Blog Title Photo

Blog Title Photo

Wednesday, April 23, 2014


Towards darkest Hell, Ishtar descended,
Lusts in her sexual shell compacted .
Upon liberation she re-opened that keyster,
That dear son is why we celebrate Easter!

Monday, April 21, 2014

The Myth of the Northerner

Mexico City, Friday February 26, 1993

Amaranth - Spanish amarato is a grain used in soups, cereals, crepes, tostadas, tortillas. Pueblos in the U.S. used amaranth as a dye. Red pigments used in ritual ceremonies by the Zuni, and the Hopi, Rio Bravo indigenas. Relative biological value of the protein of different foodstuffs:

Amaranth contains between 14.5 and 16.0 percent protein.

No wonder the myth of the Northerner is structured around technology, that of Southern inhabitants around agriculture. Northern Gods, metals, atoms, molecules, subatomic particles, fuel and energy. The Southern human being worships corn, sun, moon, tides, soil, and rain.

Mexico City, Saturday February 27, 1993

An artist lives in Hell, Maybe he knew Heaven, is thus attempting to work his way back again. Heaven slams him down, each time he is furnished with a taste of what he lost. Renewed he works to regain it.

Three young girls dressed in red uniforms were working yesterday in the zócalo. They were busy handing out leaflets promoting the sale of some leather goods, at one of the nearby hotels. One of the girls spoke English, so I offered to buy them all a coffee after work.

When four o'clock rolled around met the three girls as arranged. We walked to a lunchtime spot that did an end of the day trade in tea, coffee, and donuts. Marisol, brought a friend, Jennifer, a vivacious fellow student with red hair. The third girl, the beauty of the threesome, was pale thin and quiet, and confused by all this foreign language. Her name was Erica.

We followed Jennifer to the market to exchange some shoes, and stood around in a street crowded with stalls, as Jennifer fitted and tugged at different sandals for her little feet.

Erika, turned suddenly, and blurted out that her father had died. She’d gotten a phone-call from her grandmother. I looked on, not sure how to say the right thing in Spanish, so I said something in English.

We agreed to go to Coyoacán, a ways south of the city center.

Each of the girls politely ordered tacos and a soda. Erika went to the ladies room but returned pale and shaking. She began to cry quietly. The others told me she lived alone with her grandmother.

We reached the metro, Jennifer and Marisol said good-night, and we made the usual silly exchange of telephone numbers. I stayed with Erika to walk around Coyoacán a little bit.

We talked for about three hours, sitting on an embankment, overlooking the busy avenues. She helped me translate some of the tougher bits of an old Aztec poem that I copied at the museum, and she told me a bit of her life story:

Erika's mother is American, her father Mexican. She took mother's English name, but both parents deserted when she was young, first her mother, then her father, but not after he molested her a great deal. She showed me scars, knife wounds, where he had cut her arms in different places. I was horrified, but was also caught in a suspicious state of disbelief, as if she were lying about something.

I noticed she was thin, and extremely fragile in build. I sensed her anger, her fear, her dependence and a very complicated love-hatred feeling about men. Her cute face froze as she told me all this. It made her cold and she started to shake. She had lightweight sweater which she pulled out of her purse and put on.

Her abuela was everything. Father died. She hung from my arm neither a daughter, wife, or lover, but just strangers. Perhaps she felt some judgement was due from a father figure. I held back.

We walked past Frida Kahlo’s house. The streets were dark, the purple-blue walls where Frida made great works of art, were just a black mass hung with vines. Another life, another time, Erika's Spanish was hard to understand. Everything else was as clear as one of Frida's paintings.

I understood the heat from her arm. We were creatures, walking through a city at night.

We really didn’t look much at each other. Another time I might have tried to give her a kiss.

I wondered what her father's death was doing to her. Did it make her feel guilty? More guilty? She’s now alone, dealing with what he did, responsible for it in some way. Maybe she cut herself, not him, because of things at home, though he may have driven her to it, and maybe now she lies about her scars to hide that. I felt guilty myself for thinking this way. There was pain and confusion, over everything like a low sky. Yet strength was there. I felt it, hanging, a warm precious parcel from my arm.

We scrambled over the hill and down the bank, leaving the cool of Coyoacán for the glare of highways and subway overpasses. A dull roar reverberated from vehicles we couldn't see.

She made promises to call. Grasping my hand, she led me like a child to the proper train. I wondered what she would do after this. She seemed desperate to place me on the right line, headed for the city center.

There was this closing moment. Something electric happened. We embraced but it could have been done at a distance of a mile. All that was needed was some signal, some synchronous pulse to time it. A wave of energy, exhilarating but terrifying. It picked me up then threw me down. I staggered toward the train door. She was twenty feet away and moving through the platform crowd - I was sitting in lighted car and the doors were closing.

I did call, and got through once. In faltering Spanish we arranged to meet at a museum. But she never showed. I thought she had gotten the day wrong.

Some weeks later while exploring mountain around Oaxaca, Erica deposited a note at my hotel in Mexico city, entreating me to get in touch, and apologized for not meeting me at the museum.

I called, spoke briefly with her grandmother, but with one day left in Mexico, was unable to phone again.


I’m remembering all this while listening to a man who runs a small vegetarian restaurant, at the edge of the zócalo. Vegetarian food isn't common in Mexico. The place is quite empty. The owner has a mustache, like the waiters in the places that serve big steaks, except this fellow is into beans, and lettuce, and strips of carrot.

I'm drinking a cup of coffee. We talked, and I wrote down what he said:

I worked for a family down by San Angel
Cared for their gardens I watered their trees
Every so often I chipped down some of the iron,
Made good work.
Put on red lead and then a coat of black paint
Pointed up some of the stones.
Kept the bougainvillea under control
Tightened the wires on the TV aerial.
Fixed whatever it was that broke.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

The Eyelid

In machine costume
a door flies open.
Light flies in
a chain of frames.
and prayer beads
count time and unwind
Eyelids flutter
move across
the photon screen
at the back of the third eye.

La Preciosa

Meaning slices the eye, we see our work glow bright. Then it reveals something that was not our intention. I suppose that's why writers take pain in exchange.

I spent two nights in a room overlooking a tile pool filled with leaves. The terra-cotta moldings in the stairwell stirred a memory, filled my heart with longing. Longing for what? A memory of what? There were stone statues of lions on the landings.

I took up a large wooden rake that leaned against the wall at the edge of the pool and busied myself gleaning leaves from the surface. Beneath the slick, the water was surprisingly clear. A young British woman in a blue bathing suit burst out of the hotel and dove in the pool. She swam a lap without noticing that I'd gotten all the leaves off the water for her.

I met the producer at a coffee shop in the evening. We had worked before, on several of his projects. They served us expressos in small straight sided glasses with handles of twisted wire. 

He told me of a remote villa backed by steep misted mountains, owned by a wealthy German chemist. The place was cut off from all roads, the owner had leveled a section of the jungle to make his airport. "You must record the best sounds in the universe. This is a big job." When the producer cracked his knuckles I knew I had leverage. I asked for an air ticket home.

Drinks came and we forgot our past quarrels. Meet everyone at the airport in the morning, he said.

Before dawn we pulled alongside a tired DC-3 at one end of the strip. The driver kept his headlights on as we loaded cases of gear, waterproof vaults for lenses and camera with heavy locking buckles, black fiber cases of light stands, heads, makeup kits, tape recorders, microphones. Electrical equipment was piled on wooden pallets. Black masses of coiled cables.  Every technician had a kit, every crew member had a bag. The cast would arrive the following day with the assistant director.

A brilliant dawn shot pencils of sunlight into the battered interior of the aircraft. The plane had been fired at. We could hardly believe it. The pilot, a rakish kid who could not have been seventeen, said not to worry. He assured us she was checked out, fueled, running well. With noisy coughs, the giant radial engines cleared their throats. Reluctant totems, they wheezed, ejected phlegm, roared, then hummed, two baritones warming voices. They were chanting ohm as they pulled our overloaded structure into the air.

How well I remember the mist! It cloaked mountains, sharp as daggers, padded in secret cotton. We flew a wide pass, descended in altitude to a long broad valley between opposing ranges then made a few stops at local villages. The Kid dropped off mail and machine parts.

Finally, after endless lurches down bumpy runways, and a protracted flight over silent misted valleys, we brought down onto a long deserted strip by a river. We busied ourselves making a first load. We lifted lights and camera gear into a white truck decorated with flowers, then spiraled up muddy roads to the top of a ridge overlooking a valley. From a small hollow at the top, I could see the villa.

I don't believe in accidents or chance. Were my legs so fond of this place they led me back? Life is a history and system of forgetting and re-discovery. How cluttered we've become by names, places, dates, houses with photo albums, and heaps of useless journals, maps, dollar bills. How had I wound up at the same deserted villa, circled by vines, fer-de-lances hunting rats by the well?

Literature is a shadow play for a fickle and forgetful audience. Words drive precious memories into darkness. The only truth, that merging of experience with composts of time, somehow cheats memory in return.


After a few days the girl in the blue swimming suit turned up at "La Preciosa". She was Titanio's girlfriend and spent most of her time watching the action as we filmed and reading her little book. She had green eyes, and dark hair, and I realized she was only half English. Titanio kept a good eye on her, so she kept to herself, and didn't talk much. 

I spent extra time recording birds, and atmospheric sounds of the jungle, at night, at dawn, at midday, and during the cool evenings.

The producer said, "I want the sounds of the jungle. I want to hear birds so close you can feel their feathers!" Then with a guide he left to source fruits and legumes from local markets.

I put microphones in trees, at the bases of giant leafy plants, and dangling in midair from high branches. Each fed a long cable back to the spot I'd return to in the morning. I even put out a stool to sit on.

Before dawn I took position in my piece of forest. Each microphone led to a portable mixer and thence to my stereo recorder. I heard a solo quetzal on one channel, a curassow on another. I heard cocks-of-the-rock preening, shaking their wings. A capybara routed in the dark soil. Cicadas argued at a deafening pitch into one mike. And then came a sound of some creature chewing, I have no idea what it was. Then a ripping sound which I later realized were monkeys tearing the rinds off zapote. There were altercations between members of the troop.

Mastery of craft is love, is understanding, I immersed in the music, the singing cicadas insects of a thousand species, lullabies of songbirds and their wakeup calls, their soporific statements of the obvious, their cries of alarm. I also heard spider monkeys, and frogs, and jackals and occasionally at night, from the deep, a jaguar. I set about capturing symphonies set to movements of the sun and moon, insects and birds supplying bars of a fugue, or solos to prove mastery of the verses of life. I thought these verses were so sacred they must be forbidden. Only those without desire might hear them.

I entered another world. I pored through my field guides. What bird was that? What insect? Where did that howl come from?

 Darkness changed the key of the work. The songbirds of day defended their sinking sun, with a mad crescendo of plaintive wails. But their light went under. Somewhere in that transition, one conductor bowed and passed the baton to another master. Poison dart frogs soloed on, then bats flitted through the starlight, a different set of frogs took up the chant. One set of songs was forgotten. a futile silence, and in their lee, the drip of echoes, nightjars, howlers, bellbirds, cicadas, a thousand singing insects, and owls, each claiming a piece of the cool jungle blanket as their own.

For what is life but the opportunity to attain some sort of mastery?


Late at night I played some of the magic of the forest to Erica, Titanio's dark-haired girlfriend. It was a joy to hand her the headphones and see her immersed in the stereo symphony of life.

The evening meals were glorious repasts by candlelight. The producer was using the production to practice his cooking. Roast peccary and jungle-fowl with salads of fruits, one cannot even hope to document such a feast with words. Deserts of custard fruits and honey flavored with the tiny seeds of the amazeudin tree, ambrosia that should not be touched, less tasted.

Titanio worried that once on location, no one would be paid. True, the producer had a history of feeding his unit better than most, then expecting reduced salaries in return. Not on this trip. It was well financed, everyone got full rate. After dinner, the coffee that was served to us was so fresh that the scent permeated the villa all night, and could be sensed in the morning.

The producer asked which of us would be signing on for the next project. It was to be the story of a river, told by a missionary and his wife.

Erica watched the action as we filmed it, with languid eyes behind tresses of black hair. Titanio kept his eye on her, they didn't talk much. Two days before we finished shooting, the only motorcar on the estate transported her down the hairpin turns to the airstrip by the river. Then the producer left again for two days to buy his precious herbs and fruits and and fish from the jungle waters. 

Those last days spent by the camera blurred into one, the cameras filmed so we remembered nothing. Exhausted after the last shot we slept, then the following morning wrapped cases, put away lenses, coiled cables and lights, and tied the portable generators onto pallets. We'd finished shooting with time to spare. The Director, a tiny-jawed Parsi from Bombay, was pleased.

The producer returned with a crowd of women and their husbands bearing poles hung with fresh game, sacks of fresh fish wrapped in banana leaves, crates of live chickens, and a pig that was tired and thirsty. Titanio helped butcher the pig and all afternoon they roasted it with acai, and simmered the chickens in a mash of guava and chiles. The tucunaré fish were broiled with alfavaca leaves, and Chicória, Maniçoba pork sausages were served with guarana beer to wash it down. Pirarucu soup was enriched with tacacá prawns and tamuata. Tapioca with fruits cut open after dinner. Foods that should be forbidden to ambitious men I thought. Only those without desire can taste.

The producer knew how to throw a party.

 We smoked. Titanio told stories. The sound man lit marijuana. The producer joked about coming back for his next production. There were laughs from some of the crew who hadn't been paid fully on the last one.

 Then we slept in the same grand rooms used as our set. A sprawl of naked limbs heaped in piles of damp sheets and mattresses in front of the fireplace. 

In the morning, like somnambulists exiled from the stage of a mesmerizer's paradise, we boarded lorries with precious cases of footage and equipment, and descended the switchbacks to the airstrip by the river. The DC3 was there, antiquated and empty, the Kid napping in the shade of the fueling shack.

Twelve of us got in, along with cases filled with equipment and lights. The engines coughed to life, then ran almost silently as the Kid checked his systems. Then he shoved both engines into full throttle. The roar in my rear seat was almost deafening.

The strip ran level alongside a still section of the river, and offered us a long lazy mile to get aloft. We lumbered into the air. The Kid shouted something to the assistant director who sat beside him up front. Patches of cloud swirled over the wings. Secret snows of the high peaks came into view.

We passed over silent valley shrouded in mist. The dull roar of engines, silenced mystical looks that folded us into the roof of the world. The sensation of flight was surfing, where a wave is felt but not seen.

Then, almost as if scripted, our right engine sputtered and stopped. The Kid revved the throttle for his left engine and threw the plane into a descending bank. Loosing altitude the Kid pushed his left engine harder, then something inside those cylinders blew noisily, sputtered and all was quiet.
In theory we would crash. That is how I reasoned it. As long as we could understand what was happening, we were alive. The emergency felt like an act of kindness. We almost said thank-you, for it was much quieter. We seemed blessed. We could hear each other, we could hear our thoughts.
We glided for quite some time. The stillness, made everything seem all right. It was all part of a plan. The quiet, peace and stillness, made the air rushing over the wings seem louder than memory of the engines. We passed into a mist, then broke out, and saw the damp deep green of trees. More mist, enveloped by a soft blanket. We could not imagine the green jeweled branch tops being a hard place to land.

All hearts were beating. No one was afraid. Quite the opposite, it was as exciting as fishing in the river, or following a snake off the patio of the villa at night. The silent engines were just another interesting detail along the tour of life.

I wondered, how far would we have to carry gear before we got to a road?


Across a section of forest I saw only ripped pieces of fuselage, sheared gumbo trunks, torn branches, and a litter of shredded leaves. I did not see bodies first.

The plane had disintegrated totally. We had hit the wrong kind of tree. There was the nose, impaled on a the branch of a copal. Too hard, too dense. There are the lightweight branches that can slow the fall, and brake the descent. And then there are the heavy hardwood trunks that stand like giants and cannot be moved. 

Then I saw Titanio a foot away from me, sat strapped into a collapsed seat his head toppled over. That muscular neck, looked slender and weak and had no pulse.

Some bits of the wing, shreds of luggage, sections of seats. 

Life's so fickle when handing out cards. There, a small warbler pulling beetles from a branch. A snake's tail under a log ahead of my footsteps. A howler deep in the leaf canopy. None of us know. None of us can ever know what the major sequence is made out of.

I found a pen, paper. I thought, "I'll make a list."

Rene the script woman was in one of the seats that had dropped from the branches. She seemed to be breathing. My hopes rose, suddenly I felt like weeping. She might live. She had lost a huge amount of blood from a nearly severed arm. But her breathing stopped. Her eyes glazed like a fish taken from water. My elation fell earthward, my heart went leaden.

I found the Nagra in the case, undamaged. The producer's briefcase had his list of crew. I saw my own name and telephone number in his hand, in blue ink.

My eyes glossed over. I couldn’t tell a tree from a bit of wrecked seat. I saw machine parts, but no airplane, bodies that wore familiar clothes, but no friends. The jungle reeked of engine oil and fuel. The leaves dripped gasoline. Was it gasoline or blood? A dozen yards on another engine lay mired. A bent propeller was painted red and pointed skyward.

I borrowed cash from my boss's pocket. It made me nervous to take his money. I'd use it to send belongings to parents, children, brothers and sisters. There was a notebook in Polish belonging to Titanio, a necklace from Rene, a watch from the Second Assistant. There were wallets and purses and wedding rings. I made notes. I had no interest in any of it.

Fully loaded I set off wondering if I'd be able to make my way to the capital. My feet walked, my ears heard, but with a new blindness my eyes almost did not see. I let memories of the crash wash me clean in the ever present song of the forest.

Are Alien life forms here? If not how soon?

October 9, 2010

Have you ever looked down at a sparkling city from a nearby mountain, and wondered, 'What alien landed here?'

How briefly has Earth hosted human life. We're such a rapid force of change on this planet that anyone intelligent viewing Earth from a distance would think an alien life form had taken over.

The alien invasion has begun. Human aliens have landed on the moon!

Semantic similarities between humans and non-resident aliens aside, there is no chance that there is not an alien life form already out and about, exploring our galactic neighborhood, Moreover it is highly probable that they will contact this planet fairly soon, as the ever increasing sphere of our radio signature races away from Earth - the edge of it is now some 100 light years away. Our transmissions have already reached a huge possible number of planetary systems. The earth is no longer quiet . . . our electromagnetic communications could easily have given us away to an interested race of extraterrestrials.

Aliens will come here, and we will most likely go elsewhere. Either advanced life forms like ourselves, or spores from fungi that we've liberated through a convenient set of thermonuclear explosions, will float about the galaxy, as representatives of Earth, little time capsules of highly adaptable DNA, that can survive extreme environments.

It matters not whether a spore, or a human being is the vector that carries the message. The key evolution of life on this planet is DNA. The main text of what we have to offer is in DNA, and it matters not whether it moves abroad as a plant, a person, or a mushroom.

Human evolution may only serve to carry a Noah's ark of DNA to another world. Once transported, our mission might be finished.

The spores could do it alone with just a single strand of DNA in a hardy protein coat, humans might do it in complex engineered environment similar to the International Space Station, only much larger, and self-sustainable.

What spores lack in technology they make up for with sophistication and numbers. In fact if the earth were to explode, or we humans were to cause it to explode, or if a massive comet or another planetary body collided with the earth, the only surviving life might be fungal spores (cf. Terrence McKenna on this). And indeed they would survive by the quadrillions, floating about deep space, impervious to vacuum, high heat, and near absolute zero temperatures.

A snippet of DNA is all that is necessary to populate a receptive medium, or change the genes of an already existing species. Modern agricultural 'gene therapy' snips and adds genes almost at will. Commercially grown roses, for years interbred for their color, size and appearance, have lost their sense of smell. Why? Well they no longer needed to produce an odor to attract insects to move their pollen around - they had humans doing the job for them. But now science has found an easy way to restore the scent of a rose to domesticated roses.

Now that I've gotten you to admit that Earthlings, whether human sized or spore sized, will possibly pollinate, colonize, infect, other planets, how can we know when this has happened to us?

A spore, of sorts, from another galaxy, could easily have landed here on earth, changing the fate of its inhabitants. You and I might already be infected!

Alien means 'strange' and once we get over our view of ourselves as 'normal' we will then admit that we are strange, not as highly evolved as we think we are, and probably overdue for a lesson on the existence of  more advanced galactic brothers and sisters!

Mammals were probably viewed as alien by intelligent dinosaurs. Cro magnon was certainly seen as alien by Neanderthal (and vice-versa). Homo erectus in Europe and Asia, (the oldest skeletons are only tens of thousands of years old)  were called elves, fairies, demons by our ancestors - these 'people' must have been thought of as alien indeed!

The most probable source of alien life on this planet will probably be ourselves. A giant shift in human DNA, will lead to the evolution of a new species, more advanced than we are, and one that the rest of us may view as alien.

By the time that population is recognized, described, and feared, it will be too late to stop it. Homo sapiens will go the way of the dinosaurs, eventually. Yet we may leave 'children'. Evolution continues!

Oh the planet will most likely last long enough . . . and we will most definitely experience a collapse in population at some point or another - that will historically be perceived as dramatic, but which might even take dozens of lifetimes. Out of that crippling environment might come our successor(s). Genetics favors it. We have the numbers to create a new species. The only scenario I think that would make this impossible would be all out nuclear war, or an extra-terrestrial body colliding with and destroying our planet, not likely but possible.

And it is always possible that the species that takes us out never came from here at all. This is the one scary scenario, but one we have to consider particularly if we live on, peaceably increasing our technological abilities, and, our ability to refine raw materials, as well as our ability to live amongst ourselves.

I should refine these points . . that is if  a species does evolve from us, and survive, it is likely that many different variants will spring from us as well. We've populated the planet unlike any other large mammal. Looking back at evolutionary history, there are many other species that became numerous at different points in time. This is true of human ancestry as well. Many of those were not evolutionary dead-ends, but some like Homo erectus, were. (See )

A classic adaptive situation might be as follows: a nuclear winter descends on the planet, but one not so fierce as to eliminate all life. This creates a number of possible pathways to survival. Being able to live with less food is one, able to survive radioactive food is another (that might mean being able to procreate more rapidly and at a younger age), yet a third might involve being able to manipulate technology in a world of spare parts left by broken economies, and technological waste.

Similarly if no major crisis event hits us, we are certainly likely to continue to evolve physically, emotionally, and intellectually.

a) towards vegetarianism,
b) we'll become smaller physically, and use less energy.
c) we will continue to learn to exploit the sun's energy more efficiently and
d) we will probably learn to self-govern as a planet.

The alternative to 'c' is that we don't, and we already know the outcome of not learning to get along!

Assuming we do these things well, our lease on Planet Earth could be extended on for quite a long time! But in that event our piles of refined metals, may become too attractive for alien life forms to pass up.

Big towers when they fall, fall hardest. Same with stars. The big ones explode like flashbulbs in middles of their galaxies. . lighting everything around them. A star 27% larger than the sun can perish in a few weeks through a supernova collapse, and explosion. Little stars, such as our own, and smaller. . . live on, shriveling as they grow old. . . giving off less and less energy. White dwarfs are the old folk of galactic time, rocking away for billions of years, while the young hotshots grow big, wealthy, and then self destruct.

If a major crisis occurs, caused by man, or an outside force, cannibalism and vampires may indeed become a norm of survival for certain groups.

But think for a moment - vampirism has already started! Many of us give blood to others to restore their strength! Some of us fertilize 'in vitro' in to  order to bear young. Our hospitals are labs for extracting bodily fluids and moving them along to those that need them more. These mechanisms might prove key to our future survival! Fluids and body parts are very share-able these days!

Paranoia's aside, if the cataclysmic scenario does play out what might an individual life witness of such a catastrophe?

Let's put it in perspective by asking how many people today remember Hiroshima? Not many.

How many are alive today that lived through the event? Even less. Most were elsewhere and barely noticed the clouds move. Those that were having their tea in Hiroshima's center went to their maker in a blinding translation of light and energy. Others suffered terribly no doubt, as they have from every war, and every catastrophe. No matter what the crisis, or how large the conflagration it might cause, an individual's trauma is limited in scope, and is essentially similar to living through an airplane crash or getting hit while crossing the street, or losing a close relation through a freak accident.

We spend a lot of time writing stories and worrying about future frightening events, but fail to realize that we are very limited in our individual abilities to experience them once and when they occur.

We have mythologized negative change, decrease, catastrophe and collapse, by envisaging these things as a rapid events, when in reality most are not, Environments, populations, systems, economies, and governments often take as long to come apart as they did to come together originally.

The decline of the Roman empire was not immediate. Czarist Russia is still at work through Putin! England still has a Queen and future heir, Communism lives on (in China and North Korea. The Catholic Church is losing its grip but is still very potent.

Myths, those bedrocks of beliefs that we hold to our chest like the fabric of creation itself, die very slowly.We hold projections of the future before ourselves like prayers, that we don't have to shift or change our myths, come what may.

We pray that love remains a potent force. We hope that democracy lives. We hope that good triumphs over evil.

Crisis on large social scale, is much slower than on an individual one, inexorably slow, just as the death of a star takes longer than the death of a tree. This means we often fail to notice the crises that are already well in progress.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

A Camera Gate

I wait at the chapel gate
     for a prayer . . . 

Years drawing bobbins sprockets, 
    things that turned . . . 
I made cameras with bobbins
    then some films

The bobbins spun to pots,
sprocket edges became lips,
     thirsty lips
     crafted, for a metal ending.

Potters know of lips
smoothed with wet chamois,
     how alpacas sacrifice their skin.

I walked through that gate, 
     went into that chapel.

Turn, pour one to the other . 
     Did I pray?
     pour sacred water into vessels?

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Muddy Waters and other Rhymes

Muddy Waters' blues is t'wang.
So he taught us, about playin' pain.
Strings is flyin' off his fret,
Sings he's dyin', home in bed.

The Death of a Great, like the loss of what's Wild,
Reminds that we're late, to pause for a Child.

One day I'll show in a swinging state!
It would be nicer to vote, but would be better to date!

See actors, sharp on stage,
'Neath clover, dark in shade.
Above them, grows a ficus forest,
 'Neath them all, a fawn adores us.

I see elephants brushing paint.
Never rushing, they sweep and feint!

A day of bright sun becomes a day of white light,
A day for my spoon, which is silvery bright.

Poetry descends, photons in a cloud,
I send them back, make her electrons go wild.

If I tell you what all poetry is,
 . . . you'll go stark raving mad.
If I tell you what the darkness is,
 . . . can we promise to keep it in bed?

Mind is craved by soul, the way water needs a bowl.
Soul give worth to mind the way coal gives birth to light.

Find this note, don't go this way,
I left it here, then got taken away.
Life isn't perfect, fate isn't fair.
I'm no more, but you shouldn't care.

Love and Lust are never missed,
You’ll find them both on most guest lists.
One is trusty, the the other arty,
Those who notice, crash both parties.

'Who’s that bunny that laid eggs in leaves?
And that plump little elf who jumps down chimneys?

He stays locked up, and pounds my drum,
He wants outside, to loose a rhythm.

Went west birding on a holiday,
I saw Wren-tits of Family Sylviidae
True I saw Tits, I saw more than two,
But no bushy Tits, from clan Aegithalidae!

Arjun had a chariot, best in the Maha-battle!
Krishna gave a ride in it, in spokes that were pulled by cattle!

Like is to Sign,
as Metaphor is to Symbol.
I liken Design,
as a Door to a Thimble.

In one bold felony, I stole to acquire,
A cold dark mystery, set in golden fire.

I knew you in a previous lifetime,
   you were my previous lifetime gal.
I knew you so well it's frightening,
   Now you're my lifeline pal.

I see you're a joker, never look at clocks.
Your suit's for a poser, with two colors of socks.

Mercury's gone retrograde,
   time to write some poems.
I'll paint some pots with rhyme instead
   that my kiln will be firing soon.

The bloodless word has made me tire,
Of a gutless world that went 'vampire'.

You jumped in deep scheisse, took tea with Carol's hatter,
That pumped up your siz-e, and made that devil madder!

I'm goin' down, drunk my precious blood!
Towards another town, another bed of mud!

To whomever you barked, wherever you blacked it,
Your curses in the dark, may one day be enacted.

Life is a rumble where we all get to fumble
Get out there and choose and put on your juice!

Wherever you parked, wherever you backed it,
Your farces in the dark, will one day get compacted.

Religion's just a crucible to hold what's molten and unknown,
Vision must be reducible, into what's golden and forlorn.

My father was a wolfhound,
   my mother a full-blood terrier,
He would rather run for love,
   than come back home to marry her.

What's indivisible and isn't named, . . . is fleeing,
But with that deserved name, . . . it is seen.

Put cash into your passion, then your passion's always awake,
Make your passion into a job, then your thirst is never slaked!

Tigers roam my imagination, whales bellow in my dreams.
Birds circle our machine nation, so we long for what she means.

If you fashion your passion, then your passion will surely break,
Your crashin' will be fashion, if your passion never slakes.

Human survival's not a biblical game.
Even what's written can't make Nature tame.

Her bitter talk flushed a lie,
Hawked a thrush, in winter rye.

The baby has no memory,
Its Mommy has two mammaries.

Walk to where you walk upright,
Talk to her, who learns from Light.

Go to where whistling sounds are strong,
Listen there for stillness, and Song.

Take a sip of the Housatonic,
Get so sick, too Loose-A-Tonic!

Poetry sets sail with a mast that breaks,
Gets caught in a gale, a psyche that shakes.

So these poems are never done.
The words are rounding, from two to one.

She says what she says and will not repeat.
Unplug your ears and stand on both feet.

Dylan sang a burst, in his apocalyptic brand new band,
Then I heard him drop some words, I wished I could understand.

For sure she's a poet if she called it Sci-fi,
She doesn't know it, it's all about sky!

The neti I bought has an elephant's long nose,
It puts water in my trunk, without a bong or hose!

You say you are my Oracle,
    You say you are my Muse,
Why are you being so practical?
    Why can't you let me choose?

We all showed up at U-Mass,
   there we heard Bob Dylan.
A heap load of blues and bass,
   that really was extremely thrilling'.

You're just missing me, and I'm just missin' you.
Let's wait patiently, till our moment comes through.

I knew I had caught her, when she poured that hot water
    and cried two tears in my tea.

Ten thousand visits have graced this page,
'Offers to Raven' has come of age.
Lyrics of joy, torments of rage.
A pyrrhic moment, a passing stage.

Balkan Politicians & Voodoo Economics

Who caused it all? I'm not talkin', 
But it ain't the fault of the subprime Balkans.

Berlusconi can't take aid, from the one and only IMF maid. 
If she was young he might have asked, for bunga-bunga but those times are past.

Greek bonds got weak, German banks got wormy,
thanks to the French the rot stench is germy!

Italian paper's coming down,
a fire-sale in your home town.

Swallow burdock as media medicine. 
Follow Murdoch if you need to jettison!

Emperor Silvio dreads a high rate bond. 
Fate will reveal a dead Euro, conned.

More bears are coming to Italy, 
to gore Berlusconi finally.

What print empire can fuss and strut,
Conspire, sin, say 'sorry' in smut. 
What karma prying into private lives,
Comes to haunt even Murdoch's lies.

Commons is to Murdoch as blank is to bored. 
Amens are encouraged since he won't be called Lord.

Greedy feeding at the trough,
Weeping wives and lovers lost, 
Brooks and Murdoch not enough,
To pay busted lies, and karma tossed.

If Jabba the Hut was really King Tut, and Murdoch was not a vulture,
The case is shut, the PM's a slut, and smut is really just culture.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Is Putin Shootin'?

"Give me the keys, I'll drive you to Karkiv."
"Donetsk for the car, I conniving for Kiev."

"Moscow to Kiev: How far? Don't ask,"
"The keys to Donetsk, just now I must have."

Ukraine will get nastier if Putin crosses the Dniester,
Ukrainians who nest there speak a language that's feistier.

If Putin holds Crimea, Ukraine will not wither,
But if he folds in the Dnieper, you can cry me a river.

This ghostly conflict has no winner yet,
It's mostly fought on the internet.

If Putin were looting and Odessa were not stressed,
Would Obama abstain and leave Ukraine to unrest?

Obama will get calmer - he'll see Putin's not shooting.

Russian supporters gave Putin kudos,
At Ukrainian borders, it's all just judo.

Europe polarizes around old Ukraine,
The soul of mankind got lost on that plane.

If myths of state make history,
Then bricks of fate are illusory.

Will sanctions from gremlins make oligarchs bank-less?
Or wankers in Kiev make the Kremlin at all anxious?

Are Ukrainians settling an old Soviet score?
With Kremlin operatives, and loads of C4?

Shooting started in Donetsk, though how don't ask,
Nato or Putin, not the men in those masks.

The shooters in Donetsk may one day be famous,
If they took off their masks, else they'll stay nameless.

[this post is a mini-blog in rhyme on the Ukrainian crisis. Oldest posts are last, newest first.]

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Red Bird

"You are the dark
  Made of scars, but healing,
  An image reforming . . .
  becomes love.
     meets demons,
        resists temptations."

So I make my offering,
  And pour it into your heart.
    How could you not notice?

You turn,
I look,
   at the fire in front of me.

Sparks fly up
   and like a red bird,
     become lost.

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