An enigma - unto herself - it's what I love about c

I came upon a real treat tonight; surfing, surfing, surfing my sea of cyberfriends,, trying to catch up with the comings and goings, trials and tribulations and mental meanderings of soulful, provocative & sensate individuals - who enrich and inspire us all - to higher, rarer realms of thought and imagination.. ahh.. and how I love swooping in on All the Elbows: the bend of them, their grease, poke and of the tennis variety - all are welcome in the house of c.. she will bend your mind, grease your creaky heart, ..and poke you right where it hurts with her fine-tuned, fertile verbal ferocity which has the power to ferry you across vast expanses of feral fields of cerebral imaginings like a pioneer imagist seeking new and untenable frontier. c is for cosmos, coping, commentary, caring, stream of consciousness, control, life changes, clean and color - which make up the cornucopia known as christine. And, we certainly can't get enough of c, see?

~ a little see of c ~

16/12

longer than not
together
i forget our separateness, was it ever
did i even exist before there’s only togetherly

you still melt me
in my belly like lava
and laughing and crying and
those times on our knees crawling

scraping and making
us
you me much forgiven
loved more than forgave less than adored

you’ve made me
beautiful
good good good man so good
saved me so good

so good to me you godgiven you

~c

bad penny

This is what I say when there’s that feeling in my chest-
cold, metallic.
Coppery like old dead blood.
Useless.
That’s why I say it.
Bad penny’s what I call it.
A bad place outside digging at our insides.
It spreads out slow and steady from that place we call heart.
It’s that place that is your heart literally:
life-giving blood muscle,
and that place we think of as our heart meaning the heart of our being.
Our quick.
It spreads out,
pushing everything aside and filling you up with bad penny.
You breathe deep.
You have to in order to fill that space,
to make it good again.
You breathe so deep,
so deep,
but can’t be filled.
There’s not enough air to dislodge it.
And when you got bad penny,
ever notice how on the exhale,
you’re shaky?
The breath trembles,
starts and stops on its struggle outward?
It’s a bad way, a deep hurt,
shock anger love hate.
That’s because Abe’s hands don’t want to let it go.
Abe’s hands want to keep the air and bend it,
make it sticky,
rusty.
And that sound!
Terrible sound that I can’t directly describe.
It’s not a cry so much as a tear,
a rendering,
wrenching and primal.
An escape-
desperate escape from the hollow where you once were.
Choking.
Choking up the bad penny is what I like to call it and once that sound comes out of you,
the bad penny begins to melt.
Molten copper filling,
then spilt from eyes and suddenly!-
there’s room!
So the bad penny’s tossed up upon the ground,
like so much nothing.
Worth something so worthless…

Like myself.

~c

autumn

i hear you whisper
what shall we wear this year

the classic look of course

golds reds browns oh you beautiful hands
resplendent and reaching
handing down cooled breezes to the forest floor
giving thanks in moonrise
reflecting warm light from the sun

ushering disguised children begging for candy
shading speckled fawns
bearing apples mmm the apples shapely pears

dappled walkways whirling dervishes tapping and miraculous
time for honey cake darling
scarves long nights brittling and starred
full of the odor of leaving short chilled days

and you
a sudden burst of color
banners of welcome only to disrobe in preparation for the season of rest

you
autumn trees
a dazzling show of dying

(copyright 2008 ) c A Hughes
09.19.08

.

The Tao of Laundry

*If you wish to comprehend the Infinite, consider Laundry.

*Like all things eternal- God, Time, Space- Laundry was, is and shall ever be.

*Laundry is something done that is never done.
Meditate on this and achieve enlightenment…

~c

regarding the stars

what do they do up there,
stars, winking like tipsy eyes-

they look down on us and make wishes



she floats above in her star spangled bodice
and collects eyes for luck

the ocean is her treasure box
and filled with them, with bones

nibbled on by white lobsters
smoothed and the salt of the sea



clumsy, falling
where do you land?

you don’t.
you disintegrate, become dust, vanish-

are forgotten.



thorny stars or we are dead?
a million years when your light is met-

in contemplation, study, an accidental happening
wish on our faces, wide and light as memory,

we are the dust

(copyright 2008 ) c A Hughes
07.14.08

me, in the only dress i'll ever wear

will you be my dress

and he is
and he looks good on me
clings to me
beautifies me

in him, i am a vision

his color compliments mine
he feels good on me
and i am aware of my hips
i move hard

(copyright 200 ) c A Hughes
04.06.08

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Reading these few poems ought to make you drop everything and tear over to All the Elbows for a longer visit. You will be treated to good/honest writing in a genuine, down-to-earth from-bird's-eye-view voice. c is an excellent writer of prose and poetry; no topic is too tough or taboo - written from a very unique perspective by a very unique voice - unafraid to dig deep into your soul, grab your heart and squeeze or wring your mind like a mop head. You will think differently than when you arrived, you'll see things from a different perspective and you will definitely feel the passion and depth of c's emotion wrung out in every word she writes. Guaran-teed, indeed!

Another Good One by Stacey on Autism

As autism organizations and medical professionals alike voice their outrage at inflammatory comments made by controversial talk radio host Michael Savage, about most autistic children simply being "brats," the head of the network that employs him appears to be taking measures to pull out of a public relations tailspin. Savage, who in the past, has taken aim at the legitimacy of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and other behavioral disorders, called autism a "fraud" and a "racket" during his July 16 broadcast, adding that "[i]n 99 percent of the cases, it's a brat who hasn't been told to cut the act out."

Savage's outrageous remarks have Poetry by Stacey coming back at him with a fairly good spanking in the form of the written word:

Mr. Michael. Savage is the only man,
Voicing an opinion like no one can,
Lack of knowledge, causes anger to breed,
Upsetting parents, all part of his deed.

Clearly obvious his brain's not in gear,
He needs a firm kick to be placed on his rear,
Never learning to run before he leaps,
Lack of common sense is what he reeks.

For every parent of an autistic child,
Mr. Savage's radio rant sent them wild,
His callous speech on this neurological disorder,
Showed his true colours, he's out of order.

His claim that Autism is a fraud and a racket,
That parents claim welfare to make a packet,
Insulting these children by calling them brats,
Did he really think anyone would put up with that?

The barrage of insults he continued to use,
Calling them morons this is verbal abuse,
Stating only one percent of cases are real,
The other percentage are acting, he thinks is the deal.

For every child or adult that has this diagnosis,
This condition can give a different prognosis,
Symptoms can range from mild to severe,
But either way it can cause many tears.

Mr. savage needs to be taught the facts,
Learn from the families of those he attacked,
If he looked into the eyes of an autistic child,
The knowledge he'd gain would be worthwhile.

Instead of blaming their mum's and dads,
He should talk to them and learn the facts,
These special kid's parents, will no doubt tell,
Insensitive remarks can make their lives hell.

By Poetry by Stacey

Why Paisley? Because she'll paint the colors of her soul in words.. and your's, too..

I can't claim to know the back story on Jodi's title for her blog Why Paisley? and it really doesn't matter. I like paisley patterns.. and I wear it well. Had she named her poetry blog Why Plaid? well, I'd have to ask that question myself. Visions of Arnold Palmer and Bob Hope out there in the back 40 of a golf tournament wearing We're-Wild-and-Craaazy-Guyz-in-plaid-pants is enough to last a lifetime, thank you very much. No, when I think of Paisley's poetry I sense the delicate curves of her words; I hear soft-toned murmurings and barely-perceived vibrations flowing through chakra-shocked bruised layers of deep coloring; I see pale swatches of longings, far out of reach, and the streaks of carefully placed tenderness like fingers over braille. Paisley has the ability to get into your mind. She can affect your sensibilities. Paisley is positively.. riveting. Take her following poem Paint me a Picture, written in collaboration with Rick Mobb's painting titled Let Your Tears. See for yourself-

let your tears com
let them water your soul
by eileen mahew

let your tears come,
let them water your soul
let them mix with the ash
of passions fire, grown cold

let them brighten the bruises
let their salt sting the scars
let them fill your lifes palette
let them color your art

let them mix with your blood
and your hurt and your fear-
then paint me a picture
i can see, feel, and hear....

Photo

His Love

underneath the stairwell
on the red pleather bean bag chair
she listened to the voices,, and she
could tell that they were mad
she dared not move a muscle
she fought hard not to breathe
she waited for the silence
that told her she could leave
she would sneak up thru the cellar
and out the back porch door
she'd look back and see her mother
lying passed out on the floor
she would whisper, "i fucking hate him.."
and then out the door she'd go...

today had been a good day
she'd got out before the fight
she heard him hit her mother
and hoped she was alright
she knew she couldn't stop him

and trying just made it worse

damn that demon alcohol
in her life it was a curse
tomorrow would be a new day
meek and mild he would be
afraid to lift his eyes up
afraid that he might see
the swollen eyes and cut blue lips
that symbolized his love....


don't blink

our birth marked the end of innocence
a new generation had been born
a time of freedom and drugs and sex
of violence and racism and war
all lines erased, no right, no wrong
tune in, turn on, drop out...

by junior high the lines were drawn
there was no backing down now
the world owed us a living
and the time to collect had come
get out of our way, man, we know what we're doing
and can't hear a word you say...

oh yeah, we walked on the wild side
we pushed it all to the limit
if it don't kill you, it'll make you strong
don't blink now, it'll soon be gone.

tomorrow breaths hard, now, at our napes
in a world so out of control
running amok on paths we fought to tread
what seems like, oh, so long ago
when we saw the world thru youth colored glasses
that we can't find, or we lost, or we sold...

no longer indestructible
not ten feet tall or bullet proof
we bemoan the world we knew back then
when in our youth, we ruled
the scepter passed on long ago
yet no one said a word...

oh yeah, we walked on the wild side
we pushed it all to the limit
if it don't kill you, it'll make you strong
don't blink now, it'll soon be gone

Please follow the linked last line to read the remainder of this poem at Just Paisley?

Stupid war makes for "Four Buck Gas" by Glenn Buttkus

Taking one of Rick Mobbs awesome paintings (yes I am a big fan of Rick Mobbs work!) with a little help (horse's red leg) from his son, Broadus, entitled , Stupid War, Glenn Buttkus co-author of Feel Free to Read blog, wrote the following poem, Four Buck Gas. It's long. Too bad. Excellent poetry comes in long - as well as short and medium. heh heh. Long is good. I know. How do I know? you might be asking. Glenn Buttkus tends to write lengthy poems; you see, he has an eye for detail that can analyze any subject down to a, ah - a gnat's eyeball! Yeah! That's it. Furthermore - this particular poem is an excellent example of my premise that poets are the true historians. But that's not all...Glenn also writes movie reviews that rock. He includes so much information that by the time you've read the review, you might feel like you just saw the movie! Yup, that good. This is also the way he treats poetry. If Glenn likes what you've written, he'll tell you exactly why; pulling every nuance, hidden meaning, psychological undertone, and any literary reference alluded to in the imagery that he can hunt down. He'll weave a beautiful and carefully written essay about your poem/movie/writing or pack a novella of a concise review down to critical mass thumbnail size that makes you feel like the most important poet that's hit the scene! Make sure you take a jet to his blog. You will find a fascinating & fantastic potpourri of miscellaneous literary extracts. And now, without further ado, here's Glenn Buttkus on four buck gas!

Four Buck Gas

This morning
I stood in the pre-dawn chill
and pumped 4-buck gas
into my pick up.

Suddenly consumed
with unspeakable anger,
I shook my free fist
at the Shell sign—
standing there tall
and sullen
and silent,
arrogantly golden
flashing
its $4.15
for regular gas
message.

I thought about
The Bush War
and what it is costing
us/me,
and about the fat cat
oil barons
who hang out with Junior
swilling Lone Star
and counting their tax-free
trillions.

The New Millennium Crusades
suddenly swam belligerently
into my cortical net,
witnessing Bush stir up
the Muslim wasp nest,
sending our youth
into harm’s way
to face the barbs and stingers,
RPG’s, roadside explosions,
and suicide bombers
who themselves
are barely old enough
to enjoy
the promised 100 virgins
in Jihad Paradise.

A few yesterdays ago
there we were
post 9-11 in 2003,
wanting to strike back,
wanting revenge
for the terrible toppling of our towers,
and the callous crushing
of the innocent thousands,
as death was brought to us
on our own silver wings,
diving and plunging
straight down,
laden with high-pitched screams
from jet engines pushed to full throttle
and passengers hoarse from fear.

Something had to be done.
Who could we punish?
Who could we kill
to satiate our blood lust?
George W. Bush, Jr.
and all his father’s posse
smiled like hyenas
in a silent pack,
and their greedy index fingers
pointed back,
straight at Iraq;
telling us repeatedly
that right there was the heart
of darkness,
the den of murderers,
the scourge of the earth;
plotters, terrorists, and enemies—
that Bush was ready
to lead us
into a holy war
that would finish the job
left undone by his daddy
in 1991—
that as righteous patriots
we should take on
the rag tag Republican Army
and run that ruthless fox,
Saddam Hussein,
to ground;
for he was a madman,
an abuser of human rights,
a killer,
a dictator,
a womanizer,
a sodomizer;
and not only
did he absolutely possess
weapons of mass destruction,
but he fully intended
to send unmanned squadrons
of drones
to our eastern shores,
that were fully laden
with biological germ warfare payloads.

75 senators were duped, cajoled,
and convinced,
thus launching
Operation Iraqi Liberation;
soon to morph into
Operation Iraqi Freedom.

During the one month assault,
we overran Hussein’s finest troops
like shooting coyotes
from horseback,
and it only cost us
139 American lives.
“Outstanding!”
was on the commander’s lips,
followed by,
“Let’s stick around a while now,
and assist the Iraqis into forging
a Democracy.”

We all recall
the smirking grin
and lying eyes
of warmonger
Donald Rumsfeld;
and that late afternoon
five years ago this May
on the USS Abraham Lincoln,
when Commander in Chief,
President Bush
emerged from a fighter
wearing a flight suit,
stood spread-legged on the naked steel deck,
waving his thunder bolt helmet
and declaring,
“Mission Accomplished!”

And presently
here we are,
knee deep in Year 5,
fighting “asymmetric warfare”,
without front lines,
against a faceless enemy
that hides in
and melts into
the civilian population;
just like before
in 1964—
except now we are immersed in
and surrounded by
civil war and insurgency,
as we are being branded
the Occupying Force,
once again;
spilling blood for greed
and democracy—
being taught hard lessons;
like we cannot curtail
the flow of Jihad insurgents
by cutting the head off the Hydra,
or its whelps,
or its lieutenants—
for new warriors
spring like cockroaches from the shadows,
craving to join the resistance
to the Infidels and Capitalists,
arriving in dark clumps daily,
like monsters rising out of the blood-soaked
waters of the Tigris and Euphrates—
making us pay
every day
for patrolling
the Sunni Triangle.

Oh God,
when will the madness end?
How much black gold
has to be pumped
into profit
from the Iraqi
fat oil reserves?
How many more
retired Special Forces
will have to be recruited
by Blackwater
to protect Bush’s
real agenda?

The numbers for Y5
are staggering!
U.S. dead: 4,079.
U.S. wounded: 30,000.
Contractors dead: 1,028.
Contractors wounded: 10,569.
Iraqi death toll: 1,000,000.
Iraqi combatants dead: 10,800.
Insurgents dead: 22,807.
Detainees: 43,000.

Like in the 60’s
when the carnage
in Viet Nam
was broadcast to us daily,
splashing red and futile
on our living room television screens—
today
our forced occupancy
of Iraq
is beamed immediately by satellite
to every home,
for all of us to see
and cringe
as the pride of our loins
are kicking down doors
and pumping hot lead
from their Mossberg shotguns
into the Islamic populous—
are being ambushed
around every corner,
green zone or not;
witnessing the riddling
of those poorly armored Humvees,
those High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicles,
with bullets bought in black markets,
originally manufactured by us
and sent to Saddam
when it was his job
to fight the Iranians
for us.

Our young men
and women,
do their duty,
without hesitation,
becoming hard-hearted
and stone-jawed—
even though many of them
may be stop-lossed
or extended
by their loving government
to stay
in the fray;
professional targets,
standing atop
an M1 Abrams battle tank,
or racing down some dangerous narrow alley
in their M2 Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicle,
or screetching through those
mean Moslem streets in Strykers—
the dead brown skies above
choked
with Apaches, Kiowa Warriors, Black Hawks, and Chinooks—
the dirty twilight punctuated
by the deep throb
of dozens
of .50 caliber lethal heavy machine guns—
patrols partially protected
by howling M249 SAWS.

Yes, Lord,
we see it all;
and feel overwhelmed
with intense grief and anguish
as this cavalcade of cavalry and contractors
are at this very moment
toiling in the acrid white dust
of the Middle East,
providing the opportunity
for the petroleum bullies
to force me
to have to pump their goddamn
4 buck gas,
and shake my inept fist
at a stupid sea shell,
and snarl terribly
at those barons unseen,
but most certainly
felt.

Glenn Buttkus June 2008

Talk about 'learn by heart' !! That would be Jimmy Mac (Mc Aleer)

Here's a poet for you! Jimmy Mac, real name Jim Mc Aleer, does poetry presentations - at senior retirement homes, senior citizens' groups, children's parties, you name it and he'll do it, it seems. Mc Aleer is particular about what he will recite, though. He sticks to rhyme-and-rhythm poetry. Doesn't do free verse. Mc Aleer calls it a hobby (oh-oh) and has been performing for the past 4 years, but his love for poetry is lifelong. He's been a student of poetry for as long as he can remember. Jimmy Mac puts everything into his performances; his aim is to bring poetry to life . The poet uses humor, different voices for different characters, is rambunctious when called for, even going into costume using such things as crazy hats. He loves what he does so much, regardless of whether he's paid for his performances, or not. Amazing thing about these "gigs" is the poems he recites - are from memory! Learned by heart, if you will. He recites, Edgar Allan Poe, Alfred Tennyson and his favorite poet, Robert Service, performing 30 of his poems. Jimmy Mac Aleer knows 433 poems by heart. (I'm ashamed to say I can't recite even one of mine by heart. Blech.) This poetry performer's repertoire even includes his own poems! His business card reads, "I recite 'em & I write 'em." Cute, huh? The longest poem he's memorized is "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" - yes, you read that right - and it takes 43 minutes to recite it! He can recite "The Shooting of Dan McGrew," one of his favorite poems of his favorite poet, Robert Service, in 5 minutes and 28 seconds. Yup, he timed it.

Jimmy 'Mac' Mc Aleer finds time to memorize more new poems and write his own. He's never been published - he doesn't do much advertising for his gigs either - yet, he keeps busy with gigs at churchs, parties, retirements, reunions - all done by word of mouth.

The wonderful thing about this man is that he'd love to start a non-profit organization with like-minded people who want to share rhyme-and-rhythm poetry with seniors and lead workshops on memorization, even writing poems, all to benefit local seniors. He states that "memorization is a great way to combat memory loss in older adults."

Debbie Humphrey, activities coordinator at Sun Tower, says, "Practicing memory skills like that really works your brain; you're going to remember things much better." It's just amazing what he can do, and I think that's what people find fascinating about him. There's not a lot of people that do that type of thing. You don't see a lot of that around."

"Memorization is great for the mind." -- Jimmy Mac Mc Aleer

For more information or to schedule a presentation, call Jim Mc Aleer at 249-0485.
Source: Yakima Herald-Republic Online

Noah the Great !

You thought wrong

It's okay to think
happiness won't come to you,
because I want you to know
it was me that brought it,
I want you to remember
I heard what you said,
I was listening to every word,
but, you think you're alone,
I'm here with you,
when you look forward,
I look toward you,
but as you turn your head,
I look away,
though, my eyes don't pull you
out of view,
I may look bored,
but I'd rather be here
than anywhere,
I may pick on you,
but it's only because I care,
nobody else is worth my attention.

I chose this poem to share with you because I'm touched by it's sentiment . It reminds me of my younger self watching someone who was watching someone else. Poet, Noah the Great, may have a different idea behind this poem, but for me it speaks of unrequited love. You know it reminds you of that, too, dontcha? The first 4 lines tell you all you need to know about how it feels to have someone you're mightily attracted to tell you they'll never be happy, when in fact, there's much laughter and warmth between the two of you when you're together. I know this has happened to you, too. Sometimes your love is hiding in plain sight. You don't notice because you think someone else is bringing the Happiness pill to you.

If you enjoyed this poem, you have the opportunity to visit Noah's awesome blog. He's also running a start-up community blog you can check out. Noah is a student who writes constantly and gets good grades. He's a thoughtful, engaging young man who enjoys his solitude, would rather write and create engaging poetry than party-hardy. Noah is also a member of the Blogsboro Poetry Club. Oh! And he plays guitar! (I love guitar!) So get yourself over to Noah the Great's awesome blog and leave him a comment about his poem. In other words - go Get Your Poetry On!

Wouldn't you like to know what's behind Noah the Great's most excellent poem? Why not ask him?

Rick Mobbs - Artist Extraordinaire! - Figurative Painter & Poet

I've been wanting to share Rick Mobbs talent with my dear readers for quite some time now. Rick Mobbs is a phenomenal figurative painter of the highest caliber as you can see for yourself by visiting his beautifully appointed website and his blog, Mine Enemy Grows Older. Also my little chickadees, you get a two-fer when you visit Rick. Not only does Rick paint the most original, dreamy, and otherworldly subjects, scenes and sensibilities *wink* but he writes, too! Be prepared to spend lots of time reading, oooooo-ing and ahhhh-ing when you first visit Rick's blog because its absolutely packed with plenty of interesting paintings and personalia. Oh, and did I mention Rick's blog encourages reader participation? This is how it all plays out: Rick puts up one of his ethereal paintings and his readers are invited to write a poem or short story to accompany the painting! I was around for the beginning of this enterprise and I want to share with you what did unfold when Rick put up his painting under a post entitled, Standing in the Shadows, on March 29th. Johemmant, author of floresence, wrote the wonderfully evocative story to accompany the painting which was an instant hit! She captured the essence of the painting for me in a most poignant manner. I'll share part of the story with a link to the original post. I urge you to visit Johemmant's blog site because she writes with a deft hand neurally connected to one amazingly creative, insightful brain! Now on with an excerpt of her story:

We were resting after a long day in the fields when the children came running, shouting excitedly of angels and unicorns. We would have thought it a game and sent them away but an elder pointed to the sky silver with cloud and told us to listen to the wind in its lament. We rose then and followed their raggletaggle to the edge of the village where the salt flats begin. And the children were right, these were not figments but the archetypes of our dreams.

I stand at the edge,
a myth sheltering under
my outstretched wings,

their eyes hostile
holding us here though

I have been amongst them
every day, a shifting

shadow, a soft breath
on a tired cheek.

But I see my mistake.
Men do not want proof,

they would rather
have faith.

Follow the rest of her story here.

Johemmant's ekphratic poem inspired another poem by poet, Ozymandiaz, who you can find on his own blog Ocellus which is exceptionally well-written and thoughtful. His contribution below:

Neath the ashen sky
Her spirit strong and true
Some saw but a mare
But the wisest knew
The painted desert soul
Watching o’er this land
Known well as the wind
Known well as the sand
Presents herself this day
To run and to fly
In form seldom seen
Neath the ashen sky

Ozymandiaz's poem put an entirely different feel to the painting; a genuine Native American voice - wise and grounded. I just love his interpretation, too.

There's so much more to Rick Mobb's Mine Enemy Grows Older; Rick is one of those incredibly creative, innovative, multi-talented people who grace us with artistic delight and reverence. He draws from a deep well of experience and a rich inner life that connects with the heavenly. He can charm us and keep us enrapt in his world - as is evidenced in his poem, Mary Draws from Silence, with it's companion painting, below.

Mary Draws From Silence

Mary draws and Mary writes from silence,

silence that uplifts and holds her. These strings,

she thinks, are more than finite. They wrap all things

and draw them to her. Every weight and every measure,

all things tossed or turned or treasured,

all things simple, green or rusted, doubted, doubled, drummed

or busted, all things filtered out and saved, or wasted,

all things stirring, dead, or passive

all the unknown multitude of things

enormous as a whole, and as a whole, so quiet.

Like Mary’s eyes, so quiet. Mary draws from silence.

Poem and Painting by Rick Mobbs

Please give yourself a well-deserved break from day-to-day harsh realities and engulf yourself in a world of aesthetic sensibilities brought to you by Rick Mobbs.

2008 Pulitzer Prize Winners for Poets

Congratulations to -

Time and Materials, by Robert Hass (Ecco/HarperCollins)

Failure, by Philip Schultz (Harcourt)

Citation for Bob Dylan - Well, he is a poet..:)

Source: The Associated Press via Breitbart.com