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Thursday, February 24, 2011

Action in Libya?

We are too late, to be able to aid any hope of a Libyan 'democracy' through any kind of unilateral, or multilateral action.

What does the US want?

It wants oil to keep flowing to the West. Not to China or any of the West's competition.

It wants the people of North Africa to live peacefully, [don't bother us in Europe!] and not plot to blow up airliners, or train terrorists, so the oil can continue to flow to Western shores. It wants to continue living the petroleum dream, like it was before.

Well guess what America and Britain. it's not going back to the way it was before. It is going to get tougher before it ever gets easier, so get used to that. As resources become scarce, should we make enemies in the world, or friends?

Should we not, for once, reverse foreign policy on a number of key issues that make us one of the most hated nations on earth?

The wealthy that are in on the stocks of dividend paying arms and petroleum companies want these wars. They're so lucrative. With cruise missiles at nearly a quarter of a million dollars apiece, not to mention drone fired Hellfire missiles at $135K each, it's no wonder that we're using so many of them. The people in power pave their way to power, and PAY their way to power, but making sure plenty of these things get used. Drone attacks on the tribal areas of Pakistan have killed approximately 1 militant for every 10 deaths, yet the attacks continue. John McCain wants to use Tomahawk missiles at every opportunity. Why not? They're manufactured in Arizona. That 'paves' the way for his re-election.

Should we not for once, consider the human bill of rights that we expect for every American, and try, in our foreign policy, to support that for every citizen of the world?

Why do we continue to allow Israel to keep Palestine as it's private slave-state, using it for cheap labor and free land for the taking whenever it is convenient?

Don't we have some hard issues to grind here, before we can ever hope to find our way through the confusion of a Libya in crisis?

Al Queda is on the ground, building tribal support amidst the confusion of Gaddafi's collapse, in ways that US diplomacy simply cannot understand, much less stand in the way of. We're in the uncomfortable position of abetting rebel forces and, indirectly, aiding Al Queda our most sworn enemy!

It is time our leadership understood that nationalism is dead. Gone, finished, over with. The 'state' is a dream, and simply does not exist anymore. Nobody cares about Libya the nation. It doesn't exist. It's a group of tribes that functioned, reluctantly, at a strongman's gunpoint.

Similarly the US, as a 'nation-state' is dear only to those who believe that it carries out the wishes of it's founding fathers. Alas but that too is a dream. The US exports one set of lies, and imports another, so as to not to have to wake up the dreamers asleep on it's own shores.

I do not blame our government for any of the situations we find ourselves in, economically, politically, or morally.

I blame the moral lassitude and selfishness of the American people, who have given their 'nation-state' and corporations powers that no sane human being would ever give to another without pause.

Now that the Libyan strongman is gone, or on the way out, we get to see what the substrata of North African society really looks like. Can you imagine the suited fools from the US State Dept. meeting Bedouin fundamentalists in tents, to carry out meaningful foreign policy, aimed at securing American economic interests? Are we serious when we say we are considering intervention?

What our 'state' finds most frightening, are organizations that operate outside of 'state' status, like Al Queda. Ripe for recruiting are the disarrayed 'tribes' of North Africa. Without the 'state' of Gaddafi's Libya, to play them against one another, how will the West even communicate with the region, ruled by factions, family ties, invisible organizations where a flag means nothing at all?

The whole farce will end with some US diplomats face down in the sand as in a story by Paul Bowles.

Liars have the most difficulty communicating, whereas honest men always understand one another even without language.

It is time for the leadership of the US to engage in a foreign policy driven by the same moral courage demonstrated recently by the people of Egypt, demonstrated recently by Julian Assonge, and yes, demonstrated two hundred years ago by men like Jefferson, and Adams, and Washington.

Without a moral foundation to foreign policy, we're simply bunglers, would-be deal makers on a paper stage of paper flags, and paper boundaries, that don't reflect a single reality, and with people that don't make deals anymore with nation-states, since for the most part, they cannot be trusted.

If the US begins a period of foreign policy dictated by what is right, and what is just, instead of by what is economically or politically convenient, we won't err.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Blondicup - A play

[I wrote this for my daughter to perform with her friends on her eighth birthday. The kids were all quite young and the goal was to write something that they could memorize with just one rehearsal. Everyone performed their lines. . . and all had a laugh!]

A Tale of Woe that Ends Well


The Royal Palace:

King Notagenius
King's Fools, Eatsalot, Fartsalot
Queen Cholera
Queen's Maids, Coca, Cola
Princess: Blondicup
Blondicup's Godmother
Sheriff Rubberdagger
Knight Robin

Goober Palace:

Baron Von Pickenguber
Lord Billybob
Boomslang Man -  in Snake Costume preferably green




Welcome to our play,
You’ll see it is small.
But I hope you’ll find it’s not silly at all.
Here is our cast, you’ll see it is big,
Yet not one of us is wearing a wig.
I am your Chorus, though I am just one,
Pretend I’m a hundred - it’ll be a lot more fun!

I’m King Notagenius. Some call me the King of Hearts.
I have two fools, one who eats, and one who farts.  [Fartsalot toots loudly!]

I’m Eatsalot. I prefer to be called advisor to the king, on matters of eating! [He chomps an apple!]

I’m Fartsalot. My name doesn’t mean a thing. [He toots loudly again.]

I’m Queen Cholera. I’m plotting to take over the realm and marry the King.

We’re Coca and Cola, royal maids,
Hand servants to the Queen of Spades.

The King’s my father, I’m the Princess,
My real mother unfortunately, has been laid to rest.

I’m the godmother to the royal heir
I am entrusted with her care.

Far on the other side of the land
A dark castle does stand
The Baron there eats most anything,
He’s known as Pickenguber, an awful name if you ask me,
He doesn’t care - he’s Aristocracy!

I’m Baron Von Pickenguber, and this is Lord Billybob.

Hello!!  I’m getting braces one of these days.

I’m Sheriff Rubberdagger.
How do you like my manly swagger?
Wicked crimes I’m meant to stop
But actually I’m just a cop.

I”m Knight Robin, the hero of the land.
I seek to slay the monster Boomslang,  . . . who is half snake, half man.
But I prefer reading poetry, mostly at night
To a lovely princess, all dressed in white.

I’m Boomslang.
My mother was a goddess, my father was a snake.
What a tragedy, when me they did make.

Enough introductions. Let the play begin!

SCENE I - At the King’s Palace

CHORUS:   Princess Blondicup has been taken from the opera, by men in masks.
Rumor has it she’s in the dungeon at Goober Palace, alas, alas.
They’ve taken her godmother too.
God only knows what they’ll do.

Queen Cholera, Coca, and Cola enter stage left crying.

COLA: I hardly have the nerve to tell our King.

COCA: He’ll die of grief the poor man.

CHOLERA: [In a low voice]  Good riddance if you ask me. That little squirt of a princess was getting a little too big for her britches.

[Loudly, in her normal voice]   Oh No! Our most beautiful princess!

Notagenius enters stage right,

NOTAGENIUS: What’s the fuss about?

COLA: Our lovely princess taken from beneath our very eyes. But fear not - I’ve sent Sheriff Rubberdagger to go and find her.

Weeping, all exit stage left except Notagenius.

Our Blondicup more lovely than the stars above
And more peaceful than the quietest dove.
What cruel man or beast
Should now upon my daughter feast


SCENE II - At Goober Castle

Baron Von Pickenguber paces back and forth. Next to him stands Billybob.
Suddenly there is a knock at the door.

BILLYBOB: It’s that traitorous sheriff, Rubberdagger.

PICKENGUBER: [hard of hearing] What?

BILLYBOB: I  s-a-i-d  I-t-’s  R-u-b-b-e-r-d-a-g-g-e-r!!

PICKENGUBER: Let him in.

Rubberdagger enters, with Blondicup and her Godmother, held at his side.

RUBBERDAGGER: I’m here to collect my reward, for Blondicup.

PICKENGUBER: Here’s your money, and be off.

RUBBERDAGGER: And, remember your promise.

PICKENGUBER: [loosening dentures] Yes, yes.

RUBBERDAGGER:  [to the audience]
The Queen takes power with evil plots,
She’ll marry the one who eats his snots!

Alas the  king will have to die
In order to keep his daughter alive.
The Princess will be married to the man of no teeth,
With dentures that smell of rotten beef!

Yours truly will become a Lord
And trade this dagger for a sword.                         He exits..

PICKENGUBER: How are the marriage preparations going?

BILLYBOB: Very well your Excellency. You will be married to the Queen as soon as the king gives up his throne. And I’ll be wed to Blondicup at the same time.

BLONDICUP: I’ll never marry you, you horrible man, not as long as there’s a breath left in this frail body. . .

PICKENGUBER: [angrily] What insolence. Give her to Boomslang. That’ll change her mind..

CHORUS: No, not Boomslang!

Somber slithery music as Boomslang man enters stage left, half-man, half-snake.

Slither hither if you please . . .
It’s your body I’d like to squeeze.
There’s no death that can match
The thrill of sliding down my hatch

BLONDICUP: Oh how horrible. How horrible.

CHORUS: Poor Blondicup. Who will rescue her in this dark hour?


SCENE III - The Palace

King Notagenius sits alone on the stage.

What should I do what should I do?
Normally I would consult my fools.
Though this sounds absurd,
My fools have less sense than an ordinary bird.

But call them anyway, I’ll listen to what they say.
Then I’ll do the opposite, that way I’ll play.

Call Eatsalot and Fartsalot!

CHORUS: Yes. Call Eatsalot and Fartsalot !!!!

Eatsalot and Fartsalot enter stage left, one lugging his belly and eating a carrot, the other farting prodigiously.

You’ve heard the news now pay your dues
Think of a way to rescue our muse.

Fartsalot and Eatsalot huddle together:

What can we do for you good king. [Munch, Munch!] Yes, [Burrp!] what can we do? That is, besides what we do already? Unrescuable. Yes my lord. She’s un-rescue-able. Nothing can be done. Nothing at all.

I thank you for your advice, it may save the day
Good ideas from two lumps of clay.

Get me Knight Robin!

CHORUS:  Yes! Knight Robin. Knight Robin!

COCA: Knight Robin,
that lovely prince,
Is out slaying monsters
That would make you wince.

NOTAGENIUS: Get him anyway.

COLA: When you get him,
Could you have him stay.
And have him say a line or two
In our play?

Eatsalot and Farstalot reappear with Knight Robin.

My lord. I’ve heard the news and have a plan.
But to execute it I must scram.
To Goober Palace I must go, and save our princess from her woe.


SCENE IV - In the Forest outside Goober Castle.


CHOLERA: Now my little princess, you’ll do as I say,
You’ll marry Lord Billybob, or you’ll die today
Boomslang will eat you for his midday lunch
And I’ll drink your blood as refreshing punch.

GODMOTHER: She will not! Her father will rescue her just you wait.

SIR ROBIN: Hark who goes there?

ROBIN: Ahha I should have known
Cholera you have plotted against the throne.
And Rubberdagger, the sheriff of this land,
An assistant to her evil hand.
he pulls his sword . . .
Out sword of steel,  be true,
And cut that knife of latex through.

Rubberdagger and Robin fight. Rubberdagger falls.

ROBIN: Boomslang, you and I finally meet,
And lucky you, you get to sleep.

He kills the Monster.

Notagenius, followed by Guards, who have apprehended Pickenguber and Billybob.

Tie them up and take them down.
To the dungeon below the town.

Guards lead the guilty parties away.

Godmother takes her place beside the king, the Princess takes Knight Robin’s hand. 
They are flanked by Coca and Cola. Eatsalot, and Fartsalot.

Call the minstrels, let’s not debate,
For indeed we have much to celebrate.
Pour the wine, slaughter the ox,
Sing praise to our king, the wily fox.
Let’s remember our queen, who to the dungeon went.
And our princess so sweet, and innocent.                                   Exeunt


Rubber Dagger
Silver Sword - (cardboard & tinfoil)
Knight’s Shield and Helmet
Big Snake Tail
 False Teeth

Whoopie Cushion

Day Near Freezing

Sun low, glow at the horizon,
I hold my skates
in my cold left hand.

One of the neighbors dogs is barking.

I wonder, what does a Turkish teacup look like?
A vase, a saucer, a hooka?

I’ll make an offering this morning.

Why am I breathing?

Why am I breathing?
heart pounding - can you tell
me why?

Verses are at the tip of my tongue,
You want masterpieces?
You shan’t have them.
Have errors instead!

Typos, falsities, hesitations.

Humanity in its white
asparagus heat,
making mistakes.

Art and Love

What fakes art, and what makes art Gnosis?
Who tossed a dart, at our Psychosis?
If our wish was love, what's your reason,
Push come to shove, for your leaving?

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Notes on Balthus

Why does Picasso not earn the same sideways hurled accusations, as the younger painter Balthus?

Balthus, (birth named Balthasar Klossowski de Rola) was a Polish-French aristocrat turned artist who is almost universally loathed by modernist painters and critics. I'm not addressing his merits as a painter, merely his success at making social commentary, and in particular, commentary on art history. If Balthus gets you to think a certain way it's because he's pointed out that you are thinking that way. In this painting. he's shown properly clad models painted in an academic tone, to make a point, and succeeded.

True, his paintings show a luscious reverence for academic image construction. His touch is indeed is much like Andre Derain, an older painter, and a friend, but one who was perhaps even more academic in his approach to art. Balthus certainly never overtly utilized the new territories laid out by Cezanne or Matisse, certainly not Picasso, in either color, or construction of space, though he certainly could have. He lived much later, was born in 1908 and died in 2001.

If Matisse at the end of his career might seem to represent society's new large museum with glass walls and infusions of light made possible by a new architecture, and inspired by broad spacious Deco buildings of his home city in Nice, Balthus remained fascinated with the dusty dirty attics of provincial French aristocratic life. His is a heavy heritage of furniture, class structure, habits, sibling relationships, and an archetypal inheritance bordering on psychosis. This is not to mention a career long fascination with sexuality, which he confronts directly in many of his canvases.

Whereas modernism wished to sweep the attic of art history and trash its contents, Balthus wanted to pore over what he found, and focus in particular on whatever he found most troubling. He points out, that whatever modernism brings, it cannot in a brief stroke even hope to expel the old heavy thoughts inherited from an earlier age. He forces their resurfacing in the viewer.

This is Balthus's milieu, and he purposefully keeps his palate and construction academic, drawing from a portfolio of techniques employed by Corot, early Degas, and even early Cezanne. But his subject is not about painterly construction, or painted space. It is rather psychological, and subjective, revealing of the inner mind of the viewer most of all.

Many who are uncomfortable around the heavily wrought tones of his canvases will wonder about the fascination for young women. Perhaps it is the lack of humor that Balthus's critics find so disconcerting. Perhaps it's because he reads your mind.

What society loathes most of all is a portrait of how it thinks (Balthus), not a portrait of how it would like to act, (Picasso).

We never stop to hurl accusations of pornography at Ingres, or Picasso. Why not?

Think hard, where is the sexual repression, or abuse or even commentary on these topics, in this painting? I'm not saying it's not there, I'm just asking where is it?

Is it merely in the slim somewhat uncovered and possibly inviting legs of the young girls, one napping, another doing homework or writing a letter?

I'm not saying that sexual subject matter isn't there, or that these aren't repetitive themes in Balthus's body of work. Instead I'm saying he's embedded these thoughts into the fabric of the painting in ways that are much more sophisticated than one would overtly think. Indeed as Scott Hunt noted, he's tricked us.

At first glance one might say the edge of the table seeming to invade the body of the girl sitting on the couch, is doing so as a sort of phallic form.

But when I look at the painting that's not what i see. I first see that sideways bit of table looks much more like the body of a guitar resting on the young girl's lap. The latter is a historical motif used by artists for centuries.

Balthus plays with these painterly conventions, by weaving human figures with man-made forms, and architectural environments, to show us that the mores of human relationships in France and indeed the civilized world are maintained through architecture, furniture, objects and most of all, art history.

The posture of the girl napping is in ways the only comfortable posture offered by that type of French furniture, ubiquitous throughout well-to-do France. If her posture seems sexually inviting, then Balthus must be saying, 'Look we made this. We built it this way to make our women look like this! The girls are in this space in the only way that they can be!"

For as surely as one couch design may make a woman curvaceous, on another she will seem available, and yet another may force her to take a warlike and aggressive posture, ready for action.

Through metaphor, Balthus may be commenting, 'Art History makes you think this way,' and thus by implication 'By thinking this way you are contributing to Art History!'

The feet of the same table, seeming to push the girl on the floor down like some kind of oppressive foot tangled into her hair and the back of her brain. . . again he's showing that when camouflaged amidst an interior environment, which in turn has become the interior mind of much European art, from Chardin, to Ingres, to Degas & Matisse (all quoted by vignettes in the upper half of canvas), the human forms strewn about like furniture and objects suddenly become sexual, with a somewhat violent undertone, as if human innocence is abused and defiled by the oppressive art-history of the man-made world.

All of this seems to be boiling turbulently and injecting itself into the head of the girl on the floor, funneling of a dream through the device of the table, welded to the back of her head by the table feet likened to her hair:

Is the set-motif in the top of the canvas a dream-reverie of the girl positioned on the floor? Indeed she may in fact be imagining herself asleep amongst the props of art-history, napping in an Ingres-like swoon on a curvy French chaise, bolted to the wainscoting of her parent's home, tied to her piano, her fruit, her mirror, and her table, which is useless for homework or drawing because it is so cluttered, and her imaginary guitar, whose frets are covered with cloth.

Perhaps the portrait is only of the girl on the floor, who like children everywhere, seize the architecture of a space and use it as it is best and most conveniently used, in this case the floor is most useful.She's attacking her artwork, or writing, cat-like, with the dream of herself planted at the back of her mind.

Is she doing homework? Writing? Is it a small notebook? Or a single piece of paper? Balthus leaves this question unanswered. The slim shadow of the girl's forearm falls exactly across the gutter of a would-be notebook. Scribbles appear at the left, which leaves us to speculate, 'She is drawing!'

"Whatever she's writing or drawing, she cannot escape, her life, her mind, her dreams, or the projections of art history!'

He's taken the notion of violent sexuality and turned it on it's ear, into an invective against the history of art, against class, against architecture.

These young women are as caught by that interior, as are the threads of the rug on the floor.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Goodbye Mubarak!

Hours before Hosni Mubarak actually decided to resign as Egypt's president, I wrote in this blog that it was his deep desire to do so.

Previously, last week, he disappointed millions across the globe, announcing he would not resign, despite reports by the US press and US government that he was likely to step down.

He had no motivation whatsoever for staying in power, short of obeying a cartel of powerful supporters behind him who hoped they could profit from extreme chaos on the streets of Cairo, Alexandria, and elsewhere in Egypt.

Extreme chaos did not happen.

The Egyptian people kept their faith with peace, gently reminding all that all who stood in their path, that they would lose against such unity.

Realizing that money could not be made through further oppression of an empowered populace, a retreat was cut for the longstanding dictator of 30 years.

Egypt awakes. The world has heard the sound of peace.

When Africa awakes the world will not just hear, it will listen, and understand.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Mubarak Wants to Quit

Mubarak wants to go. He is old. He is tired.

He has probably embezzled billions and probably wants to keep some or all of it. There are others who are dictating to him NOT to resign - why? Because not resigning increases strife within Egypt - strife and disorder which can be exploited.

Oh, Mubarak has been promised retirement somewhere, but these 'forces', and let me be clear, the Obama administration is innocent of any interference here - these 'forces' want to exploit the resulting chaos for their own ends.

Who are these people? Not a nation. Not an administration. Not the US Gov't or the British gov't, though there are individuals within each of these nations, some who hold offices, who may be included in this group.

Mubarak's unexpected clinging to power, was an embarrassment to many here in this country, especially the US administration, and the press, who all thought Mubarak would be resigning.

I leave all of you to speculate as to why an old man, who has absolutely nothing to gain by grasping hold of power, and everything to lose, money, life, property, would do so, unless . . . he was being coerced.

There are bigger forces at work.

The Egyptian people are at an unprecedented moment in history, one where nearly every citizen of a country stands united for change. There is almost no division. The only obstruction to that change is an infinitesimally small minority.

Who stands to gain from upheaval?

Owners of international construction companies which will profit from contracts to rebuild. Owners of international weapons companies, munitions suppliers, and banks, which allow for transfer out of afflicted nations, billions in embezzled funds.

Egypt stands as the first of many poorer nations which will test the wil of the world in ways never before so tested.

It is time to ask: does the fate of the world lie with its people, or with those who control its pursestrings.


Epilogue: Mubarak Quits!

Sunday, February 6, 2011

The Sisters

Three sisters stood rooted in a single spot. They did not move, for an entire year. One was tall and slim. She had silky smooth hair. Another was short and fat. She laid on the ground, resting. The third sister was medium height and wobbly on her feet, but she clung to her tall sibling, so she did not fall down.

Who are they? What are their names?  . . . 

AnswerCorn, Beans, Squash . . . the 'triad' of Native American crops that support and provide nutrition to each other and replenish the soil.

What's Taken Streets

What's taken streets with blinding force?
Collapsed weeks to days, and worse,
Made mockery of public works,
As so many mayors, cuss and curse.

Ideas?  . . . Answer: snow

What distracts . . .

What delights time, without making sense
Reminds our life, of the present tense,
Distracts our brains, from flows of fear,
From some of us, our eyes will tear.

What could it be?  . . . Answer: Music

Deeper Than

What is deeper than the deepest well
Not the mind - or Heaven or Hell.
Can't be timid - metes out pain,
Without limit, seeks no gain.
We serve it - it sees us,
Not a God, or a book, or an omnibus.

What is it?  . . .    Answer: The Self

P.T Barnum's Favorite

P.T. Barnum liked it best,
Painted all round, makes it hard to rest.
Great King Louis kept them where,
In later times, Monet'd appear.

What is it?  . . . 

Answer: P.T. Barnum's favorite color was ORANGE. Several of the largest and greatest paintings by Monet are stored in the Musée de l'Orangerie, in Paris.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Song of 81 Poems, VIII

She rocks over a dark sea, observes perfection,
     after babes talk behind dim harmony.

Attached to fashion, in good pain,
      a rich sweet showed only she could fill her April.
Babe, I create our memories.
     Glory still demands an open thought.
The faithful gave sense, but never repressed freedom.
     Please imagine that itch.

Observe our harmony.
Here love doesn't understand or follow wrecked.
     This emotional sex is still down.
Sad, missing in need, or fashion, almost.
Since you are full and free,
     share in our pride-hearted system.
Never think I will manipulate.
Since from a period of art,
     glorious picture paint is stuck.

Mother's dish, the key, is glorious women's praise.
Confront a hard pithy studio, a hollow crowd strung.
     Are we agreeing that we know art!
Demands, worried your full thought,
     we chant, "Come Pan!"

Discover thought in a border line.
Sculpt him blind! Is your delight an almost better me?
     Use this.

The vintage act, yes, is down around
I can sense bed music. So reach and seek us!
     Empty your sister's howl.
     I am for mellifluous death.
Mounted, should that be too dysfunctional?
     Muses I see even.

Family affects head competitions.
     How drunk I am.
His favorite instrument is sense.
weren't they too bold to presume freedom was about water.
     May you please comfort us.
Could society, curious, only in the end, reach you?
Model, glitter man or his play,
How important cuts emulate character.
     "Marry me".
      Men beat her.

But he, one day true, but full, colored in:
"Be still emotion! Such wild worries.
     Girl, see your despair.
     Chat, dress nude, destroy.
A new feeling with one sound can communicate a story,
     relate space as rich as a body.

Play with a solution. Slather, beg!"
     Come, give me a big luscious daze!
Know every impulse, who frees my pain, scratches sense?
     Killer of life!
     Which Angel had Mother better use?

Writing breaks, faithful and deep.
     My girl would have me home.
     So we love this life
We'll pressure, write, dazzle, cook,
     But make true measure.

Oh, that freedom we give.

Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Song of 81 Poems, VII

Seated twins gayly drink chocolate tea.
    you muddled him, since you are full and free,
Have some more aggressive cunning,
    How we rotted there, chose age as sin.
Feel memory, a fool's accustomed,
    To save his strength.

In front, the ennui of my verbose experiment,
    is an important opportunity about your sister.
Music will never know damage.
Your education in Death
    created a psychedelic husband around her,
Know fast.
    and esteem your favorite Moon sister.
Sculpt hot and dirty, a surf rhythm,
Humility gives your notorious skirt,
    to her representations, this fun tea and all,
    a companion, though still passion
    tries our instrument work.

So let's write a wry, mean joke.
    Respect us beneath empty music.
    It balances, bold and soft.
Who needs a dish of mouth, when green?
    Impulse, hence beauty, balances, alloys it.

Please avoid grace. Bird, go out. Tell us!
Take from my milky soft and faithful passion.
    Fast, write, and draw.
    It shows in you a sad Mother.
If they reached behind, weren't they too bold with pressure?
    Graces, they think you work, about every pithy surface.

Investigate Brother!
Paint a rhythm, up, down.
    This mare above him was caught, and knows music.
Improve pithy streets,
    I'm aging as you dance with us all.
Does emailing a man says this picture rocks water unity?

When childhood pressure's up and away
When he disorders and tells us, he tried our group pressure.
    Many draw a dead thread.
    I'm about his studio,
Sad Mother, joyous, we wasted our night.

Hindustan, my arty tea, you menstruate lie and wish.

She's all he lectures. I see emotional electricity.
Mechanical bears know in all ways,
    she spun a beautiful, faithful, breath instrument.

I'm an old ex-peer, I have assets.
    So I thank you Father.
Don't give in Brother, anger can't stay.
All drunks think he follows vintage laughter.
    Don't Jealous Boy,
    Absurd sex guards us, if we destroy women.

Despairing observations, are an angry diversity.
Not good, grant her, as it is fashion, to make a bold opinion.
    Stranger, you are the smoke!
    Mom, how will the girl kiss?
We took praise, she teases sense, fasts, starts to hurt,
    Only after sin, some touch.

Society presses a full opportunity,
Communication's key to give more worth.
    A daughter thought, 'Move!'
    I never needed some sweet reason.

    She only made you kiss.

Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Song of 81 Poems, VI

He tested sex, demanded
     never to surf another rhythm.
Some know questions,
     such as isn't life lived in sound?
They invested in God's care.
A city, her diversity,
     whose studio was a super space.

Imagine a beautiful feeling,
     glorious music for communication.
So press your disorder.
Peace, comes to deliver somehow,
A brother choose education.
   He always could paint turgid opinion.
She did hear then, you guys never said,
    or drove past.
         Is tea art?

Discover music, pathetic parasite!
Envying the Muses I see?
     Up, down?
Absurd trash makes and leads
     her temper to observe life.
Find hard dirty nuts, and faithful fantasy.

They want a horny bed of empty mouths.
   to paint a finger-like metaphor,
     a vile fellow around pure life.
Create, write! Let that miasma come Brother,
     then think sleep in unity.
Seek your Master, he feels clever, through freedom.

Friday, howls by then.
Heal deep Death, they show I followed
   an absurd girl,
     who wants a dust mountain.

Trash bad wood, feel letters, like silent patients,
     Try to impress her!
We two are ugly beasts of an original high.
     So please, try to sing.
Avoid my inner form.

Do ever question that awesome studio.
     My sadist eats jealous music.
Imagine our absurd and visual music coupled,
     Dear he definitely suffers his Muses.
     I think I'll risk madness.

Curious, will clever problems almost have captured,
     Father hated skirts like that, with effect.
Miss, trust that we'd join you.
She meant better, needs better luck.
     So she can see love, rob all nature's thought.
     I sure marvel. Will I buckle? Almost . . .

She waits away some despair . . .
     Come in, you and I will teach her.
Jokers said, "But are you having clues?"
Dull him, of earth Dark Unity!
Laugh, Act, Share,
     Try a good society girl.

Rosy, I feel you
Mama's song could impulse soft perfect drugs.
     Silent glory comes.
Appears calm, luxurious with joy.
Babe, this greener subject composes a grand balance.
     Try and know me.

Your harmony runs drunk, storms over diversity.
A faithful husband married me, finds sleepwalking fun,
     "Man they never suffer'd passively!"
Hey Pal, Sister of Beauty,
     Her monstrous time can play clever childhood.
          I sleep, scream, subject to an edge.

A monstrous age of mildew grows.
     Let's create some thing.

Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Song of 81 Poems, V


Please every bitter advantage,
     start music, think through dreams.
Some aged her lame dead Father,
     took our string, glorious sex was out.
The fool was accustomed to save his strength,
     so my mind was in heaven.
My New York companions want to see on Crete a storm.

Suffer patience, young Master.
Laugh Sister, relate more,
     take strength, they analyze space.
Then a dark deep strengthening dream,
     we shared a beautiful self,
     then said why marrying brings trouble.

From chocolate and smoke,
     he could appear to hide his hurt.
Might I date a sweet sister?
     Make a muscle?
Yell! I sculpt society.
I am jealous, absurd, less time European,
Hence decay snaps her from that trotting fiend . . .
     Canvas could live.

Sculpt! You're me!
I throw her torpid form through,
     we know you're soon to calm the crazy leader.
Perhaps you heard,
     Walk, my favorite, have soft clever respect.
     Your finger demands when we make deep sky.

Kiss when the No's have space.
Why is this girl like that?
     Shishi knows a peace which could sculpt.

A favorite idea stuck beside a perfect childhood.
Still, why make him, girl?
     Being eerie, we sing our differences.
     Collectors came, but never told their opinions.
Fingering him won''t take an ugly score.
     Destroy, then have a parting.

Enervate delight. Her money switched.
If so, I grip it. You thread jungle art,
     I need to see who you are.

Confront thy wench.
Have you ebbed in your observation?
Give chameleon strength to my electric understanding,
     Compose important memories.
See your sins apace.
     At home we could have found sleeping space.
A demon seizes you! Observe suffering.

I could storm out, Laugh and act!
Use part childhood sleep.
     I have him at night.
No glorious awesome electric fantasies.
Since life hears strength, together there's gold.
     Go, experiment like a bird!

Who gave this bad commune?
I see an Asian, I am the original girl.
     Is life mean?
Hard characters never lose.
Test with disorder, animal captures from time.
     She sings many songs.
Because your style said,
"Brother Moon, why did this young friend appear?"
     Passive air shows alleviate anger.

Pleasant, bold perfume is a calm instrument,
     to carp us down.

Love me.

Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Song of 81 Poems, IV

In truth he meant a man, who with sound,
      shared a beautiful self.
"You'll see, saucy women will phone."

She hardens, rides a simple toy.
   A happy sense stops me.
      Should love say, "Sleep through sound?"
This will reach you in metaphoric shimmers.
   "Perform a clean thought.
      Deep grace must see a dull rhythm."

Tell your bird,"Run free! Drug my brain!"
   "Write a symbol,
      Try harmonic programming."

No greening holds my deep inky delight,
   a Chameleon who guts earth.
      "He's an animal husband."
Scream beauty. "Who has to own obsequious strength?"
  Die, notice who has nerve.
      I see, need, can please. Whomever chooses, doesn't impress.

Open wide, paint her electric harmony here.
  She said, "Curiosity's like a hard, soft sculpture."
Fiery mother of Heaven, use sanguine perfume,
   come and pet some party cares.
      "Walk, they've lost patience."
       Come obsessive Partner, young babe,
   "Why am I fashion?
      Throw positive water! He never ate delight."

Empower fashion, neither use young sleep,
   or observe virginal sound.
      Think, walk, Create grandeur,

Emotional highs as big as a milky soft space.
   I hear them, and us and thee.
      "But can category have play?"
      Free too, a still life's always dormant,
   Come you and I can't throw on positive water.
      My God, we never numbed her language!

Stop see guilt, only who was it?
   Young babe, to those around us,
     Be her man. I suffer.
"Good boy!
   Thou didst forget my only past!"
      I am feeling better.

What marvelous creature sees you on Crete, as a sculpture instrument.
   Our stand-in event, is passive, that much I'll admit.
      Try to understand. Please see I'm love.

I lost a bag, all we question.
   Night bird how do we improve almost as only can a King,
      Taking up rainbows, by positive kids.

Come Death, with pain like an Angel!
   How big will patience be in my clever life?
      "Man I pull at sculpted harmony."
     Delve in a surreal subject.
   Hmm, no pain.
      Serious systems worry Mom.

Never feel captured! Love, hate, passion,
   "Grander king! Men discover about ritual.
      Think here. Go there."
     See that beautiful cat almost howl!
   In my rough bitter fast.
      "Glass husband, you are guile!"

How monstrous are women . . .
   They have shame!

Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

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