Figured I would try my hand at some poetry since I’ve been reading poetry blogs all day.  What do you think america should I stick with pros and leave the poetry to the romantics?

The Toll

The way the ship lay still and dank

will remind you of the day it sank

the people astir all over the boat

praying and praying that it will float

The sounds of the people wailing and screaming

praying and praying that they are only dreaming

As she sank they ran to the stern

they now know the lesson to learn

Don’t be consumed with wealth or gold

for the grim reaper comes for the meek and the bold

Then you feel the water rise

floating there your body dies

Then you are merely a soul

forever more paying the grim reapers toll

6,000 disciples holy hell

Added face book and WordPress together today and found out I have over 6,000 disciples.  That is six times the population of the small town I’m from or 240 times my high school graduating class of 25.  Just wanted to say thanks for reading and I will keep on writing.  I will leave you with one of my  favorite poems.  Got it from my favorite x-files. S4 E7 “musing of the smoking man”.  Everyone’s homework is to watch it.  And to remember you can always try to change no matter what you have done.  But it is a choice you must make every day.

Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget

falls drop by drop upon the heart,

until, in our own despair,

against our will,
comes wisdom
through the awful grace of God.


So its not what happens to you America.  Its how you get up, dust yourself off, make yourself a rum and coke, bang a woman till she loves you and strut down the road with a smile on your face and a twinkle in your eye knowing what ever happens your wits, integrity, and charm will get you through.


Death Wish

Death Wish

Sitting in the chair while my guard paces in front of me I wonder how I get myself into these jams. My supplier had been killed in a drive by and I was always on the look out for a purer, cheaper, hook up. I’d made the mistake of bribing one of my customers to take me to his source. Luckily addicts could be made to do anything with the right persuasion and two grams cocaine normally opened any door. However I wish I had never opened this one because I’m not liking what I’m finding. The addict had taken me to this house in the suburbs. We had a quick meeting at the front door and we were told to go around back, the boss was in the shed. Having walked into many worst situations I figured what could go wrong in a shed. I was in for a painful realization.

We entered the shed shook hand with the boss and were polite. With smiles on their faces that is how criminals strike. The door is slammed behind me, I’m forced into a chair at gun point and the addict is thrown out as the “Boss” shouts I’m tired of your shit come back and I will kill you. He returns locks eyes on me and peers into my soul. All dealers, myself included, have to trust their instincts because in that business of police narcs, thieves, bribes, drive bys, and murder your instincts are the only thing you can trust. Tragically I resembled the nark on this particular day and let me tell you why.

In my apartment building there is no washer and dryer and being a guy I let every single piece of clothing I have get dirty then I consider doing laundry. This particular night I was wearing a baby blue t-shirt and khaki shorts. Not even cargo. Ever seen a guy dressed like a dork try to buy a few thousand dollars of cocaine. It’s not pretty.

So there I am seated in a chair while three armed men decide my fate. We go through the normal dance of are you a cop, you going to bust us? Are you a thief with friends outside waiting to rob us? All the hypothetical dealers worst nightmare, however non can be proven one way or the other and I start to accept that I’m either going to die or beat these three guys to near death with the chair I’m in. I don’t want to try for their guns because if I kill one and the others get me its a lot harder to apologize for knocking a guy out then killing him with his own gun. I start plotting like a mad man planing every move in my upcoming battle. I will grab the chair with my right hand and swing on the biggest guy on my right while starting to kneel so if shots are fired they may shoot each other over my head. The man behind me will be second, with a charge into the wall using the chair as a ram. The boss will be taken out with the hammer hanging on the wall after I charge the second body-guard into the wall. I will grab the hammer with my right hand pivot crouch to doge fire and heave the hammer at his face.

My hands tighten around the chair and I say “God hates a coward” to myself. My muscles tense and I ready for the fight of my life.

Will I survive?  Probably since I wrote this but how the hell did I do it?  Buy my book to find out.  Link below


Hope you enjoyed my rough draft


My Drunken Story

I just told my story to a complete stranger, as I will from time to time.  I find it very true you can be most honest with a stranger and I summed up my life, fathers passive suicide with AIDS, family shattered and scattered across two countries, beating cancer, surviving drug dealing, friends deaths and more suicides and he kept saying sorry sorry this must be so hard sorry.  Due to my current rum and coke consumption it took me a few more sentences to sum up the theme.  Through all my debauchery, crime, silliness, run on sentences, sadness and shenanigans this is my message.  I am all that is left so I write the history of my family.  My dad was my best friend, I love my half sister, I respect and love my mother, and I am damn proud of who I have become.  Isn’t that the point of parents and your childhood.  Sure it was rough, but I am a resourceful, self reliant, charming mother fucker who can bang almost as well as I can sail and I was an undefeated state champion for four years.  Somebody give me a hell yeah.

I’m Taylor Oceans and this is my drunken story.  But don’t drink and drive or I will slam your nuts in the hood of the car.  Ladies I will pay another lady to slap you because I wont.  But I will pay some chick to slap some sense into you.  Gentleman and ladies drink responsibly.  Hope everyone had a fun, safe weekend.  Long live the writers.


To be Free

Now that the book is in final stages I look back and wonder what my message is. To party,to stay in school, do drugs, quit drugs, to bang, wear condoms, to be nice, to be mean, to be sensitive, to strong, to dream, to be realistic, to be a writer? What do I have to say, why should you listen to me? And here is the message… To be Free. Free from fear, free from guilt, free from doubt, free from selfishness, free from ourselves and to live as gentleman or ladies or transsexual gendered, gentle-lady what have you. Be free from thinking our lives are stuck where they are. Free from saying I can’t do it. Free from saying my book will never be published, free from the nightmares of being forgotten.  To be free of the illusion of control.
The freedom and courage to be who ever you want to be. The writer, the sailor, the drug dealer (I do not recommend this one), the cowboy, the astronaut, the engineer, and hell why not a stripper (Dancer). Be free from despair, loathing, and all the other shit we think is real. Live your lives don’t let someone else live it for you. You only get one.
I want you to be free to laugh, dance, have sex in public, walk in the rain without an umbrella, walk in the grass barefoot, enjoy a sunset with friends in silence, carve your name into a side walk, sail around the world so many times you forget how many times while having a 15some. But don’t hurt others, don’t take others freedom, respect your fellow man and woman. Don’t disrespect others religion or politics, in short don’t be an asshole. Be a gentleman. If you have learned anything from this 27 year odyssey I’ve called a life it’s “hold on tightly, let go lightly” a quote from one of my favorite movies Croupier. Be free to get what you want, and be free to let it go when it’s time. We can always change when we are free.

And now a clip I watched over and over and over again as I wrote this 41,000 word book. I wanted to be free from the life I was in, and I knew I was free to change it anytime. So enjoy my tales.

I’m going to be just like you…

The Blue Lady

The Blue Lady

 I’m from a farm. I had my own horse and grew up around 200 head of black Angus cattle. However I moved to the city when my father died and have not looked back. Well maybe a little but I love city life. I am a die hard people watcher since I spent my childhood watching cows. I love being able to buy smokes right behind my apartment. I live behind a gas station, chinese food place, McDonald’s,  Jamaica place, sub and pizza place, and a CVS. I didn’t have that many options in my entire county. Sadly, like me, the city is cleaning up and the bullet proof glass is gone from my gas station. When the zombie apocalypse happens I will need a new place to go.

I have thought I was on the outside looking in until I finished my City Slicker list. I figured you must find a half dead or dead body, stop a raping, get mugged, help carry an overdosed person, have a complete stranger try to sell you drugs harder then weed, go to all the museums in your city, buy hot merchandise out of luggage on the sidewalk, see a ballet, do the walk of shame (strut of pride in my book) and carve your name into a fresh paved side walk to be a City Slicker. Today I finish that list.

Today I left my apartment for my daily walk. I find a thirty minute walk is not only reasonable exercise, but it is good for clearing writers block or resolving mental conundrums. So I left my building, turned left and started walking. My city is a very nice southern city. Trees in the sidewalk. Monuments to our failed civil war. Lots of old buildings and a very diverse architecture  A beautiful city in the spring.

Anyway, I was enjoying this beautiful day trying to cure my writers block when I came across a construction crew replacing the corner of a side walk. The trees in all the side walks creates the continuous effort of fighting the roots for level sidewalks. Our sidewalks are more like rolling hills, and I have no idea how the handicapped move around. To top it off, my fair city had it’s first earthquake about a year ago. It’s amazing that not one of these pre-civil war, mold infested, no central air having, shit heaps fell in. I thought a plane crashed on my head from the roar of the quake and not one building came down, but that is another story once I figure out how to write it.

So there’s me walking along next to the construction crew replacing the corner sidewalk. I realized that my City Slicker list could be finished if I waited till five and carve my name into the sidewalk. I  thought of all the other things I had checked off the City Slicker list and this Cowboy Sailor started to laugh. That’s when I remembered the night of Blue Lady…

So one night, lets say year two of city life, and there is a murderous knock at my door. I’m talking zombies right behind me, let me in knocking. I open the door to see the guy who lives above me. We hadn’t properly been introduced, since he just moved in, but I had seen him around. He is a squirly little guy, with blond hair that always seems to be messed up. Did I mention he put any of my addictions to shame? Long after this story, when we became friends, I properly named him FUBAR. FUCKED UP BEYOND ALL RECOGNITION  He was a good shit and I am happy to report he is alive and clean last time I heard.

So FUBAR is standing in my doorway and says these words exactly  “I hear your cool and I need your help!” Nothing good or legal have ever started with those words. He then runs his ass back upstairs without saying a word. I follow him to his apartment and find the door open. It was dark inside and I heard the sound of water running in the bathroom. I slowly crept to the bathroom with all kinds of images in my mind. He killed some poor college girl. Some hooker overdosed in his house and he is cutting up the body. Perhaps the after math of scar face will be in this bathroom although I would have heard a chainsaw from the apartment above me. Maybe I will get lucky and he just wants me to hide a shit load of guns, money and drugs. I round the corner, enter the bathroom, and find the blue lady in the tub.

First to make you fully understand I mean blue like sky vodka bottles blue. She looked like a fucking Popsicle and a naked one at that. I say nothing and look at him demanding an explanation with my eyes. He quickly responds with he left her alone for a second and she tried to sneak some heroin from him and overdosed  FUBAR’S cure for this was to place her in a cold bath. For the record I’m pretty sure it’s the worst thing to do. After refusing the urge to cut his balls off so he could never contaminate the gene pool, I tended to the blue lady.

First I would like to say I’m not a doctor, and luckily I’m scared of needles. So this was very new to me. Did I mention I’m from a farm? I told FUBAR that we need to get her to a hospital. Of course he says hell no we will get busted. I respond with I’m to drunk to drive. I tell him he has a choice, either he takes her to the hospital or I’m calling an ambulance. Tragic how the fate of this blue woman was in our incompetent hands for a moment. She better thank Christ I’m a gentleman. FUBAR knew that the crime was so bad in our city, if I called an ambulance the cops would come. Not to mention he can drive her there faster then an Ambulance  getting a police escort to our street, picking her up and driving back to the hospital. I had left him only one logical choice. Drive her it’s only five blocks away to the small hospital. Ambulances come from across town at the big mother hospital. He agreed, but he needed help getting her to the car. Now I’m a short guy 5’6 and so was my companion, but it was refreshing to see he wasn’t afraid to bang a chick taller then him. She was a good six feet. One holloween I banged a six four chick who was wearing six inch heals. I wondered if I should put a step ladder up her legs. But she loved all three hours of it. Short guys rule!

So there I was, carrying a half dead blue woman, in a blanket, down the stairs with my heroin addict companion  I wondered how my life came to this, and why criminals always trust me. The funny thing is the both of us can barely lift her and only an act of God,Allah,Yahweh and Buddha prevented us from dropping her down the stairs. Short guys are not made to carry people down flights of stairs drunk. We get her to FUBARS car, throw her in and he is off. I returned to the oasis, my apartment, and wondered if I made the right choice in letting him drive her. Is he just going to throw her in the river? The next day FUBAR told me that she will be fine after she gets out of jail in a year. God only knows how he got away, and we became fast friends. Funny enough he dated the girl for a while. She was very thankful.

Now if you will excuse me I have a side walk to carve my name into and a list to finish. Embrace where you live people. The good, the bad, the ugly, the illegal and the blue. When in Rome right? But remain a Gentleman in Rome, even if the blue lady did have a great rack. Evil only prevails when good men do nothing.

 And the list to be a cowboy if you ask. Beak a horse, use a pick up truck as a pool, hang over a hundred yards of fence, fall off a horse drunk, have a camp fire higher taller then the barn or house which ever is taller, get kicked and bite by horse, clean stall, fall in shit, sleep outside, and pass out till sunrise in pasture.

 And the sailor list… Sink a boat, break a boat in half, nearly drown, win a state champion race, have sex on boat, get head while under sail and at helm, get boomed, get hypothermia, rope burned hands till they bleed, survive hurricane, capsize and right boat during race and still win, and lose an anchor.

Now I’m a city slickin, cowboy, sailor hell yeah. 

P.S.  A song that went through my head more times then I can count during my ludicrous years.  SEND LAWYERS GUNS AND MONEY!


Accidentally on Purpose

Accidentally on Purpose

So one night I had invited a fuck buddy to come by for a night of kinky audulterism. I thought I was cool with all forms of sex till I met this chick. First she tried to finger my ass while blowing me. Not cool ladies. I felt a finger go from fondling balls to my no no spot. After I removed my finger nails from the ceiling and climbed down; she explained to me that she had banged every guy she had been with. And I don’t mean bang in the good way. I told her not this horse. Line one found.

During another night of sexual shenanigans, she asked me to cut her with a dinner knife. As well as she could ask through a ball gage while she was tied up in the entry way. I thought that would look great; the cops come in, see me with a dinner knife, woman tied up, death by thousand cuts, and boom head shot. Thoughts of me being gunned down wearing nothing but a condom and holding a magic wand. Not to mention the sight of blood makes me light headed and completely derected. Line two discovered.

So during one nights of sexcapades, I coundn’t recall which, we were having some drinks before the roll playing began. She would come in, bringing her bag of what ever hotness she would wear that night, we would catch up, have a few drinks, she would go change in the bed room, I would set up that nights fun, and it was on. Well during one of these drinking and catching up chats we had a little bit more then usual to drink. I have a bar in my apartment and I was behind it pouring champagne far to fast. We were talking, joking, having a good time, lets face it ladies I’m charming. I go to my fridge, get the third bottle of champagne, pull off the foil, wire, aim and fire.

Being the son of a chef and restaurant owner I am normally one with the cork, but I try to refrain from firing one off the my apartment. You see, I’m a half assed Buddhist, and have a nice Buddha shrine in my living room. Buddha is cool with everything except being shot in the face with a cork and shattered on the floor. I call myself a half assed  Buddhist because I love Karma, but I treat my body like an amusement park not a temple; hence half assed.

So there I am in my kitchen, hotness at the bar, with a bottle in my hand and off goes the cork. Trying to empress her, I figure I will shoot the cork down my apartment and pour her a glass. In my hast I didn’t aim properly and the cork hits the wall across the room. I have both my hands on the bottle when I realize that the cork has ricochet off the wall and is coming straight for my eye at the speed of sound. I wondered what the trip to the hospital would be like. Yes doctor I shot myself, but in my emotional throws, my suicide was foiled because instead of a gun I used a bottle of bubbly. How many times have I laughed at the warning labels on champagne bottles and the funny pictures of cartoons hitting themselves with a cork. Is it possible to have sex with a cork in my eye? I figured she would be a little turned off.

So there I was, the “Master” trying to pour a glass of champagne for the “Slave” and the dip shit “Master” is going to blind himself with a cork. Premature corkulation. Why couldn’t my parents have said, “Be careful with the bottle of champagne you’ll shoot your eye out.” I was great with the BB gun. The cork is getting closer to my face and now she is realizing that I’m about to be Kennidied. Forget the magic bullet look at this cork. Out of the corner of my eye I see her cover her mouth getting ready to laugh, scream, sympathize, how ever this turns out.

How will it turn out?  Buy my book.  Hope you enjoyed the rough draft.



When Sailors Fly

When Sailors Fly

So just to be clear, I really, really, really, don’t like flying. Something about going 600 miles per hour, in something as thick as two beer cans, a few miles above sea level, where you can’t smoke. So any time I fly I get there two hours early. One hour for security and another hour for drinking as much rum as possible. When I board my flight, my drinking arm has been in the upright and lock position. So I’m sitting in my seat slugging rum and cokes as fast as my liver will allow when I realize there are only five people on the flight. The service is amazing and I sober up long enough to realize that the stewardess are chilling in the isles passing drinks down a line straight to me. I thank god for small miracles and I head to the head (bathroom to sailors), to empty my bilge (pee), to make room for more fuel (rum). Dropping your ballast is pooing to those wondering. Before going to the head I turn to one of the stewardess and say one more rum and coke please. After dropping a gallon of rum I emerged from the head and thrust before my face is a perfectly manicured hand holding a rum and coke at eye level. Is this love I thought?

I ask the girls where all the passengers are and they remind me I live in the murder capital of America. No one flys in or out. I agree with this rationalization and we struck up a conversation. Since there were no passengers convinced the girls to have some drinks with me. A few drinks later and I have a revolutionary idea. To cover the little counter top in the kitchen with empty miny bottles. With the help of four good looking stewardess; and the game is afoot.

I would like to point out that this flight was the short leg of a cross country flight lasting about an hour and a half. The game started thirty minutes into the flight, and the math on how many bottles is mathematically staggering. A three foot by two foot counter covered in miny bottles. Those woman could drink. I was drunk.

The next thing I know I’m on my next flight headed to my destination. My lay over is a complete mystery to me. Only two more hours of beer can aerobatics I thought. My hopes and prayers went out to those girls on their next flight giving the pre flight instructions drunk. “Your emergency exits are around. There are oxygen masks that will be deployed in the event of an emergency or oxygen party. The cushions your sitting on can be used as a flotation device. Don’t worry about people farting on them for the past three years because this flight is over land. If we hit anything it’s going to be a mountain. In the event of a crash landing don’t forget to place head between knees in crash position, and kiss ass good bye. The sky martial is a post traumatic stress patient just back from Afghanistan  His bullets can and will penetrate the hull causing explosive decompression, killing us all. The pilot was just caught cheating on his wife, has lost the will to live, and a six pack deep. Finally, his plane hasn’t had a proper maintenance in six months. Thanks for flying shitty airs now sit down and shut the fuck up the fasten seat belt light is on.”

This humorous day dream was rudely interrupted by the pilot’s voice over the intercom saying “Sorry for the interruption folks but we will be experiencing some turbulence for the remainder of this flight.” I just got on this flying beer can and now your telling me it’s a martini shaker. How will I be served rum I thought. This realization came perfectly as the drink cart goes by being pushed by a scared stuartist. Now I like to think I know when to drink heavily. This is when the people who fly every day look scared. I stiff arm the drink cart, and remove two cans of coke and three minis of rum. The guy says sir we are not serving anymore and I reply with a twenty and the simple comment “I really hate flying”. Approving my prescription he snags my twenty and runs to his seat. For the next two hours I was treated to a very difficult game. Drink Rum and Coke while your mode or transportation varies in altitude by hundreds of feet in seconds. I called the game Turbulence  So after trying to drink in a paint can shaker, I reached my destination, threw up in the parking lot of the air port, and vowed to take trains or boats from now on.

I guess I’m supposed to end with conquer your fears, statistically flying is safer then driving, but I just don’t like planes. I think we should be honest with ourselves. Know where your limits are and say planes and spiders I get a pass on. Apartment fires, SWAT, cancer, finding bodies, armed people breaking in, saving woman from being raped and sailing in hurricanes I got… But, forget planes and spiders that shit is scary. Your two passes I leave to you.

A Silent Vow

A Silent Vow

Most people don’t get jaded until they are at least twenty to thirty. While some realized there was something wrong with their fellow man at a very young age. Rewind a life tape to late nineties and a boy is learning to drive a stick shift. Now this little boy had been saving his entire short fifteen year old life to buy himself a car. You see he was always competitive and when his mother remarried he became the youngest of five ranging from 15 to 20. All of his older siblings fought over the car and he wanted to be the first to get his own car so he would answer to no one when he wanted to go some where. Well he saved up all his pennies and his mom helped him by matching every dollar he put into the bank as an exercise in savings. For years he saved his pennies better then any kid his age till he saved up 3,000 buck 1500 of which was his own money. So the boy is 15 and he has bought a red BMW. Don’t let that fool you, a Cuban refugee would call it “A piece of lizard shit on a hot day”. But the boy was so proud. He was about to get his learners permit and being from a small town his mom said he could drive out the drive way and take a left. She figured even this boy couldn’t hurt himself on two miles of road. So the kid hoped into his car one day after school and said he was going to the dead end and back to practice his stick shift. He leaves and due to a combination of shitty driving, even crappier roads, and a sun glare at just the right time the boy flips his car upside down flying twenty feet before landing on the roof.

The car slides, on its roof, towards a cliff over a river. Since it was a small town, technically a village, there are no guard rails. Upside down, still buckled into his seat, the boy sees the oncoming cliff, over a river, with only a few small trees in the way. The car smashes into a tree on the passenger side smashing the door. The car bounces into another tree on the driver side door pinning the boy onto the center console by gently placing the driver side door on his leg and hip. The car bounces off this tree facing the car perfectly towards the cliff it’s about to slide over. The young boy knows that if the car doesn’t stop its a thirty foot drop onto a small beach or a river. He remembers playing on that beach, getting a huge chopping block and sailing around the point it over looks. The car loosing momentum, but still moving towards the cliff, crushes two more small trees and the hood goes over. The boy feels the car teetering over the cliff as it slides over. He sees nothing out the windshield but beach and river thirty feet down. He dangles upside down pined by the door that was neatly placed in his lap via oak tree number two. Then the car stops…

The small tree just before the cliff has gotten stuck in the sun roof. The boy realizes the car is still running and wheels still turning. It happened so fast he still has his foot on the gas. He shuts off the ignition and takes in the new situation he finds himself. He is pinned in his seat by the door that was smashed onto his left leg. The other door is smashed and wont open and strangely none of the windows are shattered. Then he smells gas. Out of the pan and into the fire he thought. This boy was always a bit of a fatalist and a bond fan. He knew a flipped car plus leaking gas equals fiery death. The count down begins in his head. Three… I’m going to die a virgin, Life fail! He knows the engine is trashed and smoking and gas is everywhere. He watches it pool under him and run down the windshield towards the engine. Two… I never sailed the world so many times I forgot how many times, Life fail! He knows that when the gas gets to the dashboard it will blow. He is strangely calm. He knows that only once in your life is there no point in fighting. There is not enough time to get his leg free, break a window and get clear. One… I never had sex with six to ten woman on a boat, Life fail! He watches the catalyst of his death flow into the dash… Nothing… He sits there ready to be roasted by God and nothing.

He says fuck it I’m gone! Luckily he is a runt of the litter and worms his leg free. He may have only survived the car being crumbled around him because he was small enough. He then unbuckles his seat belt, not realizing it is the only thing keeping him in his seat; the car is upside down. As soon as he hits the buckle, the seat belt retracts snagging his left shoulder; he falls dislocating it. Simultaneously his head smashes into the handle to open sun roof. Remember it’s a piece of shit and the sun roof has a hand crank opening. 81 BMW baby. This heavy metal plate impacts the boys forehead and may have knocked him out; this is a little blurry. The boy with a dislocated shoulder, major headache and covered in gas says “Fuck… I got this.” He resolves to punch out the drivers side window to escape. Slam… Did I mention it was a 15 year old runt he can’t break a window swinging in that cramped space. Smash… The boy says to himself, “Look fucker do you want to burn to death? Or get the hell out of here, grow up to be a bad ass, and bang six to ten chicks on your sail boat? BOOOOOOOM. The boy smashes the window and he is free. He climbs out of the car, with a dislocated shoulder, just in time to see an oncoming car. Finally… Help… This is over. He waves his right arms because he can’t lift his left. The car passes close enough so the driver and the boy can lock eyes. The boy read apathy in the drivers eyes, as the car passed by. At fifteen the boy made a silent vow to himself. If he ever saw someone who needed help he would. He would never stoop to the servile level of leaving a small boy, next to a wrecked car, on the side of the road.

The boy knew he had to finish this himself. Cowboy up. He slammed his shoulder into the trunk of his car to knock it back in, as he had seen Mel Gibson do in lethal weapon, and surprisingly worked on the second knock. He then ran a mile home so pumped up on adrenalin he didn’t even notice the piece of gas in his shoe that shredded his foot. The boy grew up, lived a interesting life to say the least and is writing this story for you now.

But, he never forgot his vow to help others in need. Gentleman always stop.

P.S. And thanks followers yesterday was my best day with 965 view and 175 new followers.  Thanks for reading and tell your friends.  Maybe I will get published.