Ice Cream & Waffles


Love Needs Love Is What I Said To Myself When I Should’ve Told Her:

“I Love You …”

But, I Didn’t – Scaredy-Cat … Chicken-Shit … Little Twit … Fuckheaded Dimwit … Knucklehead Nitwit … Gone-Gone, Baby – At That Very Moment Where Life Taps You In The Nuts To Man-The-Fuck-Up And Get-The-Three-Words-The-Fuck-Out …

“Happy Now?”

No, No.

“Is What She Said …”

Image by iSAW Company from Pixabay 

Chapter 3 – I Wouldn’t Call It Love …

An excerpt from ‘Kookaburra Me’ – Copyright © 2020 by Michael A. Kuch


A grown man sexually assaults a small boy, feeds on his soul, and leaves him to wither in shame and disgrace …”  

I will not say his name. 

Vampires aren’t worthy to hear my voice.  How it breaks in silent screams during endless Night Terrors.  Out-of-body premonitions haunt me.  The horror of falling – breaking the axis of levitation – pursued, hunted, eaten.  My mind blanking, shattering, erasing … stuttering to find solace, losing grasp, never coming home because home never existed. 

Where is my peace when my heart is stilled?  When a breathless exhale asphyxiates my larynx into submission?  I’m mute when I dream.  The apparition frozen in the mirror when I awake looks a lot like me. 


knrFa. Frank. 

I typed every letter with my head down.  It’s not writer’s block that makes me stop.  Tears can’t stop me.

“I can’t have his name near mine.  Frank is a predator of children.  Carnivorous Pedophile.  He ate my childhood … A good portion of my adulthood … A chunk of my manhood … This is what’s left of what never was.”

I’ve hated him as I should.  Quietly in my space. Perhaps, you’ve noticed.


Because hate should placate my pain …

I can’t justify hate or pain.  Not anymore. I won’t tolerate my silence another moment.

It’s no coincidence that the Beast and I are related.  It was a matter of convenience for him.  Being hand fed to Frank – an adult first cousin, my mother’s nephew, son of her oldest late brother.

“Frank is a sick cunt.  The profane descriptive fits.  I’ll wash my mouth with soap once I cleanse my Soul with Love. I’m entitled. Let me play the victim just this once. No apology. My Adolph.  My Idi.  My Vlad.  Demon Seed.”


In a mental health facility long ago …

He did unspeakable things to other people.

Like scald a woman with boiling water. 

I’m not alone, not the only child to be violated by the Butcher of Bronte.


It’s better this way – for both of us – him mostly. 

Frank’s heart was dead when he took mine; left in a room with him while the adults drank and laughed and talked in the kitchen and backyard. 

About what, mom? 

“What Frank might do if left alone with a small boy … his scrawny little cousin?  It wasn’t his first lemonade stand …”


Was force his Evil Will upon me – inhale me – withered My Innocent Being.  

Usurped my childhood and replenished the void it left with fear.  


So, we never spoke about it.  Mom did though.  She told people in disgust.  Gossipy.  Not the right people. 


The Catholic Church?  The Pious Men in Black with the white clerical collars?  Good one, right.  Let the Hyenas hunt.  The Holy Hypocrites had conspired once before in perpetrating a lie I believed, albeit on mom’s oath, with a forged Baptism certificate. 

Police?  Doctor?  Child shrink?  Therapist?  Children’s Aid Society?  My relatives?  My older brothers? 

“My God, My God, My God …”

Where was my father on the only day I needed the asshole to strangle a wicked man to within a breath of his life for violating his child?  Answer me, sir … 


I’ve figured it out – this can’t be right – it shouldn’t have happened, but it did … 

I’ve asked God … Why Father?  The short answer never made sense.  The long answer is not mine.    

I can’t write this.  I don’t want to write any of this.  I must write this.

Fifty years isn’t long enough.  This is the last false start.  I’m making it to the end this time – God, please listen – let me know if I get it right. 


Hear me, diablo cugino.  My voice is in your head.  Stop the crazy for a moment and listen. 

“Do you remember me?”

You had me.  Tasted me.  Tried me out.  Subjected me to your vile, immoral carnal pleasures.  Please don’t forget.  Please try hard.  Please remember me.  Never forget the little boy.  The shame.  The filth.  The decay.  The perversion. My flesh peeled back.  The stench of my innocence on your filthy breath …

“Don’t you fucking forget me … don’t you dare die before you repent, Frank.”


You owe me something you can never repay

No do-overs or giving back on this one. 

This is all you get – a thousand words and the last of my tears and none of my heart and no more of my fear – I owe you this after you sucked out My Soul. 

It wasn’t yours to take. 


Tattooed fear and weakness and anger …

Stunted me emotionally for a good bit.  

“Made me afraid of the dark, afraid of men – unworthy of the few good women I’ve cared about because I was incapable to relate to love, to identify love, to know love, to accept love, to be love …”

Fear of what I might become.  What I have become.  What I am not.  Not isn’t good.


Ruined me – then – for every day to come …

“Every tender, loving moment … during every sensual engagement with a woman, there you were on the bed hovering over me … crawling under my skin … mocking my manhood.  Cheating the world out of the best part of me … the part that hasn’t happened.”

And here, again.  One last time then I promise we’re done. 

Not another dark day; there will be no more flesh for you to feed on. 


A Complete Man – There it is – Tainted.  Impure. 

Not a proper man like Hemingway or Tarzan. 

I am a male, but that’s not enough to make it in my world, or to escape the one I left behind.  A conditioned, engineered, rationed, derivative … fictional simile of a falsified man. 

“Tormented between the chasm of broken and healed, and lost and forsaken, lives acceptance.  Acceptance is a death sentence for hope, and that’s not good enough for me.”


“You’re a monster.”

You broke me.  All of me.  Took the It from me before my It blossomed.

Another thing I’ll confess:

I lied.

I mislead you when I said I’d never be a complete man.


I’m very good inside and out …

Strong All Over … You had me, but couldn’t keep me …

This is Me The Man Talking, Brother. I’ve a heart, a soul, a mind – a body, a face, a mouth – a voice, a choice, a plea:

“Please Die Inside Me …”


My Faith is Forgiveness.  My Fate is Forgiveness.

And so, I share my Fate with you in exchange for your pain.  Your suffering.  Your guilt.  Your sin. 

My forgiveness.  My gift is love – Take My Love – It’s all I have.  Now go.  Leave me and the Others in peace.  We’re done here.  Fini.

“May God have Mercy on you …”

Photo by Rahul from Pexels

Chapter 2: Don’t Touch Me

An excerpt from ‘Kookaburra Me’ – Copyright © 2020 by Michael A. Kuch


“I’ve had an incurable problem with staring at people …”

Since I was 3 months-old when I was greeted by the first big lie: meeting the impostor masquerading as Jolly Old St. Nick during my first Christmas. 

It may have been the best day of my life until 1998. 

Better than one summer afternoon five-and-a-half years later when a bloodsucker touched me without my permission – against my will, I had no will, what will does a small defenseless child have? – that would be the beginning of the worst days. 

Continue reading “Chapter 2: Don’t Touch Me”

Chapter 1: Baby Boo

An excerpt from ‘Kookaburra Me’ – Copyright © 2020 by Michael A. Kuch


“It’s late afternoon nap time and I’m not sleeping …”

I’m awake, lounging in an early-1960s powder blue snowsuit previously owned by another ungrateful, snot-nosed little shitling before my mother scooped it from the Saint Vincent de Paul thrift store bin.  Its zipped below my pudgy neck over a ribbed cotton turtleneck onesie snapped at the undercarriage where my pinkish, wrinkled scrotum adjoins to the neighboring taint a tickle away from my baby-sized anus. 

Continue reading “Chapter 1: Baby Boo”

Preamble To “Kookaburra Me”

An excerpt from ‘Kookaburra Me– Copyright © 2020 by Michael A. Kuch


“Not Funny, Kook!”

None of the Beautiful Shit masquerading as Mia Dolce Vita was my idea, except Part III – Act VII, the penultimate scene where I perish – or do I? – in a Shiitake mushroom plume of ash, vapor and chunks of molten lava at the smoldering base of Mauna Loa … a reluctant Mannchylde Martyr hedging on a big, fat promise to save Humanity from it’s nasty-assed self while a paparazzo potschkes with the lens cap and misses the Magma Enchilada exploding on my impromptu photo bomb.

Continue reading “Preamble To “Kookaburra Me””

Kooka, Kə-pēsh?


I’ll Bite Nearly Anything – If It Dangles Close Enough To My Pearly Grill – And Surrender To The Occasional Notion … That The Blogosphere Will Survive Nicely With Or Without My Acrimonious-cum-Sanctimonious-cum-Unctuous Offerings.

Though It’s Not Nearly Enough To Convince Either Of My Polarizing Alter Egos – Uppity Me Or My Shameless Self – That A Few Ripe Chapters Of Kookaburra Me Shouldn’t Find A Tidy Domicile On Kuched In The Coming Weeks.

Capisce – Kə-pēsh – Capeesh.

“So, What The Frangipane Is Kookaburra Me?”

Continue reading “Kooka, Kə-pēsh?”

Then It Broke Me …


Where True Pain Searches For Comfort Under The Weight Of Unbearable Loss.

It Hit Me A Couple Hours Later: My Soul Folded, Emotions Collapsed Onto Me, My Heart Buckled, Losing Composure And The Feigned Strength Of A Man Weakened, Escaped … As I Read His Message Posted Days Earlier – Knowing He Was Gone, Gone, Gone …

Forty-Four Years Of Friendship? Its Not Enough, Father. Still, Thank You, For Him. For Life Back Then – Memories Of Back When – For The Moments Now, And For Those That’ll Never Come.

Peace Be With You, Dear MB – Love You, Always Have, You Were Right Back In Time About The Day That Came Too Soon … Painfully More In Absentia – Brother-My-Brother …

Image by Goran Horvat from Pixabay

“Inspiring Your Best Self”



Emma Ortega Negrete’s Blog – “Inspiring Your Best Self” – Is The Author’s Insatiable Drive To Champion Life … Fighting Through Unimaginable Hardships And Pain … Fortified In God’s Love And Her Deep Devotion To Being One’s Authentic Self … Delivered With All The Subtlety Of KA-BOOM, BITCH! Continue reading ““Inspiring Your Best Self””

Awesome Blogger Award


For This Wonderful Accolade And Nomination … 

Sovely Is The Creative Soul Of MurmelMeister.

“A Blog So Passionately Crafted To Reward The Reader With Blossoms Of Love, Music, Poetry, Soul Food … Infused With An Unfettered Awakening And Celebration Of The True Human Spirit.”

So, There’s A Sunshine, Liebster, Special, Barnabas (In-Waiting), And Now, An Awesome Blogger Award Nomination To Crowd My Virtual Mantel Of Blogging Bling.  Grazie, Darlings.


“This is an award for the Absolutely Wonderful Writers all across the blogging world.  They have beautiful blogs, are kind and lovely, and always find a way to add happiness and laughter to the lives of their readers.  That is what truly defines an awesome blogger.”

  1. Thank the person who nominated you.
  2. Tag the post with #awesomebloggeraward.
  3. Answer the questions you were asked.
  4. Nominate at least 5 bloggers and inform them of their nomination.
  5. Give them 10 new questions to answer.

When are you happiest?  The time I spend with my two sons, Uno e Dewey.  Writing.  Praying.  Supporting the Daily Bread Food Bank.  

Do you prefer happiness or challenging situations?  I’m almost always in a happy mood, frequently bordering on natural euphoria – must be the sweet pheromones jacked up inside – except for moments of other normal emotions that get in the way of permanence.  Happiness is fleeting, finicky, and unfulfilling beyond a momentary flight of self-satisfying random occurences, which isn’t sustainable.  I don’t pursue, or often think about, happiness.  It simply exists for me.  I don’t miss it if it’s slumbering or absent.  It always comes back when it needs a heart to hug and a mind to play with … Happiness may be something as innocuous as ice cream melting.  Laughing after crying.  Playing with my dog.  A warm or cool breeze.  Challenging situations appeal when there is a drive to attain a desired goal, result or achievement.  I strive for Purpose, Truth In Self, Wisdom Beyond Knowledge, Potentiality Of Love and Personal Betterment … omnipresent challenges, never-ending.  

What is the best thing happening to you past week?  Forging through an extended period of creative voids and abstinence to allow a story to permeate within me – honoring the process to nurture rather than forcing unnecessary words for the sake of writing – then hitting a moment of creative bliss where it abundantly spilled onto the pages as though I had discovered a secret passage into an inspirational sanctum.

What is the most useful thing you own?  My Mind.  My Hands.  My Heart.  My Imagination.  My Faith.  My Self.  My Strength.  My Sense Of Humor … Library Card.  Brita Water Filter.  Plumbing.  NH95 Face Mask.

For what in your life do you feel most grateful?  God’s Grace and Forgiveness.  My Mother’s lifetime of unselfishness and sacrifice for her children.  Mio Ragazzi. 

What makes you laugh the most?  My dog.  My sublime idiocy and self-deprecating humor.  Things I say aloud when I’m alone.  Mocking myself.  I’ve always made myself laugh.  I think I’m humorous, though I’m not sure …   

What is something you like to do that other people would probably consider “weird” if they knew?  I often go to see films alone.  I dance when I’m alone to my curated Spotify playlists.  I use purifying facial masks a couple times a year as a devout and practicing Metrosexual Man.  Also, I’ve given myself a deplorable (unspeakable) nickname to keep me humble … because humility is Self Love.  I’ve trimmed my hair twice during the pandemic.   

What was the most thoughtful gift you made?  I was about 7 or 8 years old and I had crafted a paper necktie in school for Father’s Day … Thoughtful, wishful, perhaps back then only because I’ve never met my father.   

What’s the best topping/ice cream combination?  My lips are the topping … over Chocolate Tartufo.

What’s your idea of heaven & hell?  Life on Earth.  It’s the same place.  We’re simultaneously co-habitating in the delusion of Good and Evil, though we’re all too preoccupied with nonsense, ignorance and hoarding 2-ply bleached tree bark to tell the difference … and, even if we could, would we really know what to do about it?

How do you feel about diversity?  For Millennia, Drones Of Social Engineering – Religion, Government, Education, Military, Media – have persecuted courageous individuals and groups merely wanting to be recognized and valued for their inherent differences.  Shame on The Institutional Whores masquerading as Leaders of Humanity.  Future generations will live a truer, authentic existence … until Artificial Intelligence usurps their freedom and liberties, and then the Neo-Persecuted will wax poetic about the Good Old Days when Humans had the right to hate, judge, ridicule, slaughter and enslave one another instead of being censored, cloned, euthanized and de-Humanized by a herd of fuckless robots.  So, be as different, as genuine, as unique, as blessedly purposeful … as singular as God Created you.  

What is your most favorite blog post that did not get enough attention yet?  “In Me Still …” was soul-effacing to write and share publicly.  It’s the closest script to poetry I’ve ever written and recounts a dark childhood trauma … decidedly cryptic, I’m unconvinced it revealed the truth entirely.

What’s your favorite question to ask?  “What’s Your True Purpose in Life?” … “How Can I Help?” … “Didn’t I Pay Last Time?”

What was the meanest thing you’ve ever done?  Lied about the truth.  Killed an insect.  Hurt people emotionally who care about me …

Which jobs would you like to try out, if you had a chance?  Priest (Confessions and Exorcisms only).  Film Director.  Architect (during The Renaissance).  Organic Farmer.  Sign Painter.  Dirty Dancer.  Surfer.  Typography Designer / Font Artist.  Namer Of IKEA Products.  Millennial Whisperer.  Crafter of Artisanal – Small Batch – Kitty Litter.

You’re good at? Short List:  Quick wit.  Making myself laugh.  Telling the truth.  Holding hands.  Chivalry.  Ironing shirts.  Making homemade … Bolognese sauce, Jambalaya, Chilli, Beans & Rice, Kasha, Omelets, Oatmeal, Lasagne, Espresso … Kissing.  Free-style Dancing.  Pinching fat babies.  Flossing the hard to right spots.  Pouring a nice head on a Lager.  Annoying friends.  Getting out of bed.  Foreplay.  Making up new words.  Screwing up grammar.  Using a Corkscrew.  Snorting when I laugh.  Shaking my head.  Cloaking my heart when I’m smitten … Watching movies.  Doodling.  Staring at people in public.  Blinking.  Counting backwards.  Mocking.  Telepathy.  Empathy.  Crying in church.  Day Dreaming.  Shadow Puppets.  Modesty/Immodesty.  Being an asshole when I’m cranky.  Drinking from a glass.  Throwing snowballs.  Losing focus when I’m bored.  Pretending to listen.  Asking questions when I already know the answer.  Falling asleep.  Not caring/Over caring.  Answering questions when I don’t know the answers … Writing cryptic, random nonsense, then tapping publish on my blog.

  1. What’s wrong with you?
  2. Do you prefer pie or cake?
  3. Can you be trusted with a lie?
  4. What’s your favorite swear word?
  5. Are you better at kissing or writing?
  6. Have you ever mistaken Lust for Love?
  7. When was the last time you slow danced?
  8. Is there something you’d like to tell the world?
  9. Who would win in a fight: Godzilla or Hello Kitty?
  10. What musical instrument do you look like the most?
  11. What’s your first impression when you look in a mirror?
  12. Have you ever worn underwear from a person of the opposite sex?
  13. Finish this sentence anyway you like: “Bartholomew, I don’t know any damned Bartholomew …”
  14. Do you think Ecru deserves to be a distinct color, or should it just go back to a being a miserable shade of boring-ass Beige and lose its uppity-as-fuck attitude just because it’s friends with Taupe?

Truly Awesome Are My 5 Chosen Nominees Of Impossibly Gifted Writers And Bloggers I Follow Regularly:

Image by Canva

Preamble To The Way Back Home (Part 1)


I arrived twenty-two minutes early, parked Blue, and sat listening to my daily Spotify-curated eclectic mix – Classic Rock Anthems courtesy of Seger, Springsteen and the Rolling Stones … drizzled with bubble-gummy ABBA, Boney M and yeah, the Brothers Gibb stuttering Ja-Ja-Ja-Jive Talkin’.  The Gap Band got the funk all the way down with Party Train ending the set.  I needed something to lift the malaise draping over me.  Music, for once, didn’t get it done. Continue reading “Preamble To The Way Back Home (Part 1)”