"The right of freedom of speech consists in speaking the truth."
3.8.09
The Uncertain Law of Certainty
Art is not what you see, but what you make others see. -Degas
In the miscellaneous list
of the dark, the colors
although mute
must all still be there.
The dark sides of the planet
wait to shower us
with primrose and satin,
with faces
all the color of clay,
how so?
Colonies of crimson
permute the agony
of decay into rust
and true white
in the back alley of
treachery and art.
He sketched girls
on brown paper bags
to accentuate the curly
ambiguity of their hair
with exact strokes.
This is the mysterious
dark side of the earth
over the morning
as birds quicken
midst the leaves
and float into one
particular sillhouette.
The independent prostrate
shadow kneels steady
near the prostrate and content
moon, shallow on the surface
deep in reflection, distant
lonely cousin of the sun,
the sun created as a proof for it all.
Beware, observare.
A helicopter descends at dawn
on the hospital up the street
and changes all their lives,
out of thin air a dusky bird
hits the glass
she commits adultery
the stories ex post facto
all make sense now,
her hesitation on Friday
before, her head tilted
to the left.
We met him years ago
now he lives here.
Snake, skunk, wolf
on the way down,
wolf, skunk, snake
on the return.
This broken heart
keeps breaking.
2.8.09
Oh man....David Meltzer....from the rockpile site that Micheal Rothenberg sent me but I was just too busy to check the emails lately....haha. Great jazz, great readings, wonderful Meltzer from the days of yore...those two. David and Micheal...Buddy Flick Poet Lives for sure. I so have a soft spot for Poet Buddy types of things.
http://www.meltzerville.com/1958/1958.htm That's where you'll find the awesome readings.
http://www.meltzerville.com/1958/1958.htm That's where you'll find the awesome readings.
The actual Meltzerville site is here:
31.7.09
Between Black Skies
almost forever,
there it is it is
over forests, all forests
over deserts, all deserts
this one now
as it shines
and this shines also
as the lightning gets
all over us
showers pure protons
over us
it is over that too
out there, always
just out there
turning round
vanishing
returning
vanishing
never too soon
nor late
nor the lightning.
From here the sky
is blue gray white black
sometimes green or silver
from here
it appears
to be there
but it is not
just a sky anymore
as it used to be
not just blue
and not cupped
not one day the same
yet we think it is
as we believe
in all things
we just do
this consequence
that ommission,
makes sense only
in one instance.
almost forever,
there it is it is
over forests, all forests
over deserts, all deserts
this one now
as it shines
and this shines also
as the lightning gets
all over us
showers pure protons
over us
it is over that too
out there, always
just out there
turning round
vanishing
returning
vanishing
never too soon
nor late
nor the lightning.
From here the sky
is blue gray white black
sometimes green or silver
from here
it appears
to be there
but it is not
just a sky anymore
as it used to be
not just blue
and not cupped
not one day the same
yet we think it is
as we believe
in all things
we just do
this consequence
that ommission,
makes sense only
in one instance.
25.7.09
When I wrote the following, little did I know that I was prophesizing. Little did I know that in a few years I'd be living this poem. Three years ago I was somewhere between Ramstein Air Force Base and New Jersey. I was on a cargo plane. The chains on the floor were cold and I watched an airman inflate his travel mattress and snuggle in for the night. I never felt so alone.
The poem was originally just a few jagged lines, mixmatched sentences and beautiful in my eyes but not within the grasp of the reader. The following is what I make of it now.
Morning Has Broken
In the opening frames
the actress addresses
the entire Syrian army
privately with a speech
holding a stick
and then retreating
after being hit
by one of them
with an ammo belt.
As she walks away
she strikes the stick
against a pole
and parts of it fly
high into the air.
It's just another day
in the suburbs of Beirut.
She comes from a lower
middle class working family
in the southern United States.
She is filmed as she wanders
through the third floor
of the abandoned building
where the Syrians
shave and bathe,
make catcalls at her
from the window sills
as she walks to the dekhena.
Dogs drift in and out
of the building
and lose their skin
from the mange.
She tries to save them
but they all eventually die.
In the previews, Julia Roberts
walks into the rooms
of an unoccupied building
in the Levant, near the sea
where the Syrian troops
launch their evil plots
from hand-me-down fox holes.
It cuts to a montage
of tracer bullets and
embassy dialogue:
important people
whisper important things
to other important people,
there is more than enough
of the requisite drama,
katuyshas, Mercedes
and hidden faces.
On one of the rubble strewn
balconies, there are wine bottles
and a flak jacket
and pictures of half dressed
women from magazines
with hand drawn breasts,
nipples in red ink.
Some of them
are pasted onto the wall,
most likely with ejaculate.
The harmless literature
of soldiers is everywhere.
Other rooms have sundry items,
clumps of old flat bread
still in the bag where sometimes
a bird is found trapped
and is freed if they're lucky enough
to be found as they flutter
and fight the inevitable.
There are boots hardened
by sun and rain,
and cigarette butts,
and the putrefying entrails of sheep
from an impromtptu feast the soldiers
enjoyed several days before,
there's empty corned beef cans or tuna.
In the quiet scenes of Act II
Julia Roberts finds certitude
in the Creator and Sustainer
of the entire universe,
just in time. The book
is written and closed,
the script mysteriously disappears.
The timeline is abridged later
when the captives are traded
by the opponents,
victory belongs to one
side not the other.
Syria moves their forces
into the Bekka Valley
several weeks before
the first bridge
is taken out by the IDF
although this is said to be
the pretext for the war,
it is a lie.
The audience applauds
at certain times,
the moments of liberation,
ticker tape parades,
where not a single corpse is used.
Not a single child is wasted,
not one of them can steal
a scene anymore,
their eyes caked
with the mud of C'anaa.
Death to the Great Satan
they said, it was their only crime.
Dancing in the streets on September 11th,
who cares about some much deserved
Shadenfraude. Shadenfraude
is not a punishable offense.
into the air
suspended by thin
flesh-colored bungee cords.
American soldiers advance
dressed as dancers in full regalia
lifting her vigorously,
outrageously erotic-
from the refuse of her occupation.
It is a monumental scene,
the crowning glory, years in the making.
As she moves across the sands
of the beach a black soldier
leans over to help her
onto the amphibious
he is thinking Normandy
and Julia looks into his South
Carolina good intentions
and screams at him
this is a war crime you're involved in
but there is a woman
succumbing to hysteria
on the ramp. They all have
to move on, they all
have somewhere to go.
The USS Trenton has pirates
in the hold, docks in the port
of an allied nation, the lines
are quite long.
The sea undulates and is a terrible green
as it fills with the oil
that pours in from
the fuel depot of a civilian hub.
Julia asks one of the sailors
if this is normal
and he shakes his head
after looking at it again,
no ma'am. It's not.
As the credits roll:
The hold of the Cargo jet
opens and the airman
gather everyone for one
last photo. This is clearly
an intelligence maneuver.
The faces will be studied
and the bird takes it's last breath
and she releases it,
she saves only one.
Los Angeles, Denver, Phoenix
boarding now,
the more or less catatonic
actress drags
her few things behind her
through Newark International.
Yusef Islam strums
a tune but she cannot see him.
The poem was originally just a few jagged lines, mixmatched sentences and beautiful in my eyes but not within the grasp of the reader. The following is what I make of it now.
Morning Has Broken
In the opening frames
the actress addresses
the entire Syrian army
privately with a speech
holding a stick
and then retreating
after being hit
by one of them
with an ammo belt.
As she walks away
she strikes the stick
against a pole
and parts of it fly
high into the air.
It's just another day
in the suburbs of Beirut.
She comes from a lower
middle class working family
in the southern United States.
She is filmed as she wanders
through the third floor
of the abandoned building
where the Syrians
shave and bathe,
make catcalls at her
from the window sills
as she walks to the dekhena.
Dogs drift in and out
of the building
and lose their skin
from the mange.
She tries to save them
but they all eventually die.
In the previews, Julia Roberts
walks into the rooms
of an unoccupied building
in the Levant, near the sea
where the Syrian troops
launch their evil plots
from hand-me-down fox holes.
It cuts to a montage
of tracer bullets and
embassy dialogue:
important people
whisper important things
to other important people,
there is more than enough
of the requisite drama,
katuyshas, Mercedes
and hidden faces.
On one of the rubble strewn
balconies, there are wine bottles
and a flak jacket
and pictures of half dressed
women from magazines
with hand drawn breasts,
nipples in red ink.
Some of them
are pasted onto the wall,
most likely with ejaculate.
The harmless literature
of soldiers is everywhere.
Other rooms have sundry items,
clumps of old flat bread
still in the bag where sometimes
a bird is found trapped
and is freed if they're lucky enough
to be found as they flutter
and fight the inevitable.
There are boots hardened
by sun and rain,
and cigarette butts,
and the putrefying entrails of sheep
from an impromtptu feast the soldiers
enjoyed several days before,
there's empty corned beef cans or tuna.
In the quiet scenes of Act II
Julia Roberts finds certitude
in the Creator and Sustainer
of the entire universe,
just in time. The book
is written and closed,
the script mysteriously disappears.
The timeline is abridged later
when the captives are traded
by the opponents,
victory belongs to one
side not the other.
Syria moves their forces
into the Bekka Valley
several weeks before
the first bridge
is taken out by the IDF
although this is said to be
the pretext for the war,
it is a lie.
The audience applauds
at certain times,
the moments of liberation,
ticker tape parades,
where not a single corpse is used.
Not a single child is wasted,
not one of them can steal
a scene anymore,
their eyes caked
with the mud of C'anaa.
Death to the Great Satan
they said, it was their only crime.
Dancing in the streets on September 11th,
who cares about some much deserved
Shadenfraude. Shadenfraude
is not a punishable offense.
Finally,
Julia risesinto the air
suspended by thin
flesh-colored bungee cords.
American soldiers advance
dressed as dancers in full regalia
lifting her vigorously,
outrageously erotic-
from the refuse of her occupation.
It is a monumental scene,
the crowning glory, years in the making.
As she moves across the sands
of the beach a black soldier
leans over to help her
onto the amphibious
he is thinking Normandy
and Julia looks into his South
Carolina good intentions
and screams at him
this is a war crime you're involved in
but there is a woman
succumbing to hysteria
on the ramp. They all have
to move on, they all
have somewhere to go.
The USS Trenton has pirates
in the hold, docks in the port
of an allied nation, the lines
are quite long.
The sea undulates and is a terrible green
as it fills with the oil
that pours in from
the fuel depot of a civilian hub.
Julia asks one of the sailors
if this is normal
and he shakes his head
after looking at it again,
no ma'am. It's not.
As the credits roll:
The hold of the Cargo jet
opens and the airman
gather everyone for one
last photo. This is clearly
an intelligence maneuver.
The faces will be studied
and the bird takes it's last breath
and she releases it,
she saves only one.
Los Angeles, Denver, Phoenix
boarding now,
the more or less catatonic
actress drags
her few things behind her
through Newark International.
Yusef Islam strums
a tune but she cannot see him.
22.7.09
Pervert Movie
The Changeling starring Angelina Jolie. Great movie, great times for perverts. A christian evangelist radio preacher saves the day in real life back in the twenties. A mental institution, a hanging, axes....Jolie looks fabulous as a flapper cum roller skating phone operator. Shucks.....and clucks and whacks.
Left me feeling really exhausted but somehow very satisfied and afraid. Really afraid of perverts.
Those were good times...a hospital to go to and a sister to lean on. But no more....nowdays the preachers are the pervs and perps.
What gives?
The Changeling starring Angelina Jolie. Great movie, great times for perverts. A christian evangelist radio preacher saves the day in real life back in the twenties. A mental institution, a hanging, axes....Jolie looks fabulous as a flapper cum roller skating phone operator. Shucks.....and clucks and whacks.
Left me feeling really exhausted but somehow very satisfied and afraid. Really afraid of perverts.
Those were good times...a hospital to go to and a sister to lean on. But no more....nowdays the preachers are the pervs and perps.
What gives?
19.7.09
God and the Recession
In times of record-high foreclosures and Treasury Department scrambling to shore up loan-refinancing initiatives, the Prosperity Gospel can sound as if it comes from preachers who live under rocks, not in mansions: "God wants to give you your own house," big-cheese pitchman Joel Osteen announced in 2007's Your Best Life Now, which he penned in an economic Indian summer of a bull market and excited homebuyers. " 'How could that ever happen to me?' you ask. 'I don't make enough money.' Perhaps not, but our God is well able."
Osteen is everywhere these days. You see his coiffed pate smiling on Good Morning America, at the new Yankee Stadium for its first nonbaseball event, on the cover of Texas Monthly's ideas issue—all in one week. Yet he artfully disappears for housing-crisis questions like "Why, if God wants to reward the faithful with material possessions, are so many believers in foreclosure?"
"The Lord is my banker; my credit is good." Charles Fillmore, Unity Preacher
In times of record-high foreclosures and Treasury Department scrambling to shore up loan-refinancing initiatives, the Prosperity Gospel can sound as if it comes from preachers who live under rocks, not in mansions: "God wants to give you your own house," big-cheese pitchman Joel Osteen announced in 2007's Your Best Life Now, which he penned in an economic Indian summer of a bull market and excited homebuyers. " 'How could that ever happen to me?' you ask. 'I don't make enough money.' Perhaps not, but our God is well able."
Osteen is everywhere these days. You see his coiffed pate smiling on Good Morning America, at the new Yankee Stadium for its first nonbaseball event, on the cover of Texas Monthly's ideas issue—all in one week. Yet he artfully disappears for housing-crisis questions like "Why, if God wants to reward the faithful with material possessions, are so many believers in foreclosure?"
"The Lord is my banker; my credit is good." Charles Fillmore, Unity Preacher
The reason for FLARF is to be found here:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/toc.html#6290
I've made a cursory attempt at reading this smut but to no avail. It isn't worth reading. There's Charles Simic...yes...THE Charles Simic rattling on about some lady that isn't going to live long enough to throw out the paper plates after she serves some water melon. There's Hoagland (no, not that Hoagland) trying to make everyone feel guilty. Some up and coming poet writes the last line:
An ounce for the gorgeous man in the gutter,
the beggar-poet cries, and some crab legs with clarified butter!
There's a housewife poem and a poem about four hour priapism. I mean, couldn't he have interjected that priapism just for kicks? My Lord.
There is a poem about the wonderful capybara...one of my all-time favorite zoo beasts but all the same, it is nothing more than a gimmick employed to make comparisons about "life". Good old "life". I just love "life"...such a wonderful premise for a poem, "life".
Therefore, FLARF exists because the language of poetry has become dismal. The idea is threatened with non existence and the, ahem, identity crisis of poets isn't at all an identity crisis.....these poets seem to think they are doing just fine!
They aren't. This is truly miserable poetry and it is found in, ahem, a notable magazine. Jordan Davis got it right when he issues this:
PICTURES OF BUGS BUNNY DRESSED LIKE A THUG
What drove me to draw this picture
Of Bugs Bunny dressed like a thug?
Plural. Pictures. Not once did I sketch
The buff tattooed torso of Thug Bugs
But many times, over several days.
He looks mean, doesn’t he? When O when
Will this election be over
So I can blow off life again
Without inadvertently producing objects
Of great and mysterious-to-me beauty.
One only hopes his tongue was thoroughly lodged in his cheek when he did.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/toc.html#6290
I've made a cursory attempt at reading this smut but to no avail. It isn't worth reading. There's Charles Simic...yes...THE Charles Simic rattling on about some lady that isn't going to live long enough to throw out the paper plates after she serves some water melon. There's Hoagland (no, not that Hoagland) trying to make everyone feel guilty. Some up and coming poet writes the last line:
An ounce for the gorgeous man in the gutter,
the beggar-poet cries, and some crab legs with clarified butter!
There's a housewife poem and a poem about four hour priapism. I mean, couldn't he have interjected that priapism just for kicks? My Lord.
There is a poem about the wonderful capybara...one of my all-time favorite zoo beasts but all the same, it is nothing more than a gimmick employed to make comparisons about "life". Good old "life". I just love "life"...such a wonderful premise for a poem, "life".
Therefore, FLARF exists because the language of poetry has become dismal. The idea is threatened with non existence and the, ahem, identity crisis of poets isn't at all an identity crisis.....these poets seem to think they are doing just fine!
They aren't. This is truly miserable poetry and it is found in, ahem, a notable magazine. Jordan Davis got it right when he issues this:
PICTURES OF BUGS BUNNY DRESSED LIKE A THUG
What drove me to draw this picture
Of Bugs Bunny dressed like a thug?
Plural. Pictures. Not once did I sketch
The buff tattooed torso of Thug Bugs
But many times, over several days.
He looks mean, doesn’t he? When O when
Will this election be over
So I can blow off life again
Without inadvertently producing objects
Of great and mysterious-to-me beauty.
One only hopes his tongue was thoroughly lodged in his cheek when he did.
18.7.09
5:55 GMT + 3, for Me and Haneen
Doesn't everyone want to say something
just everyday, special? Every day is
so great or not so. Maybe it wasn't nice
the way the man looked at me today
while I bought a plug for the generator.
Maybe it isn't cool to be American.
Maybe I should have said I was Russian.
Maybe I should have hugged him.
I don't know. His eyes were somehow
not to my liking. I guess he could say the same.
Maybe that isn't what could be said though.
How about all the money that I spent,
hundred thou after hundred thou after hundred thou
every lira to a foreigner who couldn't understand
me and vice versa until I banged my head
and said, Damn it! Just damn it all.
Little Haneen laughed. She is only two
and knows the feeling.
Not quite sure but it was raining, still is.
April is cold this year and very wet.
It is 5:55 GMT + 3 or so.
I'm sure to the east there's a hell hole
and to the west there's a bunch of girl scouts and boy scouts.
Maybe up north there is some snow.
Down south, some kind of tribal antics.
Here it is, 5:55 and I've got to go now.
Hope the car starts. Hope is all there is.
Doesn't everyone want to say something
just everyday, special? Every day is
so great or not so. Maybe it wasn't nice
the way the man looked at me today
while I bought a plug for the generator.
Maybe it isn't cool to be American.
Maybe I should have said I was Russian.
Maybe I should have hugged him.
I don't know. His eyes were somehow
not to my liking. I guess he could say the same.
Maybe that isn't what could be said though.
How about all the money that I spent,
hundred thou after hundred thou after hundred thou
every lira to a foreigner who couldn't understand
me and vice versa until I banged my head
and said, Damn it! Just damn it all.
Little Haneen laughed. She is only two
and knows the feeling.
Not quite sure but it was raining, still is.
April is cold this year and very wet.
It is 5:55 GMT + 3 or so.
I'm sure to the east there's a hell hole
and to the west there's a bunch of girl scouts and boy scouts.
Maybe up north there is some snow.
Down south, some kind of tribal antics.
Here it is, 5:55 and I've got to go now.
Hope the car starts. Hope is all there is.
11.7.09
10.7.09
In The Mines Of Mexico They Weep
Now there shall be a man cohered out of tumult and chaos . . . . the elder encourages the younger and shows him how . . . they two shall launch off fearlessly together till the new world fits an orbit for itself and looks unabashed on the lesser orbits of the stars and sweeps through the ceaseless rings and shall never be quiet again. - Walt Whitman, in the preface to Leaves of Grass.
In a twilight pilgrimmage
via these frost cracked streets
close to the Campbell shaft
full of our fathers breath and breathing,
we unfold our own cloth on the Fourth of July,
one crease at a time on the crags
near the ballpark in Warren, down from
the Loma Linda and the old mine-boss housing.
Flashlights dangle from the hands
of children. The night catches us deeply
unaware, but they don't think like that,
they are that,
think more about the starting time,
and the firemen on top of the dumps
who signal the end by waving lanterns,
how they crave that sort of thing
up there on those mountains of slag
thinking, as ours do, of the breath
of canaries and candles deep in those old holes.
A persistent and unheard whimper
fills space on this weary-
happy picnic in July or maybe
it only fills the weariness with something else.
I clasp a child tight in my arms,
a finger closes the tender wound,
hush hush, our waiting begins, we settle down.
Our Fourth of July is in sweet tortuous ruins
thrown in a trash bin of appetites lost.
We've run from one excitement to another
Now there shall be a man cohered out of tumult and chaos . . . . the elder encourages the younger and shows him how . . . they two shall launch off fearlessly together till the new world fits an orbit for itself and looks unabashed on the lesser orbits of the stars and sweeps through the ceaseless rings and shall never be quiet again. - Walt Whitman, in the preface to Leaves of Grass.
In a twilight pilgrimmage
via these frost cracked streets
close to the Campbell shaft
full of our fathers breath and breathing,
we unfold our own cloth on the Fourth of July,
one crease at a time on the crags
near the ballpark in Warren, down from
the Loma Linda and the old mine-boss housing.
Flashlights dangle from the hands
of children. The night catches us deeply
unaware, but they don't think like that,
they are that,
think more about the starting time,
and the firemen on top of the dumps
who signal the end by waving lanterns,
how they crave that sort of thing
up there on those mountains of slag
thinking, as ours do, of the breath
of canaries and candles deep in those old holes.
A persistent and unheard whimper
fills space on this weary-
happy picnic in July or maybe
it only fills the weariness with something else.
I clasp a child tight in my arms,
a finger closes the tender wound,
hush hush, our waiting begins, we settle down.
Our Fourth of July is in sweet tortuous ruins
thrown in a trash bin of appetites lost.
We've run from one excitement to another
races, parades, contests, reunions
thankful for a gentle sun, there was no burning
and there will be few scars if any.
The miles between this and that
contract like stars in heaven where
light reaches us much too late
and we as well, get there accordingly.
This is the anniversary of all
that's happened here
for each body on this ragged old quilt,
each poor soul and dumbstruck
face tipped up toward the sky.
The silence between one person and the next
is only the truth where commentary has failed.
I look around me one last time
before the sun takes all the light away -
count the faces I own, erase what's left,
a small town thing to do on an occasion like this.
The darkness is complete and the fireworks begin.
My daughter tells me, during one of the beautiful
interims which goes like this:
thankful for a gentle sun, there was no burning
and there will be few scars if any.
The miles between this and that
contract like stars in heaven where
light reaches us much too late
and we as well, get there accordingly.
This is the anniversary of all
that's happened here
for each body on this ragged old quilt,
each poor soul and dumbstruck
face tipped up toward the sky.
The silence between one person and the next
is only the truth where commentary has failed.
I look around me one last time
before the sun takes all the light away -
count the faces I own, erase what's left,
a small town thing to do on an occasion like this.
The darkness is complete and the fireworks begin.
My daughter tells me, during one of the beautiful
interims which goes like this:
ooh, aah, wonderful! then another interim and another,
one day the sun will die
as copper sulphur spark comets flower dark,
my father scatters in the sky,
my father scatters in the sky,
Oh! Mufasa, talk to me!
2.7.09
I'm not yelling. I'm telling the truth in a loud voice.
In case of revolution
please break the glass
when we were young
false alarms were punishable by death
Chorus:
They thought I was a Marine Barracks.
They thought I was a tire burning.
they knew it was him
the ink was all over his hand
but no one called out the dogs because it is said
the canines ate the corpses in Sabra and Shatilla
that summer one house burned
each week until they were gone.
The bitterness of translation
is the joy of understanding,
and vice versa.
In case of revolution
please break the glass
when we were young
false alarms were punishable by death
Chorus:
They thought I was a Marine Barracks.
They thought I was a tire burning.
they knew it was him
the ink was all over his hand
but no one called out the dogs because it is said
the canines ate the corpses in Sabra and Shatilla
that summer one house burned
each week until they were gone.
The bitterness of translation
is the joy of understanding,
and vice versa.
Budapest Bhudda pest.
30.6.09
Deployment
If we or "they" no I
could say anything we wanted
no tried to or rather
rain drops through the gutter
keep time
our family said deployment
not "our" but maybe this
mind takes over every time
but it is not the same one
the sun comes up
it is summer now
to speak of seeds
without rules
those that are there
in the corner
the far corner
one by one
each in place
before they take off
tests put into the skin
by lifting
the bevel just right
light catches the tip
low dead space
eyes closed see
boxes for some reason
it is tuesday now
certainly it is tuesday
for some reason
we call it tuesday
these people say deploy
and flash flood warning
a bride walks by
the little drops move
down the hill toward
a lake somewhere
there are all these lakes
in this town
there are only birds
left behind
Hum-
mingbird
you
come
by
fast
and deploy
on monday
certainly monday
is for strangers
and hearts
kisses for Mary
so many kisses
her eyes are cornflower
do you know son
the color of cornflowers
the history of that
hummingbird and by friday
she will marry
but this is tuesday
certainly
we know summer
only lasts so long
happy hot he said
he said happy hot
he said mom it is happy hot
and he said except
and he kisses Mary
and he said to me once
I will buy you
a purple necklace
come back all the time
he will come back all the time
but the only things
I could ever keep safe were
that necklace
those seeds
and his old dimes.
If we or "they" no I
could say anything we wanted
no tried to or rather
rain drops through the gutter
keep time
our family said deployment
not "our" but maybe this
mind takes over every time
but it is not the same one
the sun comes up
it is summer now
to speak of seeds
without rules
those that are there
in the corner
the far corner
one by one
each in place
before they take off
tests put into the skin
by lifting
the bevel just right
light catches the tip
low dead space
eyes closed see
boxes for some reason
it is tuesday now
certainly it is tuesday
for some reason
we call it tuesday
these people say deploy
and flash flood warning
a bride walks by
the little drops move
down the hill toward
a lake somewhere
there are all these lakes
in this town
there are only birds
left behind
Hum-
mingbird
you
come
by
fast
and deploy
on monday
certainly monday
is for strangers
and hearts
kisses for Mary
so many kisses
her eyes are cornflower
do you know son
the color of cornflowers
the history of that
hummingbird and by friday
she will marry
but this is tuesday
certainly
we know summer
only lasts so long
happy hot he said
he said happy hot
he said mom it is happy hot
and he said except
and he kisses Mary
and he said to me once
I will buy you
a purple necklace
come back all the time
he will come back all the time
but the only things
I could ever keep safe were
that necklace
those seeds
and his old dimes.
24.6.09
Over 246 million hits...views...followers...whatever. Postsecret blogspot, believe it or not was the first link I ever posted for carmen....my dearly departed calico cat. And all these years and wars later, it's still one very special blog to millions of people who want to say something very important to anyone that will take a moment to read the postcards that they send in.
http://postsecret.blogspot.com/
http://postsecret.blogspot.com/
Deus ex machina
Flight
The exact moment
you disappeared
from the radar
a night sky stripped
from stars
when reflections stop
the banter between themselves.
I, just awake
one world still
open to the next.
Were you coming or going?
Chico. Such a great person and gentle soul. He was/is really like that and one of my fondest memories from the high school setting. It's all there and his promoter at that time was/is the father of my niece, Jasper Moon. He was a year ahead of me in High School and a mentor in Mr. Turner's art classes. I ran into him some time back at the Greyhound station in Tucson Arizona where my daughter also ran into her husband Lenzo, the father of my first grandchild Hassan. What really fascinates me about this artist is that he willed this for himself and he wills these things into action. It is almost as if he caused these things to happen but did he really? The mystery of these incidental amusements contains whole histories of the world. My favorites are the trees. What I would give to see one of Chico's trees and step in the pools that surround it.
An interview with the fantastic robotic performance artist:
http://www.researchchannel.org/prog/displayevent.aspx?fID=569&rID=2027
Sculpture, Sixteen Birds:
More great Chico lore:
Tumbling Man
Forest of Totem Poles, video
http://amorphicrobotworks.org/works/forest/video.mov
Totemobile
http://amorphicrobotworks.org/works/ttm/video.mov
Flight
The exact moment
you disappeared
from the radar
a night sky stripped
from stars
when reflections stop
the banter between themselves.
I, just awake
one world still
open to the next.
Were you coming or going?
Chico. Such a great person and gentle soul. He was/is really like that and one of my fondest memories from the high school setting. It's all there and his promoter at that time was/is the father of my niece, Jasper Moon. He was a year ahead of me in High School and a mentor in Mr. Turner's art classes. I ran into him some time back at the Greyhound station in Tucson Arizona where my daughter also ran into her husband Lenzo, the father of my first grandchild Hassan. What really fascinates me about this artist is that he willed this for himself and he wills these things into action. It is almost as if he caused these things to happen but did he really? The mystery of these incidental amusements contains whole histories of the world. My favorites are the trees. What I would give to see one of Chico's trees and step in the pools that surround it.
An interview with the fantastic robotic performance artist:
http://www.researchchannel.org/prog/displayevent.aspx?fID=569&rID=2027
Sculpture, Sixteen Birds:
More great Chico lore:
Tumbling Man
Forest of Totem Poles, video
http://amorphicrobotworks.org/works/forest/video.mov
Totemobile
http://amorphicrobotworks.org/works/ttm/video.mov
23.6.09
Well if you can read an Arabic newspaper...yer lucky. Seems that the protests in Iran stopped on Saturday yet...the US media is showing the same footage over and over to convince people that there is a problem.
There isn't and there wasn't a problem until the US mounted another operation to destabilize Iran.
And once again, they've failed as they will always fail. It is written...this is the Age of Victory.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/cifamerica/2009/jun/15/iran-election-polling
And for what it is worth...Ahmadinijad won by about the same margin the last time he ran for president. Go figure. But now that the US/Israel have utterly failed to provoke a war and subsequent US led "invasion"....they are desperately trying to engage Iran against Iran. Literally putting it on the cover of TIME magazine this week as "Iran vs Iran"....how much more obvious can this be?
There isn't and there wasn't a problem until the US mounted another operation to destabilize Iran.
And once again, they've failed as they will always fail. It is written...this is the Age of Victory.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/cifamerica/2009/jun/15/iran-election-polling
And for what it is worth...Ahmadinijad won by about the same margin the last time he ran for president. Go figure. But now that the US/Israel have utterly failed to provoke a war and subsequent US led "invasion"....they are desperately trying to engage Iran against Iran. Literally putting it on the cover of TIME magazine this week as "Iran vs Iran"....how much more obvious can this be?
16.6.09
10.6.09
8.6.09
6.6.09
Ode to the Lyric Amusement Company
Old man Diamos was sure
a cheapskate,
a movie man with his eye
on the Nickolodeon,
we don't know more
than this do we?
His death still
a perfect secret
no one knows for sure
if he went down
with the Fox or Grand,
the Apache or Geronimo
or if he died at all.
He started the place
with some kind of crank
wizards, all the same
short types of men.
The best job in town
wasn't nurse, teacher,
dentist, snake oil.
It was usher
because they got in for free
to shine a flashlight
down the aislebecause Nick Diamos
didn't like a mess
in his darling place,
didn't want love
or chaos in the last row.
The man knew
his business.
Reels, big brooms,
luxury lights,
buttery smells,
tickets, one cartoon
and those ushers.
Matinee.
Midnight, the Exorcist
a long walk home with my chum
and the devil.
The Red Sea parts
and Molly Brown floats in
past Lady Guenivere,
whispers something sweet
to Shirley McClaine
at four forty-five,
Jack just boarding
the five o'clock
to gone, as they call
out my name
come to the snack bar.
Intermission.
I stood in the yard that Jack left
for the last time
and took everything
with him -
the fires and dogs,
tire swings and alter boys.
The Greyhound bus appeared
through the mesquite
up on the mountain
for a few seconds
and I cried.
Not sure why
goodbyes are so important.
He'd send postcards
from all the wonderful places
like the St. Louis Arches.
I missed it all
for the show
because old man Diamos
lured us with his faux
red velvet clad ushers
that just don't let go.
The Deer Hunter,
the last picture show.
Manhattan, she was
just all Manhattan
and so pure
because we didn't
understand Manhattan.
Woody leaned into
her
leaned real hard
as the New York sky line
loomed over the bay,
yet the deer
just stood there,
de Niro, the gun
and MurielHemingway.
She was. She sure was.
Nick Diamos
parted the sea
and curtains
to let Meryl through
to channel the boiling
waters of hell
under the balcony,
into the lobby
and out the doors
where they flowed
back into the Lif.
It was raining that day,
I just didn't get it,
the last clip.
But it was raining
and there was still
a taxi in town
parked where it
always used to park.
It was either over
or just started,
I couldn't tell.
Dear Mr. Diamos,
I've been around the world now
there's been a thousand scenes,
yours were just too short.
Sincerely yours,
Margaret Ruth
The back story:
The Map of Cars, Mercury and Marquis
Jack and Fish
The Dove's Midrash
2.6.09
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB124343493732958727.html
The year of the Bible on the table. Does this signal the end of Christianic thinking and desperation? Most certainly it does. Those that want to establish such a ridiculous thing...that think they can trump the Creator when the Creator states Islam will be established as the obvious thing..well.....be careful what you wish for.
The year of the Bible on the table. Does this signal the end of Christianic thinking and desperation? Most certainly it does. Those that want to establish such a ridiculous thing...that think they can trump the Creator when the Creator states Islam will be established as the obvious thing..well.....be careful what you wish for.
The One
History is written in the heart
no punctuation right from the start
it has to compress and fold
the mind with limited space to hold
thousands of moments and heartbeats
heard, lights and mysteries the truth
is blurred and falsehood remains
only a moment until the fact complains.
It won't last and should not matter
the stars will collapse and shatter
before time itself writes the very
last book, no one will notice
his final look upon creation
as it powers down and turns out the light
that breathtaking empty darkened sight.
Memory shall fail as eternity expands
over the color coded unimportant lands
as death perplexes the poet
and his hands, his books open
and are compared to the commands.
Did you believe? It is yes or no
I am or I am not. Certainly
this simple question was asked
of you before by me.
History is written in the heart
no punctuation right from the start
it has to compress and fold
the mind with limited space to hold
thousands of moments and heartbeats
heard, lights and mysteries the truth
is blurred and falsehood remains
only a moment until the fact complains.
It won't last and should not matter
the stars will collapse and shatter
before time itself writes the very
last book, no one will notice
his final look upon creation
as it powers down and turns out the light
that breathtaking empty darkened sight.
Memory shall fail as eternity expands
over the color coded unimportant lands
as death perplexes the poet
and his hands, his books open
and are compared to the commands.
Did you believe? It is yes or no
I am or I am not. Certainly
this simple question was asked
of you before by me.
31.5.09
28.5.09
http://www.rys2sense.com/anti-neocons/viewtopic.php?f=11&t=18762
Israeli media and Israel at it again.
Israeli media and Israel at it again.
26.5.09
A Moment of Flarf here on Katie Degentesh
"Far be it from me to take anything away from star fucking or former antiwar Congressman Wayne Gilchrest (R–MD), but what are they adding to this poem besides non-sequitur punchlines? The poet disarms us with the insouciance of her speaker, intrigues us with a gloss on the passage of time, makes us suspicious with clichés, and startles us with materialistic considerations before seducing us with the strange detachment of “when it flashes red you’re getting hurt.”"
I have to agree. What we need and what we want are two different things entirely. Poetry is a bit like spinach you know....good for you but not alot like choclate. Flarf tends to be too much Snickers and not enough roughage.
"Far be it from me to take anything away from star fucking or former antiwar Congressman Wayne Gilchrest (R–MD), but what are they adding to this poem besides non-sequitur punchlines? The poet disarms us with the insouciance of her speaker, intrigues us with a gloss on the passage of time, makes us suspicious with clichés, and startles us with materialistic considerations before seducing us with the strange detachment of “when it flashes red you’re getting hurt.”"
I have to agree. What we need and what we want are two different things entirely. Poetry is a bit like spinach you know....good for you but not alot like choclate. Flarf tends to be too much Snickers and not enough roughage.
A great love poem....and I mean this one rocks:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=185277
“No, I wasn’t meant to love and be loved”
-by Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib
Translated by Vijay Seshadri
No, I wasn’t meant to love and be loved.
If I’d lived longer, I would have waited longer.
Knowing you are faithless keeps me alive and hungry.
Knowing you faithful would kill me with joy.
Delicate are you, and your vows are delicate, too,
so easily do they break.
You are a laconic marksman. You leave me
not dead but perpetually dying.
I want my friends to heal me, succor me.
Instead, I get analysis.
Conflagrations that would make stones drip blood
are campfires compared to my anguish.
Two-headed, inescapable anguish!—
Love’s anguish or the anguish of time.
Another dark, severing, incommunicable night.
Death would be fine, if I only died once.
I would have liked a solitary death,
not this lavish funeral, this grave anyone can visit.
You are mystical, Ghalib, and, also, you speak beautifully.
Are you a saint, or just drunk as usual?
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=185277
“No, I wasn’t meant to love and be loved”
-by Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib
Translated by Vijay Seshadri
No, I wasn’t meant to love and be loved.
If I’d lived longer, I would have waited longer.
Knowing you are faithless keeps me alive and hungry.
Knowing you faithful would kill me with joy.
Delicate are you, and your vows are delicate, too,
so easily do they break.
You are a laconic marksman. You leave me
not dead but perpetually dying.
I want my friends to heal me, succor me.
Instead, I get analysis.
Conflagrations that would make stones drip blood
are campfires compared to my anguish.
Two-headed, inescapable anguish!—
Love’s anguish or the anguish of time.
Another dark, severing, incommunicable night.
Death would be fine, if I only died once.
I would have liked a solitary death,
not this lavish funeral, this grave anyone can visit.
You are mystical, Ghalib, and, also, you speak beautifully.
Are you a saint, or just drunk as usual?
22.5.09
The Stream
Through the forest the wind
does whistle and up the stream
where time does end
a backwards clock
and pounds the drizzle
that fills the lake
for fish and men
with all the things
of which we're made
so to walk into the glade
or swim on down
past the still
and green green trees
that leave us by
to swim and leap
beneath the mountains
oh so steep.
Can you hear
the water call
as it treads
the waterfall?
These breaths betray
the breeze and say
today you might go away.
The Time...from an ongoing discussion I have been involved in for about fifteen years on a message bored...I mean board. I've known some of these people for over a decade! And they still get into the nastiest arguments....
I appreciate both people and have known you both for a long, long
time. I wouldn't referee this match if you paid me.
People just need to relax and get along. The point is to learn
something..share ideas you know.
The Islamic calendar....doesn't stream well into modern life because
it is ever changing in the geared-to-Gregorian year. In all
actuality, you need both things and a year actually ends up being
the Metonic one which is roughly nineteen years long. But we cannot
have birthdays so far apart it seems!
It isn't a competition you know and the fact of the matter is....we
live in space and we don't even know which part of space we live in
or whether it has edges, directions, etc. Time itself is distorted
and I think it is the most amazing thing that we live in a "plane"
of existence where the sun and moon are available to us to "reckon"
our days and our lives. Without them we'd not know where we stood
and truly, we'd not be alive to know about our ignorance either!
This is what the Quran relates about it and it cannot be refuted by
anyone. Period.
[6.96] He causes the dawn to break; and He has made the night for
rest, and the sun and the moon for reckoning; this is an arrangement
of the Mighty, the Knowing.
The argument that ought to be waged however isn't about which
calendar is best or more accurate (in a universe of many
conclusions) but rather the argument is about causality. Wicked
little argument that it is and if I had a nickel for every time I've
seen it waged here at the Cafe or elsewhere...and I don't
particularly want to wage it again because it tends to be a circular
argument.
I'll just state the case of Causality in the Quran. To me it is
perhaps one of if not the most important statements in the whole
Quran:
[25.45] Have you not considered (the work of) your Lord, how He
extends the shade? And if He had pleased He would certainly have
made it stationary; then We have made the sun an indication of it -
from The Distinction
Two things.
1. We BELIEVE that the sun creates our shadow but the Quran refutes
that and states that it is only made to appear that way. Allah
actually created everything independent of everything else with
unique characteristics that are so fantastically arranged that they
APPEAR to have causes and outcomes that are intrinsically related.
But they aren't and the world is an illusion.
2. When Armstrong walked on the moon he found that distances and
surfaces could not be judged accurately by his senses. What
appeared to be close was in fact far away and what appeared to be
deep was in fact shallow.
The eyes do deceive us.
So. Which calendar is accurate?
Neither.
The Islamic calendar is dedicated to actions associated with worship
of Allah.
The solar calendar is dedicated to actions associated with the
material world.
It's all about measuring things accurately in the first place and to
be honest, I've never quite understood why it would be the case that
ancient people had to invent a calendar in the first place except
that they wanted to know about the future events so that they could
plan better. That is common to us all....ignorance about the morrow.
There is no one who knows about the future except the prophets or
who related it with any accuracy whatsoever. That isn't to say that
we always understood their prophecies but we do try.
The most important prophecy in my estimation is relating to the
prophets themselves and the people to whom they were sent. Back in
the day....prophets were sent to certain groups..usually villages
that were isolated from other places. We don't know about the other
places so much except what exists in the historical records and the
archeology. We only have these few handfuls of stories about
ancient people.
Okay..so cut to the chase.
Prophets were sent to clearly defined people...the people of Noah,
the people of Madyan, the people of Gomorrah, etc. Each group was
given a prophecy of destruction and ordered to mend their ways and
each of them (with one exception that I know of and that would be
the people of Jonah) were destroyed. One prophet for one group.
Other communities apparently were unaffected by those events.
Then you have the last prophet and messenger named Mohamed (SA). He
was sent to which group and with which prophecy?
It is something that concerns us all you know and even if people
don't believe in an End Times they usually know a person who does.
So...he was sent to the whole of mankind.
Al'ham'dulillah.
And so the question is...who will listen? I'd
say..personally...that the message is loud and clear. Not a person
on the planet hasn't heard that there is a very big religious
conundrum about.
The Catholic church is reconsidering celibacy....and rightly so.
Those are the signs that something bigger than anyone here is at
work and no one can stop the clock now. They can only try to hear
it ticking.
Through the forest the wind
does whistle and up the stream
where time does end
a backwards clock
and pounds the drizzle
that fills the lake
for fish and men
with all the things
of which we're made
so to walk into the glade
or swim on down
past the still
and green green trees
that leave us by
to swim and leap
beneath the mountains
oh so steep.
Can you hear
the water call
as it treads
the waterfall?
These breaths betray
the breeze and say
today you might go away.
The Time...from an ongoing discussion I have been involved in for about fifteen years on a message bored...I mean board. I've known some of these people for over a decade! And they still get into the nastiest arguments....
I appreciate both people and have known you both for a long, long
time. I wouldn't referee this match if you paid me.
People just need to relax and get along. The point is to learn
something..share ideas you know.
The Islamic calendar....doesn't stream well into modern life because
it is ever changing in the geared-to-Gregorian year. In all
actuality, you need both things and a year actually ends up being
the Metonic one which is roughly nineteen years long. But we cannot
have birthdays so far apart it seems!
It isn't a competition you know and the fact of the matter is....we
live in space and we don't even know which part of space we live in
or whether it has edges, directions, etc. Time itself is distorted
and I think it is the most amazing thing that we live in a "plane"
of existence where the sun and moon are available to us to "reckon"
our days and our lives. Without them we'd not know where we stood
and truly, we'd not be alive to know about our ignorance either!
This is what the Quran relates about it and it cannot be refuted by
anyone. Period.
[6.96] He causes the dawn to break; and He has made the night for
rest, and the sun and the moon for reckoning; this is an arrangement
of the Mighty, the Knowing.
The argument that ought to be waged however isn't about which
calendar is best or more accurate (in a universe of many
conclusions) but rather the argument is about causality. Wicked
little argument that it is and if I had a nickel for every time I've
seen it waged here at the Cafe or elsewhere...and I don't
particularly want to wage it again because it tends to be a circular
argument.
I'll just state the case of Causality in the Quran. To me it is
perhaps one of if not the most important statements in the whole
Quran:
[25.45] Have you not considered (the work of) your Lord, how He
extends the shade? And if He had pleased He would certainly have
made it stationary; then We have made the sun an indication of it -
from The Distinction
Two things.
1. We BELIEVE that the sun creates our shadow but the Quran refutes
that and states that it is only made to appear that way. Allah
actually created everything independent of everything else with
unique characteristics that are so fantastically arranged that they
APPEAR to have causes and outcomes that are intrinsically related.
But they aren't and the world is an illusion.
2. When Armstrong walked on the moon he found that distances and
surfaces could not be judged accurately by his senses. What
appeared to be close was in fact far away and what appeared to be
deep was in fact shallow.
The eyes do deceive us.
So. Which calendar is accurate?
Neither.
The Islamic calendar is dedicated to actions associated with worship
of Allah.
The solar calendar is dedicated to actions associated with the
material world.
It's all about measuring things accurately in the first place and to
be honest, I've never quite understood why it would be the case that
ancient people had to invent a calendar in the first place except
that they wanted to know about the future events so that they could
plan better. That is common to us all....ignorance about the morrow.
There is no one who knows about the future except the prophets or
who related it with any accuracy whatsoever. That isn't to say that
we always understood their prophecies but we do try.
The most important prophecy in my estimation is relating to the
prophets themselves and the people to whom they were sent. Back in
the day....prophets were sent to certain groups..usually villages
that were isolated from other places. We don't know about the other
places so much except what exists in the historical records and the
archeology. We only have these few handfuls of stories about
ancient people.
Okay..so cut to the chase.
Prophets were sent to clearly defined people...the people of Noah,
the people of Madyan, the people of Gomorrah, etc. Each group was
given a prophecy of destruction and ordered to mend their ways and
each of them (with one exception that I know of and that would be
the people of Jonah) were destroyed. One prophet for one group.
Other communities apparently were unaffected by those events.
Then you have the last prophet and messenger named Mohamed (SA). He
was sent to which group and with which prophecy?
It is something that concerns us all you know and even if people
don't believe in an End Times they usually know a person who does.
So...he was sent to the whole of mankind.
Al'ham'dulillah.
And so the question is...who will listen? I'd
say..personally...that the message is loud and clear. Not a person
on the planet hasn't heard that there is a very big religious
conundrum about.
The Catholic church is reconsidering celibacy....and rightly so.
Those are the signs that something bigger than anyone here is at
work and no one can stop the clock now. They can only try to hear
it ticking.
21.5.09
The Erotic Life
Should have written it down
instead of wreaking havoc
yet the other self says keep trying.
Once Haj 'brahim drank the ashes
of his cigarette from his tea,
said it was good for us.
Sultana came through the door
looking pale once again,
thoroughly his wife.
Oftentimes I saw them out front
peeling tobacco leaves one by one,
a group of sisters smiling.
One time the mule got loose
and I led him home by the rope,
fed him apples in the afternoon.
Their children sat out on the roof
watched us through the window,
told the village how foreigners make love.
Jesse and his father's Ark
Pooch at Broken Toe
Should have written it down
instead of wreaking havoc
yet the other self says keep trying.
Once Haj 'brahim drank the ashes
of his cigarette from his tea,
said it was good for us.
Sultana came through the door
looking pale once again,
thoroughly his wife.
Oftentimes I saw them out front
peeling tobacco leaves one by one,
a group of sisters smiling.
One time the mule got loose
and I led him home by the rope,
fed him apples in the afternoon.
Their children sat out on the roof
watched us through the window,
told the village how foreigners make love.
Jesse and his father's ArkPooch at Broken Toe
The Plague
There is one choice
unity
or something else because
all else
is a simple truth.
What are the papers to say
now
about the streams
of people who head out
far astray
make matters worse
and ignore
the endemic situations.
There is a twist to that
a trick
in the book
that says one thing
but does another.
It is everyone's problem
and the moon and the sun
did so
and did so
willingly
without any eyes at all.
There is one choice
unity
or something else because
all else
is a simple truth.
What are the papers to say
now
about the streams
of people who head out
far astray
make matters worse
and ignore
the endemic situations.
There is a twist to that
a trick
in the book
that says one thing
but does another.
It is everyone's problem
and the moon and the sun
did so
and did so
willingly
without any eyes at all.
20.5.09
18.5.09
http://www.dailystar.com.lb/article.asp?edition_id=10&categ_id=5&article_id=101976
Khazaali claims that Ahmadinejad's real family name is "Saboorchian," a Jewish name that he changed to "Ahmadinejad." Khazaali, naming a few other prominent leaders of the Islamic Republic as new converts to Islam from Judaism, questions whether a Jewish cabal has crept in and taken over the revolutionary government! As outlandish as Khaazali's claim seems to be, it has gone unchallenged. If there is any shred of truth in it, then we can see Ahmadinejad's fierce anti-Israel sentiment under a different light. Could he be just another convert unsure of his newly acquired identity, resorting to extreme measures to prove himself? Could he be the watered down, modern equivalent of Tomas de Torquemada?
Oh my Lord! Yer kiddin me! Hilarious.
Why is it hilarious? Because the author of the article fails to see that Islam is a religion not a race. Oh well!
Khazaali claims that Ahmadinejad's real family name is "Saboorchian," a Jewish name that he changed to "Ahmadinejad." Khazaali, naming a few other prominent leaders of the Islamic Republic as new converts to Islam from Judaism, questions whether a Jewish cabal has crept in and taken over the revolutionary government! As outlandish as Khaazali's claim seems to be, it has gone unchallenged. If there is any shred of truth in it, then we can see Ahmadinejad's fierce anti-Israel sentiment under a different light. Could he be just another convert unsure of his newly acquired identity, resorting to extreme measures to prove himself? Could he be the watered down, modern equivalent of Tomas de Torquemada?
Oh my Lord! Yer kiddin me! Hilarious.
Why is it hilarious? Because the author of the article fails to see that Islam is a religion not a race. Oh well!
On the Road to a Shia Majority in Lebanon
http://www.dailystar.com.lb/article.asp?edition_id=1&categ_id=2&article_id=102072
BEIRUT: Comments made by Hizbullah's General Secretary Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah in praise of the May 7, 2008 events provoked furious condemnation from politicians in the March 14 coalition over the weekend. Nasrallah sparked criticism on Friday after calling May 7, 2008, a "glorious day" for the Resistance. "I tell the Lebanese, in particular Sunnis and Shiites, that the May 7 events put an end to war in Beirut," he said in a televised speech. Violence erupted last year when forces headed by Hizbullah forcibly took over parts of West Beirut after the Lebanese government attempted to dismantle the group's telecommunications network and remove Wafic Choucair from his post as head of security at Beirut's International Airport.
The clashes, in which at least 81 people were killed, "safeguarded Lebanon's institutions and forced all Lebanese parties to go back to the [national] dialogue, which led to the election of President Michel Sleiman," Nasrallah said. But many other Lebanese politicians disagree, and Nasrallah's comments sparked damnation from the Hariri-led March 14 coalition, which says last May's violence brought Lebanon to the brink of a renewed civil war.
In his speech Friday, Nasrallah also called for the creation of a higher national committee for abolishing sectarianism in accordance with the 1989 Taif Accord, which ended Lebanon's 1975-90 Civil War.
http://www.dailystar.com.lb/article.asp?edition_id=1&categ_id=2&article_id=102072
BEIRUT: Comments made by Hizbullah's General Secretary Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah in praise of the May 7, 2008 events provoked furious condemnation from politicians in the March 14 coalition over the weekend. Nasrallah sparked criticism on Friday after calling May 7, 2008, a "glorious day" for the Resistance. "I tell the Lebanese, in particular Sunnis and Shiites, that the May 7 events put an end to war in Beirut," he said in a televised speech. Violence erupted last year when forces headed by Hizbullah forcibly took over parts of West Beirut after the Lebanese government attempted to dismantle the group's telecommunications network and remove Wafic Choucair from his post as head of security at Beirut's International Airport.
The clashes, in which at least 81 people were killed, "safeguarded Lebanon's institutions and forced all Lebanese parties to go back to the [national] dialogue, which led to the election of President Michel Sleiman," Nasrallah said. But many other Lebanese politicians disagree, and Nasrallah's comments sparked damnation from the Hariri-led March 14 coalition, which says last May's violence brought Lebanon to the brink of a renewed civil war.
In his speech Friday, Nasrallah also called for the creation of a higher national committee for abolishing sectarianism in accordance with the 1989 Taif Accord, which ended Lebanon's 1975-90 Civil War.
9.5.09
Heh....you know...one should never leave a blog untended. Especially with such a headline as that! Must be spring you know...birdies in the trees and stds. Busy as a bee and add a couple of cases of TB, one of them disseminated and well...you see what I mean.
Off I-10
In Sodom despite the ruins,
a man in a floppy hat
with flowers and lady shorts
is heart broken.
There are so many reasons for this.
It's real and not real
all the cool things
ajax
for some reason
ajax
just getting cooler
as you say to it
be cool. Be very cool
you things.
Its real and not real
the world.
Things that matter
don't matter so much
and those that don't
actually do.
What a special place
life is.
I phone him up
to say
I didn't forget you
in a place called Sodom
hard to believe
that there's a place
called Sodom
or that it is as ugly
as it is.
I call it the as...
no...nevermind.
It's just like that
place in the movies
no one likes to go
or stay
it has a railroad track
running right through
behind the Dairy Queen
and the train runs
through the sticks
past the many trailers
the small hospital
Walmart
a Greek restaurant
and a great little place
called Reb's Diner.
Been there a long long time
old Reb's. Since I was a child
and I hated Sodom then too
but loved
how I loved Reb's.
and the Horseshoe Cafe
which keeps opening and closing
and the thought of Boston Cream Pie
coming and going
being eaten and replaced
over and over
the years that stay the same
for the most part
only you get a little older
and he tells you
unrelated to the matter
about which you phoned
him up
a business issue
not anything special
in the scheme of things
that he is going
to have knee surgery.
Stranger to stranger
and you wonder why
this loneliness?
Why did he believe
I'd care?
The crazy hopefulness of it all.
Off I-10
In Sodom despite the ruins,
a man in a floppy hat
with flowers and lady shorts
is heart broken.
There are so many reasons for this.
It's real and not real
all the cool things
ajax
for some reason
ajax
just getting cooler
as you say to it
be cool. Be very cool
you things.
Its real and not real
the world.
Things that matter
don't matter so much
and those that don't
actually do.
What a special place
life is.
I phone him up
to say
I didn't forget you
in a place called Sodom
hard to believe
that there's a place
called Sodom
or that it is as ugly
as it is.
I call it the as...
no...nevermind.
It's just like that
place in the movies
no one likes to go
or stay
it has a railroad track
running right through
behind the Dairy Queen
and the train runs
through the sticks
past the many trailers
the small hospital
Walmart
a Greek restaurant
and a great little place
called Reb's Diner.
Been there a long long time
old Reb's. Since I was a child
and I hated Sodom then too
but loved
how I loved Reb's.
and the Horseshoe Cafe
which keeps opening and closing
and the thought of Boston Cream Pie
coming and going
being eaten and replaced
over and over
the years that stay the same
for the most part
only you get a little older
and he tells you
unrelated to the matter
about which you phoned
him up
a business issue
not anything special
in the scheme of things
that he is going
to have knee surgery.
Stranger to stranger
and you wonder why
this loneliness?
Why did he believe
I'd care?
The crazy hopefulness of it all.
21.4.09
The Arco Iris isn't
as pink
anymore but it is still there
all the time her heart is beating
how the pimp sped into
the landscape outside a small
whorehouse in Naco Son
we were just walking by had just finished
the Blue Moon where on the ledges
used to be placed
the Virgin the candles lit up
the adobe walls pesos
the brown girls far from home
between two outbacks
he sped into the masterpiece
his blue car dust
brimmed hat
trembling as I thieved
their image
the Three Graces short shorts
thongs
white teeth their laughter
is still inside the silver
how are they now?
as pink
anymore but it is still there
all the time her heart is beating
how the pimp sped into
the landscape outside a small
whorehouse in Naco Son
we were just walking by had just finished
the Blue Moon where on the ledges
used to be placed
the Virgin the candles lit up
the adobe walls pesos
the brown girls far from home
between two outbacks
he sped into the masterpiece
his blue car dust
brimmed hat
trembling as I thieved
their image
the Three Graces short shorts
thongs
white teeth their laughter
is still inside the silver
how are they now?
20.4.09
Virgin Fishwife Takes the World by Storm
"Frankly, she hasn't stopped. More than 6 million people have already turned to YouTube to see what all the fuss is about. They're crying in Calcutta. They're bawling in Brussels. "
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=riXbsmqsNMI
This woman is such a sensation, You Tube has mostly disabled embedding for the video of her performance on Britain Has Talent. She sings, I Dreamed a Dream from Les Miserables by Andrew Lloyd Weber
"Frankly, she hasn't stopped. More than 6 million people have already turned to YouTube to see what all the fuss is about. They're crying in Calcutta. They're bawling in Brussels. "
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=riXbsmqsNMI
This woman is such a sensation, You Tube has mostly disabled embedding for the video of her performance on Britain Has Talent. She sings, I Dreamed a Dream from Les Miserables by Andrew Lloyd Weber
17.4.09
How to Win a Cosmic War by Reza Aslan, on sale now.
The Surprising History of Persia
THE DESERTS GROW:
WOE HIM WHO DOTH THEM HIDE! -Friedrich Nietzsche
Here's the deal with all things
that are there anyway,
it was over once it began
yet repeats itself
to recognition by definition
in whole or in part.
A man leaned forward
to speak enthusiastically, no
to intimidate
with a percussion
of factual expertise:
Read the history of Persia,
the conversion under
the Ottomans, the violence
that they hoped
to ward off
by choosing otherwise.
Why? I said,
I am not a Persian
nor even close.
The man leaned back
and for one instant
remembered the chances
he lost with me
long ago. And now,
there he is
and we are much older,
some of us wiser.
Not for a moment
did he realize
that it was written,
he was the stone
upon which I stepped
and had he not insisted
upon my company
that day,
I'd not be right
here trying
very hard
to convert
his history
without device
into a matter of fact
elopement from the ages
which captivate and deliver
us all.
Ahuramazda. Selah.
This is my sigh.
It is long and it is complicated.
--The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.
Had I told him the truth
but my tongue
took leave,
what I know
is not in the books Ghassan,
and I am history's unlikely guess.
Last night I remembered
that here in space
we wait for someone
to come pick us up,
lonely travelers
in a context of stars.
These are ordinary things to us
but to those ignorant
of the long lasting drama
it all seems so precious,
mini doctrines woven
into the fabric of time.
Amen. Alelujah and remember me.
Oh please remember me
for the decorous glances,
lost chances, the amorous advances.
http://carmenisacat.blogspot.com/2006/03/new-and-improved-but-never-finished.html
The Surprising History of Persia
THE DESERTS GROW:
WOE HIM WHO DOTH THEM HIDE! -Friedrich Nietzsche
Here's the deal with all things
that are there anyway,
it was over once it began
yet repeats itself
to recognition by definition
in whole or in part.
A man leaned forward
to speak enthusiastically, no
to intimidate
with a percussion
of factual expertise:
Read the history of Persia,
the conversion under
the Ottomans, the violence
that they hoped
to ward off
by choosing otherwise.
Why? I said,
I am not a Persian
nor even close.
The man leaned back
and for one instant
remembered the chances
he lost with me
long ago. And now,
there he is
and we are much older,
some of us wiser.
Not for a moment
did he realize
that it was written,
he was the stone
upon which I stepped
and had he not insisted
upon my company
that day,
I'd not be right
here trying
very hard
to convert
his history
without device
into a matter of fact
elopement from the ages
which captivate and deliver
us all.
Ahuramazda. Selah.
This is my sigh.
It is long and it is complicated.
--The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.
Had I told him the truth
but my tongue
took leave,
what I know
is not in the books Ghassan,
and I am history's unlikely guess.
Last night I remembered
that here in space
we wait for someone
to come pick us up,
lonely travelers
in a context of stars.
These are ordinary things to us
but to those ignorant
of the long lasting drama
it all seems so precious,
mini doctrines woven
into the fabric of time.
Amen. Alelujah and remember me.
Oh please remember me
for the decorous glances,
lost chances, the amorous advances.
http://carmenisacat.blogspot.com/2006/03/new-and-improved-but-never-finished.html
14.4.09
This, the Delinquent Hoopoe
"Be among men like bee among birds."
-Ali ibn Abi Taleb, Commander of the Faithful
Even if we could
we couldn't decipher,
the great things
that are happening,
tremendous machinations
can be heard
there and then.
So close.
The Beast could be really
rather small, already here
and like the seeds
inside the earth
for thousands of years
ready to rise
up and escape detection
while everything is delayed
and might be stopped
and the world is flattened again.
The streetlamp buzzes,
tamps itself out, exhausted
from the night or ashamed
in the aboriginal
text of the dawn
one more time
as the Great Society
delicately edits
and supervises
each sunlit page.
http://masum.wordpress.com/2006/10/31/prophet-suleiman-as-and-the-hoopoe-bird/
"Be among men like bee among birds."
-Ali ibn Abi Taleb, Commander of the Faithful
Even if we could
we couldn't decipher,
the great things
that are happening,
tremendous machinations
can be heard
there and then.
So close.
The Beast could be really
rather small, already here
and like the seeds
inside the earth
for thousands of years
ready to rise
up and escape detection
while everything is delayed
and might be stopped
and the world is flattened again.
The streetlamp buzzes,
tamps itself out, exhausted
from the night or ashamed
in the aboriginal
text of the dawn
one more time
as the Great Society
delicately edits
and supervises
each sunlit page.
http://masum.wordpress.com/2006/10/31/prophet-suleiman-as-and-the-hoopoe-bird/
11.4.09
The Easter Design,
on the Road With Luke Skywalker
"The United States is not and never will be at war with Islam."
-Barak (means 'gift') Hossein Obama
"Agreement in error is far worse than division for the sake of truth."
-Shia tradition from one of the twelve Imams who embodied the role
of Standard Bearers of Divine Rank because of their freedom
from ignominy during the hate crimes of their times.
It is clear
the fragrance of rain
in the air
deciduous trees
beleaguered angels
leave footprints
in the black hole of Calcutta.
All our sons become
fathers,
remember.
They send to us
their invitations
for obstacle courses
flight simulations
and academies.
It isn't the flag draped
coffins that have
the signals to cry,
it isn't in the photo
or fine music played
as their names waft by
as we imagine
their pectoral glams
It is clear
the fragrance of rain
in the air
deciduous trees
beleaguered angels
leave footprints
in the black hole of Calcutta.
All our sons become
fathers,
remember.
They send to us
their invitations
for obstacle courses
flight simulations
and academies.
It isn't the flag draped
coffins that have
the signals to cry,
it isn't in the photo
or fine music played
as their names waft by
as we imagine
their pectoral glams
would you get a load of that!
We only think so.
It is as if
in this an in-
vestment is procured
and watered down
of what we already knew
but blamed all the same,
his death, body, folklore
led to persuasive
remedies of our own,
We only think so.
It is as if
in this an in-
vestment is procured
and watered down
of what we already knew
but blamed all the same,
his death, body, folklore
led to persuasive
remedies of our own,
led straight back forward to Zion.
For all we know
he is our profligate
our best sacrifice,
the most of martyrdoms
in any kind of body bag
sent back to the holy ghost
as a preceptor.
We only think so.
Only the priest
can don the zuchetto
no business
like shew business
you know
a soft square shaped hat
pontifical gloves
and huraches
man what a gig!
We only think so.
For all we know
he is our profligate
our best sacrifice,
the most of martyrdoms
in any kind of body bag
sent back to the holy ghost
as a preceptor.
We only think so.
Only the priest
can don the zuchetto
no business
like shew business
you know
a soft square shaped hat
pontifical gloves
and huraches
man what a gig!
We only think so.
"Indeed, atrocity is a weapon of the weak or imbalanced authority. This is a factual observation: it does not exonerate those who use savagery as a weapon from any moral blame that may be put on them by their victims or by anyone else. Nor does it imply that the victims are morally inferior to the one who is perpetrating the barbarity. This is particularly more so when involving the noble members of the Household of the Prophet. All acts of enormity irrespective of its year are open to severe criticism on moral grounds if on nothing else. "
"The extreme wickedness of the perpetrator can take to many forms and shapes.The atrocious ruling elite are as an agent often miles away from where the atrocity is taking place. The perpetrator of the evil instruction is more often than not physically close to his victim. Often enough, the victims of atrocity are the God-fearing members of the community. "
The Attention Deficit Disorder
The way the morning comes on
again, the lunar pelt still aglow
I do all of the things
you don't have to.
Once again it is bad news
unfit for human ears,
this boy still draws
with the ancient hand
of children who know
the color of the father's
demons, know the strategies
of the devil when the devil
remarks on some better deal.
These are the thoughts
that got lost yesterday,
came and left in the breeze
which tampers and tampers,
all we needed was a little sleep,
a better system and we'd
run right in, start right up.
Not this time because that boy
is going away real fast.
I wonder about the time
he slept under his mother's
breast, his first fingernail
and still see
the imprint of love
in his outstretched struggle.
Love me again
just love me again.
I'm not all that bad
just a bit pudgy
with a few old scars.
On how he can buy a gun
or take hostage
the entire town
because he might.
Virginia is so far away
from the sleepovers,
tucked into the archipelago
boot camp for the self annoyed.
You do these things alone you know.
There isn't a pamphlet
with one, two, three
on one side and an address
on the other.
The way the morning comes on
again, the lunar pelt still aglow
I do all of the things
you don't have to.
Once again it is bad news
unfit for human ears,
this boy still draws
with the ancient hand
of children who know
the color of the father's
demons, know the strategies
of the devil when the devil
remarks on some better deal.
These are the thoughts
that got lost yesterday,
came and left in the breeze
which tampers and tampers,
all we needed was a little sleep,
a better system and we'd
run right in, start right up.
Not this time because that boy
is going away real fast.
I wonder about the time
he slept under his mother's
breast, his first fingernail
and still see
the imprint of love
in his outstretched struggle.
Love me again
just love me again.
I'm not all that bad
just a bit pudgy
with a few old scars.
On how he can buy a gun
or take hostage
the entire town
because he might.
Virginia is so far away
from the sleepovers,
tucked into the archipelago
boot camp for the self annoyed.
You do these things alone you know.
There isn't a pamphlet
with one, two, three
on one side and an address
on the other.
3.4.09
http://www.occupation101.com/
"There was not a false note in this film....It is relevant to all of our lives...we will never have peace or peace of mind in this country...the Palestinians have been enduring for decades...as we are so deeply implicated..."
"There was not a false note in this film....It is relevant to all of our lives...we will never have peace or peace of mind in this country...the Palestinians have been enduring for decades...as we are so deeply implicated..."
2.4.09
New Voices on the Wind Volume XXXVII
Just in time for Easter. The lilacs are in full bloom, the Chinese Wisteria has dropped her lavender buds and roses are promising a dramatic show. My lettuce is already up, the radishes in the ground will take thirty days and spring onions grow whether you want them to or not. Two grape vines in the back have been pruned and in'sha'allah, the wind will leave them alone. I have one apple. One little apple. Bees all over the yard in the rosemary and Chinese Elm. Tomorrow the dog gets his rabies shot because there is a horrendous outbreak on the Pinal/Pima/Cochise county borders. Our first grandchild is due in early June and these are the months of waiting for the beginning of things I can hardly imagine. Life keeps going on and the wars begin to look the same. Is this all there is?
Of course not. But its a great way to spend some time.
From Dick Bakken's The Bridge:
"The train
thundered over
him until there was
nothing."
Just in time for Easter. The lilacs are in full bloom, the Chinese Wisteria has dropped her lavender buds and roses are promising a dramatic show. My lettuce is already up, the radishes in the ground will take thirty days and spring onions grow whether you want them to or not. Two grape vines in the back have been pruned and in'sha'allah, the wind will leave them alone. I have one apple. One little apple. Bees all over the yard in the rosemary and Chinese Elm. Tomorrow the dog gets his rabies shot because there is a horrendous outbreak on the Pinal/Pima/Cochise county borders. Our first grandchild is due in early June and these are the months of waiting for the beginning of things I can hardly imagine. Life keeps going on and the wars begin to look the same. Is this all there is?
Of course not. But its a great way to spend some time.
From Dick Bakken's The Bridge:
"The train
thundered over
him until there was
nothing."
Just right.
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