The young Musicians  are at rehearsal...the ladies and the lords will soon gather in the music chamber...and Caravaggio's musicians will play them some music and sing them various  songs...but first, they must rehearse...


The Musicians at Rehearsal

Let us continue…
Let me tune a little of this lute
while you peruse the notes
and you clear your throat
And what’s our Cupid doing?
Crushing grapes again between his teeth

Let us rehearse well
to render a song of softness
and ease and grace
A song of love
with sweet music
that will charm our guests

And we shall present it
in the private chamber
of honored lords and ladies -
and we shall sing like angels
and one of us will be as Cupid
dancing and flying as fancy takes him

Let us hurry now
though let us not forget polish
and pace and perfection…
come, let us again rehearse together


...and soon the ladies and the lords will arrive...and the musicians will perform and sing their songs of love, passion and sadness...

...and the ladies and the lords are seated in the music chamber...and Caravaggio's musicians play and they sing a song of love and passion...


Song of Love

O luscious Ladies
and brave Sirs

the clouds join
with one another
and the streams sing;
the birds sit amorous
on the branches
and the trees sway
while the flowers spread their scent
in the air
and the bees dance in a daze

ah, Ladies are made for men
and men for women
and each so shaped for perfect fits -
embrace then the lover beside you
O Sirs pick the red berries
on the lips of the luscious ladies;
and O lovely Ladies,
yield to the embrace
of the gallant beside you
and feel flowers bloom within -
for men are made for women
and women for men
and each so shaped for perfect fits

O embrace and kiss
dear luscious Ladies
and most accomplished Sirs
for Cupid seeks that you make love
and produce heavenly cherubim
who in turn, nights and days,
will make love like you do
now in this chamber of pleasures


...and so ends the first song...and the musicians prepare to sing one more for the charming ladies and the elegant lords...a song of sadness to end the night...

...the beautiful ladies and the lords want more from Caravaggio's musicians... the musicians are always glad to oblige..they sing their song of sadness, of loss and love...*



O this ecstasy we call love


O this ecstasy we call love -
what is it?
why do we crave it
when there is such pain
that weighs on the body and heart?

O this joy we call love -
what is it?
why do we fall
when there is so much deceit
and betrayal?
why do we love
when there are lies
and hidden motives?

O this curse called love -
it has dried my heart out
and my being is smeared
as cloth with oil and grime;
my best times have been taken away
and there is left only
contempt and scorn
and derision…

O this darkness we call love -
what is it?
why do we still move to it
even as it teases us
and leaves us broken
and forlorn?
  

*...and it is time to go...and the ladies and lords bow and they depart...some depart hand in hand...silent...some depart alone, sad and contemplative...

if i was a pearl i’d feel itchy scratchy stuck inside an oyster shell if i was a tree i’d  be a big fat redwood fantasizing about Julia Butterfly Hill living and peeing around me if i was a dog i’d be a Catahoula hound if i was Italian i’d be Sicilian if i was pasta i’d be spaghetti if i was Icelandic i’d be Bjork if i was a rock star i’d be Elvis Presley Bob Dylan Jimi Hendrix Jim Morrison John Lennon Bruce Spingsteen Maynard James Keenan if i was i writer i’d be Herman Melville Mark Twain James Joyce William Faulkner Thomas Bernhard Yukio Mishima Naguib Mahfouz Phillip K. **** Gabriel Garcia Marquez Annie Proulx Lydia Davis if i was a poet i’d be Walt Whitman Sylvia Plath Ted Hughes Gwendolyn Brooks Pablo Neruda  Heather McHugh Carl Sandburg Robert Frost Arthur Rimbaud Dante Alighieri Homer if i was a painter i’d be Leonardo Da Vinci Michelangelo da Caravaggio Johan Vermeer Rembrandt van Rijn Paul Cezanne Marcel Duchamp Jackson ******* Mark Rothko Ad Reinhardt Anselm Kiefer Susan Rothenberg if i was a photographer i’d be Man Ray Ansel Adams Edward Weston Diane Arbus Robert Mapplethorpe Sally Mann Helmut Newton Richard Avedon Annie Leibovitz if i was a philosopher i’d be Socrates Plato Aristotle Jean Jacques Rousseau Sören Kierkegaard Immanuel Kant Karl Marx Georg Hegel Friedrich Nietzsche Henry David Thoreau Ralph Waldo Emerson  Jean-Paul Sartre Jean Baudrillard Michel Foucault if i was a singer i’d be Woody Guthrie Otis Redding Grace Slick Bob Marley Joni Mitchell Marvin Gaye Johnny Cash Patsy Cline June Carter Patti Smith Chrissie Hinde Nick Cave P J Harvey Beyonce if i wa a band i’d be Velvet Underground Ramones *** Pistols Clash Cure Smiths Joy Division Uncle Tupelo Pixies Nirvana Nine Inch Nails Madrugada Sigur Ros White Stripes Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra Justice of the Unicorns if i was a boot i’d be Chippewa Frye Ariat Red Wing Tony Lama Wellington if i was a shoe i’d be Christian Louboutin Jimmy Choo Kedds Chaco Chuck Taylor p f flyer if i was a dress i’d be Channel Dolce & Gabbanna Giorgio Armani Marc Jacobs Comme des Garçons if i was a cowboy shirt i’d be H bar C Rockmount Temp Tex Karman Wrangler Levis Strauss Lee if i was a hat i’d be a Stetson Borsalino Stephen Jones if i was a fruit i’d be a mango apple banana blackberry if i was an scent i’d smell like fresh perspiration jasmine sandalwood ylang ylang the ocean if i was a doctor i’d be a gynecologist neurosurgeon if i was a flower i’d be a hibiscus rose orchard if i was a stone i’d be a sparkling ruby diamond opal if i was a knife i’d be a k-bar switch-blade machete if i was a gun i’d be a Remington Winchester Beretta Glock AK-47 if i was a car i’d be a Lamborghini Ferrari BMW Saab Volkswagen GTO Ford Mustang Dodge Challenger if i was a  TV show i’d be Law and Order if i was actor i’d be Charlie Chaplin Humphrey Bogart Steve McQueen Robert De Niro Ed Norton Shawn Penn if i was an actress i’d be Marlene Dietrich Ingrid Bergman Natalie Wood Audrey Hepburn Marilyn Monroe Helen Mirren  Meryil Streep Brigette Fonda Robin Wright Julianne Moore Angie Harmon if i was a female comedian i’d be Gilda Radner Lily Tomlin Nora Dunn Joan Cusack Sarah Silverman Tina Fey if i was a  football player i’d be Sid Luckman George Blanda Walter Payton **** Butkus Mike Singletary Joe Montana Jerry Rice Payton Manning LaDanian Tomlinson  Drew Breeze if i was a celebrity i’d be Charlotte Gainsbourg if i was a rapper i’d be Tupac Shakur if i was a movie director i’d be Sam Peckinpah Robert Altman Stanley Kubrick Roman Polanski Werner Herzog Rainer Fassbinder Louis Bunuel Alfred Hitchcock Jean-Luc Godard François Truffaut if i was a bird i’d be a eagle hawk sparrow bluebird if i was a fish i’d be a dolphin shark narwhal Charlie the tuna if i was breakfast i’d be a French toast pancake folded in half with 2 strips of bacon in between if i was a cold cereal i’d be snap crackle popping rice crispies shredded wheat cheerios oatmeal if i was tea i’d be Japanese green matcha Irish breakfast Tulsi Thai holy basil Lapsang souchong Luzianne Lipton if i was a soap i’d be French hand milled ayurvedic Avon Ivory Dove Pears Aveda  if i was a man i’d be a football basketball baseball tennis swimmer athlete if i was a woman i’d be a track star runner writer painter gardener doctor nurse yoga mom i'm just scratching the surface and the beat goes on lahdy dah dah

it didn’t take a lot a look a few words a few more looks bam not that any girl stuck around and so it was on to the next nothing is precious everything is possible forget what you know leave the road behind invent dance new dance cough spit breathe dance verbs multiplying gazillions of verbs stars what is it about art in my mind i hear all these things i was going to express all these itches scratch pick scabs get drunk write poetry dance ******* in your mouth ******* in my mouth salty sea surfing waves Caravaggio Courbet Turner Goya Ad Reinhardt Rothko Rimbaud Johnny Unitas Walter Payton Annie Proulx Patty Berglund Hannah Wilke Kim Gordon dark clouds rainbows meteor showers lantern licorice amethyst bone

in the end it’s you and your maker ashes to ashes dust to dust Mom questions it’s 4:30 PM December in Chicago and pitch black i don’t understand it’s not supposed to be this dark this cold she imagines a past that never existed events never occurred

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

it will be daylight soon and i am unprepared so terribly unfit for a new dawn suddenly realize tomorrow is today

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

when people die in masses is it any less lonely more comforting than when you die individually or is dying solitary for everyone

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

redemption is a powerful force but what if existence actually does not present second chances and we must live with the consequence of our mistakes

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

if there is an afterlife do i have any say in it or are we all merely lost baggage tossed from airport to airport

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

what if travelers at airports were met with welcoming arms shared stories food instead of suspicion body scanners separation boarding seating procedures

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

i built a magnificent sandcastle with wide open rooms interesting views spacious bathrooms huge kitchen secret places winding stairways auspicious towers swinging rope bridges welcoming gates but the tide washed it all away

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

i cry yet know not why am i a ***** i must take the goose by the neck whatever that means

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

speaking personally i’m never interested in the last bite only the first bite the middle tastes rather bland all chewing gulping automatic consumption talking swallowing stifling gases

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

horses mate with donkeys then out comes mules yet mules cannot propagate nature is so strange mysterious what is it about the attraction between donkeys and horses

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

2 gorgeous petite charming sweet young girls are subletting my place in Tucson i imagine ménage à trios or relationship with either one of them then realized how improper my thoughts will i ever learn

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

Reiko likes hanging out naked if the door is locked and they’re in for the evening she strips Reiko is one of those women who look better without clothes the curls under her arms are growing in dark thick her bush is filling out even her **** is hidden by silky brown hairs he cannot stop checking her out she pretends not to be aware as she trims her toenails he leers **** your cooch looks tasty Odys i like that you can speak crude to me he murmurs you really like that she answers yes i really like that he sees himself in her he is deep in sleep wakes by her hand pulling his hand down to her ***** bone he stirs confused in half sleep as she continues tugging his hand Odysseus realizes what Reiko wants it is 3 AM he touches her there warm distended begins to massage wetness gushes moves down bed puts face there she presses pumping grinding whispering repeatedly i want to *** so bad his mouth tongue breath work her hands grip his head push unyielding muscles stiffen arch shudder continues licking until her body lies still crawls up kisses her forehead hair bodies spoon fall to sleep in the morning he comments you were a naughty little girl last night Reiko grins answers i had an orangutan attack he questions an orangutan attack she confesses yeah they both laugh he has never known a woman so fierce urgent to ****** Reiko has a man’s libido she reminds him of himself they mimic each other hearing Reiko speak Odysseus’s own words back at him and visa versa convey how demanding insecure insensitive each can be to other they do not simply speak but mimic each other Reiko ‘s voice drops to low pitch as she grabs his buns kids hey Reiko Lee what do you think about us wiping each other’s butts we could become more intimate with our bodies Odysseus raises his voice sounding feminine replies Schwartzpilgrim you’re gross take a hike it is hilarious yet intuitive therapy that maintains level playing field neither allows other to be too weak or dominant

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

it is Sunday snowing blizzard freezing cold outside Odysseus sits on floor watching Bear’s football game at Reiko’s she sits naked paging through Art Forum magazine across sofa from him he hears her crunching on bag of barbecue potato chips during half time he reaches touches her bush runs fingers through her ***** hairs twirling them in his fingers she spreads her legs wide open he smells her hair breath perspiration ****** *** feet feels both repelled and attracted he is lost in fascination gently tugs on her lips slides finger inside massages probes her opening she directs him to kneel stands above him her arms at waist her pelvic bone in his face she orders **** it **** it good he follows her instruction **** my ***** she commands as she holds his head in hands her long skinny body thrusts hips forward Reiko presses gently pumping then more furious rough into Odysseus’s face ooohhh i’m going to shoot a load baby swallow my *** she shoves ***** bone into his face bangs his nose hard yet he remains ******* her legs thighs stomach muscles tremble oh oooohhhhh ohh Odys did you see that i came just like a guy oh Odys i loved that he wipes mouth laughs

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

a person’s sexuality is always in question how one interprets his or her own ****** persona relative to another person’s personality response ratio how one’s power measures reacts to another’s vulnerabilities strengths Odysseus and Reiko fit well together switching roles in impulsive volley he loves her masculinity the unpredictable equation of their love he teases Reiko Lee i’m so attracted to the tomboy in you i want to **** you off and let you **** me come over here and stick that fat hard **** in my pink little **** hole all the frustration rage pain pent up inside you i want you to harness that hurt and slam it into me and shoot your load all over me **** me good Reiko Lee she looks at him strange says you’re a weird bird Schwartzpilgrim how weird do you think he asks her voice takes on a creepy overruling tone Odys, you want me to fist-******* he snaps shut up Reiko Lee get out of here she runs fingers through hair breathes out through nose taunts Odys let me ******* a ***** and ******* in the *** Odysseus’s voice grows loud Reiko Lee you’re crossing the line just because i mention some crazy thought doesn’t mean i’m actually into such weirdness don’t try to take what i say to some sound conclusion i enjoy experimenting but i’m one hundred percent male i like to test limits because i’m secure in my manhood spicing our *** life with ***** fantasies is one thing but don’t overstep i got the **** and you got the ***** let’s keep it that way don’t mess with me she replies ok ok Odys i didn’t mean to offend you

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

often he personifies the lead and she interprets the willing or amendable he requests many ****** urges she for the most part eagerly fulfills yet knowing his desires run over the top he considerately concedes to her sensibility he asserts rule number 1 Reiko Lee please let me have my way with you ok please try to not refuse me she smiles consents ok Odys and i want the same from you he insists rule number 2 repeat after me i’m addicted to your ***** i’m codependent on your **** she repeats i’m addicted to your ***** Odys i’m codependent on your **** he challenges rule number 3 at least one ******* a day agreed? She answers yes Odys agreed later he thinks about their conversation approaches her Reiko Lee sometimes i need more than one ******* a day maybe one in the morning and one after you get home from work i need your adoring attention down there will you do that for me please she shoots sarcastic look at him what are you a cow that needs milking everyday all right Odys whatever you desire he gratefully acknowledges Reiko Lee you’re so good to me thank you next morning he says Reiko Lee when i think about you the first image that comes to mind is your eyes i love your eyes more than any other part of you she comments oh yeah more than my **** hole? he flinches surprised oh god i can’t believe you said that you are so outrageous Reiko Lee you have got the sexiest **** hole i’ve ever seen i love adore revere your hairy **** hole when are you going to let me get some of that she remarks we’ll see Schwartzpilgrim in due time the following morning he notices bathroom door is wide open peering inside he sees her sitting on toilet she looks up smiling as he nears he questions which are you doing peeing or ******* she answers why do you need to know he requests lift up and let me watch she raises her thighs knees legs curling toes on toilet seat her **** muscles pucker then a brown extent begins appearing from her hole her vaginal lips flare urethra presses as short spurt of ***** accompanies discharge the ***** length drops into bowl followed by smaller piece Odysseus perceives the action produced by her body as intimate natural expression occurring without contrivance manipulation he studies the form as if it were a sculptural object descended into water to bottom of bowl Reiko reaches for roll of toilet tissue he interrupts **** she answers let me wipe myself first it reeks in here you mean watching me taking a **** turns you on you are one sick monkey he says shut up and **** she follows his instruction after several minutes he pulls out of her mouth jerks off while she watches he shoots wildly on her chin neck chest she rubs his ***** on her ******* they both break out in laughter she says come on let’s take a shower together she begins speaking sentence he finishes it she says Odys i’m not comfortable with more than he breaks in one ******* a day i understand Reiko Lee she expresses thank you Odys one is enough agreed he replies ok ok

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

a week passes Saturday evening she comes from work to his place with stressed look on her face she falls back into wall on floor with her legs stretched out she asks got anything to eat he answers a couple of beers in the fridge her brow furrows as she speaks in low tone Odys i’m guessing there’s something seriously wrong with you he questions wrong with me huh what she comments your physique is weird your shoulder blades and rib cage stick out you’ve got a sunken sternum he answers yeah i know it’s not really a problem more like natural peculiarities she says yeah well you’ve got other peculiarities he asks oh yeah like what she remarks i’ve never known or heard of a man who gets hard as often as you it’s deviant you’ve got some kind of disorder you need to go see a doctor he admits i know i got a problem my libido is out of control it’ll calm down it’s been a long time since i felt so hot for someone do you really think it’s serious enough to go see a doctor she answers serious enough to insist you bone me once a day he laughs Reiko Lee you had me going she grins get over here you ***** ******* and **** me good Reiko’s favorite way to ****** is with her legs closed tight she lies beneath while his ******* presses in pumping her thighs buttocks squeeze stomach muscles tense whole body jerks spasms as she reaches ****** Odysseus’s favorite position is with Reiko on top he likes her rhythms and control

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

when Michael Vick was found guilty for dog fighting mauling cruel killing i wanted him dead dead dead but he is a brilliant quarterback and i was wrong who am i to understand another person’s background judge them maybe there is redemption

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

if another war comes it’s China we must fight to hate fear them run hide

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

it’s a long twisted road down a dark cold hole many are too damaged others work toward salvation yet some unscathed by all this filth

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

on the brighter side death gets a bad rap by mortals think positive perhaps death is graduation to whatever at worst death is release from life’s disappointments expectations responsibilities burdens betrayals pain horrors

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

i remember when Dad was dying all these new people who i still remember entered my life for a brief time it seems like the same thing is happening now

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

Mom i’m right here behind you don’t be scared i’m watching out for you

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

Caravaggio

  
A painting of Caravaggio has been hanging on a wall
in a modest house when it was discovered, it was painted by the greatest
Painter of all time.
I gladdened my heart. I´m a great admirer of this robustious man
A misfit that didn´t fit in the company of artists but walked his road.
No, I have no Caravaggio on my wall, only prints of his work
his original belongs to the millionaires and collector who byes the great man´s
art and hide it from view.
Art should be available for all he speaks to us working-class few other
painters ever did.
A museum is a suitable place for him, not rotting away
in the mad people´s world
who thinks art equal money?

I always hated art.

as a kid, the forty-five minutes
every ******* Friday and Wednesday was
excoriating. even though
the other kids adored
fondling their fingers through paint
swatches, it just wasn't for me.
until I met you, my muse and my
canvas, your shuddering skin a
cream tableaux for my
lust to reimagine
pointillism cubism impressionism
le renaissance haut
in scratches and bites and
streaks of saliva criss-crossing
goosebumped skin.

I always hated art.

"Amor Vincit Omnia
                      (Love conquers all)"
                                  M. Caravaggio

He said:   Turn back the drapes,
                  this requires an early
                  morning light....
He said:   How rare...that pervasive
                  primary color.
He said:   There was dew left on the
                  skin from the bath.
He said:    I have painted holy men!
He said:    The brush wasn't wet
                   enough.
He said:    Notice that triangle of sable
                   below the navel?  A difficult
                   color...
He said:    I never saw Matthew and
                   Paul like this.
He said:    There's no mistaking his
                   aura.
He said:    Turn more to the right.
He said:    If I were a woman--
                   I would love him too.

Twas there they convened
framed by a doorway
a triangular composition
with gods light shining
on their grey and balding heads.
an oratio ad contemplatio
of an evening.

The artist evokes his tormented psyche

Through gestural abstraction
a systematic colorfield emerges
The blurring of dreamworld and reality

All pretensions dissolve
But…
Critics still criticize
Snobs still scoff
   the creative will still drink and drug themselves the death.

whichever way the wind blows
that’s where my dreams escape me

They transform to Queens of Hearts and Princesses of utter

Royal

Baroque

Beauty
Bygone
Be Gone
my heart must resist

I will not be controlled by the guild
Caravaggio kept painting until he got killed
Went insane like most artists
Couldn’t stop before he got his fill

Smiling eyes

In sensuous touch

Of naked sound

Taste mysterious pulses

Imprisoned yet unbound

Spangled light reflected

Colors that pierce the ground

While echoes of

Forgotten brush strokes flutter

Like a thousand birds all around

One moment, this moment

This scene, Oh! this freedom

Holding in the artists tender touch

The promise of a lifetime

late last night i walked alone along the desolate shore
of Monet’s pond at Giverny the pale moon
sometimes obscured by impasto clouds
the waterlilies those treacherous waterlilies
screaming in agony
Saskia, Rembrandt’s wife, was there
naked and weeping, her hair and body
wet and slimy draped in orange pond algae
Cezanne crouched nearby cursing and slashing canvases
with a butcher’s knife before tossing them into a fire
when he finished he made fierce love to Saskia
who sang an old Dutch love song as he did
Rembrandt was in deep conversation with Monet
in a puddle of passing moonlight
and didn’t seemed to mind, anything
to stop her endless wailing I heard him say
Monet says Titian’s mistress is now a mermaid
who lives beneath my betraying waterlilies which is why they cry
and why I keep painting them no one makes love like her
just look at Titian’s Madonnas
Van Gogh stumbles in from a dung-filled alley, bleeding badly
from the bullet wound in his abdomen,
where the rich kids from Auvers tormented and shot him
just for the fun of it, Vermeer bankrupt and gaunt
steps from behind a tree and asks if it’s suicide or the new art
Vincent says let the people believe that tragic ending
it’s a dramatic final brushstroke to my life even if untrue
but I love the blackbirds and my wheat fields and blue irises
way too much to spill my guts on them cadmium red maybe
my left ear lobe maybe but never my guts
where’s de Kooning anyhow he yells the *******
borrowed my paintbrush and never returned it
now I’ll have to paint with the tongue of Gauguin’s old shoe
Caravaggio floats by face up caressed by the wet palms of the weeping lilies
he’s burning up with fever delirious screaming
where’s my ship where’s my ship
they’re all on the ship my paintings
my paintings will redeem me the Pope knows
I only killed one man
Monet strokes his beard like Moses Rembrandt
says it happens to all of us even our wives and
mistresses perhaps it’s the lead in our *****
it’s not suicide it’s not homicide it’s the madness of living too much
Rothko appears, a translucent ghost inside a mist salving his slashed wrist
with Monet’s pond water Mark washing washing
the healing water the Giverny water dancing with pran the giver of life
that’s what Monet was painting at the end
using the palette from the other side
pran transmitted through the wailing
of the waterlilies the siren’s song
that lures artists to their death
and then washes them clean for the next go
to pick up where they left off, alone
with his whiskey bottle Jackson ******* hurls paint clots
at Rembrandt’s Still Life with Peacocks
those two dead peacocks they’re all dead peacocks
floating belly up under Monet’s footbridge
all the color gone from their plumage
drink the water Jackson or better yet
let Cezanne rip out your diseased liver
and wrap it carefully in a weeping waterlily
and float it out into the middle of the pond
where the forgiving moonlight and the mermaids
and Monet’s eyes now dim with cataracts
can help it filter out the poison of living
too much and then you too Jackson
will make painterly love to Saskia and she will
daub your diseased body in Titian’s blue
and her husband’s gold and Vincent’s sunflower yellows
and send you back into the world
where you will continue to splash us all  
as we lie flat on the ground hands and legs intertwined
our faces and bodies your canvas more willing than ever
Jackson, you’ll turn us into a unified field of smashed hues not just from here but from where you stand one foot on the other side
get us all raging drunk Jackson in that myth you longed for
splatter us in the tinted mess of the mystery you raged at
and had to settle for drunken oblivion instead
drink deeply the mystic-hued water of Giverny
Vincent and Paul and Mark and Jackson
and when you come back
spit it out on our parched souls

sand
cherry blossom
vintage clothing
poem
grass...

You Are These, My Love.

like a fairy
is like a dark-eyed Junco, twitter-pated in snowfall apocalypse
like a painter's palette, engrossed in the notion
of gone from me. like chocolate. a sun down
feathering our bed.
like water and thunder
blasting sand
through the blossom
of my cherished -
cherishing.

a
vintage
ache
clothing the naked risk
of my honest poesy.
like the grass roots of joy
fairly gaming the
opaque eye -
of some rara avis-
blinking outside Caravaggio
palette...
a
deep cocoa
of divine waters,
that flood the ludicrous
of your charms
like austerity
is plush

our heart's are vintage clothing

and we must.

what's a metaphor like ? do you simile -
the way I am a valentine ?

or do you
love
me
?

deluge

[ ? ]

(Arturo, Lucca, Miguel, Frederick, Marco, Cruz, Pedro and Ivan were playing cards and chess. Lucca, Cruz and Miguel started to smoke clay pipes.)

''Nice angled bowl with a coat of arms, '' said Lucca. ''Yes, '' said Cruz
While smoking and relaxing, ''where did you buy them, Lucca? ''
''This one is made in Holland- a way to liberate your muse.''
''Give new life to a broken heart, '' said Miguel, '' It's like scuba, ''

Laughed Lucca, '' Ivan, how could you avoid the army as a serf? ''
''As a yeoman having my own land, I had an accident.''
Cruz asked him, ’’Did you receive some support from a dwarf? ''
''I broke my left leg when I fell from my horse- a strange event.''

''Interesting! '' said Marco. ''You became a rich merchant
In the Ottoman Empire.'' ''Yes, I sold my land, '' smiled Ivan.
''You could go to Moscow, '' ''I didn't want to be a servant.''
'' I was a middleman in the fur trade, '' ''Let's enliven

This game with some wine! '' '' These cards are unique, '' said Pedro.
''This rare pictorial pack is made in London, '' said Marco.
Marco told Cruz, ''If you need new cards, I'll give you pronto.''
''Give me the most immoral hand, '' laughed Cruz, ''come in, Fargo! ''

(Fargo entered to bring the wine, which was served using glasses. Ibrahim brought dried fruits, nuts, biscuits and small cakes. The women had spent over an hour dressing for this meeting because it was customary for women to change their entire outfit for any event on the ship. Rosa, Geraldine and Erica were doing some needlework. Carla, Chiara and Pedra were reading some expensive books. Chiara chose to read a book written by Elena Piscopia, Carla was reading some philosophy by Mary Astell and Pedra liked the books written by Aphra Behn. Francesca started to paint and Bella was trying to play ‘’Capriccio stravagante’’ by the Italian composer Carlo Farina using a violin.)

Francesca said, '' The violin replaced the viol, ''
''The music written for it established its identity, ''
Said Rosa, ''I like the opera 'L'Orfeo' and its tale.''
''Through polyphony, Monteverdi has supremacy.''


Francesca continued, ''Chiara, what are you reading? ''
''A book about Christ written by the monk Laspergio and late
Translated by Elena Piscopia, a nun being
The first woman that graduated with a doctorate.''


Carla said, ''Francesca, what are you painting in that blue? ''
'' I'm not Caravaggio, still I paint a medusa.''
Carla replied, ''You used amazing hues, and it's sweet in view! ''
Chiara said, ''It's an image of the port of Siracusa! ''

(Francesca embraced Chiara.)

‘’ ''It's so lovely to see you together; you are good friends, ''
Said Geraldine while finishing her work, ''do you have children? ''
''I've married Arturo six years ago and our love ascends
After his long widowhood; Francesca is his daughter.''

Chiara took Geraldine's hand with a noble gesture
She told her that Arturo lost a fortune three months ago,
And this trip was offered by Lucca to change their life's texture.
''Maybe Francesca painted to petrify the time's flow.''

''Francesca is the sweetest child I've ever seen until now.
She's adorable in this purity of her mind.
She's shining like a star belonging to Ursa Major Plough,
And I love Arturo even in affairs he is so blind.''

(Arturo and Marco were the last passengers who left the room while talking. Arturo ended the conversation.)
‘’ Russia is a force needing an expansion quite quickly
But, unfortunately, her friends are not really her friends.
Pushing Russia, who is an honest power, clearly
Will turn the destiny of the whole world into dead ends.’’

(to be continued.....)

Poem by Marieta Maglas

Loneliness is a sketchwork of pen and ink of iron gall,
Brushed over in brown wash of wood soot from oak,
Disguised then under tempera of golden-ratio of yolk,
Flared over with fiery oils to the smoke-blurred brink, sfumato,
Or pigment of the fresco, a shade of off-life, languid as watercolor,
Or from the too-fondly-felt impasto knife.

But bares its bones in the light-dark cleft of Caravaggio,
With diminutions of death and the storm’s dark imbroglio,
And sunlight as flesh made into soul,
The skin stretched whole around the world.

Each sky is just a sketch
Of loneliness, left unsigned,
By every hand.

honest to god, with trans-gender i'm retro-******, and i know why the homosexuals were given all the pleasures of heterosexual coupling of social responsibility but not given the opinions, the homosexuals complained that the trans-gender movement dis-appreciated the appreciation of the male physique, god isn't beauty tyrannical, whether here on the anorexic catwalk? god isn't beauty tyrannical, the sea and the mountain, what beauty... but what tyranny!  so the laws favoured homosexuals, they were given freedoms akin to heterosexual relations, they were even given the new breed of *******, the surrogate mothers... what a poker game this has become! god almighty, i'm about to faint! well, you keep looking for genitalia, i'll just take a u-turn and talk to you about T R A N S E TH N I K U S - trans-ethnicity, trans-ethnic and retro-******, synonyms of heterosexual and bilingual non-respectively... and i got a helium balloon handy to mind the writing... chimp-chap and chipmunks - breeze! breezy! breezy! ooh yeah! tina turner gorged on tunas lodged with sardines canned!*

these days it should be called retro-******
rather than heterosexual... just to spice things up - via
in politics telling us to curb colonising the continent of
vocabulary, i.e.: hey foot in New England isn't exactly
Iowa!                                 get the ******* out!
teach them the english language
and censor them with political correctness -
even Stalin would find this approach funny -
'what?! no purges?! ha ha,
this is fantastic!' it's like the everyday
grey experience of failed
abortion and premature cancer
of existence just got a knee stuck
in its mouth - is that chew choke
or chow mein?! i doodle, don't know -
it might be a Caravaggio in the attic
or Anne Frank in the basement -
but given the populace it's still
a **** tourist trip - so take that
******* selfie with a selfie stick
and chomp a hamburger like
a turkey force-fed before thanksgiving.
no, i'm seriously retro-******...
i faked the *** and had a conversation,
neither worked - i mean it
worked faking it - but then the *** dried
and ******* took over
like i was re-experiencing puberty -
and she moaned that it was sick -
that one direction icon left the band
because he wasn't allowed to don a beard...
or smoke a joint...
               forget the 1960s Renaissance,
forget the Holocaust deniers,
come and meet the 1960s Anglo-Renaissance
deniers... **** didn't happen...
oompa loompa do'ba'de'do (insert H when required) -
prof. Kleks - kleksografia - kaczka dziwaczka -
             and other hits - well, mm, d'uh,
imagine trans-
                             (+)    -esse -
                      not gender related - but hence
the polak plumbers and other noose educators,
keenly the rus applaud -
                                               τρανσεθνικóς -
two golds and one silver at the european
championships of weight-lifters:

rank 1 / ****** 1 / clean & **** 2
name: tomasz ZIELINSKI (bernard)
body weight: 93.7kg
******: 176kg
clean & ****: 211kg
Σ: 387kg.
                                     ants laughing in the background:
'check out my exoskeleton!'
                          'boy! you and yo mush inside!'
   'keep the hard outside and the soft inside!'
                  'pecking the pecks of those naked monkeys...
               boy, i would!'
     'give 'em to the earthworms if they're not
               smart to be burned!'
     'goth macabre i too would endorse for a stable diet.'
  'mm, twice the body weight at the limit
    for them, and x5 for our ontological allowances.'
  'you know they call it a natural border of tribes,
      the franks to one side, the germans to the other,
               the rhine in between.'
   'well, d'uh, you ever much wood with rotten wood
           with termites?'
      'that's beside the point.'
                     'well, whatever it is,
          termites are... slogans for culture...
     their mounds rock hard from institutionalised
   saliva squirting -
                             what do we have?
       forest mounds the size of moles unearthing
          protected with twigs and our swarming bodies...
    we live underground - the termites became
     audacious.'
                 'oh stop it, i'm enjoying the joke
      that humans can only lift over twice their body weight
               while we can lift five times our weight.'

the intermediate state of art from one innovative orientation pinpointed to the next is plagiarism, and the output of this intermediate state is colossal, although back in the day, it would have been called schooling, like the school of painting that might have produced a pseudo-caravaggio x10 in number for a marquis dumbflou, a don quichehot, a tsar ukuleleitch, a baron einsbach etc etc. well you can’t expect everyone to own an original caravaggio, can you?

Paintings delight my eye and ignite my imagination: Devotional icons, the omni cubist view, the brazen eyes of Whistler and Manet; and Monet's lilies.

The perspectives of the renaissance and the violence of Caravaggio; the lush glowing skin of Rubens' nudes; and more!

I celebrate the intellects that created these.

Inspired by Caravaggio's Saint John the Baptist in the Wilderness

Repent!
in my dreams
Repent!
in my waking
Repent!
in the crunch of every locust I eat
Repent!
in the sands of my resting place
Repent!
in the dust on my feet

I asked
What shall I cry
in this wilderness so vast?
What shall I sing
to Jordan’s banks?
Repent!
The voice answered,
and it rang in my ears,
and it rolled through my bones,
and at once I understood my father’s fear.
The voice of the LORD
is not a dessert rose,
but a knife
cutting ego from its sinew.
The voice left my father dumbfounded.
The same gave me words to speak.

Repent!
in my step
Repent!
in my breathing
Repent!
swimming in my tired eyes
Repent!
in the water I bury them in
Repent!
resonating each fiber of life

every breath tastes
rancid on my tongue;
fun fact, if all you eat is
raspberry yogurt and
hypersaturated strawberries,
your ***** looks like
Jackson ******* plus
Picasso's Rose Period.
has anyone ever told you
that drunk texting you is like
standing in front of a Caravaggio;
it's dusky and dark and sensuous and I
******* adore getting lost in
translation. Cezanne draws solely in
molecular geometry, tetrahedral,
trigonal pyramidal, octahedrons
scrawled across the canvas and doused
in living color. Thursday night already
seems so intangible,
a bad dream that didn't dice up my liver
like a ******* sous chef. Thursdays
have come and gone, the weekends
ever-beckoning, and the scent of Smirnoff
stays in my sinuses.

I wish I could run to end of the cosmos
Just reach the reluctant intellectuals
Just so I could catch a glimpse of them ducking out of the limelight
I wouldn’t bother asking them
It wouldn’t do any good
They wouldn’t have much to say
They’d be a bit focused sticking to their morals
And criticizing the museums
Tell them to open up just a little bit
So that way everyone could rush in
Empty canvas in hand
Or typewriters
Or a marble slab waiting for them
They’d rush in
Bringing a beautiful fire to everything else
Explaining themselves to Matisse and Greco
Mona Lisa and Caravaggio would understand though
At least I think so
Van Gogh laughing in utter delight
The fire would burn all the glitz and convention
But all the passion
Emotion
Angst
Uncontemplated beauty would shine brighter than ever before

Some observers would go insane
Climbing up to the top of skyscrapers
Jumping off
Screaming, on their way down
DUCHAMP
Conning the police out of their guns
Putting it to their head
Walking into the middle of the street
Welcoming the buses with open arms
And I know you want to save those people
But it’s not up to you
We’ll see them again someday
Hopefully they’ll understand it then

Don’t cry for them, though
Look at all the others
Running through the streets
Naked
Without shame
Greeting their friends from so many years ago
As they stand in front of Rothko and he looks into both of their eyes
And they stare back trying to let themselves be encircled
With smiles
That shine like halos
As they look at their sisters
Without lust
And with compassion
While they express their enthusiasm for jazz
And sing as loud as trumpets
Dancing as fast as a piano

I’m finished crying for the dinosaurs
Or feeling guilty for Christ

I jump into the smile of the moon
I spread my arms wide open in front of the sun
Just to let him know that he’s welcome

paint on callused fingertips,
paint dyeing German beer,
paint flickering fluttering trembling
across bare canvas skin as you
finesse, ink and watercolor at your
whim while you work. you are no
Caravaggio, much more a Gentileschi,
but Michelangelo himself would be
awed by your radiance, the subtle
art of your face and
brushstrokes of your curves,
spine sinuous undulating while you
dance for him.

I've been begging for you
to tell me something new for
months upon months, to tell me
that you are not the same,
that you cannot stand me,
that "I love you" was the Great Lie;
but you will not no never
you're too good for something so
base as hate or someone so
base as me but
you're still here and I
love you
and hate myself for it.

"you may keep small electronic de-
vices on, but please make sure all
cellular capabilities are
switched off."
then they switch off the cabin lights,
and I am here in the dark, iPod assaulting
my eardrums as iPhone assaults
my retinas. this is
How It's Meant To Be

me and my ephemeral avarice, my
electronic yearning;
Bethany Cosentino is crooning, a
private concert for one, I wish
Allen Ginsberg was my boyfriend;
the other boy isn't like me, he's
prettier but that's nothing
new is it?

of course, Ginsberg is dead and also
forgotten, by and large; same for
D. H. Lawrence, Caravaggio, Joan d'Arc,
all those I drew upon for my Wilde
persona. there is only
me now, and I am
alone.

love come in many colors
an illusory hope arching
across the sky
a rainbow ending in broken
promises and tears

love seen through a prism
is only an optical deviation
a foolish man's perspective
of love's true value

love is painted in shades
of monochrome
a chiaroscuro image of
Caravaggio's brush

love is black and white
colors having no hue
love absorb and reflected
nothing but an incidental light

Like western ice melting and pooling into puddles
filled with crimson Caravaggio blood.
You moved your hands like I was something porcelain,
something breakable.
The sheets became giant waves filled with debris and pollution
crashing against sea glass and lime stone,
and you still thought I was something incredible,
something unreal.
The walls creaked and breathed while the room heated,
filled with secrets and Christmas lights
that dimly lit nothing but shadows and silhouettes,
and you still thought I was something crystal,
something beautiful.
The marks and scars and memories caught my throat
suffocating my face under layers of empty pages
and water stained notebooks,
and I thought I was something untouchable,
something tainted.
And you laughed and ground palm against cheek, mortar against pestle
and I smiled and thought you were something extraordinary,
something honest.
So more like snow dissolving
into the depths of bottomless oil wells, I blinked
and disappeared into something dangerous,
something wonderful,
something real.

She never once asked why
I keep the twisted rosewood stick
or if it holds significance.
Or why Flann O'Brien's
"At swim two birds." has a place
by itself on the shelf.
She never understood my love
of jazz, metal or classical music
or wondered why
Hieronymus Bosch and Caravaggio prints
are in the hall.
She once said I should get rid of them all
"They don't match the décor."
She never understood the humour
of Leonard Cohen,
nor appreciate the raw beauty
of a Bukowski poem;
claimed they were just ***** old men.
She couldn't fathom why
I am drawn to decrepit ruins
or could spend hours just walking
without a destination.
She never will comprehend my love
for the ghostly hue of twilight.

Out of the ashes I rise;
Blistered limbs, scalded eyes

Like Venus, born at sea
And arrive at shore underneath olive trees.

The rekindling of the fire has set me free- but Zephyrus' wind blows at me.

I Athena and you the Centaur;
You long to hold me, but I carry the Halberd.

I am a creature of reason and wisdom
And You, the outsider of my Kingdom.

And so the only right conclusion is hatred: malice as sharp as Caravaggio and Baglione.

So descend back into Oblivion, Lucifer
For those that abuse, will suffer.

Rafael was deaf.
Those colors were only
Depth shadows
He heard
When his brushes
Sang quietly
Every morning.

Caravaggio was mute.
And thus he
Could not
Sing along
With Rafael's brushes
On those
Oily mornings.

Funny how their paintings sing to us.

We thought it would come, we thought the Germans would come,  
were almost certain they would. I was thirty-two,
the youngest assistant curator in the country.
I had some good ideas in those days.

Well, what we did was this. We had boxes  
precisely built to every size of canvas.
We put the boxes in the basement and waited.

When word came that the Germans were coming in,  
we got each painting put in the proper box
and out of Leningrad in less than a week.
They were stored somewhere in southern Russia.

But what we did, you see, besides the boxes  
waiting in the basement, which was fine,
a grand idea, you’ll agree, and it saved the art—
but what we did was leave the frames hanging,  
so after the war it would be a simple thing  
to put the paintings back where they belonged.

Nothing will seem surprised or sad again  
compared to those imperious, vacant frames.

Well, the staff stayed on to clean the rubble
after the daily bombardments. We didn’t dream—
You know it lasted nine hundred days.
Much of the roof was lost and snow would lie  
sometimes a foot deep on this very floor,
but the walls stood firm and hardly a frame fell.

Here is the story, now, that I want to tell you.  
Early one day, a dark December morning,
we came on three young soldiers waiting outside,  
pacing and swinging their arms against the cold.  
They told us this: in three homes far from here  
all dreamed of one day coming to Leningrad  
to see the Hermitage, as they supposed  
every Soviet citizen dreamed of doing.  
Now they had been sent to defend the city,  
a turn of fortune the three could hardly believe.

I had to tell them there was nothing to see
but hundreds and hundreds of frames where the paintings had hung.

“Please, sir,” one of them said, “let us see them.”

And so we did. It didn’t seem any stranger  
than all of us being here in the first place,  
inside such a building, strolling in snow.

We led them around most of the major rooms,  
what they could take the time for, wall by wall.  
Now and then we stopped and tried to tell them
part of what they would see if they saw the paintings.  
I told them how those colors would come together,  
described a brushstroke here, a dollop there,  
mentioned a model and why she seemed to pout  
and why this painter got the roses wrong.

The next day a dozen waited for us,
then thirty or more, gathered in twos and threes.  
Each of us took a group in a different direction:  
Castagno, Caravaggio, Brueghel, Cézanne, Matisse,  
Orozco, Manet, da Vinci, Goya, Vermeer,
Picasso, Uccello, your Whistler, Wood, and Gropper.  
We pointed to more details about the paintings,  
I venture to say, than if we had had them there,  
some unexpected use of line or light,
balance or movement, facing the cluster of faces  
the same way we’d done it every morning  
before the war, but then we didn’t pay
so much attention to what we talked about.
People could see for themselves. As a matter of fact  
we’d sometimes said our lines as if they were learned  
out of a book, with hardly a look at the paintings.

But now the guide and the listeners paid attention  
to everything—the simple differences
between the first and post-impressionists,
romantic and heroic, shade and shadow.

Maybe this was a way to forget the war
a little while. Maybe more than that.
Whatever it was, the people continued to come.  
It came to be called The Unseen Collection.

Here. Here is the story I want to tell you.

Slowly, blind people began to come.
A few at first then more of them every morning,  
some led and some alone, some swaying a little.
They leaned and listened hard, they ******* their faces,  
they seemed to shift their eyes, those that had them,  
to see better what was being said.
And a **** of the head. My God, they paid attention.

After the siege was lifted and the Germans left
and the roof was fixed and the paintings were in their places,  
the blind never came again. Not like before.
This seems strange, but what I think it was,
they couldn’t see the paintings anymore.
They could still have listened, but the lectures became  
a little matter-of-fact. What can I say?
Confluences come when they will and they go away.

MILLER WILLIAMS

it's sometimes hard not to make these incisions into
the observably miniscule disparages -
how one complains of not enough,
and how the other complains of: all too much...
take my amusement of simon sebag montefiore's
article in the sunday times news review
about the unearthing of israel...
     all this talk of mongolian ***** hordes of
nostalgic historical reconquista always gets
me hot & bothered...
  the fact that israel was non-existent for so
long, seems to be due to the perfected
integration tact of the jews on foreign soils -
how they perfected the art...
      with such perfect integrational tactic:
you'd think they'd never leave these northern
lands, only upon the promise,
that one gentile might study kabbalah:
and actually get someone out of it, genuinely,
and not ****** the next sentence of:
inc. blood libel & christ killer, etc.
    i have concern for the natives here,
what sort of dog-food of history have they been
fed, it almost seems that the english have
a history, by populist demand,
as a "genesis" in the 1960s, and ending in
britpop!
         but as an exile, i can compensate the natives
in that: as an "exile", i can see an exiled population
when i see one,
and the english are exiles on their home turf...
as i am an exile, when i return back home,
to the child that left the land aged 8...
every time i go back, my grandparents are
getting older, while i'm growing more distant,
and even the only tentacle that attaches me
to the land is there, i rarely use it,
unless it rapes my psyche back into native
sprechen; as a slav that speaks better germanic
than slavic, i find myself like the atypical
conundrum of those of mixed-race:
mate, i'm a psyche-mongrel, go plead
for soppy violin music on another street-corner...
whatever it is that traps you on the
organic barricade of colonial piracy,
at least that's celebrated: bilingualism?
that's that's schizophrenia to these monochromatic
moguls...
       *******... next time you mention
napoleon mention what he said about:
a man of two tongues is worth two men,
a man of a single tongue,
   is worth half a man, and a single nation;
well, he didn't exactly say the last bit,
i just added the play on arithmetic.
         but i watch the english with a certain
bombastic sense of pity...
  there is a much bigger craving for pity
as the broker of power than the christian
"sense" of "forgiveness" - pity mocks,
forgiveness is a *****...
                but it always dawns upon me -
that mystical strip of land,
   the sudden disappearance of poland &
lithuania was / has / and never will be so
entrenched in a biblical mythology as israel,
which is why it ends up being a jack-in-a-box
surprise... the volatility of its re-emergence
always seems "odd"...
      but i am nonetheless a mongrel of the psyche,
even though i can claim biological pedigree,
with an extension into a czech sounding
surname (batuk instead of batóg) -
bohemian written all over it...
and we know that only the ugly vikings
made up the settlement of kiev...
    ugly men, beautiful women -
                      that's evolution for you...
ah, right, the beauties of the walrus harems of
kiev...
         what are they calling her?
edna, ophelia?
     i've never seen the sky as sepia tinged as i have
just now...
and sure, they once called jerusalem
the golden citadel, and london a marsh...
         but i still find the resurrection of poland
more spectacular than the resurrection
of israel, in that there is: so much less controversy!
i almost forget that, if i were born at
another time: i wouldn't be writing this...
      but then again, the point being:
the people who momentarily "disappeared"
were never of a nomadic stock...
          maybe that's why there's a controversy,
establishing a nation for nomads,
who, after being dole sheep marching into
the abyss, are not so keen to march back
into the israel they have dubbed a second auschwitz?
the nomadic distrust is behind the controversy
of establishing a nation-state, a fixed
geographic region,
that does not actually succeed in a tactic
of a nation-state model persuasion...
           i'd imagine less controversy regarding
this nation-state, had the nation-state actually
managed to persuade reuben, simeon, levi,
judah, dan, naphtali, gad, asher, issachar,
zebulun, joseph & benjamin...
what a pointless sets of plagiarisms -
the new testament is the anti-semitic statement of
the greeks, their superiority complex reaches
the high heavens and the depths of the most
sulphur stinking depths of lies...
   jacob's dozen vs. jesus' dozen...
           you have to be ******* kidding me!
not with the 1945 archeological unearthing!
    where was it? the dead sea?
no, some ******* egyptian farmer in an egyptian
desert, in a cave, and lo & behold
the nag hammadi script...
                  looks like doubting thomas can
longer be a mere poke at the wound in
caravaggio...
                          and was not the plagiarism rushed
in the years 37 through to 68 AD in the reign
of nero, given that the first book written
of the new testament, was the book of revelation?
taking the ******* **** out of
the concept of the tetragrammaton with
the four gospels...
     well, as names of letters go,
   the prefix list too...
                 hellenic and hebraì...
(l)adies first -
   a(lpha), b(eta) etc.
        θא‎φע‎θע‎φא -
      when T(et) met T(sadi) which met T(av) -
when H(e) met H(et) -
                        when S(amekh) met S(hin) -
     so when jerusalem was a beacon of gold -
and london was but a marsh,
the marsh peoples managed to make clear
prefix cut-offs, have names for their letters,
and only make the faux pas akin to the hebraì,
                   in greek to oωθφεη -
but never unto three...
   the trinity of the transcending aesthetics of
orthography - upon the crucifix:
       ט‎ (tet), צ‎ (tsadi) & ת‎ (tav) -
  with its hands out-stretched:
  from the east of ח‎ (het), to the west of ה (h'eh);
sigma in greek does not equate the transgression
of the hebraì T -
                   due to capital.