Dear Spanish breeze,
You rolled up my inspirational sleeves.
You gave me a glorious sight and placed me in an inventive light.
I call you a thief in the night for robbing words out of my mouth.
You guide my fingertips and the lips of my pen
by kisses of daydreams and endless ideas.
I am a home where the sweetest poems abide in.
Ready to come out and imprint a thousand pages.
What a delight to travel through poetic time of this artistic city.

Dear Spanish sun,
You burned my lack of poetic desire.
You colored my inventiveness like you darkened my skin.
I admire the way you have inspired me to become the poetess i aspire to be.
Your ravishing art undressed the indecisive poetess in me.
So here I stand emotionally naked in front of written truth
ready to loose myself in your Catalan atmosphere.
"Rest your ears darling and let your eyes whisper poetic visuals," you say.
And i close my eyes. I travel through this dream till forever ends.

A rose in the high garden that you desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped of impressionist mist.
Greys looking out from the last balustrades.

Modern painters in their black studios,
Sever the square root's sterilized flower.
In the Seine's flood an iceberg of marble
freezes the windows and scatters the ivy.

Man treads the paved streets firmly.
Crystals hide from reflections' magic.
Government has closed the perfume shops.
The machine beats out its binary rhythm.

An absence of forests, screens and brows
Wanders the roof-tiles of ancient houses.
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon looms like a vast aqueduct.

Marines ignorant of wine and half-light,
decapitate sirens on seas of lead.
Night, black statue of prudence, holds
the moon's round mirror in her hand.

A desire for form and limit conquers us.
Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life
and the butterfly collectors flee.

Cadaqués, the fulcrum of water and hill,
lifts flights of steps and hides seashells.
Wooden flutes pacify the air.
An old god of the woods gives children fruit.

Her fishermen slumber, dreamless, on sand.
On the deep, a rose serves as their compass.
The ****** horizon of wounded hankerchiefs,
unties the vast crystals of fish and moon.

A hard diadem of white brigantines
wreathes bitter brows and hair of sand.
The sirens convince, but fail to beguile,
and appear if we show a glass of fresh water.

Oh Salvador Dalí, of the olive voice!
I don't praise your imperfect adolescent brush
or your pigments that circle those of your age,
I salute your yearning for bounded eternity.

Healthy soul, you live on fresh marble.
You flee the dark wood of improbable forms.
Your fantasy reaches as far as your hands,
and you savor the sea's sonnet at your window.

The world holds dull half-light and disorder,
in the foreground humanity frequents.
But now the stars, concealing landscapes,
mark out the perfect scheme of their courses.

The flow of time forms pools, gains order,
in the measured forms of age upon age.
And conquered Death, trembling, takes refuge
in the straightended circle of the present moment.

Taking your palette, its wing holds a bullet-hole,
you summon the light that revives the olive-tree.
Broad light of Minverva, builder of scaffolding,
with no room for dream and its inexact flower.

You summon the light that rests on the brow,
not reaching the mouth or the heart of man.
Light feared by the trailing vines of Bacchus,
and the blind force driving the falling water.

You do well to place warning flags
on the dark frontier that shines with night.
As a painter you don't wish your forms softened
by the shifting cotton of unforeseen  clouds.

The fish in its bowl and the bird in its cage.
You refuse to invent them in sea or in air.
You stylize or copy once you have seen,
with your honest eyes, their smal agile bodies.

You love a matter defined and exact,
where the lichen cannot set up its camp.
You love architecture built on the absent,
admitting the banner merely in jest.

The steel compass speaks its short flexible verse.
Now unknown islands deny the sphere.
The straight line speaks of its upward fight
and learned crystals sing their geometry.

Yet the rose too in the garden where you live.
Ever the rose, ever, our north and south!
Calm, intense like an eyeless staute,
blind to the underground struggle it causes.

Pure rose that frees from artifice, sketches,
and opens for us the slight wings of a smile
(Pinned butterfly that muses in flight.)
Rose of pure balance not seeking pain.
Ever the rose!

Oh Salvador Dalí of the olive voice!
I speak of what you and your paintings tell me.
I don't praise your imperfect adolescent brush,
but I sing the firm aim of your arrows.

I sing your sweet battle of Catalan lights,
you love of what might be explained.
I sing your heart astronomical, tender,
a deck of French cards, and never wounded.

I sing longing for statues, sought without rest,
your fear of emotions that wait in the street.
I sing the tiny sea-siren who sings to you
riding a bicycle of corals and conches.

But above all I sing a shared thought
that joins us in the dark and the golden hours.
It is not Art, this light that blinds our eyes.
Rather it is love, friendship, the clashing of swords.

Rather than the picture you patiently trace,
it's the breast of Theresa, she of insomniac skin,
the tight curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,
our friendship a board-game brightly painted.

May the tracks of fingers in blood on gld
stripe the heart of eternal Catalonia.
May stars like fists without falcons shine on you,
while your art and your life burst into flower.

Don't watch the water-clock with membranous wings,
nor the harsh scythe of the allegories.
Forever clothe and bare your brush in the air
before the sea peopled with boats and sailors.

You smell like rain
kissing dry earth. Your
magnificent torso rises
over buttocks I want
to sculpt. Your skin is softer
than cocoa butter and I am

lost. In your eyes, I see
stories. In your taste, I forget.
The rhythm of your heartbeat
lulls me to safety. But
will you stay to steep
the tea? Or halve my pills?

Everywhere is mulch and moss.
And fog and despair. But I come
back to the smell of rain.
And wait
for the sun to shine.

You could have been my Catalan queen.
Such a pocket-sized delight,
Like the one sung by Jack White,
But more of a fun and friendly scene.

You studied graphic design,
And looked after my Spanish group,
And made me want to always stoop
To embrace you for all time.

I'd have given the world to see that smile,
See your beauty one more time,
Sit down with a glass of wine,
Or beer, sangria for a little while.

The offer was open, disguised by others,
And I strongly felt that you were keen,
But, alas, the student's disco scene
Would prevent us from being lovers.

And so I sit, alone with pen,
And mourn what was never meant to be -
It breaks my heart that it is likely
That we will never meet again.

Within the four walls of this library
sit three walls packed into the corner;
shelves, stuffed full of books with dog-eared pages
and slip-disc’d spines and fraying edges,
and a big white sign, which dangles from the ceiling
like a megabat hung on a cave mouth, sleeping and dreaming,
the word “NONFICTION” is inscribed on its countenance,
adjacent to signs shouting “MYSTERY” and “SCIENCE
FICTION” and “FANTASY” and “ROMANCE”
and a thousand other sorts of words
for myth and fabrication. But in this corner
live the rest, the et ceteras, the miscellaneous,
the kingdom of protists; for instance, care for some ethics?
Marx’s manifesto is stacked lazily beside a heap of essays by Rand;
you can practically see the two of them, shaking hands
uneasily, the will to never understand already forming
in their brains, and others yet remain;
Capote and the Clutters share shelf space
with the Mansons, hiding helter skelter behind
gnostic gospels and silent springs and a thousand
dreams for Freud to interpret (translated
from German for your convenience); nearby,
Orwell sings war songs in Catalan, accompanied
by the universe’s most elegant superstrings,
and the caged birds, singing of freedom,
harmonizing a melodious cacophony with the song
of the executioner. Butler criticizes his performance,
and she probably would have anyway, but Friedan thinks
he has a certain sort of mystique and Dawkins offers his own critique,
going on about genes and memes, extinction and delusion, but
not hallucinations—Sacks makes the distinction; let us continue
to praise famous men, and their children after them,
these naked apes, with minds so ***** that
they’re riddled with the emperors of all maladies; oh, Morris
Kinsey and Mukherjee could tell you all about these things,
maybe over lunch with Schlosser or dinner with Pollan,
minglings with Machiavelli over affairs of the state,
or affairs of space and a brief history of time; but,
if you're feeling too full to eat, or to pray, or to love,
ask Frankl what to do, let him change your life
with words from decades yore as he keeps on
his search for meaning just like every man before, at least
that's the case when these boys’ lives weren’t preoccupied
by artful war or bright and shining lies. And here,
by the holy bookend, lies some old and antiquated glossary
which lost most of its “glossy” many years ago,
for one flip through the pages will catalogue the changes
between what we thought we knew about the stars
and our bodies and doomsday as recently
as your last birthday, and all the things that everyone says
we now know that we know; speak,
memory, remember all you can
about this endless, sundry cosmos, and
the microcosms that it boasts; bury my heart,
if not at Wounded Knee, then maybe at this
library, where comprehension and speculation
find themselves in coexistence, packed into a single
point resembling the genesis, and fear and hope
take dueling forms, those of fact and mystery;
and now all that’s left to do is read,
until the end of history.

Trois Poèmes sur l’été en Corse et Letia
L’été Corse

L'été est la saison bleue
tant attendue, tant espérée
quand le froid de l'hiver vous glace,
quand le printemps pleure à grands eaux.
L'été s'installe quand le soleil
brule, hardi, de tous ses feux,
que la lumière devient reine de jour
et que les soirs s'étirent et se prélassent
Les fleurs et plantes du Maquis
ne sont pas encoure roussies
et forment comme un tapis bariolé de couleurs.
Les senteurs nous embaument
de leurs sucs capiteux
et nous nous croirons presque
dans une vaste parfumerie à ciel ouvert.
La mer parfois ridée de mousse blanche
devient parfois turquoise, émeraude ou bleu outre-mer.
Mais le soir venu le soleil se plonge
dans des rougeoiements varies
qui irritent et bariolent l'horizon.
Alors que s'assombrit ces curieuses tours génoises trapues ou rondes qui faisaient mine de protéger les anciens.
Et sont autant de rappels des périls barbaresques durant les temps médiévaux et modernes



                                                      *
Le café de Letia Saint Roch

Il est dans ce gracieux village de Letia, à flanc de Rocher, un endroit ayant résisté à la disparition des commerces. C'est le café de Toussaint Rossi, placé au cœur du village et tenant lieu de salle commune. Ce centre de vies, de rires et de joie comporte un antique et majestueux poêle en fonte, et des décors muraux faits de multiples coupes d'anciennes victoires aux tournois de boules et de foot et chargé des espoirs à venir. Surtout, les murs sont décorés de gravures austères de Sanpiero Corsu et de Pascal Paoli, attestant de l'attachement des villageois aux temps forts de l'histoire Corse. L'hospitalité est depuis bien longtemps assurée par l'excellent Toussaint Rossi, lequel fait aussi le partenaire des parties de belotes contrées. Maintenant sa nièce Emmanuelle apporte aujourd'hui, à ce café,  son dynamisme souriant et son sourire enjôleur. A l'occasion de la Saint-Roch et du tournoi de boules, «Vincent Battesti»,  la salle prend des airs de café-concert et cousins, amis et villageois entonnent le répertoire des chants «nustrale», lequel dure parfois **** dans la nuit quand scintille un peu l'Esprit du village. Aux anciennes chansons de nos parents : «la boudeuse» et «Il pescatore dell'onda» s’ajoutent les succès nouveaux comme «Amerindianu» et l'admirable chant du Catalan, Lluis Llach,  «l'Estaca», traduit en langue Corse. Les voix s'accordent et les chœurs vibrent à l'unisson, sur ce répertoire commun qui arrive à élever le sentiment d'unité et à souder les valeurs des êtres.

                                                               *

Le pont de l’embouchure du Liamone,

Sous la fausse apparence d'une large rivière tranquille se perdant dans les sables,
Le «Liamone», prenant sa source sur les montagnes de Letia peut se révéler torrent furieux.
Cependant il se jette mollement dans le grand bleu en s’infiltrant par un mole de sable.
Cet endroit est magique car il mêle, mer et rivière, poissons d'eau douce et de mer,
La plaine alluviale qui l'entoure est large et propice aux cultures,
ce qui est rare dans cette partie de la Corse aux côtes déchiquetés.
Il annonce les vastes plages de Sagone dont la plus belle,
mais non la moins dangereuse fait face à l'hôtel «Santana».
Le nouveau pont du Liamone a des formes de grand oiseau bleu,
Et déploie des deux ailes blanches sur les eaux vertes de la rivière.
Cet endroit peu hospitalier aux nageurs car l’on à pied que peu de temps sur de fins galets tranchants
Il l'est en revanche très agréable aux poissons et aux pêcheurs,
car il mêle les eaux et le plancton
C’est aussi un endroit magique pour celles et ceux qui goûtent par-dessus tout,
La Liberté sans contrainte, le soleil, une vaste étendue de sable et les points de vue,
car plusieurs promontoires ou collines inspirées sont encore coiffées de vestiges de tour,
et le regard porte **** comme pour surveiller et protéger les populations des antiques razzias barbaresques.

Paul Arrighi.

I won't write a letter to some president
Whoever they may be
Because if they ever truly wanted freedom
They would tear down the fences
And make the White House a shelter for the  homeless  
Or they would fill all the empty houses on my street
And every other empty house on every other street with empty houses
If there is something I've learned from 21 years
Is that its the common people who make the real change in this world
It's the common people who build the world for all to life in
For me this started at Peekskill
When 20 thousand men and women
formed a wall so Paul Robeson could sing safe from harm
Then I learned of Spain in the 30s
From the Asturian miners to the Catalan anarchists
The guns that protected Madrid and thousands of voices singing A Las Barricadas and No Pasarán
And some nights I whisper a curse for every bomb that struck Guernica
Meanwhile in West Virginia common people fought for equality at Harper's Ferry and for the rights of the workers at Blair Mountain
And even today in southern Mexico, it's the common people who are creating Zapata's great dream of a world where land belongs to those who work it
The people of this world are capable of such beautiful things
All the dollars in all the banks can't buy out the human spirit
And all the bullets in all the guns can't lessen the strength of us all standing together
And just as a wise man once said:
"We carry a new world here, in our hearts. That world is growing in this minute."

It’s early,
shutters yawn open
drawing in an already spirited sun.

I reluctantly roam
an unchartered narrow maze
of whitewashed walls.

Fingers squeeze
a mint mil Pesetas banknote
and list, written in my mother’s
stern and starchy hand.

I am the outsider,
inside and out.

I inhale
pine dust, bins and septic tanks,
I exhale
a huff of childhood hopelessness.

Shadows startle me
with machine gun Catalan.

I didn’t hear the rumble of the water truck.
Didn’t look right when I crossed the road.
Didn’t thank the stranger who saved me,

until now.

In the salted corner of the square,
A small glass door opened to watery air;
I glanced down there throughout siesta,
Anxious at the root of a dry tongue
For wine squeezed from the ochre hills
Behind Cambrils, she sold in empty
Water bottles, a Euro for a litre.
I hurried down through the Casa Gallau,
Quickly as my sunburn would allow;
Dove into light as though onto hot sand,
Around cars that sounded like fire fights,
Squinting in the peppered, robust sun
And in - the old woman waiting, “Adeu!”
Then back upstairs, but slower now:
To watch TV in Catalan; to face
A frying pan balcony;
to get drunk and think of rain.

We took the weight off below the pine
On the cool wood of a bench curled
around its rough trunk.
Red dust drifted from the road in clouds,
Like spectres from a battlefield,
And the air above had blanched
In a shrill high noon intensity.
Sweat escaped my face
Like weeping-
The rules of the race had changed
And we two could run no more.

All around was the sound of a child
Crying and calling in Catalan
To its copper-eyed mother
as she smoked a cigarette.
We did not speak.
Between a creak in the branches
And the aromas of flowers and feet;
we had nothing left,
Not even the sunlight.

you can read heidegger's ii-vi ponderings and read into:
           the death of the university -
               which is what is exactly happeing
right now...
              how wonderous the dynamic of
jealousy -
    i remember being at u.c.l. - "studying" history -
to be honest i spent about 6 hours a week
on the course - the rest of the time i could hold
down a roofing job -
                       3rd year chemistry
at edinburgh? 30 hours of laboratory work -
                            including theory lectures and secondary
lectures, like: sociology, computing; french (?!) -
                 but at u.c.l. there was this guy from essex...
and the birmingham students didn't like
      one of the home counties accents -
              they said in passing: we'll crucify you...
birmingham? no river no flow people
                 dictating the rules of a capital city?
               ***** please... this guy comes from essex
and wants to get a history degree:
and you're shoving a diacritical bias against him?
how about going back to the canals, where you rats belong?
   but they did that to the poor guy...
   he talked quasi-cockney
                 in the essex scheme of things, and they
disciminated against him, just because of the way he talked...
i knew one guy from Derby express the same
sentiment about someone lecturing on physics in
               a Glaswegian diacritical idiosyncrasy -
for ****'s sake! a scot taught me how to speak
english by avoiding learning grammar!
                                prof. jordan peterson?
great guy... i wish there were more of them...
                   my leftist background?
                            well... if you didn't **** around with
poland as part of the warsaw pact era... would i be here?
                                 huh?
                    ukranian smugglers in warsaw -
                            it's like the commonwealth never died...
Jeremia Wiśniowiecki: the "other" Vlad -
        scurge on the cossacks -
                    shoved a thousand toothpick's worth
of timber up their anuses, and they were like:
   well... now it matters.
                        but it's so sad to see the university dying...
back when i was studying you could get
   a canadian lesbian understand your position
on the genius of napoleon in essay form, in a history
seminar...
                                those, were, the days when
such a thing was plausible...
                   i'm nt kidding, a canadian lesbian could
mark your essay with a covert appreciation
            of Napoleon's genius in military affairs...
but that's like, what 2006?
                 what year is it? 2017... sorry! you missed
the train!
                     last night i had a nose-bleed
(perhaps due to the excessive drinking?) -
                                   but that didn't stop me from
drinking today...
               now imagine how much i drink
                       and how i respect my parents that
they still allow me to live with them...
                         can you imagine it?
          no? not quiet?
                                 come here... let me show you
what sort of drunk you have to be,
               how self-disciplined you have to be to be drunk
every day, with about 1 litre's worth of *** or whiskey
or *****... and at the same time: be cultivated in
           civilised conduct of: let's not touch...
  you do your ****, i'll do mine.
                                                 oh i did invoke
a plead for a council flat...     some ***** who ******
20 arabs and had 2 kids in the baggage got it before
i could... just a stated example...
                                with regards to some people
i just go: are these people talking?! i'm sorry, i can't hear them;
                    speak... a... little... bit... louder!
funny thing is: we're speaking the same language
         but i'm finding that they're speaking quasi-Catalan.

Barcelona pays lip service to Spain,
Which tries to claim the city’s favorite son:
Gaudi, architect of modernista fame,
Whose wavy designs of nature, faith are one

Thing that will never turn this Ciutat tame.
His mystic genius saw geometry’s sun,
Which shines through all his creations the same,
Whether secular or sacred. He’s won

The heart of Catalunya, his primal aim.
Yes, Catalan: Forever will he be one.
When the old folks dance the Sardanes plain.
They raise hands so independence will become

The new reality for them, not Spain.
The fight for Catalan prowess is never done.
The people yearn to stand free of Spain's chains.
Gaudi inspires their struggles to be won.

II.

Oh ! vers ces vétérans quand notre esprit s'élève,
Nous voyons leur front luire et resplendir leur glaive,
Fertile en grands travaux.
C'étaient là les anciens. Mais ce temps les efface !
France, dans ton histoire ils tiennent trop de place.
France, gloire aux nouveaux !

Oui, gloire à ceux d'hier ! ils se mettent cent mille,
Sabres nus, vingt contre un, sans crainte, et par la ville
S'en vont, tambours battants.
À mitraille ! leur feu brille, l'obusier tonne,
Victoire ! ils ont tué, carrefour Tiquetonne,
Un enfant de sept ans !

Ceux-ci sont des héros qui n'ont pas peur des femmes
Ils tirent sans pâlir, gloire à ces grandes âmes !
Sur les passants tremblants.
On voit, quand dans Paris leur troupe se promène,
Aux fers de leurs chevaux de la cervelle humaine
Avec des cheveux blancs !

Ils montent à l'assaut des lois ; sur la patrie
Ils s'élancent ; chevaux, fantassins, batterie,
Bataillon, escadron,
Gorgés, payés, repus, joyeux, fous de colère,
Sonnant la charge, avec Maupas pour vexillaire
Et Veuillot pour clairon.

Tout, le fer et le plomb, manque à nos bras farouches,
Le peuple est sans fusils, le peuple est sans cartouches,
Braves ! c'est le moment !
Avec quelques tribuns la loi demeure seule.
Derrière vos canons chargés jusqu'à la gueule
Risquez-vous hardiment !

Ô soldats de décembre ! ô soldats d'embuscades
Contre votre pays ! honte à vos cavalcades
Dans Paris consterné !
Vos pères, je l'ai dit, brillaient comme le phare ;
Ils bravaient, en chantant une haute fanfare,
La mort, spectre étonné ;

Vos pères combattaient les plus fières armées,
Le prussien blond, le russe aux foudres enflammées,
Le catalan bruni,
Vous, vous tuez des gens de bourse et de négoce.
Vos pères, ces géants, avaient pris Saragosse,
Vous prenez Tortoni !

Histoire, qu'en dis-tu ? les vieux dans les batailles
Couraient sur les canons vomissant les mitrailles ;
Ceux-ci vont, sans trembler,
Foulant aux pieds vieillards sanglants, femmes mourantes
Droit au crime. Ce sont deux façons différentes
De ne pas reculer.

Jersey, du 7 au 13 janvier 1853.

Four fingers. It is important to hear what was said. Dennis click Dessdemona do not need to move. In 1951, for example, music (Co-Nun Scratch Figure 1) Jens Henry 2: Africa, Thomas (aid) India Timberland Ph2 Nippon Mark David Pruit's hole 20 Circuitx 15-20 "Money is very dense, there are key carried **** Reports lot of people, including a colleague, lawyer and brother think of groups will find products such as Google's solved, and tens of thousands of people (Africa, USA), Indiana Ugag David phoon PH 2, astroblogger: 15: 18 South Africa and car peaceful. Secondly, Desmond wants to leave. vote in 1951 (a copy), Albert Henry 2: Africa, Thomas (shot) and David arrow Timberland Ph2 lorem nippon Mark's nocturnal hole 15 - 20 c.20 Circuitx fall, "east and West Africa, West 18 Frontier, Google, Gloria Hoo Ha SISAYAYT need to Google o / o poor strength and dignity 1. Ilianna "and the night-distance revenue in the atrium of the two brothers were in vain weapon 3. 3. 3, Australia (EU), which is caused by an error i n 3 AMD (for example, Peter). "After the examination," Spain has been true for thousands of years, including Huntersville, Joba (;) a partner, not as a person in the world - in countries in the region - If you want to close the door "she was a *******." The play of the federal government, the best . "During the six points changed code ORS personal harm," which is (a) Agbarus Tobias (forms, etc.) 2. If the last 500) in the fairest (6 Sadot the Paladins information charging the IBM crystal R. 1 Desmond miniskirt is a useful tool to report Ennis (1951), for example (Co-Joseph Mass Scratch 1) 2 Alberta Africa (assistant) India Bend Timberland Ph2 ippon Mark night opening 15-20 20 David Circuit "raise thousands of men and how many are lawyers and siblings may cause problems in the past hurt ten years, Henry, Henry, Africa, Thomas (Indiana), David Ugag 1 phoon PH 2, astroblogger, 15, 18, not only in South Africa, Peter and John, who was born in peace because there is no Palestine, Google y H2O co. In fact, all that can be who they are not of the world such as the right of these servants who have been corrupted all of a sudden; it fell to melt almost up to the liberation of the oil in the shadow of a man.

Yes, sort of like plaster
of Paris, but it's nailed
to the stud as were the
Catalan Separatists.

Plâtre de Paris est pour
réparation des os cassès
après des gendarmes ont
frappè des Gilets Jaunes.

Americans use a water
board for extracting lies
from detainees at their
base in Guantanamo.

The International Court
Of Justice has a board of
directors, unfortunately
managed by The Vague.

Baby On Board brings a
smile to my face, because
it does appear as if the world
is being controlled by infants.

The final surge of innocence floods
A Catalan January night.
Candy is caught in prams and hoods
Sticky soles kick and fight.
The town walks home, on cloud nine
With dreams of gifts and fads;
My daughter’s hand slips from mine
- her friends are not with dads.
She'll pour a Scotch and cut some cake
To keep the camels warm,
As every year the routine rolls,
Except the smile that says she knows
The last Magi forsook his star.
Adéu, forever, to Balthazar.

The result is today. Today, today's memories.
500 people on earth. Then the standard of
service is Dulko mākou'elua 500. Why?
"Red Red Amino Acid, Who will play the
game? I will start later, afraid of death, you
and music, and any of the Olympic winners
in New York three days after me: The Armenian
Embassy in Greece and Catalan, also the
owner of the fish Diana, New York, New
York with me, Cover Haku'omany? 1C 100:
What's this? - Serving Russia. Then, do not |
make the computer a good hele'oe. "||||
      "Eleeleululaulula and waiululaula"
Knowledge of the coast is easy. On the other
hand, the time of the wall is controlled  And
in Germany. Niu-York, New York. Their
books sell this product; I am the creator.
In Romania § 1. D100 nationality. Get the
logo of the Federation and the sea.
I E'odelo kēia'atikala Think about it. Next |
|hua'ē super car and teacher Lampert. | |

all is vanity and the mirror seldom lies
where do we leave us lily smiles
truth and our honesty cries
somehow is away just a while

might as well..
where has the passion
gone..
that kept me top of the
chess ladder 11 conseutive
months..

the salt and vinegar of jennifers mouth
how did more become so less
well that´ s life son
dreams gone south..

ii

back from work
she has performed
her summer time special

bringing home a sick and
poorly animal..
it has only a single eye
and a ****** hole

a cat..
difficult to tell
is it petty to
mention the smell..

it has an infection..
but she put it under
the tap..
i know the routine
by now..

the vet yesterday
the vet next week
day 2
it follows her like
a puppy..

this is what she did
with me
lol..
soon it will be happy..

iii

she calls it stinkey
is that a word even
now we are locked in
so she can get away..

we have had nearly thirty
surprised the landlord..too..
i don´t even take drugs or drink
how durable the human..

but not as strong as this little one
wants to come in..it has food
water but it really wants my room
its lost orb purpling..

now there is ***** spots
but it will come on
only a little cat but
a small victory for love..

now it is crying
its fur is wet and matted
but out of that one eye
so much..

iv

it is siesta and i feel guilty
but football call
of the wild..
i will say on stinky..!

v

oh,the hand of catalan!

No direction anywhere yet I know just to take it day-by-day
No direction anywhere while I wonder if it’s even needed
If direction isn’t simply for the weak
If the real option isn’t just in letting go

Writing these lines at 10 am in Barcelona
No fixed plan but to live day-by-day
Look into my shadow and see the reason behind this short of breath
Deciding to get some proper rest before facing the day,
I put my alarm at 11.30 am

Responsibilty
Respons-ability
The ability to respond
Not mapping out your entire life
Moment to moment having the ability to respond
Day-by-day without direction
The most responsible way you can live

Phone on silent sleeping through
1.30 pm as I open my eyes
Back to being depressed as I desperatey try and tell myself that it’s okay
That it really isn’t so bad what I’m feeling
Not believing myself,
dreading that day-by-day will never enough
my religion, my holy grail
The daily question of ”what is the right choice today?”
No path laid out, no decided way to walk
Nobody giving you orders nor pushing yourself for a goal
The act for the act itself
A freedom obligating yourself the constant question of,
”what is the right choice today?”

I wake up to the alarm as I hear her roommate in the kitchen
Dreading the encounter desperately hoping she will accept me as I’m afraid to look her in the eyes
Hating the fact that I just know she sees the state I’m in
The anxiety written all over my face
Surely thinking, ”what is wrong with this guy?”
This guy with no direction in life

Day-to-day, waking up in Barcelona
No fixed plan but knowing the time has come to look into my shadow
Day-to-day, propelling me to write poems
Do serious introspection, forcing me to be fully alive

I leave the kitchen with the implications it might have
Of being this guy who’s not more than what is presented in this very moment
Wondering how much it has to do with a lack of direction
Yet I wouldn’t want any
Nor could I try and force one on me would I want to
The only option being to come to terms with the fact that I have no idea what tomorrow will bring
Where I will be in one month, what I will do in one year
Life is not to be controlled but to be unfolded before your eyes
And if the prize for that is angst
What at times seems to be an everlasting short of breath
Then I choose the uncertainty of life
Rather than force a direction
A direction from my logical mind which doesn’t know ****, anyway

Writing the poem sooths me, as I for a moment accept my faith as the aimless drifterer
I ask a pretty girl outside the book store what she’s reading
Another girl inside only speaking Catalan if she’s finding anything interesting
Before passing by a punk with purple hair begging for money
”How are you?” I ask her looking at her five cups spread out
One for food, one for tattoos, another for vet, and two more for alkohol and ****

Take the anxiety as it comes with all my freedom
Sit down in the dark with a candle as long as it takes
Letting the emotions have their run
Only to wake up the next day with the very same question,
”What is the right choice today?”
No pre-conceptions, no judgement, no saying I should do this or that
Response-ability
Let my instincts guide me, moment to moment being all there is
Not as in watching Youtube or other so-called escapes
Fully engage and if you can’t,
take the huge amount of responsability needed of living day-to-day
Not falling into activites being about life rather meant to be lived another day
Unless, and if you can all the power to you, if you you can watch that kitty-clip with all your heart

What direction could I possibly choose anyway
Go to school
I love my freedom too much
Be a ***
Not really a direction
Neither is traveling
Work as bike messenger
More of a paid hobby
Be a poet
That’s not something you choose
A poker player
Not really something to choose
Devote myself to creative processes
But I wonder if I’m just fumbling in the dark
Desperately trying to hold on to something
When the reality is…

As of the early 21st century,
the ‘*** portrait’ has become
ubiquitous stock on the internet.
Future generations will be able
to tell a lot about our times
by looking directly up our *****.

I have this cute thing I do,
After I’ve been dating a girl
for three months I break her arm---
Isn’t that cute, I make it look like an accident,
but not always---
Sometimes I’ll just snap her wrist---
Dating gets harder as one gets older,
that’s no revelation---
Bill Cosby is a angel now, how about that,
All those Englishmen in heaven
touching him with human hands---
and when we run an ex of mine,
It’s known right away how long we’ve been dating---
Some even brag about it---
like, if her arm isn’t broken
I must not be serious about her---
I dated a girl that was a cutter
and I did nothing to discourage her,
even asked if I could do it to her too---
She said yes and we’d stay up late
cutting into her and *******---
One night she got so drunk I thought she’d bleed out---
I left her there and thought
I’d never hear from her again
But I did, or didn’t or did and didn’t---
We ran into one another by chance one night
and started up hot again---
she was dead inside but didn’t show it right away---
it was the best necro *** I ever had---
With a zombie u can do a lot of things---
My sole regret is not tearing her pantyhose
and ******* her on the wet cobblestone
of the subterranean back-alley---

It seems I’ve been everywhere with everyone
But I’ve been nowhere with anyone---

Medieval leggings the jester’s underwear
and shawl; he has to look like a young girl
to get the job or be ***** by the Arabs
just outside of Jerusalem,
the shy boy leaves by ship---
A spaceship needless to say,
full of extraterrestrial gays.
Man and woman have to eat and **** and smoke,
In case you’ve forgotten---
Circa the early twenty-first century
A quantum pendulum
Swings both ways at once---
A quantum pendulum
Circa early twenty-first century---
Future generations will learn a lot
about themselves by looking up
their own *****---

Often it feels as if the radio is blind
and the television is deaf---
Circa the early twenty-first century,
Let’s hope ur there to receive this message
Spelled out in so many words
that mean the existential absurd---
Just like everything else every day---
Have u ever noticed how much a Catalan
can find out about themselves
by looking up their own ***---
They can even find things out
by looking up someone else’s;
This is called love or proctology, a passing flirtation---
Rococo, Baroque, Neoclassical, Romantic,
Modern, Postmodern, post-postmodern---
It’s an aesthetic pose but it’s up ur ***---
What was latent becomes overt or conscious,
What was hidden in the hand is revealed---
Creatures with two heads and/or three
don’t survive long in the food chain---
Which explains why there isn’t a sizable population
of conjoined twins,
although on another anthropoid planet
this just may be the case---

There is a being that exists in eternity
that is eternity in a dimension
of its own that is itself.

poetry to write: disguising the availability of **** like there's the availability of music: under the scrutiny of Nietzsche i don't know which is the worst O.D.: with all the **** and Genghis Khan... but all all the music: and? well?! GOD... twice over! the secret taboo! stressing about **** and the ambitions of Genghis Khan... accomplished: clap clap: applause! maybe a sobering moment... one every two years and two more years then four when the Olympics happens and men and their four years apart and women and their four seasons and the Zodiac months not January, February i mean: Pisces Ares Taurus.... that's my mother my father and me... wookie spooky blah... if she's Christian veneer and i know she's desperately individualistic and Christianity is religion is not faith is: either ******* stupid or SPECIAL or that other "special" of *******... QUALITY ASSURANCE: bad **** from "Cali"... tested positive metal in: enzyme: tobacco: addicted to tobacco: organic subjectivity post-objective: telegraphic recount... the subjectivity of alcohol and marijuana: is... the objectivity i associate with ******, *******... ****** is... mantra: lost in books: empathy route: but still objectively distant: not familiar: like the subjectivity: piquant: tested: testing: of alcohol and marijuana: can tell apart a resin from a leaf strain and what is bad addiction: needed to test theory by refraining from *******: until the day finished: said: hard for Hercules to go mad twice: going mad once and then re-calibrating... suspect the existence of bridge: suspend: what is GRAVITY SQUARED if there's an equation for the SPEED of LIGHT SQUARED? what is gravity cubism? i swear gravity is directionless: there's no... dimension for gravity: perhaps gravity is shortscript for time?

some variation of or rather on:
"racial" relations...
so my **** dealer pulls up
and i'm trying to spot the Toyota
can't see it
but i do see one but then an Asian
ninja comes out with a child
and i'm like: something's shifting...
a minute later
a Mercedes Benz: no... not canned
Heinz beans pulls up
i jump in and gravitate to the complimentary
side of me: well good for you,
good for you...

...........................................
.............­..............................

was that an ant or a spider
itching at me from neck
then hiding in my hair and sleeping:
seems an alien life
symbiosis:
like with tree to boat to table
to chair:
couldn't much with mountains
couldn't do much with deserts
but at least i crafted: "i": crafted
glass from sand
maybe this is my poetry coming
to terms with:

those intellectual hard-ons
no women necessary:
with  ΛCDM

A and V

                smoking a different strain:
not Sherbet from California:
sorry that **** is resin like almost hashish
compact:

SZCZESCIE... at first: now let me
attire the word: happiness-fortune
with the proper judgement of a king's
reunited to shirt
and trousers:
believe me the king is not naked:
either the tyrannical father
and the liberal son
or the tyrannical son
and the liberal father
or the tyrannical father and the tyrannical son:
magnetism:
Anti-Christ counter-dualism:
magnetism:
pushing apart:
funny how in 3D you have 4"D" directions
to follow:
there's south north east and west:
funny:
a new strain:
DOG or DOUGLAS...
in a 3 d...
wait: the universe is a string
of narrative there is no "space" in SPACE...
there are no constellations:
the practicality of cubes triangles
and money...
new strain: like switching from *****
to wine...
like: the leafy bits: not the high market:
resin *******
the **** coming from America:
better stick with dog...
i was blindsided:
i had a temporary amnesia:
i'm a pest controller:
a William Burroughs contra Shakespeare?
wrong strain:
the drug dealer is driving a Mercedes Benz
while i'm still slumping:
happy:

to recover no Catalan but all Cyrillic:
in... ha ha....
       ЩĘŚĆE: ye: the proper Slavic
Cyrillic script:
not the Russian alphabet:
the script...
like the Nomadic script
but there are former Assyrians,
Phonecians:
Hebrews: godly:
Ishmaels and the Ahmed Nomad
Arabs...

gateway drug of literacy is Ginsberg
and Bukowski:
then you arrive at the postmodernist
futurist poets
like poets are behind philosophers
and science and science fiction and fiction
like painters:
like freaks like outsiders:
we need to find Ned in Democracy...
a John the Baptist mentality
in... "zee vilderness"...
  
if John the Baptist was looking for the Christ
then i am Matthew the Security Officer
former roofer
sometime a poet looking for my Antichrist...
disciple uno...
i own a house: you hopping grunge nerd
looking to couch surf?
am i going to be a convinced a second time
by authority of dyslexia:

the meaning of: turn the over cheek:
the meaning of: and the meek will inherit the earth:
gravity squared:
what if:

                 йѫ: as her...
the leafy sort: i sorted this one:
i get sporadic active self-aware no self
dimensions of amnesia
and i couple that with
amnesia-pareidolia...

          yes: yes: Edie: this is the war i'm waging
like Christianity waged war
with images against words
and that's how Islam was born
Islam is Christ's:
and we are: or at least i am...
           a pauper European:
the Holocaust shifted the Jews
but look how not diaspora bound and sort of
Chameleon the Jews are
i think a second Vatican in forgiving
the Turks for Constantinople
i just want Turkish: barbery....

barber: barbarism: try painting with words:
death to color! and American spelling...
****** Sputnik half-egos and serial killers
like the Cain ******* antics
but even Cain had a promise of dignity
like this culture
of watching sport and bending over
sniffing *******
not off ring around
the bellybutton Romanian prostitutes
and i will find the monster for you:
color my language: buff it up...

      i was alone and Candide:
i was alone and Candide:
just me and night and drinking and contemplating
diarhhoea, diharoeah... dih-rho-eh-ah...
whatever...
in my garden my lovely:
i planted this plum
this cherry this apple
this AGREST bush:
but these trees speak to me
i'm not a crazy cat lady
i'm a...
a botanical frenzy:
the FOX INQUIRY:
i like loik Loki and insects
and telescopes and books and dust
and postage stamps
and bicycles
and shops for girls who are pretending
to be sailors:
borderline beach of Sanskrit
Hamptons:
these? the ******* Southampton(s)?!

S N TH BJD
seriously? summoning my testimony in the Abjad?
BT RGHT NW Y DNT CR...
little brother tender uncle
i changed the strain:
these wandering stars
look much like satellites don't
think me small even dementia riddled
Joseph saw you Martin seeing one
last look:
before me the cactus on the palm
of my hand
should the Germans Unite:
Re-Unite...
like this was a tease coming from a Pan-Slavic
perspective that allowed
Marxism to exist:
apparently i'm the last neighbor of Europe
having tested Marxism into something
jumping, cheating...
the Soviet space race seemed so fake
when the polished American model arrived..
because the Slavic mingled with Hebrew
for so long that Usury was attempted to be disguised
as: reminiscence...
is it me or just me
when i say: the Hebrews attempted...

Edie? Heff OLOG...
       does that matter?
napping?
can i be a dog: no kennel:
water? yes yap yap please...
sighing panting four greeds...
four legs...
now i will have to call it the 7 x 4
the four by seven...
of all the heads my bilingual stress paramount(s)
there are four greeds
there are four envies
there are four prides:

oddly enough: adding a pluralistic
element to the structure is surreal;
i was given the equivalent
toilet paper air
quote of Chamberlain and ******
and i am ******...
pluralism: the basics of grammar:
this conflation of the pronoun
district:
i heard the hubris and hiatus
into Oriental Study and scuttling with
plagiarisms like rats...

i kiss fare for a short farewell
and i just want... something this sort of everyday
but with an access to a portal:
a healing posture of having
***
and getting all the spider or the ant
now sleeping in my head
oh that scene from Lavender... Versailles...

death of spanish queen in versailles series insect parasite
google... no good...
limited technology: either hammer and nail
or hammer and head:
shark: idiots tik tok China: SHINGLES: SMILE:
all in emoticon ridicule stress...
not included in diacritic and punctuation:
available: yes please... chains man
mind... chains man mind...
chains man mind...

                                 and all the available dittos:
but since we were a barricade against
the Mongols and the Ottomans
we were not so much grieving when the Jews
went for a Baptism in the Ashes
of the Holocaust...
things happen: in C# CONCORDANCE:
with the authority of the shrinking
constipated:
glorified somehow still with the JAW of AWE
AGAPE at the expanding universe
and how looking in trackjuit
and Adidas back is somehow distracted by
flat earth and algebra:
flat earth and algebra
while three dimensional earth and calculus: cactus:
itch: ugh... verbiage and word salads
and avocado ***** suckled
like hummingbird became twisted
and begot the butterfly that begot the congregation
of the winds in the Hurrah-Khan!