Ode to Seven
"But they are dead; those two are dead!Their spirits are in heaven!" William Wordsworth, We Are Seven"
"If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles." Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass LII
THE SEANCE
If Elvis was here
he could do it
but we lost him
in the back seat
of a bluebird.
Me and Sarah
sobered up like
Katherine in the closet
when we asked Lori's dead dad to knock,
we all sobered up,
kicked our way out-
saw locked windows and doors
all around, pleasant grass outside
not the fake kind
but real, stable grass,
Country Squire in the carport,
the avocado Frigidaire
opened and closed
bilaterally, as was the style.
SQUIRREL DUENDE
St. Pat's let out at three
no one moved until
Sister Josepha left with her
cross-kissing Judas stories
hanging around her ankles
like worn out socks on a poor kid,
no one dared.
A squirrel huddled behind 15 miles an hour,
tried to give me rabies
in trade for my cuddle,
his eye a brown globe
the color of a monk.
I denied this in the confessions.
MARY'S OD
Mary, Mary quite contrary
how did your urgent need grow?
Knick Knack Paddy Whack
your old man rolled home.
Here we go round the Mulberry Bush,
so he beat the shit out of her.
She died in her own vomit
several years later,
her bracelet landing
on heaven in the hopskotch.
BURN
We tried to burn the town down
a stampede put it out
as an afterthought
right near the big circle
that drains into several
asphalt tributaries
Wood Canyon, Spring Canyon
Pearly Street-
We should have known
by the water marks
on the library walls
the flood couldn't take
it down neither,
a hundred some years before.
It just kept on melting.
MEDITATION
Old Man Ham
had a Folger's can,
his wife was really lean.
She kept a Baptist house
no smoke inside, her pies never burned.
He stood and puffed
out by the garden gate,
watched the cottonwoods say:
wow amen.
US
All our fights looked the same
mom's skirts blowed up
as she fell down
her soft perfect bottom
showed up real fine.
Old man Ham nearly fell over
when we pushed him out the door,
his false teeth clicked
in the roof of his mouth.
Inside his house Grace
popped her gum incessantly near
something they called an ottoman.
Sometimes we felt a little poor.
AFTER HE DIED
At night one night
running past the ankle high
black gully windows,
wicked little transoms
under houses built on flash floods,
up past the garden gate,
his chair under that pear tree,
almost empty,
the air was very very clear.
Through our newest
hollow door I kept running
on the last breath and I summoned
his soul from the cotton we kicked
off our shoes in spring.
When I told mom this,
she called for a Nitro.
This is how I remember it.
GRACE'S ADDENDUM
On a muggy afternoon
in late summer three quarters
of the way from Tucson
Grace Ham's daughter
took a turn for the worse on I-10.
Mom turned into puddles
all around the house.
It was wetter than the day
our Spaniel Maxi got rigor mortis on the front porch.
27.2.09
25.2.09
The Black Out
"Yes, you are all equal, men and women, rich and poor, the healthy and the sick, taught Christ. However, it was not until the 18th century and the French Revolution that the Rights of Man were formally proclaimed and Man’s liberty affirmed, liberty to think, to love and to act and so to make our civilisation. But it needed only the briefest space of time in the 20th century for the barbaric spirit of evil, of crime, of hatred, to make the tranquil village of Khiam in South Lebanon, nestling among the olive trees, the vines and the fig trees tended by its solid, hard-working peasants, into a prison camp worthy of the Nazis and evily reputed for the tortures and suffering inflicted on its inmates. There the occupying forces imprisoned and tormented their fellow humans come from the same stock of Abraham....." -Unknown Author
The secrets I take to bed
are no longer my own
excerpts, persona non grata
by law it is suggested
penalties of up to five
years in a federal penitentiary
and fines, there is comfort
in this prediction
the scar of blood still
within the mattress
and Rome said so too
we see it coming
the Moon still says yes
the leak keeps returning
through the open door
the barn tries to stay
as red as the wheelbarrow
which used to be a promise
the most naive color
preemptive in the consultations
of contracted work
we want you to do this
for that much
the pole at Khiam
remembers those tied to it
reaches for those who fled.
To the abandoned
it is a waste of time
this redness
over more red
to the abandoned
machetes and jeeps
find the marks,
whole nations die
in their sleep
and wake up breathing
they keep bleeding
the words we know why
and that is okay too.
I heard the story from them after the war had subsided, not ended but abated. By some miracle, the parents found Lena and Ali and Fatooma and Hanan and Shetha (which means fragrance) and Ali's brother and that Ali's wife and their children and someone's mother-in law and Lulu (which means Pearl) and some others in a gray Mercedes which was broken down on the side of the road and transferred everyone into their old Honda where their daughter Ahlam (which means Dream) sat quietly with Ahmed her husband and their children Ali and Dana plus Mohamed (the agnostic) and his pious wife Dalal who was pregnant at the time . Thirty in all, jammed into the seats and trunk of a car in the middle of no where which is where a blackout happens...the world loses definition and everything that you know is what you feel inside and what you hear. What you see and taste and smell become secondary to everything that is witnessed. When it is mortar rounds the black out is all the more appealing to the subconscious, there is no fuel and the aperture is closing. They were the last to leave the war zone and by some miracle, some never did.
Khiam prison was operated by the SLA at the behest of the Israeli government. The prison was liberated by Shia forces in May 2000 and subsequently, destroyed by Israel in the invasion of 2006, an indication of the guilty who are known to attempt to destroy the evidence of the torture carried out at the famous site in the name of Israeli Security.
What About Mars?
No more problems says the package
the cure came in, no more
warning labels and the price tag
no longer legible. It began
with flashy children and fast cars
then people started talking
about the leftover stuff
after the move out,
wondered what would happen
to the crystal ball and Japanese flag.
Where to put Mars now?
Whose house next?
"Yes, you are all equal, men and women, rich and poor, the healthy and the sick, taught Christ. However, it was not until the 18th century and the French Revolution that the Rights of Man were formally proclaimed and Man’s liberty affirmed, liberty to think, to love and to act and so to make our civilisation. But it needed only the briefest space of time in the 20th century for the barbaric spirit of evil, of crime, of hatred, to make the tranquil village of Khiam in South Lebanon, nestling among the olive trees, the vines and the fig trees tended by its solid, hard-working peasants, into a prison camp worthy of the Nazis and evily reputed for the tortures and suffering inflicted on its inmates. There the occupying forces imprisoned and tormented their fellow humans come from the same stock of Abraham....." -Unknown Author
The secrets I take to bed
are no longer my own
excerpts, persona non grata
by law it is suggested
penalties of up to five
years in a federal penitentiary
and fines, there is comfort
in this prediction
the scar of blood still
within the mattress
and Rome said so too
we see it coming
the Moon still says yes
the leak keeps returning
through the open door
the barn tries to stay
as red as the wheelbarrow
which used to be a promise
the most naive color
preemptive in the consultations
of contracted work
we want you to do this
for that much
the pole at Khiam
remembers those tied to it
reaches for those who fled.
To the abandoned
it is a waste of time
this redness
over more red
to the abandoned
machetes and jeeps
find the marks,
whole nations die
in their sleep
and wake up breathing
they keep bleeding
the words we know why
and that is okay too.
I heard the story from them after the war had subsided, not ended but abated. By some miracle, the parents found Lena and Ali and Fatooma and Hanan and Shetha (which means fragrance) and Ali's brother and that Ali's wife and their children and someone's mother-in law and Lulu (which means Pearl) and some others in a gray Mercedes which was broken down on the side of the road and transferred everyone into their old Honda where their daughter Ahlam (which means Dream) sat quietly with Ahmed her husband and their children Ali and Dana plus Mohamed (the agnostic) and his pious wife Dalal who was pregnant at the time . Thirty in all, jammed into the seats and trunk of a car in the middle of no where which is where a blackout happens...the world loses definition and everything that you know is what you feel inside and what you hear. What you see and taste and smell become secondary to everything that is witnessed. When it is mortar rounds the black out is all the more appealing to the subconscious, there is no fuel and the aperture is closing. They were the last to leave the war zone and by some miracle, some never did.
Khiam prison was operated by the SLA at the behest of the Israeli government. The prison was liberated by Shia forces in May 2000 and subsequently, destroyed by Israel in the invasion of 2006, an indication of the guilty who are known to attempt to destroy the evidence of the torture carried out at the famous site in the name of Israeli Security.
What About Mars?
No more problems says the package
the cure came in, no more
warning labels and the price tag
no longer legible. It began
with flashy children and fast cars
then people started talking
about the leftover stuff
after the move out,
wondered what would happen
to the crystal ball and Japanese flag.
Where to put Mars now?
Whose house next?
18.2.09
The Barbie Project
A planned art work showing a decapitated Barbie will not feature in a charity exhibition celebrating the doll, toymakers Mattel vowed today. -The Independent, October 1999
Starman extreme totem,
baby rubber plastic doll,
you are my super delicious
even on the floor
even in the water,
the best She-ra ever.
How many worn out
Polly Pockets are there now?
To each his own
and in Babylon,
the dirt still covers
the old puppets
just as well as it always did.
The bronze happens and recovers,
counting backwards all the time
in half lifes, by tens
editing the masterpieces
one by one, she's there
because faith heals
the right totem
for the right plaintiff,
I want to hold a firefly.
We all do. The best
is brand-new.
I'll tell you a secret
about the learning curve
that this life is,
how the children
ape the ages.
It is in the boxes,
never goes away.
All the thrift stores
in town, all the pretty
Skippers in torn dresses
with nappy hair, practically dead.
All the armless legions
of men and women
created in playscale
but not that, not that.
No one buys special edition
nuns eleven.5 inches tall.
If I could sew my taboo
around this doll's neck
it'd be righteous real voodoo.
I'd lay it at the foot
of a dying man's bed
and call it, his only totem,
in your basic breast-plate
and a real good hooker
with poke-in earrings.
We all do.
We want to hold a firefly.
A planned art work showing a decapitated Barbie will not feature in a charity exhibition celebrating the doll, toymakers Mattel vowed today. -The Independent, October 1999
Starman extreme totem,
baby rubber plastic doll,
you are my super delicious
even on the floor
even in the water,
the best She-ra ever.
How many worn out
Polly Pockets are there now?
To each his own
and in Babylon,
the dirt still covers
the old puppets
just as well as it always did.
The bronze happens and recovers,
counting backwards all the time
in half lifes, by tens
editing the masterpieces
one by one, she's there
because faith heals
the right totem
for the right plaintiff,
I want to hold a firefly.
We all do. The best
is brand-new.
I'll tell you a secret
about the learning curve
that this life is,
how the children
ape the ages.
It is in the boxes,
never goes away.
All the thrift stores
in town, all the pretty
Skippers in torn dresses
with nappy hair, practically dead.
All the armless legions
of men and women
created in playscale
but not that, not that.
No one buys special edition
nuns eleven.5 inches tall.
If I could sew my taboo
around this doll's neck
it'd be righteous real voodoo.
I'd lay it at the foot
of a dying man's bed
and call it, his only totem,
in your basic breast-plate
and a real good hooker
with poke-in earrings.
We all do.
We want to hold a firefly.
16.2.09
Harry Potter Survives Bible Camp
It never succeeds in the one
minute marketplace
of our fears and of our dreams,
idols are more shallow than stones,
more brittle than dry leaves,
less contagious than flu pandemics.
You just don't make heroes
out of warlocks you know
and volcanoes are far less attractive
up close, earthquakes
are a real eyesore. Leprosy
is about as much of a handicap
as that is a pending redundancy
as in it happens all the time
so how about right now?
The average blizzard in heart
smart America, all that ice
and frustration collapses
with the ease of a jumbo
as it skids on into eternity
through a ball of flame, what real chastity
provoked this auspicious indication?
Flame-happy chastisement
breaks apart every disgusted reason,
each survival story and just-right
parable driven population
as it lay awake at night
for one last communion
with Haggard and his disciples
at a madrasa in North Dakota
where the fantasy breach warbles
and bleeds, bereft and broken.
Ah, the end times. The end times.
All these heart shaped intifadas.
Nineteenth Sura, Miriam
They said, "The Most Gracious has begotten a son"!
You have uttered a gross blasphemy.
The heavens are about to shatter,
the earth is about to tear asunder,
and the mountains are about to crumble.
12.2.09
INS Jalashva or Water Horse or oddly enough, the Hippo
http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/USS_Trenton_becomes_INS_Jalashva/articleshow/1287538.cms
http://news.webindia123.com/news/Articles/India/20080202/881615.html
Next to Ginsberg
Hard to believe I sat next to Ginsberg in 1979,
saw King Fahed being ushered into the ER
wrapped in a pink blanket to disguise him,
he pee'd on my friend in the ICU.
Jack Nicholson ordered coffee from me once
at the Little America Truckstop in Flag,
a pack of cigarettes rolled up
in the sleeve of his black t-shirt
(then he started marrying waitresses).
I lived next door to a man that was
beheaded for building Apaches.
My husband ran into Gene Hackman at the Taj Majal
and Elvira let him encircle her for a picture
down in Atlanta at a convention.
Someone I know told me Goldie Hawn was real awful
in a five star hotel and Kurt was as handsome
as he was in The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes
(which I mistakenly called, The Computer War Tennis Shoes)
and Steve Pearl told me the Dalai Lama would visit
the city park and I hoped to be able to pet him.
http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/USS_Trenton_becomes_INS_Jalashva/articleshow/1287538.cms
http://news.webindia123.com/news/Articles/India/20080202/881615.html
Next to Ginsberg
Hard to believe I sat next to Ginsberg in 1979,
saw King Fahed being ushered into the ER
wrapped in a pink blanket to disguise him,
he pee'd on my friend in the ICU.
Jack Nicholson ordered coffee from me once
at the Little America Truckstop in Flag,
a pack of cigarettes rolled up
in the sleeve of his black t-shirt
(then he started marrying waitresses).
I lived next door to a man that was
beheaded for building Apaches.
My husband ran into Gene Hackman at the Taj Majal
and Elvira let him encircle her for a picture
down in Atlanta at a convention.
Someone I know told me Goldie Hawn was real awful
in a five star hotel and Kurt was as handsome
as he was in The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes
(which I mistakenly called, The Computer War Tennis Shoes)
and Steve Pearl told me the Dalai Lama would visit
the city park and I hoped to be able to pet him.
11.2.09
American Gothic
The simulacrum is never that which conceals the truth — it is the truth which conceals that there is none.The simulacrum is true.=Ecclesiastes, from Baudrillard's The Precession of the Simulacra.
It used to be the sky
and vast dominion meant
this side next, fill it up or erase it.
All the water in the far off sea was clean
under and outrageously deep, freshening the edges.
Once upon a time mom and dad
could fill a car for the weekend
with gum and wrappers
as children fell asleep in the corners,
jarred and blinking in the glow
of good intentions.
There was no where to run, no real need to
and plenty of jargon to fill the time.
Nothing needed to be done about
the same old secrets: engine on, engine off.
Easy does it and upsy daisy in the rigamarole,
we kept the getty-up and go
in the thingamajig under the hood.
Time doesn't pass in these juke boxes anymore,
there's more fidget in a pesky market
than on the streets where everyone used to ride
look ma no hands and by the seat of the pants
all torn and socks full of thorns.
The weeds mattered more than the sanctions
when girls got up slow and boys grew up thin.
Way back when a window was mostly pegs and putty
instead of glide and shine, no one minded a crack.
No one bothered to count the missing bits
of paint or the patches on a pair,
it was expected. Life needed to end somewhere.
We could stitch the universe with a thread,
organize the world with a rake and we sure did.
"Google me," he quipped. "If you spin the Leatherman you can travel through time." - Nelson LeBron (while aboard the USS Trenton during the Lebanese evacuation in the war of 2006); sailor and world champion featherweight kickboxer who trains soldiers in close combat.
Experience LeBron's MySpace for yourself
I spend my time on the internet anymore...as a release before actually "going to work" and coming home to face the same old bad news "it's getting pretty bad" my husband and I joke now...each day postulating that if we just start saying to other people 'it's getting pretty good" might really shake them up a bit.
I venture about knowing for a fact that I don't belong to any group or school and in the words of the Lutheran Surrealist "haunt" various blogs and discussions...as if I am not wanted...well...as if I didn't know that we muslims are a hard reminder to so many people right now. But we show up all the same because it is out of curiosity towards the world as it is becoming something different. It absolutely is and we muslims do know this because we come equipped with knowledges that haven't yet become the norm. But they are definitely becoming part of not only the norm but the base/broth of a context that is newer and older than anything that can bewitch a person because of its innate and idiosyncratic adaptability to "the times". That is what Allah must have meant when he labeled the Quran as a book "for all times" and noted that it contained answers to every question that could possibly be asked of it.
I have known about this great change that is about to occur for some time now....I have been utilizing that knowledge for about as long as I can remember even though there was a time when I was very young in which I didn't know what was happening to me. Ah yes...but like Shaupenhauer once reflected..when you look back at life it is as if you are reading a very well written novel...of course..that is only if one is a "good reader" of one's own life.
Ali ibn Abi Taleb....may Allah be mighty pleased with him...said..."if you know yourself then you know your Allah." And it is so true. Allah knows what we cannot begin to imagine...about ourselves, our times, our societies. Allah wrote the rules down and handed them over with some very good intentions towards the human race that has a tendency to get itself in a bit deep. It does that because it doesn't know the speed limits or worse, it ignores them out of selfish materialistic gratifications. It has careless drivers who insist that the speed limit wasn't posted and do so in the face of the cop standing right there by the sign and writing the ticket, making the diagnosis.
Fifty five miles an hour.
Not twenty five as the Creationists and Born Agains like to suggest and not the speed of light as athiests would hope you to believe. It is actually somewhere "in between" the two ideals.
The results are coming in now. America is in big trouble. The world is in big trouble. What next, the plague? And what does it have to do with the LeBron story and Google?
Must be the flarf in my generation and all generations that was indicated by his comment to us aboard the Trent which was chock full of weeping women and tired war weary children. More importantly, it was about a comment made by a rather handsome Air Force cadet who became very interested in my insights as we were deliberating on how to deal with a young mother in our company of exiles who kept mistreating her child because she was more interested in getting drunk with the sailors and enlisted men.
That young cadet said to me that he wanted to buy my book. He was escorting my entourage to the Cargo plane we would be boarding and which was heading to New Jersey of all places. I had to tell him that my book wasn't yet published. What I should have said is that it will never be published in his lifetime let alone mine. He hoped to comfort me by saying that at least I was getting out of a dangerous war zone.
I guess he was surprised when I told him that America is a war zone....a war zone of the mind. I knew I wasn't headed for a place much better off than those succumbing to phosphorous and WOMD distributed by the Israeli/US war machine. Not at all. I knew I was heading to a country full of ignorance and misguidance and that would mean I would be the victim of things much harsher than decapitation and/or dismemberment by materialistic weaponry. And most assuredly...I have suffered a great deal trying to rectify my presence among people who have literally no clue about what is really going on in the world we live in.
This war I'm in here, in America is certainly the worst danger I've ever been in. And I've been in some serious situations, seen some pretty serious things.
The simulacrum is never that which conceals the truth — it is the truth which conceals that there is none.The simulacrum is true.=Ecclesiastes, from Baudrillard's The Precession of the Simulacra.
It used to be the sky
and vast dominion meant
this side next, fill it up or erase it.
All the water in the far off sea was clean
under and outrageously deep, freshening the edges.
Once upon a time mom and dad
could fill a car for the weekend
with gum and wrappers
as children fell asleep in the corners,
jarred and blinking in the glow
of good intentions.
There was no where to run, no real need to
and plenty of jargon to fill the time.
Nothing needed to be done about
the same old secrets: engine on, engine off.
Easy does it and upsy daisy in the rigamarole,
we kept the getty-up and go
in the thingamajig under the hood.
Time doesn't pass in these juke boxes anymore,
there's more fidget in a pesky market
than on the streets where everyone used to ride
look ma no hands and by the seat of the pants
all torn and socks full of thorns.
The weeds mattered more than the sanctions
when girls got up slow and boys grew up thin.
Way back when a window was mostly pegs and putty
instead of glide and shine, no one minded a crack.
No one bothered to count the missing bits
of paint or the patches on a pair,
it was expected. Life needed to end somewhere.
We could stitch the universe with a thread,
organize the world with a rake and we sure did.
"Google me," he quipped. "If you spin the Leatherman you can travel through time." - Nelson LeBron (while aboard the USS Trenton during the Lebanese evacuation in the war of 2006); sailor and world champion featherweight kickboxer who trains soldiers in close combat.
Experience LeBron's MySpace for yourself
I spend my time on the internet anymore...as a release before actually "going to work" and coming home to face the same old bad news "it's getting pretty bad" my husband and I joke now...each day postulating that if we just start saying to other people 'it's getting pretty good" might really shake them up a bit.
I venture about knowing for a fact that I don't belong to any group or school and in the words of the Lutheran Surrealist "haunt" various blogs and discussions...as if I am not wanted...well...as if I didn't know that we muslims are a hard reminder to so many people right now. But we show up all the same because it is out of curiosity towards the world as it is becoming something different. It absolutely is and we muslims do know this because we come equipped with knowledges that haven't yet become the norm. But they are definitely becoming part of not only the norm but the base/broth of a context that is newer and older than anything that can bewitch a person because of its innate and idiosyncratic adaptability to "the times". That is what Allah must have meant when he labeled the Quran as a book "for all times" and noted that it contained answers to every question that could possibly be asked of it.
I have known about this great change that is about to occur for some time now....I have been utilizing that knowledge for about as long as I can remember even though there was a time when I was very young in which I didn't know what was happening to me. Ah yes...but like Shaupenhauer once reflected..when you look back at life it is as if you are reading a very well written novel...of course..that is only if one is a "good reader" of one's own life.
Ali ibn Abi Taleb....may Allah be mighty pleased with him...said..."if you know yourself then you know your Allah." And it is so true. Allah knows what we cannot begin to imagine...about ourselves, our times, our societies. Allah wrote the rules down and handed them over with some very good intentions towards the human race that has a tendency to get itself in a bit deep. It does that because it doesn't know the speed limits or worse, it ignores them out of selfish materialistic gratifications. It has careless drivers who insist that the speed limit wasn't posted and do so in the face of the cop standing right there by the sign and writing the ticket, making the diagnosis.
Fifty five miles an hour.
Not twenty five as the Creationists and Born Agains like to suggest and not the speed of light as athiests would hope you to believe. It is actually somewhere "in between" the two ideals.
The results are coming in now. America is in big trouble. The world is in big trouble. What next, the plague? And what does it have to do with the LeBron story and Google?
Must be the flarf in my generation and all generations that was indicated by his comment to us aboard the Trent which was chock full of weeping women and tired war weary children. More importantly, it was about a comment made by a rather handsome Air Force cadet who became very interested in my insights as we were deliberating on how to deal with a young mother in our company of exiles who kept mistreating her child because she was more interested in getting drunk with the sailors and enlisted men.
That young cadet said to me that he wanted to buy my book. He was escorting my entourage to the Cargo plane we would be boarding and which was heading to New Jersey of all places. I had to tell him that my book wasn't yet published. What I should have said is that it will never be published in his lifetime let alone mine. He hoped to comfort me by saying that at least I was getting out of a dangerous war zone.
I guess he was surprised when I told him that America is a war zone....a war zone of the mind. I knew I wasn't headed for a place much better off than those succumbing to phosphorous and WOMD distributed by the Israeli/US war machine. Not at all. I knew I was heading to a country full of ignorance and misguidance and that would mean I would be the victim of things much harsher than decapitation and/or dismemberment by materialistic weaponry. And most assuredly...I have suffered a great deal trying to rectify my presence among people who have literally no clue about what is really going on in the world we live in.
This war I'm in here, in America is certainly the worst danger I've ever been in. And I've been in some serious situations, seen some pretty serious things.
10.2.09
9.2.09
The Flood
How is it one waits
in the womb sublime
for birth, a mere
forty weeks time,
and so long to die?
Is it really so?
Or is it that the earth
waits with me and you
for either one, of the two
through falls and springs,
past temples and kings,
the atoms and strings.
Such strong forces
and weak forces,
the catastrophes of horses,
treaties and divorces?
These upswept mountains
and overswept seas,
we slept also through these.
The sands that were rocks,
eggs became flocks
and the dust in the clocks,
among these, our sweetest talks
and our boldest lies
take measure of those kinds of cries.
The poet earns a living
from such conscientious giving,
as if to say
we were waiting just for that
one to come,
the last poem,
the final diagram.
Or, the steady beat of the oldest drum.
What happens at the door
between its opening and closing,
a particular history
full of dystrophy,
that thing called decadence,
a bit of tungsten evidence,
rising shining and parting,
forever moments starting.
Without a past or prediction
or any map in this local jurisdiction.
How can anyone go on!
Who decides which blip
charts this lonesome trip
called life, this one,
this only one and you're gone?
A shadow never stays long,
its death never wrong
nor its life very strong,
the short, the long,
the phantom song.
At noon, under the feet,
or near night and so fleet.
Poor wise old shadow,
mark this grave, this body.
You are a wise old shadow,
a terrible reflection
escaping detection
changing direction,
a slight thin projection.
Do you see me too?
Can you write a memory,
weather a storm?
Will you wake up
when I do not?
Or are you just a dream
of a thing designed
a breath of time?
Were you an afterthought?
Which apparition do you look like?
Could you be just the sketch?
An anomaly of light?
A shadow only proves
one thing as it moves,
I am here and tremendously small,
as thin as a ghost
full of vapoury boasts,
the arrogant din
of land-locked men
made of red-brown clay
who are born and die
day to day.
Our shadows explain in words
as they force us to exhume
joy and doom,
the perpetual flux,
skies filled with ducks
and freeways with trucks,
does and bucks,
all of the crux
of an abacas,
the tractatus mathematicus.
The Bull of Heaven dies too.
His shadow leaves.
His parable lives on.
The children in Ceylon
want pencils to draw
everything they saw.
They know as well as us.
How is it one waits
in the womb sublime
for birth, a mere
forty weeks time,
and so long to die?
Is it really so?
Or is it that the earth
waits with me and you
for either one, of the two
through falls and springs,
past temples and kings,
the atoms and strings.
Such strong forces
and weak forces,
the catastrophes of horses,
treaties and divorces?
These upswept mountains
and overswept seas,
we slept also through these.
The sands that were rocks,
eggs became flocks
and the dust in the clocks,
among these, our sweetest talks
and our boldest lies
take measure of those kinds of cries.
The poet earns a living
from such conscientious giving,
as if to say
we were waiting just for that
one to come,
the last poem,
the final diagram.
Or, the steady beat of the oldest drum.
What happens at the door
between its opening and closing,
a particular history
full of dystrophy,
that thing called decadence,
a bit of tungsten evidence,
rising shining and parting,
forever moments starting.
Without a past or prediction
or any map in this local jurisdiction.
How can anyone go on!
Who decides which blip
charts this lonesome trip
called life, this one,
this only one and you're gone?
A shadow never stays long,
its death never wrong
nor its life very strong,
the short, the long,
the phantom song.
At noon, under the feet,
or near night and so fleet.
Poor wise old shadow,
mark this grave, this body.
You are a wise old shadow,
a terrible reflection
escaping detection
changing direction,
a slight thin projection.
Do you see me too?
Can you write a memory,
weather a storm?
Will you wake up
when I do not?
Or are you just a dream
of a thing designed
a breath of time?
Were you an afterthought?
Which apparition do you look like?
Could you be just the sketch?
An anomaly of light?
A shadow only proves
one thing as it moves,
I am here and tremendously small,
as thin as a ghost
full of vapoury boasts,
the arrogant din
of land-locked men
made of red-brown clay
who are born and die
day to day.
Our shadows explain in words
as they force us to exhume
joy and doom,
the perpetual flux,
skies filled with ducks
and freeways with trucks,
does and bucks,
all of the crux
of an abacas,
the tractatus mathematicus.
The Bull of Heaven dies too.
His shadow leaves.
His parable lives on.
The children in Ceylon
want pencils to draw
everything they saw.
They know as well as us.
8.2.09
Jazz, slavery and Islam in America
Islam used against Guantanamo prisoners as torture Chinese American Taliban Imam tells all:
Funniest mom in America is a musllim? Man....oh man. To the Islamic Supreme Court frieze...yikes...the QURAN is in the Supreme Court? Holy moly.
Post 9/11 Islam in America, first muslim congressman and then, we have Obama.
Islam used against Guantanamo prisoners as torture Chinese American Taliban Imam tells all:
Funniest mom in America is a musllim? Man....oh man. To the Islamic Supreme Court frieze...yikes...the QURAN is in the Supreme Court? Holy moly.
Post 9/11 Islam in America, first muslim congressman and then, we have Obama.
7.2.09
6.2.09
Good News
The Story of Father Pete
The main reason people are discouraged from reading and understanding the Quran is because once a person does that..they are left with "no choice" because they know truth when they see it:
German Gangster Kid Turns to the Creator
Deedat known as The Mouth Shutter....that's a good one:
The Story of Father Pete
The main reason people are discouraged from reading and understanding the Quran is because once a person does that..they are left with "no choice" because they know truth when they see it:
German Gangster Kid Turns to the Creator
Deedat known as The Mouth Shutter....that's a good one:
Sylvia Plath's audiofiles melted into Piltdown Man Lucy Specimen mientras back at the ranch, Titanboa is discovered to have ruled the earth.
http://www.dcexaminer.com/entertainment/020109_The-Eye----Dario-Robleto38762842.html
http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2009/feb/04/snake-giant-fossil-titanoboa
http://www.dcexaminer.com/entertainment/020109_The-Eye----Dario-Robleto38762842.html
http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2009/feb/04/snake-giant-fossil-titanoboa
Shimon Peres of Israel is publically humiliated at the Davos Forum
"Jewish" banking system is going down? Well...apparently...it is but they are blaming it on poor people's mortgages. You know...even if fifty percent of all Americans defaulted on their houses...it wouldn't cause this catastrophic financial mess. But as is the usual...the media and the industry itself is trying really hard to blame it on the poor.
One third of the world living on less than two dollars a day:
"Jewish" banking system is going down? Well...apparently...it is but they are blaming it on poor people's mortgages. You know...even if fifty percent of all Americans defaulted on their houses...it wouldn't cause this catastrophic financial mess. But as is the usual...the media and the industry itself is trying really hard to blame it on the poor.
One third of the world living on less than two dollars a day:
3.2.09
Nude Descending
Godiva of the farmlands
of the peach,
Godiva of the Gift Shop
of the thrill seeker,
Godiva of parched lips
of crippled hips,
Godiva of sitting Shiva
of hands folded,
Godiva of perpetual collision
of happy turmoil,
Godiva of pathologie
of eternal blackouts,
Godiva of waste
of long dead people,
Godiva of Whow-wee
of fox, bat and wolf,
Godiva of bangle bracelets
of shortness in breath,
Godiva of sons' sleeping
of the silence before dawn,
Godiva of musical chairs
of poorly tended zoos,
Godiva of the Apache
of Globe and San Carlos,
Godiva of handmade paper
of full ashtrays,
Godiva of the coin-fed horse
of El Rancho and sawdust,
Godiva of the Grapes of Wrath
of invasions and launchers,
Godiva of typhoid
of summers in tuberculosis,
Godiva of seasonal illness
of cold and wet, hot and dry,
Godiva of foreign hospitals
of fascist gendarmes...
Godiva, Godiva, Godiva
That's all I ever hear.
Godiva of the farmlands
of the peach,
Godiva of the Gift Shop
of the thrill seeker,
Godiva of parched lips
of crippled hips,
Godiva of sitting Shiva
of hands folded,
Godiva of perpetual collision
of happy turmoil,
Godiva of pathologie
of eternal blackouts,
Godiva of waste
of long dead people,
Godiva of Whow-wee
of fox, bat and wolf,
Godiva of bangle bracelets
of shortness in breath,
Godiva of sons' sleeping
of the silence before dawn,
Godiva of musical chairs
of poorly tended zoos,
Godiva of the Apache
of Globe and San Carlos,
Godiva of handmade paper
of full ashtrays,
Godiva of the coin-fed horse
of El Rancho and sawdust,
Godiva of the Grapes of Wrath
of invasions and launchers,
Godiva of typhoid
of summers in tuberculosis,
Godiva of seasonal illness
of cold and wet, hot and dry,
Godiva of foreign hospitals
of fascist gendarmes...
Godiva, Godiva, Godiva
That's all I ever hear.
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