Increasing number of Americans choose "green" or as the narrator notes, Islamic/Jewish burials:
"The right of freedom of speech consists in speaking the truth."
20.10.10
19.10.10
The Beginning of Right Versus Wrong or Original Sin*
Reposting this video in which a Shi'a scholar describes the logic behind the murder of the grandson of the Prophet Mohamed, SA i.e. the murder of Hussein at Kerbala, pbuh. Recently, a person has asked if that is what divides Sunni from Shia and I think it is important to understand a couple of things about that.
At the time of Mohamed's death, Islam was not technically divided into two branches (the right one and the sect). However, it is well known and supported in the Quran itself, that Islam already had two branches i.e. the right one and the errant one. These two groups are referred to in the Quran and in this instance, allegorically related to the two sects during another important phase in Islam:
[27.45] And certainly We sent to Samood their brother Salih, saying: Serve Allah; and lo! they became two sects quarrelling with each other.
Logically, unless both groups are wrong, one group becomes a splinter 'faction' and splits from the mainstream. Logically as well, if this were not the case and the two groups split into two new groups, it would mean a disappearance in its entirety of the 'seed' group. That would be illogical.
Therefore, what happened in Islam from the very beginning is that people became divided into two groups basically. Those that believe in Allah and those that don't. There are always only two groups in that affair. One is absolutely sincere and the others become, in a sense, agnostics to belief. Some progress into full hypocrisy in that affair and still others graduate into absolute disbelief. This has happened in every phase of Allah's religion including the notable affair of the split into sects of the Companions of Jesus Christ (Isa, SA) who after the Last Supper found themselves at odds with each other and set up the sectarian nature of all of Christendom and to this day it remains split into sects:
[5.115] Allah said: Surely I will send it down to you, but whoever shall disbelieve afterwards from among you, surely I will chastise him with a chastisement with which I will not chastise, anyone among the nations. -From the Sura called The Dinner Table which describes the true miracle of the Last Supper and the last act of the apostle known as Jesus.
The Shia/Sunni split is the only split that is in any sense noteworthy in Islam. That is because you will find all sects are a type of one of those groups regardless of how they themselves might align themselves or stress their own "independence" from the crowd. For instance, the Baha'i are not truly muslim by definition because they do not follow any of the Islamic rituals such as fasting during Ramadan, prayer five times a day or Hajj. The do however attribute their existence entirely to the Ahl Bayt and hence are considered by many theologians as Shi'a. In my estimation it is like calling a Jehovah's Witness a Roman Catholic. About the same. In this case however the Baha'i can be compared to the Christian sect known as Mormonism because in effect they exist on the basis of a delusional pschodrama of one person who then translated and transcribed their messianic complex into hard text and produced a 'bible' for their followers: The Book of Mormon versus the Bayan.
By the time however that the prophet's grandson Hussein was murdered, the Sunni/Shia divide was in full swing and ethnic cleansing was either occurring or being forced upon the quiet members of the sect. It is what necessitated the need for what is called Taqiyya or "Religious Dissimulation". Without it, the Shia would have been purged and Islam as we know it would already be dead. No doubt it has much to do with the reason the US and Israel attack Shia countries so agressively...hoping to "wipe Shia Islam off the face of the earth" so to speak with talk of nuking Iran and destroying Hezbollah in South Lebanon.
I like the following video because it really shows the nature of Shia logic. Shia logic is what distinguishes Sunnite from Shi'ite followers of Islam. There are other things that distinguish these two groups of course but logic is the single most important quality that differentiates between the two. I don't think anyone can understand it all just from a video or two but this is a great example of what Shia scholars are talking about when they try to emphasize and dissociate themselves from modern Sunni movements like Al Qaeda.
And no, we Shia have nothing to apologize for and hence we don't when asked to apologize for the Crimes against humanity that "Sunni" Islam has incurred. We are not guilty and in fact are the victims of the same band of idiocracy that was produced with Sunni logic that lauded the death of the relatives of the last prophet and aggrandized the role of the murderer of Hussein and ridiculed the muslim who in turn killed the killer.
*Original Sin is defined as listening to advice from a source other than Allah
Reposting this video in which a Shi'a scholar describes the logic behind the murder of the grandson of the Prophet Mohamed, SA i.e. the murder of Hussein at Kerbala, pbuh. Recently, a person has asked if that is what divides Sunni from Shia and I think it is important to understand a couple of things about that.
At the time of Mohamed's death, Islam was not technically divided into two branches (the right one and the sect). However, it is well known and supported in the Quran itself, that Islam already had two branches i.e. the right one and the errant one. These two groups are referred to in the Quran and in this instance, allegorically related to the two sects during another important phase in Islam:
[27.45] And certainly We sent to Samood their brother Salih, saying: Serve Allah; and lo! they became two sects quarrelling with each other.
Logically, unless both groups are wrong, one group becomes a splinter 'faction' and splits from the mainstream. Logically as well, if this were not the case and the two groups split into two new groups, it would mean a disappearance in its entirety of the 'seed' group. That would be illogical.
Therefore, what happened in Islam from the very beginning is that people became divided into two groups basically. Those that believe in Allah and those that don't. There are always only two groups in that affair. One is absolutely sincere and the others become, in a sense, agnostics to belief. Some progress into full hypocrisy in that affair and still others graduate into absolute disbelief. This has happened in every phase of Allah's religion including the notable affair of the split into sects of the Companions of Jesus Christ (Isa, SA) who after the Last Supper found themselves at odds with each other and set up the sectarian nature of all of Christendom and to this day it remains split into sects:
[5.115] Allah said: Surely I will send it down to you, but whoever shall disbelieve afterwards from among you, surely I will chastise him with a chastisement with which I will not chastise, anyone among the nations. -From the Sura called The Dinner Table which describes the true miracle of the Last Supper and the last act of the apostle known as Jesus.
The Shia/Sunni split is the only split that is in any sense noteworthy in Islam. That is because you will find all sects are a type of one of those groups regardless of how they themselves might align themselves or stress their own "independence" from the crowd. For instance, the Baha'i are not truly muslim by definition because they do not follow any of the Islamic rituals such as fasting during Ramadan, prayer five times a day or Hajj. The do however attribute their existence entirely to the Ahl Bayt and hence are considered by many theologians as Shi'a. In my estimation it is like calling a Jehovah's Witness a Roman Catholic. About the same. In this case however the Baha'i can be compared to the Christian sect known as Mormonism because in effect they exist on the basis of a delusional pschodrama of one person who then translated and transcribed their messianic complex into hard text and produced a 'bible' for their followers: The Book of Mormon versus the Bayan.
By the time however that the prophet's grandson Hussein was murdered, the Sunni/Shia divide was in full swing and ethnic cleansing was either occurring or being forced upon the quiet members of the sect. It is what necessitated the need for what is called Taqiyya or "Religious Dissimulation". Without it, the Shia would have been purged and Islam as we know it would already be dead. No doubt it has much to do with the reason the US and Israel attack Shia countries so agressively...hoping to "wipe Shia Islam off the face of the earth" so to speak with talk of nuking Iran and destroying Hezbollah in South Lebanon.
I like the following video because it really shows the nature of Shia logic. Shia logic is what distinguishes Sunnite from Shi'ite followers of Islam. There are other things that distinguish these two groups of course but logic is the single most important quality that differentiates between the two. I don't think anyone can understand it all just from a video or two but this is a great example of what Shia scholars are talking about when they try to emphasize and dissociate themselves from modern Sunni movements like Al Qaeda.
And no, we Shia have nothing to apologize for and hence we don't when asked to apologize for the Crimes against humanity that "Sunni" Islam has incurred. We are not guilty and in fact are the victims of the same band of idiocracy that was produced with Sunni logic that lauded the death of the relatives of the last prophet and aggrandized the role of the murderer of Hussein and ridiculed the muslim who in turn killed the killer.
*Original Sin is defined as listening to advice from a source other than Allah
18.10.10
14.10.10
13.10.10
Ode To Rocks
In pockets and gardens, under
our beds for miners carry
a fair share in long gray
pails with jugs of soup
near shanks and flesh
with crusts plus those
stored in the chests.
The spare parts of the world
cast about pose a craving
as deep as the ocean is long
as the rivers are wide. A record
of perennial harvests hauled
up from the ground
on ladders of iron, even that!
Beloved fountains of slag
pour into banks of remains
where genuflection pays
paper for gold and time with loss.
Poor men fair well in shifts,
forever on the way in or out
with dirt clinging, dirt in love
with the heroic skin, part
ancient shroud part, let me in.
They are out. I doubt that there is one miner or miner's family who is not completely touched by this momentous occassion. My own father who worked underground for Phelps Dodge refused to be buried when he died for exactly this reason...the fear of being caught in a mine collapse. It's really something to see the world pay attention to the miners and their families...men who work underground and go relatively unnoticed by society day to day....have never been unnoticed by those who love them. Every time there is a mine collapse, I post this poem (In the Mines in Mexico, They Weep) which started many, many years ago and looked quite different then. It's still not finished and today I am adding the line toward the middle, "The small white butterflies." because the miner's themselves (not all) attribute their safety to having stopped to watch a small white butterfly from outside the mine....2000 some feet down into the ground that is. Much of my early work concentrates most definitely on being raised in a mining town and in a mining family including all of the Odes like the one above, Ode to Rocks. And this year we are noticing Freport McMoran returning our old town to its mining focus....roads being built, big machines and men in hard hats wondering around doing this and that...strange lights up on the slag heaps at all hours.
ooh, aah, wonderful! then another interim and another,
one day the sun will die
First draft sometime 03/06 however the sketch for this poem much earlier...probably in the mid 90's.
In pockets and gardens, under
our beds for miners carry
a fair share in long gray
pails with jugs of soup
near shanks and flesh
with crusts plus those
stored in the chests.
The spare parts of the world
cast about pose a craving
as deep as the ocean is long
as the rivers are wide. A record
of perennial harvests hauled
up from the ground
on ladders of iron, even that!
Beloved fountains of slag
pour into banks of remains
where genuflection pays
paper for gold and time with loss.
Poor men fair well in shifts,
forever on the way in or out
with dirt clinging, dirt in love
with the heroic skin, part
ancient shroud part, let me in.
They are out. I doubt that there is one miner or miner's family who is not completely touched by this momentous occassion. My own father who worked underground for Phelps Dodge refused to be buried when he died for exactly this reason...the fear of being caught in a mine collapse. It's really something to see the world pay attention to the miners and their families...men who work underground and go relatively unnoticed by society day to day....have never been unnoticed by those who love them. Every time there is a mine collapse, I post this poem (In the Mines in Mexico, They Weep) which started many, many years ago and looked quite different then. It's still not finished and today I am adding the line toward the middle, "The small white butterflies." because the miner's themselves (not all) attribute their safety to having stopped to watch a small white butterfly from outside the mine....2000 some feet down into the ground that is. Much of my early work concentrates most definitely on being raised in a mining town and in a mining family including all of the Odes like the one above, Ode to Rocks. And this year we are noticing Freport McMoran returning our old town to its mining focus....roads being built, big machines and men in hard hats wondering around doing this and that...strange lights up on the slag heaps at all hours.
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.
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.
The small white butterflies.
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
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!
First draft sometime 03/06 however the sketch for this poem much earlier...probably in the mid 90's.
5.10.10
Is that a wedgie Eileen Myles is pulling out of her backside? Only she can get away with stunts like that and then there's the stinky poem with super graphics:
Eileen Myles from Monofonus Press on Vimeo.
3.10.10
Israel Guilty of Murder of US citizen
Israel executes six people including one US citizen. Media coverage is practically nil of course because US citizens matter about as much as Palestinians. Which is they matter not at all. Anyways...in the Middle East, most people now believe that Israel is not only a doomed country but it probably only has a decade or less left. This isn't just a handful of people saying this but it is a widespread belief in the Middle East and in the headlines of their newspapers.
Read more about Israel's desperate actions against the flotilla: here
The report reveals that Dogan, the 19-year-old US citizen of Turkish descent, was filming with a small video camera on the top deck of the Mavi Marmara when he was shot twice in the head, once in the back and in the left leg and foot and that he was shot in the face at point blank range while lying on the ground.
The report says Dogan had apparently been "lying on the deck in a conscious or semi-conscious, state for some time" before being shot in his face.
The forensic evidence that establishes that fact is "tattooing around the wound in his face," indicating that the shot was "delivered at point blank range." The report describes the forensic evidence as showing that "the trajectory of the wound, from bottom to top, together with a vital abrasion to the left shoulder that could be consistent with the bullet exit point, is compatible with the shot being received while he was lying on the ground on his back."
Israel executes six people including one US citizen. Media coverage is practically nil of course because US citizens matter about as much as Palestinians. Which is they matter not at all. Anyways...in the Middle East, most people now believe that Israel is not only a doomed country but it probably only has a decade or less left. This isn't just a handful of people saying this but it is a widespread belief in the Middle East and in the headlines of their newspapers.
Read more about Israel's desperate actions against the flotilla: here
The report reveals that Dogan, the 19-year-old US citizen of Turkish descent, was filming with a small video camera on the top deck of the Mavi Marmara when he was shot twice in the head, once in the back and in the left leg and foot and that he was shot in the face at point blank range while lying on the ground.
The report says Dogan had apparently been "lying on the deck in a conscious or semi-conscious, state for some time" before being shot in his face.
The forensic evidence that establishes that fact is "tattooing around the wound in his face," indicating that the shot was "delivered at point blank range." The report describes the forensic evidence as showing that "the trajectory of the wound, from bottom to top, together with a vital abrasion to the left shoulder that could be consistent with the bullet exit point, is compatible with the shot being received while he was lying on the ground on his back."
1.10.10
28.9.10
I ran into a young lady last month...at the Saturday Morning Farmer's Market...and we got to talking about Ecoasis which is a visionary plan to change some old cruddy lots around here into community gardens, etc. I think it is truly exciting to be living in such a time and such a place that invites people to exchange ideas, good food and according to an email I just received...good words. Open Mic night is projected for first Fridays and this is truly needed in the poetic environs of Bisbee, Arizona.
27.9.10
So Far So Good
To erase it all up and memorize
the gaps run through it as mis-spellings
truly rain. Body up and pretend
to know what it is you are doing
again, wash it up and thread
it with one eye closed as they used
to do this in borrowed tenses.
That was silence for it is
not remembered as much until
the last licked thread lingers
a great long time in the wrong mouth,
the bitten cheeks and punctual
lips pursed to help fingers
to sequel the camel,
balance the angels,
squish out the remaining air,
the gaps, the light in the gaps.
The light is in the gaps now,
tire dish now, surer than that
tire dish now, please be speaking
on between sundowns. On after the overs
and he is gone now, those are his now.
This isn't ours or us anymore.
Some sentences tear apart
and tear apart the aperture
where the light works, the hole surrenders.
To erase it all up and memorize
the gaps run through it as mis-spellings
truly rain. Body up and pretend
to know what it is you are doing
again, wash it up and thread
it with one eye closed as they used
to do this in borrowed tenses.
That was silence for it is
not remembered as much until
the last licked thread lingers
a great long time in the wrong mouth,
the bitten cheeks and punctual
lips pursed to help fingers
to sequel the camel,
balance the angels,
squish out the remaining air,
the gaps, the light in the gaps.
The light is in the gaps now,
tire dish now, surer than that
tire dish now, please be speaking
on between sundowns. On after the overs
and he is gone now, those are his now.
This isn't ours or us anymore.
Some sentences tear apart
and tear apart the aperture
where the light works, the hole surrenders.
Anselm Berrigan interlocutes an eloquent statement to an offscreen partner regarding his own particular refusenik status pertaining perhaps to poetry or perhaps to angelism scornforkery. Hard to tell but all the same, it's worth a read and holds the reader save for a bit of clumsy shirk-quirkspew in the middle. Perhaps he is not the most boring poet alive afterall.
http://peacockonlinereview.com/poems/july10/anselm_berrigan.pdf
http://peacockonlinereview.com/poems/july10/anselm_berrigan.pdf
22.9.10
Haris Homestead, 09/10
We know exactly where the grapes
these figs start and stop
where they fell and by which
hand they are brought to tent
and table, I wish for a longer
but less a vist than a lifestyle,
on the two banks of the ocean,
the water spelling and spreading
me, my eyes, cutting
all this property we've acquired
all of this in half, even
the memory of which closet
I locked last
is parceled out like summer
melon, the fog is sure
rolling in, peeling up
the summer layers, the weddings
scalping the low low waves
of the Mediterranean Sea
as boys are prepared for school,
each new book is a promise
and each girls' first smile
but there's no one to stop this
moving on that we're doing,
no tree to grab onto
as we flash by and away
years at a time.
We know exactly where the grapes
these figs start and stop
where they fell and by which
hand they are brought to tent
and table, I wish for a longer
but less a vist than a lifestyle,
on the two banks of the ocean,
the water spelling and spreading
me, my eyes, cutting
all this property we've acquired
all of this in half, even
the memory of which closet
I locked last
is parceled out like summer
melon, the fog is sure
rolling in, peeling up
the summer layers, the weddings
scalping the low low waves
of the Mediterranean Sea
as boys are prepared for school,
each new book is a promise
and each girls' first smile
but there's no one to stop this
moving on that we're doing,
no tree to grab onto
as we flash by and away
years at a time.
1.9.10
29.8.10
28.8.10
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!
First draft sometime 03/06 however the sketch for this poem much earlier...probably in the mid 90's.
25.8.10
Bisbee Blues Fest, September 25, 2010
Artist Videos here:
https://thebisbeebluesfestival.com/artist-videos/
Artist Videos here:
https://thebisbeebluesfestival.com/artist-videos/
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