Portrait of a Friend

(Eugene Monna—a book and art lover—2009)

Gene Monna drank a little now and then I heard, never saw him drink, perhaps he did with Tom, he and Tom were better friends, than he and I. Those last few years—before he died (and he just died, the first week of November, 2009), he had diabetes, his leg was to be amputated—or at least it was under consideration; he hadn’t been feeling well, neither.

        Sitting so among the book readers at Barnes and Nobel, as he often did, gazing across the café, over at me, and who knows who else, potted smugly with a dozen titles against his heavy forearms, his cold restless near boredom eyes, looking across shelves of books as one would look across the Atlantic in a telescope on a ship: as if awaiting for twilight or an nostalgic moment; to add to that, he looks about in abandoned retrospect, around that bookstore as if life had sent him into a trying tumult, and now with lost ambition, resigned to a few friends, no longer young, near seventy, he is thinking of the tireless detachment he seems to gravitate towards, with the world, just getting himself here and there is cumbersome. 

       He remarks to me, on a dog with one leg, we laugh, trying to figure out how the dog gets about, we laugh so hard we have to hold our bellies, lose our composure, acting like kids: as Gene awaits his pleasure with dependable attentive politeness with me, with a character of laisser-faire, that rules his selective relationships, he claims the privilege for his friends himself, and for those who are not, he replies.

       Here he sits—as he does in his book stacked apartment, in a warm chair of books with words and pictures that mean nothing whatsoever to him, looking at girls in paintings, exciting uniformity in dress and accompanied by men and without men, and he reaches to the next page quietly and lightly and touches the paintings briefly, wondering how the mind of the painter was thinking when he was doing the painting.

       Gene, with his extreme tastes, gold chains, and large gold rings, solid gold, continues to form his obliviousness to the art work, lots of passionate and distant moods going through him, there he looks and looks and studies the art—in old helpless dismay, thinking how to understand the crudeness of each picture, and its inexhaustible flow of lines and brush marks and colors, and figures.

       That was all I knew of him—although I did know he had a wife at one time and, an adult offspring, someplace, somewhere, who never seemed to worry of his existence. That was all he’d let me know of him, perhaps that’s why we got along so well, we never asked questions.

No: 564 (1-5-2010) Dedicated to Gene Monna

They Have Not Perished (The Inhabitants of Easter Island, 2002)

And I got to know them, those who had not perished. Those who had never been further from their island, Easter Island, never left their island other than diving for sport, fare or ritual.   I had heard them also, as one hears a whispering in the ear: the first night of my arrival, they would not let me sleep?

       The living inhabitants of the island, they were as if they had not yet even seen cell phones. It was as if twilight itself had been frozen over that little island that didn’t hardly even show on a map, that not even a hand full of people out of all the whole world, lived, and more visitors came to visit each week than lived on the island—two flights in and two flights out each week. Without a doubt, no more than four platoons of civilians, looking out into all directions and touching nothing for two-thousand miles but water: never anything bigger, or big enough for a plane to land on—to be remembered.

        Here was a place that banshees, and unfamiliar spirits, and the long eared, red haired cyclopean spirits, from the bird cult, of the once and now sunken empire of Lemuria come to live—breaking waves to reach this most isolated island in the world ((from the scattered islands of the South Pacific) (the spirits of the dead—even returning as cockroaches and flies, coming back to kill but when they came back as crabs, they didn’t kill—so legend says. They named Raraku after a mountain, they guarded their spirits while they slept, lest they be taken from them; many spirits haunted the crater of Rano Raraku, so tales are told)), here is where the spirits live, have lived, and died, and still live,  beyond reproach, for countless centuries have lived—have lived in and on, and seemingly forever, within the: stones, the streams round the coast in formed grottoes and crannies, innumerable, once sleeping places, once burials, small chambers with roofed slabs, cracks and crooks and  crevices of the island: walked at one time those ancient roads  to and around and within  the crater Rano Kao, Cooks Bay, Hanga Roa; and somewhere along the unwritten line of ancient languages, built, carved and erected those ancient colossus’ with designs and images showing raised rings and girdle and with what: stone tools? Chipping away the stone in undermining the statue —those excavated statues: at Rano Raraku carving out those stone red hats in an unfinished quarry, where their hats were stamped, marked for delivery:  loved, whether they had anything to be remembered for, or loved for, did love and live, but nothing more than spirits of them remain: nothing other than those unmovable stone colossus’ —those who would not perish, they are still there, inside those stone colossus’ as if imprinted with their old spiritual residue way back when: towering with weights up to ninety tons, without names that are now but shadows of the deeds that made them now silent, men who did the deeds, who lasted and now endure the stones and fought the battles and lost and won and fought again, and again, and again, because they were not even aware they lost, but in time overwhelmed by the world that surrounded them—remained, would not perish did not perish, yet still went on to shape their island: reliving, and simply living their old customs, traditions, as old as those statues, those huge mammoth ancient statues.

       I got to know them both—the living inhabitants and those who would not perish, still powerful in their legends, still powerful and dangerous with one another. The unfamiliar spirits hidden in those statues, in the bones under those statues—they did visit me, talked to me, even a witch visited me, and told me what they died for, what they became, just whispers of course, a few words, no louder than a whispering sun-shower, or a murmuring sunflower to another sunflower, even the marrow in their bones talked to me, and the skull in the cave talked to me: we came to an understanding—them and I, that it was Easter Island, and it is just a dot in the South Pacific, and yes, that’s so, it’s all right—to live in stone, in the past, if that is what you want—a near silent and lonely life, but if that is what you want, really and truly want.

       Five days later in the late afternoon I flew out from under that island, through the shade of those old glorious stone statues—and those who would not perish, then along the ocean, turning to Santiago, Chile, leaving behind me the old other world—that still is the old other world.

No: 487 (written, 10-5-2009; reedited, 11-1-2009; reedited a second time, 2-24-2012; reedited a third time 8-2-2012)

The Thing under The House

I have found my house inhabited by some terrible things, ugly things, in particular one thing. My thoughts are very confusing on this matter. There is even some apprehension as to where they begin. For at times I have appalling visions of faces within the marble bathroom floor, many faces of this  creature—in lack of a better term, demonic. This creature, or beast or whatever, alien of some sort, long dead, now stretching behind me some twenty-years since I built the house.  In consequence, I am somehow convinced there formless faces in the marble, in the blue and white marble tiles in my bedroom, bathroom, are trying to communicate. But what, what do those faces want to tell me: perhaps displeasure, anger, or just torment me.

       I have some vague impressions that some eerie and strange terrible thing took place under the foundation of my house eons ago.

       The identity of these faces is bewildering, cloudy, perhaps suffered some great shock, and could even be alien.

       When my wife and I were building the house, we had found old monstrous bones, and one huge ancient skull, also some artifacts, we took none. Surely they had been born from an incredible people long before the Incas, long before civilization as we know it, existed, perhaps 17,000-years ago, so my archeologist friend suggested. Of course it was all a worm-riddled experience—finding them bones. 

       I remember when I found them—in a dimly lit cave, under my house, as we dug out the foundation, in Miraflores, Lima Peru—seemingly it was at one time, perhaps during the last Ice Age, at one time, this cave was part of a river, it was an idea that came to mind, and once I crawled into it, so it appeared to reach back endlessly.

       “Tell no one of this find, just build your house over it, fill the side of the cave, up with stones and dirt and cement,” my friend told me, “lest you want the government to take your land and use it as they please, and give you not one dollar.” And I took this to heart, I took his advice, and did as he said, built over the site.

       And now the skull and the bones with some kind of artificial flesh, dripping flesh that appeared on them, was in the marble tile floor within my bathroom, next to my bedroom.

       There is a fascination to be penned by those faces, strange ancient beyond the three dimensional—

       The hideous conclusion: my mind being confused, reluctant, came to an awful certainty, if not lost in its labyrinth, not able to turn in any direction without seeing  these faces—faces my wife could not see—perhaps I had second sight, who’s to say, an awakening for me if so—nonetheless, faces I could only see, I took a slug hammer and broke the marble tiles to smithereens, now in small fragments—that nevermore should I behold those faces and in particular that hug skull, with eyes drooping, hanging out of its sockets, and string like flesh, as if part mold.

       My reason could no longer entertain the slightest belief, this was real, and surely my mind was playing tricks: so I pondered, deliberated on. Then I put in new black marble tiles in its place—hope had departed. Hence, I was indoctrinated to the life form of the paranormal.

       I had frequently read on such matters, and got only a small satisfaction from them. And now here I stood, as the saying goes: in the belly of the whale, it was true, gospel true; there were other dimensions, forms of life. In any case, I remained quiet, lest I lose my bearings. My wife didn’t know how to comfort me, nor did she have a solution, other than referring me to a psychologist, and she dare not say that, for I am one.

       For this reason, I then reflected, like walking backwards, came to the conclusion, I had disturbed their ancient grave site, twenty-years prior. This was true, gospel true, so I took it upon myself to talk to the faces, yes, as bland as it sounds that was my next and only step I could think of, and I said in a bold manner: 

       “I am sorry I disturbed your resting place, but what is done is done, what I will do now is this, I will sell the house to the archeologist, he has always wanted this house, not for the house but for your bones, so he will tare down the house and take your bones and all and put them on display at a museum for all to see, to gawk at—this is your ultimate fate, should you not go back to your resting place: for this I am certain.”

       And faster than a clap of an eye, those faces disappeared. My impression of the whole matter was that those faces, those spirits behind those faces were so angry at me, they had gone mad under the circumstances, not realizing twenty-years had passed, I mean to the dead what is twenty-years, and they just hadn’t stopped to think, things could be worse.

#966 (9-23-2012)

The Butcher of Lima (or, ‘Lunch with Mario Poggi’)

It is true that I have asked Mario Poggi, the renowned psychologist of Peru, over to my house for lunch, that he had served a long term of person time for strangling one of his patients to death, the very one, infamous one they call the “The Butcher of Lima,” and it is true on several occasions I have purchased some of his art work, to help him live, his credentials as a professional have been taken away from him.  Matter of fact, he even had me talk to one of his patients once—better said, counsel him once.

       And yet I hope to show by this short narrative that perhaps he is not the murderer we all claim him to be; or the madman he is so often referred to by the media, and the many people I’ve talked to.

       Was he the murderer of the Butcher of Lima? Who killed half dozen victims? If so, who was madder, him or the Butcher? I do hope some of my readers will weigh this statement. Correlate it with the known facts, and ask: which horror is worse; his or the Butcher of Lima’s?

       Perhaps there is madness in both, even the courts were at their wits’ end to account for that last terrible killing—Poggi’s murder; yet all of Lima, all 7.5 million inhabitants were frightened of the Butcher, until Mario Poggi the prison psychologist, was accused of stepping behind a chair, and pulling off his belt, and strangling him to death, as the Butcher of Lima, had done so many times to his victims, without an ounce of remorse. 

       They tried weekly to concoct a theory, a ghastly jest to warn other behavior science helpers to do the right thing, and perhaps a little pressure from the good Samaritans called:  Human Right groups, that feel, even if the truth is something infinitely more terrible and incredible, the servant of the people must be punished.

       So it is said, he murdered the Butcher while in custody at a mental ward, while in prison, under Poggi’s care, but had you asked Poggi, I do believe he would have told you, and he did say so on occasions, and inferred to me: he avenged the dead, the ones the Butcher killed, and the ones he was going to kill. But you see he didn’t give the Butcher a chance to name the new victims, whom he would have put onto his list—after he had gotten out of prison.

       What Poggi was really saying is: he stopped the purge; he did not allow the Butcher’s lawers to loosen untold terrors on all of Lima again.

       There are many color zones of shadows close to our daily paths, some are black, others grey, some white and not visible. Sometimes evil, good evil, if there is such a thing, might come under a greyer zone in the color spectrum—perhaps, white, unseen, passed through; when that occurs the person who is aware, and knowledgeable, usable and available, must strike before reckoning befalls humanity—; you see, the Government does this more often than not, more than anyone, it is called: in the Interest of National Security. It must be done you see, before a city whole or perhaps whole nation, suffers the consequences—again and again and again. This of course cannot be seen by the naked eye, or the naked mind.

       I have known Poggi now for a number of years, perhaps ten in all, he is most phenomenal, a scholar, also, perhaps having a strange secretive inner life: as a younger person, with imagination that gave him freedom.

       At any rate, his adult learning was with the intention of doing good I do believe, not bizarre things as he ended up doing; his odd genius developed a remarkable sensation, a sinister ill-regard for a greatly retarded killer. But society said: you are equal to the Butcher—figuratively speaking that is, but he never shaped any tragedy beyond killing the killer—if indeed that is a tragedy: that is the big difference, where the Butcher was in a world of forbidden necrophagous, or perhaps equal: necrophilia and necromancy (feeding on corpses, fascination with death, communicating with spirits).

       When Boggi talked to me his voice was soft, and light, and his somewhat now dull life, perhaps better said, unexercised life gave him stoutness, more so than a paunchiness, and now past middle age.  He was not in good health, yet still a handsome face, green hair, notable gallant, a shyness to him which brought him to a closer seclusion. Still fairly well-known, I was perhaps one of his better and less critical friends, and we talked an inexhaustible quarry of vital theoretical topics, ate a good lunch, coffee a little wine, and whatever matters he did not wish to refer to his innocence or guilt, he was injured by some odd psychological woe, perhaps affliction, for doing society good in a bad way. 

       As we talked and after he left and we met again several times—along with meeting his wife and daughter, he seemed to feel some sort of bizarre exhilaration as if he escaped from some unseen bondage, he began to mingle more despite his heavy blackmail from society and the courts, and from others for his crime.

       The last time I saw him, he looked as if he was on drugs, he had gotten a divorce, and was no longer seeing his child—to my knowledge; his look and his mind told me: there were no more countless matters to be adjusted; philosophically speaking.

#967 (9-26-2012)

Note: the author communicated with Mario Poggi between 2002 and 2010 perhaps

on a dozen occasions.  The sketch is by the author, D. L. Siluk, taken from a sculpture he purchased by Mario Poggi, in 2005.       

Unfeigned Love

(A Short Poetic Narration)

In old age I’ve come to some kind of an understanding or at least a tinge

       of realization, let me explain:

That when I was young, God, he overlooked many of my mistakes: a boy

       and a bit in the wick, that is to say: twisted, loosely braided, as on a

       candlestick.

And I know now, that when I became a man, and more than a man, he

       watched over my mind: as I left my blistering prints, wherever I did, in

       those coal black nights, and those far-off days.

Now in old age—at sixty-four: the time when the rude owl cries like a

       telltale wolf to those demonic cockroaches:  to woo these old eyes Not to Be: Penitent…

Perhaps wishing I’d go back to those dipping moon drunk days, when I

       sizzled beds and quickly fled, like a cat in a flame.

He, the Lord of Hosts, has preserved me that I may repent.

I know now He knew my heart would not remain in a never-ending   

       cascading, landslide: of decaying stone; this here now, old

       deep-boned, once about a time, roustabout, ramrod.

I know now that I was to be created before the unformed volcanic earth

       of which he created man for…in balance with the other planets.

And I know we are not God’s Apes, perhaps his tragic children,   if indeed

       we can see it above our knees, with our  tormented lifestyle and

       minds: dying a bit each day of our downfall;

Collapsing like a cat in a flame: gusty half men, sizzling…!

And I know soon God will take my soul to Paradise or Heaven: no longer

       the black rebel with a rutted horn, singing sinful songs.

Knowing now the immortality of the soul, is so— and I am more than an

       animal who has no resurrection: I am a man more and more:

Not the cursed residents cooed by the devils of: Sodom and Gomorrah…

And all the deadly virtues that once plagued my soul, no longer plague my

       death…I am at peace with God and Myself!

And I knew then and there, at that specific moment when God’s hand

       appeared: man was God’s creation;

Molded by his own hands, and accordingly, he teaches as he finds it right,

       not as man thinks it should be.

Why then can I sing his praises, and say: “I understand why there are no

       tears in heaven?”

Hence, understanding my own question, when he never answered me, but

       showed me? 

It is a different language: the mist of God, that surrounds a man, soaks

       into the pours of his skin: understanding appears, as if out of Nowhere!

Love covers sin, which we commit

Hour by hour, day by day; night and day, season to season: hence,

Let us acquire love—saving love.

For I have learned, a man lives seventy years in sin, and repents in a day,

       and through Christ’s blood, he can be saved, without even being

       baptized!

And perhaps saved, and sent to paradise, out of repentance, while

       hanging on a cliff, with wind-thrown cedars in his face,

Out of some kind of mercy…and innocence; but all men, they know

       evil for evil—yet in the clap of an eye they are saved: how can this be?

To God it is nothing, nothing if you hate your neighbor and say: “I love

       you God, Lord of Hosts,” how can this be, it is a lie, you are a liar!

No doubt—  You are dreaming: twined in a cold winter’s sun, goose-

       skinned, and have no peace with God.

You love a delusion, for he who loves God, shall also love his neighbor,

       his brother, even his enemy.

Love does not cling to overhanging clouds, it is on a pilgrimage; even

       heaven has nothing greater than love.

For out of love, the Son of God chose to bear the agonies of the Cross.

Thus, in all that I have said so far, can I not call this: Unfeigned Love?

To Him be glory and power for ever and ever, amen.

#3408 (8-30-2012)

This is a Modified version, taken from parts one thru four…”The Hidden Grave of Treasures” (Part:  “Unfeigned Love”)

Three Haiku Poems

Haiku of the Bear

The bear and the man

They both steal for pleasure, thus:

Are they not brothers (?)

9-8-2012/#3419

The Bishop

(Double-haiku)

To see what man is

born to, a Bishop should: eat,

sleep—and, above all:

work–, as his enslaved

brethren  does! Then he’d learn

and then, he can preach.

9-8-2012/#3420

Note:  The author for a good portion of his early life worked in foundries, factories, fast-food, and construction; during the second part of his life he worked as a soldier for a decade, along with being in a war (Vietnam); and then as a professional counselor (Psychology); now as a poet and writer, which he started at the age of 12, and somehow maintained on the side intermittently writing whenever he could, all his life until the forth part of his life allowed him to write full time.   Thus, he walks the walk, not simply talking the talk. Even God, in the form of Jesus Christ did this: walk the walk.

When People Understand

When people value

one another, they speak frank

as if they’ve known

each other, all their

lives…; thus, with my two prized friends

I leave it lay there.

For: Dr. Jesus Pomachagua (Rector of the UNCP)

& Lic. Dimas Aliaga Castro (Mayor de Huancayo)

9-9-2012/#34121

Haitian Woman Making Goat Stew in Ranquitte, 1986 (poem)

Goat Stew in Ranquitte

I stood still in the forenoon, my face is turned away from the

       sun.

A woman is cooking goat stew in my long shadow.

The Minister’s house is silent, I’m standing under the edge of the

       extended roof.

My friends and I are building a medical clinic nearby; I’m a bit

       overheated, resting (it is the summer of 1986).

…

I feel like a strange sea creature, drawn back into it (it is July, 2012).

But the spirit inside of me is moving, it says: after twenty-six

       years, it says: ‘It’s time to go back!”

I close my eyes, and think of Haiti, I see a little girl by a woman cooking

       the goat stew…

There are good things in this world, and Haiti is one, and Goat Stew is

       another!

#3379 (7-18-2012)

Recalled from notes and photographs from 1986,

trip to Haiti by the author and 18-other Missionaries 

Poem of the: Feeble Heroes of the Day

William Faulkner was a punk and a drunk!

Dylan Thomas was a punk and a drunk!

Hemingway was a drunk and a suicide!

Jack London was a drunk, but less than a punk!

F. Scott Fitzgerald was a punk and a drunk

Sylvia Plath and her mate, Anne Sexton were

      both mentally ill poet suicides;

We can add Virginia Woolf to that list too:

And we can add George Sterling to that also.

Elvis was no punk no drunk, but was a drug

       addict all the same; likened to the Beatles,

And the Doors: sex mongrels so many adore.

And Michael Jackson was the same, feeble

       Heroes, that played the game—and

Everyone thinks their in Heaven, are we insane?

Mary Renault, Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein,

Elton John—to mention a few, along with a dozen

       movies stars, I’ve got no room to mention

       in this poem,

Are all Homosexual heroes, and a few priests

       I know…good writers, singers, and clergy;

All the same, I’d not wish to be near them,

       in any john or café!

Saddam Hussein and bin Laden, were both

       cowards, couldn’t load a gun, and

Perhaps never shot one, but had everyone

Else fight their battles for them…son of a gun.

President Obama—head of the USA, never

A soldier, sailor nor airman, but runs the scene;

       a devil in disguise, always

Wants to wins first prize, doesn’t do a thing, but got

The Nobel Prize for war, and a PH.D., for the love

Of Homosexuals, gay marriages, abortion, at

The Catholic University, called Notre Dame,

He knows how to play the game. And he’s no

Different than the rest, he’s made America

Fight wars with no American crisis: for exercise

I’d guess; all under the disguise of National Security…!

More and more and more lies, more sick soldiers

Coming home with broken bones and broken minds!

More movie stars—singers too, athletes, with big

Mouths, voicing their opinions at the UN, like

       little poodles trying to befriend whoever will

Praise them…

Philosophers everywhere, who are really, newscasters,

       or comedians!...

Everyone wants to get a shot at being a hero,

       for the day, but nobody wants to go to ground zero

And fight for what is right, in God’s name.

What’s wrong with this picture my friends?

There are too many roosting roosters, which look like

        hens; and too many hens trying to be roosters

And all the people in between, are watching football

And drinking beer, by some T.V!  Waving the American

       flag, as if they had something to say.

By gosh what’s next? Only feeble heroes to pick from,

Where are the SEALs…! They’re all hidden.

#3438 (10-4-2012)

Operation Neptune Spear (The poem)

The Engines roared of the two helicopters,

With twenty-three SEALs and one CIA

The Black Hawk I, its crew’s chief slid the door open

The wind buffed against the men

On a tall wall overlooking the compound,

Black Hawk one crashed—into the courtyard

But it didn’t infringe the plan,

Thus, only frustration came! They were

Chasing the man called Osama bin Laden:

Ahead of al Qaeda (the Base)…out of

Jalalabad, they had come, beyond

The boarders of Afghanistan, to Pakistan

Pushing Operation Neptune Spear:

The Assault, was to be on a neighborhood house

In the city of Abbottabad: the fugitive’s home.

The plan, ‘Kill the man and anyone who tries

To stop them…’ Not to say, it was said that way,

But that’s how it was read, I do believe…

And good reddens to bad rubbish:

(The latter being my saying of course).

But first came Ahmed al- Kuwaiti, like a caged animal,

With an AK 47 in hand, bullets, and shrapnel

Flew here and there, everywhere:

He was assigned to be bin Laden’s savior, but

That didn’t play out!

And he went down, like a clown, perhaps to Paradise,

More likely to Hell!

Leaving his wife (Mariam) and children behind!

Now it was Bin Laden’s time…

Let me see if I can make this rime:

Holy ...uck, he got shot in the head:

He laid there by the side of his bed, like a dead duck:

His blood and brains seeped out of the side of his skull—

Twitching but dead, convulsing but dead—

No more to be said…!

Then he was shot in the chest—god forbid,

He was deader than dead!

And the SEALs went back to wherever they come

From—and had a good crash, if not laugh, I mean rest:

Ate a hearty breakfast that night: with whiskey

And rum and beer on the side, and had lots of

Milk and cookies in morning for their briefing

While Obama the Great U.S., President, for the day

Had his way; was full of pride thinking what was next

Oh his merry-go-round check list:

How about the 2012: “Campaign?”  I mean,

Presidential elections…?

Note:  Dedicated to the Team of SEALs, who dared the great feat of ‘Operation Neptune Spear’

May 1, 2011 (#3437/10-2-2012)

The World That Was

When I traveled the world from continent to continent

       seen all the fossils, high and low:

Animals and our ancient ancestors buried in muck and mud;

       walked on glaciers, seen the ocean’s floor;

Been to the peaks of the Andes, and on Cape Horn;

To the ends of the earth, North and South—

To me it becomes quite obvious, it is God’s testimony

       to man, should he feel he’s alone!

On the other hand, should He not be feared or revered…

One who is able to destroy the earth and nearly all that

       is on it, with a twist of his finger with water and sand:

Once angered by the filth of man, has something coming!

Thus, he can surly destroy the earth and man and his

       soul, ONCE again.

Incasing all man, back within the sediments of earth

       and sand, once and for all, from whence he came from.

There awaits an even more terrible fate for man, of this

       present age, who refuses Him respect,

       who disregards His warnings from the Heavens:

What is eternal fire, what can be compared to it?

Of that day, the heavens will pass away— with a great

       roar, with intense heat, and the earth will be

Scorched, and melted, like a candle and burnt meat…

#3439 (10-4-2012)

Note: Ref:  11 Peter 3:10/Ps 66:3/Heb 10:31/11 Cor. 5:11