In nineteen hundred forty-nine
China was won by Mao Tse-tung
Chiang Kai-shek's army ran away
They were waiting there in Thailand yesterday

Supported by the CIA
Pushing junk down Thailand way

First they stole from the Meo Tribes
Up in the hills they started taking bribes
Then they sent their soldiers up to Shan
Collecting ***** to send to The Man

Pushing junk in Bangkok yesterday
Supported by the CIA

Brought their jam on mule trains down
To Chiang Rai that's a railroad town
Sold it next to the police chief brain
He took it to town on the choochoo train

Trafficking dope to Bangkok all day
Supported by the CIA

The policeman's name was Mr. Phao
He peddled dope grand scale and how
Chief of border customs paid
By Central Intelligence's U.S. A.I.D.

The whole operation, Newspapers say
Supported by the CIA

He got so sloppy & peddled so loose
He busted himself & cooked his own goose
Took the reward for an ***** load
Seizing his own haul which same he resold

Big time pusher for a decade turned grey
Working for the CIA

Touby Lyfong he worked for the French
A big fat man liked to dine & *****
Prince of the Meos he grew black mud
Till ***** flowed through the land like a flood

Communists came and chased the French away
So Touby took a job with the CIA

The whole operation fell in to chaos
Till U.S. Intelligence came into Laos
I'll tell you no lie I'm a true American
Our big pusher there was Phoumi Nosovan

All them Princes in a power play
But Phoumi was the man for the CIA

And his best friend General Vang Pao
Ran the Meo army like a sacred cow
Helicopter smugglers filled Long Cheng's bars
In Xieng Quang province on the Plain of Jars

It started in secret they were fighting yesterday
Clandestine secret army of the CIA

All through the Sixties the Dope flew free
Thru Tan Son Nhut Saigon to Marshal Ky
Air America followed through
Transporting confiture for President Thieu

All these Dealers were decades and yesterday
The Indochinese mob of the U.S. CIA

Operation Haylift Offisir Wm. Colby
Saw Marshal Ky fly ***** Mr. Mustard told me
Indochina desk he was Chief of ***** Tricks
"Hitchhiking" with dope pushers was how he got his fix

Subsidizing traffickers to drive the Reds away
Till Colby was the head of the CIA

                                        January 1972

spining spinnig spinning spinnging spinging spinining spinning spinning psinngin psinnging psinning spining psminnng psinng psing spinning itching tiching tiching itching itching ithcintign itching ithc nihting itching itching itching my chgest chest chet chest chets chest chesth ches thchc chest chest chestch sthech sethch schesth chesth seht esht eshthe sehches stghse tpanic panic panic panic itching panich painc itchingpainic pinaibng pinc ananc intching paning cnians pannigba sicthicn itcthing itching ithcing itching ithchi nhelp help help ehple help e helpe helpe helpe help help help ehlp ehlpe help ehple go waay away waway away away away aya away away away waya waya awaya waya away awaya no i don’t wnat o ts see ll you this coffee get the **** out of my ****** gface itching itchin gnaimial itching reage rage rage rrage gar eget the **** cis ssifi ficuking ishaf sisth ge tou to fmy fauck ceuang face te get out of my faucking *******  ******* **** ing ******* fuckng icing ******* fufking ******* tufkc thing face get the **** out of my face get the **** out of my face get the **** out of my face and leave me alone get the fucki out to foi my face and leave me alone spinning sinning range tulnnel vision tunnel spinning tiching cehst panic get out o fmy face i don’t want to sell you foccefe and you are n’t going to e to to to to to tip me anyway you ******* **** head yet the **** out of my afce and leave me the **** anlone i have n’t taken a break a break a brak breath in like like like twnety minutes breaht ebreathe breathe abreathe breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe don’t tell me to ******* breathe i know to ******* breathe rage rage rage rage tag r rage reag e aasdna breathe brathe breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe breahte breathe breathe breabdth rbreathe breathe breathe rbaein out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in rythm rhythm rhtrm why the **** is that work word do so why the **** is that word so hard to spenl wp swhy the fu ck wiuy why the **** is that word si focukning hard to spell foeaajsdg why the **** is thwa why the **** is tha twor what why the **** is that word so hard to sle why the **** is that word os why the **** is that word so hard to spell rhyhtm rhyr rhythem rhythm tryhtm in out in ou to int out in tih rhythm rhytm tr intching itching itching ittchahinsdg in out in out outu ihn out in iuth out it ou th hei is this poetry hooray i wrote something go me look at all those words on the page i put thise there **** yeah go me hooray i was creative with my panic attack good for me good for ******* me now i guess the next step is to just go insatne and get drink run right horay hooray hooray three cheers for me i wrote something and it’s gonne anga nd id it’s gonna get me a million ******* dollars because i channeled ma my rf **** ing rage and that’s what epeople whatn ranwt ranw ran ran want wri sfsa tir right i it’s jurat rage riage rajfjs rb braeat breathe breathe breathe breathe breahte btrahet breathe i can’t ty e i can’t te i can’t tpye n d i can’t type ab ica i can’t type and breahte a ti ci  i can’t type and breathe at the samet ime i can’t tyime i can’t y i can’t type and breathe at the same to i can’t tiy i can’t type and breathe at the same timy i can’t ta i can’t type and breathe at the same time but maybe when i fguyre maybe when i figure out how to t mabye maybe when i figure out how to do that i’l act maybe bw maybe when i figure out how to do wh wm maybe wheni figure out how to do that i’ll write something that doesn’t make me want to **** myself but for now i detes i but forno but for now i detest ever ev but for now i want to stab every sing le but for now i want to strange but for now i want t o but for now i want to strangle every wrod that comes out ofmy ******* ******* useless garbage handss

I remember reading
Martin Luther King, Jr's
Letter from Birmingham Jail
Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom
Mark Twain's Huck Finn
DuBois' Souls of Black Folk
For the first time

The words of Chief Joseph
Sitting Bull
Tecumseh
James Welch
and Alexie Sherman
And others of indigenous kind
Linger like arrows in my mind.

Of course, there's
Gilgamesh's forlorn quest for Enkidu;
Osiris, Amun, Ra, and Seth,
Homer's Illiad and Odyssey,
And Virgil's Roman treatment -
(For whom the gods destroy
We all must learn bereavement).

I remember reading
Milton's Paradises (lost and found)
And Dante's Infernal quest for Heaven
Through the bowels of Hell with Virgil's spritely guide
And up the Devil's staircase with Beatrice by his side.
John's Revelation of Times' End;
And LaHaye's money-making Left Behind
Apocalypses here to chill my mind.

I have surveyed Dead Presidents
Washington,
Jefferson,
Lincoln
Both Roosevelts, Ted and Frank,
And Reagan
And smatterings of others...
Then hopped the bookish pond to read
Sir Winston and some others,
Not the least of whom is Gandhi G,
Taught by the Queen to free his brothers.

I have studied
Moses
Job
David
Ruth
Esther
Isaiah
Jeremiah
The Disciples
Paul
and James
(Ironically,
Though Jesus is the "Word"
He never penned one).

British poets's thoughts,
Tale tellers long-dead
Have found their way
Into my head:
Beowulf and Chaucer
Old moral plays
Shelley and Keats
Cavalier Poets
Scott and Brownings
Burns and (not) Allen
Spenser and Shakespeare
Dylan and Tolkien
Lewis and Auden
And so many more
That I leave on the floor

Western Americana I have loved
Hemingway and Steinbeck, all worth the time,
Mari Sandoz' Old Jules, and
Rolvaag's Giants in the Earth,
Keroac went on the road, while
Joseph Kinsey Howard showed us the West
Lewis & Clark in journals scribed
Their journey west and back again

I can't forget psychology
And so I will digress
Or Sigmund's accusation stays
That I have but suppressed:
Ellis, Freud, and Eric Berne,
Pavlov, Skinner, Thorndike, Watson,
Wundt, and Wm James, Piaget and Chomsky
Then Vygotsky and Bandura put a social spin
on cognitive psychology, and Everybody's in.
Diverging and Converging, psychic students, all
Could never make transaction
'Til Rogers tried to make some peace
But Ellis wouldn't have 'im.

And then, of course,
The lighter stuff,
The popcorn of the mind:
Clancy, Rankin, Carole Keene
L'Amour and Will James
Stephen King and Poe,
Cruz Smith and Leon Uris,
Grisham, Deaver, Cornwall,
Asimov, Bradbury and Herbert,
Carroll and Baum...

I remember reading
Martin Luther King, Jr's
Letter from Birmingham Jail
Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom
Mark Twain's Huck Finn
DuBois' Souls of Black Folk,
Adichie's The Thing Around Your Neck,
Sherman Alexie's Part-time Indian tale....
For the first time

The words of Chief Joseph
Sitting Bull
Tecumseh
James Welch
and Alexie Sherman
And others of indigenous kind
Linger like arrows in my mind.

Of course, there's
Gilgamesh's forlorn quest for Enkidu;
Osiris, Amun, Ra, and Seth,
Homer's  Illiad and  Odyssey,
And Virgil's Roman treatment -
(For whom the gods destroy
We all must learn bereavement).

I remember reading
Milton's Paradises (lost and found)
And Dante's Infernal quest for Heaven
Through the bowels of Hell with Virgil's spritely guide
And up the Devil's staircase with Beatrice by his side.
John's Revelation of Times' End;
And LaHaye's money-making Left Behind,
Collin's Hunger Games and Dashner's Maze Running
Apocalypses enough to chill my mind.

I have surveyed Dead Presidents
Washington,
Jefferson,
Lincoln
Both Roosevelts, Ted and Frank,
And Reagan
And smatterings of others...
Then hopped the bookish pond to read
Sir Winston and some others,
Not the least of whom is Gandhi G,
Taught by the Queen to free his brothers.

I have studied
Moses
Job
David
Ruth
Esther
Isaiah
Jeremiah
The Disciples
Paul
and James
(Ironically,
Since Jesus is the "Word,"
Through men He penned).

British poets's thoughts,
Tale tellers long-dead
Have found their way
Into my head:
Beowulf and Chaucer
Old moral plays
Shelley and Keats
Cavalier Poets
Scott and Brownings
Burns and (not) Allen
Spenser and Shakespeare
Dylan and Tolkien
Lewis and Auden
And so many more
That I leave on the floor

Western Americana I have loved
Hemingway and Steinbeck, all worth the time,
Mari Sandoz' Old Jules, and
Rolvaag's Giants in the Earth,
Keroac went on the road, while
Joseph Kinsey Howard showed us the West
Lewis & Clark in journals scribed
Their journey west and back again

I can't forget psychology
And so I will digress
Or Sigmund's accusation stays
That I have but suppressed:
Ellis, Freud, and Eric Berne,
Pavlov, Skinner, Thorndike, Watson,
Wundt, and Wm James, Piaget and Chomsky
Then Vygotsky and Bandura put a social spin
on cognitive psychology, and Everybody's in.
Diverging and Converging, psychic students, all
Could never make transaction
'Til Rogers tried to make some peace
But Ellis wouldn't have 'im.

And then, of course,
The lighter stuff,
The popcorn of the mind:
Clancy, Rankin, Carole Keene
L'Amour  and Will James
Stephen King and Poe,
Cruz Smith and Leon Uris,
Grisham, Deaver, Cornwall,
Asimov, Bradbury and Herbert,
Carroll and Baum...

The list goes on and on, and will, I'm sure, expand beyond capacity.

The original verse by Wm. Shakespeare:
Sonnet 18

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date".
_______

The satirical by D. Conors


"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art hot, damp, sticky,
too short, too bright
and too ****** seasonal."

My heart feels like an uncut diamond
Though it is still the same, it is not the same
Someone speaks of a bridge to be built from Tangier
to Algeciras or is it Gibraltar?
"Yes & then a highway to the stars or more likely
an elevator to the Underworld," says Yellow Turban
To White Jellaba as the exhaust fumes from the bus
engulf them, leaving behind not even a single
shadow.
Is that Mel Clay in a white jacket turning the corner?
No, it is a figment of my imagination escaped from the
asylum.
Is that Ian Sommerville walking backwards up the street
as if pulled by a giant magnet?
No, that is Wm. Burroughs making electricity
from dead cats.
Is that Tatiana glistening on Maxiton?
No, that is the sun dancing in the sugar bowl.
Is that Marc Schelfer wavering on the cliffedge?
No, it is a promontory in the wind of time
about to fall in the sea.
Is that Beethoven's 9th Symphony being played
up the street?
No, it is the sound of the breadwagons
rumbling over cobblestones
Is that George Andrews with two girls in hand
looking for bread?
No, it is an unidentified flying object about to land.
Is that One-eyed Mose hanging by his heels?
No, that is the hanged man inventing the Taro.
Are the dead really so fascinated by *******?
Yes, that is how they travel.
Is that Irving in short pants looking for trouble?
No, that's me unable to stop thinking.
Is that Kenneth Halliwell looking for Joe Orton?
Is that Jane Bowles looking for Sherifa, Rosalind looking
for her baby, Alfred searching for his lost hair?
Is that the wig of it all, the patched robe of my brain,
the wind talking to itself?
Brion is dead and Yacoubi is dead, and I am a not unhappy
ghost remembering everything, the warp & woof of memories,
her yellow slip, her shaved ****, her idiot child.
Dream shuttle makes me exist everywhere at once.
The blind beggars led by children keep coming.
"They all have many houses in the Casbah,"
chant the unbelievers ******* on sugar.
Words keep coming back like Bezezel for ****, Lictcheen
for oranges, like Mina, like Fatima, like Driss Berrada
dropping his trousers for an injection in the middle
of his shop.
The trunk is full of old sepia postcards,
barebreasted girls smoking hookahs etcetera.
We speak of the cataplana, the mist which obscures
even the cielo you cannot even see the hand in front
of your face.
We embrace, he says he thought of me only yesterday,
he says there are always nine such men who look like us
in the world and that we are the tenth.
We speak of the gold filets in the sky over Moulay Absalom.
The garbage men in rubber boots go thru the Socco pushing
wheeled drums of collected garbage.
An unveiled woman wobbles out of a taxi and heads home
before sunrise.
Paul couldn’t believe that was a Karma Street,
but I will never forget it.
And Billy Batman, who made the best hash in the world,
he dropped a loaded pistol in Kabul, shot himself in the *****,
took some ****** and lay down to die.
Now I must get up from my table in the allnight Café Central.
No more Dr. Nadal, no more window with red crosses & red
crescents.
The water thrown from buckets runs across the café floors
& over the sidewalks & I drop a dirham into the hand
of a blind beggar singing in the dark on the American stairs


From Anais Nin’s A Spy in the House of Love—"The women wear fireflies in their hair, but the fireflies stop shining when they go to sleep so now and then the women had to rub the fire- flies to keep them awake."

Have I ever been profoundly lost? Yes. Railroad tracks and a river wide as the Amazon, yet lost. Living in the intense sunshine of northern New York summer, but lost in the shade of a gazebo. And here? Here I am enclosed in a tomb of porcelain machinery. With another winter passing its calling card in at the window. The warm steam no longer cutting the rough edge. Wearing wool sweater nights. The freedom of summer gone and only one ****. What a nightmare, what a strange dream, life on planet, winter all around.

            A system, they call it a system. I call it an evolved anarchy. Repetition, never. What do I know. Repetition, every two thousand years. Coming of a frost, coming of a fire. When nature proves furious beyond remembrance. Polar bear mugs wino.

                               --------------------------------------

                         ­               *******

                            Tall, attractive, talented WM, 31,
                            trumpet player, takes pleasure in
                            performing ******* with clean
                            attractive women. Age, race, marital
                            status no object. All replies answered.

            Here is where it started, amusing myself in an undisciplined manner in the playpen. Being rude when interrupted. Height of bad taste hitting the wall, what's he talking about. Marlowe went to bed. He had a headache. Used an empty bottle for a teddy bear/sap. In the middle of the night, three secret men approached the rock he slept under. They did not see him there, the fire had long ago gone out. But they'd seen it across the valley, and tried to estimate. They were close.

            What do I care. They did this, he did that, they did this and this and that. He used his feet, took off his shoes. It mauled him to death in two minutes of the first round. Would have been better for him if it happened faster. Never got his knife out of his pocket. But he lived, with one eye after that.

                               --------------------------------------

                   What do you do with a drunken sailor early
                               in the morning?
                   You pull that sailor out of bed by his hairy
                               moorings.

            Why should anybody believe this, this tiresome outpouring of old moans and groans, grumbles about loneliness of life and dominance of telephone. This gamble on print, above the spoken, sung word. The meditative call to inhabitants of planet to kneel woefully and pray. No, to chant as if the planet were mending.

            Mending rhymes with ending, why not. And television, radio appreciated. Drugs and *****, jagged bent faces, black wet rock. The mantle of moss ripped away. Period. Amen to men. Absolute magical ripcord.

no... it's not one of those what came first
type of questions revolving around
a chicken and an egg...

but... since we became innate in translating
images into audibility,
of a more potent system of encoding...

i'm starting to question one "clue"...
did humanity discover the current
encoding system of meaning,
from what, let's just posit: hieroglyphs
as the starting block...

well... because whatever the Chinese
invested in originally... has remained intact...
but i'm wondering...

did we discover the Greek Δ (delta) first...
or... was it the case that...
encoding sounds, using images,
became so outdated...
that looking up at the stars...
               we figured a second tier of
the abstract of communication?

basically... did we discover the skeletal
phonetic first... or did we discover geometry first?
geometry: the basis for an abstract
spatial coordination, with regards to
whether time should be inclusive,
or exclusive in this new field of study?

to me it's a big question...
does the letter Δ (delta) predate the concept
of a triangle?

              new chicken, new egg dynamic...
i'm just curious...
   i'm trying to suggest that...
according to the Greeks...
         the triangle had to be
an a priori concept with the a posteriori
Δ...
               i could be wrong...
but... like an aeroplane conundrum...

i'm thinking: Δ... so... people talking about
climbing mountains?!
how else could you even begin abstracting
a letter, delta, conjuring up a triangle?!

I VM ᛏ Δ:
                   i walk up mountain...

primordial languages,
which primarily originated in verbs...
not the elaborate nouns and noun
distinctions of today...

so what came first? the triangle,
or Δ?
                 in Latin that's I VM T D...
WM? zigzag, or the anti-image
representation of side-winding,
walking: up-down-up-down-up-down...

so what came first?
the letter Δ... or the discussion concerning
triangles?

well... if you look further in time...
i'm pretty sure that I predates 1,
V predates 5,
                        IV predates 4...
X predates 10...
      a time when even 0 wasn't conjured
of looking into the void of Omicron...
so...

                  Δ predates the concept of
studying a triangle...
Δ is the a priori variant of the a posteriori
triangle...
given the Roman numerals...

and i'm pretty sure Δ was derived
from the contorts of a mountain...

i like that summary in the title:
I VM ᛏ Δ        : i travel up mountain...
Roman, Runic, Greek...

                  which just bewilders me,
how much of the ancient tongues had
to improvise with hand-gestures,
the same gesticulations that are still with
us when it concerns deaf people...

i did write a contradiction in this
piece didn't i?
   i might have written that the triangle
predated the Δ,
which is impossible...

                  given that...
Δ is an abstraction of a hieroglyph construct
of encoding...
   at having written the encoding Δ,
having spent some time looking
at a mountain... there was no triangle
in sight... no 2D pyramid in the world...

but then some scholastic book-worm
concentrated on the letter Δ...
and conjured up a triangle!

                         i guess i should make
this an ode, an ode to the god Tyr.

p.s.

there is a variant of how sign-language
provided the enzyme of evolution...
the gnostic A / Λ (lambda)
to denote the unit of 1, or the vector
encouragement posit of:
  one's actions -
                                   the gnostics
tend to focus, not on the iota, I...
the index finger... but the alpha...

                            i.e.

                      (  )     (  )
                            A

the blanks denoting the presence of eyes...
    by comparison Λ (la-mbda)
                                    how many African
languages use the mbaku - the mb-
prefix?
                                   Λ VM ᛏ Δ -
           i.e. i'm the first (on top)
to walk up the mountain...
                  the mountain is a mountain
because its foundation is the ground
i walk on...
               but among the people,
the people are not my foundation...
i am the foundation that pulls people
forward...
                                      otherwise...
conflict stemming from Λ in the form
of A...
                       hierarchic conflict at the cut
off point... whereby... a large majority
of people: fall into the abyss...
     as it definitely does happen
in real life.

I have dreams bigger
than this tired town

A waste of space, and
a waste of
lives

A waste

of dreams to ever
leave it.