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13 October 2006 @ 09:17 pm
Folks I'm still here, it's just that my job has been very hectic lately. We had a catastrophic fire the beginning of May and we're only just now recovering. I am a member of the library recovery team, this has taken a lot of my time. Now that the recovery is well underway, I hope to get back to you all once again. I have dedicated myself to do at least one posting per week.
01 October 2006 @ 09:22 pm
I wrote thi sseveral months ago about the New Orleans disaster and our government's failure of the victims. I am finally getting the time to get around to posting it.

The carpetbagger king rides a dark horse
thecarpetbagger king rides a Black corpse
the carpetbagger king says I'm on your side
but we know and we know he's lied and lied

He's stifled our voice and taken away our choice
the city drowned when he entered town
and no jazz enlightened the funeral
a stench and a pallor and an oily dollar
a rattle of death and a hollow holler
hallowed his name on the brows of the dead
as he in his mansion lavishly fed
and slept righteous sleep in his silk sheeted bed

the carpetbagger king dances on graves
the carpetbagger king makes us slaves
the carpetbagger king prays for the dead
with oil and blood anointing his head

as the world is drowning awash in water and war
he plays golf and cheats on the score
as Pat Robertson damns queers he fans our fears
of an elderly Persian rug
I am sick from this drug
inflaming our brains
as the carpetbagger king
plays plaintive refrains that all is all right
there's good times in America tonight

but the carpetbagger king rides no white horse
the carpetbagger king rides a Black corpse
the carpetbagger king has hands of oily blood
the carpetbagger king ignored your flood
24 April 2006 @ 09:25 pm
Remember when Little Egypt danced the hootchi-cootchi
And chucked the chin of Samson in a loincloth
Remember the days of the dog-faced boy
And the Live Reptile Show
Where were you when the giant rat blazed in neon on the midway air
And the seductive roller coaster rolled on over adolescent angst
Remember it was called the Wild Chipmunk we all dared each other to ride
Little Egypt and the Circassian amazons
Hercules the strong man
Jo-Jo the Wild Boy
And the scabby snake woman
Exotic pinheads human oddities giants and dwarves
Mannequins telling fortunes impersonating Gypsies
Dressed like Eleanor Roosevelt
And T-shirts with Elvis sold like hot dogs with mustard
As the midway dreams you at midnight walking in fogged out neon
Toward the freak show tent
Remember the endless rows of cheap cotton stuffed animals
Seducing us to win them by ring toss or air rifle shot
Stuffed ourselves with cotton candy
Taunted by carneys dressed as clowns
Who knew we’d never win
Agents in our own amusement sponsors of our deceit
Good natured suckers who knew the bearded lady had hormonal problems
That the Great Whatisit was really a Black sharecropper named Joe Smith
That Elvis dreams on at Graceland He’s Arthur at Avalon
As long as his buttons sell
Remember the carnival beckons the midway dreams us into its life
Seduced to know what the cards say Miss Cleo take a back row seat
Deranged at Coney Island besieged by neon ice cream
And the Live Reptile Show
03 April 2006 @ 10:05 pm
I saw Walt Whitman
Sitting on the Boston Common
I saw Walt Whitman
From the bench opposite me tip large slouch hat
Smile elder eyes grin through white long beard
We knew who each other was
Though I had not seen him
Since Homer’s Iliad
Tore pages from Leaves of Grass and sailed them from that garret window
That he leaped to save
Courted his death
Run over by a train
I saw Walt Whitman die
Bach cantatas were played at his funeral
I saw Walt Whitman sitting in the Boston Common
Smoking a briar pipe
Listening to Miles Davis
Reciting the Body Electric

He told me
Condos were in the making
At Walden pond
A subdivision in the deer meadow
Private property
No tresspassing
Thoreau had gone to Woodstock
Had gone to Venice, California
Was cruising Sunset Boulevard tuned in to Jerry Garcia
But no bearded transcendentalists there you said
Only rowdy teenagers who hinted at bliss

On the Boston Common
I saw Walt Whitman
Nostalgic glad that voice is still heard
Over the trampling footsteps that have crushed Thoreau’s cabin
And distilled the wilderness into bottles of spring water
I saw Walt Whitman
Graybearded father
Slouch hat tipped in recognition leaning on a cane
Smoking a briar pipe
Listening to Velvet Underground
27 March 2006 @ 10:32 pm

Pagan flesh confirms the fact that intuitive understanding and alchemical process
Are painted subjects that culminate in cogito ergo sum of
Southwestern experiments in color of sunsets textures shining metal dark shadows like tattooed ink
And make connections of old relations to new circumstance
My blood resides in deep ancient dyes
My skin photographic film where the sun impresses golden celebration
My feet are purple from the wine press of dawn and cybernetic watercolors are dark and stained
Cyphers blue numbers of brown algorithms Green landscape holidays unvandalized by floral violence
Grafifttiless grow in human feeling
As I sketch Tangiers and think of William Burroughs
Who devoured authority and relocated its venue
A car radio investigates probes my motives as I listen to each constituant tone as local color
Who can deny the voice of one point four billion neurons
As I deny the echoes of versimilitude and vanity
Yet these are the raw materials and economy of art
So many paintings have passed their colors bled beneath my bare grass-stained feet
As the warm sun colors me lying on a fresh-cut lawn
It becomes the nucleus for a cadre of artistic work
Tattooed and painted on the retinas of those unshielded eyes who find the sun not hateful
To inspire a new exhibit of life in the flesh as I ask you to dim the radio and dwell in the colors of silence
Become fluent in expression of polychrome and the language of inks the proverbs of pigments
Whose wealth cannot be banned but burst all restraint and conjure technicolor dreams
The odor of fresh strawberries is the color of an Aztec goddess
Red brown black and the green of the provinces where young lives dyed by the afflictions of war
Wounded desire the emblems of peace and to play in daisies
Drink dandelion wine
And paint pagan prayers on the living canvas of eyes and worn and broken adobe houses
27 March 2006 @ 10:29 pm

Niobe’s tears fall
From clearest moon and selenic brilliance
Her eyes are clouds
She gathers morning dew
Weeping in her scarf
Niobe’s tears are sweet as rain and bitter as absinthe
She weeps into dawning wine
The tears for Gaia barren that she shall bear
Multiply her green coats
Cover brown sand
Niobe’s hair is smoke and cloud
She fogs and mists
Gray as camphor smoke and saltless
Bitter now never nor joyful
She weeps because she weeps
Staining her gown of stars with crystal
She weeps for Gaia’s loss
Does anyone shed tears for Dis?

Niobe weeps the mourning dew
Tears cascade the cups of dawn
A grey-red wine that is the grapes of Gaia
Salty as the sea and bitter as absinthe
Tears for the absent mother, the missing child
Niobe weeps at dawn
She rends her coat of green and tangles her hair with wrens of grief
She weeps for Gaia’s loss
As she will weep for Dis

Deprived of Persephone’s love
As shades grow dark at midnight
And dawn fades into dark
Niobe weeps his tears as well
Her eyes are dark clouds
Her tears are redemptive rain
The catharsis of Gaia
Niobe weeps at dawn
Niobe weeps under clearest moon
Niobe gathers shadows to hide her tears
26 February 2006 @ 08:50 pm

Into tin shack roofs technology crashes
The standard cordless telephone
The realities of higher education
A uranium mining consortium has promised laptops across a digital Continental Divide
Double wide trailers( no air conditioning yet)
For the Little Bear family
No electricity
Forty year old sedan rumbles on wooden wheels
Miles of buttes and mesas starve for assistance grants
Can’t get bulbs
But there are signs of light
Thirty four million dollars for mining grants
In the remote basins near Canyon de Chelley
Blood in the saddle again
When the BLM’s your friend
Columbus the American on horseback
Fine tunes his Hewlett-Packard
As in Seattle there are critiques of worldwide medical costs
Some people have to live in teepees
It just can’t be otherwise

Angela’s father faces five years in prison for the reflection of his skin in a mirror
A confrontation with the man who strangled his wife
A homeless Vietnam vet

Not one of our five hundred studies
Could link this behavior
To strip mining
Or the pentium process
One hundred and ten new tribal police
Can now study national crime statistics beamed in from Arizona
The alcoholism rate in Fiji
As a low growl is heard at sunset’s horizon
Satellites still can’t cope with Yeenaaldloosh
Or the witchcraft medicine
Dusty roads through the Chuskas remain unpaved
23 February 2006 @ 09:19 pm
Apologies for not updating for the last couple of months. I was on vacation and when I got back I was overwhelmed with work. My inbox was an avalanche. I also had acquired a case of writer's block. Here is my first effort upon return; it is a work in progress, but I had to give something. I can't NOT WRITE.

The Egypto-Tibetan Book of the Dead(Elegy for Jerry Garcia)

In the darkened land
On the western shore
Sun's gold boat is rowed
By the grateful dead
From the darkened clouds
No rain falls on shore
Western wind blows dust
Gray in the Sun's heat
Burn eyes in dead gaze
In western gardens
Sun parches flowers
Wilting hot and dead
Darkened charcoal gray
Are dead in the day
That is darkened land
As all eyes bleed tears
Tongues cut by sharp words
Scream the rain to come
To western gardens
In the darkened land
Where in secret blooms
Alone and darkened
Red as sun's shadow
Russest at the dusk
One single rosebud
Dreams Jerry Garcia
Its petals open
In the darkening land
On the western shore
Where sun's boat lies moored
Grateful of the rain
And flowers kept peace
In pantomime rhyme
Young poets beat drums
Golden gate that day
Was Sun's gate whose boat
In solar rainbows
Incense arced the heads
Of Hare Krishna
Kiirtan chanters Om
Black man with white beard
In leopard skin vest
Becomes senegal
Griot of creole
Blues notes gone way back
The River Niger
Joins Mississippi
As Jerry listens
In San Francisco
Trips on Ken Kesey
Timothy Leary
And makes me dizzy
Spiderweb spinning
Back to '67
The whole digger scene
Sun wakes the guitars
Boat moored in the Bay
And the Grateful Dead
Are ready to play
Current Mood: creative
Current Music: Grateful Dead of course
12 December 2005 @ 10:56 pm
Young man stands beneath streetlamp glow
Under skies at midnight clock
Nothing in his pockets but tobacco dust
And outside them drifts crystal snow

Under his breath an icy mutter shudders
Body cold as the glow of incandescence
Reflecting off the dusty snow
Drifting from skies that rock

In the wind that sways the street lamp
Tobacco smoke from a briar pipe
Glows in his nostrils flares them wide
As the midnight skies that open

As tobacco dust falls from desperate pockets
Snow drifts from desperate skies
Glowing rosy incandescent clouds
His nostrils flare inhaling snow

Across the street a saxophone blows
Drifting wails
Brings frozen tears to glow
On incandescent cheeks

Pulling up socks he pulls a harmonica
From boots as desperate as his breath
And pulls a sound that mates with the saxophone
And drifts under incadescent street lamps

Toward a man with a briar pipe
Standing under incandescent glare
Who shudders at the young man’s stare
As he wails for one of the taxis
Drifting by in incandescent snow
12 December 2005 @ 10:14 pm
The Spanish poet Garcia Lorca was strongly influenced by the music and lyricism of the Andalucian Gypsies. One of their most beautiful forms was a song called a "saeta" or "sajeta", an word that means an arrow; it was designed to be both terse and poignant. The following is an attempt at a successful sajeta.


The rodeo grounds deserted
Hot sands volcanize rigorous thoughts
And turn them igneous
Fevered and molten
Hoofbeats on parched earth
Are substitutes of long vanished thunder
Sandfilled nostrils suffocate breath
Of pale blue horses
Hammered out on the blacksmith’s forge
My body is adamantine and obsidian
In the shadows made brittle by caustic sun
A flamenco guitar
Begins the solea
No blood red moisture redeems
Duneswept sheep corrals
Sand fills their eyes and stifles their sleep
Under burning ghat skies
The solea incriminates and blames
As midnight forges cautious allies
A moon as cool as water
Trickles stories into mouths parched by molten tears
To name their ghosts and recover lost dreams

Solemn words are departed from dessicated throats
Where only wind sweeps dunes to cover
Dead bones of coyotes who howled too long at aeolian blasts
As it stripped
Life away
Clutched tight to its air
Left arid moments hanging in dying cyclonic silence
As the solea’s breath mingled with dunes across the wastelands
It wept waterless tears
Through this penetrant wind
Wailing wild knowledge as it tore flesh from bone
Bone from blood
Blood from body
Body from breath
And breath from death