A true story of a chance gathering of strangers in the back room of a Gelato Parlor *** restaurant, two years ago, in a little village near the bay, on a land surrounded by vineyards. Come visit.
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Gelato Nation

There is a place,
location secret,
mine to keep,
mine with which
you to tease,
make you envious,
a back room 'office'
jealous guarded
by a barkeep,
whose chosen invites sweeps
you into a reality that is
what you will it to be.

But nota bene, note well,
remembrances of things swell
from your past be the
only tongue spoken here.  

Code word entry only,
a shared whisper.
Perhaps One Woman,
may reveal its pleasures,
if she so chooses,
which are:

gelato laughs, poetry snaps,
Beatle songs sung ensemble,
by rag tag strangers
self-collected accidentally,
sung de rigeur off key
by voices lubricated by
cognac, laughter, and
the coldest of white wines,
issue of the very soil
upon which we sit.  

Words to value properly,
not in my possess to capture
the few moments in time when;

Strangers transform themselves
into a triple A nation united,
that will never be
S&P; downgraded.

A holy alliance
celebrating July 4th
all night long,
all participants
signatory witnesses to
its gelato conception,
as well as pallbearers
to its last drink dissolution,
the fullness of its lifetime
a vintage of a few hours extant,
a vintage, once drunk, is
a history, forever gone.

Mixologists please record:

One playwright, a psychologist, bond trader and a social scientist
with a dash of museum director,
and do not forget the
Hundred Year Old Woman,
whose Dowager Princess Daughter
(she, a mere eighty)'
from Central Park West
clarifies all of life dilemmas with
the singular analytical tool of:

But is it good for the Jews?

But t'is the barkeep
who is the leavening
in this evenings human
pastry-petrie dish.

He makes the pastiche,        
the ions of personalities,
coalesce best,
guitar strummer,
singer of songs that were our
multiple national anthems
when we were pseudo-rebels
starting out on our
long and winding roads.  

Long the King of the Keep!
Long live the memory of our
Gelato Nation,
may it stay sweet in
our antique collection of
the best moments of
our intersecting lives.

July 2011

the eagle flies free,
and men imprisoned,
behind lines drawn in the sand,
for which they are flattered,
to ****, to bleed, and to die ...

the free mourns,
for theirs is all the earth,
from which they are banished and exiled ...

the idolatrous flag,
another nail to hang the hypocrite ...

We are strangers
Yet my heart is open to you
Soon to be neighbors is the
American Dream
Not a greed machine feeding nothing but
Chauvinistic pleasure
Nor is learning how to hoard resources to one side of a body or border an active vision anymore
Instead this night aspires for green trees untouched except by skin, a home and morale for the fallen and free, even more varied cuisines
All faces spring forth just as fluently here, no need for same speak as we may share a smile and nod just as easily, duly noting
Our colors and diversity, who is suitably similar to the landscapes travelled throughout the states, a testimony to
Our uniquely cultured experience which yearns to preserve
forever under sparks and sprinklers in summer when things grow for all;
For me, for them,
For us, for We.

it’s funny you see
we didn’t ask to be born here
to this place or this family
but here we are
with our nation pride
and cultures that shape us
with friends bonded as time shared
and burden of our legacy

we are all learning and growing
to become our best selves
fighting against climate change,
and every environmental challenges
we are here to tackle these problems
into shaping a better future
for our future generation
and for ourselves

this is why we shouldn’t question where
we came from, which economic group...
we are all the same, living in the present
we are the ones who will continue to shape this world and this very nation

so please, care a little too much.

– billiondays

My last grandmother’s heartbreak
was caused by an accordion,
his husband played it so well
he must have sold his soul to the devil.

When my father gave it to buy new coats for winter
she cried for the memories and lost years,
the widow of a man who was still alive
only continents away.
He said his soul costed a fortune
but one that could keep his children’s stomachs full.

So he played all night long
in the streets of Switzerland,
over much colder pebbles than our damp Galician fields
without knowing if he will ever return,
but that hunger and poverty was the worst war of all.

Now I know my homeland is a grandmother
I am sure,
she has seen all her lovers emigrate
to a fertile land, a richer paradise.
She could not bear fast enough,
so her children scattered away
and died like Icarus,
burned and buried
by their killers in the plain.

Our country has made us weary of leaving,
that is why most of us stay
in a place that hasn’t been able to stop mourning.
How can one leave this ancestral sacrifice,
the beautiful language
of a quiet Sunday morning,
and the piles of leaves always gathered at your doorstep
ready for you to play with them.
A place that weeps for months
for those lost at sea,
it wasn’t the lighthouse fault,
they were meant to return,
only not to us.

There is no forgetting for us,
who still keep the instruments locked away.
Maybe that is why we learn to use our voices,
but here, it’s like screaming over the noise of the oceans,
here, it's not loud enough,
maybe it never will.

We’ll choke with the blood of our sore throats
and swollen tongues still not used to
the language who killed our grandfathers in the cornfields.
We will die repeating the same sung history,
like our grandmothers before us.

Small nations? Who cares!
Unless you're Israel. Who else?

Why spy and steal
Just slam the steel
Gift in hand, suggests
Your daughter - or son - or else?

Small nations
petty thieves
spy, steal from
small nations.

Big Boys see and laugh
All of mine is yours
If you worship us
You'll be one of us.

But Big Boy wannabe
China, will never be;
Splurged fake money by the ton
But none worships Dragon's son.

Over Silesian mountains
Somewhere beyond black seas
There is a forgotten dream
Conjuring visions of peace

Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
To the land that you adore
Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
Go your own way, go now, go

Many lives faced the dream
More of them fade to black
But in the eyes of the eagle
There is no turning back

Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
To the land that you adore
Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
Go your own way, go now, go

Their hearts are worn on sleeves
Determination so earnest
Merely calm before the storm
Quiet before the Tempest

Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
To the land that you adore
Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
Go your own way, go now, go
Inside the city walls
The static is meant to frighten
Those who await the call
In the echoes of the siren

Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
To the land that you adore
Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
Go your own way, go now, go

There are many roads to follow
Some of them are painted red
Yet as long as we march on
No one can declare us dead.

Dressed in steel,
Spear in hand,
The general conquers in four directions.

Dressed in law,
Brush in hand,
The minister governs all ranks of men.

Dressed in Gold,
Wine in hand,
The Emperor watches as his empire grow.