe tomatoes piled high on roadside stands
impatient breezes began to scatter the shriveling leaves
a shocking full moon illuminated the woods like a blazing candle
shafts of cold air singled the start of a new round
the cycle of breathless promise and endless pageantry.

The No Huge Boobs Tango by Lyn Lifshin

you don’t need them for this dance.
Actually you don’t really want them.
Think of the Iraqi vet who lost a leg,
held you close, said without it he could
get closer than any other man could.
Think of his under quilts tango. Think
of big bellied men, so big dancing is
like trying to hold another with a
bundling board between of the
body reaching for each other. Think of
the 20’s if you want to dance black
ness out of you, frenetic and wild,
still beautifully controlled as tango
should be. You don’t see breasts,
jiggling and bouncing, flesh bombs
slapping you in the face. Those
women bound their boobies tight,
didn’t let the girls flounce or wiggle.
They longed for boy-like flat
breasts. So if you want to move
with your man in the closest tango
embrace, where your heart beats are
as close as if in another’s skin,
stay away from all plastic surgeons
with their silicon and blubber