The Tenuous Night of the Universe Recorded
The real animals know the time
as night falls into the right places.
The bats swoop, visionaries
to the universe outside the damp caves
they cling to in the daylight hours
where they seek the solace of the blind.
Wet lizards mimick the perpetual hymn
of the stars in the charm
of the dog's pleasant serenades at dusk.
This is the sound of the worlds'
random spins shining one upon the other.
Who knows how many days there make eons!
Long ago, the moon surpassed
the sun, overlapped
the generations of stars and starlight
near the prowl of the night kin
who tell their story so very well.
"The right of freedom of speech consists in speaking the truth."
11.7.06
8.7.06
Ode To God Tricks
There we were with scraps
of dog and puddles of poodles,
Mike and Sassy, Maxi then Arrow.
Hunters and loiterers, one and all.
One for the pope and one for me
I used to say remember,
never eat the prey.
Never, never. Never eat the prey.
One for you and one for me.
Out you go, in you stay.
(Appalachian Trixie looked like Satan,
now it's Iblis and a place called Peyton.)
Under the table with a scowl and then
hunt with the birds, bounce real tall!
Pieces of hound on frocks and aprons,
Labrador was a yard up in heaven.
Evil flowers laughed at the experts
dragons and rabbits, morning glories, asters!
All chains and locks, gates with papers:
the Daily Review, a Mule Mountain
Observer. The postman stayed
where the postman should, next
to his boxes, his locks and his latches.
Everyone had one, Tiger and Lucky,
up in the back Sam and BeeBee.
Across the canyon and down
toward the court and knoll, everyone barking
for all the disappearing folk in that town.
Only the pooches knew the proper nouns.
**Ah yes. And how is it the Kennedy Assassination is still a crime scene but the tomb isn't?
I mean, you had a missing body and in another area, a guy turns up either hanged by his own hand or fallen down and eviscerated in a field he bought with thirty pieces of silver he earned by what, turning in his teacher? Now come on now! Treat the situation like a crime scene, as much as you would that knoll and read the gospels. You'll see what I mean.
So much for the Universal Observer theories of astrophysics! What good are those.
There we were with scraps
of dog and puddles of poodles,
Mike and Sassy, Maxi then Arrow.
Hunters and loiterers, one and all.
One for the pope and one for me
I used to say remember,
never eat the prey.
Never, never. Never eat the prey.
One for you and one for me.
Out you go, in you stay.
(Appalachian Trixie looked like Satan,
now it's Iblis and a place called Peyton.)
Under the table with a scowl and then
hunt with the birds, bounce real tall!
Pieces of hound on frocks and aprons,
Labrador was a yard up in heaven.
Evil flowers laughed at the experts
dragons and rabbits, morning glories, asters!
All chains and locks, gates with papers:
the Daily Review, a Mule Mountain
Observer. The postman stayed
where the postman should, next
to his boxes, his locks and his latches.
Everyone had one, Tiger and Lucky,
up in the back Sam and BeeBee.
Across the canyon and down
toward the court and knoll, everyone barking
for all the disappearing folk in that town.
Only the pooches knew the proper nouns.
**Ah yes. And how is it the Kennedy Assassination is still a crime scene but the tomb isn't?
I mean, you had a missing body and in another area, a guy turns up either hanged by his own hand or fallen down and eviscerated in a field he bought with thirty pieces of silver he earned by what, turning in his teacher? Now come on now! Treat the situation like a crime scene, as much as you would that knoll and read the gospels. You'll see what I mean.
So much for the Universal Observer theories of astrophysics! What good are those.
7.7.06
Consulting With Shell Oil, Wackenhut and the Fingerprints
[75:0] In the name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful
[75:1] I swear by the Day of Resurrection.
[75:2] And I swear by the blaming soul.
[75:3] Does the human being think that we will not reconstruct his bones?
[75:4] Yes indeed; we are able to reconstruct his finger tip.
[75:5] But the human being tends to believe only what he sees in front of him.
[75:6] He doubts the Day of Resurrection!
[75:7] Once the vision is sharpened.
[75:8] And the moon is eclipsed.
[75:9] And the sun and the moon crash into one another.
[75:10] The human being will say on that day, "Where is the escape?"
[75:11] Absolutely, there is no escape.
[75:12] To your Lord, on that day, is the final destiny.
[75:13] The human being will be informed, on that day, of everything he did to advance himself, and everything he did to regress himself.
[75:14] The human being will be his own judge.
[75:15] No excuses will be accepted.
Muhammad Forbidden From Explaining the Quran
[75:16] Do not move your tongue to hasten it.
[75:17] It is we who will collect it into Quran.
[75:18] Once we recite it, you shall follow such a Quran.
[75:19] Then it is we who will explain it.
[75:20] Indeed, you love this fleeting life.
[75:21] While disregarding the Hereafter.
[75:22] Some faces, on that day, will be happy.
[75:23] Looking at their Lord.
[75:24] Other faces will be, on that day, miserable.
[75:25] Expecting the worst.
[75:26] Indeed, when (the soul) reaches the throat.
[75:27] And it is ordered: "Let go!"
[75:28] He knows it is the end.
[75:29] Each leg will lay motionless next to the other leg.
[75:30] To your Lord, on that day, is the summoning.
[75:31] For he observed neither the charity, nor the contact prayers (Salat).
[75:32] But he disbelieved and turned away.
[75:33] With his family, he acted arrogantly.
[75:34] You have deserved this.
[75:35] Indeed, you have deserved this.
[75:36] Does the human being think that he will go to nothing?
[75:37] Was he not a drop of ejected semen?
[75:38] Then He created an embryo out of it!
[75:39] He made it into male or female!
[75:40] Is He then unable to revive the dead?
*Circa: A very long time before the X Files, I'll tell you that. Round 1400 lunar years or so.
How is it that we are in the darkness really and the day is just a bit of short term light?
[75:0] In the name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful
[75:1] I swear by the Day of Resurrection.
[75:2] And I swear by the blaming soul.
[75:3] Does the human being think that we will not reconstruct his bones?
[75:4] Yes indeed; we are able to reconstruct his finger tip.
[75:5] But the human being tends to believe only what he sees in front of him.
[75:6] He doubts the Day of Resurrection!
[75:7] Once the vision is sharpened.
[75:8] And the moon is eclipsed.
[75:9] And the sun and the moon crash into one another.
[75:10] The human being will say on that day, "Where is the escape?"
[75:11] Absolutely, there is no escape.
[75:12] To your Lord, on that day, is the final destiny.
[75:13] The human being will be informed, on that day, of everything he did to advance himself, and everything he did to regress himself.
[75:14] The human being will be his own judge.
[75:15] No excuses will be accepted.
Muhammad Forbidden From Explaining the Quran
[75:16] Do not move your tongue to hasten it.
[75:17] It is we who will collect it into Quran.
[75:18] Once we recite it, you shall follow such a Quran.
[75:19] Then it is we who will explain it.
[75:20] Indeed, you love this fleeting life.
[75:21] While disregarding the Hereafter.
[75:22] Some faces, on that day, will be happy.
[75:23] Looking at their Lord.
[75:24] Other faces will be, on that day, miserable.
[75:25] Expecting the worst.
[75:26] Indeed, when (the soul) reaches the throat.
[75:27] And it is ordered: "Let go!"
[75:28] He knows it is the end.
[75:29] Each leg will lay motionless next to the other leg.
[75:30] To your Lord, on that day, is the summoning.
[75:31] For he observed neither the charity, nor the contact prayers (Salat).
[75:32] But he disbelieved and turned away.
[75:33] With his family, he acted arrogantly.
[75:34] You have deserved this.
[75:35] Indeed, you have deserved this.
[75:36] Does the human being think that he will go to nothing?
[75:37] Was he not a drop of ejected semen?
[75:38] Then He created an embryo out of it!
[75:39] He made it into male or female!
[75:40] Is He then unable to revive the dead?
*Circa: A very long time before the X Files, I'll tell you that. Round 1400 lunar years or so.
How is it that we are in the darkness really and the day is just a bit of short term light?
3.7.06
Forgiveness and Forgetfulness
Once it was that I stole the diary of a Job.
His case was interesting and the margins
held the most exciting parts of the problems.
Toward the end of his life his certainties
grew fainter than the ink in which
the best of it was written plus numerous
dialogues pertaining to the coma.
A very long time indeed he lay sleeping,
practically all of his life for sure.
At last there were possessions to be divvied
and spite to be had in the name
of his well known polygamies and infatuations.
This Job loved women or so he thought.
He loved books and movies, light and statues.
There was a fondness for food and temptation.
As a thief however, I cannot remain blameless
so I promised to write a dedication
to all that this Job might be or was.
Human. All too human and not the best prophet.
*Alas, it is sometimes a mystery where things go and where they come from. Mostly, they are not my own but come from the Sustainer and Creator but this one is definitely mine. I own it and know that some things and some people deserve the last chances even if it isn't me that needs to offer it to them. Those offers come from On High. Never too late to apply you know. It is hard I know, to understand this thing. It isn't meant for everyone. Allah knows though what lurks in the hearts of men and women...closer than your own jugular they say.
Once it was that I stole the diary of a Job.
His case was interesting and the margins
held the most exciting parts of the problems.
Toward the end of his life his certainties
grew fainter than the ink in which
the best of it was written plus numerous
dialogues pertaining to the coma.
A very long time indeed he lay sleeping,
practically all of his life for sure.
At last there were possessions to be divvied
and spite to be had in the name
of his well known polygamies and infatuations.
This Job loved women or so he thought.
He loved books and movies, light and statues.
There was a fondness for food and temptation.
As a thief however, I cannot remain blameless
so I promised to write a dedication
to all that this Job might be or was.
Human. All too human and not the best prophet.
*Alas, it is sometimes a mystery where things go and where they come from. Mostly, they are not my own but come from the Sustainer and Creator but this one is definitely mine. I own it and know that some things and some people deserve the last chances even if it isn't me that needs to offer it to them. Those offers come from On High. Never too late to apply you know. It is hard I know, to understand this thing. It isn't meant for everyone. Allah knows though what lurks in the hearts of men and women...closer than your own jugular they say.
The Jealousy of Heavenly Bodies
The moon is not sacred anymore
because we touched her, brought her down;
put her in glass boxes and distrusted
her wise old ways. It wasn't enough
to struggle in her skin
nor to clothe her precious nudity
with the banner of our king.
Sure, it was all in good fun
but everyone knew it
might be the sun we were after
and the light from the darkest of seas.
from D. Whitehead, The Book of Warnings
Ought to appear next to this old thing:
The moon is not sacred anymore
because we touched her, brought her down;
put her in glass boxes and distrusted
her wise old ways. It wasn't enough
to struggle in her skin
nor to clothe her precious nudity
with the banner of our king.
Sure, it was all in good fun
but everyone knew it
might be the sun we were after
and the light from the darkest of seas.
from D. Whitehead, The Book of Warnings
Ought to appear next to this old thing:
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 remains
after the relocations,
wondered what would happen
to the crystal ball and Japanese flag.
Where to put Mars now?
Whose house next?
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 remains
after the relocations,
wondered what would happen
to the crystal ball and Japanese flag.
Where to put Mars now?
Whose house next?
2.7.06
The Nightingales
You know, death follows me around like a wet mitten. My last death counseling sequence ended a month ago with the death of the comotase old lady who was injured by her neighbor's car while she bent down gardening. Oh, I tried with that family to just 'let her go' but they wouldn't. Okay then. Not my fault and then after she died, her granddaughter called me and gave me the best news: It was exactly as you said it would be.
There is no better compliment to a nurse. Nurses have the power to see into the future of death in many instances and chart the way through the final corridors because we traipse along through them so often carrying this and that and the other thing. Diapers to syringes, broths and electric paddles, and of course, marching orders called DNRs (Do Not Resusitate).
So I met my next guest about a month ago. Oh, we didn't know what was about to occur when we so gleefully set out to 'teach me' Arabic together (yes it was a cooperative effort as all teaching/learning cases are). It was all so innocent back then. Four weeks of pure bliss in which I did my homework on schedule and my teacher knew exactly what I needed next. There was absolute trust.
Then his wife got lung cancer. Oh, I knew right away it was a sign...but the teacher did not. He was in a fog of hope and illusion. "It can't be," to which I countered, "perhaps it is not." Then "It is," to which I countered "I know."
I reminded him yesterday about his hopes and refused the lesson he offered me. I knew he was not much of a teacher any more. More like a lost child and trying hard not to cry all the time. Anyway, for some crazy reason this man gave me the miracle I'd always hoped would come without any 'hard labor' in a matter of four weeks...and I can now read Arabic. Not perfectly but pretty damn good for a month old endeavor. I'm already more indebted to him that he can ever know because now I can actually see words written in the Quran in their truest forms. I can never pay him back for that, if only he knew!
So yesterday, I turned away our notebooks and told him that we needed to talk. You see, last month he had no Lord and told me he was a "scientologist". This month he yelped at the accusation of Lordlessness to which I said, "Good. I thought so." At the end of that lesson I went home feeling as if I had bruised his soul, caused more injury than good in taking the biggest of risks with this newest witness to 'great dying' as are all future widows and widowers. I had only done that in order to treat that which is untreatable: death. I only wanted him to go to her in the UK because I know that when one person dies, so do many, in their hearts. To treat a patient in one country and his counterpart in yet another is impossible. You see, my teacher hates death and doesn't want to see it and has sent his love to better climes to try to save the day. He voluntarily split up the patient. I knew why I finally had decided to learn Arabic after some twenty five years of living with it. It was because I will always need more opportunities to help someone out when at last they understand they need it.
The next day however, yesterday, my teacher called me. He cried and promised to reconsider rejoining his other half in order to give her her last rites, those of final important witnessing to their days together which are surely to come to an end very soon. Just as my teacher had decided suddenly to revive his belief in the afterlife, he decided to reconsider facing death by going to hold her hand in the UK while she waits to leave this life. That wait can be such a long one and isn't it for us all! Personally, I think they are lucky to have had the warning so that they could plan the steadier course. Not everyone gets that chance you know.
Why me? Why not me? I've been to death's door so many times now and know where they hide the keys, most of them anyway except perhaps, my own.
All nurses who are good at their jobs do this kind of thing day to day but all you hear about is the pain and suffering and bedpans. In truth, nurses are the best anchorites and never ever can you pay them enough for what it is they help another to carry. It is what I miss most about being a full time nurse. For now, I'm just lucky enough to once in a while be able to volunteer.
You know, death follows me around like a wet mitten. My last death counseling sequence ended a month ago with the death of the comotase old lady who was injured by her neighbor's car while she bent down gardening. Oh, I tried with that family to just 'let her go' but they wouldn't. Okay then. Not my fault and then after she died, her granddaughter called me and gave me the best news: It was exactly as you said it would be.
There is no better compliment to a nurse. Nurses have the power to see into the future of death in many instances and chart the way through the final corridors because we traipse along through them so often carrying this and that and the other thing. Diapers to syringes, broths and electric paddles, and of course, marching orders called DNRs (Do Not Resusitate).
So I met my next guest about a month ago. Oh, we didn't know what was about to occur when we so gleefully set out to 'teach me' Arabic together (yes it was a cooperative effort as all teaching/learning cases are). It was all so innocent back then. Four weeks of pure bliss in which I did my homework on schedule and my teacher knew exactly what I needed next. There was absolute trust.
Then his wife got lung cancer. Oh, I knew right away it was a sign...but the teacher did not. He was in a fog of hope and illusion. "It can't be," to which I countered, "perhaps it is not." Then "It is," to which I countered "I know."
I reminded him yesterday about his hopes and refused the lesson he offered me. I knew he was not much of a teacher any more. More like a lost child and trying hard not to cry all the time. Anyway, for some crazy reason this man gave me the miracle I'd always hoped would come without any 'hard labor' in a matter of four weeks...and I can now read Arabic. Not perfectly but pretty damn good for a month old endeavor. I'm already more indebted to him that he can ever know because now I can actually see words written in the Quran in their truest forms. I can never pay him back for that, if only he knew!
So yesterday, I turned away our notebooks and told him that we needed to talk. You see, last month he had no Lord and told me he was a "scientologist". This month he yelped at the accusation of Lordlessness to which I said, "Good. I thought so." At the end of that lesson I went home feeling as if I had bruised his soul, caused more injury than good in taking the biggest of risks with this newest witness to 'great dying' as are all future widows and widowers. I had only done that in order to treat that which is untreatable: death. I only wanted him to go to her in the UK because I know that when one person dies, so do many, in their hearts. To treat a patient in one country and his counterpart in yet another is impossible. You see, my teacher hates death and doesn't want to see it and has sent his love to better climes to try to save the day. He voluntarily split up the patient. I knew why I finally had decided to learn Arabic after some twenty five years of living with it. It was because I will always need more opportunities to help someone out when at last they understand they need it.
The next day however, yesterday, my teacher called me. He cried and promised to reconsider rejoining his other half in order to give her her last rites, those of final important witnessing to their days together which are surely to come to an end very soon. Just as my teacher had decided suddenly to revive his belief in the afterlife, he decided to reconsider facing death by going to hold her hand in the UK while she waits to leave this life. That wait can be such a long one and isn't it for us all! Personally, I think they are lucky to have had the warning so that they could plan the steadier course. Not everyone gets that chance you know.
Why me? Why not me? I've been to death's door so many times now and know where they hide the keys, most of them anyway except perhaps, my own.
All nurses who are good at their jobs do this kind of thing day to day but all you hear about is the pain and suffering and bedpans. In truth, nurses are the best anchorites and never ever can you pay them enough for what it is they help another to carry. It is what I miss most about being a full time nurse. For now, I'm just lucky enough to once in a while be able to volunteer.
1.7.06
Crime Night
Ah, this week is a blogorama. You see, I’ve had some problems lately with my internet service. As is the usual, the service was bad. Home delivery awful and the pizza always cold. I had to go to the competition but it has taken a bit o' time to get my new receiver set up. So now I’m on an eating binge. I’ve been out reading all sorts of things and looking for a new home for my thoughts. Now that the JD is part of the past, I want to be somewhere else and don’t we all! A nice place. A place with smart folks. A place that allows freedom and encourages same. Just like the JD but not the JD. If such a place exists (which I don’t think it does but one never knows). All the while I’ve had this nagging question in the back of my mind….partly because I’ve been watching Crime Night on TV too much in lieu of logging into all the usual JD things.
Crime Night is on Discovery Channel and my daughter stays up way past her bedtime to watch it. Things like Forensic Detective peopled by folks who enjoy employment in such positions as “Blood Splatter Expert” and “Footprint Criminologist”. So many thoughts come to mind while I’m watching these shows. First and foremost is, Man…are people ever messed up! Luckily, here in the “Islamic” countries, we don’t have all that much senseless murder. Oh sure..there is the odd “Honor Killing” and once in a while we have an abduction of a teenage boy…but really…it cannot compare statistically to what I see happening in the West and in Europe. What we have is the frequent intersectarian crime or spy crimes and the all popular Syrian Beat Fests. And Syrian Murders in which unfortunate Syrians are bludgeoned just because some people resent the fact that Syrians have been enjoying way too much Lebanese Pie. You know..the Lebanese Pie can only be divided in so many ways. Sadly these guys are usually poor immigrant workers.
Back to my nagging question…..and an odd question it is. In Islam, there is this concept that when you go to “Judgement Day”, your hands and feet will “testify against you”. Now, back in the old days when I was just knee high to a gracehoper, my husband used to explain to me that any body part that was involved in committing a crime would actually be burnt in the fire of Hell and remain scorched even if you actually made it to Paradise as a whole. Now I got this idea of all these saints with eschar on them running around with their brocade robes and such up in heaven. Well….times have changed and it finally occurred to me the truth about what the Quran suggested in the seventh century of the Common Era…notably a time much before we ever imagined such things as serial killers and shows like America’s Most Wanted. Way before Louis Pasteur debunked “Germ Theory” and way before we knew that the male zygote is responsible for gender selection (which the Quran clearly states is the case for what it calles the male ‘nutfa’ or semen, the despicable fluid that contains the sperm cells).
How will our fingers and hands testify against us? Well, Crime Night tells you so often enough so I’ll just let you assume you understand the drift but I will give you one example of the notion of fingerprints and their absolute individuality as it occurs in the Quran (although there are many references I’ll just cite one):
Sura 36: Ya Seen, verse 12
Surely we give life to the dead,
And when we write down what they have sent
Before and their footprints?
And we have recorded everything in a clear writing.
Well…I’ll be. That is what that was all about. You know…there is never an end to the wonders of that book. Never an end to the tangents. And trust me...the theme of 'your body testifying against you' is a very, very strong one in the Quran and in the Hadith.
And guess what? Fourteenth century Persia. Fingerprints used because...well...because Allah said to use fingerprints. To be fair, the ancient art of 'palm reading' and using the hands to divine the nature of an individual's fate is also evident in ancient China and in India. The best can be said of those ancient technologies however is that they were akin to personal astrology and we all know how reliable those are! It was the Persians who stated that no two are the same and it was the Babylonians who used prints to conduct business transactions using this truly individualized 'signature'. Amen.
http://onin.com/fp/fphistory.html
And for some tidbits about the ancient Chinese/Indian techniques:
http://www.edcampbell.com/PalmD-History.htm
And finally, to the Conspiracy Theorists in us all.....Allah has a plan and "they" have a plan. One of those plans was to make you believe that the "State" was assigning you a personal ID number or a thing they could shoot into your neck to "finger you" in a crime against, of course, the state.
Well I got news for you. Allah already took care of that. He'd like credit now for that.
Ah, this week is a blogorama. You see, I’ve had some problems lately with my internet service. As is the usual, the service was bad. Home delivery awful and the pizza always cold. I had to go to the competition but it has taken a bit o' time to get my new receiver set up. So now I’m on an eating binge. I’ve been out reading all sorts of things and looking for a new home for my thoughts. Now that the JD is part of the past, I want to be somewhere else and don’t we all! A nice place. A place with smart folks. A place that allows freedom and encourages same. Just like the JD but not the JD. If such a place exists (which I don’t think it does but one never knows). All the while I’ve had this nagging question in the back of my mind….partly because I’ve been watching Crime Night on TV too much in lieu of logging into all the usual JD things.
Crime Night is on Discovery Channel and my daughter stays up way past her bedtime to watch it. Things like Forensic Detective peopled by folks who enjoy employment in such positions as “Blood Splatter Expert” and “Footprint Criminologist”. So many thoughts come to mind while I’m watching these shows. First and foremost is, Man…are people ever messed up! Luckily, here in the “Islamic” countries, we don’t have all that much senseless murder. Oh sure..there is the odd “Honor Killing” and once in a while we have an abduction of a teenage boy…but really…it cannot compare statistically to what I see happening in the West and in Europe. What we have is the frequent intersectarian crime or spy crimes and the all popular Syrian Beat Fests. And Syrian Murders in which unfortunate Syrians are bludgeoned just because some people resent the fact that Syrians have been enjoying way too much Lebanese Pie. You know..the Lebanese Pie can only be divided in so many ways. Sadly these guys are usually poor immigrant workers.
Back to my nagging question…..and an odd question it is. In Islam, there is this concept that when you go to “Judgement Day”, your hands and feet will “testify against you”. Now, back in the old days when I was just knee high to a gracehoper, my husband used to explain to me that any body part that was involved in committing a crime would actually be burnt in the fire of Hell and remain scorched even if you actually made it to Paradise as a whole. Now I got this idea of all these saints with eschar on them running around with their brocade robes and such up in heaven. Well….times have changed and it finally occurred to me the truth about what the Quran suggested in the seventh century of the Common Era…notably a time much before we ever imagined such things as serial killers and shows like America’s Most Wanted. Way before Louis Pasteur debunked “Germ Theory” and way before we knew that the male zygote is responsible for gender selection (which the Quran clearly states is the case for what it calles the male ‘nutfa’ or semen, the despicable fluid that contains the sperm cells).
How will our fingers and hands testify against us? Well, Crime Night tells you so often enough so I’ll just let you assume you understand the drift but I will give you one example of the notion of fingerprints and their absolute individuality as it occurs in the Quran (although there are many references I’ll just cite one):
Sura 36: Ya Seen, verse 12
Surely we give life to the dead,
And when we write down what they have sent
Before and their footprints?
And we have recorded everything in a clear writing.
Well…I’ll be. That is what that was all about. You know…there is never an end to the wonders of that book. Never an end to the tangents. And trust me...the theme of 'your body testifying against you' is a very, very strong one in the Quran and in the Hadith.
And guess what? Fourteenth century Persia. Fingerprints used because...well...because Allah said to use fingerprints. To be fair, the ancient art of 'palm reading' and using the hands to divine the nature of an individual's fate is also evident in ancient China and in India. The best can be said of those ancient technologies however is that they were akin to personal astrology and we all know how reliable those are! It was the Persians who stated that no two are the same and it was the Babylonians who used prints to conduct business transactions using this truly individualized 'signature'. Amen.
http://onin.com/fp/fphistory.html
And for some tidbits about the ancient Chinese/Indian techniques:
http://www.edcampbell.com/PalmD-History.htm
And finally, to the Conspiracy Theorists in us all.....Allah has a plan and "they" have a plan. One of those plans was to make you believe that the "State" was assigning you a personal ID number or a thing they could shoot into your neck to "finger you" in a crime against, of course, the state.
Well I got news for you. Allah already took care of that. He'd like credit now for that.
Can Leonard Gontarek write a bad poem? I mean, can he write something that one is unable to cherish? A poem that fails to amuse? One that slips up a bit in the diction? Or rather, can he please stop writing poems because it just ain't fair. People shouldn't be able to write poems like this. These poems that he has learned and shares are the poems of the ancients via the modern sensibilities called: media and the other five plus the heart and soul. That makes about eight and any poet with eight senses ought to be thrown out of town.
Here is an excerpt from a poem called
i w i l l r e a d a f e w o f t h e s e t o s e e i f t h e y e x i s t
...The revolution will be shown without sound.
The war is over so we protect the reasons for it.
Our dreams are troubled by murders from movies.
This revolution will come with more beautiful imagery.
I have answers to all your questions. Are you talking to me?
I was kicked out. It was quite a ceremony, solemn, stark:
bells, chants, roses in winter, incense, the door opening.
Creaking gate of Purgatory. The Master wiping away a small tear,
dust of centuries. My ass smarted for a week.
.....
Now, let me just tell you this, you could extract any line from just about any poem of his and find a *nougat in there. It isn't hard and one doesn't need to be a high falutin poetry priest to chew these delicacies and in fact, you don't even need teeth. Eyes help and I do wonder if poets ever think to have their chapbooks put into Braille for the less fortunate sightless peoples. I'll bet the blind love poetry more than those who can see.
Here for instance in the opening line of a poem called Life On Earth
"I was afraid the hearse passing would make you sad."
Now come on now...that is just so simple and pure isn't it? The poem itself is one of the weaker yet it still manages to grip at the neck and ask you, Isn't this what things look like? When Mr. Gontarek says in his poem Amnesty this:
Your ex-girlfriend leans over & kisses you in the coffin.
....you believe him. Amnesty goes on to say this too:
Two clean college kids “for Christ” banged on my door like angry mailmen.
You have the wrong house. I knew right away that was not the smart thing to say.
There are no wrong houses when it comes to Jesus.
I’m Buddhist. Christ accepts everyone.
I am not exactly depressed, just a little sad.
Trace the tattoo on your arm or leg, if you have an idea of what I’m talking about.
When the earth & snow is apricot for seconds & your dreams fall fast as water
Out the window, wouldn’t you say in the middle of that uncontestable joy, is sorrow,
Like a metal sliver? Wouldn’t you say a sign with a couple letters out
Makes you sad. You could say those women eating snow in a racy manner
Is sad, but you wouldn’t. I can’t explain. I follow the lovely wild horses
With my eyes. They become lost in the shadow of mountain & then, darkness.
I love the way that happens. But who can be certain, when it comes to imagery.
...so the poem becomes what we call, Self Conscious. Happy within itself, discussing itself as if itself was the whole reason the world revolved. Man this guy is good and if I lived in America, I'd buy each and every one of his books. I'd do that and al'ham'du'lillah for the internet. Where would I be without it?
You can find Mr. G at his own site here:
http://www.leafscape.org/LeonardGontarek/poetry.html
Here is an excerpt from a poem called
i w i l l r e a d a f e w o f t h e s e t o s e e i f t h e y e x i s t
...The revolution will be shown without sound.
The war is over so we protect the reasons for it.
Our dreams are troubled by murders from movies.
This revolution will come with more beautiful imagery.
I have answers to all your questions. Are you talking to me?
I was kicked out. It was quite a ceremony, solemn, stark:
bells, chants, roses in winter, incense, the door opening.
Creaking gate of Purgatory. The Master wiping away a small tear,
dust of centuries. My ass smarted for a week.
.....
Now, let me just tell you this, you could extract any line from just about any poem of his and find a *nougat in there. It isn't hard and one doesn't need to be a high falutin poetry priest to chew these delicacies and in fact, you don't even need teeth. Eyes help and I do wonder if poets ever think to have their chapbooks put into Braille for the less fortunate sightless peoples. I'll bet the blind love poetry more than those who can see.
Here for instance in the opening line of a poem called Life On Earth
"I was afraid the hearse passing would make you sad."
Now come on now...that is just so simple and pure isn't it? The poem itself is one of the weaker yet it still manages to grip at the neck and ask you, Isn't this what things look like? When Mr. Gontarek says in his poem Amnesty this:
Your ex-girlfriend leans over & kisses you in the coffin.
....you believe him. Amnesty goes on to say this too:
Two clean college kids “for Christ” banged on my door like angry mailmen.
You have the wrong house. I knew right away that was not the smart thing to say.
There are no wrong houses when it comes to Jesus.
I’m Buddhist. Christ accepts everyone.
I am not exactly depressed, just a little sad.
Trace the tattoo on your arm or leg, if you have an idea of what I’m talking about.
When the earth & snow is apricot for seconds & your dreams fall fast as water
Out the window, wouldn’t you say in the middle of that uncontestable joy, is sorrow,
Like a metal sliver? Wouldn’t you say a sign with a couple letters out
Makes you sad. You could say those women eating snow in a racy manner
Is sad, but you wouldn’t. I can’t explain. I follow the lovely wild horses
With my eyes. They become lost in the shadow of mountain & then, darkness.
I love the way that happens. But who can be certain, when it comes to imagery.
...so the poem becomes what we call, Self Conscious. Happy within itself, discussing itself as if itself was the whole reason the world revolved. Man this guy is good and if I lived in America, I'd buy each and every one of his books. I'd do that and al'ham'du'lillah for the internet. Where would I be without it?
You can find Mr. G at his own site here:
http://www.leafscape.org/LeonardGontarek/poetry.html
30.6.06
Today In The Real Third World
The city on fire
was traffically jammed,
cross circuits of humbled wires
over the intersections of
'used to be a war here'
and
'used to be a war here'.
Struggling their beefy little hearts
out to go on home to their steamy kitchens,
their lousy children and fat wives.
No one any more decent for the excuse
of it all including the rickety
rattan furniture on the balcons
to the beautiful sea on the right
or the left or the center.
Somewhere out there a prostitute wailed
and somewhere else a man spit into a urinal
and still somewhere else out there
was I. In the middle of it all,
chest nearly bleeding from contaminations
fresh from the instructor who hates funerals
(his wife dying in Britain now).
We all hate funerals and burying.
Everyone hates to be in a scene.
Cops are cartoons and stand there
waving this way and that way
so it looks like there are some.
They even wear white gloves!
Life is an illusion, can't you see it?
The real authorities are spies and run
around all day chasing the generalissimos
who aren't all that real either.
The army is a lot younger and unhappier now
in the beds of their jiggling trucks.
I love their smiles. So young. So fresh.
So out there it hurts. So very, very real.
*Of course, Life is an illusion, can't you see it? is from the Quran. I wrote that poem in response to one I read that was just plain awful (somewhere else). Now, it is okay to write poems that aren't that great technically speaking. A poet has to start somewhere you know. What was awful about the poem that I read were two things: the poem itself and one of the critics of the poem. The poem was just chock full of gratuitous and graphic violence. Now, violence is okay but I really hate a poem to get so violent with me it makes me sleepy and fatiqued which I am now, very. Sensationalism in poems however is just awful, especially when it involves so much killing and bloodying up of the set props. Messy. A poem can be violent you see without all the trouble of having to clean up once you've read it. A poem I believe should entertain the reader and entertain them in many ways. The reader ought to leave the poem feeling refreshed or illuminated (to his/her own self because lets face it, there are no new thoughts really under the sun rather, there is just better merchandising). Now, the critic said something truly awful. He said the poem was "Just great!" but that the poet shouldn't be surprised if no one "got it" and I guess I am going to assume that means they are going to say "this poem is awful". Now...as a critic...I would never make excuses for someone else's poem being horrific and lacking in all the things that make good poems good and full of all the things that make bad poems bad (which is usually a general lack of technique).
So I said...here...I'll write you a violent poem in a few minutes and you won't have to clean up after you read it. It might even make you sad enough that it makes you happy because you feel humanly related to it. I think that is the key to good poetry. Relating to another human something very human. Gore isn't human. Gore is taboo. It is just that the TV has made it a staple of the diet and everyone is so amazed at how much blood it takes to make a scene look bloody. I think mine is quite bloody without ever mentioning a shark, a knife, a gun or sheesh, a murderer or the murdered.
The city on fire
was traffically jammed,
cross circuits of humbled wires
over the intersections of
'used to be a war here'
and
'used to be a war here'.
Struggling their beefy little hearts
out to go on home to their steamy kitchens,
their lousy children and fat wives.
No one any more decent for the excuse
of it all including the rickety
rattan furniture on the balcons
to the beautiful sea on the right
or the left or the center.
Somewhere out there a prostitute wailed
and somewhere else a man spit into a urinal
and still somewhere else out there
was I. In the middle of it all,
chest nearly bleeding from contaminations
fresh from the instructor who hates funerals
(his wife dying in Britain now).
We all hate funerals and burying.
Everyone hates to be in a scene.
Cops are cartoons and stand there
waving this way and that way
so it looks like there are some.
They even wear white gloves!
Life is an illusion, can't you see it?
The real authorities are spies and run
around all day chasing the generalissimos
who aren't all that real either.
The army is a lot younger and unhappier now
in the beds of their jiggling trucks.
I love their smiles. So young. So fresh.
So out there it hurts. So very, very real.
*Of course, Life is an illusion, can't you see it? is from the Quran. I wrote that poem in response to one I read that was just plain awful (somewhere else). Now, it is okay to write poems that aren't that great technically speaking. A poet has to start somewhere you know. What was awful about the poem that I read were two things: the poem itself and one of the critics of the poem. The poem was just chock full of gratuitous and graphic violence. Now, violence is okay but I really hate a poem to get so violent with me it makes me sleepy and fatiqued which I am now, very. Sensationalism in poems however is just awful, especially when it involves so much killing and bloodying up of the set props. Messy. A poem can be violent you see without all the trouble of having to clean up once you've read it. A poem I believe should entertain the reader and entertain them in many ways. The reader ought to leave the poem feeling refreshed or illuminated (to his/her own self because lets face it, there are no new thoughts really under the sun rather, there is just better merchandising). Now, the critic said something truly awful. He said the poem was "Just great!" but that the poet shouldn't be surprised if no one "got it" and I guess I am going to assume that means they are going to say "this poem is awful". Now...as a critic...I would never make excuses for someone else's poem being horrific and lacking in all the things that make good poems good and full of all the things that make bad poems bad (which is usually a general lack of technique).
So I said...here...I'll write you a violent poem in a few minutes and you won't have to clean up after you read it. It might even make you sad enough that it makes you happy because you feel humanly related to it. I think that is the key to good poetry. Relating to another human something very human. Gore isn't human. Gore is taboo. It is just that the TV has made it a staple of the diet and everyone is so amazed at how much blood it takes to make a scene look bloody. I think mine is quite bloody without ever mentioning a shark, a knife, a gun or sheesh, a murderer or the murdered.
Bound and Gagged in a Palestinian Bistro
Now let's see. What is going on in the world of poetry! People taking their clothes off after readings, going from bar to bar to bistro as if that is where poetry comes from. Alas, and the Gaza is now without power or water because why? Oh, because the Palestinians are failing in their DUTY to their oppressor.
Hmm. That has always been the case hasn't it? The world BELIEVES that in the case of Israeli brutality, the oppressed have a duty to their oppressor to PLAY NICE. In fact recently, a friend of mine had the audacity to suggest that he hated religion because it promoted violence and in the same breath explained how he believed Israel always had a dickens of a time "defending" herself. Well sure pal. When you steal land from other people (or their cars or their wallets) and then you stand there slapping them for days on end, they are going to get so angry at you that they might smack you upside the head for your idiocy. Usually, thiefs run away with their prize but in this case, the thief simply chased the owners out of their house and locked the door so the owners couldn't get back in. They called it Israel.
For cryin out loud and poets going from bistro to bistro, trying to get famous as fast as they can.
It is going to take six to eight months to repair the damage to the electrical power plant in the Gaza, nevermind about all the dead that have been piling up without much ado from the American viewing public that is much distracted and now, completely apathetic to it ALL (Iraq, Iran, Lebanon, Syria) because let's face it, Americans like naked poets better than they like to read history. Nevermind about the paraplegics and quadraplegics and blinded and burned humans piling up in the Ghettos of Gaza. Nevermind about the loss of some of the best intellect in the Arab world (Palestinians USED to have the highest per capita rate of people holding PhDs anywhere in the world! Bet that's changed now eh?)
Personally, I believe hostage taking (and treating them well) is part of war. It is expected that when you wage war against a population, they will fight back. Hezbollah defeated Israel doing exactly this. Is it any wonder why Israel is behaving so desperately now? Could it be that the Pals have finally found their calling? I hope so. And I hope they take very good care of their hostages as they must according to Islamic Law. That one hostage was already killed is no surprise.
Israel must have a death wish for itself. Let's be honest. What kind of peace will Israel ever have after all of this? You must be crazy to think that the muslims are ever going to forget this or Jenin or Acre or the fact that many "settlers" are transplants from places like Brooklyn and New Jersey.
I used to want to believe that I could defend Israel's right to exist but I am afraid that that aspect of my character is now just about dead. My apologies to the naked poets of Greenwich Village.
Now let's see. What is going on in the world of poetry! People taking their clothes off after readings, going from bar to bar to bistro as if that is where poetry comes from. Alas, and the Gaza is now without power or water because why? Oh, because the Palestinians are failing in their DUTY to their oppressor.
Hmm. That has always been the case hasn't it? The world BELIEVES that in the case of Israeli brutality, the oppressed have a duty to their oppressor to PLAY NICE. In fact recently, a friend of mine had the audacity to suggest that he hated religion because it promoted violence and in the same breath explained how he believed Israel always had a dickens of a time "defending" herself. Well sure pal. When you steal land from other people (or their cars or their wallets) and then you stand there slapping them for days on end, they are going to get so angry at you that they might smack you upside the head for your idiocy. Usually, thiefs run away with their prize but in this case, the thief simply chased the owners out of their house and locked the door so the owners couldn't get back in. They called it Israel.
For cryin out loud and poets going from bistro to bistro, trying to get famous as fast as they can.
It is going to take six to eight months to repair the damage to the electrical power plant in the Gaza, nevermind about all the dead that have been piling up without much ado from the American viewing public that is much distracted and now, completely apathetic to it ALL (Iraq, Iran, Lebanon, Syria) because let's face it, Americans like naked poets better than they like to read history. Nevermind about the paraplegics and quadraplegics and blinded and burned humans piling up in the Ghettos of Gaza. Nevermind about the loss of some of the best intellect in the Arab world (Palestinians USED to have the highest per capita rate of people holding PhDs anywhere in the world! Bet that's changed now eh?)
Personally, I believe hostage taking (and treating them well) is part of war. It is expected that when you wage war against a population, they will fight back. Hezbollah defeated Israel doing exactly this. Is it any wonder why Israel is behaving so desperately now? Could it be that the Pals have finally found their calling? I hope so. And I hope they take very good care of their hostages as they must according to Islamic Law. That one hostage was already killed is no surprise.
Israel must have a death wish for itself. Let's be honest. What kind of peace will Israel ever have after all of this? You must be crazy to think that the muslims are ever going to forget this or Jenin or Acre or the fact that many "settlers" are transplants from places like Brooklyn and New Jersey.
I used to want to believe that I could defend Israel's right to exist but I am afraid that that aspect of my character is now just about dead. My apologies to the naked poets of Greenwich Village.
28.6.06
T-Bird at the Gila River
"Advice: learn poems so that you don't have to write them.
Strategies are useless testimonials."
- The Book of Warnings, D. Whitehead
This pretty life is death's comma
and we are between, constructing
the darkest layer in the top soils
over which the eagle flies
with the owl, as same as the bug.
Once I stood on a reservation
for our tribes and thought.
The wild wisdoms entered
like drugs with the cackle
of gypsies and caw of old birds
into the earth's big recorder.
When suddenly! Like that!
The newest grand canyon opened
her secret vaults to receive
the sound and reek of vomit from the throat
of a drunkard who turned in and then sped away.
Ah, the stories the rocks will tell!
"Advice: learn poems so that you don't have to write them.
Strategies are useless testimonials."
- The Book of Warnings, D. Whitehead
This pretty life is death's comma
and we are between, constructing
the darkest layer in the top soils
over which the eagle flies
with the owl, as same as the bug.
Once I stood on a reservation
for our tribes and thought.
The wild wisdoms entered
like drugs with the cackle
of gypsies and caw of old birds
into the earth's big recorder.
When suddenly! Like that!
The newest grand canyon opened
her secret vaults to receive
the sound and reek of vomit from the throat
of a drunkard who turned in and then sped away.
Ah, the stories the rocks will tell!
27.6.06
Ah yes, Nietzsche.
Zarathustra's Flies
Part of the reason is the desire
to keep pace with the frantic show
of tomorrow, yesterday in the bin
swept toward the infinity of amnesias.
Everything is a deliberate parable,
the fly who drifts away
with his delicious meals, unretrievable -
that wiley thief -
to the great dreams we cannot recall.
Limbo! Oh paradise of purgatories
is the hell of the ancients, this sphere
a masterpiece of vain and partial speeches.
The people come and go, unaware, save a few.
They wipe their brows, carry bricks and lipsticks,
dance their jigs. Everyone is so familiar here
with marks on their foreheads to the tightening
of their ears. Smiles, sighs, puffings.
The sea is only a tremendous bucket swarming
with a few fish where currents are
mysterious maps under the most popular of orbits,
she keeps her gemstones there, near the edges
yet the divers want so much more,
want to see the habitats of the blind.
Limbo is this contiguous shore,
is the great divide between salt and drink,
is this mountain under this dome described
and traveled, such slight migrations to and fro.
We are the weakest birds who fall in April
to be found in those sad positions
without ceremony or feather.
They do die trying don't they.
Smile. They die trying.
*One should not read him until you read the other I thinks:
For the moment though lets shift focus to Islam again, and specifically the Quran. Anyone who has read the Quran will tell you (as I am about to do) that is quite non-linear, composed of independent chapters (or Suras) of incredible beauty which have complex interplays of themes and historical accounts that run through the entire book, and illuminate a topic, character, person, idea, or event in astonishing detail and clarity while preserving the wonder of the subject. Anyone reading a Nietzsche book will realize that there are some parallels between the format of his books and those of the Quran. The partitioning, the complex and intense treatment of subject matter, the multiple references across the text, and the independence of each unit are all striking similarities between these two texts that are separated by over a millenia.
http://everything2.com/index.pl?node_id=1163227
Zarathustra's Flies
Part of the reason is the desire
to keep pace with the frantic show
of tomorrow, yesterday in the bin
swept toward the infinity of amnesias.
Everything is a deliberate parable,
the fly who drifts away
with his delicious meals, unretrievable -
that wiley thief -
to the great dreams we cannot recall.
Limbo! Oh paradise of purgatories
is the hell of the ancients, this sphere
a masterpiece of vain and partial speeches.
The people come and go, unaware, save a few.
They wipe their brows, carry bricks and lipsticks,
dance their jigs. Everyone is so familiar here
with marks on their foreheads to the tightening
of their ears. Smiles, sighs, puffings.
The sea is only a tremendous bucket swarming
with a few fish where currents are
mysterious maps under the most popular of orbits,
she keeps her gemstones there, near the edges
yet the divers want so much more,
want to see the habitats of the blind.
Limbo is this contiguous shore,
is the great divide between salt and drink,
is this mountain under this dome described
and traveled, such slight migrations to and fro.
We are the weakest birds who fall in April
to be found in those sad positions
without ceremony or feather.
They do die trying don't they.
Smile. They die trying.
*One should not read him until you read the other I thinks:
For the moment though lets shift focus to Islam again, and specifically the Quran. Anyone who has read the Quran will tell you (as I am about to do) that is quite non-linear, composed of independent chapters (or Suras) of incredible beauty which have complex interplays of themes and historical accounts that run through the entire book, and illuminate a topic, character, person, idea, or event in astonishing detail and clarity while preserving the wonder of the subject. Anyone reading a Nietzsche book will realize that there are some parallels between the format of his books and those of the Quran. The partitioning, the complex and intense treatment of subject matter, the multiple references across the text, and the independence of each unit are all striking similarities between these two texts that are separated by over a millenia.
http://everything2.com/index.pl?node_id=1163227
24.6.06
Recovery From 1999
To find you here
waist up naked
sentinel of this
worn out shrine
you call home
is the regular routine.
Tipped ashtrays
and open cupboards
spill out
the nothing of inside.
Beguiling you are,
the slope of your yellow stomach
bloated with the void of cold food.
There is nothing you can offer
but the posture at your door,
a precious teasing slump.
From below there
is the urge to reach
inside your gut
and straighten you out.
To find you here
waist up naked
sentinel of this
worn out shrine
you call home
is the regular routine.
Tipped ashtrays
and open cupboards
spill out
the nothing of inside.
Beguiling you are,
the slope of your yellow stomach
bloated with the void of cold food.
There is nothing you can offer
but the posture at your door,
a precious teasing slump.
From below there
is the urge to reach
inside your gut
and straighten you out.
23.6.06
Open Letter to my One Very Careful Reader
Oh and my good (redacted)...don't worry if this makes you feel uncomfortable (and perhaps it doesn't but parts of it may). Once again, expected. For people who are not muslim, there is not much in the way of 'comforting' notions of 'turn the other cheek' (in the beginning). Those notions happen later once you get the other stuff out of the way. What other stuff? Well..things like the Geneva Conventions of God. Islam speaks directly to acts of war and oppression and establishes very, very clear rules regarding that (and many many muslims do not follow those conventions any more than the US gov or Europe follows the GC or Israel follows the conventions of basic human rights involved in the usurpation of individuals from their own property and the sequalae of all of that). There are many many other details of Islam as well that leave the first time visitor into its halls at a loss for words or leaves them in a position of 'defensiveness'. Like homosexuality, nudity, idolatry, adultery, gambling, drinking, usury, the devil, the hocus pocus of the world 'unseen'...many many things. All I can tell you is that when you fully understand it...you do. What is useful to know is that regarding any and all of these issues, comfort is provided in that a muslim does not have to 'openly' convey his distaste for anything (should he develop a distaste for something as miniscule as dishonesty to something as grand as Sodom and Gomorrha). What a muslim must do though is develop an internal dislike for unjust things and move on from there based on the notion of one God. One God plus an Arab prophet and that is where most people are derailed right away because the prejudice against the darker skinned peoples of the world was seeded long, long ago in our Western conscience. It isn't even our fault! After one gets over that giant hurdle though..there are dozens of others like, what happened to Jesus? Yea and why talk about Moses still? And what's this about marrying a young girl barely able to brush her own teeth (most people don't realize that the Virgin Mary wasn't a legal adult either and they'd prefer to keep their womanly notions of her intact it seems as well as their notions of Jesus being one of the few prophets with no mention of a wife (see Da Vinci Code there)). Well, I don't know if Jesus (pbuh) had a wife because Islam doesn't mention it but neither does Islam mention Chinese Foot Binding in relationship to violence against women who suffer the injustices of genital mutilation. What it does mention is that Africans who hoped to be muslims could indeed excise "just a tiny piece" of the clitoris if it meant that would help them to accept the Creator and his messenger a bit easier. It did not command it though. There are so many topics within it Ozy and I assure you...none of them is an easy trail to follow and the only way of following it is to start with the basic belief.
And I cannot condone people who cannot jump that hurdle. Surprisingly enough...I have discovered most people do believe in one God and were just never alerted to the issue of a prophet of darker skin being the pivotal means to an end "for all types of people and for all time". Not just for one ethnic majority.
That is why Islam has members from all over the world. They know what it is when they get there and we all pretty much agree on a few things but most importantly: you must stick to your guns and there will be alot of folks and devils trying to pull you down into their levels of disbelief. That much is for sure.
But for your sake (redacted)...don't worry if it makes you uncomfortable. That is entirely part of the process of understanding the bottom line of One God and the commandments issuing from same.
Embedded
I thought I was just pretending
all along, saying well, that's
bound to happen and it does and I say
well, that's bound to happen.
We all know that when we leave
the room, the room disappears,
we've perceived that since we were born
and sometimes we talk about it
with strangers knowing full well
that once the guy leaves
he takes your secrets with him
into the ether or
the dark same thing.
It is a strange statistic
and one I am fond of until
it comes to the war zones.
Oh and my good (redacted)...don't worry if this makes you feel uncomfortable (and perhaps it doesn't but parts of it may). Once again, expected. For people who are not muslim, there is not much in the way of 'comforting' notions of 'turn the other cheek' (in the beginning). Those notions happen later once you get the other stuff out of the way. What other stuff? Well..things like the Geneva Conventions of God. Islam speaks directly to acts of war and oppression and establishes very, very clear rules regarding that (and many many muslims do not follow those conventions any more than the US gov or Europe follows the GC or Israel follows the conventions of basic human rights involved in the usurpation of individuals from their own property and the sequalae of all of that). There are many many other details of Islam as well that leave the first time visitor into its halls at a loss for words or leaves them in a position of 'defensiveness'. Like homosexuality, nudity, idolatry, adultery, gambling, drinking, usury, the devil, the hocus pocus of the world 'unseen'...many many things. All I can tell you is that when you fully understand it...you do. What is useful to know is that regarding any and all of these issues, comfort is provided in that a muslim does not have to 'openly' convey his distaste for anything (should he develop a distaste for something as miniscule as dishonesty to something as grand as Sodom and Gomorrha). What a muslim must do though is develop an internal dislike for unjust things and move on from there based on the notion of one God. One God plus an Arab prophet and that is where most people are derailed right away because the prejudice against the darker skinned peoples of the world was seeded long, long ago in our Western conscience. It isn't even our fault! After one gets over that giant hurdle though..there are dozens of others like, what happened to Jesus? Yea and why talk about Moses still? And what's this about marrying a young girl barely able to brush her own teeth (most people don't realize that the Virgin Mary wasn't a legal adult either and they'd prefer to keep their womanly notions of her intact it seems as well as their notions of Jesus being one of the few prophets with no mention of a wife (see Da Vinci Code there)). Well, I don't know if Jesus (pbuh) had a wife because Islam doesn't mention it but neither does Islam mention Chinese Foot Binding in relationship to violence against women who suffer the injustices of genital mutilation. What it does mention is that Africans who hoped to be muslims could indeed excise "just a tiny piece" of the clitoris if it meant that would help them to accept the Creator and his messenger a bit easier. It did not command it though. There are so many topics within it Ozy and I assure you...none of them is an easy trail to follow and the only way of following it is to start with the basic belief.
And I cannot condone people who cannot jump that hurdle. Surprisingly enough...I have discovered most people do believe in one God and were just never alerted to the issue of a prophet of darker skin being the pivotal means to an end "for all types of people and for all time". Not just for one ethnic majority.
That is why Islam has members from all over the world. They know what it is when they get there and we all pretty much agree on a few things but most importantly: you must stick to your guns and there will be alot of folks and devils trying to pull you down into their levels of disbelief. That much is for sure.
But for your sake (redacted)...don't worry if it makes you uncomfortable. That is entirely part of the process of understanding the bottom line of One God and the commandments issuing from same.
Embedded
I thought I was just pretending
all along, saying well, that's
bound to happen and it does and I say
well, that's bound to happen.
We all know that when we leave
the room, the room disappears,
we've perceived that since we were born
and sometimes we talk about it
with strangers knowing full well
that once the guy leaves
he takes your secrets with him
into the ether or
the dark same thing.
It is a strange statistic
and one I am fond of until
it comes to the war zones.
21.6.06
16.6.06
15.6.06
Chronologically
There is a crumpled bed,
two heat seeking cats,
storm clouds and a strange
pastel sea
puncuated by one small white boat
-
like that.
The day begins
over and over
in parenthesis
(containing footnotes)
one just like the other.
The static of a freeway
permeates our glass and stone.
People go to work
returning through the windows,
as they left,
one after another:
blue cars, black cars, big red trucks,
motorbikes and taxis,
city buses lunging next
to the waves of the great Phoenician Sea.
Their cups runneth over
and there is so much pushing.
Sleep becomes the hopeful journey
and ends with another day.
There is a crumpled bed,
two heat seeking cats,
storm clouds and a strange
pastel sea
puncuated by one small white boat
-
like that.
The day begins
over and over
in parenthesis
(containing footnotes)
one just like the other.
The static of a freeway
permeates our glass and stone.
People go to work
returning through the windows,
as they left,
one after another:
blue cars, black cars, big red trucks,
motorbikes and taxis,
city buses lunging next
to the waves of the great Phoenician Sea.
Their cups runneth over
and there is so much pushing.
Sleep becomes the hopeful journey
and ends with another day.
14.6.06
The Ark
It was certainly
a very dark day to leave
it all behind: the illusions
of trees, country and a son,
as the youth was swallowed
by the hungry waves
full of devils and soul assassins.
No Calypso or friend,
not even a father to save the day
from the notorious tragedies
of the sea, the lesser
known depths where the eyes
of fish gradually disappear.
It was certainly
a very dark day to leave
it all behind: the illusions
of trees, country and a son,
as the youth was swallowed
by the hungry waves
full of devils and soul assassins.
No Calypso or friend,
not even a father to save the day
from the notorious tragedies
of the sea, the lesser
known depths where the eyes
of fish gradually disappear.
2.6.06
"Green Green Grass Of Home"
The old home town looks the same as I step down from the train,
and there to meet me is my Mama and Papa.
Down the road I look and there runs Mary hair of gold and lips like cherries.
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they'll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly.
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
The old house is still standing tho' the paint is cracked and dry,
and there's that old oak tree I used to play on.
Down the lane I walk with my sweet Mary, hair of gold and lips like cherries.
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they'll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly.
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
[spoken:]
Then I awake and look around me, at four grey wall surround me
and I realize that I was only dreaming.
For there's a guard and there's a sad old padre -
arm in arm we'll walk at daybreak.
Again I touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they'll all come to see me in the shade of that old oak tree
as they lay me neath the green, green grass of home.
We Saw The World, Stayed In The Best Hotels
It is hard to visit the newly dying,
those that feel the thrill
of the grave come suddenly near,
to listen to the confessions
and regrets while discussing
the attitudes of earth signs in June
and the charisma of Aquarians.
Michele hauls out the wedding photos
taken in London, Liz in a chinchilla,
stepping out of a cab, almost Cheever.
I am in the Green Rooms once again
with Tom Alvarez, the last time
I saw him and it was I know, the last time
I ever will. It was summer.
He showed me photos of his young Regina
using his one good arm, lifting one at a time,
turning it over and over again until she was upright.
The stink in his pants unmistakable, pure and so human.
Tom talked about deer hunting in the Whetstones and the war
while he struggled back and forth in his wheelchair
and spoke of her between his hearty sobs
as if he was caught in a terrible disaster,
as if it would never be over, the way we cry in dreams.
Now the dog groomer Liz has lung cancer
and will die and leave Michele behind
with his Arabic students, some old jewelry
and their star charts in his green rooms.
All their riches exhausted long ago
but never, ever their love.
His neighbors will come down and talk
about how things used to be when Liz
was around kissing dogs and running off
in taxicabs. Michele will still have his students
and neighbors, one of us a Scorpio in denial.
There will be no more empty bottles to throw out.
He'll continue to blame her death on the dogs
and begin to hate them for taking his lover away.
Michele will continue to smoke cigarettes
by holding one end between his pinkie
and ring finger while inhaling through the circle
he forms by bending his thumb. His lips
never touch the filter and no one
will comment on the ferocity of his inhalations.
He will want to leave the Church of Scientology
because the manual was all wrong. He might
make it for two more years
if the statistics don't lie about the widowers.
The Green Green Grass Of Home
The wall opposite held a population
of blue Virgins reaching out
and down gracefully with hands open.
He fumbled in the drawers to find Regina's portraits
as I peered into the bathroom from the locality
on the edge of the bed to witness
a commode chair, no rugs and the water heater.
He hoped to give me a reminder, a clear view.
When they were young and I was close to it all,
very inside of their home decorated
with stout Mexican ancestors' souls staring
from the walls, everything smelled green there:
Clorox and wood, the highly polished floors,
a cabinet full of gemstones taken from the mines.
I was just a child then and held no prejudice.
Our neighbor Regina rolled out tortillas
stirred something in the kitchen, always.
I used to be afraid to look into the room
where they slept. Something in it
would have been forbidden to look upon,
the holiest of places I’ve ever known.
I entered the verdure of their room
in Tom's last summer so we could cry,
we had to mourn the only way we could, in a hurry
and the graveyard just full of concretes anyway.
I’d come of age and passed the milestones, had come home
to join the ranks of those in passing to testify.
He told me she would have liked my visit
and began to sob again in the helpless way
a stroke victim out on the left sobs, a man
who had shed very few tears until the day his Regina died.
She never gave him any reasons for regret
and the two of them never violated a single vow.
Regina and Tom were good people, kept
our secrets, sat around our tables.
Regina waited for him during the war, she waited
for him after the hunts in the Whetstones and during
the long stints of western work that took him away
for months at a time during strikes and recessions.
She waited and cooked.
I was compelled to tell Tom that Regina waits for him still.
The old home town looks the same as I step down from the train,
and there to meet me is my Mama and Papa.
Down the road I look and there runs Mary hair of gold and lips like cherries.
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they'll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly.
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
The old house is still standing tho' the paint is cracked and dry,
and there's that old oak tree I used to play on.
Down the lane I walk with my sweet Mary, hair of gold and lips like cherries.
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they'll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly.
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
[spoken:]
Then I awake and look around me, at four grey wall surround me
and I realize that I was only dreaming.
For there's a guard and there's a sad old padre -
arm in arm we'll walk at daybreak.
Again I touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they'll all come to see me in the shade of that old oak tree
as they lay me neath the green, green grass of home.
We Saw The World, Stayed In The Best Hotels
It is hard to visit the newly dying,
those that feel the thrill
of the grave come suddenly near,
to listen to the confessions
and regrets while discussing
the attitudes of earth signs in June
and the charisma of Aquarians.
Michele hauls out the wedding photos
taken in London, Liz in a chinchilla,
stepping out of a cab, almost Cheever.
I am in the Green Rooms once again
with Tom Alvarez, the last time
I saw him and it was I know, the last time
I ever will. It was summer.
He showed me photos of his young Regina
using his one good arm, lifting one at a time,
turning it over and over again until she was upright.
The stink in his pants unmistakable, pure and so human.
Tom talked about deer hunting in the Whetstones and the war
while he struggled back and forth in his wheelchair
and spoke of her between his hearty sobs
as if he was caught in a terrible disaster,
as if it would never be over, the way we cry in dreams.
Now the dog groomer Liz has lung cancer
and will die and leave Michele behind
with his Arabic students, some old jewelry
and their star charts in his green rooms.
All their riches exhausted long ago
but never, ever their love.
His neighbors will come down and talk
about how things used to be when Liz
was around kissing dogs and running off
in taxicabs. Michele will still have his students
and neighbors, one of us a Scorpio in denial.
There will be no more empty bottles to throw out.
He'll continue to blame her death on the dogs
and begin to hate them for taking his lover away.
Michele will continue to smoke cigarettes
by holding one end between his pinkie
and ring finger while inhaling through the circle
he forms by bending his thumb. His lips
never touch the filter and no one
will comment on the ferocity of his inhalations.
He will want to leave the Church of Scientology
because the manual was all wrong. He might
make it for two more years
if the statistics don't lie about the widowers.
The Green Green Grass Of Home
The wall opposite held a population
of blue Virgins reaching out
and down gracefully with hands open.
He fumbled in the drawers to find Regina's portraits
as I peered into the bathroom from the locality
on the edge of the bed to witness
a commode chair, no rugs and the water heater.
He hoped to give me a reminder, a clear view.
When they were young and I was close to it all,
very inside of their home decorated
with stout Mexican ancestors' souls staring
from the walls, everything smelled green there:
Clorox and wood, the highly polished floors,
a cabinet full of gemstones taken from the mines.
I was just a child then and held no prejudice.
Our neighbor Regina rolled out tortillas
stirred something in the kitchen, always.
I used to be afraid to look into the room
where they slept. Something in it
would have been forbidden to look upon,
the holiest of places I’ve ever known.
I entered the verdure of their room
in Tom's last summer so we could cry,
we had to mourn the only way we could, in a hurry
and the graveyard just full of concretes anyway.
I’d come of age and passed the milestones, had come home
to join the ranks of those in passing to testify.
He told me she would have liked my visit
and began to sob again in the helpless way
a stroke victim out on the left sobs, a man
who had shed very few tears until the day his Regina died.
She never gave him any reasons for regret
and the two of them never violated a single vow.
Regina and Tom were good people, kept
our secrets, sat around our tables.
Regina waited for him during the war, she waited
for him after the hunts in the Whetstones and during
the long stints of western work that took him away
for months at a time during strikes and recessions.
She waited and cooked.
I was compelled to tell Tom that Regina waits for him still.
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