Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Becca Becca



I’m very relaxed with BL. She laid on a piece of paper prepared with a blue tint.

She has a delightful womanly body and I love moving around her, and studying her beautiful belly and crotch. I made detailed drawings.

She has lovely white skin and she seems to like it when the brush runs alongside her body.

Her drawing looks like the faded star map from Grand Central Station, before they cleaned off the cigarette smoke.


Understand Again

Balance domicile, approach this,
Since differences imagine absurd individual music,
Model a kid's silhouette.

Pressure, then be young.
Stop the solution, share, give language every way,
Cuddle our grand bitter life.
Learn, follow an obdurate Mom around,
Chisel her freedom.

Aridity means an enormous break,
Can't even begin.
Suffer to investigate thought, joke, a blind missive.
Delve, paint on when this performer appears,
I influence communication.

We write, shimmer, create . . .
Nude though free.
Throw metaphor, feel that on, or languish.
Play mellifluously.
My beauty does elucidate canvas.

Slather open big experiments have more effect
Demand respect, know when I am raging.
Start weak sweet Daughter, choose your subject,
Check behind every shard mountain.

Damage about lame dead Father.
Question, almost sniff live sound strength
Cunning, attach fashion, make your finest.
Sedulous mouth less nefarious, like an opaque opportunity.

Rejection of water could scar character
Know, compose,
Sculpt draw your companion's curious color.
Discover symbols, full like masterpieces.
Process your drunk opinion, harmony at Death.

Sculpture never did secrete a nice aesthetic,
Emotional and faithful instrument when I'm passionate,
Come Brother, improve,
Believe our old verbose obsequious, crass howl.
Still is better.

They obscured about children.
Down, no Community.
Concrete is your favorite rhythm.
Investigate a Herculean impression.


5/18/06 by Mark Potter and Brooklyn Suicide, 9, 9-210


The Muse 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, March 29, 2011

Fly Me Back to Tripoli



Fly me back to Tripoli,
Watch me start a war that's holy.
I'll drop my bombs on Gaddafi,
Fly me there in fast Lockheed.

Let's fly back to that Barbary coast,
See us make Gaddafi a ghost.
Watch us turn the desert to glass,
Fly me there in a Lockheed fast.

Fly me over that no-fly zone,
Fly me there, I'll read my poem.
Above Bengazi I'll rant and rave,
And all the citizenry, our bombs will save.

Watch me streak over old Ajdabiya,
It reminds me of Baghdad, pre-GW.
How Iraq rose of its own choosing,
And helped us oust that tyrant Hussain.

I'm UN backed, do you need proof?
Let's whack the rebels in Ras Lanuf.
Let's save some Libyans by dropping bombs,
Just listen to that patriot, Cameron.

If being British doesn't make you cozy
Sleep to French from Nick Sarkozy.
Oil's a foil to distract the world,
Islamic turmoil, now unfurled.

We need our villain, we need him bad,
So let's put boots on Libyan sand,
And when the rebels secure our oil,
Let's bomb Libya, until it boils.

Who are the rebels? Do you know them well?
Who started the trouble? Did you hear them tell?
Some say Al Queda, we've thrown a rope,
A place for income, a refuge they hope.

Say ceasefire, suggest peace talks,
We speak the lingo of Tomahawks.
We'll put that dictator back in his cage,
Airdrop him a nice bandage.

Hear this rant Old Tripoli!
We'll bomb your tyrant Gaddafi.
Fly us back to Tripoli,
Fly us there, in a fast Lockheed.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Horses


A night of memory, searching for the front room,
the paneled room, the one with windows.

Who was with me?
I sought to scare it, ghoulish thing, out of hiding.
I turned up a list of things forgotten.

Clear silent, intact, existing, perfect six-sided blossoms.
Spun glass inhabiting vacuums.
Webs impossible to walk without disturbing.
A texture of flesh and sweaters.

Yesterday's equal to ten years ago,
equally a twisting tube,
an echo - else more perfect than before.

Chiding, 'Hush up! Shut up!'
Her wig, her head wound.
Dawn birds starting the day, only time to manifest.
Or prove something, tireless,
again and again.

The inheritances are all wound tightly, unspooled for me
unclaimed, perfectly rendered, without dust.

France crow's call, early morn.
India crow call,
New England crow call.
Was the ground frozen?

An all-red autumn, horses stand, in clouds of their own breath.

Tugboats


Mind a mess - I slept too late.
'Hautil', 'Mantois', tugboat names,
after an awful dream, a van stuck in mud.
Then a bus took Anna's car away,
they went towards north Paris.
Anna, with her blonde hair,
morning headache, hangover, yawning,
Friends arrive tomorrow . . .
Dogs haul sledges, snarl at the owner of the farm.
Fried turbot for lunch, pale yellow,
Marie-Rose unpacks glasses, at the new appartement.


The Feast


A raccoon feasted on oysters at midnight,
left a mess of shells split, cracked, open wide and dry.
White dust, fertilizer powder, and pearls.

I was that raccoon.

Shattered shards,
 white vases, and confetti,
  broken vows, a hillock of dishes,
   covered in white cloth.

A mess of broken things, waiting repair.
  are they kept
  for memory?

It is springtime.
 An opened window lets flies into the room.
 They buzz in
 find the air too cool to please them,
 turn in a lazy circle,
   and buzz back out.

Argenteuil sous la Neige



Clouds behind clouds,
Monet's blue lyricism,
brush strokes
made small canvases seem large . . .

Monet's blue,
I know just the kind of day that was.
near freezing, my feet were wet,
The sun was low, glowing at the horizon, before it set.

I held skates
in my cold left hand.
shoes untied, snow inside them.
Cold, I smelled woodsmoke.

The neighbor's dog was barking.


Voice


London trodden alleys,
slippery with broken fruit.

Berwick cockney sellers are calling
a gut literature of English,
a street map of Empire,
in all it's spoken forms,

Every sound the British throat can make,
at home and abroad.

Stravinski's fire feathers
are sent in all directions,
gifts from the Prince.

Suddenly, I fear that I could be murdered,
and my murderer might not know her own mind.

Going to Lyon



It's a quiet Sunday,
on the platform,
a motor hums, then clicks.
Swallows flit about in the electric wires.

Two kids play in the baggage carts.
at the end of the yard
A man steps from a glass office.
holding a long paddle,
He waves it, and blows a whistle.

The engineer sees him,
The train starts to roll,
quiet, the cars hum a little,
a homeless person walks alongside.

One pantographs sputters
and drops to the roof of the engine.
It glides, ever increasing speed.
The electric sulfur smell, burnt eggs . . .

Twenty cars full of people,
disappear into a maze of track.

The café dish clatter becomes loud again.
Signals turn to green.
The starter ambles back to his glass office.
He's just a boy,
wearing a man's uniform.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

01/02/2003 - First Kiln Firing, Kiln Opening . . .




Two weekends before Christmas I began early on a Saturday morning, making preparations for the first firing of an old Alpine kiln, which I brought back from Kansas City.

A new cutoff valve on the main gas line, a hood to vent the exhaust, a pan to melt wax for resist, glazes mixed, kiln wash mixed.

Kiln wash, fifty percent silica, fifty percent kaolin by weight. Mixed Shaner’s red, mixed tenmoku. Got wood ash from Steven Rodriguez’s wood stove. Got buckets to mix glaze, mixing tools for my electric drill, a hair dryer. So much to do. And each of these tasks a first. Late that Sunday with pots glazed, and the kiln stacked. I can’t say I didn’t make mistakes.

In retrospect I should have put all the tenmoku on the bottom, Shino on the top, I should have used smaller kiln shelves, I should have begun reducing earlier, I should have not left the kiln to sleep for an hour. These things I have learned.

Perhaps I should give some background . . .

I found the ad for it on Clayart, an online discussion group. The University of Kansas was selling a kiln from their sculpture department. It was sitting in a courtyard to one of their buildings slated for demolition. Cheap. The proviso was 'Come get it quickly.'

"How's early next week?" I asked the lady at the other end of the posting. "Fine," she said. "Come on out!" She promised to get me the number of an gentleman who had a four wheeled all terrain forklift, essential for loading it onto a truck.

I made the booking for a one way flight, packed two suitcases, one small with clothes, the other large and heavy, crammed with tools to facilitate the dismantling of the kiln. Socket set, vise-grips, pliers, screwdrivers, battery powered electric drill, heavy duty straps, even wood-blocks. I'd be meeting the old gentleman in the morning the first day out. I had to be ready.

I slept in a Super 8 Motel that sits on a promontory in Lawrence Kansas, overlooking a gully that runs down to the grasslands. I never knew there were high spots in Kansas.

At dawn I arose and went to the truck rental place. The agent was there as promised. I filled out the forms for a cross country drive with drop off in Connecticut, hopped into the cab and experienced that marvelous exhilaration that comes when taking command of a large truck. It was nearly brand new, and the tires were good. They'd have to be. The kiln that was going in the back weighed six thousand pounds.

By eight I was at the university, and before I met the nice lady who I'd talked to on the phone, I took a first look at my purchase.

My heart sank. Weeds grew up from cracks in the courtyard and into the innerds of the kiln burners and controls.

The inside was solid. As reported. Whew.

I went to work. There would be time to repair burners, fire-eyes, the pilots, and gas piping.

I brought a new can of WD-40 and liberally sprayed everything.

Two hours later the entire burner system was in pieces. I sat waiting to load.

At eleven, Mr. Clotillard showed up. A gentleman indeed. He wore a wide brimmed brown hat, a blue denim shirt, and a necktie, with fine alligator boots. He jumped out of the cab from his forklift, a truly huge piece of construction equipment.

"This shouldn't be too difficult," he remarked, and jumped back into his massive toy.

Ten minutes later he had put the giant piece of equipment into the back of my Penske truck, shoved tight against a bundle of wood blocks.

An hour later the burner system was loaded on and everything was tied down. By two PM I was across the Missouri border, eating Chinese food, wondering how far I wanted to drive that day . . .



It was a journey. A journey back to CT. A journey getting it off the truck and hauling it past vats of cyanide through the Rockwell Heat Treat plant to my studio which was on the other side of fire door, a journey through my studio, out the back door, and over some mud flats and up onto that concrete pad, the semi-exterior place where I had run my gas line.

A journey getting Southern Connecticut Gas to agree to supply me with a meter . . .

At six thirty in the evening I lit the burners. Even this was difficult. At six thirty in the evening in late December it is dark outside. It is even darker where I have my kiln, beneath the rotting timbers of the destroyed Bigelow Boiler Factory, behind the piles of iron abandoned by the mobsters, in the corner on a cement acropolis where a giant blast furnace that cast boilers for Liberty ships during the Second World War, once stood.

The burners of the kiln would not light. Much moisture in the line. I lit taper after taper of twine and wax, and burned hundreds of feet of wax soaked string. Finally, the years of inactivity of the gas line and foul air were expunged, fresh gas was liberated which jumped to flame. The kiln eyes burst alive with a rhythm, clicking and flashing and shouting aloud. The main burners shot on.

I called Steven.  “ You lit the kiln? Hey good going.” He was over in a flash. “Hey Potter your pressure gauge is shot”. Water oozed from the kiln door. The temperature was rising, and steam hissed from every orifice. “We’ve got to replace it”. Go home, clean up, eat dinner, come back in three hours. Call me. I’ll bring over a new gauge.”

We came back in three hours. Cone 010 was down. Yikes it’s going fast. Rodriguez was concerned. “ You’ve missed body reduction - maybe there’s hope, keep going.” He took a pair of Vice Grips and twisted out the faulty gauge, and stopped the gas with his finger, then slipped in a new gauge pirated from another kiln. “Hell there’s your reason . . you’re at 8 inches of water column. Back that baby off!” We slowed flow of gas. The kiln settled into a more manageable rate of climb. The red glow seemed to light up the night air, it seemed the very source of energy on the planet, in the universe itself.

Rodriguez pulled a tin of cookies and some oranges from his pockets. “Jillian put these together for you.” I knew he had done it. He knew I was going to be up all night.

I was. I paced, I yawned, I stretched. I cleaned the studio. I carved plugs for the lower spies of soft kiln brick with a hacksaw.

And every five minutes I went out to look at the flames shooting from the spy hole, at the smoky yellow reduction fire from the flue.

All seemed well. My kiln packs at the bottom fell over, oh well, otherwise, so far so good.

At one point progress seemed stalled, I cleaned up the flame, and the temperature rose, slowly, but it rose. A giant weight was being lifted.

At six o’clock in the morning Cone 10 bent over. I flick the switch. The gas abruptly stopped. The kiln seem to sputter and hiss, and moan slightly. All was silent.

I inserted the brick plugs in their holes. I laid a blanket of soft ceramic fiber over the broken vents at the top. I turned the gas valves to off. I coiled up the extension cords and temporary lights which I had dragged outside. All was silent.

I brought my tools inside, said a small prayer, and left the kiln to cool amidst the piles of iron, and broken brick and fallen roofs.

I weaved home in the Toyota, tired, reaching Cottage Street, my legs wobbly as I climbed the steps.

All were asleep. Ami was asleep. Arjun and Maya were asleep.

I undressed. The kiln must be a little cooler now. A degree or two. I felt my face. Red. Burned by the UV. What force! I bathed. Coiled into bed beside Ami. Groggy she awoke. Arjun needs to go to school. You go to sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s time to go to New York.

I put in a week’s work. Five days of agony, knowing full well after Monday night that the kiln door could be cracked and the wares taken out to look would be hot, or warm to the touch.

No, I would have to work at the computer all week, take the train, take a cab, arrive home late on the Friday before Christmas, with a present for Ami in tow (I bought her a flexible shaft tool for her jewelry making), and then exhausted, tumble into bed. It would be Saturday morning, due later at a Christmas Party with Jeffrey and Jennifer before I would find thirty minutes to go to River Street, switch on the lights, unlock the rear door and go back to where the kiln sat in the soft wet rain. How easy it was to open the door and look in.

A new energy has come there. It was a mixed success, my glazing was rushed, but there were positive results, a few very nice Shino bowls, and one temoku bowl that truly turned out. Another nice bowl was ruined by the lower kiln pack which fell into it, not much good temoku overall, I applied the glaze too thinly, and much of the Shino was oxidized. Heavy oxidation on the bottom, super heavy reduction on the top. A lack of circulation caused by the wrong sized shelves. But here and there good results. Shino wood ash forming pools of green glass at the bottom of orange and white bowls, carved mugs, and a few ‘journal pots’ with my drawings of people on the beach and some brush writing, a new direction.

05/05/2006 - She demands honesty


Worked Monday thru Thursday at Sextant, all the while thinking and directing my energies towards the project. On Monday evening D____ D____ came over and we picked up on the thread of work I established with K____ B____ (LB).

A sequence of poses, then two sequences of words at right angles to each other so that they obliterate their own meaning, then a sequence of poses. The idea is to somehow enmesh the words of the Goddess between two ‘screens’ of the body, metaphorically sandwiching communications with the Muse between two dance performances.

Relations with D____ became more strained as the evening wore on, we were not in synch with each other, in spite of this the words came, and had their dance and held their meaning. Surprisingly there were phrases recommending that I stroke D____'s bottom, literally, kiss her, feel her. These were somewhat difficult for the two of us to read together. Together we buried these 'suggestions', though I’m not sure it was a good idea. Our meeting ended abruptly. It seemed the muse read my mind, and hers, and somehow we both were embarrassed. We want our privacy from each other, a little longer.

The Goddess does not respect individual privacy since 'she' knows all. Those that would talk to her should be prepared to share as well. She demands honesty and frankness. She breaks walls, and says whatever it is that is not said.

The drawing was made as follows:

Brown Umber Red and Yellow Ochre background
12 Poses
2 Layers of Poetry at right angles
7 Poses

As pleased as I am with this work, the first of the fully structured experiments, and as memorable as the session was with D____, I have unfortunately lost the text of the poem forever, due to a computer erasure. Despite all I can still imagine D____'s radiant body taking the different postures in this work. Under the effect of the language our work became somewhat strained. We just ran out of things to say. Perhaps we were stunned by the new level of frankness demanded by the work.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

No Fly Zone

I apologize to all whom this falls upon, since my taxes partly paid for it. 



















I find it curious that the Islamic world so heartily embraced the concept of a no-fly zone over Libya. UN Security Council Resolution 1973 grants the western coalition, they drafted it after all, a carte-blanc to do whatever it deems necessary to protect Libyan citizens from Muammar Gaddafi and his loyalist forces.

A No-Fly Zone, is permitted, of course, and will be the first military undertaking by Western forces. Bombing of Libya will have to happen of course. Radar installations, Gaddafi's supply depots, airports, aircraft, tanks, etcetera, etcetera, will all have to be destroyed.

Cruise missiles by the hundreds, a lot of them Tomahawks, have already flown, launched by US Cruisers in the Mediterranean, and at a cost of nearly $600,000 a pop, have destroyed much of Gaddafi's military infrastructure across the country. [Note 1]

The picture conjured by the term, is one of peace. Nothing after all is flying, that is except for the coalition forces.

The term 'no-fly zone' seemed to offer a panacea to the growing conflict within Libya. It became a buzz phrase repeated by liberal Arabs across the region. 'Please help us, please put a no-fly zone over Libya!'

It was as if those three words themselves offered an instant shield against the aggressions of Gaddafi, and the miseries of an escalating civil war.

I decided to see how many English anagrams there were for the phrase 'No Fly Zone'.

It turns out there are only five. Here are two:

'No Fez Only' and 'Fez Only On'.

The Fez! That bandeau, that beret, of the Ottoman Turks, that obligatory headdress of the Turkish Muslim world, sported by all liberal and loyal Muslims, at least in Western eyes, as they lurked in Western consciousness for so many years. To be truthful, the fez is very much out of date, and symbolic of regional acceptance of Ottoman oppression.

Could the term 'No Fly Zone', be appealing to nostalgic yearnings of Muslims across the region? A sort of magic linguistic truth potion, like a fez. You put it on and everything beneath it, is peaceful.

'No Fez Only', The Fez is allowed, but you must wear other clothes too, however it is not obligatory, 'Fez Only, No'.

The Fez should not be anything more than a hat, 'Fez only On'. It's not a purse, or a seat cushion, or a cummerbun.

Alas, the humble fez, red and soft, is no defense against a Tomahawk. I don't mean to imply that the Tomahawk 'sees' the fez, and thus aims for it, not at all, rather the Tomahawk has been programmed to strike a particular target, and is usually accurate to within a few meters.

Gaddafi's fez is green, but I'm sure he has a red one somewhere.

Ah, the Fez is a dream of an Arab past!

Again, history is supplying a more bitter reality than dreams and expectations, conjured by the words of leaders across the region.

As I write this, Tomahawks are falling on Libya. How did the cruise missiles get to Libya. Well they flew there, of course! 'Zone Fly On!'

Innocent people are dying. The Arab League is crying, "We didn't ask for bombs!".

Listen dudes, read UN Security Resolution number 1973 carefully. You agreed to it. It allows the coalition partners to do pretty much anything they want!

Meanwhile Gaddafi has stepped up the murderous backlash against his own people. And through all of this, is it possible to see a resolution to the tribal hatreds that exist within the region?

Not at all. The bloodshed will go on and on and on.

This isn't what Libya asked for! This isn't even what America bargained for! What is happening?

The 'No Fly Zone' should be a peaceful undertaking, one that is . .. 'Only of Zen'.

Whatever we do, we shouldn't allow Scrabble to be played anywhere in the world with these letters, else the region will become a 'Felony Zone' . . . or God forbid, . . .

a 'No Life Zone'.

Notes:

1. If 200 Tomahawks are used during the early stages of the conflict, that's $120 million dollars of re-supply business for Raytheon's Arizona plant, homestate of famous 'dove' Senator John McCain ;)

Friday, March 18, 2011

Battle for Libya



I invite, with these blogs, the simple minded to dismiss me in an instant, claiming I'm pro--dictator.

Not at all. Muammar Gaddafi is a megalomaniac, some say a madman, but I'll say a dictator, ruthless, and cruel, unpalatable to the West in so many ways.

I'm against intervention. Let democracy happen if it is strong enough. If it is not, it is not worth backing, because if it is weak, it will bite us in the hand moments after we've come to its aid. Democracy must be forged and fought for by those that believe and understand its principles.

Did outsiders come and make a democracy for the US? Did that happen in any of the countries of the world where lasting democracies are in place? No.

Yes we were aided during the revolution, by some committed officers from France and Poland, and their loyal followers. However the US, the democracies of South and Latin America, India,and elsewhere, were all hard won through the strength and commitment of those that lived there. No outside coalition consisting of most of the world's powers at that time, intervened to make a single one of them. India, in fact, won its independence, amazingly, against the most powerful empire on the planet, with a united display of civil force, but a minimum of bloodshed.

Now unfortunately, the Western 'coalition', is committed to the region, having answered the call of the 'rebels' some of whom do have democratic yearnings.

Egypt is quite different. There a pluralistic, and complex majority, in fact nearly a totality in percentage terms, of the country's citizens, united to unseat Mubarak, and now votes in orderly respect on a referendum to amend the constitution, despite their many ethnic and political differences. The country is a model to the region and the world. However the process is far from complete, despite the fact that Egypt has thousands of years of history as a country.

Democracy however is often pleaded for by those that don't understand it, or by those who forget that democracy means according rights to others who might be a political enemy. The universal hallmark of territories that cannot form a stable republic, are those engaged in civil war. The killing of fellow citizens, out of deep seated hatred, whether racial, tribal, or religious, cannot make for national unity, no matter how much force is brought to bear from the outside. The cobra and the mongoose cannot be made to get along, certainly not by an outside hand.

In places, that should have become separate nation-states early in their history, strongmen and dictators thrive, and as distasteful as they are to outside nation-states, they serve a role, propping up walls that would otherwise lean and crush the people. The trade-off for removing the dictator, who through force holds the society together, is the awakening of ancient enmities that invariably rears its head as civil war. Examples of this again are Iraq, Afghanistan, and Yugoslavia. Sometimes the civil war is brief and bloody before the territory fissions into many separate smaller nations. This is what happened to Yugoslavia after Tito, and the fall of Communism. But more frequently civil war lingers indefinitely, as is the case in Iraq, which is still not stable.

Gaddafi is the very make and mean of his alter-shadow, Saddam Hussein, whom we put an end to after a very costly two-decade conflict, resulting in the loss of hundreds of thousands of lives in the region, and thousands of American soldiers. The region is certainly not better off today than when Sr. Bush made his first move against Hussein.

Aside from Ronald Reagan, who bombed Tripoli, and strafed the Gaddafi palace in 1986, recent US diplomats have actually cozied up to the dictator. In 2008, George W. Bush's Secretary of State, Condaleeza Rice met with him in Tripoli, declaring a new chapter in US/Libya relations. Other Western leaders turned the relationship into a friendship, notably Prime Minister Berlusconi of Italy.

We continued to prop up Gaddafi despite the fact that Gaddafi had financed terrorism in Europe and elsewhere!

Now with oil over $100 a barrel, we've decided to come to the aid of the 'rebels' in his country, who are not at all for a united Libya. These rebels are armed. The country is amidst a civil war.

I ask, how consistent is US foreign policy?

Why are we in no way opposing Saudi intervention into Bahrain, or butchery of protesters in Yemen, while we avail ourselves of an 'opportunity' to topple an old foe? Beware. . . these are hasty decisions made by people who have reasons other than human rights, for wanting to go to war.

The popular rebellion in Libya is not powerful enough to take power away from Gaddafi. Yet that rebellion has been encouraged, and agitated from its inception, by Western, Israeli, and Irani interests all of whom see their ends being accomplished by the dictator being toppled.

With the endorsement of the UN Security Council, the West will take up arms against Libya, while neighbors such as Tunisia will be asked to aid us in our mission, and thus make it more credible.

Yes there were some populist 'rebels', though it was a small, ill-formed rebellion, and not a majority. . . but was agitated, encouraged, and lately hijacked, by Western interests to pursue their own end.

We've made our case to get even with the mad Colonel. Now what?

Is the mandate of the U.N. Security Council resolution to do 'whatever is necessary to protect the citizenry of Libya' to be taken as a mandate to back the 'rebels', and likely divide Libya into two countries? That is what the East Libyan 'rebels' want.

Remember, East Libya, Bengazi and neighboring cities, are the ones with the oil, and the oil ports.

Protect the citizenry or take hold of the refinery?

Let us be mindful of the abstentions within the Security Council: Russia, China, Brazil, Germany, and India.

The world is being led by its myths.

Japan, by its Godzilla of nuclear disaster, and danger from the deep sea. Since the Middle Ages, Islam and Christianity have been fighting jihad and crusades. In our nation's imagination, the latest developments in Libya are a sequel from the Barbary Wars that plagued early US presidents Adams and Jefferson.

How the human psyche continually seeks to preserve the role of the villain! Our monocular vision shows a desperate need to characterize evil as a single individual, with promises that once he is unseated, all will be well. Yet the supply of dark-haired mustached men brandishing arms, and flashing anti-Western rhetoric, seems to be endless.

Those with might cannot resist making this battle their own. The ageless temptations of history ultimately defeats even the strongest nations.

Decades of reciting the Marine anthem in school, has become the code of every American senator and manifested into a reality:

"From the Halls of Montezuma,
 To the shores of Tripoli;
 We fight our country's battles
 In the air, on land, and sea. . . .

 Our flag's unfurled to every breeze
 From dawn to setting sun;
 We have fought in every clime and place
 Where we could take a gun."

Thursday, March 17, 2011

The Nuclear Crisis in Japan


The penalty for following inept leadership during times of peace, and calm, is that it is viewed as treasonous, and disloyal to desert those leaders during times of stress, and national calamity. In this regard the Japanese have shown themselves of high moral character, and strength. Every Japanese knows now how inept their leadership is, but they are living with it because, . . . they lived with it.

What is the chain of command in this country in the event of a nuclear disaster? Do we rely upon our public utilities? Do we rely on corporations or government agencies which have systematically ignored increased calls for safety, falsified reports, paid for lobbyists, bought senators, and will be in cover-up mode when disaster strikes?

Cronyism is a weakness of all mature nations including the US. In Japan it's led to the worsening of an already tragic nuclear crisis. Six nuclear reactors in trouble should have had 6 teams of 100 working on cooling, not one, situation room leadership, and early reach out for international help. What can't be attended to properly until this crisis is out of the way, are victims of the tsunami who've lost everything.

he U.S. nuclear industry is adroitly avoiding heat, and lessons, it should be willing to learn from the Japanese disaster. As well, we should put this event in perspective. Far far worse is what has happened as a result of the tsunami. Lives, cities, a entire portion of Japan, has been devastated. We should not only look to what we should do differently, but rather what we can do now . . . . to help.

The Wolf



In darkened rooms,
on Avenue Foche,
along a small corridor of
'chambres des bonnes',
I smell the guano, of bats.
and hear them rustling at night.

They are in the crevices of these stone walls,
the old grand homes have become caves.

A radio plays Prokofiev,
I am near tears, at the thought,
of a large black wolf.

There's a convocation at a local university,
to celebrate the anniversary, of the Revolution,
Francois Mitterrand is the honored guest.
He speaks in French and is pronounced,
Doctor of Laws.

I walk for soup, to my one-franc spot,
where the waitresses are blonde,
and speak Russian.
And on the way home I notice how
all Paris is blonde now,
all the stones are creme-colored.
Centuries of soot are bleached away.

Down the glowering streets,
past sentries saluting,
screams the motorcade of the President.

I think to shout, "Vive la France!",
But in an instant, they roar past.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Song for P__


'Eiffel Tower' Caroline Gogh


She tells me of her weekend,
on the island,
the girls that went with her
stuffing high-fashion gowns
into overnight bags
to the house of the arms dealer,

We were like heifers,
she said,
we helicoptered in
men could take our favors,
more gowns to choose from
we could be jumped at any moment.

They followed me for a week,
when I went to Tripoli.
I only slept with his brother
in a compound,
guarded by wolves.

Littered about her simple room
ankle deep, she wades through
heaps of clothes,
all the houses of Paris.

On her countertop
thousand frank notes piled deep
gifts from her men
to and from the health spa,
cab-fares home.
from an exercise club
nearLuxembourg Gardens,
champagne and profiteroles
at Brasserie Balzar.

She let down
that desire to convince
it was simply goodbye to her prince,
on the sidewalk.

I saw how tough she was
as she talked about an infection
she was fighting,
some nerd in the rest room at Maxim's,
put his finger into her.

Unsure
how she fit
into a dress that needed
alteration.
Don't look, she said, as she dropped
everything she was wearing.

Her nose
appeared flattened.
A fighter
in a modern city.

10/09/1989 - Columbus Day with my Grandfather

 F. Muller, USS Chesapeake
















Baldy was already up, sitting is his big winged chair, holding a cup of coffee. I smelled its deep aroma across the room.

I sat opposite, and we got into a chat about the war of 1812.

He spoke about the encounter between the British vessel HMS 'Shannon', and the U.S. Frigate, 'Chesapeake'. This was prompted, because a New York friend of mine, John Filler, who is an amateur but accomplished historian, had mentioned to me that the 'Chesapeake's' captain, a man named Lawrence, was buried in Trinity churchyard, in New York.

I mentioned this to Baldy and the topic was brought afresh. He perked at mention of naval history. Sometime last spring, we had spoken about Oliver Perry's fights with the British on lakes Ontario, Erie, and Champlain . . .

" . . . Lawrence, who was mortally wounded, mumbled, "Fight her till she sinks. Don't give up the ship!"

Baldy pronounced these words as if his own father had been on the decks of the 'Chesapeake' himself. He reminded me that the 'Chesapeake' had been constructed as one of a group of frigates built for the young republic to face the growing menace of Barbary Pirates. In 1801, Yusuf Karamanli of Tripoli, demanded a tribute paid to him which was more than the construction cost of the 'Chesapeake' herself. Jefferson responded by sending a fleet of frigates, including the 'Chesapeake' to the Mediterranean, intending to sweep the pirates from the seas there. The 'Chesapeake', for various reasons, did not see action, and was called back to Boston.

Baldy continued:

"The 'Shannon' drew broadside to bear on the 'Chesapeake'. Both ships raked decks with fire from all guns . . . Sixty died on the Chesapeake alone."

"The 'Chesapeake' had a green crew, and they handled her badly. She luffed in a quartering wind and was overcome."

I went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Baldy was still on-topic.

"It was Perry, who first uttered the expression, 'Don't give up the ship'. He flew that slogan on a specially made flag at the Battle of Lake Erie . .

"He swept the British from the 'seas' there. He used small lake boats, built quickly out of whatever wood was at hand.

"These ships frequently leaked, and had to be brought ashore on gentle beaches, and careened over so that their hulls could be caulked with oakum, and tar.

"Shipmen in those days wore a pigtail, tarred into a knot at the back of their heads.

"Their hair became an awful matted mess, held tight by that ubiquitous 'pine-knot'. Coming ashore to get married, such a man might 'cut the knot', wash himself, and then repeat the process again for his next assignment, often in a different port. This led to many of these sailors having multiple wives."

He winked!

-:-

Now the leaves are turning red. For thirty five years I have watched them turn. Knowledge and death. Autumn in the north-east is touched with poetry.

That poetry now, includes winter.


Friday, March 11, 2011

Who ARE the Rebels?


I applaud the job that the world's press, in particular, Al Jazeera, is doing in Libya.

But I'm suspicious of reports where any one word is so overused.

'Rebels.'

Even Al Jazeera leaves this major question unanswered:

Who ARE the 'Rebels' ?

My dear wife says, 'They can't report who the rebels are or else Gaddafi will kill them.' Point taken but she's missed my point. Any popular uprising has roots, beginnings, stirrings in a subset of the population that wants something more.
We hear constantly, 'rebels' this, rebels that. 'The Rebels are in control of Bengazi. The Rebels are advancing, the Rebels are retreating.'

We see pickup trucks screaming along the major highway linking Libya's coastal cities.

Again and again we see the same pickup truck, screaming along the highway, gun in the back.

Who are they? Is 'Rebels' code for 'insurgents' as in 'paid by another national force'?

I'm not for a moment arguing that it is unnatural to conceive of a popular uprising against Gaddafi. I fully believe the unrest in Libya began with a populist movement.

The resistance has gathered some clout. It feels military. Some people have training. Who is this resistance force comprised of? Libya's poor? Oil workers of Libya's east, those that haven't had access to the rich margins generated by Libya's light sweet crude? Western infiltrators? Israeli or Iranian spies? It is certain that spies and agitators are everywhere amidst such chaos.

But who are the majority of the Rebels? Colonel Gaddafi's kept everyone in fear for so long, why have they waited until now to revolt? Is it because rising oil prices have become a temptation, impossible to ignore? Are these Libyans feeling empowered by the popular revolution in Egypt?

Or are other powers at work, fomenting revolt beneath an oppressive dictator, knowing the idea of revolt would be accepted by the world media as the root cause?

Another question: Why would Gaddafi bomb his own oil depots? Does he believe that it will make it harder for the men in the pickup trucks to get more gas? Are the Gaddafi's just lashing out at any and everything man-made? If they had any sense they would NOT destroy any oil-exporting facilities. Therein lies the possibility to retain the helm of the spigot! Even Gaddafi knows this.

Gaddafi aside, this conflict has more players than we're being led to realize by the press. Just as missions have been flown to rescue Western passport holders, I'm sure many missions, have been flown by all parties.

Like most of the world I believe Gaddafi, and his sons, are acting like cornered madmen. They may still have to go.

But who, and also what, is to replace them? There is no political infrastructure in Libya. There is no organized dissent, and no mean to return to.The West has seemed anxious to take advantage of turmoil in Egypt and elsewhere, to foment the anti-Gaddafi sentiment, which is decades old, into a case for intervention. Iraq, Afghanistan, now Libya? Is this about human rights? Or is it oil, and oil pipelines? As the picture becomes clearer to those that consider intervention, it's clear that the Western appetite for punishment is not as big as we thought.

Is oil the primary interest in Libya? Human rights abuses are occurring the world over. Could it fears of Libya returning as a hotbed for terrorism? So far most of the real terrorist threats to US interests have come from Saudi Arabia.

Let's accept the fact that it's oil. Getting oil out of a place like Libya requires a kid glove touch. The place is big, inhospitable. Furthermore it's a short distance from Europe, as well as the poorest parts of Africa. Least of all does the US want to get embroiled in a mess, where its own intervention could destroy the chance to purchase Libya's valuable resources.

Upheavals in Egypt may have been too much for Western oil interests to pass up. The beginnings of a popular uprising in Libya may have been all that was needed to trigger efforts to supply, advise, and abet 'rebels', thus intervening, in ways unseen by the press.

Why does the West automatically interpret any uprising against a dictatorship or strongman like Gaddafi as motivated by yearnings for democracy? We're talking about power and wealth, and control. Democracy in Libya may be a long way from where the country is now - I seriously doubt that the factions currently battling government forces, could maintain their unity, should they manage to unseat the dictator.

Their irreconcilable differences will at that moment become apparent, and the real motivation for all this fighting will become immediately clear. Let those that want a democracy attack Tripoli, others will hang onto the oil rich ports of Bengazi, Ras Lanuf, Ajdabiya, and Brega. Thats where the money is, where the oil is. And that's where the focus of the world's attention is too.

To be sure, American forces, of a kind, are already there too. We've been there for years, ready to foment unrest against the dictator. But what's the plan to replace him? How will US interests prevail against people who live there? Will we with the stroke of a pen create a new East Libya, and set up another strongman to take Gaddafi's place?

So I ask my question again: who are we talking to on the ground? Which of the 'rebel' leaders can stand to take our questions? Let us see their credentials.

For once it seems that the West is pausing midstream, cognizant that the other shore may not be the promised land. Could Gaddafi be the one that US oil interests need most of all? Is all our posturing "Gaddafi must step down', just that, posturing?

Aren't we for once, afraid that the thing we've hoped for, might actually happen, and that worse chaos will ensue in its place?

So I ask. Rebels step forward. Identify yourselves, you who would lead the new Libya. Your group must have leaders, you who have been systematically repressed for decades, you who have paid your dues, and not only recently seized a carbine to seek power.

Gaddafi strikes back. We knew he would. And perhaps that's what our Washington wants most of all. Perhaps the madman of Tripoli will restore sanity to Libya. Perhaps our State Department thinks that the 'Rebels' will be more sympathetic to Israel. Perhaps a new Arab world, one that is willing to sell oil to its repressors, and will be Israel friendly, is emerging.

Wishful thinking, alas, Washington seems as usual, to be seeing the world through bipolar glasses. Libya is far too complex for such categorizations. Our enemy's enemy may not turn out to be our friend, but a worse foe in the end. Who cares what Washington says or wants for a moment, what this American wants to see is an end to the doubletalk.

So while I demand of the press that the 'Rebels' be identified, I also demand a clear admission of Western motives in the region.

Come on Washington, tell us. Are you there for human rights or are you there for oil?

Come on Rebels, tell us, who are the guys in the pickup trucks? Who is your leader?

Now the 'Rebels' have some diplomatic representatives pleading for a no-fly--zone. These men look decidedly like they are working for somebody else. Why do I say this?

Their suits are way too good.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

What is Death?


Sun after a rain,
I'm walking, wondering,
'What is Death?'
    I decide not to ponder this one.
My old heart beats like a young heart,
    and tries its best,
        to skip over the puddles

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

The King of Room 179 is Dead




The King of Room 179, of the Super 8 Motel, in Jacksonville, Florida died suddenly last night, when the heel of a giant stepped on him in the middle of the night causing severe trauma to the upper thorax, and immediate loss of his internal organs. The King died swiftly. It is possible his Highness reared onto his hind quarters and was preparing to battle with his killer’s vulnerable heel, however the mismatch in size made the King’s chitinous pincers useless against the beach hardened epidermis of the killer.

Authorities were not notified of his death, though the King's absence will surely be noticed by hotel cleaning staff.

The King’s opponent, a giant of another order, smashed through the King’s skull, sending him to Hades to join all creatures of the night. Asked to comment on the contest, Miami Raider’s defensive-end Wade Williams simply smashed a potato chip with his fist, and later commented that the Astrodome itself would have had more of a chance against an incoming asteroid. The crackle of the King’s chitin shield, forged in the protein workshops by his underground Vulcan, was audible above the triumphant cries of his murderer.

We spoke briefly with the King’s killer as he bathed luxuriantly in the cheap fiberglass shower that he is accustomed to when traveling for battle. We saw with our own-eyes those titanic Roach-killing hands and feet. We shook with wonder and fear as he sung of his fallen enemies:

    “Some called him soldier, some called him thug.
      No warrior was ever bolder, than this vanquished waterbug.”

We asked the bug-killer why no warriors came to the aid of the King during his duel with the Titan:

    “From a nether city the King ascended
      And rose that his domain might be well defended.
      He took up arms, to protect his palace
      Alas to Death I consign him, without shame or malice.

Asked to comment further on what fight the King put up before dying the bug killer spoke again:

     “Leave now this hallowed place,
      Else your grave will soon be dug.
      Journalistic eyes have no grace,
      Beside this Waterbug.”

We perused the entrance to the palace, through a half inch hole in the floor. Beneath this entrance, we are told, laid a vast network of tunnels and rooms, exquisitely furnished.

The King was often in the habit of sunbathing beneath the florescent lamps on the cool tile floor outside his palace.

Famous for his colossal size the King often strolled the stucco walls and ceilings of his city. His subjects certainly miss him dearly. Many will remember him crawling over their bed in the evening, or across their toiletry accoutrements during the day.

The king preferred the hot musty climate of Room 179 whilst the air conditioning was turned off. Cold air made him sluggish, and probably contributed to his death. The visiting giant had left the AC on, and the king probably fell asleep amidst one of his mid-morning strolls. It was to be his last.

The hotel staff has yet to acknowledge the King’s demise though they will most certainly morn his passing, as he lies in state atop the watery surface of his beloved toilet bowl and favorite eating place.

Quipped the King-killer:

     "Circle there for Hades’ boat,
      In Loo of Styx, you're set afloat.
      Outside your fortress, beyond ramparts,
      No match for my force, or martial arts."

The Titan who executed the king by stepping on him with his bare feet, decided that a water bug would prefer interment in water. However as the King stubbornly refused to sink, and would not descend into the bowels of the Great Water, so the giant let his body remain in state, afloat so that others could take note of his passing.

Most giants are unaware that the King, and his insect kind, are largely hollow. They do not possess lungs. They respire through passageways in their exoskeletons called aveoli. This, combined with the lightweight chitin of their exoskeleton, makes them light in weight despite their large appearance.

The King left many offspring, some of whom no doubt will take up the continuing fight against other less noble Titans. The King fought in the insecticide wars of 1999, and lately the bug wars of 2008 conducted by the corporation Bug-Off, when the state conferred ownership of the King’s domain to a Mr. Vijay Patel. The King survived that battle. Most of the King’s relatives died in that conflagration.

The King’s friends during old age were Maria, a Cuban refugee of 72, who works by lying about her age, and Trish, a part-time worker who chain smokes, has no teeth, and cusses the management during her spare time. Trish smoked so much in Room 179 that she and the king became good friends, despite the fact that Room 179 was a non-smoking room.

It is not certain what sustained the King during his old age, but conjecture has it that his diet consisted of bits of fecal matter, tobacco residue, or the odd nasal hair tweezed from a visiting giant, as well as other such delectables left by loyal friends.

Room 179, was territory of issue to pre-paid guests of price-line dot com, who thus pay far less than the regular rate. The King may have been employed by the owner, Mr. Vijay Patel, to exact revenge upon these low-paying guests, as he was powerless to impose an additional tariff.

Aside from these duties of showing himself to his visitors, and causing them to vacate the premises, the King lived a leisurely life, attended by an underground staff of numerous queens who groomed him, and regurgitated refreshments of the King’s preference. He was noted for his profligate life style with the ladies and was said to be considering a TV series starring himself, modeled after that of the Titan of “My Antonio”, which played often on the TV in Room 179, thought it is believed the King has long outlived his own mother.

As far as the cigarette smoke exhaled by Trish, the King enjoyed it. Smoke has an inhibitory soporific effect on insects, particularly large ones. Native American giants used to prepare ground for burial, eating and sleeping, by burning a ‘smudge’ composed of white sage, cedar, or other aromatics. The slight decrease of the oxygen content in the air caused by smoke is enough to put most insects to sleep, or at very least in a daze. The size of insect growth is severely limited by this equation. Without moveable lungs with which to respire, insects cannot become again the giants they were during the great age of plants.

Despite this the King was a giant of his own kind, and will be remembered as such.
His passing leaves a rent in the dream-time of Jacksonville, as great as the loss of the Cummer live-oak, were it ever to be torn from its roots by a passing tornado.

There will be no service, only a memorial burned in the collective unconscious of all living creatures, whereupon this eulogy is inscribed:

    “Every cursed thing's a king, 
      Every appalling being a slave,
      In the universe you are seeing, 
      every crawling thing’s a knave!”

The Message of "The King's Speech"

It's a charming film, that blends the imperious behavior of British royals into piping hot oatmeal, fit for consumption by yeomen and dames alike.

Helena Bonham Carter shows the rest of us that it really isn't such a far fetched idea that a queen-to-be might actually dine with an Aussie!

The English speaking world has blended British royalty into a pablum, of ripe scandal, back-page ready press for the world-wide consumption. The latest revelations about Prince Andrew raise the ante even more. Ties to Qadaffi, as well as a convicted sex offender, and relations with a teenage prostitute are small potatoes - do the royals even eat potatoes? - compared with the death of Lady Diana, which this author feels still needs further investigation.

Royalty will be far more successful in today's world if they can manage more, not less, of these purple revelations.

But what IS the message, of "The King's Speech"? Is there one?

Let's be Marshall MacLuhan for a moment as we indulge a closer reading. The film opens on a fat inflated 1930's era radio microphone, waiting as it were, for someone to say something.

It opens with silence!

We must put ourselves into the period. Talkies, films with soundtracks, all less than ten years old. Film is a baby. So the character of the film is also, a baby.

A thousand years ago this film might have been called "The King's Sword". We've all seen that one. A weak son looks for a sword worthy of the realm. An 'Excalibur'-ish sort of myth. Man finds blade, find power in blade, conquers realm, wins woman. Kings by definition were successful at taking, or keeping power, by force, or by treachery. Being a king meant having your life on the line.

The realm extended as far as the hand that grasped the sword could roam.

Does that mean we need to be watching "The King's Workout?". Yes, but they don't workout. They're weak, coddled, propped by pounds and pounds of sterling. I doubt any royal can bench more than a hundred.

At the end of the nineteenth century it might aptly have been dubbed, "The Queen's Purse". Victoria's queenship meant having her wealth on the line. Such a terrible amount of potentially royal lands were lost when that audacious barefoot 'mongrel' Gandhi gave Britain the shrug.

Language took command from the sword, and Gandhi was a master of language. So was Churchill. At transformative moments, new speakers emerge. "The King's Speech" ultimately show how royals perform a simple ritual. Speak a few words of Royal English, and keep the notion of 'being able to speak', alive.

The King's reach therefor, extends as far as the speech of English itself. That royal jelly, is something that can only legitimately come from a royal throat, even if it stutters. For to be a King, one must be able to speak. This is a requirement. Not a biggie. Not at high speed. Just a few words, something that may be understood through a 1930's radio mechanism. We're not asking more than the competition.

What's next? "The King's Thought?". To rule, a King must be able to think?

This will soon be followed by "The King's Imagination!", and then for the masses, a sequel,  "The King's Wet Dream",  broadcasting the private thoughts of Prince Andrew onto Blackberries round the world. Romps with Qadaffi's models in Tripoli, rampages through East London.

Andrew and William are in line to become your KING!

Shouldn't you know, what they're thinKING??

So, Britian, and other English speaking worlds . . . realize that by expecting a 'show' from your Kings and Queens, you're getting a show. They are performing as asked. It's a Hollywood deal, the night before the Oscars.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Mind Scattered




I settle at my spot, ready to order.
The window blinds rustle slightly,
my mind is scattered in fragments,
A sudden thought, Giacometti's
sculpture is movement and stillness both,
though all things move.

I find Burton's Arabian Nights,
in a second hand bookstore.
A thousand to one, destined appointment.

All is quiet the children are at school.
One regret,
I never mastered Latin, or Greek.
I'm left with clay, wax, hunks of space,
defining stuff, stuff for outlining.
Color are shapes
are cups of tea or coffee
And the discipline of fasting,
bits of code . .

I read the menu in tears,
Sailing through
a sea of words.

Sand Light Being



in a box, I found more than a boxful
of diamonds
clusters of light, whole galaxies,
this is not the history of my self anymore.
it is not history
anymore.

dreams, notes sketches, premonitions - it is all there
observed, traced, it may be reconstructed
no need
for the first time I see with a mind
that is not my mind.

what a confinement is the narrow path of cause
and effect
yet we have made the world after these

each moment embraces, just a moment
those little flyspecks, the pitch and pull of passion
desperation
there is a universe below, around, above
each one

a developing something
an emerging something
perfecting
an active possession, all living, all at once
all the lights are on.

not from a distance, looking this way as if at
caged animals
or through a surveyor's lens.

but a radiant luminosity, a simultaneity, relieved of the
burden to think
just one thing.

and with no need for a center, simply no need for that
the total is without boundary
yet gentle.

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