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Belated birthday wishes Boss— health, joy and continued courage to you.

xo

Thanks.

I wrote and posted this poem in March 2009

Masterpiece

Truth dwells
on a cloud
in white
and grey tone.
It lives in
an argument
with your brother -
about the hazards
of drinking
in front
of a child.
It jitterbugs on
a New York floor
then walks the street
with a woman
on its arm.
It is bamboo in Asia
Vegemite toast
a brown duck
on a river.
It’s the way lilies
boast white;
roses, blood red.

It is cancer
and AIDS.
Hunger
dysentery
and war.
It is breaking down
into anxiety
as you enter
a busy public place.
It is seclusion
nurse, doctor, patient
It is police chase
court case
suicide attempt
intervention order.
It knows
your mistakes,
that no one
is perfect.
It knows you
were injured
as a kid.

It is wounded
rejected
hated
envied
laughed at
broken
criticized.
It aches to
let you know
and it begs
to not.
It is the swell
in your throat
when you think
of her.
The 14 year silence
as quiet as death.
It kicks you in
the guts
smacks you in
the mouth.
And you wake
into a day
of nothing -
except for
the watch
she bought you,
and two
old photos.

Truth is saying
sorry to a friend
on the internet -
for the anger inside
buried so deep
in a 20 year storm
that hardly
knows Calm.

It is not
confined
by border
or rhetoric
or creed.
It believes not
in money
or how fast
you can
shoot back
an answer.
It is not a businessman
pretending to be
a righteous man.
Someone who forgot
a brother in Treblinka
or Buchenwald –
who can’t imagine
the stench of
burning flesh on
a Saturday
afternoon.
He has
a new ‘lead'.
And this one’s
important.

It smiles
at the very
suggestion of Love -
it knows Hate, too.
You can find it
in a hungry dog
a frustrated child
a movie.
The tabloids
speak of it,
disc-jockeys
decry it.
The man in
the seminary
he stumbles upon it
in his desperate
lunge for the line.
In his sadness
and pet canary
flying about
his room.

Truth lives in
the beholder
in chocolate
and liquorice.
It was there when
you unravelled
that big ball
of string.
It was there when
you discovered
the machinations
of her body.

It is found in books
Bibles and Korans
in DSM – IV
a comic or two.
You find it in Dylan,
Thomas or Bob,
you know it in
new Cohen songs.
Hungry for more
you turn up
the sound.
You’re in Rome
in transit,
January ‘93.
You are alone
in some
Holiday Inn room.
A second hand cassette
blue back-pack
heavy boots.
You fondle
desert sand
in your pockets.
You turn
the music off
and eat your
stale orange
cornflakes.

You cannot covet
or predict it –
it knows its
own path.
It draws on the
power behind
the wind.
It draws on
the splendour
of the mind
of an ape.
It is prayer
and stillness.
September breeze
in your nostrils.
A church bell ringing
Yom Kippur repent.

Truth is honesty, uncut
It is bending
toward good -
as much as you can.
It is yesterday’s
ravaged thoughts
and today’s
burgeoning dance.
It is tomorrow, too –
unencumbered
broken, yet wild,
the way all good
stories turn out
to be.

------

Shabbat Shalom

Good story, Boss. Broken, yet wild.

Shabat Shalom

The layout of your poem reminds me of brick face on a wall, reading down the side of a wall ... or maybe pouring down the side of wall. I very much like the energy of this Adam with all of it's turns.

Thanks so much Imaginary and Cate. It is like a brick face - I like this poem a great deal. Following is more work from yesteryear and some from about a week ago.

What I thought then:

A Common Belief System
by Boss on November 5th, 2005

Whether we like it or not, A Common Belief System will be a reality one day in the future. We have 5 major religions; Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Of course there are a host of other spiritual practices. They all have their strengths and weaknesses. They have similar tenets to each other, they have their idiosyncrasies. My hypothesis is this: the reality of having differing belief systems has often led to friction and pain, but most belief systems believe in compassion! Thus, we need A Common Belief System to remove the disparity.

How could this be implemented? I imagine with immense difficulty. No matter how classless and liberated one feels, most of us harbour preferences for the religions we were brought up in. It lives in the subconscious, if not already openly felt. But implemented it must be for the relations between nations, for every living soul, for our dying ecosystem. We could start again. Along with the wisdom of the existing religions we have Science. A think-tank of experts from every nation, every known religion, every faculty of Science and Humanities must be assembled for a 'forum'. It would be an odd meeting - an old Buddhist monk chatting to a nuclear physicist... Embedded in our Common Belief System would be an international flag, an international anthem. Imagine singing that at the football finals. We would take pride in our world, not merely our nation. The sky is the limit. Special international public holidays and moments of awe as we try to put our planet back together; both physically and morally.

Do you want to be around in 30 years? Think big; then think even bigger. Humanity has achieved so much. Yet we still hate one another. Because one is say, an Australian, or white, or even if one is poor. This hatred is brimming at the surface. Family breakdown, war, the inequality of wealth - I'm sure you know the litany. There is only one panacea for hate, and that is Love. Real Love. And there's only one effective way of passing that down - it is spirituality.

A Common Belief System, carefully crafted and lovingly grown, is hope.

Boss

-------

And what I think now:

Eternal Peace
by Boss on March 16th, 2014

The Messianic Age has always been available to us - we just weren't old enough to see it. Sure, some intrepid people caught a glimpse of it, but by and large no one knew it. The camouflage, the part that hides its fullness, its form, is our own denial. I don't pretend to understand all of G-d's ways, like why He allows evil to flourish as it does today or indeed, why hatred exists. But I know He plans for love and peace to triumph, that He plans for a complete new direction in Human affairs. So what are we to do?

I reckon we should try and follow these:

The 5 Tenets

• Sacred - We have got to find this in all its forms and colours and celebrate it in ritual and in our daily lives.
• Love and Justice - Wherever these exist they must be respected and upheld - the only way for a sane world.
• Marriage - Must be drenched in holiness. It must last forever.
• Children - It is vital they be loved. Kids need to be free, but also must feel/know their place in, and their responsibility to, the world we all share.
• Non-Ownership - This must be observed everywhere for all time. We don't own anything, from a toothpick to the Taj Mahal - nothing.

I realise my examples above are simple; Truth is often like that. Also, I've been told by an 'uncle' to 'keep it simple' and thus I will. There is only one G-d, and He is Absolute Love. In 1992 Erich Fromm showed me the following truth: 'It is not about what you have, it is about who you are.' For anything to grow, we gotta know this. Finally, we must love G-d, we must love ourselves and we must love each other - these triplets are of utmost importance. Through G-d, and with them, we will see in The Messianic Age. Then we shall know Eternal Peace.

Boss

Hi Boss, you've given a lot to consider. It's good to ponder these things, to struggle with what is good and right. I hope you don't mind my sharing a couple of thoughts that I was reflecting on after reading your pieces.

I like the term sacred as opposed to 'g~d' as it allows room for independent observation of the sacred (if there is a god he seems to have given us different glasses to find him - some of us find *him in nature, others in churches, perhaps others in the stars ). I also like the idea of finding and fostering common elements between cultures, trying to understand our differences by removing 'us and them' as much as possible. I hope that that is our direction; that things like the U.N., world games, accessible travel and this internet, will help to foster that.

In today's world, as it is now, I would find the idea of common belief system concerning (I know you didn't mean right now) I would worry for folks like myself who don't fit under certain moral codes (as interpreted by some from scriptures) across a great many of the major religions. There really would need to be a great emphasis on love and it seems to me, again speaking of now and being biased by some religious conservative rhetoric, that would not likely be the case. I do hope that we keep moving in the correct direction though.

Cate,

This is the end of 'closing time'.

Adam

maybe Adam
lets wish each other well and hope that the place doesn't get to crazy.

Boss wrote:Cate,

This is the end of 'closing time'.

Adam

But what would I know?

------

In late December 1991 Jackie and I were laying in bed. I told her a loose story about Puddle. Over the new year and into January we holidayed in Beenleigh, Queensland. Here, I wrote the following poem. I was 23. I posted it on LCF on November the 12th 2005.

Puddle

One fine spring day a seed fell from a tree
And lodged in the warm earth
With nature's help the tree slowly took shape
It enjoyed the nutrients of the soil
It grew

In time it became a majestic tree
Thriving with Life
Its arms stretching
Reaching
In all directions
The tree didn't understand itself
Or its surroundings
This tree was itself
And its surroundings

It didn't articulate abstract thought
It had no need
It breathed
And was
Life

One dark misty day
Two foreign animals arrived
They carried with them complex metallic machines
With the pull of a cord
Their machines began to roar
The song of the forest
The insects
And birds
The melody of wind and leaves
Was suffocated by the invading whine
The strange animals lifted their machines
And cut
And they cut deep
And they cut hard
They sliced and cut and butchered
Finally murdering the tree
It creaked
Groaned
And then toppled
The earth took the thud of the tree with grace
It consoled its fallen hero
And remembered the effort they both put in
To see the tree rise to such beauty
The earth wept

Although the tree's umbilical cord had been severed
Something in it still lived
Something was there
A murmur
A whisper
A restless shrug
Something

The animals with machines of many forms
Took the tree from its womb the forest
Loaded it on to a vehicle
and drove it to what was known as a 'mill'
The tree
As if somehow knowing its fate
Slid obediently through a saw
Its very make-up
Very form
Was split into geometric shapes
It lay still as its being was ripped apart
By the great steel teeth
The one was no more
Only a series of parts
Fragments of its former self

One section did not cut into the desired shape
It was sent to another mill across the river
Here it was mashed up into smaller and smaller pieces
Eventually becoming as dust
This dust was carefully mixed with water and dye
A paste was formed
Soon this paste was rolled out and dried
Into long sheets of what the animals called 'paper'
Then, systematically
The sheets were cut and sliced
Into smaller sheets
All identical in size
All the same

The sheets were stamped with ink
Parallel lines from top to bottom
Groups of fifty were collected
Then packed into plastic slips
Finally being sent to a place called 'The City'
Even with all the transfiguration
Something still slept in the paper

Two days later an animal living in The City went hunting
He came across a store where a fifty-pack was laying
He took it

The fifty-pack spent some time in the animal's desk
In blackness
Until one day the animal opened the drawer
Took out the pack
Ripped off the plastic cover
And set all fifty pages on his desk
He straightened them
Not once but twice
Took out his pen
Rearranged his glasses
Lifted his hand
And wrote his name
'The Author'

At the completion of this
Something inexplicably gave way
Every particle in the sheet of paper exploded
As if from deep slumber
It too was The Author
What The Author wrote, the paper was

Or so he thought!
As he penned the last line
Eager to turn to a fresh page
He noticed something quite startling
The first line of words on the page
was disappearing
It was as if the page wanted 'The Author'
to write some more
In his amazement, he pressed on
One line disappearing as one was written
On and on it went
The Author writing an immense story
On the one sheet of paper
Page became Author and Author page

Years went by
The Author telling the story
The page obeying his dictates
Until one night
In the depths of darkness
A word somehow slipped off the page
The story had changed
The page had changed it
Alone
On its own
It pushed again
Two more words were ejected
Once again the page pushed
Once again the story changed
These primitive pushes continued
Soon half the words
Half the instructions
Half the rules
Were gone
The instinctive urge grew
The pushing more frenetic
Furious
Words spurted and flew from the page
Landing dead-like on the desk
The floor
The page was in agony letting go
In ecstasy with each push
Intuition being its only guide

The ordeal was over
Only a dull brown page was left
The page lay helpless
exhausted
and naked
Every particle was exposed
It lay;
free of the shackles that so restrained it
No cage of lines
No prison of words
No clothing of dye
He lay;
breathing in life for the first time
Exultant that every way he turned
was his way
Jubilant that he could enjoy his nakedness
Without anyone's scarring
Now he could manufacture his own thought

He lay
on the desk
in bliss

The Author came in early next morning
Eager to continue his story
To his dismay
He saw only the blank paper
Where was his story?
He reckoned he'd misplaced it
He searched the desk
the study
the house
the garden

The page knew The Author would be back
And again the story would start
Imprisoning him
He had to get away
For his own Life
His own story
But how would he go?
He thought of every thought he knew
He thought still more
Sadly, no thought would help
He lay there lifeless
Thinking without motion

Then he reflected on the removal of The Author's words
How had he done this?
He couldn't remember
As no thought was involved
Somewhere deep within his being
Something lit up
He knew that thought wasn't the key to his escape
It was a lock
The key was him
All of him

The page released all his thoughts
He watched them sail
Watched them fly
Into the nothingness
He became without thought
Instinctively pushed
And,
like lightning
He was transformed into a slippery brown puddle
Now if he desired movement
The puddle would move
He retrieved his thoughts
And knew his name to be 'Puddle'

"I must go, but where?" said Puddle
"I must go but I'm frightened
Should I go? The Author made life easy
I must go as he'll be back soon
Oh help
I'm scared being capable
Let me sleep
Let The Author's life be mine"

"PUDDLE LIVE PUDDLE LIVE OPEN YOUR SOUL
AND TAKE OFF LIVE LIVE PUDDLE LIVE"
With this glow from his centre
He slid to the floor
To the window
Outside
Across the garden
To freedom

Puddle continued his journey through The City
He visited many places of interest
And was impressed
Yet, all the while
Something was dragging him
He knew not what
To the river

He entered it
Pushed upstream
Past the paper mill
Past the saw mill
Towards something

Puddle slipped out of the river to rest
"What am I doing here?" his mind asked
"You are where you are" his soul answered
His heart replied "Let yourself go here Puddle
Enter your earth; Seep in and become one with Life"

Next to the stump of an old tree
Is a shoot reaching for the sun
It has broken through
and knows where it is

A great story Boss - I bet Jackie loved it.

you might like this Adam,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9D05ej8u-gU

Cate, Jackie and I never really 'talked' that much - I was too up myself. I don't know if she liked the poem, even - maybe she did. I hope so.

Thank you so much for the link. I enjoyed it a great deal. We are all connected, we are children of the stars, of the Universe. We are One. Thanks again.

I sit in my box
Mar-Apr 028

I sit in my box 24/7. Twice a week I sit in a supermarket car park for 30 to 60 minutes. Brothers make their lives - partners, cars, children. I sit in my box, on the couch through tedious television, i-phone shenanigans, a sore problematic body. My left hand goes numb now and then. I've been leaning on my left elbow for fifteen years. My neuroleptics and anti-depressants make me so hungry so I eat. I can't walk down a street. I hate it so; this social anxiety, social phobia, agoraphobia or whatever it is. Waiting in a shop is hell, so I rarely do it. And there's that moody bipolar - the sheer invasiveness of it all. I'm stuck here in this 21st century since Christ. And I don't want it anymore. How many times I tell G-d 'No.' How many times He says 'Yes!' You know I once had the world at my feet. I could pick any girlfriend, top a class, kick a goal. Anything, it just worked. Now I can't keep a train of thought, now I find love in the too hard basket, now my sleep is invaded by insomnia and fear - it is indeed a broken night. When Cohen said the judgements are severe, fuck he wasn't kidding was he? When will Suffering end? When will I be brave? When will I love me? And her. She just gets on in life. Wallowing in her safe niche, in the normal, in the pulse. But it is half-hearted, half-baked, half-true. And she doesn't even know it, she doesn't get it. No one does. Maybe a sprinkling here or over there, but no one else. Too busy in the 'get game', too busy consuming, too busy in the delusion that 'having' things will cure their pain, ease the hurt. By lacking the courage to ask questions like - "Daddy did love me, didn't he?" Or "I was valued for the real me, wasn't I?" Or "I didn't have to perform to win affection, did I?" - we repeat the same old broken-down behaviour. We run, so hard and so fast, we deny the Awful Truth - something you can't tell your mother. Admitting it may be fatal. So you just don't. We read and quote Freud or Jung but we're still a million miles from content. In our intense boredom we know little meaning. So we have a beer, get lost in football or sex; breathe our secret bigotry, our hatred. We live in pseudo-happiness, some of us can't even cry anymore. We've just been beaten too hard. We literally laugh with evil, and side with it - good is too difficult. And the clock ticks on and 'closing time' has indeed nearly run out and our leaders still pretend they know love, and justice. And from the other side of fate I see the two of them refreshed and alive. I see them dancing. I thank G-d. I'm gonna win this bloody war and it's all coming with.

Sabbath peace,
Boss

Eulogy – November, 1999

You once told me in a poem to look up the difference between a sonata and a concerto. I must confess I still haven’t. But I do use my dictionary to find meaning out of many words. The dictionary is an Oxford but not the shorter version as you advised. It is the one you bought for my 30th birthday – when you were in hospital and you were told you had cancer. Inscribed in it – “To Adam Love always Dad 1998”

One of the words I looked up was ‘father’. The first meaning was given thus : “a man in relation to a child or children born from his fertilisation of an ovum”. That seemed a little hollow. I read on. The same sterile stuff. I wondered of a guiding figure, of a man who tried to care for his children, of a wounded soul who’d lost two children, of a laughing man with a can of beer, of terrific cartoons that enthralled his young sons, of teaching us how to drive manual cars, of trips to Luna Park, of strange sounding poems I only now understand, of whispering the Shema every night when we were kids, of bursting into tears one winter in 1988, of your hippie clothes clothing your hippie convictions, of sailors’ caps, of standing in the rain watching a son play football, of endless talks about God, the Greeks and philosophy, of your cup of tea with one sugar, of your old typewriter, of your Children’s Hospital work, of vision through Life’s hypocrisy and plastic words, of picking your kids up each Thursday night, of Cohen, Kafka, Spinoza and Kant, of saying a prayer at Michael’s funeral, of being there in 1993, of trips to Dromana, Philip Island, Sydney and Torquay, of red wine, roses and the moon, of your forlorn eyes the day you left, of our disagreements but that was OK, of those classical people Mozart, Elgar, Bach and Beethoven, of Dylan – Thomas and Bob, of your MG with the roof off in summer, of your love of sports, of your old blue and white leisure shoes, of performance poetry, of performance anything, of telling your children that Esther had passed away, of seeing with clarity the futility of wealth and war, of lending me your mower and not even worrying when I broke it for good, of open discussions, of smacking me only once because I didn’t want to go to Sunday school, of Mum and Di and of love.

Of love. Shall I search out the Oxford? You said, “Love is bigger than death” as you went down fighting. Whatever it is Dad; yours remains living and growing in me always. I close the dictionary.

My first poem. I wrote it on the 12th of August, 1979. I was 11 years old. It has no title.

The two headed duck
What a sight
The sky, the sea, the mountains
The sands, the rocks, the pebbles
And the nature how beautiful
They make me realise what life is about
The stars glistening in the moonlight
What glory
My feelings towards this is like
a king to his crown
My feelings towards that is like
nothing
Nature always conquers wealth

------

This is also untitled. It was written on the 5th of April, 2014.

I watch women's cricket
It is gentler
Has more flow
Is more believable

They smile more

------

I wrote this in 1992 and posted it here on the 8th of June, 2005

Last night
I was fast awake
when G-d nudged me
to get up

When I was wide asleep
I asked him
"Who are you?"
he answered "Who you are"

I fell awake

------

Alcohol
What are you good for?
You kill my sister
And her beau
Ruin my brothers
Their licences
Their livers
Their lives
And you line the pockets
Of some rich man
In Toorak
Or Tennessee

Prohibition Now!

------

Like I said above, in 1979 I was 11. It was the year my father left. In that year he took me and two brothers to a double movie one Saturday night. It was an old movie-house and being honest we were not looking forward to some Chaplin flicks - I barely had heard of him. But from the outset I was enthralled, entranced. The first movie was 'Modern Times', silent but hilarious. It still is so relevant now. The next was 'The Great Dictator'. I knew even then that this movie was important - very important. My eleven year old soul was transfixed. It is said Hitler viewed the film. Maybe he should have listened more closely to this:

http://youtu.be/QcvjoWOwnn4

Some movies change my mind, this movie changed my life.

Peace now,
Boss

We gotta talk, Bub

"And it came to pass after these things, that G-d did prove Abraham, and said unto him: 'Abraham'; and he said: 'Here am I.' And He said: 'Take now thy son, thine only son, whom thou lovest, even Isaac, and get thee into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt-offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of.' And Abraham rose early in the morning, and saddled his ass, and took two of his young men with him, and Isaac his son; and he cleaved the wood for the burnt-offering, and rose up, and went unto the place of which G-d had told him. On the third day Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the place afar off. And Abraham said unto his young men: 'Abide ye here with the ass, and I and the lad will go yonder; and we will worship, and come back to you.' And Abraham took the wood of the burnt-offering, and laid it upon Isaac his son; and he took in his hand the fire and the knife; and they went both of them together. And Isaac spoke unto Abraham his father, and said: 'My father.' And he said: 'Here am I, my son.' And he said: 'Behold the fire and the wood; but where is the lamb for a burnt-offering?' And Abraham said: 'G-d will provide Himself the lamb for a burnt-offering, my son.' So they went both of them together. And they came to the place which G-d had told him of; and Abraham built the altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar, upon the wood. And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son. And the angel of the LORD called unto him out of heaven, and said: 'Abraham, Abraham.' And he said: 'Here am I.' And he said: 'Lay not thy hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him; for now I know that thou are a G-d fearing man, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thy only son, from Me.' And Abraham lifted up his eyes, and looked, and behold behind him a ram caught in the thicket by his horns. And Abraham went and took the ram, and offered him up for a burnt-offering in the stead of his son. And Abraham called the name of that place Adonai-jireh; as it is said to this day: 'In the mount where the LORD is seen.' And the angel of the LORD called unto Abraham a second time out of heaven, and said: 'By myself I have sworn, saith the LORD, because thou hast done this thing, and hast not withheld thy son, thine only son, that in blessing I will bless thee, and in multiplying I will multiply thy seed as the stars of the heaven, and as the sand which is upon the seashore; and thy seed shall possess the gate of his enemies; and in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed; because thou hast hearkened to My voice.' So Abraham returned unto his young men, and they rose up and went together to Beer-sheba; and Abraham dwelt at Beer-sheba."

Genesis 22

------

3 Men

A man
who is
distant
from a
woman
too long
is bound
to grow
bitter.
Silence
and pain
hanging
about.

A man
set on
divorce
from his
children
is an
empty
sad man.
He fakes
his truth
in the
bastard
domain.

A man
who loves
inside
and out
who helps
the world
find a
giant
leap of
faith is
a man
I must
recruit.

For Leonard

I remember 'Suzanne' in the 70's but I did not know you. In the 80's I knew disco and Cold Chisel, Nostradamus and Suzuki - but not you. Then in late '92, out of the blue, a kibbutznik lady taped your new album for me - finally we became friends. You confirmed my suspicions. It's like you had a key for every lock. You carried me through Israel and Europe via my second hand 'Walkman'. But I had to go home, back to her. You were present through our very nasty breakup. I played you to her. She wouldn't listen. Instead she put two orders on me in court. I listened to you in isolation. I ran the streets, I ran the gauntlet, I ran amok - but in you I had belief, in you I kept alive. You blared in my Corolla, my station wagon, my innocence and my dream. We played 'Dance Me...' at Dad's funeral. I sang the 'You don't know me from the wind' verse to five strangers at The Harp of Erin Hotel in Kew. I sang it to a bouncer outside a night club in South Melbourne after he threw me out. I played you to my shrink, I played you to a swami. It was all to no avail - they knew not what they heard. I saw you in 2009. And twice last year. Against massive odds I got to Brisbane. Now, you are here in my lounge room, on low in the bedroom. You sing in the bathroom and are found in the garden. You are live in my soul, you are Live too in London. I turn the sound down and watch you at work. I turn it up for positivity, rhythm, and hope. You are for the little man, for the poor, for the junk. And you're for G-d and His delicious machination. You see suffering in detail, salvation in doves, relief in women and potential in the heart. You are rainbow in storm. You are monk, you are rabbi. You are a page in the old book, something out of Isaiah. You know Yeshu'a raw and unplugged. You know my distance from the pulse, my solitude. And you are a mate, you listen to me at night. You listened to my song - the one I sang in Seaford a long time ago amid the horror and discontent. Your photo is on the floor near the computer box. 'The Future' booklet is on the floor near me - in fact I have two. This morning I went on the Tube and watched you recite 'Prayer for Messiah'. In the grainy black and white you seem like a normal bloke, yet you are exceptional. I am happy when you smile, I really am. I don't smile much - I let you know. You know a lot of things. I am glad you are my friend. You have done a good job - a bloody wonderful job. Thank you Mr Cohen. Thank you now for your truth. And your love.

http://youtu.be/K1KuVY8sxGo

Boss