I'm running 7:25 splits. Eight miles in. I haven't got stuck at an intersection. Not that I ever do. Runners got the right-of-way. And like my buddy Randy Run 'N Gun would say, I'm zen. Very ******* zen. Used to be a walker. Not no more. Not after the heart attack. No, siree, I'm a runner. A good runner. Lost 45 pounds. I did. I did. I stick to the left side of the road. So I can see the guilt in the drivers' eyes as they pass by. They're thinking, there's an old man out there taking care of hisself. I should be taking care of myself.

And they should. They really should.

But what's exercise to the people in this town? A walk down the block to Loaf 'N Jug for a Snickers, that's what. Or if you're a rich *****, it's twenty minutes on a Stairmaster three times a week. And I have to wonder if they're really doing it for them, you know?

I'm on the way back to the house. I peel off 30th, cutting across four lanes of traffic. Head into Garden of the Gods park. I do this so people get the right idea of the city. When I was a tourist here, I thought to myself, why's everybody all lumpy-assed and tied to children. Made a promise to myself. Told myself, when you move out there, you're going to be the trophy. So, I run through the red rocks and insert myself, mid-stride, into all those family photos. That way, when they get home, they'll point at their pictures and say, everyone in Colorado is so fit.

Now I'm getting close to the spot. It happened about a mile--mile and a half into the Snake Trail over by that 30-foot tall rock that looks a bit like Lyndon Johnson. I was a tourist and a walker then. Not no more. Not ever again.

There's a stretch of blacktop that cuts Snake Trail in two. I can't remember the name of the road. I think it's named after some preacher who got cholera, lost his faith, regained his faith in the end. One of those touching trajectories. Those stories always sound like a lot of fluffy *******, if you ask me.

Cars are backed up on Wishy-Washy Preacher Road. There's a crowd of people gathered in the middle. I look at my running watch. I don't like this. This is the kind of unplanned circumstance that skews your splits. Then your run time makes you feel like a lumpy-***, and that ain't me. Not no more.

I start pushing through the crowd. There's a lot of whispering and a lot of little kids all snotty and teary-eyed. And it's all just frustrating, because I feel like I'm cutting through molasses. I look at my running watch. I reach the center of the crowd.

A mule deer had been runover--well, halfway. The stupid beast still uses his front legs, dragging his crumpled and ****** backside along in a mad circle. A screechy whimper comes out in intervals like beeping hospital machinery. He's so scared, some middle-aged woman with a kid to each hip, says. A longbeard, beergut hippie starts into a prayer,

Gods of the natural world, gods of the sweet animal kingdom,
we ask that you wrap this wounded beacon of your light
into your warm embrace. May you replace his great pain
with the great comfort of your cool breezes, with the great
comfort of your warm sun, with the great comfort of fresh water.

I unzip my running belt. It's not a ***** pack. I pull out my NAA Guardian .32 automatic. It's not a woman's weapon. See, Randy Run 'N Gun, got his name because he invented this kind of running. I respect him for it. Got nothing but respect for that man. See, a fella has to be prepared at all times. There are mountain lions. There are bears. And perhaps worst of all are all these ******* mule deers. They ain't even scared of people. They stop and wait for you to feed them, blocking the sidewalk when I run, skewing my splits.

These hippies ain't going to do ****. They're taking photos with their cellulars and saying theologically vague prayers. And all these tourists are watching. So I walk right up to the mule deer. Someone behind me breathes in so hard, it's like she vacuumed all the sound. Pop. Pop. The beast stops its beeping. Legs twitch. Legs stop twitching. I'm the only one with courage enough to grant a mercy ****.

It's all about doing. Right? That's what the heart attack taught me. Before the heart attack, I thought about being a runner. The rhythm of it, the mechanical discipline appealed to me. Liked the idea of doing a marathon or the sound of it.  I was walking in Garden of the Gods. Noticed the LBJ rock, said to myself, Holy hell that looks like Lyndon Johnson. I heard these quick steps coming from behind me. I thought some potstentch, beergut hippie was going stab me. Felt like the gears at the center of me came off their handle. The right side of me just wasn't there anymore. As I fell I saw it was only a runner.

I reach the Lyndon Johnson rock. I'm eleven miles in. My splits have averaged to 7:43. ******* deer. The ground is lower at the spot where I had the heart attack. Why? Because I dug a hole there, that's why. The old me, the walking me, the tourist me lies dead in that hole. As I pass by, I spit it the ditch as I always do. Good riddance. Yep. Yep.

The trail finally turns downward. A little more oxygen in Ute Valley. Randy Run 'N Gun he calls moments like this, Runner's Reward. And I like that. Nature's okay. The cedars, the meadows, rivers -- all that **** -- is just fine. But what I like about running is the metaphor. See all the hippies, all the tourists they live their lives in a constant state of reward. They think, I'm alive, so I'll smoke this ***. They think, I'm alive, so I'll take ******* pictures of everything. But runners, runners know that you don't deserve life. It's a gift to be earned. So you work your *** off. Mile after mile. A reward for me is a valley. The reward doesn't last long, just long enough for me to catch my breath, you know?

I exit the valley. I pick up the pace. Try to make up for earlier delay. I cross Flying W Ranch Road. I hear metal-scraping-metal. And I'm hit.

I'm in the air. I'm sliding. I'm bouncing. My knees and elbows are hot. I blink.

A woman in a bright pink tank top and yoga pants stands over me. Stay in the car, Jacob, she shouts. Oh my god, oh my god.

I tell her runners have the right-of-way. But she doesn't respond. I say, Lady help me up, you're ******* up my splits. But she doesn't respond to that. She repeats over and over, You're going to be okay. Your'e going to be okay. Just keep looking at me.

I turn my head. The display on my watch is cracked. I can't read my splits average. My head is a ton of bricks. My elbows and knees are hot.

Jacob, stop, the woman says.

Her boy stands over me, taking pictures with his cellular.

if ever you wonder
if ever your heart should grow curious
for lust and love and spirit
electricity that splits the spine
a jolt of lightening
rushing through wide open veins
baby hairs standing on end
on the nape of your neck
a wave of cold sweat
dripping through your hair
moistens your back
if ever a moment passes
if ever you refrain from yelling loud
sing a melody
scream “i love you”
skip through a crowd of people
and smile
laugh
dance
and forget your worry
the temporary madness of yesterday
because you are static, ecstatic
you are wonderful

I live in a doorway,
Where it splits into two roads
I live in a doorway,
Where there are mountains to climb,
Bridges to cross
And stories to write
Where the word “struggle” is nothing more than a myth in a fairy tale land
A door way in which
Children are taught Universal Knowledge
So, their ignorance doesn’t blind them
A doorway in which
Humans can all coexist as one race
Where things like racism and prejudice
Are all just silly little myths
I live in a doorway
Where fantasy and reality
  Are split into two
Where the line between the two
Is falling apart
Where the doorway that splits
Is hutting off,
  Forever to be sealed away.
I live in a doorway
Where it splits into two
One filled with the ignorance of
Reality.
One filled with the freedom of
Fantasy.

I don't know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can **** me!"

the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.

while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.

well, there's beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.

beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.

*** trafficking – the trafficking and debasement of souls; Drug trafficking – the trafficking of substances that debase the body.  Here compared you will find the prevalence, impact, and rehabilitation processes associated with *** and shrug trafficking.  Respective clientele, demographics, and locales that these types of trafficking touch will be revealed in order enlighten you to their world-wide prevalence. The physical, emotional, spiritual, and psychological impact of lifestyles that result from these two types of trafficking will be detailed to etch vividly an image of just how far-reaching the impact of these two activities is. Light will be shed upon the rehab processes that lead to recovery from each.
                 According to UnoDC.org, the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime, the use of illicit drugs has remained in a stable trend, with approximately the same number of people using illicit drugs each year. This trend has continued for a number of years. Upon examining the world drug report, written by UnoDC.org, production of several drugs exhibit particularly interesting trends. ***** production for example fell and spiked in a somewhat predictable patter from 1990 until 2010. When this data is graphed a reasonable medium appears for all the years, revealing that ***** production has stayed around an average production of roughly 200,000 hectares annually. Likewise, coca cultivation pictures an interesting trend. From 1990 to 2010 coca production appeared to be almost identical each year, and with little to no rise or fall in production, there is a similar trend in its being trafficked.  
Nefarious: Merchant of Souls is a documentary that was released in 2012 by Exodus Cry Its producers and researchers saw firsthand the atrocities of the *** trafficking industry. The film crew interviewed former pimps and prostitutes, spoke to traffickers, the families of the trafficked and to individuals still actively engaged in three sides of the *** trade referring to currently employed pimps and prostitutes as well as those who purchased ***. The researchers and producers interviewed eastern European gang members and took a trip to Amsterdam’s red-light district – home of legal prostitution. They journeyed to Los Angeles and saw the glamorized side of the dark issue of *** trade.
According to Nefarious, the number of humans trafficked for the purpose of providing ****** services is on a shockingly steep rise. In a matter of a few years, *** trafficking rose from the third largest criminal enterprise to the second. It is second only to drug trafficking and is vying for the position as top criminal enterprise in the world. It is encroaching upon that position far more speedily than any authority or decent human being would care to acknowledge.  A survey taken in 2010 by DART (the drug awareness resistance training program) revealed that 21.8 million people aged 12 and older had taken an illicit drug in the previous month. In 2010 it was estimated that between 153 and 300 million people had used an illicit drug at least once in the previous year. These statistics fail to take into account the impact that this usage has on the lives of the families of drug users. Neither do these statistics reveal the extent to which drug users lifestyles are impacted by drugs. However, nearly  every single human trafficked for ****** purposes is completely and utterly enveloped in the lifestyle of prostitution and the violent world of being prostituted. In Nefarious a shocking statistic is revealed. Approximately ten percent of the entire human population of earth has been trafficked. Both human and drug trafficking are prevalent across the globe. Human trafficking occurs in 161 of 192 countries. Illicit drugs are trafficked in every country that has laws that deem substances unlawful. There are little to no race, religion, ethnicity, or age restrictions on who can and is trafficked for use of ***, but drugs are far more limited by age and ethnicity in their use.
Drug trafficking, though similar to *** trafficking in many ways, is in no way as substantial a damaging force to the mind, soul, and spirit as the world of *** trafficking  is in terms of the critical and dangerous force it exhibits in the emotional, physical, psychological, and spiritual  impact it has on young girls. Both drugs and *** trafficking have some influence in all of these respective areas. The primary area in which people are affected by drug use is the physical. Drug users’ health declines, they become physically or psychologically dependent, and they may develop diseases from sharing of needles or lack of inhibitions that lead to *** with an infected individual. Drugs may, in some rare cases, lead to psychoses and mental disorders. They may cause brain damage, which is both physically and mentally damaging. Drugs may even set one’s heart and soul in a place that they are more susceptible to lies or truth. They alter spiritual state for some individuals, but only mildly. However, *** trafficking victims are impacted majorly and in their entirety as a person. In all aspects of the physical, mental, and spiritual, *** trafficking victims are consumed by *** trafficking. In Nefarious it is revealed that In order to “break” *** trafficking victims they are profusely beaten, and are psychologically toyed with to create a twisted trust and dependence on their various handlers. They are repeatedly *****, and are examined like cattle by those who wish to buy women. They are imprisoned in dark rooms and not allowed to leave unless told to do so. They are bedridden and forced to ******* themselves. After being broken in ways described above and sold to a ****, girls are forced every day to meet certain quotas of customers and cash flow. If they do not meet these they are beaten even more. They lay in bed sometimes a week at a time to recover physically enough to usefully return to their “job”.  Through this hellish ordeal, their soul, self-worth and identity are being attacked by circumstances that devalue them. They become like animals.
*** trafficking victims become dependent on their environment for normalcy. This is so true for some individuals that even though they have been rescued from the lifestyle, they return.  This is not because the *** trafficking victims enjoys the lifestyle of prostitution, and it is not because they want to. Instead, it is because they think they can be nothing more than a *******. The *** trafficking victim, in this case, believes that they need to settle into the numb and thoughtless mind state that they develop when broken. Returning to prostitution does not evidence an addiction. In contrast, it is the cry of a soul that is desperately trying to cope. They do this in order to feel as if they can survive.  
The rehab processes for *** and drug trafficking differ greatly in commitment and length, but are similar in that they both require physical and psychological rehabilitation.  Drug rehabilitation programs typically consist of twelve-step programs or something similar. They last a number of months, or occasionally a few years. They allow individuals counsel and encouragement, and they attempt to, by abstinence, exorcise an addicted individual’s addiction. *** trafficking rehabilitation requires the re-creation of an individual. Self-worth must be reconstructed. The spirit must be healed in order to allow for psychological healing. Prostitutes are not addicted to prostitution, but prostitution produces dependence in that the prostituted crave normalcy. This dependence must be killed. Successfully rehabilitating women from this forced lifestyle requires lifelong commitment and endless resources. It requires passionate fanatics, people who will pour their life into changing the lives of others, because only the incurable fanatic can wreak havoc on the tragedy of human trafficking. Any short-term effort to rehabilitate a *** trafficking victim is doomed to failure. The degree to which the brokenness of *** trafficking victims becomes ingrained in them is so extreme that it takes a lifetime to reshape their lives.
While researching *** trafficking in order to accurately produce Nefarious, the researchers and producers of Nefarious became convicted by facts that they collected. The evidence they collected speaks to the fact that *** trafficking does not just attack the body; it attacks the entire being, and in far worse ways than drugs ever could. Varied races and ages are prostituted and / or consume drugs. The impact of both of *** and drug trafficking is severe, but much more so severe in the case of human trafficking. The rehab process for human trafficking is much more in depth and is testament to the horror and degree of psychological, mental, and emotional disfigurement, as well as acclimation to a horrible situation to the point that horror becomes normal – a new definition of addiction. Human trafficking is an atrocity that is far more horrendous and prevalent than imaginable. It is far more destructive than drug trafficking. Drug trafficking is one of the most destructive forces in this generation.  Surely consuming drugs is one of the most horrid things we can do to our bodies, but what about consuming souls? *** trafficking consumes souls, hearts, minds and bodies. It splits, fragments, debases, brutalizes, obliterates, murders, rapes, molests, destroys, and dehumanizes the prostituted.  Drug trafficking attacks the body the soul, and sometimes the mind, but in much milder ways.

Love, the world
Suddenly turns, turns color. The streetlight
Splits through the rat's tail
Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning.
It is the Arctic,

This little black
Circle, with its tawn silk grasses - babies hair.
There is a green in the air,
Soft, delectable.
It cushions me lovingly.

I am flushed and warm.
I think I may be enormous,
I am so stupidly happy,
My Wellingtons
Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.

This is my property.
Two times a day
I pace it, sniffing
The barbarous holly with its viridian
Scallops, pure iron,

And the wall of the odd corpses.
I love them.
I love them like history.
The apples are golden,
Imagine it ----

My seventy trees
Holding their gold-ruddy *****
In a thick gray death-soup,
Their million
Gold leaves metal and breathless.

O love, O celibate.
Nobody but me
Walks the waist high wet.
The irreplaceable
Golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae.

Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.

God's lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees! -- The furrow

Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,

******-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks ----

Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else

Hauls me through air ----
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.

White
Godiva, I unpeel ----
Dead hands, dead stringencies.

And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child's cry

Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,

The dew that flies,
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red

Eye, the cauldron of morning.

Sweeter* than* wait I am starting
to melt like a____?
             Royal Jam
  Scarlet Movie Oh!  I don't give a
              ****!!
The Milkman versus My Breadman
How can I decide I feel I am
going to faint

Such a quaint picnic was "Hot Epic"
       My biggest fan is my
              Mother
    Going public like a stand up comic

All stereotypes happiness
        is a warm bread
Any way you slice it love it
Even going out of our head
The war going on
Hello Vietnam
Be my *Grand Slam

Have difficulty with everything
Melting our hearts those
"Good Eat" the luckiest people
But it's us the ordinary people
No time to brag or boost
who believes
everything is extraordinary
take a bow

Feeling tired give me a bat and ball
My big hit  built me a buttercup bed

I love the sweet warm toast
With my butter spread that
dash of sea salt the most
What was truly said in
your opinion no one's fault
Justice For All so stop
feeling guilty

Or in the presence of someone, you
didn't love at all

End of the reign beginning of
Melted candle dripping softly
like I apple butter he texted me
His ears were full of wax

Moms and
their daughters play
dressed up Dads and sons
  kickball having a meltdown
Of timeless bills no bread lines
Kings and Queens love their crowns
Love those quilts of corals
Soft as butter what morals

It's time for Hellman's
mayonnaise sandwich
What a dilemma
Every morning she is eating
Cream of wheat like a blob
Of farina
Kansas City here she comes

She loves her buttered popcorn
Poppy seed bagel was
near her acorns
We used to be human now
  An Army of Robots
Keep your enemies closer
If you truly love her

Robin Hood of the thieves

She got Gingersnapped
Melted finger-mapped
Crusty Baguette's French lip
lemon creme
Those marionettes caused
a scene

Butterscotch candy sugar cookies  
cleaning up your
computer meet "Ms." Butterworth"
movie
The worst shes ever has seen

She is sitting in the country
southern style
the dining room
Doing banana splits boiling
egg yolks Mcdonalds pancake
with Old folks

And cartwheels Moms always
wearing her buttercream heels
More room buttercream paint
And so toxic she zooms

What a silly goose with hens
He is hiding his eyes like
a fugitive he was blind getting
melted by so many lovers
Buttery slippery hearts

Jumping like Jack Rabbits melting a
white picket fence no nonsense
This bread and butter hold me closer
Everyone is looking
like a stranger
Almost every morning new
improved bread love pusher
Fresh taste and another lover
Uptown girl left her catcher of
the rye bread on used up counter
Seeing too many piano players
of Billies, she was getting a
Bread hot fever

Take me to *Panera Bread
Cyborgs the pig and whistle 
beer and nuts melted butter pretzels
The Alien like a damsel in distress
Like a heart of the shamrock
What a lucky piece Irish bread
The Queen red wine and
breadcrumbs
On her musical chair
Milk and honey not your
Unicorn Pony quick kick
then melt me in my sleep

Ancient rocks up her castle
Sipping her hot spell word
puzzle
Secrets of all tattle tales
In her coffee, he smiles with
French croissant like a sergeant
Bread melted her butter lips
The very first time she
ever saw his face
There were more excursions
but no excuses to
butter up my Prince