Blog Title Photo

Blog Title Photo

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Ishtar


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.






Set in the Mountains




I recorded at dawn, midday, sunset, and at night using the microphones I had put in trees, and at the bases of giant leafy plants, or 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. I plugged each microphone into a portable mixer and thence to my two stereo recorders. I dropped a soloist 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.

The producer said, "I want the sounds of the jungle. I want to hear birds so close you can feel their feathers!" Then he left for two days sourcing fruits and legumes from markets and fish fresh from the jungle rivers. I captured symphonies set to movements of the sun and moon, insects and birds supplying bars of a fugue, or a solo to prove mastery of the verses of life.

Mastery of love, of craft, is understanding, I immersed in the music, cicadas and singing insects of a thousand species, bird lullabies and their wakeup calls, their soporific statements of the obvious, their cries of alarm. I also heard monkeys, and frogs, and jackals and occasionally at night, from the deep, a jaguar.

The music allowed a break from the set. I entered another world. I became unused to my cables and microphones, instead I pored through my field guides. What bird was that? What insect? Where did that howl come from?


The plunge into darkness changed the key of the symphony. The birds of day defended their sinking sun, with a mad crescendo of plaintive wails. Their light had gone. Somewhere in that transition, one conductor bowed and passed the baton to a darker master. One set of songs was forgotten. a futile silence, and in their lee, the drip of echoes, nightjars, monkeys, 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 jungle to Erica, Titanio's dark haired girlfriend, who had come to visit. It was a joy to hand her the headphones and see her as immersed in the stereo symphony of jungle life.

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. After two days of shooting, the only motorcar on the estate transported her down the hairpin turns to the airstrip by the river.

Days spent by the camera blurred, the cameras filmed so we remembered nothing. Exhausted after the last shot we slept, then the following morning we wrapped cases, put away lenses, coiled cables and lights, and tied the portable generators onto pallets.

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. He asked Titanio to butcher the pig and all afternoon they roasted it with Acai, and simmered the chickens in a mash of guava and chiles. Tucunaré fish was 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.

The producer knew how to throw a party.


We smoked. Titanio told stories. The sound man brought 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 we had used as our set. A sprawl of naked limbs heaped in piles of damp sheets and mattresses in front of the fireplace. Come morning, somnambulists exiled from the stage of a mesmerizer's paradise, we boarded lorries with the precious cases of footage and equipment, and descended the mountain 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. The secret snows of the high peaks came into view.
 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, as if according to plan, the right engine stopped. It seemed the Kid had done it on purpose. The emergency felt like an act of kindness. We almost said thank-you, for it was much quieter. We seemed blessed.

The Kid kid revved the throttle for his left engine and threw the plane into a descending bank. Loosing altitude the Kid pushed his one left engine hard, then something inside those cylinders blew noisily, sputtered and all was quiet.

We could hear each other, we could hear our thoughts.

It was all part of a plan. The quiet, peace and stillness, made the air rushing over the wings seem louder than our memory. 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 branch tops being a hard place to land.

I don't think anyone was afraid. All hearts were beating. The silent engines were just another interesting detail along the tour of life.

How far would we have to carry gear before we got to a road?

-:-

Across a section of forest where before there had been seats occupied by my producer, by Titanio, and the rest of the crew, I saw only ripped pieces of fuselage, sheared gumbo limbo trunks, and torn branches, midst a litter of shredded leaves.

I unfastened my seat belt, a formality amidst all these trees and flowers and raucous calls of toucans. My seat sat alone, by the open end of the tail, which had broken apart.

No part of the airplane was whole or entire.

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

 Some bits of the wing, shreds of luggage, bits of seat.

A section of wing hung from the branch of a copal. Too hard, too dense. Nearby there were lightweight branches that could have slowed our fall, and broken our descent. But then there are the heavy hardwood trunks that stand like giants and won't be moved. Such was our luck.

My daze induced a kind of pragmatic functionality. I had energy, felt strong. Hours I looked for specific things, the director's notes, the producer's briefcase. It was easy to decide what to find, and take back. I imagined search parties would be out looking. I'd arrive at my hotel, "La Preciosa". I'd meet with the La Policia, make calls, stamp letters, package precious items to family members insured. The wreck would be found. I was optimistic.

I thought, "I'll make a list."

I located other sections of the plane. 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, undamaged. The producer's briefcase had his list of crew. I saw my own name and telephone number in his hand, in blue ink.


I wasn't seeing anymore. My eyes glossed over views of the jungle. I couldn’t tell a tree from a bit of wrecked seat. I saw machine parts, 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. The tip of a 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, brothers and sisters. There was a notebook in Polish belonging to Titanio, a necklace from Rene, a ring, 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 but wondered if I'd be able to make it all the way to the capital.


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 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Humanevolutionchart.png )

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 waited at the chapel gate
     for a prayer . . . 

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

The bobbins spun to pots,
the sprocket edges became lips,
     thirsty lips
     edges
     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. 

Did I pray?
     pour sacred water into vessels?

They turned,  poured one to the other . .  

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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