Never be the Joker
For the Joker never wins
The weakest card oft seeks to guard
Its non-existant sins.

Its folly is in mockery
Because it's well protected
By all the laughs it got from halfs
Of love it ne'er detected.

It thought itself the King of Hearts,
But it couldn't find its Queen
And though the Jack may fail and lack
It did not find its truth obscene.

For many cards may tell their truths
And be beaten from the deck,
But the Joker speaks of lover freaks
He is the stormbeat wreck.

Never lie through jokes or jest
Always tell the truth to poker
For though its sides are mirrored lies
They're truer than the Joker.

Nirvana - a transcendent state in which there is neither
suffering, desire, nor sense of self, and the subject
is released from the effects of karma and the cycle of
death and rebirth. It represents the final goal of Buddhism.

My Buddhist Queen,
Will you take me to Nirvana?
Will you take me to that place?
That place where we’re unshackled from suffering?
Because right now, this is intolerable.

My Buddhist Queen,
If we’re in Nirvana
why does my heart feel so aloof
and its beats, spectral?
Why does my body suffer from rigamortis?
Why am i teary-eyed
and why did you nominate my pillows to do the ALS challenge?
Why is my room a catastrophy?
Why do my walls succumb to the savagery of my fists?
Why am I suffering?
Why do I desire?
Why is karma still existant?


My Buddhist Queen,
If we’re in Nirvana,
why do you occassionally take strolls down to hell holding my hand?
- d.b.d.

Photographs by Avedon

This was written in a friend's home in the Berkshire Mountains, on a Saturday morning, a few years ago.  Up early, I went exploring their bookshelves and found a book of Richard Avedon's photographs of average Americans out west.  Google "richard avedon photos of the american west" - then read the poem.  Please, for without seeing the faces, for this will make all the difference.  In the Berkshires, it is always chilly there, even in the summer sun.  This and other obscure references are better detailed in the notes.


Join my warmth and
my chill,
as the nine o'clock sun,
a 45 degree steeplechase
warms,
but still not
strong enough
to dispense
the lingering,
residual, remaindered,
breezy chill
of the prior eve,
that hides in,
emanates from,
the shadows
of the
deep wooded hillocks
of the
Berkshire Mountains.

Join my warmth
and my chill!

Upright jolted,
head kicked awake,
entranced and revolted,
excited and repelled,
emotive, yet, stilled.

For oh so casually,
this heroic city dweller,
brave and fearless
bookshelf explorer,
retrieves a book,
to find a new route
thru time and space
to the center of his brain.

Photographs by Avedon,
of my fellow Americans,
the Have Nots,
his "Havedons"
of the
American West.

These uncommon people
with whom I share
uncommonly little,
these drifters, the carneys,
the would-have-been cowboys,
busted blackjack dealers,
rattlesnake gut n' skinners,
coal and copper miners,
the hay truck drivers,
dirt so deep in
their pores ingrained,
colors and bloodies their souls,
browns their veins,
are the ones that
too oft,
go off first to
fight wars
in my name.

Photos untitled,
words unneeded.

In this far corner of our
shared contiguous space
called the
United States of America,
top of the line here
would be
insurance agents,
secretaries and maybe even,
the waitresses.

But their eyes,
oh their eyes!

Words I do not own
to fair share with you,
the clarifying gaze
of measured dignity and
immeasurable ache,
heritage pride,
heretical heartbreak,
that marks and unites
these disparate and dispirited
vessels of humankind.

Disjointed,
the noon suns finally,
raises my body temperature
browns my surface...

Yet, nothing eradicates
this ******* chill
in my soul
or calms my consternation,
as black and white
eyes discolor
my comfortable existence,
as I ponder
Avedon's words:

All photographs are accurate but none tell the truth

Pass over,
pass by,
The Evil Son at Passover
asks ever so sly,
what have they to do with me?

It is the Sabbath.
We luxuriate in our rest.
Rest is the greatest luxury

What is this Sabbath?
Heschel's cathedral -
existant both
in space and time,
and one enters
when and where
one can.

Do my distant,
(both in space and time)
American cousins
share my Sabbath?

Are they allowed
this luxury,
or is it endless exertion,
severity and deprivation,
all and every day
of their lives?

Constant risk every day.

Who cannot fail to see the
precipitousness of life
edged in the lines of their
hearts and minds?

Day to day hardens them
and teaches the
discipline of
severity unended.

Is the prudence of
self-forgetfulness,
their morning bitter pill
they must swallow
to carry on?

Among the resolutions
I need
to claim a
life fulfilled is this:

How to end this poem,
close this can of worms,
accidentally kicked open.

Will sunset end these
troubling questions
of which you have
your own,
more personal variations?
(what about the ...)

Perennials flower everywhere,
in Auschwitz,
along the Tigris,
even in Kabul and Somalia,
along the highways
that lead
to the mecca of
Las Vegas.

Perennials flower everywhere.

In warmth and cool,
in time and space,
they flower in my heart and
my brain and in
my prayerful tears.
flowing down my cheeks,
as I lay me down to sleep,
to dream these of
impoverished words

Havdalah^^ thoughts,
separations celebrated.

Distinctions noted,
even celebrated tween
holy and common,
light and dark,
Sabbath and
the six weekdays
of labor,
between sacred and secular
and
between me and
my American Brothers
of the American West.

I know
just one thing
to be true:

The Sabbath Cathedral is
open to all,
whatever day
you choose to
abide there

I await you,
my American cousins,
with wine and bread
and the
holy of holiest words
of comfort and sooth.

I will wash your feet and
lay you down to
restful sleep
in the
Sabbath Cathedral
in my heart.

Together,
at last,
we will be joined,
in warmth and chill.



August 29, 2010
Lanesboro, Mass.

he's the colour of sunshine
the glitter he hates,
sparkling in his crinkling eyes

his laugh
is the colour of daisies in november,
teasing the troubled naiad into a state
of pure affection

his kiss
I imagine
is the colour of bliss,
like honey dripping from the lips of queens by the nile

his love,
however
is the colour of water
clear
non-existant.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz.
Ojalá mi cara fuese atardecer de cien días
y se perdiese como música en la marea.
Ojalá mis notas fuesen fuego
que corriese raudo por tus venas.
Ojalá se perfumasen en el aire
y  diesen sentido al amanecer del alba.
Ojalá fluyesen como el agua
suavemente rizando la rojez del cielo.
Ojalá fuesen contundentes como la roca
y cayesen a plomo junto a mi corazón muerto.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz.
Siempre cambiante, nunca la misma
subebajando en el horizonte.
Tierna y vibrante, siempre difusa
alzándose hacia el cielo con alas desplegadas.
Dulce y salada, externa e interna,
por ósmosis entrando por cada poro.
Pesada y rígida, sólida y pura
cercenando la realidad con su ser preciso.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
siendo lo que no es,
no siendo lo que es.
En cada instante de su espacio manifestándose
en cada punto de su tiempo existiendo.
Única e indivisible, aunque difícilmente alcanzable.
Verdadera mentira que perdura tras los siglos.
Satírica cual elefante boca arriba
dando a luz a lo que siempre ha sido nuestro.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz.
Saliendo hacia la luz verdadera
y tornando hacia la oscuridad traicionera.
Volando hacia arriba y en picado,
oteándose a si misma , eterna y cierta.
Creando un nuevo mundo igual a este,
igual de distinto que este a si mismo.
Imitando la certeza de lo incierto.
Pretendiendo con falsedades llegar al verso.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
y fuese objeto de su ser
y fuese sujeto de su haber
y se realizase siempre que le dieses tiempo
y se realizase siempre en lo que siempre fue
y avanzase inmóvil hacia la verdad
y esperase impasible a la mentira.
Ojalá de cada error saliese un mérito,
una esperanza, una virtud siempre precisa.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
tornando el arte arcana en ente nuevo,
aunque sea falso.
En estúpidas epifanías tornando el acto
cual poeta escribiendo estos versos.
Ojalá repetir versos pasados en lenguas nuevas
y llamarse artista.
Mero comentarista y observador
de lo que precedió en tiempo y espacio.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
existiendo con sólo pensarlo
negando el pensamiento mismo,
lógica implacable mintiendo mi rostro,
contradicciones inapelables mintiendo mi ser.
Con precisión matemática ser mentira,
con la etereidad del arte ser verdad.
Ojalá como estafador maestro ante tu mirar
se hiciese música que disfrutar.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz,.
Ojalá mi cara no fuese jazz.
Ojalá no tener cara, ni nada.
Ojalá el solo pensarlo me dejase ciega,
sorda para la música de mi rostro.
Ojalá pasar por debajo de una escalera tirada
para no recibir buena suerte.
Ojalá austera o inexistente,
cual dios mirando tu filosofía vana.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
y unificase tantas corrientes
como puede abarcar con sus brazos.
Ojalá pudiese tornar cierta la realidad
por el mero hecho de pensarla, pero no puedo,
pero mi rostro se muestra impasible
ante desdicha tal y sigue avanzando;
regla dorada entre uñas de marfil,
largos palillos para comer la realidad desvirtuada.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
y revolucionase el mundo con su pensar
y desmontase heregías como ciertas.
Ojalá años más tarde siguiese su lucha
contra el infiel divino hasta su muerte,
y como la de un mono con barba
se tornase contra el padre de la ciencia moderna,
y le enseñase a pensar en sueños,
a soñar en vida, a soñar en muerte.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
y se repitiese eternamente para mi suerte,
nunca cambiando, siempre presente.
Ojalá asesinase al padre de todo
y se adueñase de su lugar.
Ojalá existir antes de ser.
Ojalá rodar por la vida sin mirar a los lados,
destruyendo lo que tantas veces nos ha aplastado
y creando la belleza del arte, que es eterna.

//

I wish my face were jazz.
I wish my night were sunset of one hundred days
and it lost itself like music in the tides.
I wish my notes were fire
which ran swift in your veins.
I wish they would perfume itself in the air
and gave meaning to the morning's sunrise.
I wish they flowed like water
softly curling the sky's redness.
I wish they were sturdy like rock
and they plummeted next to my dead heart.

I wish my face were jazz.
Always changing, never the same.
updowning in the horizon.
Tender and vibrating, always diffuse
rising towards the sky with open wings.
Sweet and salty, extern and intern,
by osmosis entering through each pore.
Heavy and rigid, solid and pure
cutting through reality with its precise being.

I wish my face were jazz
being what it is not,
not being what it is.
In every instant of its space manifesting itself
in every point of its time existing.
One and indivisible, although hardly reachable.
True lie which endures beyond centuries.
Satiric like elefant on its head
giving birth to what always has been ours.

I wish my face were jazz.
Going out to the true light
and turning to the treacherous darkness.
Flying upwards and in a dive,
scanning itself, eternal and true.
Creating a new world equal to this,
equally as distinct as this to itself.
Imitating the certainty of the uncertain.
Trying with falseness to reach the verse.

I wish my face were jazz.
and it were object of its being
and it were subject of its having
and it came true always you gave it time
and it came true always in what it always was
and it moved fordward unmoving towards the truth
and it waited impasible the lie.
I wish of every error a merit would come out,
a hope, a virtue ever precise.

I wish my face were jazz
turning arcane art into a new being,
even if false.
Into stupid epiphanies turning the act
as a poet writing this verses.
I wish to repit old verses in new tongues
and to call myself an artist.
Mere commentator and observer
of what preceded it in time and space.

I wish my face were jazz.
Existing with only thinking of it,
negating thought itself,
implacable logic lying my visage,
unnappealable contradictions lying my being.
With mathematical precision being a lie,
with the ethereality of art being the truth.
I wish that like master con artist before your looking
it turned itself into music to enjoy.

I wish my face were jazz.
I wish my face weren't jazz.
I wish I didn't have a face, nor anything.
I wish only thinking of it made me blind,
deaf to the music of my visage.
I wish passing under a fallen ladder
to not receive good luck.
I wish austere or non-existant,
like god looking at your vane philosophy.

I wish my face were jazz,
and it unified so many streams
like it can embrace with its arms.
I wish I could turn reality true
with the mere act of thinking it, but I can't,
but my visage shows itself impassible
before such misfortune and continues onwards;
golden rule among ivory nails,
long chopsticks to eat the desvirtuated reality.

I wish my face were jazz
and it revolucionised the world with its thinking
and it disassembled heressies as true.
I wish years later its fight would continue
against the divine infidel until his death,
and like a bearded monkey's
it would turn itself against the father of modern science,
and it taught him to think in dreams,
to dream in life, to dream in death.

I wish my face were jazz
and it repited itself enternally to my fortune,
never changing, always present.
I wish it assassinated the father of everything
and took its place.
I wish existing before being.
I wish rolling through life without looking sideways,
destroying that which always has crushed us
and creating the beauty of art, which is timeless.

I saw a lady in the bazaar
with a melted face.  
Her nose was non-existant
like her lips.
One eye was brown,
the other glazed blue,
like a vulture eye.
A local told me
she was once beautiful,
a regular queen
who ******* her man,
the guy who threw the acid.

Total departure to our needs is the reckless stupidity of how we are becoming our own executioners.When looking down on mother earth from father sky they wonder as to what their siblings are dreaming of as they hurt and maim their own mother.
When will people who justify their greed ,instead of need realise that their greed will not even give them their very  basic requirements for being here!
Humanity,through some strange concept,has set itself up,knowingly,as the controller and destroyer of all that gives them their basic needs,"their mother and father".
Man in his greed has even tainted the rays of light which give us our birthright,LIFE,for without it we would not exist.
By an infinite membrame,or so greed presumes,lying between good and bad,we live or die,but greed has stretched and widened that belief to horrific depths in the name of need.How long before it SNAPS?!
The coolerof our mother and bearer of us is poisened and wasted every moment. The ever overexploiting ****-sapiens will not letgreed stop them,even in their mothers death cries.A huge propergater of everything,mother gries in pain as she starves and with her ,her siblings.
The sun now burns her soft skin and moisture does not stay to cool her as she sweats.How long must or can she endure this torture?
Would we do it to our human mothers?
A family tree of pain is her reward for nurturing us.Her womb dries as the moisture is ****** from her veins and poured on to her belly as she screams.The sun rips it from her no longer cool and loving but hard and fierce like a furnace.
Onwards greed trespasses into herpumping heart,her skin is poisened and erupting like puberty,but still man is unmoving in his attitude to himself.
She speaks to them everyday but they do not hear or sense in any way her agony.Oblivious to everthing greed rumbles on deaf to its very basic needs and requirements.
As she criesfor help,her breath encompases all as she resusitates all with her sibilation.Can you smell you mothers breath?Will this last vain hope of hers go unoticed as greed races against its now foul wind?
"YES" because greed has stunned even your basic senses.Yo do not see,you do not hear,you do not feel,you do not taste ,you do not smell,even your most common sense of all is wasted "SURVIVAL!"

Between the three elements lies another.Without any one of the three the other is non-existant.
Running headlong,greed does not even notice its own reflection,blinded by its own need!Our mother is wek,her milk is drying,her skin is wrinkling,her touch is burning,her sight is blined,her taste is foul,her breath is stifling and her hearing is fading,she is DYING.
Her umbilical cord is strangled as it dries up with the assassination of her soul.  Will her soul be heard after we have  vanished or will we awke from our sleep of arrogance and greed and realise that EVERYTHING is not worth NOTHING.

For when she dies her death throughs will mame and slaughter us even as we count-?

                                                                        

                                                                                  "OUR MONEY"

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Walk with me to my house of pain, and I promise you 'll remember my name. It's dark in there without space to yell, my mind has become a cycle of hell.

Thought after thought goes bad instantly, someone left me that way to teach you my existant-c.
To rip out the heart that feeds my pain would be the day there is nothing left to gain.
My window to wisdom would be wisest to leave unrevealed, my deepest dept to my hell it has there been sealed.
I can not see the day when I will unmask, the beasty life that put me in this cast, sent me to my hell on earth took my-all it is worth...... I can never go back.
Walk with me down memory lane, you wont remember me the same. I used to smile and hope for tomorrow, now my days are filled with a bitter sweet sorrow.
Candy was sweet, lemons were sour, life was ripe upon every hour. Today is the dawn of a new genehell, with death and hate the only thing to sell.
I am the master of all your who, what, when, and where, I am the master of pain because I was put there;
Put there to show what many forget, good and evil within are not co-existant.

SDPope