Chastised flies buzz high
Beguiling wildly wind whipped window washers
While presumptuously floating on CO2 currents
Sprayed streaks criss –cross the sky presenting
Atmospheric cubism for the lonely bystander
Representatives regurgitate revolutionary stories
From broken stairs on weathered monuments
Crushing oppression fills flared nostrils breathing deep
Reigning terror from the empire which birthed us all
Media propagated horror show, three meals a day
…………….none withstanding, nothing withheld
Closeness replaces character and huddled victims
Hungrily eyeball each other’s flesh
Sweat covered dirt coated quadriceps glisten
As if to beacon a bite
Gnashed teeth clench against fists flown from children
Bent on self-destruction and socialized hate
Forever consumed by the goal of individualism and liberty ideologies
There tears create new inland seas
Justified lies perpetrated by powerful provocateurs
Looking for the next big score
Seeking the last vestige of person freedom
Loss costs the unhappy Boss
Whitey…. The man….. Corporate America as an individual god-head
Watching with predatory diligence
Us as we struggle
The laughter can be heard through-out the cosmos
Joy expressed so freely knows no bounds
We are the enslaved masses without hope
Without the knowledge that we are slaves
Smiles widen while the truth becomes clear
Eyes light up at future prospects
Hands clap and feet stomp at the spectacle
Humanity hates itself
What is more important? Today or the dream that awaits tomorrow?
The deforested; burnt and brittle and all gone aery
Who is more important? The empiricist or poet? Engineer or Sophist?
History recalls the fortuitous and fruitful mind
Have you found a resolution? Or are you destitution incarnate?
Too late for the body, but never for the soul
Which lamented downtrodden path do you follow?
The path paved with gold and epistemological riches
Or atone to the pith of a life in poverty?
Incessant nightmares of the daily worried abyss
What is more important? Me or you?
The view is beautiful on this night of starless and bible black
The night; eternal and sleepless epitaph
For the 21st century schizoid man,
Waiting man, Man with an Open Heart, Model Man
Indiscipline and Satori
On the wheels of an autograph and a welcoming peach tree
To 'Catch Bull at Four'
In the Court of the Crimson King
Matte Kudasai my sweet America
My adorned aphrodisiac, Columbia
Old Father Thames wrapped in the Union Jack
Aboard a white star liner forever on the stagnant sea
And with her comes the warm embrace of peace
Under her breast, an Armada of war ships and a fleet of Avro Lancasters
Aristophanes; he speaks like a Churchill smoking Winston Cigarettes
Above Mt. Olympus, flying high above the mythic Prometheus
Enabled machines of fury on wings by beings of glory
And so the story writhes in the wrinkled veins of history
Slowly buried, the worker stoic on white cotton
Is slowly forgotten
This is an ode to the workers in song
To the soldiers in line and the children still-born
This is the same old adage, motif in the narrative, warm and composed
Dedicated to who by fire, who by depleted uranium
And who by desire
Prometheus is dead
But, the vestal flame can not be ousted
The factories run all night in an electric light liturgy
For the planet
This is for Mother Gaia
And us all
Still in the dark with our broken lantern
Rules, policies and conflicts imprison you.
Protest and righteousness freed you.
In America, we called it segregation.
Twisted words of countries like South Africa called it Apartheid.
Separation of the races accepted as legal at a certain time.
What about injustice that makes ANY race feels correct?
But like that old saying goes, things changes with time.
Which Nelson Mandela you eventually saw within your life time.
It's always those that faced the harshness of trouble that's the most forgiving.
And many of times, it's the innocent prisoner.
While holding onto no grudge.
You stood strong against those that refused to change.
In America that's still a familiar ring.
Ghandi, King and others fought with words.
Similar to the qualities and traits of our Lord Jesus.
It's always the peacekeepers that showcase the hate.
While the supporters of wars stay quiet silently supporting the crime.
So, so long Nelson.
God's waiting for your soul.
You serve your purpose.
You serve your goal.
Nelson Mandela, son of the motherland.
You will always be remember, as a good man.
Repost for Nelson Mandela
In freedom’s blessed glorified sky through streaks of immortal gold his visage we behold
He looks upon the fields of liberty that he and the founding fathers sowed he sees the
Richness America has become he also beheld her struggles catastrophic wars abroad
And the most painful the one that divided the nation marred it with southern and northern
Blood saw the affable the sad giant Lincoln take the reins of discontent hold them by
Shear will and with uncommon sagacity guided it back in line to fulfill its destiny as the
Powerful fount that would always pour forth waters of freedom for all of earths peoples
Total unconditional acceptance of liberty and all the fruit it bears to establish a
Government like no other this golden grain has waved under bluest skies and brightest
Sun light its rich harvest has gone to darkest prison cells Mandela was sustained by it
For twenty nine years and by its moral purity it fed the lives of those that over threw
Apartied and Mandela finally freed by principals it avows rose from prison clothes
To wear the mantle of president of his country and the honor of the man instilled
Quality that transcended political office Jefferson not to be disrespectful to his progeny
Whispers today’s politicians could do well to look on this African model of good
Stewardship of public trust with that Jefferson faded back into the mist pray that’s
Not the fate of this country
Confused now and need to sit and think about what I think about religion.
Reading something posted by a dude writing about being a good religious
person then turns around and says amen to trash talking somebody.
Can you say hypocrite or is that the way of religious in America?
I've got a few Christmas traditions and they cost me more than I can afford.
I'm paying off credit cards long after Jolly old St. Nick's season is over.
I accept that I over spend and admit to not being frugal with my money.
I accept others who do the same at Christmas when man expects you to
spend on credit to save face so you don't look like a no gifting jerk to all.
What I can't accept are Americans faking being religious and lying.
How can you call yourself a Christian when you get angry over stupid shit?
How can you goto church on Sunday but hate your neighbor?
Kings James version of the bible lists the seven deadly sins of mankind.
I know religious people who commit sins of pride, covetousness, lust, anger,
gluttony, envy, sloth and know many more who have broken commandments.
I'm not religious and don't know how I can be with abundance of fake in religion.
We got fake religious people posting poetry about being Christians but
they turn around and say mean ass shit in poems about other poets.
Can you say hypocrite? Religious people writing poems hurting feelings?
What is fake and what is real when it comes to religion? Watching all the messed
up things religious people do in America has me confused and hating fake
religious claiming to believe in God.
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
as the nine o'clock sun,
a 45 degree steeplechase
but still not
of the prior eve,
that hides in,
deep wooded hillocks
Join my warmth
and my chill!
head kicked awake,
entranced and revolted,
excited and repelled,
emotive, yet, stilled.
For oh so casually,
this heroic city dweller,
brave and fearless
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,
These uncommon people
with whom I share
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
go off first to
in my name.
In this far corner of our
shared contiguous space
United States of America,
top of the line here
secretaries and maybe even,
But their eyes,
oh their eyes!
Words I do not own
to fair share with you,
the clarifying gaze
of measured dignity and
that marks and unites
these disparate and dispirited
vessels of humankind.
the noon suns finally,
raises my body temperature
browns my surface...
Yet, nothing eradicates
this god damn chill
in my soul
or calms my consternation,
as black and white
my comfortable existence,
as I ponder
All photographs are accurate but none tell the truth
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 -
in space and time,
and one enters
when and where
Do my distant,
(both in space and time)
share my Sabbath?
Are they allowed
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
Is the prudence of
their morning bitter pill
they must swallow
to carry on?
Among the resolutions
to claim a
life fulfilled is this:
How to end this poem,
close this can of worms,
accidentally kicked open.
Will sunset end these
of which you have
more personal variations?
(what about the ...)
Perennials flower everywhere,
along the Tigris,
even in Kabul and Somalia,
along the highways
to the mecca of
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
even celebrated tween
holy and common,
light and dark,
the six weekdays
between sacred and secular
between me and
my American Brothers
of the American West.
just one thing
to be true:
The Sabbath Cathedral is
open to all,
you choose to
I await you,
my American cousins,
with wine and bread
holy of holiest words
of comfort and sooth.
I will wash your feet and
lay you down to
in my heart.
we will be joined,
in warmth and chill.
August 29, 2010
* "In The American West" by
** many of the phrases in this stanza were taken from an article "The Few, The Proud, The Chosen" in Commentary, September 2010
^ Abraham Joshua Heschel, a modern Jewish Philosopher. Elegant, passionate, and filled with the love of God's creation, Abraham Joshua Heschel's The Sabbath has been hailed as a classic of Jewish spirituality ever since its original publication-and has been read by thousands of people seeking meaning in modern life. In this brief yet profound meditation on the meaning of the Seventh Day, Heschel introduced the idea of an "architecture of holiness" that appears not in space but in time Judaism, he argues, is a religion of time: it finds meaning not in space and the material things that fill it but in time and the eternity that imbues it, so that "the Sabbaths are our great cathedrals."
^^ Havdalah is the ceremony to celebrate the end of the Sabbath, and realize the distinctions between the holy day and the workweek, the day and the night, light and day...
Let us now decorate the symbol of life and ensure that the protection from Scandinavian and Turkish witches is confidently displayed at our thresholds whilst snowflakes silently fall.
Are you able to recollect the innocence, where the magic circle of Arctic captivation nurtured the sending of burnt letters through anticipatory chimney flues, deep into the twinkling sky at night?
There is a certain connection to the pattern of Odin - the guide of souls.
In wisdom, I have left savoury and alcoholic sustenance for ancestral spirits between the high places of Ounasvaara and Korkalovaara. So, here it is my sibling energy field of eternal carbon footprints. Once again, the Yule buck and its Old Norse master are soon to descend upon us.
So, although it may have been outlawed in colonial America by Puritans in 1659, we must also acknowledge those infinite prints of cloven hooves in the deep snow of 1038 a.d. in this mid-winter nativity of Cristenmasse.
As we celebrate the harvest of Kekri and consult with Joulupukki on the forest ridge, the symbolic colours of red, green and gold will lavish perceptual and spiritual gifts which are unable to be purchased with material commodities.
As this festival has gradually evolved into an obscene Western construct of politico-economical prowess, we must identify one more thing: Santa is an anagram for Satan.
Is this truly Finnish or Byzantine? Perhaps it is just cosmological ethnography?
I have this horse
As good as a horse can be
And I love that old horse
She's a good ole horse to me
I named her America
When she was young and in her prime
She was good stock and breed
America stood twenty hands high
My horse America
Won all the races she did run
There was no stopping her
First out of the gate with the starting gun
My once proud America
Stood tall in liberty and life
But now I'm afraid she is getting
Old and of feeble mind
She no longer knows which way to go
No longer knows her left from right
I know this has been going on
Though it seems to have happened over night
Not sure what it is that I should do
She's been too good to put her down
Plus she might get over this
She might just come around
She's always been out there running
Free and brave along the plains
And I do believe that kind of freedom
Will win out for America in the end
"Let your voice be heard." You say.
Yet the oppression of our already suppressed vocal cords is apparent.
"You drop all of your rights at the door."
No wonder everyone is so negative about our school.
We hardly have a choice in what we say, what we think and what we wear.
We can't even go to the bathroom without advertising to the teacher and everyone else that we have to take a shit.
We need a strong as steel reason to even go to the nurses office.
"May I go to the nurse?"
"Because I'm sick."
"You don't look sick, wait until after class."
Imagine if you were a girl on her period. Would you want to announce to everyone you are on it?
How embarrassing would that be?
I'll tell you that I will not be herded through these halls like cattle.
Branded with color coordinated tags to prove to teachers our innocence.
Give me a detention.
I dare you. See where it gets you.
This is a place where we are supposed to practice our freedoms for when we enter the "real world."
It really weird.
The Bill of Rights had no clause that said 'except in school' anywhere.
The writers believed that those are the basic rights that a human should have.
If they looked at our country right now what would they think?
We contradict everything that we were founded on.
They would be ashamed.
They would be offended.
Even worse, my school is ruled by the oppressive fist of an ex-military man.
An ex-marine. A branch founded to protect our rights and our country.
Government cattle, nonetheless.
You too have been abused by the system.
You choose to show the same abuse to the "future of America."
Shutting us down.
Regulating every breath we take as if we are about to be unplugged.
Without us you would have no job.
Without people there would be no government.
Without freedom there is no happiness.
Robbing generation after generation of self expression.
Oppression of "the future of our country" will bring us further into the past.
Each breath does not need to be regimented.
I could cure cancer.
You just won't let me.
I could help create sustainable energy.
You'll never know because your ego drowns out even the bravest of souls.
I sing America from Frankford
Commonly called 'home of the 'trem',
where the buses fly down the street, almost crashing into feral children
Where the scent of not-so-soft delicious pretzels are ubiquitous as it
soars through the streets like an airplane
Where the impudent teenagers scream at night
sounding like an angry choir
Where elderly widows rise gardens out of damaged bushes and dead grass
Tiny un-trimmed lawns are a can of tuna for stray cats
Where row homes cover tiny streets connect everyone
causing too much closeness
Where gum coated pavements are welcome mats to the running feet
running to catch their bus
Where cop cars fly down the streets, providing the next scene for the new Fast and Furious
Where at night, the constant sirens echo in the night sky
piercing through my ears
But in the end, I wouldn't want to be anywhere